The murmurs in the hall began to die down when Joffrey rose to his feet, and on the raised dais the little monster dominated the scene on the stage of his own delirium, while at his right Margaery smiled sweetly and at his left Cersei watched him with pride and a touch of unease, a mixture of feelings only Joffrey could draw from her. He wore his new cloak of arrogance, a deep black embroidered with threads of gold, a gift from Vlad, and since receiving it he had not taken it off; to him, it was a declaration that even the most feared bent the knee to him.
When he had everyone's attention, he raised his voice:
—Silence! Clear the hall —he ordered haughtily— There has been too much frivolity today and a royal wedding is no mere entertainment, it is history.
Servants began to set up planks and scenery on an improvised stage, while Joffrey announced with excessive pride:
—It is time to behold our history, my lords and ladies, and I present to you the kings Joffrey, Renly, Stannis, Robb Stark, and Balon Greyjoy —He paused for dramatic effect before adding— The War of the Five Kings.
A theatre troupe emerged from the side of the hall, all the actors in exaggerated costumes, except the one playing Joffrey, who wore finer robes and a golden cloak. The others played Renly, Stannis, Robb and Balon with ridiculous gestures and outfits, drawing suppressed laughter from the audience, and the performance began with scenes of the Red Keep and the death of Robert Baratheon, exaggerated for comic effect.
The actor playing Ned Stark was decapitated by a spring mechanism while the fake Joffrey demanded justice, and subsequent scenes showed ridiculous fights between Renly and Stannis interrupted by Tyrion, culminating with a triumphant entrance of Joffrey seated on an improvised throne as the others bickered.
The play continued with Robb declaring the North's independence and Balon demanding the rule of the Iron Islands, while battles with rag dolls and exaggerated falls filled the stage with laughter, and the shift to the Red Wedding was abrupt: Robb with a cardboard sword and a mock bride, while an actor in black portrayed the massacre; when the curtain rose, fake bodies and hanging draperies simulated the tragedy, and the false Robb fled crying, increasing the comic tone of the piece.
At the end, the actor playing Joffrey advanced to the center and recited a poem glorifying the young lion as golden petals fell and the audience applauded. Joffrey, fully satisfied, tossed a purse of coins to the actor who had portrayed him, failing to perceive the mockery woven through the whole performance.
—Well fought, here is the champion's purse —he announced with a crooked smile, letting the coins jingle across the boards— though you are not quite the champion yet, are you?
He turned his gaze over the crowd, delighting in his own voice, and added:
—A true champion defeats all challengers, and I'm sure there are others out there who still dare to defy my reign.
He paused briefly, faced the crowd and lifted his cup:
—But now that winter approaches, the North and all traitors to the crown will learn the price of their disloyalty.
He brought the wine to his lips and drank with a gesture of arrogance, but then he stopped and coughed once, as if the liquid had gone the wrong way, and coughed again, harder this time, his face contorting.
—My love? —Margaery asked, rising slightly in her seat, alarmed— It's… nothing —Joffrey stammered before a dry, violent cough cut him off.
The cup slipped from his fingers and rolled down the steps of the dais, a dark stain of wine spreading over the marble, and Joffrey staggered, clutching his throat first in annoyance and then in panic, as if trying to tear something out of his windpipe.
—He's choking! —Cersei shouted, leaping to her feet, her face completely white— Help the poor boy! —Olenna cried— Idiots, help your king!
Jaime shoved his way through the guests with broad shoulders, sending goblets and chairs clattering to the floor.
—Stand aside! Let me through!
Joffrey collapsed to his knees, his face a deep purple, the veins in his neck taut like cords, clawing at his throat in fury as guttural sounds mixed with bloody foam escaped his lips, writhing on the floor as if his own body had betrayed him.
—Joffrey! —shouted Cersei, running toward him, tripping over her skirt with tears already streaming down her face— Help him! Someone, help him!
—Breathe! —yelled Jaime, kneeling beside him and trying to hold his head as Joffrey thrashed violently, seeming about to snap his own neck.
—Don't touch him! —Cersei vociferated, pushing him away in fury— Don't touch him! Joffrey, please! Look at me! I'm here, I'm here.
Joffrey opened his eyes with effort, veins bursting beneath his eyelids, and stretched a trembling arm toward his mother, his fingers barely rising before falling lifelessly. Convulsions shook him as he spat a reddish liquid mixed with bile, and then he stopped.
Cersei froze. Her son's body lay sprawled on the floor, fingers still curled, nails stained with blood, his mouth slightly open in a final sigh, eyes glassy and lifeless. She threw herself over him, clutching him tightly, hands stroking his face as if she could comfort him, kissing his forehead and cheeks while whispering his name over and over.
—My son… my little one… no, please… Joffrey, please…
Her sobs turned into screams and wails, her crying so raw and overwhelming that even the hardest in the hall looked away; her dress was stained with blood and wine, and she seemed unaware, howling in despair, pounding the floor and her own chest, clutching the body as if she could bring him back to life. Then rage came: she lifted her head, soaked in tears, her face twisted with fury; she stood trembling, fists clenched, hair disheveled, eyes reddened.
—Who did this? —she said in a low, hoarse voice, but no one answered.
—WHO POISONED THE KING? —she roared, spinning around, glaring at everyone with the same hatred as the guests stepped back.
—BRING HIM TO ME! BRING ME THE BASTARD WHO DID THIS! —she shouted, increasingly unhinged.
Tywin Lannister descended from the dais with firm steps, jaw clenched, his face stone-like; he did not cry, but fury burned in his eyes. He stopped beside his grandson's corpse and surveyed the scene with almost inhuman coldness, while the Queen Mother continued sobbing, clutching Joffrey's body, unable to let go; Jaime, at her side, didn't know whether to console her or try to lift the corpse, and Margaery stood still, covering her mouth with one hand, pale as a statue.
—Maester Pycelle! —ordered Tywin, his voice controlled but leaving no room for reply— Prepare the body, and no one touches it without my permission.
The elderly maester approached with clumsy steps, stammering, and Tywin turned to Ser Addam Marbrand, commander of the city guard.
—Close the gates —he commanded— No one enters or leaves King's Landing until further notice, neither merchants, nor peasants, nor nobles; no one.
—Yes, my lord —responded the knight, pale.
—Send men to the harbor! —Tywin added brusquely— Stop every ship, let no vessel set sail, inspect every passenger and every cargo, and if anyone attempts to escape, detain and execute them on the spot.
The city guard knights moved swiftly, and the hall's doors closed as some guests let out muffled exclamations.
—Guards! —Tywin thundered, pointing— Escort every guest to their quarters and lock the doors; no one roams the Red Keep tonight without my permission.
The orders were followed without delay, and armed soldiers swept into the hall, pushing nobles to escort them, firm but without violence. Outside, the bells began to toll, their sound spreading over the city with the news.
Inside the Red Keep, the doors were shut one by one, and the feast hall lay empty, save for the guards, Joffrey's corpse, his mother collapsed beside him, and Tywin standing motionless.
He would catch whoever had done this, for it was not only a crime against the throne but a personal affront to his house and the power he had so hard-earned, and whoever had done it would pay.