DAGGERS TO THE HEART Part 2 - CLASH OF THE KINGS

Tyrion I

"Why in seven hells were there seventy-seven courses?" Tyrion mused, his frustration clear. "They might as well have had seven hundred and seventy-seven for all it's worth. Nobody would eat over two bites of any course, although if Wyman Manderly were here, he would give it a good go," he surmised. "It's an utter waste of money. At least with seven hundred and seventy-seven, they would be able to feed the leftovers to the residents of Flea Bottom for at least a sennight."

If he had to hazard a guess, it wasn't the number seventy-seven, but two sevens. Both represented the seven gods. It was sickly sweet, enough to make one retch, even without the copious amounts of wine Tyrion had already consumed.

The peacocks adorned the tables, served in their plumage, roasted whole, and stuffed with dates. "How did they not burn the feathers?" Tyrion pondered silently, for he had nobody to converse with. Despite the thousand-strong guests, all Tyrion had was wine and his own company to endure throughout this entire farce. The more wine he drank, the more he found solace in his own company.

The entertainment began as a drummer was summoned to inaugurate the proceedings. He bowed before Lord Tywin and launched into The Rains of Castamere. "If I have to endure seven versions of that, I may go down to Flea Bottom and apologise to the stew," Tyrion groaned.

Meanwhile, four master pyromancers conjured beasts of living flame, while servers distributed bowls of blandissory, a concoction of beef broth and boiled wine sweetened with honey, garnished with blanched almonds and capon chunks.

Next came strolling pipers, accompanied by clever dogs and sword swallowers, as the guests were served with buttered pease, chopped nuts, and swan poached in a peach and saffron sauce.

For the fourth course, a juggler expertly kept half a dozen swords and axes whirling through the air, while skewers of blood sausage, brought sizzling to the tables, provided a juxtaposition that Tyrion found clever, though perhaps not in the best of taste. This was especially poignant considering the planned final entertainment for the evening.

The heralds blew their trumpets. "To sing for the golden lute, we give you Galyeon of Cuy." Galyeon, sporting a black beard and bald head, possessed a thunderous voice that filled every inch of the throne room. He was accompanied by six musicians.

"Noble lords and ladies fair, I sing but one song for you this night. It is the song of the Blackwater, and how a realm was saved," Galyeon announced, his voice commanding attention as the drummer set a slow, ominous beat.

"The dark lord brooded high in his tower, in a castle as black as the night.

Black was his hair and black was his soul,

He feasted on bloodlust and envy, and filled his cup full up with spite,

My brother once ruled seven kingdoms, he said to his harridan wife.

I'll take what was his and make it all mine. Let his son feel the point of my knife.

A brave young boy with hair of gold," a wood-harp and a fiddle began to play.

"Twas if only I was Hand of the King," Tyrion lamented aloud, "For the first thing I'd do is hang these singers," his voice too loud for the setting. Lady Leonette, seated beside him, laughed.

Ser Garlan leaned over, offering a counterpoint. "A valiant deed unsung is no less valiant."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, knowing better. There was nothing valiant about Joffrey's cowardice during the battle of the Blackwater. The wretched boy had fled, cowering behind his mother's skirts. Such was the bravery of the Golden King.