Artos Stark

Sansa/Cersei's POV The Lion and the Rose

Sansa often worried about the way Joffrey would look at Alastor. It was with pure distaste and angry. Over the last year and half she had clung to the little boy as if he were her own. She fed him, bathed him, and taught him. He reminded her so much of her elder brother who to this day she regretted not snatching up Alastor and running off with. The baby boy was sat in Cersei's lap for appearances but it didn't stop the little boy's emerald green eyes from searching out for his aunts.
"From House Tyrell and the people of the Reach, Your Grace, it is my honor to present you with this wedding cup. May you and my daughter Margaery drink deep and live long." Lord Mace Tyrell said placing the large cup down in front of Joffrey.
"A handsome goblet, my lord. Or shall I call you Father?" Joffrey asked trying to charm the man.
"I should be honored, Your Grace." He answered back bowing and walking off. Silence overtook them and the crowed watched in awe as Tywin's face softened at the sound of Alastor's sneeze. The Old Lion brushed his thumb over the babies cheek pulling the young boy into his lap. Alastor stood on his grandfather's knees looking in to similar green eyes. Looking at the boy Tywin could see the spirit in his eyes. The pure will to fight, and lead. It was everything he needed to know that he didn't share a father with his other grandchild. He could see the boy even at this age being a strong worrier one day. It made his mind drift to the rumors of Cersei and Artos. He knew Artos was a strong young man. He knew he was feared and loved by just about everyone in Westeros. Scanning the boy's features confirmed it all for him. Alastor wasn't Robert's son either. Instead of the shame he had felt when he realized the parentage of his other grandchildren, Tywin felt pride. He respected the Fearsome Wolf, now he had a piece of the the same wild force that ran through Artos's vines to mold in his own image.
"She's the whore I told you about. The dark-haired one." Cersei spoke to her father interrupting his thoughts.
"Have her brought to the Tower of the Hand before the wedding." Tywin told her. Cersei nodded taking the baby back as he leaned over to pick up some food from his plate in front of her. He was growing fast and she swore the boy ate more then the horses.
"A book?" Joffrey asked as Tyrion instructed a man to place one down.
"The Lives of Four Kings. Grand Master Kaeth's history of the reigns of Daeron the Young Dragon. Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy, and Daeron the Good. A book every king should read." Tyrion trailed off uneasily. Sansa looked over at him with pity but smiled lightly at the distaste him Cersei's face as Alastor dropped some of his food on her dress. Silent took over the head table uncomfortably before Joffrey shifted and decided to answer.
"Now that the war is won, we should all find time for wisdom. Thank you, Uncle." Joffrey nodded blinking some what sarcastically at the smaller man. Tywin then stood as a knight walked forward holding a blade.
"One of only two Valyrian steel swords in the capital. Your Grace, freshly forged in your honor." Tywin told him as joy filled Joffrey's features as he stood running around the table to get a better look at the sword. Joffrey picks it up swinging it around.
"Careful, Your Grace. Nothing cuts like Valyrian steel." Grandmaester Pycelle warned.
"So they say." Joffrey mumbled out before turning and slashing violently at the old book Tyrion had gifted him. People gasped and flinched at the display and Alastor tried to wiggle out of his mother's arms and away from the danger.
"Such a great sword should have a name. What should I call her?" Joffrey asked panting when he was pleased with his work.
"Stormbringer." The first man shouted.
"Terminus." Shouted another.
"Widow's Wail." Came another.
"Wolfsbane." Shouted the last man before Joffrey turned.
"Widow's Wail. I like that." Joffrey said with a chuckle.
"Every time I use it, it'll be like cutting off Ned Stark's head all over again." He said sliding hit back into its sheath. Sansa let her eyes fall back to Alastor at his words, letting her nephew's sweet face distract her from her grief.

Once the feast had ended Sansa found herself once again in Alastor's room watching the young boy play with a few of his toys. She wished she could be young and naïve again. She was dreading the wedding tomorrow.