A Lion Still Has Claws

Part 7

The matrimonial breakfast induced no excitement or gossip, a true bore. An overall silent affair, it resembled that of a funeral feast. The guest hardly spoke, only whispering in hushed tones as they vainly gazed over one another. Each woke from their mellow state during the presentation of gifts. Members of the court lined eagerly to present the King and Lady Margery Tyrell with unnecessary wedding gifts.

Rhaenyra paid no attention to any, only taking interest in the family's gift. She found Mace Tyrell's gift rather charming. It was a large goblet with seven glittering faces etched onto its sides. Each represented one of the Seven Kingdoms. Her intrigued peaked when Lord Tywin proudly presented the King with his gift.

It was the first time her eyes caught sight of Tywin Lannister. He did not come to welcome her to the Capital, nor did he greet her in her daily bouts with his son. He had a stern face, a tight lip ready to curl into an obnoxious smirk, and green eyes that matched each of his children. Rhaenyra questioned the facts about his menacing history. He appeared to her as any other Lord in Westeros, weak and aging. 

Tywin had presented his grandson with a Valyrian steel sword, a twin to the one that rested on Ser Jaime's hip. Sick joy rose in King Joffrey as he held the weapon. He stood from his seat, turning from his guest to strike hard against a book his Uncle Tyrion had gifted him. The book ripped in two, paper flew over the breakfast at the high table. Rhaenyra was utterly amused. 

She snickered in her seat as Joffery requested names for his sword. Whispering into her napkin she said, "Sibling fucker." 

The breakfast lacked excitement but was rather amusing. Rhaenyra preferred, the wedding feast lacked intimacy causing it to also lack humor. She once again sat beside Ser Jaime, sitting beside him like a fine trophy. Her hair sat in curls and pins atop her head, she wore a crimson dress that complimented Jaime's lion doublet. Both her ears adorned gold as did her hands. She felt like a proper ass. 

Rhaenyra felt like a true hypocrite in her seat. She had sent her sons away because of it. She wished to be hidden away in her rooms, she could not take the flamboyance and extravagance. It was all done in celebration of a Lannister. Detailed tapestries lined the garden, proudly displaying the new royal houses. Entertainers performed throughout the greenery, remarkably displaying their talents. Food covered every visible surface, too much, it was passed around the tables besides gallons of wine. All was a display of Lannister's riches.

House Tyrell hardly exemplified their wealth. Their attendance and bride were enough to feel their gold. Roses were placed throughout the garden, ridding the scent of the Capital and making House Tyrell's presence known. 

Ser Jaime rested his hand against her thigh, occasionally whispering to her words about their own wedding. He promised a grand feast and many guests, for who would not want to see the Kingslayer wed. Rhaenyra ignored him, watching the fool juggle for the new couple instead. She pitied him. The feeling grew as King Joffrey demanded his guest throw objects at the poor man.  

She inched away from Ser Jaime, bringing her wine to her lips. If she had to be present she would prefer to be drunk. Her eyes shifted over the Royal family who sat at the high table. The indifferent faces of the Tyrells evoked a sense of reassurance, while the Lannisters' arrogant grins rivaled with a feeling of dread. Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, turning to see Sansa.

The girl spoke with Lady Olenna. A cunning, ambitious, intimidating woman. Rhaenyra admired her, those who feared the old woman called her the Queen of Thorns. A true honor to hold such a name.

Her attention was pulled as Ser Jaime squeezed at her thigh. "Are you enjoying the feast, my lady?" 

Rhaenyra pursed her lips before answering, "Of course." Her jeweled hand fell to rest against his. "It is an honor to be present for such an event." She gently scratched her nails against his hand as a familiar tune began to play. Rhaenyra recoiled further from his touch, resting her hand against her belly. Her fingers itched against the fresh scars the lay beneath her dress.