[Chapter Size: 1100 Words.]
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Tyrion pushed the bench aside, rose to his feet, and smiled at Joffrey.
"I think I've had enough fighting for one day, Your Grace. I hardly need any more scars upon my face."
He paused, letting his words cut into the silence of the hall. "I'd say it's your turn, Your Grace. This spectacle is nothing but a parody of your heroic image on the battlefield. As your first witness, I rise for you. I'll step down from the platform, holding your fine new Valyrian steel sword, and let everyone see how a true king earns his throne."
The dwarf raised his cup mockingly before adding, "But take care, these people seem half-mad with lust. It would be a terrible tragedy if the king were to lose his maidenhood before his wedding night."
The words slashed sharper than any blade. Tyrion had long been known for his cruel wit, and his barbs landed with perfect precision. When he finally sat down, Joffrey's face had gone crimson with fury.
The entire feast hall froze, the mirth sucked out in an instant. The tension was so thick that not a soul dared speak. Only Theon watched calmly, flashing Sansa Stark a sly smile.
After a few moments of taut silence, Joffrey seized a goblet of wine and stalked toward Tyrion. Tyrion, unruffled, sipped from his own cup as though the boy-king's rage was no more than a summer breeze.
When Joffrey deliberately upended the goblet, pouring wine over Tyrion's head, the dwarf only sighed, "A shame. This is good wine. What a waste to spill it so thoughtlessly."
At that moment, Margaery Tyrell leaned forward with a well-timed interjection. "Sweetheart, come back at once. It's my father's turn to give a toast."
Reluctantly, Joffrey turned back, muttering as he walked. "How can he toast when my cup lies empty?"
His eyes gleamed as he faced Tyrion once more. "Uncle, since you lack the courage to fight, then you may serve as my cupbearer."
Tyrion bowed his head slightly. "Thank you, Your Grace. It is, of course, an honor."
"An honor?" Joffrey sneered. "No, this is no honor."
Tyrion rose and approached to take the goblet from Joffrey's hand, but the king let it slip to the floor. The clang of silver against stone echoed through the silent hall.
Bending to retrieve it would mean humiliation, but Tyrion started to kneel all the same. Before he could, Joffrey lashed out with his foot, sending the cup skittering beneath the long table.
Margaery turned her head away, her lips pressed into a silent curse.
Before Tyrion could crawl under the table, Sansa gracefully stooped and retrieved the goblet herself, sparing him the indignity. He filled it with wine and held it up to Joffrey, who looked down at him with undisguised contempt.
"Kneel before your king," Joffrey demanded.
Tyrion met his gaze and said nothing.
"Kneel!" Joffrey's voice rose, shrill with rage. "I command you, kneel before your king!"
The hall had grown so quiet that the rustle of gowns and the flicker of torches seemed thunderous. No one moved, no one breathed. The tension coiled tighter, as though a single word would shatter the air.
At last, servants entered, bearing an enormous pie. Margaery, ever the peacemaker, seized the chance. "Look, a wedding pie! Isn't it marvelous?"
Joffrey's attention was caught. With an eager grin, he drew his sword and hacked into the crust. A flurry of white wings burst forth as doves scattered into the rafters, drawing gasps from the crowd.
"Happy name day, Your Grace! Do you like the surprise?" Margaery asked, smiling prettily.
Joffrey laughed, gorging himself on the sweet filling offered to him by his bride. For a fleeting moment, the hall exhaled.
Meanwhile, Sansa leaned close to Tyrion. "Can we leave now?"
"Yes," Tyrion murmured under his breath.
But Joffrey's voice cut across the table once again. "Uncle! Where do you think you're going? Have you forgotten? You're my servant."
Tyrion drew in a slow breath, masking his disgust, and walked back toward the high table to refill the king's cup.
"Faster!" Joffrey barked, pounding his fist upon the wood. "The pie is far too dry!"
Theon, seated near Lady Olenna, watched carefully as Joffrey raised the brimming goblet to his lips. He shifted, pulling young Myrcella protectively against his chest, as though sensing what was to come.
Tyrion handed over the wine. "Your Grace, Lady Sansa feels unwell. Please allow me to escort her…"
But Joffrey waved him off, coughing between words. "No…no, none of you… cough…none of you may…cough!"
The coughs tore into his chest. His eyes bulged, and Theon narrowed his gaze, recognizing the signs at once: strangulation.
Tyrion's brow furrowed. A cold dread seeped through him. "Your Grace…?"
"I'm, fine!" Joffrey wheezed, clawing at his throat.
Margaery shrieked, her composure breaking. "He's choking!"
The hall erupted. Panic swept through the guests as the strangler's poison took hold, cutting off Joffrey's breath. Olenna Tyrell rose sharply, feigning horror. "Help him! Someone, help this poor boy!"
Guards and guests alike surged forward, but confusion reigned. The king collapsed, retching, his body convulsing upon the floor.
Dontos, the fool, seized the moment. He darted to Sansa's side, whispering frantically, "My lady, we must flee now, if you wish to live!"
But his eyes locked with Theon's across the hall. Theon's lids narrowed in silent warning. Why was the Greyjoy not rushing to aid his king?
Theon gave the smallest wave of his hand, urging Dontos to do what needed to be done. Meanwhile, he shielded Myrcella's eyes from the horror unfolding before them.
Joffrey's veins swelled. His face darkened, his lips turned purple, and blood spilled from his nose and ears. It was a ghastly sight that silenced even the most hardened lords.
The hall plunged into chaos. Guests screamed, tables overturned, and servants scattered like frightened mice.
One of the guards, forced his way through the throng and cradled Joffrey in his arms. But it was far too late.
The king's hands clawed weakly at the air, his skin mottled, his once-arrogant face twisted in agony. In his final moments, his gaze fixed upon Tyrion, and with trembling fingers he pointed straight at him.
Tyrion, stunned, bent to retrieve the fallen goblet from the floor. He stared at it in disbelief, his expression a mixture of shock and horror, as if the cup itself had betrayed him.
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