Crack!
Tyrion hurled the dazzling crystal goblet at Ser Meryn Trant's ornate helmet. With a sharp shatter, the goblet exploded into countless tiny shards, scattering like a sudden hailstorm. Blood streamed down his hand.
Arianne clutched his arm. "My lord, you're hurt. Look, your hand is bleeding."
"Take your king away. Now." Tyrion fixed his gaze on Joffrey Baratheon. His mismatched eyes glimmered strangely in the dim light, and the young king shivered despite himself.
"Darling, let's go back," Margaery said softly, tugging his sleeve, desperate to pull him away from the brewing chaos.
"Lust Demon… how dare you…" Meryn Trant wiped the wine from his face, trembling with fury. "You dare attack a member of the Kingsguard…"
"Bronn."
Almost before the word was out, the Knight of the Blackwater sprang forward from behind, moving with the speed of a hunting leopard. He seized the Kingsguard's arm with precision, and the towering Brienne immediately clamped down on the other side. The woman's strength was astonishing.
"Sit him down." Tyrion's command was short and cold.
With a coordinated pull, they forced Meryn Trant into a seat beside Tyrion. The knight turned toward the Hound, but his sworn brother was the king's dog, not his.
"Take the king away," Tyrion ordered.
Sandor Clegane hesitated. Margaery quickly stepped in front of Joffrey. "Darling, it's all right. Lord Tyrion only wishes to invite Ser Meryn for a drink. Let's go over there," she said gently, trying to shield the boy.
"Uncle, if I find out you've harmed Ser Meryn—"
The king's threat was cut short as the Queen and the Hound hurriedly escorted him away.
The music in the hall suddenly swelled, rising like a storm tide that drowned out the king's last words. The melody was rich and rousing, carrying an almost spellbinding energy that stirred excitement in the crowd.
It was a ballad—a tale of two lovers parted by the doom of Valyria. Though vivid in story, it was sung in High Valyrian, which most of the nobles could not understand. Fortunately, "Bessa the Barmaid," bawdy and crude, soon won back their favor.
The attention that had been fixed on Tyrion's table began to fade. Guests turned back to the entertainment and the feast. Twenty more courses remained—a long and tedious banquet, dull enough to test any man's patience.
"Lord, if you've no further business…" Meryn Trant said, uneasily shifting in his seat.
Tyrion ignored him, swirling the wine jug before pouring the knight a cup. "Tell me, Ser. How many times have you struck Lady Sansa?"
"What business is that of yours?" Meryn's face darkened, eyes burning with contempt and anger. "I was carrying out the king's orders. Every blow was for the honor and order of the Crown."
"Fuck, and you're proud of that?" Tyrion's tone was sharp. "A Kingsguard should know how to counsel his king. If your pitiful little brain can't grasp that, then take off your white cloak."
"Lust Demon! What right do you have—"
"Ha! I've every right," Tyrion said, taking Arianne's goblet with his bloodied hand and drinking deeply. "I'm Master of Laws, Master of Coin, and a Lannister…"
"And my betrothed," Arianne added smoothly. "A fine son-in-law for the Prince of Dorne."
"No. Too soon for that," Tyrion said, stopping her. "We'll discuss it once your father replies."
"He can't control me. I'll marry whomever I wish," Arianne said stubbornly. "To me, you are the true knight."
"Punishing a thug who beats a girl is hardly a knightly feat."
"Then, Ser," Tyrion turned back to Meryn Trant, "do you plead guilty? Do you admit to striking Lady Sansa Stark?"
Tyrion set down his cup, flicking blood onto the Kingsguard's face. Meryn Trant's expression turned ashen; his jaw clenched tight, rage and fear flickering in his eyes. As he tried to rise, Bronn and Brienne pressed him down hard.
"Lady Sansa, tell me— which hand did Ser Meryn use to hit you?"
"I don't want trouble, my lord," Sansa whispered. Both, she thought silently.
"Our good girl is too kind," Tyrion said with a faint smile. "Arya, did you see which hand he used to strike your sister?"
"The right hand!" Arya hadn't seen, but she wasn't about to waste a chance to punish the brute.
"The horse-faced girl knows you're right-handed, Ser Meryn. Now I'll judge you." Tyrion removed the knight's helmet. "In my eyes, you are unworthy of knighthood."
"You have no right—"
"Pod! Bring me my sword. I hear the Starks perform their own executions, isn't that right?"
"But my lord, you have no sword!" Podrick, loyal and a little slow, spread his hands helplessly.
"Then find me one, damn it!"
Pod darted off into the crowd.
"What crime shall I sentence you for?" Tyrion pressed his hand against Meryn Trant's twisted face—a face filled with the same fear Sansa must have felt when he beat her.
"In my name, my dear," Arianne murmured, wrapping her arms around his neck. "You are a true knight, my lion. A true knight. Judge him in the name of Sunspear—our castle-to-be."
He felt the Dornish girl's lips brush his ear, trail down to his jaw, and finally to his neck.
Podrick came rushing back, sweat glistening on his brow and breath ragged. He had somehow found an axe. Tyrion took it; the blade gleamed cold and bright. He tested its weight in his hand. Perfect.
"Bronn, put his hand on the table. Carefully. I'd hate to hurt you by mistake."
"Meryn Trant, for assaulting a noble, tormenting a young girl, and… calling me a Lust Demon. As Master of Laws, I strip you of your knighthood and your white cloak. I sentence you to… the punishment of losing your hand!"
"Lust Demon! You dare—"
A second later, Meryn Trant's white-gloved hand was rolling across the floor.
Tyrion thought he heard gasps, a few cries, Arianne's wild laughter—and then the wine in his stomach surged upward. He vomited, the mess splattering across the floor, mingling with the blood of the former Kingsguard.
Seemed he'd drunk a bit too much.
...
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