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"I don't want this damned wedding at all, Cole. Burp~" Tyrion belched, his face flushed with drink, his eyes slightly unfocused. "I'd rather spend the night with a whore than marry a woman who has no desire to share my bed."
They sat beneath the Maidenvault, where Baelor the Blessed had once imprisoned his sisters.
This Targaryen king was truly a peculiar figure. "Whenever a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin. One side is greatness, the other madness." Baelor I was undoubtedly considered great throughout the realm. He had walked barefoot from King's Landing to Sunspear, bringing peace to the Seven Kingdoms and returning Dorne to the Iron Throne's rule without losing a single soldier.
Yet Tyrion felt he had been cruel to his sisters. He confined his three sisters—Daena, Rhaena, and Elaena—to house arrest in the Maidenvault of the Red Keep to preserve their innocence from the lustful desires of men and the corruption of the world.
Beyond this, he had committed other acts of madness: commanding the realm's beggars to wash lepers' feet, expelling prostitutes and declaring the flesh trade illegal, offering tax exemptions to lords who promised to secure their daughters' virtue with chastity belts.
"Not everyone can be the Prince of Dragonflies, Tyrion. One cannot have everything—just as at a crossroads, you must choose but one path." Cole took a sip of wine, feeling it slide down his throat.
He tilted his head and asked, "If you were Duncan the Tall, what would you choose?"
Tyrion faced precisely the same dilemma.
The High Septon, Grand Maester, and Small Council had demanded Prince Duncan Targaryen choose between his kingdom and Jenny of Oldstones, while Tyrion must choose between House Lannister and Shae.
Duncan, known as the Prince of Dragonflies, chose the latter. Tyrion, known as the Imp, chose the former. He desired Shae, but old memories cast long shadows over him.
"The throne is mine, and so is Jenny," Cole declared.
Tyrion grinned. "That's a greedy answer, Cole. It violates the rules of our game."
"Rules bind only the weak. The strong forge their own with sword in hand, just as Aegon the Conqueror did."
"That's because he commanded a monster like Balerion the Black Dread."
I have one too, Cole thought.
"Are you still a virgin, Cole?" Tyrion turned his head to stare at the other man's forehead.
"Can you not ask something else? Ass."
Tyrion paused. "When men gather, what else should they discuss but women? Hiccup~"
He rose unsteadily, clutching Cole's clothing. "Come, I'll take you somewhere special—you'll receive a warm welcome there."
"Tyrion, you're drunk. You should retire to bed," Cole said, standing as well.
"Truly?" The dwarf felt the world spinning, and he barely managed to keep upright with Cole's support. "Then I'll have Bronn escort you instead."
"Don't concern yourself with me. Focus on your wedding."
Cole steadied Tyrion with one hand. Squire Podrick sat not far away, and Cole beckoned to him.
"Lord Tyrion appears to be drunk. Please help him back to his chambers."
The attendant nodded and came forward to assist the dwarf.
Tyrion had complained earlier about this boy named Podrick—a timid lad who hesitated to speak.
After watching Tyrion depart, Cole prepared to return to his quarters but, glancing between the castle buildings, realized he had forgotten the way.
The castle was vast, filled with inner courtyards, vaulted halls, covered bridges, barracks, cellars, and storehouses scattered throughout. Even with a guide, navigation proved difficult.
He looked up at the Maidenvault, trying to recall the direction from which they had come.
The tallest structure was Maegor's Holdfast, the royal residence. Over there stood the White Sword Tower—no, that was the Tower of the Hand.
His vision seemed to spin in circles. Best to find someone and ask.
Walking along a corridor, he suddenly entered a garden dense with flowers. Butterflies and bees fluttered among the blooms, and the sweet sound of clear bells rose and fell on the air.
He followed the sound, hoping to find someone who might direct him.
Suddenly, two armored guards emerged from the surroundings, blocking his path.
"My lord, the queen hosts a banquet in the garden for the ladies of the court. The area is temporarily closed to visitors."
"My apologies. I've lost my way. Could you direct me to the guest quarters?" Cole asked with a nod.
Just then, a servant passed by, and the guard summoned him.
Cole described the approximate location, and the servant offered to guide him.
Not far away, they encountered a group of ladies who must have been invited to the queen's banquet.
Cole immediately noticed the flowered girl at the center. Her smile bloomed like a tender rose. She possessed soft, doe-like eyes, gentle brown curls, and a graceful figure.
She wore a green gown cinched at the waist, adorned with two clusters of bright red roses. A white silk scarf hung from her shoulders, floating delicately.
The girl looked in his direction and paused.
Cole followed the servant, offering a slight nod as he passed.
"Who was that lord?" the girl beside Margaery inquired.
Not only had the little rose paused; all the girls had momentarily stopped.
Those soft, luminous eyes stared at the silver-haired figure. "Marquis Cole."
She would never forget that face. Mounted upon a tall warhorse, one hand holding the reins, the other a sword that gleamed in the firelight as brilliantly as the gods themselves. His white and silver armor and silver hair framed a blood-streaked yet handsome face.
"He's so handsome," a girl beside her sighed.
"I know. The minstrels call him the Knight of the White Wolf."
"Is his hair truly silver? I thought only those of Valyrian blood had silver hair."
"Ladies, we mustn't keep the queen waiting," Margaery said, regaining her composure.
"Look, our future queen has spoken." This prompted pleasant laughter.
She joined their mirth, striving to appear cheerful.
Cole followed the servant into the castle when another figure approached. He walked softly, clad in a velvet robe, his head bald. Though plump, his fingers and manner were those of a woman.
The scent of perfume reached Cole before the man himself.
It wasn't uncommon for noblemen to wear perfume—after all, not everyone was keen on bathing.
The man bowed gracefully and greeted him by name. "Good afternoon, Lord Snow."
He waved away the servant. "I have matters to discuss with His Lordship the Marquis."
The servant bowed and departed.
"My lord, permit me to introduce myself—Varys, servant of the realm and Master of Whisperers to the Small Council."