Chapter 160: The Traditions of a Westerosi Wedding

Wright: "Two houses with a blood feud—should we step in and break it up?"

Tyrion: "Absolutely not! Fists won't kill anyone, and look how much everyone's enjoying the show."

Wright glanced around. "You have a point."

The older nobles observed for a while, and once they recognized the combatants, they simply raised their cups, laughing as they exchanged stories of past Blackwood-Bracken conflicts, competing over who could recall the most battles between the two families.

The younger crowd, on the other hand, was busy egging them on.

Lord Jonos Bracken had five daughters but no sons. By the laws of the realm, he had named his nephew, Hendry Bracken, as his heir.

Lord Tytos Blackwood, however, had six sons and a treasured daughter.

His second son, Lucas Blackwood, spotted Hendry Bracken drinking nearby and taunted him, mocking how House Bracken was on the verge of dying out, forced to rely on a mere nephew as heir.

Hendry Bracken wasn't about to let that insult slide—especially coming from a Blackwood. He immediately smashed his cup into Lucas's face, and the fight was on.

Hendry had the upper hand in skill and quickly floored Lucas. But Blackwoods weren't in short supply—there were five of them in the hall. Lucas scrambled to his feet, and soon chairs and plates were flying. What started as a one-on-one brawl somehow turned into a five-on-one, and Hendry was beginning to struggle.

"Five against one? That's an insult to chivalry! Someone help my brother!"

The five Bracken sisters stepped forward. Fighting wasn't their strength—but they knew their advantage.

"Blackwood cowards! I'll punish you myself!"

"For a beautiful lady, I'd brave fire and steel! Hey, kid, ever seen a fist the size of a melon?"

The single young nobles, eager to impress, immediately jumped into the fray.

Five against five. Then six against five. The numbers kept growing.

"Who the fuck are you?! Why are you hitting me?!" someone shouted, catching a random punch.

"I don't give a damn who you are! You blocked my view!" came the reply, followed by a swift kick.

Before long, the entire Riverlands contingent had joined the brawl. Chaos erupted—but at least no one had weapons.

Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, stood up, intent on stopping the madness. But after calling for the Kingsguard, he slumped back into his seat, exhausted.

Seven Kingsguard in total—two stationed with the queen, leaving only five present. Two had to remain flanking the king. That left just three to wade into the mess.

The Kingsguard had to respect guest rights. They couldn't draw their swords to intimidate drunken young nobles, and restraining a horde of battle-hungry, inebriated men was proving nearly impossible. All they could do was grab whoever was closest and drag them to the side.

"Ashara Dayne!"

Fighting at a wedding was one thing, but flipping over tables belonging to uninvolved guests was another. Wright saw things getting out of hand and called for the Tyroshi commander of the city guard. Dealing with drunkards was her specialty.

"Master!" Ashara staggered up to Wright, reeking of alcohol, her face flushed red.

Wright pointed at the melee. "Handle it."

"Yes, sir!"

Ashara gave a sloppy salute before turning to face the chaos in the hall.

"You bunch of bastards—urgh~~"

She hadn't even taken a step before doubling over and vomiting all over the floor.

Wright scanned the room. At Robert's table, aside from Nymeria, everyone else was a man in his thirties or forties, and they were the ones cheering the loudest.

The older nobles all sipped their wine, watching the young fools go at it with amused indifference.

Wright: "Forget it, let them fight it out. They'll stop when they're done. Tyrion, come over and drink with me."

Tyrion staggered over, carrying two enormous cups, slamming them onto the table with a loud thud. "The brawl at your wedding was even worse!"

In Westerosi weddings, after the couple received their blessings, they were sent to their chamber. Wright hadn't realized this tradition before—no one had bothered to tell him.

Following his example, Renly set up an illusion spell at his own chamber's door. The bruised and battered young nobles soon found themselves once again at the mercy of a sorcerer's tricks—they couldn't find Renly's wedding chamber at all!

The next morning, many guests were still nursing hangovers, but the Red Keep was abuzz with tension. Rumors spread in all directions, carried by various channels beyond the castle walls.

Wright woke up alone in the Red Keep's garden. His clothes were intact, but one of his shoes was missing. He had no memory of what happened after the feast.

His head pounded, his throat was parched, and he clutched his forehead as he limped toward the Great Hall.

At the entrance, he saw the anxious and bustling guards. A bad feeling settled in his gut.

The regular guards were only following orders—asking them was pointless. He quickened his pace toward Maegor's Holdfast, where the king resided, and spotted Ser Lyn Corbray of the Kingsguard. Wasting no time, Wright pulled him aside.

"Ser Lyn, what's going on?"

Between Wright and Renly, Lyn Corbray could at least tell them apart. "Lord Wright, word came this morning—the Hand of the King is dead."

"What? Start from the beginning!" Wright had seen Jon Arryn drinking just fine at the wedding feast yesterday. If this was an assassination, then things were dire.

Lyn Corbray shot him a meaningful look. Seeing his caution, Wright led him to the upper level of the Queen's Ballroom, where a long corridor provided a clear view of both sides—anyone approaching could be seen from a distance.

Wright then cast a Silence spell. "We're inside a magic ward. No one can hear us."

Lyn Corbray lowered his voice. "After the wedding feast, the Hand was a little drunk. As he left, he was laughing and telling the king, 'Robert has a child, Eddard has a child, Stannis has a child, and now Renly and Wright are married. I have no more ambitions—just want to go home and father another son.'"

Wright: "Still going strong at his age. And then?"

Lyn Corbray: "The Hand had been losing weight recently. The king asked about it, but he always insisted he was fine. But Grand Maester Pycelle confirmed—he was definitely ill."

Wright: "I noticed. He looked gaunt, pale, and hollow-eyed. He must have been sick."

Lyn Corbray: "This morning, a maid entered his chambers and found Lysa Tully curled up in a corner. The Hand was already dead in his bed."

Wright: "How did he die?"

Lyn Corbray lowered his voice further. "Last night, the Hand suffered a fatal… exertion. He died mid-release."

"…What the fuck?!"

Wright couldn't wrap his head around how a seventy-four-year-old man had managed such an intense performance. The manner of death certainly justified secrecy—best to announce it formally as a natural passing. At his age, many had likely already prepared for his eventual death. No one would be too shocked—except for the details.

Wright: "That doesn't make sense. He was old enough to know his limits."

Lyn Corbray suppressed a smirk but held it in. "After the maid reported it to us, we entered the Hand's Tower. He had already been dead for hours—likely since late last night. There was a bottle of Might on his bedside table."

Wright kept a straight face. "I've heard of that. One bottle wouldn't kill a man."

Lyn Corbray: "According to his wife, Lysa Tully, the Hand drank three bottles in a row."

Wright's expression twitched. He was no longer able to keep a straight face.