The outer ward was crowded with tents and pavilions, dozens of them. “Tyrell men,” Podrick Payne explained as they threaded their way through a maze of silk and canvas. “Lord Rowan’s too, and Lord Redwyne’s. There wasn’t room enough for all. In the castle, I mean. Some took rooms. Rooms in the city. In inns and all. They’re here for the wedding. The king’s wedding, King Joffrey’s. Will you be strong enough to attend, my lord?” “Ravening weasels could not keep me away.” There was this to be said for weddings over battles, at least; it was less likely that someone would cut off your nose.
