Game Of Thrones Wine Goblet Novels & Stories

She had seen the gilded cage, and part of her hated how its comforts had left a faint, traitorous longing in her bones. The great hall was a cavern, its ceiling lost in darkness, lit by fire pits and torches that guttered in the drafts. Trophies hung on the walls—not tapestries, but the banners of fallen enemies, the massive antlers of mountain elk, and strange, intricate maps carved into wooden panels. At the head of the room, on a simple stone dais, stood a chair made of interlocking elk antlers. Lord Valerius did not sit in it. He stood before a great carved map of the Iron Pass, his fingers tracing lines only he could see.

The flash of her tongue licking a drop of sauce from her lip. Then the wine. Silver goblets. A gift from Valen. Imported, he’d said. Aged with rare elven herbs. I watched her lift the cup. I watched her throat work as she swallowed. Then, A pause. A blink. A tremor in her fingers. Subtle, almost imperceptible. Her lips parted. She mouthed: Don’t drink it. Then she collapsed. Not with screams. No flailing. Just... folded in on herself. Like a puppet with cut strings.

It made it all the more satisfying to see the fruits of my labor laid out in the cot before me. I raised the goblet slowly, the wine catching the faint glint of moonlight. “To the girl who was never yours,” I murmured, voice low. “And the woman who will never leave me.” I drank deeply, letting the fire in the wine mask the fire in my chest. I wanted to be lost to the feeling of its dulling balm again and swallowed until the goblet was hollow. Then, I gave her one final, lingering look before I allowed the curtains to fall back into place and shield me from view once again.

He felt cold. Not the kind that the wind brings. The kind that lives inside you. It started in his fingertips and moved inward, curling like smoke into his chest, into his spine. It's freezing. His hands still held the goblets—no, one goblet was already on the ground. It rolled. Just one now. Golden. Still full. Sticky. Sweet. Suddenly someone was there. Kneeling in front of him. That familiar scent of mint. Shielding his eyes from the gruesome sight. Even though he couldn’t see the face of the dead.

The suitors bowed deeply, aware that this audience was a precursor to the final trial, yet uncertain of what awaited them. The Empress offered a gracious smile, and with a subtle motion of her hand, Cedric stepped forward, carrying a silver tray upon which rested two ornate goblets. The liquid inside was a deep crimson, swirling gently within the finely crafted vessels. The aroma that wafted from them was rich and intoxicating, a scent that spoke of aged wine, luxurious and rare.

Yolanda says, handing me a cup. “Hmm…” I say. My fingers, adorned with rings of sapphire and ruby, delicately grasps the crystal goblet filled with deep, ruby-red grape wine. I bring the goblet to my lips and I take a slow, deliberate sip. The complex flavours of the wine—rich with notes of dark cherry, plum, and a hint of oak—unfurled on my palate. “Are you worried about her? You should have just picked her then.” Yolanda says but I don’t raise my eyes from the goblet.

Alpha Tyrion's chamber was at the end of the corridor and I knocked twice before he opened it with a frown. "What do you want? " He asked with an irritated face. I gulped, " Your wine… " He took a deep breath and gave me the space to walk in his chamber. I put the glass on the table and gave him a smile. "Wait, can you clean this mess? " He asked, pointing at the broken pieces of the vase, " Someone broke it when I was in the meeting. " I quickly got on my knees and picked each piece. Alpha Tyrion gulped down the wine down his throat at once. He growled and it scared me. But he walked closer to the window and I felt a little comfortable.

He then asks the waiter for a 1979 Château Grand-Marteau wine. The waiter brings the bottle back, smiling as he carefully opens it. “Excellent taste, sir.” After the waiter pours him a glass, Ethan swirls the wine and inhales before nodding. “Thank you.” The waiter places the bottle on the table with extra care, as if it’s some sort of national treasure. While we wait for our food, Ethan pours me a glass. “What’s the occasion?” I asked. “There doesn’t need to be an occasion for us to drink good wine.”

And in this house, the punishment always landed on Rebel. She pushed herself upright, her knees screaming in protest after hours of being pressed against the unforgiving stone. A sharp, white-hot flare of pain shot through her joints, but she didn't dare let her expression flicker. To show pain was to show weakness, and to show weakness was to invite more of it. Her fingers shook as she reached for the fallen goblet, which lay on its side like a dead thing. The golden liquid inside had spread like an invasive stain across the floor. It was sticky, sweet, and smelled of expensive fermented grapes.

RHAEGAL'S POV I stood by the window watching as a few selected members of my pack gathered the corpses into the truck. They piled them one after the other and rolled the trolley away. I sipped from my goblet, filling my insides with the hot, burning sensation of the wine. The same wine that sent them to their graves.