"Lord Eddard, do we really have to go to that dog's dinner of a feast?"
The booming voice of Jon Umber, Lord of Last Hearth, echoed through the tent. His voice was so loud it seemed like half the camp must have heard his question. And Jon made no attempt to hide his disdain for the young king.
"Yes," Lord Eddard nodded, "It's the king's nameday feast; we are required to attend."
In truth, none of the northern lords were eager to join this celebration, but oddly, it was Eddard Stark who insisted they all attend, as if he were not the same man who had clashed with the king only days before.
Lord Rickard Karstark of Karhold spoke up, "Lord Eddard, since the Red Viper is dead, Jon Arryn's death has been avenged. We've no need to carry on with this war against Dorne. And with a king as rotten as that boy? If you ask me, we northern folk should simply go home."
Rickard's words drew murmurs of agreement. It seemed that most of the northern lords were equally disinclined to keep fighting.
"It's true, we don't owe it to the Iron Throne to keep fighting the Dornish," Eddard conceded, only to change course with a new resolve. "But there's no need to rush. I have one last matter to attend to. Besides, this time, you all must be at the king's feast."
The northern lords exchanged puzzled glances.
Jon Umber leaned in closer, his face mischievous. "Did someone threaten you, Lord Eddard? Don't you worry; if you give the word…"
"That's enough," Eddard interrupted, suppressing a sigh. He finally gave a hint of his intentions. "Come to the feast. I have an important announcement to make."
The northern lords exchanged glances, then reluctantly agreed and began to leave.
When they were gone, Lord Stark changed into his formal attire and picked up a worn, leather-bound book, The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.
He ran a hand over the book's faded cover and thought of the visit he'd had the night before from the young Lord Samwell Caesar of Eagle's Nest.
"Lord Eddard, I've found the evidence you asked me to investigate," Samwell had said.
Yes, it was here in his hands—the proof he needed.
Robert, Eddard thought, It's time.
---
"What are you planning to do, Lord Caesar?"
The Red Priestess Melisandre asked as she observed Samwell in a blue velvet robe. The vivid red of her own dress contrasted sharply against the blue. With her hair, eyes, and jewelry glistening like flame, she exuded a seductive power that dared not be desecrated.
"Doesn't your all-seeing god R'hllor tell you what I'm planning?" Samwell replied with a smirk, fastening the last button on his attire.
It was King Joffrey's nameday. The newly conquered city was to host a grand celebration in his honor—a chance to revel in victory and to honor the king. Samwell had prepared a gift of his own for the young king, one that he would not soon forget.
Melisandre's red-stoned necklace seemed to pulse with light in sync with her breath. "Not every trivial pursuit merits the Lord of Light's revelation," she replied, eyes fixed on him.
Samwell laughed. "What I'm about to do is no trivial pursuit."
"Compared to the terror stirring in the North, this conflict here is child's play. Even this war," she gestured dismissively, "is merely the bickering of babes."
Melisandre took a step closer, her flame-colored eyes locking on his. Her words were hushed but intense, as if she were speaking an ancient prophecy.
"Lord Caesar, do you know what stirs beyond the Wall in the far North? A darkness is awakening there, a force that cannot be named by mortal men. It is the god of shadows, the essence of frost and night, the deity of death and dread. It gathers its strength, power beyond any mortal's reckoning. The cold winds are already blowing. Winter is coming, and with it, the endless night. An army of the dead will soon march upon the living. Unless the people of Westeros unite beneath the flaming heart of the Lord of Light, all will be lost."
"Childish conflict?" Samwell scoffed, then let out a sigh. "You're right, of course. It's all petty nonsense. But it is still the reality we face. Do you think that just because you say the Lord of Light demands it, everyone in Westeros will lay down their arms and flock to his faith? Even if your god were to deliver a revelation himself, who would listen? So, Melisandre, I thank you for saving my life, and I believe you when you speak of the northern threat, but as for how to deal with it, I have my own plan."
"Let me help you, then," she said, reaching out to help him with the last button.
"I welcome your help."
"I mean now," she murmured.
"Now?" he repeated, glancing down as her warm fingers brushed against his neck. Her voice became a whisper, close to his ear.
"I see the fire in your eyes, the rage that demands blood. Tell me, whom do you seek to kill? Let me summon a servant of light, a shadow who can carry out your will. And in that act, I will show you pleasures beyond any you have ever known," she said, her voice both alluring and powerful.
Samwell met her gaze, amused yet unyielding. He had read of shadow assassins, of souls summoned by her very flesh. She offered him power—at a cost.
"My life's fire, you mean? I would lose something of myself, wouldn't I?"
"Yes, your flame would weaken. But it is the price that must be paid. There is no free lunch in this world."
"Then I'll handle it myself," he said firmly, stepping back. "But I do need your help with something else."
She raised her eyebrows in silent question.
"This way."
He led her out of the tent and toward the Horn Hill camp.
"Lord Caesar," said Ser Harrol Hunt, who met them at the entrance. The Hunt family was sworn to House Tarly, and Harrol had been placed in command of Horn Hill's men since Samwell's brother Dickon had left for the Dornish front.
Ser Harrol knew why he'd come and led them to Dickon's casket.
"Thank you."
"My lord," Harrol replied with a low bow before leaving.
Pointing to the casket, Samwell turned to Melisandre. "I've heard that the Lord of Light has the power to bring back the dead?"
"You want me to bring your brother back?"
"Yes."
"I can try," she replied, her face a mask of calm, though inside, she felt a pang of uncertainty. "It is possible to bring back the dead, but not everyone can receive his blessing."
She had tried it before but had never succeeded. However, with the blood-red comet now approaching, her power seemed to be growing. Perhaps this time it would work.
As Melisandre began her ritual, she chanted incantations in a language so ancient and heavy that it seemed to hang thick in the air. The words filled the tent with an eerie reverberation, faint but chilling.
She finished her chant and stepped back.
But nothing happened.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, and left the tent, her flame-red robes swishing behind her.
Samwell remained, alone with his brother's casket, unable to bring himself to lift the lid and look at Dickon's face.
When he'd first arrived in this world, Samwell had felt little for this brother, who had been the reason for his initial hardships here. Their father's favor for Dickon had pushed him out of his home, and he'd initially seen Dickon as a stranger who shared his blood. But over time, through battles and hardship, he had come to love this good-hearted, honest young man.
He placed his hand on the casket's lid and whispered, "Goodbye, little brother. I'm going to avenge you."
Taking one last breath, he stood back, resolute.
"I'm not only avenging you. I'm doing this for Lord Yohn Royce, for the three hundred and forty-one men who died in the Sept, and for every soldier who fell here at Skyreach."
Then he turned on his heel and left the tent, determination hardening in his heart.
Behind him, faint wisps of smoke gathered in the air, swirling, until they drifted gently toward the casket where Dickon lay.
As Samwell entered the city of Sun House, he noted that the bodies had been cleared, though blood stains remained as reminders of what had taken place. He walked on toward the Fowlers' castle, which had been transformed for the occasion.
Fresh rose petals lay scattered down the hallways. Musicians played softly on harps and lutes, attempting to bring a sense of elegance to the occasion.
The feast itself was to be held outside, for the Fowler family's keep, though grand, could not contain the sheer spectacle the king demanded.
Entering the main courtyard, Samwell saw that many guests had already arrived, yet the air was tense, with smiles that seemed forced and eyes that darted warily around.
At the far end Samwell saw the king sitting high on the stage.
Joffrey was wearing a black and red striped shirt and a golden crown today, and was scanning the entire audience with an arrogant look plastered on his face.
His mother, Cersei sat on his right, wearing a black palace dress trimmed with gold thread. Her golden hair was tied into a bun and covered with a black silk hairnet decorated with evergreen. She looked dignified and elegant, but she kept wrinkling her nose, as if she didn't like the smell in the city at the moment.
The chair on the king's left was empty, with a cushion embroidered with golden roses on it, suggesting that this was the seat prepared for the future queen.
But the future queen was not present.
Samwell paused slightly and looked around for Margaery Tyrell.
She's gone.
Instead, he saw Lord Mace Tyrell sweating profusely and talking to the servants around him in panic.
Did she make a brave choice after all?
Samwell thought to himself, a smile forming on his face.
(End of this chapter)
"What do you mean, she's missing?"
Lord Mace Tyrell shouted, his voice rising in anger. Then he realized how loud he was and lowered his tone, hastily adding, "Did you search everywhere, inside and outside the city?"
"We did," Garlan Tyrell replied, keeping his head down as though afraid to meet his father's gaze. "There's no sign of her."
"Where could she have gone!"
After a pause, Garlan hesitated and said, "Father… maybe she doesn't want to marry the king and hid on purpose…"
"But I've already agreed to this marriage!" Mace muttered, beads of sweat starting to form on his forehead. "How could she do this? She was never like this! She's always been obedient and sensible! Did someone influence her? Some accursed minstrel?"
"But, Father, look at who you're making her marry," Garlan defended his sister.
"I'm making her marry the king!" Mace Tyrell barked back. "Wasn't becoming queen her dream?"
"That doesn't mean every king deserves Margaery."
"This is the only king there is!" Mace gave his son a shove. "Now go—keep looking…"
"Lord Mace." Queen Mother Cersei had appeared nearby. "What's going on?"
"Nothing, nothing…"
"Where's Margaery? Why isn't she here yet?"
"She…"
Cersei raised an eyebrow, as though the pieces were falling into place. "What's this? She's unwilling to marry my son?"
"No, of course not!" Mace stammered, trying to explain. "She's just… she's just lost…"
"Enough, Mace!" Cersei cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Do you think I'm a fool? If your daughter doesn't wish to marry, then we'll simply cancel the engagement. Do you think my son can't find a queen?"
With that, she turned on her heel and swept away.
At the same time, Samwell found his seat among the Reach nobility, beside his uncle, Alester Florent.
A servant came over and poured golden Arbor wine into his glass.
"Samwell, how is your injury?" Ser Alekyne asked.
"It's all healed, Uncle," Samwell replied with a slight smile.
Alekyne Florent sighed. "I'm very sorry about what happened to Dickon…"
"I know, Uncle, it's not your fault." Samwell glanced toward the king on the dais, his gaze sharpening.
"Ah…" Alekyne sighed again. "This must have broken your father's heart. Sam, have you ever thought of changing your name back to Tarly? I'm sure Randyll would agree. That way, you could inherit Horn Hill."
Samwell shook his head. "My father still has heirs."
Randyll Tarly did indeed have three daughters.
"Well, I know Randyll, and he would never allow one of your sisters to inherit Horn Hill."
It was true. Randyll, who had rejected even a timid son, would never consent to a woman inheriting his lands. "A woman's battlefield is the birthing bed." That was Randyll Tarly's view.
"My parents are still young. They may yet have another son." Samwell was not at all interested in returning to Horn Hill as Randyll's heir. After fighting so hard to carve out his own place, he had no intention of going back to be someone else's son. He would not, like some kings in old tales, toil and bleed only to hand his father the Iron Throne.
Alekyne frowned slightly, surprised that Samwell was so uninterested in returning to Horn Hill. He had even considered Sam as a replacement match for his daughter. Alekyne thought it must be the young man's current grief clouding his mind; he would come around eventually.
The two fell silent.
Samwell took a small sip of his wine, observing the gathering.
The northern lords were here, though their seating arrangements were telling. As a slight punishment, they were seated at the far edge of the grounds, so even Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North, could barely hear the king's voice. Though perhaps this suited the northern lords, as they weren't inclined to watch the king closely anyway. Had Eddard not insisted, most of them would likely have skipped the event.
Lord Stark sat quietly, saying nothing, but exchanged a brief, knowing look with Samwell from across the way.
As the time approached, the Grand Septon led the gathered nobles in a prayer.
Once the prayer ended, King Joffrey could hardly contain himself and hurried to begin. "Honored guests, to celebrate this great conquest, let us all raise our glasses!"
"To the king!" the guests responded, though with scattered enthusiasm.
Joffrey didn't seem to notice, grinning as he raised his own cup.
The clinking of thousands of goblets sounded, officially beginning the feast.
Joffrey did not sit, however, but remained standing with his goblet in hand. "Today, I also have an announcement to make. As punishment for the Dornish betrayal, I hereby decree that from tomorrow, this city shall be sacked!"
The announcement caused a ripple of shock across the gathering.
Ser Barristan Selmy immediately stepped forward to object. "Your Grace, this may not be wise. The Dornish are proud and fierce. If you sack Skyreach, every other Dornish city will resist us to the death…"
"Then we'll kill them all until they stop resisting!" Joffrey replied arrogantly.
"Forgive me, Your Grace, but you do not have the authority to issue such an order," Barristan countered. "Lord Eddard is the commander of this army."
Joffrey's face contorted with rage as he drew his sword, brandishing it wildly. "I am the king, and I command it—sack the city!"
"Then you'll have to kill me first." Barristan's voice was calm but unyielding.
"Enough." Cersei quickly grabbed her son's arm before he could do something even more foolish. She understood the danger of letting Joffrey kill the Lord Commander; he would be branded the Mad King reborn. "This is a feast, not a council of war. We can discuss it later."
"Yes! Let's have some food, Your Grace. We're all hungry," Jaime Lannister added, trying to ease the tension.
Joffrey finally sheathed his sword, though reluctantly.
With that, the feast truly began.
Servants brought forth course after course, while a minstrel stepped forward and strummed his harp, beginning to sing.
The song was titled The Conquest of King Joffrey.
Clearly, the minstrel knew how to flatter, which was probably why he'd been chosen to open the night's entertainment.
Samwell listened with mild interest, watching the expressions of the gathered nobles.
Though they listened politely, anyone paying close attention could see the resentment, mockery, and disdain in their eyes. Joffrey's mishandling of the campaign had clearly angered these military lords. Their men had bled and died, only for the king to bungle their efforts—and then shamelessly claim the victory as his own.
Did he think he could treat the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms as Baratheon lapdogs?
When the song ended, the minstrel began a rendition of The Rains of Castamere, the ballad Lord Tywin Lannister had commissioned after slaughtering rebellious lords in the West. It was a clear attempt to curry favor with House Lannister.
Then came The Golden Rose, a song honoring House Tyrell. But before it even began, Cersei dismissed the minstrel, ordering him to play something else instead.
Samwell noted the decision—the engagement was certainly off.
The minstrel played The Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone next to honor the Faith, and when he finished, a jester took the stage to perform.
The jester juggled, spit fire, and conjured doves from nowhere, earning laughter from the crowd. But when he produced a puppet for a mock sword fight, the mood suddenly grew tense.
The puppet was a figure of the Red Viper, Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne. Worse yet, it was held up by a skeleton—likely Oberyn's own remains.
Even for an enemy, this was an ugly display. Killing a foe in battle was one thing; desecrating their remains after the fact was another. It was poor taste, especially at the king's feast.
The laughter died away, leaving Joffrey's cackling to echo awkwardly across the hall.
"Hahaha… Why aren't you laughing? Haha! Oberyn Martell—dead, as he deserves!"
But when he realized no one else was laughing, he finally stopped, sullenly downing his wine.
After a moment, Joffrey looked around as though recalling something. "Who killed the Red Viper again? Wasn't it Lord Samwell Caesar of Eagle's Nest?"
At the King's call, Samwell set down his goblet and stood, bowing slightly. "Yes, Your Grace."
"Good, good!" Joffrey beamed. "Lord Caesar, I shall reward you for your bravery. Tell me, what would you like?"
"Your Grace, it was an honor and my duty to fight for you. I ask for no reward. However, if you would grant me a small request…"
"Go on."
With a broad smile, Samwell said, "I would like to request that you permit Lord Eddard Stark to come forward. He has a gift he wishes to present to Your Grace."
"Eddard Stark?" Joffrey sneered. "Didn't he declare that he would no longer follow my orders? What now—does he want my forgiveness?"
Samwell kept his expression earnest. "Yes, Your Grace. Lord Eddard brings his sincerest apologies and hopes you will allow him to present this offering as a sign of his loyalty."
Joffrey's face lit up with satisfaction, though he made a show of appearing reluctant. "Very well, let him come forward. I'll see what this gift is and decide whether he's worthy of forgiveness."
"Thank you, Your Grace." Samwell turned and gave Eddard Stark a subtle nod.
The Lord of Winterfell slowly rose from his seat and made his way toward the front of the hall, carrying a large, leather-bound tome.
The gathered nobles watched with curious, puzzled expressions as the solemn northern lord took his place.
"Your Grace," Eddard began, bowing respectfully.
Joffrey looked down at him with a dismissive sneer. "What's this gift you've brought me, Stark? A book? I hate books. That's hardly the way to earn my forgiveness."
"No, Your Grace," Eddard replied calmly. "This is not merely a book, but a fascinating piece of history that I wish to share with you and the gathered lords here."
"History?" Joffrey muttered with a bored expression, slumping back in his chair. "Fine, tell me this 'fascinating history,' but if it's as dull as it sounds, I'll have you serve as my cupbearer tonight."
He laughed, a grating sound that echoed through the hall.
Eddard waited until Joffrey's laughter faded, then raised the book for all to see. "This book is The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, written by Grand Maester Malleon during the reign of King Maekar I. It contains some rather… interesting passages. I'd like to read a few to Your Grace and the esteemed lords gathered here."
He flipped to a marked page and began to read aloud:
"'In the year 207 AC, Lady Tya Lannister of House Lannister was wed to Ser Gawen Baratheon of House Baratheon. The following year, they had one son, a healthy, robust child with black hair who, sadly, passed away at three months of age.'"
Joffrey frowned. "And this is supposed to be interesting? Eddard Stark, you can pour me a drink now."
He slammed his goblet on the table with a loud thud, the sound echoing across the hall.
Eddard ignored the interruption, turning another page and continuing:
"'In the year 179 AC, Lady Rhaena Baratheon of House Baratheon wed Ser Elys Lannister of House Lannister. Over seven years, Lady Rhaena bore three daughters and a son, all with hair as black as coal.'"
Joffrey's irritation grew, his voice rising as he interrupted again. "What nonsense is this, Stark? I hate this…"
But before he could finish, Queen Cersei suddenly shot to her feet, her face visibly pale.
In a panicked voice, she shrieked, "Enough! Eddard Stark, I order you to stop!"
Her outburst startled everyone in the hall, the nobles exchanging uneasy glances. No one had expected such a reaction from the queen, but her agitation only served to heighten their curiosity.
What did Lord Stark's "history lesson" actually mean?
Ignoring her, Eddard's cold, steely gaze met Cersei's, his eyes as unyielding as the frozen landscape of the North. Without hesitation, he turned another page and continued:
"'In the year 146 AC, Lady Joanna Lannister of House Lannister…'"
"Stop!" Cersei screamed, almost hysterical now. "Jaime! Make him stop! Make him stop!"
(End of Chapter)
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