Night had fallen, and the Dayne family castle's banquet hall was ablaze with candlelight. Lady Nathalie, known as "Nathalie the Generous," hosted a grand feast for her esteemed guests.
Samwell had put on his newly tailored baronial formalwear. The finely cut silk attire highlighted his tall frame, with a dignified black color trimmed in gold and accented with red velvet tassels, imbuing him with an air of cold nobility, with a touch of regal grandeur.
So when the young Lord of Eagle's Point entered the hall, he immediately drew many admiring gazes.
If his recent, resounding victory and the influence he now wielded over Starfall were taken into account, it was hardly surprising why several noble ladies looked on the verge of rushing over to him.
"Samwell!" Margaery Tyrell waved at him.
A small smile played on Samwell's lips. The once-distant noblewoman was openly acknowledging him in a way that, before the battle at Starfall, would have been unthinkable.
Of course, Samwell knew he was still far from truly winning the favor of the "Rose of Highgarden." This display of warmth was merely Margaery's way of drawing closer to a promising bannerman.
"Lady Margaery," Samwell greeted her, bowing. "Your beauty tonight outshines the stars themselves."
He wasn't exaggerating. Margaery was breathtaking in a gown that exuded elegance and refinement. Its fitted bodice and exposed back flaunted her beauty tastefully, with a teardrop-shaped amethyst necklace drawing attention to her graceful neck. Her flawless, delicate features, combined with her playful gaze, perfectly balanced noble dignity with an enticing charm.
Margaery gave him a sweet smile, ready to thank him, when another voice interjected:
"No one can outshine the stars themselves, Lord Caesar."
Turning, Margaery saw that Princess Arianne Martell had quietly joined them.
Arianne's deep red gown hugged her form, making her look like a blazing flame. Her gaze was smoldering, her movements enchanting, evoking thoughts that would ignite a fire in any man's heart.
"Your Highness," Margaery's tone held an instinctual edge, "the gentleman you speak to is now Lord Caesar, Lord of Eagle's Point. You may address him as 'My Lord' or simply 'Lord Caesar.'"
"Oh, Samwell." Arianne purposefully chose the most familiar address, and then added, "Have you met with Lord Arryn yet? Come, I'll take you to him."
With that, she extended her hand to link arms with Samwell.
But Samwell quickly sidestepped her by signaling to a passing servant. Seizing the chance to avoid her touch, he reached for three glasses from the tray, offering one to each lady. "Let's toast to tonight's starlight!"
He downed his drink in one go, only to realize that both women merely raised their glasses, giving him knowing smiles.
Cursing inwardly, Samwell was wracking his brain for an escape when he spotted someone at the door—the evening's hostess, Lady Nathalie Dayne.
"Ah! Our hostess is here. Let me go greet her."
Not waiting for a reply, he hurried to the entrance.
Nathalie, too, had dressed for the occasion, wearing a striking yellow gown that made her appear both regal and charming. However, it was clear she was unused to such heavy formalwear; her movements were slightly stiff.
Yet her shy demeanor and softness in her gaze were the kind that evoked any man's desire to protect her.
"Lady Nathalie, your beauty tonight makes the stars pale in comparison," Samwell repeated the compliment he'd just given Margaery without a hint of shame.
"Sam... I mean, Lord Caesar," Nathalie stammered as if Samwell were a lifeline. Under the scrutiny of so many eyes, she struggled to maintain her composure. "You look… radiant tonight as well."
It seems she needs a tutor in rhetoric, he thought.
Offering his arm, Samwell said, "Shall we go greet Lord Arryn? Also, remember, as the host, you should always arrive early."
"Oh," Nathalie murmured, then mumbled quietly, "I was actually looking for you first, but you weren't there…"
"What was that?" Samwell asked.
"Nothing."
As they made their way to the center of the hall, where Lord Arryn was conversing with Lord Randyll Tarly and Ser Alekyne Florent, Samwell got his first glimpse of the man who held some of the greatest influence over the Seven Kingdoms. And he found himself…underwhelmed.
For the most powerful Hand of the King, Jon Arryn exuded none of the authority Samwell had expected; he looked more like an elderly neighbor than a formidable statesman.
Perhaps due to illness or the fatigue of his journey, the old Hand even leaned on a maid for support.
Wait—something about that "maid" didn't seem quite right.
"Who's that woman holding Lord Arryn?" Samwell asked Nathalie, leaning closer.
"Oh, that's his wife."
Lysa Tully?
Samwell's expression shifted as he stopped in his tracks.
"What's wrong?" Nathalie asked, puzzled.
Just then, a disturbance erupted near the door.
All eyes turned to see a knight, clad in full armor, stepping into the banquet hall.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Each heavy step resonated through the room, pressing on the hearts of everyone present, filling them with a cold dread.
Especially when they caught sight of the man's eyes, peering out like a venomous serpent's.
But no one dared step in his way. The blazing sun and spear emblazoned on his breastplate was warning enough of his identity:
Prince Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper.
Thud!
Oberyn came to a halt, about ten paces from Lord Arryn, and struck the butt of his spear against the ground.
The spear was a full eight feet long, with a leaf-shaped tip that gleamed ominously. No one doubted that the weapon was coated with a poison that would bring swift death.
"Jon Arryn!"
Prince Oberyn's voice rang out, fierce and defiant.
"Tonight, I will claim the justice owed to House Martell myself!"
The powerful declaration echoed through the hall, obliterating the festive atmosphere in an instant.
Stunned into silence, the crowd gaped at Oberyn, shocked by his audacious move.
Princess Arianne, watching her uncle, made no move to stop him.
She knew of his plan.
In this upcoming negotiation, Dorne was at a disadvantage—after all, they had lost the battle. What they couldn't win on the field, they certainly couldn't win at the table.
Since her father, Prince Doran, was determined to avoid further conflict, Dorne's bargaining position was painfully weak. If the Reach lords discovered this, they'd likely exploit it to pressure Dorne further.
Thus, to appear resolute and force some concessions, Oberyn had staged this little "display."
Lord Arryn met Oberyn's furious gaze, his own expression unchanged.
Standing taller than before, the old Hand of the King revealed the true force of his authority.
With neither fear nor hesitation, he took a few steps forward, his voice steady as he questioned Oberyn:
"What sort of justice are you seeking, Oberyn?"
The Red Viper hefted his spear, its blackened tip pointing directly at Lord Arryn.
"Thirteen years ago, you came to Dorne, demanding we swallow an injustice for the sake of your so-called peace. Now you're here again, but this time I won't submit so easily to your idea of peace!"
Jon Arryn gave a faint smile. "You haven't even heard my peace proposal, so how do you know it will be unfair?"
"Then by all means, enlighten me," Oberyn sneered. "I'm listening with spear in hand, and armor on."
Watching this spectacle, Samwell finally pieced together Oberyn's strategy.
The Red Viper was deliberately adopting an aggressive, even unhinged demeanor.
Faced with such a dangerous madman, Lord Arryn would likely feel compelled to offer Dorne some sort of dignity if he wanted peace.
In this moment, Samwell had to admit that Oberyn was not simply a reckless brute. He was a man with a plan.
"Peace proposals should be discussed calmly… c-cough," Lord Arryn began, a diplomatic tone in his voice. But just then, his speech faltered, replaced by a bout of coughing, each one harsher than the last until he couldn't even straighten his back.
"Darling, what's wrong?" Lysa Tully rushed to his side, holding him up.
"Cough… I'm…fine…cough…cough…"
"He must've swallowed wrong," Oberyn remarked.
No sooner had he spoken than Jon Arryn suddenly coughed up a large amount of blood and collapsed.
Lady Lysa screamed in horror, falling to her knees beside her husband and shaking his body desperately. Then, turning a finger of accusation toward Oberyn, she shouted, her voice raw with anguish:
"It's you! You poisoned him!"
The sudden turn of events struck the banquet hall like a stone dropped into a still pond. Chaos ensued.
But Samwell stood frozen, feeling a chill overtake him as he watched the turmoil.
Shouts, cries, accusations, and wails seemed to come from a world far away, as though they were veiled by a mist.
He watched Jon Arryn spitting blood, Lord Randyll calling for guards, Ser Alekyne raging, Oberyn Martell defiantly protesting his innocence. Lady Lysa was wailing uncontrollably, and every corner of the hall was filled with shouting and chaos.
Yet to Samwell, it all felt distant, like a stageplay unfolding before him, while he remained a silent spectator. The scene seemed surreal, the players—lords, ladies, knights, and nobles—appearing almost like puppets. Their movements were rigid, like they were held aloft by invisible strings, performing an incomprehensible act orchestrated from the shadows.
In the darkness beyond the stage, he felt the presence of a lurking, calculating figure with piercing gray-green eyes, watching over everything with an unsettling calm. A voice echoed through Samwell's mind, dripping with dark amusement, like a mocking whisper shared from a hidden vantage point:
"Chaos is a ladder."
(End of Chapter)