The rain had stopped, but the sky was even darker than before. Thick clouds hung low like a massive curtain, as if ready to drop over all of King's Landing at any moment.
Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish stepped through the bronze gates of the Red Keep, his mind churning with anger and unease.
Who was it?
Who had started the rumors linking him with Lady Lysa Arryn?
Petyr knew he had become someone's target.
Someone had begun to see through his involvement in the death of Jon Arryn.
But how was that possible?
Petyr couldn't understand. He had hidden his tracks so carefully—how could anyone have picked up on them?
Shouldn't everyone's attention be focused on Prince Oberyn Martell's trial?
Petyr sifted through a mental list of names and faces, trying to figure out who might be spreading these whispers.
According to Varys, the rumor had surfaced within the last two weeks.
That timing ruled out the new Hand, Eddard Stark, and instead pointed suspicion toward the recent arrivals from the Reach and Dorne.
It had to be one of them!
They had all been present when Jon Arryn died; perhaps one of them had noticed something.
But Petyr couldn't narrow it down any further. His opponent was cautious, leaving no trace—Varys's little birds couldn't even track down the source.
Such was the reality of King's Landing. With its vast size and enormous population, even "the Spider" with his countless webs couldn't monitor everyone, especially in the chaotic maze of Flea Bottom.
And spreading a rumor about a nobleman and a lady was all too easy.
Most people would likely think nothing of this rumor. Such scandalous talk surrounded almost every lord—some even worse. But for Petyr, this seemingly harmless rumor was extremely dangerous.
It linked him directly with Lady Lysa Arryn!
And it subtly suggested a damning truth—
He stood to benefit from Jon Arryn's death.
If the rumor proved true and he married the widow of the former Hand, Petyr would gain a powerful ally in the Eyrie.
Such an advantage gave him a clear motive for murder.
Petyr had always operated from the shadows, completing scheme after scheme without attracting attention by concealing his true intentions.
At times, he had even gone out of his way to do things that appeared to offer him no benefit, solely to avoid suspicion.
But now, he felt as if he were stripped bare, exposed under a merciless light.
The thought filled him with dread.
No, this had to stop. The rumor had to be quashed, he thought desperately.
But then he quickly realized the futility of such an approach.
Rumors only spread faster when one tried to suppress them, and people became even more convinced of their truth.
"If it isn't true, why deny it so urgently?"
Petyr took several deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down.
He knew there was no way to stop the rumor now.
If he wanted to clear his name, the best way would be to have Oberyn Martell convicted.
The Dornish viper had always been intended as his scapegoat; however, for Oberyn to be convicted, the trial needed to happen soon.
Yet the king kept delaying the trial, waiting for Lady Lysa to arrive in King's Landing.
And Lady Lysa… that foolish, timid woman was too afraid to come.
She was terrified.
Petyr cursed her under his breath but had to admit that if the woman weren't so foolish and fearful, he wouldn't be able to control her.
And so he was trapped.
Without Lady Lysa's presence in King's Landing, Oberyn's trial couldn't proceed. The longer the delay, the more widely the rumor spread, increasing the chance that someone truly dangerous would notice it.
Petyr thought long and hard, finally coming up with a plan—one that was his specialty.
He would create chaos.
If he could sow enough disorder in King's Landing, no one would care about a minor rumor.
A gleam of madness flickered in Petyr's gray-green eyes, and a mocking smile returned to his lips.
---
At dawn, Samwell climbed slowly up Visenya's Hill.
"Samwell, is that the Great Sept of Baelor up there?" Nathalie asked, her arm linked with the baron's, as she gazed up at the grand structure at the hilltop.
"Yes," Samwell replied, lowering his voice slightly. "From now on, you'll need to attend regular services to pay respect to the Seven. Otherwise, your people might come to question you."
"But I worship the Old Gods…" Nathalie said, looking somewhat uneasy.
"And yet your subjects are followers of the Seven." Samwell gently explained, "Especially since you're still building your reputation. You need to win them over by taking part in their customs. Think of it as… a performance, a show of respect. In private, you can still honor the Old Gods, but in public, you'll have to bow to the Seven."
"Will the Old Gods hold it against me?" she asked hesitantly.
"Of course not," Samwell assured her, "The gods are merciful and understand your situation. They'll judge you by the faith in your heart."
"I will always be true to the Old Gods!" Nathalie swore earnestly.
"They'll see your devotion," Samwell replied solemnly, as though speaking on behalf of the gods.
Nathalie smiled, relieved. "Lord Samwell, is it true that the High Septon lives here in the Great Sept?"
"Yes."
"I heard once that the High Septon doesn't have a name. Is that true?"
"They once did, but after becoming High Septon and donning the crystal crown, they must abandon their names. From that point, they are only a vessel of the Seven, no longer a mere mortal."
"But then, how do people tell one High Septon from another?"
"Well… it's a bit tricky. Fortunately, there's only ever one High Septon at a time."
Samwell continued answering her many questions as they reached the towering white marble dome of the sept, surrounded by seven crystal spires.
"Look, there are so many people there!" Nathalie pointed toward the square in front of the sept.
Indeed, a large crowd had gathered.
They appeared to be mostly beggars, dressed in coarse brown robes, their clothes filthy. They seemed to be waiting for handouts from the sept.
The beggars packed the square tightly, so Samwell decided to take Nathalie around to the back entrance.
But as they turned, he spotted a guard wearing the gold rose of House Tyrell on his chest.
Why would a Tyrell guard be here?
Samwell approached to inquire, and soon learned that the charity wasn't organized by the sept but rather by Lady Margaery Tyrell.
"Lady Margaery is so kind!" Nathalie remarked. "I'd like to give alms as well—to live up to the name 'Generous Nathalie.'"
Samwell stifled a laugh, not correcting her misunderstanding. "Then you should go and join Lady Margaery. I'll head into the sept."
"Oh? I'd rather go in with you…" Nathalie said hesitantly.
"No need. Go see Lady Margaery. I may take a while inside. Join me later."
"Alright… I didn't know you were so devout, Lord Samwell."
"Indeed," Samwell replied with a smile. "I always have much to say when I'm with the Seven."
They parted ways, and Samwell entered the Hall of Light, a long corridor lined with colored glass orbs. A few septons were busy polishing the marble floor along the way.
At the end of the Hall of Light stood a set of double doors leading into the sept's main sanctuary.
Sunlight filtered through stained glass, casting rainbows across the hall, where dust motes danced in the air. The scent of incense filled the space. At the front were seven altars, each dedicated to one of the Seven—
The Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Smith, the Maiden, the Crone, and the Stranger.
Rough-looking sellswords knelt before the Warrior's altar, seeking blessings for their swords. At the Mother's altar, a septon led a hundred children in a hymn. And near the Maiden's altar, a group of young ladies were gathered, one of whom spotted Samwell and approached him.
She was a Dornish girl with golden hair and blue eyes, wearing a pure white gown embroidered with the sun-and-spear sigil on her chest.
Samwell realized she was the one he had come to find—and it seemed she was looking for him as well.
"Are you Lord Samwell Caesar of Eagle's Point?" she asked.
"I am. And you are?"
"My name is Tyrene Sand, daughter of Prince Oberyn Martell."
Ah, a Sand Snake. Samwell thought, understanding now. "Lady Tyrene, I'm surprised you know of me?"
"Of course," Tyrene replied with a sweet smile. "Your name, Lord Caesar, has spread across Dorne. Naturally, I know of you."
I doubt it's a good reputation.
"I hadn't realized I'd earned such an honor." Samwell smiled and asked, "Is Prince Oberyn here?"
"My father is praying in a chamber down the hall. I'll take you to him."
"Thank you, Lady Tyrene."
Following Tyrene down a side corridor, Samwell eventually stopped in front of a small door.
"Lord Caesar, my father is inside. Please, go ahead."
After thanking her again, Samwell opened the door—and froze.
Prince Oberyn was not alone.
He was astride someone.
A woman.
A naked woman.
Is this what you call a prayer? The girl who had led the way vanished when Samwell turned around.
He knew right away that the girl, who appeared to be kind and well-behaved, had deceived him
Prince Oberyn also noticed Samwell at the door. He spoke calmly and without anger: "Samwell Caesar, you're looking for me?"
"Uh... sorry, I'll come back later..."
Prince Oberyn caressed the woman's butt and gestured for her to get up, saying, "It's okay. Come in, we're done too."
(End of Chapter)