"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)