Chapter 189: The Gift

"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)