Chapter 126: The Bonfire Banquet
As the sun set, the banks of the Trident River lit up with over a hundred bonfires. Skinned cattle and sheep turned slowly over roasting pits, their sizzling fat filling the air with a rich aroma. Servants efficiently sliced the meat, seasoned it with herbs and saltwater, paired it with fresh salads and creamy sauces, then served it to the tables of the noble guests.
"Sam, you almost gave me a heart attack earlier!" whispered Nathalie Dayne as she leaned close to Samwell's ear. She wore a sleeveless dress with delicate straps, showing off her fair shoulders and slender arms, her soft hair pinned up in a simple bun, making her look especially sweet.
"What, you mean when I spoke with the king?" Samwell replied, cutting a piece of steak for her and smiling.
"Yes! How could you talk to the king that way? Weren't you afraid he'd get angry?"
"Well, did he?"
"Um… no, I guess not."
"There you go." Samwell shrugged. "Everyone has a different temper. Our king may seem fiery, but once you win him over, you'll find he's actually quite forgiving and easy to get along with."
"Oh…" Nathalie looked thoughtful, tilting her head as she asked, "How do you win over the king?"
"What are you two talking about?" came a cheerful voice, as Margaery Tyrell approached them.
The "Rose of Highgarden" was also dressed lightly. Her sheer silk dress came just to mid-thigh, showing off her smooth, fair skin. Her delicate, snow-pale feet rested in an elegant pair of sandals, giving her an air of relaxation and charm.
"We were discussing our esteemed king," Samwell replied, glancing at the alluring rose before him, his gaze lingering momentarily.
He suddenly recalled that Lord Renly Baratheon was rumored to be scheming to introduce Margaery to King Robert, with this meeting planned as an opportunity for them to meet. While in the original story, Renly's plan hadn't come to fruition, that was when Robert had yet to lay eyes on Margaery. But now, with the story altered and Robert having met this Rose of Highgarden, might he be intrigued?
"So you seem to know a lot about him, Lord Samwell," Margaery said, taking a seat on the bench beside him, her gaze searching.
"Hardly," Samwell shrugged again. "Today was my first time meeting the king."
"Then you must have quite the nerve, daring to tease him like that."
"Well, I trust that His Majesty isn't the type to hold grudges."
"What sort of man do you think he is, then?" Margaery asked, sipping her wine thoughtfully.
"His Majesty…" Samwell began, swirling his glass and contemplating his response, when suddenly, a loud commotion interrupted him.
"Enough!" The king's booming voice rose above all other sounds, silencing the crowd. "Cersei, she's just a young girl! What could you possibly have to argue about with her?"
Samwell looked over to see Queen Cersei standing, her face as pale as snow, as if wearing a mask. She appeared to murmur something to the king before abruptly leaving the table. Then, Eddard Stark's voice could be heard, though Samwell could only make out snippets—"Arya," "apology," and a few other words.
"Enough, Ned! There's no need for this! Your daughter Arya didn't say anything untrue. Cersei can be rather difficult, hahaha!" Robert laughed heartily, easing the tension between Eddard and his daughter. Turning then to his son, he bellowed, "And you, Joffrey! You are my son, the future king of the Seven Kingdoms! I won't have you tattling like some brat! A decent person wouldn't stoop to that!"
Joffrey cowered, chastened into silence.
With one last huff, Robert released his son from his gaze, then raised his glass to the crowd. "Drink up, everyone! Eat your fill!"
The feast resumed its jovial atmosphere.
Samwell noticed Arya Stark slipping away from her father's side, storming off with a defiant look on her face.
"What happened just now?" Nathalie asked curiously.
Samwell just shrugged, not knowing himself. This part of the story hadn't been in the book he knew. But he couldn't help but chuckle, glancing at the disgruntled Joffrey.
Margaery was curious as well. She returned to the main table to get the full story and then returned to Samwell and Nathalie to share what she'd learned.
Samwell finally learned that, earlier, Prince Joffrey had complained to his mother, Queen Cersei, that Eddard Stark's younger daughter Arya had spoken badly of the queen, saying she disliked her. In a fury, Cersei had confronted Eddard, resulting in the scene everyone had witnessed.
"And here's the most interesting part," Margaery added with a mischievous smile. "Do you know who joined Joffrey in pointing the finger at Arya? None other than her own sister, Sansa Stark."
This didn't surprise Samwell; it was just the kind of thing that naive Sansa would do.
"Seems like Lady Sansa really is smitten with her betrothed," Samwell remarked with a knowing smile, though he refrained from teasing Margaery about her own royal aspirations, remembering that Nathalie was also present.
Despite the earlier interruption, the feast quickly regained its festive spirit.
Acrobats leaped between bonfires, performing daring stunts that had the crowd gasping and clapping in awe.
Samwell noticed Prince Joffrey slipping away from his seat, seemingly still sulking after his father's rebuke.
Next up was a man in a red and black cloak, an older man with gray hair who began playing a harp and singing softly:
"The Dornishman's wife, as bright as the sun,
Her kiss is as warm as spring's gentle hum;
The Dornishman's blade, a thing dark and dread,
Its kiss, a promise of swift-claimed dead…"
The man's rough yet melodious voice made the ballad of The Dornishman's Wife sound haunting and real, as if he'd himself bedded a Dornishman's wife, only to lose his life in the ensuing duel.
"… The Dornishman's wife, she sings as she bathes,
A voice sweet as a peach in its sway;
The Dornishman's blade has a tune of its own,
Sharp and unyielding, cold to the bone…"
While the rest of the audience was engrossed, Samwell kept his gaze fixed on the "minstrel."
He was an unremarkable man of medium height, his features plain and his skin sallow. He had small, close-set eyes and a bristly chin, giving him an appearance that could easily blend into a crowd. But Samwell sensed this was no ordinary minstrel.
"…Brother, oh brother, the end is near,
The Dornishman's blade stole my life without fear;
But no regrets, for a man meets his fate—
And I have tasted the Dornishman's mate."
With the final chords fading into silence, the crowd erupted in applause and cheers.
King Robert enjoyed the performance, rewarding the singer with a few silver stags.
The minstrel bowed deeply, then retreated to the edge of the crowd, where he began eating his fill of roast meat and mead.
Samwell got up and walked over to him.
"I really enjoyed your song," Samwell remarked with a smile. "What's your name?"
"Sir, my name is Bael," the man answered respectfully, standing up.
"Bael…" Samwell raised an eyebrow. "That's a fine name for a singer, particularly a singer like yourself."
Indeed, legend had it that a singer of the same name once visited Winterfell, only to elope with the daughter of the Northern lord, leaving behind a single winter rose and a tale of romance and rebellion.
"Sir, I'm nothing like that Bael," the minstrel replied humbly. "He wrote songs that became legend. I just play whatever I'm given. And I'd never dare steal a noble daughter away."
"Really?" Samwell smiled, his gaze sharpening. "I suspect your courage is greater than you let on." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Tell me, you're from the North, aren't you?"
"Aye, my lord, I'm from the North."
"Are you, now?" Samwell's smile grew. "Funny—most Northmen don't sing Dornish songs."
"Well, people are often drawn to things they don't have. I've spent my life in snow and cold, so I've always longed to see the red mountains and warm sands of Dorne."
"There's some truth in that. But I have a feeling you're not just any Northman."
The "minstrel" looked down, his face unreadable.
Samwell leaned close to whisper into his ear, "Isn't that right, Your Majesty, Mance Rayder, King-Beyond-the-Wall?"
For a brief moment, Samwell felt a chill as biting as any Northern winter. But in the next instant, it faded, and Mance Rayder let out a relaxed laugh, not bothering to deny it.
"Well then, Lord Samwell, how did you recognize me?"
Samwell smiled noncommittally, but then his tone turned cold: "Do you not fear that your true identity will be exposed, that you will be apprehended, and that you will be executed, Your Majesty Mance?"
(End of Chapter)