Chapter 309: Faith
The food on the table had long gone cold, but Loras Tyrell felt no hunger.
His hollow, vacant eyes remained fixed on the flickering candlelight, as though it held some profound mystery that captivated him, pulling him into its depths.
The trance was broken by the creak of an opening door.
Loras finally tore his gaze away from the candle, but after staring at the flame for so long, his vision was blurred. He blinked several times before recognizing the figure in the doorway.
"Caesar…" Loras murmured, his voice distant, as though from another world.
"I have news for you," Samwell said, stepping into the room. "Lady Olenna has poisoned herself."
Loras had expected to scream, rage, perhaps even lunge at the man before him in a blind fury. But instead, he felt only a wave of confusion and helplessness.
A tide of emotions he couldn't quite name surged within him, suffocating and paralyzing him.
Perhaps he had already resigned himself to this outcome. Even the grief felt muted, distant.
Samwell waited for a response, but when none came, he continued:
"I made a deal with Garth Tyrell. If Lady Olenna took her own life and Highgarden surrendered, I would spare your life. However, you must take the black and join the Night's Watch. No lands, no titles, no marriage, no children."
Loras sat in silence for a long time before speaking, his voice faint and detached:
"And if I refuse to join the Night's Watch?"
Samwell's expression darkened, his tone turning as cold and unyielding as steel:
"Then I'm afraid I will arrange a dignified death for you."
A bitter smile flickered across Loras's face.
"I don't object to going to the Wall," he said quietly. "But before I do, can you grant me one wish? I promise it will benefit you as well."
"What wish?" Samwell asked, his patience thinning.
"To avenge Lord Renly," Loras said, his words slow and deliberate. For the first time in days, his face showed emotion, his eyes burning with hatred.
Samwell raised an eyebrow. "Prince Doran Martell was responsible for Renly's death, and he's already dying. Consider your vengeance complete. Go to the Wall as promised."
"You don't need to lie to me, Caesar." Loras shook his head. "Renly's death was orchestrated by Tywin Lannister. Doran was merely a scapegoat."
"So, you want to kill Tywin?"
"Yes," Loras said firmly. "If you allow me to escape to King's Landing, the Lannisters will never suspect my true intentions. I can get close to Tywin and avenge Lord Renly. Killing him would benefit you, wouldn't it? Once Tywin is dead, I will take the black and live out the rest of my days at the Wall, far from any claim to Highgarden."
Samwell scoffed.
"You think I'd trust you?"
"I can swear it before the Seven," Loras offered.
"I don't trust the oaths of traitors."
After a moment of silence, Loras spoke again:
"I know you're sending me to the Wall to prevent the Tyrell bloodline from continuing through me. But let me tell you the truth—I'm incapable of fathering children. I'm only attracted to men. I can't… consummate a marriage with a woman, let alone produce an heir."
Samwell shook his head.
"That doesn't matter. As long as you're alive, they can find you a wife to produce an heir, even if the child isn't biologically yours. It would still carry your name and claim to Highgarden."
"Then I'll castrate myself," Loras said through gritted teeth.
"What did you say?" Samwell asked, startled.
"I said if I remove that possibility, would you let me seek revenge?"
Samwell stared at him, processing the offer.
"You're certain about this?"
"I am."
"Tywin isn't an easy target. He's far too shrewd to trust you. Even if you manage to get close, the attempt could cost your life. Compared to that, taking the black is the safer choice."
"But it's not my choice," Loras said, his tone resolute. "Even if I fail, I must try. Otherwise, I'll spend the rest of my life consumed by regret."
Samwell studied him for a long moment, finally realizing how deeply rooted Loras's conviction was.
"With a squire like you, Renly must rest easy," Samwell said softly before turning and leaving the room.
Not long after, he returned with Qyburn.
"Ser Loras," Qyburn greeted with a disturbingly genial smile. "I hear you require assistance?"
"Yes," Loras said, his eyes flicking to the short blade in Qyburn's hand. Fear flickered briefly in his expression, but he lay down on the bed with determination.
"Do it."
Qyburn handed him a cup of milk of the poppy. Loras sniffed the liquid and drank it in one gulp, then lay back down.
Samwell remained in the room, clearly intending to witness the procedure.
Qyburn held the blade over the flame of a candle, heating it slowly.
As the drug took effect, Loras's vision blurred, and his limbs grew heavy.
In his hazy state, he saw Renly again—the dashing and charismatic Lord of Storm's End. Loras had once believed with all his heart that Renly would become the greatest king the Seven Kingdoms had ever known.
But the gods had let that nearly perfect man die at Sunspear.
After Renly's death, Loras had thrown his support behind Caesar solely because of his opposition to the Lannisters.
Then came his grandmother's command…
Loras had obeyed Olenna, but now she was gone. For the first time, he felt free to make his own choices.
As Qyburn approached with the knife, Loras braced himself. The initial searing pain was intense, but it paled in comparison to the agony of losing Renly.
"Rest," Qyburn said softly.
As the milk of the poppy dragged him into unconsciousness, Loras heard Samwell's voice:
"Once the main army departs, the security around Cider Hall will loosen. Tomorrow night, someone will help you leave."
"Understood," Loras murmured before succumbing to darkness.
Outside the room, Qyburn whispered to Samwell:
"Your Grace, Loras may be lying. His true target might not be Tywin—it could be you."
"Perhaps," Samwell replied, his expression unreadable. "But it makes no difference. Without the ability to continue the Tyrell line, he's no longer a threat. Whether he lives or dies is irrelevant.
"Besides, I'm curious to see if his devotion to Renly is genuine. In this wretched world, such things are rare. Almost as rare as dragons."
"Indeed," Qyburn said, nodding. "Oaths, loyalty, honor, chivalry… They're becoming mere myths, rarer even than dragons."
"But dragons have returned," Samwell said. "Perhaps we'll see the return of chivalry, too."
---
Banks of the Mander River
A large army marched westward, its orange banners emblazoned with three black castles—the sigil of House Peake.
Titus Peake, mounted at the head of the column, squinted at the sun and ordered his messenger:
"Call for a halt. Let the men rest and eat. We'll resume in an hour."
"Yes, my lord."
As the soldiers settled by the riverbank, Titus took a seat by the campfire, accepting a bowl of steaming oat porridge.
Just as he raised the spoon to his mouth, hoofbeats thundered from the rear of the column.
A moment later, Noah Rowan, Samwell's Cupbearer, dismounted and strode toward him.
"Lord Peake," Noah announced, "there's been an uprising at Highgarden. His Grace orders you to advance immediately and secure the castle."
Titus jumped to his feet, spilling his porridge without a second thought.
"Mount up!" he roared. "To Highgarden! Now!"
"But my lord, the men haven't eaten yet—"
"Eat Shit!" Titus bellowed, cracking his whip. "If the Tyrells escape, I'll have your hides!"
The camp erupted into chaos as soldiers scrambled to mount their horses, forming into a surging black tide that rolled westward toward Highgarden.
(End of Chapter)