Chapter 133: The Death Prayer

"It's an honor to meet you, Lord Caesar. I am Ellaria Sand, daughter of the Hellholt," the woman said casually as she dressed, greeting Samwell without a hint of embarrassment.

"Good day, Lady Ellaria." Samwell averted his gaze politely, keeping his tone respectful.

He knew this woman was Oberyn Martell's favorite lover and had borne him four daughters.

Given that Oberyn had never married, Ellaria was essentially considered his lady in all but title.

"You're shyer than I expected," Ellaria said with a playful smile as she approached him. "You had the nerve to charge against thousands of Dornish soldiers, yet you shy away from a woman's body?"

Is that really the same thing? Samwell thought, stifling a grimace. Dornish women's unrestrained manners often left him at a loss.

"Very well," Ellaria continued, chuckling as she noted his discomfort. "It seems Lord Caesar doesn't wish to waste words with a mere bastard. I'll leave you two to talk." With that, she strode out of the room.

Only after she disappeared did Samwell feel a hint of relief, though the room's strange odor left him uneasy.

"Come in and sit," Prince Oberyn said, entirely unbothered.

Remembering his purpose, Samwell entered and closed the door behind him.

"Your Grace, I'd heard you've been devoutly praying here in the Great Sept these past days. I didn't expect your 'devotion' to look like… this."

"What else did you expect?" Oberyn scoffed. "That I'd kneel before the Seven's altar, sobbing with remorse?"

Fair enough.

The "Red Viper" was hardly the type to beg forgiveness.

And, in fairness, he was innocent this time.

"I thought you might at least put on a show of piety to convince His Majesty and the nobles of King's Landing of your sincerity." Samwell looked around the room, noting the seven paintings on the walls, each depicting one of the Seven.

At that moment, Oberyn stood beneath the image of the Father, a bearded figure holding scales, representing justice. The god seemed to gaze down at the prince with a critical eye.

"I'm doing what I can." Oberyn spread his hands. "Let's be clear: I didn't poison Jon Arryn. The old hand knew that himself, and he admitted it to me. Frankly, if I hadn't promised him peace, I wouldn't have bothered with this absurd trial."

"If Robert Baratheon wants to wage war on Dorne, let him try. When Aegon the Conqueror attempted it, he paid with thousands of men and a dragon. Let's see what price the stag is willing to pay this time."

"I can sense your dedication to peace." Samwell approached the next painting, the Mother, whose warm, loving expression radiated endless compassion and kindness. "And I appreciate the sacrifices you've made for it," he added sincerely.

But Oberyn was unmoved. "Enough, Samwell. Don't bother pretending. I know you're no friend of House Martell. What is it you really want?"

I'm here to bring your attention to the rumors about Petyr Baelish and Lady Lysa.

Of course, Samwell couldn't say that outright.

When he first spread the rumor in King's Landing, he had been cautious and restrained, mentioning only the affair between Littlefinger and Lady Lysa, without revealing too much.

In fact, he couldn't reveal much more; if he outright claimed that Jon Arryn was poisoned by Littlefinger and his wife, few would believe him, and the rumor would likely fade away.

But his caution brought a problem—

The rumor wasn't "juicy" enough, so it had only spread within a small circle and had drawn little attention.

Samwell worried that if no one important noticed it soon, it might fade away on its own.

Or worse, by the time anyone linked Littlefinger to the crime, Oberyn's trial would be over, and Jon Arryn's death declared a closed case.

He couldn't let his efforts go to waste.

That was why he'd come to hint at the rumor directly to Prince Oberyn.

But he had to be subtle, revealing it naturally and casually, to mask his true intentions.

"Your Grace, I came to advise you to stop pursuing Starfall," Samwell said firmly as he stood before the third painting. In it, the Warrior held a gleaming sword, reflecting the resolve in Samwell's words.

"Heh!" Oberyn scoffed. "Starfall is Dornish land by rights. Who are you, a Reachman, to tell me otherwise? But don't worry—I promised Jon Arryn I wouldn't seize it by force. Instead of warning me, perhaps you should go and advise that young lady there not to act so recklessly, lest she incite rebellion from House Dayne's vassals and peasants. You'll only end up cleaning up her mess."

As Samwell moved to the fourth painting, which depicted the Maiden, symbol of purity and innocence, he responded confidently, "I will protect Lady Nathalie, and I'll make sure Starfall remains peaceful. My aim in coming here was to extend an olive branch, to avoid further conflict between the Reach and Dorne. After all, we wouldn't want another incident like Ser Gerold Dayne's, would we?"

Oberyn sneered but refrained from arguing further, perhaps mindful of his elder brother's plans.

"Peace is our shared goal," Oberyn admitted. "As for Gerold Dayne, I swear I had no part in that affair, nor did I know about his ridiculous feud with the Redwynes. Had I known he was so hot-headed and foolish, I'd have left him in Dorne."

"With your assurances, I feel much more at ease," Samwell said with a smile, as if his mission had been accomplished.

He continued wandering around the room, stopping before the fifth painting.

In this one, the Smith wielded a massive hammer, focused intently on forging his tools.

And, in his own way, Samwell was carefully crafting a weapon—a deadly spear, forged from the poison of rumor.

"By the way, Your Grace, has a date been set for the trial of Jon Arryn's murder?" he asked, offhandedly.

"Not yet," Oberyn replied irritably. "Lysa Tully is still hiding in the Eyrie. I heard that even Renly Baratheon personally went to summon her, but she refuses to come to King's Landing. Ha! That cowardly woman—is she really afraid I'd kill her in front of everyone?"

"Didn't you already kill her husband in front of everyone?"

"I did not kill Jon Arryn!" Oberyn said, enunciating each word, barely concealing his anger.

"Fine, fine." Samwell raised his hands in mock surrender, then, as if struck by an idea, casually suggested, "Perhaps Lord Petyr Baelish should go and persuade Lady Lysa."

"Petyr Baelish?"

"Yes. I've heard he and Lady Lysa share a close bond."

"Oh?" Oberyn frowned, skeptical of Samwell's suggestion.

"It's true. Lord Baelish was fostered by House Tully; he and Lady Lysa grew up together. They say they were childhood sweethearts. When he first learned of Lady Lysa's engagement, Lord Baelish was so furious he challenged her fiancé to a duel."

"You're mistaken, boy." Oberyn scoffed. "That was Lysa's sister, Catelyn, the Lady of Winterfell. Petyr Baelish was in love with her, not Lysa. He dueled for her."

"Really?" Samwell feigned doubt, his tone uncertain. "But then… why is it people are saying that after Lord Jon's death, Lord Baelish intends to marry Lady Lysa?"

"Who's saying that?"

"Oh, I just overheard it in Flea Bottom. It could be idle gossip from those little sparrows."

By now, Samwell had reached the sixth painting, which depicted the Crone, holding a lantern, her eyes filled with the wisdom of ages.

Though Samwell didn't believe in the gods, he found himself offering a silent prayer to the Crone, hoping She would grant Prince Oberyn insight to catch the hints within his words.

"Most likely, it's just lowborn rabble spreading nonsense…" Oberyn began, but then he stopped abruptly.

A thought had struck him, and it took his breath away.

Petyr Baelish… Lysa Tully…

Petyr Baelish! Lysa Tully!

Of course! Of course!

If Petyr had once loved the elder sister, why couldn't he have redirected his affection toward the younger one?

If Petyr had been involved with Lysa in secret, could it be that the two of them had conspired to kill Jon Arryn?

When Jon Arryn traveled to Dorne, Lysa had been at his side—she would've had ample opportunity!

A fierce flame ignited in Oberyn's eyes.

Standing with his back to the prince, Samwell couldn't see Oberyn's expression, but he could tell by the silence that he'd achieved the desired effect.

He kept his back turned, hiding any trace of satisfaction from his face.

"I just remembered something," Oberyn muttered, already moving to the door. "I'll take my leave."

And without waiting for Samwell to respond, Oberyn hurried out.

Success!

If not for the risk of Oberyn returning unexpectedly, Samwell might have let out a triumphant cheer.

He restrained his excitement, walking over to the last painting.

The painting shows an image of a hooded god riding a pale mare, neither male nor female, neither human nor human, unknown and unknowable, with an oval black face and only a pair of eyes like stars, but they are always hidden under the hood.

The stranger, the symbol of death and destruction.

No one in Westeros sang praises to the Stranger, but now Samwell prayed devoutly to this portrait.

Dear God of Death, please bring my gift to Petyr Baelish.

I believe he will like it.

(End of this chapter)