Chapter 125: Receiving the King

"Ser Horas!"

Princess Arianne's almond-shaped eyes narrowed in indignation. "What evidence do you have that I ordered Gerold to commit such an act?"

Before Horas could respond, "Littlefinger" Petyr Baelish's voice drifted from the high table.

"There's something I've been wondering myself. Why did Ser Hobber go to the godswood? And how did he happen to meet Ser Gerold Dayne there?"

This question struck at the heart of the matter.

Samwell, however, was unfazed. He had already retrieved and destroyed the two ribbons with writing on them—key evidence that no one would find. He doubted anyone would connect this back to him.

But it seemed Petyr, always a mischief-maker, was trying to stir the pot.

When originally plotting this murder, Samwell had briefly considered implicating Princess Arianne to fan the flames against Dorne. However, out of caution, he'd decided against complicating the plan. After all, this was his first attempt at scheming. Compared to seasoned plotters like Littlefinger, overly intricate designs could introduce fatal flaws.

Sure enough, Horas quickly jumped on Petyr's insinuation.

"You're right, Lord Petyr," Horas agreed. "I had the same suspicion. Moreover, I know that after yesterday's joust, Princess Arianne pretended to visit my brother out of concern, but in fact, she likely used it as a chance to arrange a meeting!"

A flicker of anger crossed Arianne's face. "Ser Horas, your accusations are entirely baseless! Why would I need to lure your brother out?"

"My brother was already hurt and nursing a broken heart. With your beauty and rank, it wouldn't have taken much for you to—"

"Horas!" Arianne snapped, her tone icy. "Do you really think your fool of a brother is worthy of my seduction?"

"Ha! Who knows? Perhaps our princess, now grown and yet unmarried, can't find herself a proper husband," Horas sneered back.

"Horas! You—"

"Enough!" shouted Lord Renly Baratheon, breaking up the quarrel.

He offered Horas a calming look, then addressed Princess Arianne. "Your Highness, when you went to see Ser Hobber yesterday, were you accompanied by anyone?"

"Ser Daemon Sand was with me."

Daemon Sand, her sworn sword, stepped forward. "Yes, Lord Renly. I was present the entire time. Her Highness merely offered Ser Hobber words of comfort; she harbored no ulterior motive."

"Of course your own sworn knight would defend you," Horas retorted, dripping with sarcasm.

"I'm willing to swear before the Seven," Princess Arianne replied with conviction.

"Dornish oaths…ha." One of the Reach knights scoffed.

"Wherever there are Dornish, there's blood and murder," another knight added, his words heavy with implication.

"Dornish have no sense of honor; they're not true knights."

"Indeed. And it's all too convenient that Gerold Dayne is dead. Looks to me like the Dornish silencing their own."

"This entire affair reeks of a Dornish plot!"

---

Seeing the Reach nobles piling on, Arianne clenched her jaw so hard it seemed her teeth might crack. She took a few deep breaths, forcing herself to stay calm.

If not for her father's explicit advice before she left, she might already have drawn her blade.

Watching all this unfold, Samwell couldn't help but feel a strange sense of irony. Had he not orchestrated this entire affair, he too would likely be blaming the Dornish right now.

Such was the weight of a tarnished reputation.

"Enough!" shouted Lord Renly again, signaling the gold-cloaked guards to pound their spears rhythmically against the floor, restoring order to the hall.

"Ser Gerold Dayne's murder of Ser Hobber Redwyne is confirmed. Whether or not he was under someone's orders, there is currently no evidence to prove it. We cannot slander a noble without basis. This case is closed."

The crowd settled down, though Horas's gaze remained fixed on Princess Arianne, hatred simmering in his eyes. Clearly, House Redwyne did not see this as the end.

"Additionally," Lord Renly continued, "I've received word that His Grace's party crossed the Neck two days ago and will soon arrive in King's Landing. I intend to lead a small delegation to greet him. Those who wish to join me are welcome."

---

The king's southern procession had reached the banks of the Trident by dawn.

With morning light spilling over the land, camp was being broken, and preparations were underway to continue the journey.

Sansa Stark, eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, walked with her direwolf, Lady, along a quiet path. She wore a simple blue velvet dress, with no jewelry save for a wreath of fresh flowers on her wrist. Her red hair cascaded down her back, and her delicate porcelain-like face wore a gentle, serene smile.

Finding her younger sister, Arya, she said, "Arya, go put on a proper dress. The queen has invited us to ride with her in her wheelhouse today."

"I'm not going," Arya replied, brushing Nymeria's fur. "I'm going down to the river to look for rubies."

"Rubies?" Sansa frowned.

"Yes." Arya rolled her eyes. "Don't you know? It was here that King Robert killed Rhaegar Targaryen and shattered the rubies on his armor."

Sansa glared at her. "You're not to go looking for rubies! The queen invited both of us. You have to come with me!"

"I don't want to!"

Arya's obstinate streak had Sansa shaking with frustration. But she knew that shouting would only make Arya more defiant. Taking a deep breath, Sansa smiled sweetly, trying a new approach.

"There will be lemon cakes and cocoa tea in the queen's wheelhouse," she coaxed.

To her dismay, Arya scowled and said, "I don't like the queen."

Sansa stared at her, appalled that her sister would say such a thing.

Before she could respond, a voice spoke up behind them.

"Did I hear you say you don't like my mother?"

Sansa spun around, stunned to see Prince Joffrey standing there.

Paralyzed, she watched Arya flee in embarrassment, chasing after Nymeria as the wolf darted away.

"Your Grace, would you like me to bring her back?" a coarse voice asked.

Sansa looked up to see the prince's towering bodyguard, Sandor Clegane, also known as the Hound. His face was half-consumed by gruesome burns, and his harsh words sent a shiver through her.

Sensing her fear, Lady licked her hand in comfort.

"Shut it, Hound! You're scaring my betrothed!" Joffrey chided, stepping forward to defend her.

The obedient Hound bowed and backed away.

Looking into the handsome, chivalrous face of the prince, Sansa's fear dissolved, replaced by a surge of joy and excitement.

This is my knight, my prince, my future husband, she thought. He's so handsome, so gallant! Someday, I'll be his queen, and we'll have sons and daughters together…

"Lady Sansa, are you alright?" Joffrey's gentle voice snapped her out of her daze.

"Yes, Your Grace. Thank you," she replied shyly.

"It's my pleasure." Joffrey flashed her a charming smile. "My uncle, Lord Renly, has come to greet us. Shall we go meet him?"

"Yes," Sansa nodded eagerly, already forgetting about Arya.

Joffrey glanced down at her direwolf. "Leave your pet here. We wouldn't want her startling anyone."

"Alright." Sansa crouched down, giving Lady a hug. "Stay here, Lady, and wait for me."

The wolf sat obediently, her legs curled beneath her.

"Come, dog," Joffrey called.

Sansa hesitated, realizing Joffrey was referring to Sandor.

"You'll stay here and watch her pet," he ordered his guard.

"Yes, Your Grace." Sandor obeyed, his gaze wary as he glanced at Lady.

Taking Sansa's hand, Joffrey led her back to camp. Along the way, the two chatted and laughed, with Sansa quickly forgetting any prior unpleasantness.

From a distance, Sansa heard King Robert's booming voice.

"That Red Viper didn't come? What's wrong—he doesn't dare face me?"

A gathering of nobles had already formed around the royal pavilion. As Sansa drew closer, she saw the king's brother, a young man in deep green armor, holding an antlered helmet. He bore a slight resemblance to Robert.

She guessed this must be Lord Renly.

"Your Grace," Renly said, "the Red Viper is praying in the Sept of Baelor."

"Ha! That's a joke!" Robert scoffed. "Him, praying? I don't believe it. The bastard's probably off in one of King's Landing's brothels instead!"

Renly chuckled, wisely avoiding further comment. He turned to introduce a young lady.

"This is Lady Margaery of House Tyrell, daughter of Lord Mace."

"That ugly, fat Mace actually produced such a beautiful daughter. It seems the gods' favors are always unpredictable," said Robert as he glanced at Margaery. He took the floral wreath, turned, and handed it to the queen. "Cersei, you wear it."

Cersei caught the wreath without even looking at it and handed it off to a maid, making no effort to put it on.

Lord Renly continued introducing the gathered nobles who had come to greet the king. When Samwell stepped forward, King Robert's gaze landed on him with an intense scrutiny that quickly settled into silence.

The weight of the king's attention was palpable. Expressions shifted among the nobles—some looked on with amusement, others with concern, while a few maintained distant indifference.

Samwell, however, remained calm, smiling slightly as he bowed to the king in respect.

"So, you're the son of Randyll Tarly?" Robert finally asked, his voice laced with coldness.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"And where is your father? He didn't come?"

"Forgive him, Your Grace," Samwell replied smoothly, "but he's unwell."

"Bullshit!" Robert barked, showing no patience for excuses. "Couldn't he at least think up something original?"

Samwell met the king's gaze and, abandoning pretense, replied, "You're right, Your Grace. The truth is that he's avoiding you for fear of another fight."

"What's that supposed to mean? He doesn't have the stomach to face me?"

"No," Samwell replied, his smile unwavering even as Robert seemed to teeter on the edge of fury. "He just doesn't want to win again."

A stunned silence blanketed the courtyard as everyone held their breath. Just when it seemed the king might explode in rage, Robert threw his head back and roared with laughter.

"Ha! Now that's some nerve! You really are Randyll Tarly's son!"

(End of Chapter)