On the night of the tournament's conclusion, a grand banquet was held within the camp. After removing her helmet, Dany could no longer refuse Ser Baelor's invitation.
The Hightower family's pavilion was situated near the waterfront. The tent, woven with golden threads, was the largest and most magnificent structure in the entire camp.
However, outside the entrance stood two iron shields, each adorned with a sigil—one bearing the white towering lighthouse of House Hightower, the other displaying the golden rose on a green field of House Tyrell of Highgarden.
Beside the pavilion, seven massive wild bulls were slowly turning on roasting spits. They had been slaughtered at dawn, marinated in the morning, and placed over the fire in the afternoon. By now, they had been roasting for several hours, with kitchen hands continuously basting them with butter and spices until the meat was crisp, fragrant, and dripping with juices.
The banquet was held outside the pavilion, where long tables and benches were set up on the spacious riverside land. At this moment, serving girls were placing jugs of golden grape wine, platters piled with strawberries, bananas, and apples, as well as freshly baked large white loaves onto the tables.
"Lady Laila, you look absolutely radiant tonight," Dickon said awkwardly, walking over with difficulty while supporting his waist.
As the heir of Horn Hill, Dickon was naturally on the banquet's guest list. He had made his way from the other side of the camp, and they happened to cross paths. The fall he took that morning seemed to have strained his back—one hand was pressed against his waist, while the other held the arm of a young girl with an innocent face.
Dany herself was not particularly dressed up—she wore a blue velvet gown with embroidered white edges, her dyed-black hair braided and secured atop her head with a sapphire hairpin. She wasn't even wearing a necklace. Her look was neat, refined, and somewhat carefree.
In contrast, the young girl beside Dickon wore a silver satin dress trimmed with squirrel fur, with long, trailing sleeves adorned with a faint purple fringe. Her thick golden hair was covered by a delicate silver net inset with dark purple gems—wait, wasn't this more like the attire of a married woman?
"Is this your wife?" Dany asked hesitantly.
"Hello, Lady Laila. I am Ilano Merton of Ladywell," the young girl said shyly, her face turning red.
"Lady Tarly, you're very beautiful," Dany forced a smile.
You're so young… How could that big oaf Dickon even bring himself to…?
Even though Dany was the champion of the tournament—an unprecedented female knight champion, no less—she was still an unrecognized "bastard" of obscure origins and had no right to sit at the central main table.
The primary banquet table, an eight-meter-long wooden slab, was placed horizontally at the entrance of the pavilion, serving as the head table. Below it, four additional long tables were arranged perpendicularly.
Led by a steward, Dany was separated from Dickon and his young wife, who were seated at the head table. She was instead placed at the foremost seat of the third wooden table.
To her left and right sat the archery champion and the team combat champions, while the rest of the table was filled with a group of noble second sons who looked—well, a little downcast.
Well, they were well-groomed and dressed impeccably, so the "downcast" feeling was just Dany's own perception.
No sooner had she sat down than a group of eager young noblemen pushed forward to greet her.
"Lady Laila, I am the third son of Count XX. You are truly stunning! It is my greatest honor to share a table with you."
"Lady Laila, my father is Ser XX. May I ask, which great lord is your father? A common house could never raise a knight as talented and beautiful as you. I also hail from XX city—Gordon Hightower (a bastard of the Westerlands)."
At first, Dany was utterly baffled. I wasn't prancing around like a peacock, was I? She was even wearing a coat styled like a men's suit, revealing very little skin. What were these guys getting so excited about?
Could it really be just about my face?
She touched her cheek, indulging in a moment of narcissism.
Then, Ser Baelor emerged from the rear of the pavilion, leading a resplendently dressed Laerila.
The young girl wore a deep-green velvet gown with a low neckline, complementing the color of her eyes. Her chestnut-brown hair cascaded over her bare shoulders, adorned by a delicate crystal tiara. A belt set with emeralds cinched her waist, and around her neck hung a delicate silver chain suspending a pigeon-egg-sized, mesmerizing violet gemstone.
She was, without a doubt, the most dazzling lady of the night.
But that wasn't the key point.
As a group of noble heirs from the first and second tables eagerly flocked to her, introducing themselves—"Lady Laerila, I am the eldest son of Count XX from XX"—Dany suddenly understood.
The firstborn sons of noble houses were trying to court Laerila for marriage, while the second sons and bastards from minor houses considered her a suitable match.
Realizing this, Dany spoke just one sentence, and three-quarters of the suitors instantly backed off.
"Ah, to be honest with you all, my father's title was not low, and his lands were vast. But during the Rebellion, our family chose the wrong side. Our title was revoked, and our lands and wealth were all confiscated by King Robert."
A noble in exile.
The surrounding men instantly understood. The second sons and bastards quickly dispersed, as if their earlier fawning words had never been spoken.
Some left, but others took their place.
A bald man in his forties, eyes gleaming with interest, scrutinized Dany as he spoke. "Lady Laila, I am Count Cleon of Red Lake. Would you be interested in joining me on a visit to Red Lake?
Do you know its history?
Red Lake was originally called Blue Lake, but thousands of years ago, 'Bloodsword' Brandon, son of 'Greensleeve' Garth, slaughtered countless Children of the Forest along its shores, turning its waters red. Even today, there's still a lingering scent of blood in the air."
—No matter what, Laila was young, beautiful, and a tournament champion. That made her a premium "asset." If she couldn't become the wife of a minor noble's second son, she could always be the mistress of a married high lord.
"Rivers" give birth to "Flowers"—a natural order in the Reach.
That was why there were still men buzzing around Dany.
Understanding their intentions, Dany stared blankly at the sky, seriously pondering a question—
Was it a mistake to forbid Drogon and the others from eating people?
Perhaps some people were simply meant to be dragon feed.
"Ding—"
A crisp bell rang from the main table, followed by Beile Haitar's toast—wishing his father a long life, prosperity for the Old Town, the Ironborn to sink to the depths of the sea, and for the Riverlands to enjoy two more bountiful harvests before winter arrived.
Finally, he raised his cup high and shouted, "May martial fortune flourish, and may the Long Summer endure!"
Nearly a hundred guests at the feast, along with the hundreds of knights gathered around the bonfire on the outskirts, raised their horn cups and echoed in unison:
"May martial fortune flourish, and may the Long Summer endure!"
With that toast, the banquet officially began.
Dany let out a sigh of relief. For now, no one would come to bother her, and she no longer had to wrestle with the idea of calling down Drogon to devour someone.
Minstrels entered the hall, settling beneath the torches as melodies wove through the night air.
A juggler tossed burning sticks into the sky, while a dwarf, his face painted like a clown, danced atop stilts in a riot of colorful attire. A "comedian" bellowed out lewd jokes, prompting ladies to giggle behind their hands while the men roared with laughter, responding with equally "exquisite" bawdy tales of their own.
Meanwhile, course after course was served—thick barley and venison stew, chilled beet salad sprinkled with crushed nuts, a mix of spinach and plums, and honey-garlic braised snails.
Then came sweet bread, pigeon pies, cinnamon-scented baked apples, and lemon cakes dusted with sugar.
And, of course, the roasted whole ox was carried in.
Dany sampled everything with great interest—except for the roasted bison.
Because the roasted ox was the main dish.
In accordance with dining etiquette, seating arrangements determined which guests could partake in which cuts of meat.
Simply put, while the ox was displayed for all, one could not simply carve out a piece at will. The most tender, flavorful portions were reserved solely for the highest-ranking individual present.
Amidst the feasting, guests engaged in conversation. From the main table, an aged voice rang out:
"I wonder what Archbishop Peter thinks of the recent actions of the High Sparrow?"
Dany's interest was piqued. She turned her head and saw that the speaker was a maester with a long-linked chain—someone she recognized. It was Maester Perestan, the historian she had seen watching the jousting tournament.
The old maester sat at the center of the main table, directly across from an elderly septon in white robes, marked with the symbol of the Seven-Pointed Star.
Archbishop Peter set down his fork, dabbed the grease from his lips with a napkin, and only then spoke slowly:
"In these chaotic times, the restoration of the Warrior's Sons and the Poor Fellows is greatly beneficial to both the realm and the Faith."
"Perhaps," Perestan mused, "but now there is fierce conflict between royal authority and the Faith. The Gold Cloaks are ineffective, while the Poor Fellows grow ever larger, their military strength even surpassing the King's Guard. And so, the High Septon was able to—"
The red-nosed maester subtly glanced toward Earl Garland at the head of the table before swiftly changing his wording.
"—to imprison Queen Margaery and her cousins on dubious charges, and to detain the Dowager Queen Regent Cersei under accusations of adultery, incest, and murder."
"Even the Queen and the Regent have been arrested. This is unprecedented in history. I wonder if Archbishop Peter could enlighten us—what kind of nation does the Faith intend to build?"
At this, the red-nosed Archbishop Peter's expression soured.
He usually concerned himself with little more than lending money at high interest, indulging in gourmet feasts, occasionally showing "compassion" for fallen women, or luring a few handsome young boys into the Faith.
The grand notion of restructuring the entire political order for the benefit of the faithful across the Seven Kingdoms? That had never been his concern.
"Your Excellency," the maester pressed on, "the King is the foremost noble, followed by the nine great lords—the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms, Dragonstone, and the Iron Islands. Below them are the marquesses and earls, then the knights and landed squires."
"By placing the Faith of the Seven above the King, the High Septon effectively subjugates all lower tiers of nobility beneath the church. Do you understand the implications of this?"
The question was sharp, leaving the old archbishop visibly cornered.
The topic was too serious, too sensitive. The knights and nobles nearby ceased their conversations, their attention shifting to the exchange. Even Garland and Beile put down their wine cups to watch Archbishop Peter's response.
With a heavy sigh, the old cleric finally admitted, his face pale, "To be honest with you all... from the very beginning, we have had no control over the High Sparrow's actions."
"We don't even know his real name or which diocese he came from."
"On the day of the election, when the high septons of King's Landing gathered behind closed doors to choose a new High Septon, the High Sparrow wasn't even among the candidates."
"He wasn't even a septon before—how could he have been eligible to be elected High Septon?"
"But then, the Sparrows stormed into the chamber, axes in hand, carrying the High Sparrow on their shoulders. Those who opposed were judged on the spot, and the rest of us had no choice but to submit."
"The Poor Fellows and the Warrior's Sons may be church-aligned militias, but only that man calling himself the High Sparrow can command them."
"Believe me, my lords, you are not the only ones who fear him—I do as well!"
"We do not fear him!" A knight declared, his voice full of fury. "Those ragged fools in sackcloth? No matter how many they send, I will cut them down!"
But another quickly rebuked him: "We are knights anointed with sacred oils, sworn before the Seven. How could we raise our swords against warriors of the Faith?"
The old maester nodded, his eyes flashing with keen insight.
"That is precisely the problem," he said. "Before the High Sparrow, the nobles, knights, and the Faith coexisted in balance. But now, that balance has been broken."
(End of Chapter)
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