In the dining hall, a massive, intricately patterned Myr carpet covered the floor, and the walls were adorned with various woven tapestries.
After the three men were seated, servants brought out the appetizers: a cold salad of beets, spinach, and plums sprinkled with crushed nuts, along with a platter of assorted fruits.
Accompanying the food was a large glass carafe filled with Amber Peach Wine.
Renly speared a slice of apple with his fork and popped it into his mouth. "My lords, what is the most delicious food you have ever tasted?" he asked, mumbling slightly. "For me, the finest meal I ever had was a soup of salt fish and onions."
"Salt fish and onions?" Arthur chewed on a lettuce leaf. The scent of the roasting aurochs had made him quite hungry. "Is that some special delicacy?"
"Speaking of which, Lord Eddard, we must drink to that." Renly raised his goblet. "During the year-long siege of Storm's End, if not for the Onion Knight smuggling in that boatload of salt fish and onions, and your timely arrival to lift the siege, I might have been forced to eat... unspeakable meat."
By the time Arthur's anticipated roast aurochs was finally served, they had already gone through three rounds of toasts. The other two rounds were dedicated to King Robert and to the innocents who had died in the conflict between the Arbor and Starfall.
Arthur put a piece of the tender, juicy roast beef into his mouth. The savory richness of the meat combined with the sweetness of the honey exploded on his taste buds, making him narrow his eyes in pure enjoyment.
Just then, servants approached the table again. Arthur thought they were bringing another course, but instead, he saw a servant carrying a tray with a finely crafted golden rose locket.
Renly opened the locket to show Eddard the vivid portrait inside. The subject was a lovely young girl with soft brown hair and eyes like a doe.
"Lord Eddard, does this girl remind you of anyone?" Renly asked expectantly.
Eddard studied the portrait for a long time, then shrugged. "A beautiful noble girl. Lord Renly, who is she?"
"That looks like Margaery Tyrell." Arthur recognized the girl in the locket immediately. "I met her at the tourney in Starfall. The artist is skilled; it looks exactly like her."
Renly admitted to Eddard, "Indeed, this is Ser Loras Tyrell's sister, Margaery. Some say she bears a resemblance to your late sister, Lyanna Stark."
"She doesn't," Eddard said, taking the locket from Arthur to look again, then handing it back, visibly confused.
Could it be that Renly, who looks so much like a young Robert, is secretly in love with this girl because he thinks she looks like a young Lyanna? How bizarre.
Arthur, however, sharply realized what Renly was up to. He wants to use Robert's obsession with Lyanna to replace Cersei with Margaery as Queen?
But what is Renly's motive?
Combining this with his knowledge of the original story—Robert's impending death, Renly urging Eddard to seize power, and later crowning himself King with the support of the Reach and the Stormlands without a legitimate claim...
Renly, with his thick brows and big eyes, seems to have no small ambition himself! Arthur thought, devouring a piece of roasted peacock served with its plumage.
King's Landing truly is a pit of vipers. There isn't a single simple soul here; talent is everywhere. No wonder Uncle Eddard suffered so much in this city.
During the rest of the meal, Arthur noticed that a somewhat disappointed Renly turned his attention to him. Not only did Renly promise to cooperate with Arthur's future work as Governor and instruct his Marcher lords to support the suppression of the wildlings, but he also offered to recall Brienne. If needed, he would act as a bridge between Arthur and Mace to negotiate compensation and thoroughly resolve the feud between the two houses.
Arthur accepted Renly's goodwill and overtures without hesitation.
After one lunch, Arthur had tasted various delicacies and gained numerous tangible benefits.
---
In a guest chamber within the Red Keep.
Paxter Redwyne awoke from his stupor.
His entire body ached and stung, but his right hand had no sensation whatsoever. He struggled to lift his eyelids and looked at the blood-seeping bandages wrapped around his severed wrist. The events in the Throne Room flashed through his mind, and a look of despair filled his eyes.
"My Lord, please don't move." Paxter's movements were slight, but the handmaiden tending to him noticed he was awake. "I will summon Grand Maester Pycelle at once."
"Desmond... send Desmond to me," Paxter whispered, his voice as weak as a mosquito's hum.
The handmaiden acknowledged him and hurried out the door.
Moments later, Pycelle and Ser Desmond Redwyne entered the room.
Pycelle examined him carefully. "The wound on your arm has been treated. Though the scab has not fully formed, there are no signs of infection. However, you still need rest and observation for some time."
"According to the records of the Citadel, those struck by lightning usually suffer extensive burns over their bodies. Yet aside from your right hand, your injuries are much milder than recorded."
Paxter was fed some honey water, regaining a little strength. "Thank you... Grand Maester Pycelle. What is the situation outside?"
"Lord Paxter, your injuries require quiet rest. You cannot handle any excitement, lest the wound reopen." Pycelle packed up his instruments and meticulously recorded Paxter's condition and vitals in a notebook.
"I suggest you take some milk of the poppy and sleep a bit more."
A man struck by divine punishment was the first case of its kind in Westeros—a rare subject for study. Pycelle intended to document every detail; he could write a book about it later.
After instructing the handmaiden to watch over him carefully, Pycelle left, clutching his notebook.
"Pycelle... Desmond, tell me." Paxter's eyes were red. "What is the situation?"
Desmond's eyes revealed a deep sense of helplessness. "Paxter, you should listen to the Grand Maester and drink the milk of the poppy."
"Tell me!" Paxter hissed. The sudden movement pulled at his wound, making him gasp in pain.
"I'll do it." Desmond took the cup of milk of the poppy from the handmaiden, sat by the bed, and sighed. He recounted the recent events, sugarcoating them as best he could.
The High Septon declaring it divine punishment, the betrothals being broken... as for the nicknames like "Oathbreaker" the smallfolk had given Paxter, Desmond didn't dare mention them.
Paxter closed his eyes in agony, filled with regret. "I should have listened to Margaery. I should have answered the inquiry truthfully and demanded a Trial of Seven. I should never have lied before the Seven."
A moment later, just as Desmond thought Paxter had drifted off and was about to feed him the milk of the poppy, Paxter's eyes snapped open.
A look of grim determination flashed in his eyes. Summoning strength from somewhere, he grabbed Desmond's arm. "We haven't lost yet. We can still demand a Trial of Seven!"
Desmond gave a bitter smile. "Every knight we recruited and who agreed to fight for us has now refused. If we demand a Trial of Seven, we won't be able to find seven men."
Paxter's eyes dimmed, but the stinging pain all over his body spurred him to think of a new plan quickly.
"Then trial by combat. Desmond, we have no retreat. This is the only way to turn the tables. You will fight Snow!"
"Me? Fight Snow?" Desmond looked at him incredulously. "He is the Sword of the Morning."
"Don't forget, you led the Arbor fleet in the attack. You burned the Peach Orchard. You cannot escape the accusations of the survivors. Snow will take your head regardless."
Desmond's face turned ugly. "But I was following your orders!"
"Desmond, do you still not understand?" Paxter felt clearer than ever before. "This is the only path left to us. We have to fight. It is our only chance to turn this around! Our only glimmer of hope!"