Chapter 383: The Decision

Amidst the dense forest, a massive black bear lay lifeless in a pool of blood, its dark fur matted and tangled. Surrounding the carcass, six snarling hunting hounds snapped and barked.

In the distance, the thunder of hooves echoed through the woods as a group of over twenty riders approached swiftly.

Samwell Caesar reined in his horse and surveyed the scene with a grin.

"Well done," he said. "Looks like lunch is settled for today."

He dismounted and began giving orders to his men to light a fire.

Randyll Tarly, the Lord of Horn Hill, followed suit, dismounting his horse and stepping forward to assist.

House Tarly, whose sigil featured a hunter, had a long history with the hunt. Lord Randyll, adept in the art of processing game, got to work immediately. In no time, he skinned the bear with precision, producing a flawless hide.

Then, wielding his blade expertly, he butchered the bear into manageable pieces for roasting.

Once finished, Randyll washed his hands in a nearby spring, letting the cool water rinse away the blood, before accepting a wine flask from Samwell and taking a hearty drink.

"Do you remember," Randyll began, "when I first took you hunting as a boy?"

"Yes." Samwell nodded vaguely, though the original Sam's memories were blurry.

"Processing the prey is often harder than the hunt itself," Randyll said meaningfully, his tone loaded with unspoken implications.

Samwell chuckled. "Are you talking about how I'm handling the Arbor?"

Randyll nodded.

"I heard you've appointed Lucas Dayne as the new Lord of the Arbor."

"I have," Samwell confirmed. "Once the island is secured, it will be granted to Lucas."

Randyll's brow furrowed. "The Redwyne family are descendants of Garth Greenhand's son Gilbert the Grapevine. They've ruled that island for millennia. The people of the Arbor have lived under the rule of orange-haired, freckled Redwynes for generations. Now you intend to impose a Dayne on them? Do you think they'll accept him willingly?"

Samwell's expression remained lighthearted.

"The Stormlands were ruled by the Baratheons before me, and before them, the Durrandons. Now, they follow me, a Caesar.

In truth, common folk don't care much about their ruler's name or lineage. They're not interested in the power games of lords and kings. All they want is full bellies and peaceful lives.

If we can ensure that for them, the Arbor, the Stormlands, or even the entirety of Westeros will have no trouble adjusting."

Randyll scrutinized his son for a long moment, his eyes weighing the confidence in Samwell's words.

"You're not wrong," Randyll conceded. "The common folk care little for their rulers' names. But your rule can't rely on peasants alone. You need knights and minor lords, and to them, bloodlines still matter.

Your acceptance in the Stormlands is largely due to your dragons. Lucas Dayne, however, has no such advantage.

I'm not saying he can't govern the Arbor, but if you want to avoid unnecessary trouble, it would help to take certain measures…"

"Such as?"

"For instance, your brother secured Brightwater Keep because he married a Florent. Similarly, Lucas should marry a Redwyne."

Samwell shrugged. "I'll suggest it to him, but whether or not he marries is Lucas's decision to make."

In truth, Samwell had no intention of forcing Lucas into a marriage.

Randyll, like most nobles in Westeros, placed immense value on bloodlines and claims, even if it meant preserving the rights of their enemies. As an outsider, Samwell was unburdened by such sentiments and viewed these traditions as an obstacle rather than a necessity.

Of course, he would not act rashly and make himself the enemy of the Seven Kingdoms.

Marrying Daenerys and hatching dragons are exactly what he is doing to please the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms.

While Samwell understood the importance of tradition and perception, he saw the Arbor as an opportunity to challenge the entrenched feudal system.

Lucas Dayne, a knight of Dornish descent with no ties to the Arbor or the Redwyne family, represented a break from the norm. Samwell wanted to see how the island's lords and people would adapt to such a change.

Randyll, sensing his son's determination, decided to let the matter rest.

The rich aroma of roasting bear meat soon filled the air as the fire crackled, melting fat dripping and hissing on the flames.

Servants brought over plates of the freshly roasted meat.

Samwell grabbed a piece, unconcerned about the heat, and took a hearty bite.

The meat was chewy, the juices coating his lips.

Randyll used a small knife to cut his portion and ate it slowly. After a moment of silence, he asked:

"This gathering of the Reach and Stormlands lords—it's not just for your son's birth celebration, is it?"

"No," Samwell admitted. "I'm preparing to march on King's Landing."

"You're rushing things," Randyll remarked.

Samwell sighed. "I know. But I don't have a choice. Have you heard? Word just came from the North—Eddard Stark has surrendered. He and his son Robb have been sent to the Wall as men of the Night's Watch. His youngest son, Rickon, now rules Winterfell as ward to the new Warden of the North: Roose Bolton."

"Eddard Stark's defeat was inevitable," Randyll said matter-of-factly, showing little surprise. "Frankly, I'm amazed he lasted this long. But why is the youngest son ruling Winterfell? What happened to his other sons?"

"Bran is crippled," Samwell explained, his tone cautious. "And…missing."

Randyll didn't seem interested in pursuing the matter further.

Instead, he turned his attention back to Samwell:

"Roose Bolton may hold the North in name, but winning the loyalty of those proud northern lords will take years. And don't forget—dealing with the spoils of war is often harder than fighting the war itself.

Your Stormlands are still stabilizing. If you mobilize now and fail to take King's Landing, your reputation will be irreparably damaged.

If I were you, I'd bide my time. Spend two or three years consolidating your rule here. That canal project of yours is a fine start. If completed, it will endear you to the people. Even if a future campaign fails, your Stormlands base will remain secure."

"I can't wait that long," Samwell said, shaking his head. "And my decision isn't just about the North. Do you remember Maester Aemon?"

"The old Targaryen at Castle Black?"

"Yes. He sought me out two months ago but passed away before we could meet. Margaery told me he spoke of undead wights and a massive migration of wildlings fleeing something unspeakable."

"You believe in these old wives' tales of White Walkers?" Randyll asked, his tone skeptical.

"I do," Samwell said firmly.

Father and son locked eyes. Eventually, Randyll relented with a shrug.

"You're the king. The decision is yours. But before you march on King's Landing, ensure you've dealt with Dorne. If the Martells attack your rear while your army is north, it could spell disaster."

"The Martells won't last much longer," Samwell replied confidently. "My fleet has blockaded the Greenblood River. Without external supplies, Arianne can't feed her troops, let alone the Riverland and Vale forces camped in Sunspear. Hunger will do the job for us."

"As long as you've prepared," Randyll said. "The Reach will provide 80,000 troops. Mace Tyrell won't dare resist now that your son has tied your families closer.

Samwell spoke in turn. "The Stormlands should yield another 40,000. And the 8,000 Unsullied I brought back from Slavers Bay."

"You're planning to use slave soldiers to attack King's Landing? The nobles of Westeros hate slaves, don't be stupid about this."

"They're free men now," Samwell said with a smile. "Not slaves."

Randyll nodded, reassured.

Samwell stood, tossing aside a bone.

"Then it's decided. Let's settle this with the Lannisters once and for all."

(End of Chapter)