Chapter 432: The Execution

The white dragon dove through the air but did not join the battle. Instead, it circled low, casting its massive shadow over the battlefield.

The sight alone was enough to crush the spirits of the Lannister soldiers. Under the oppressive shadow of the dragon, many dropped their weapons, fell to their knees, and surrendered.

Others attempted to flee through the northern gate, but they found their path blocked. Samwell's forces had stationed nearly ten thousand cavalry outside the city, ready to intercept any escapees. In these circumstances, unless reinforcements arrived from the other side of the Blackwater, most Lannister soldiers would never even see the river.

---

Samwell Caesar sat atop the white dragon, observing the battlefield below.

The gates were wide open, and his soldiers swarmed into the city like a tide. Only a few isolated pockets of resistance remained, where die-hard defenders refused to surrender and fought to the death. But the majority of the Lannister forces had chosen to lay down their arms.

Soon, the southern army fully controlled the city walls. The battle was officially over, and the campaign entered its final stages.

---

As Samwell continued to patrol the battlefield from above, he found himself feeling oddly disconnected. The battle had ended without him or the dragon needing to intervene directly.

This sense of detachment made him chuckle and shake his head.

After all, he was now a king commanding ten thousand soldiers. If he still had to fight on the front lines, something would have gone terribly wrong.

It wasn't a lack of courage that kept him out of the fray, but rather the recognition that his life—and his dragon—were far too valuable to risk unnecessarily.

The Lannisters had clearly prepared for the possibility of a dragon attack, outfitting their defenses with ballistae specifically designed to target his mount, Cleopatra.

While the ballistae might not be capable of killing the white dragon outright, they posed a serious enough threat that Samwell had no intention of testing his luck. A single well-placed bolt to Cleopatra's eye could turn the tide of the battle—and history itself.

---

Of course, there would still be opportunities for him and Cleopatra to unleash their fury.

In the open field, without ballistae, Cleopatra could wreak havoc among enemy forces. And as the dragon grew older and larger, even siege weapons would eventually become irrelevant.

Samwell's imagination drifted to a future where Cleopatra reached the size of Balerion the Black Dread at its peak—a creature so massive its wingspan could blot out the sun over an entire town.

At that point, no enemy would be able to stand against them. Even castles would become death traps, as dragonfire reduced stone walls to molten slag, just as Balerion had once done to Harrenhal.

But that day was far off. Cleopatra was only three years old, and while her growth had been accelerated by feeding her dragonbone soup, her size and strength still paled compared to Balerion's.

Fortunately, Samwell knew there were still caches of dragonbone hidden beneath the Red Keep in King's Landing. Once he conquered the city, he would return to those secret vaults and claim what remained to nourish Cleopatra further.

If Cleopatra could one day become a "White Dread," perhaps even the looming threat of the White Walkers would no longer seem so dire.

---

A bellowing roar from below interrupted Samwell's thoughts.

Looking down, he saw a man covered in blood, his golden hair wild and tangled, shouting furiously up at him.

"Come down here, coward!" the man screamed, waving his sword. "Face me in a duel!"

Samwell squinted, recognizing the voice. He guided Cleopatra to descend.

As the dragon landed, its massive wings churned up clouds of dust, and the heat radiating from its body forced soldiers on both sides to back away, clearing a wide circle.

But the man stood his ground.

Daven Lannister advanced toward the dragon, undeterred by the beast's size and menace. His expression was one of unyielding defiance.

"Come on, Samwell!" Daven roared. "Face me one-on-one!"

---

Samwell peered at the bloodied figure and finally recognized him.

"So, it's you," he said.

"Yes, it's me!" Daven bellowed. "Daven Lannister, son of Stafford! The man who defeated you once before!"

With his golden hair blown back by the dragon's heated breath, Daven looked every bit like an enraged lion.

Samwell couldn't deny the claim. Four years ago, Daven had bested him during the melee at the Arbor Island. While Samwell had deliberately thrown that match, the loss was still a loss.

---

But instead of anger, Samwell felt only a twinge of pity.

"Come on, Samwell! Are you afraid you'll lose again?" Daven sneered, trying to provoke him.

Samwell chuckled, dismounting from Cleopatra and walking forward calmly.

"Afraid? Do you think I was afraid when I faced the seven Kingsguard knights at Skyreach? You're not even worth mentioning."

"Then fight me!" Daven roared.

"If you're so eager to die, I'll gladly oblige," Samwell replied with a smirk. "But before we begin, I have a question for you."

"Speak."

"After you lost our wager at the Arbor, did you actually swim back to Lannisport like we agreed?"

The color drained from Daven's face. His carefully cultivated bravado crumbled in an instant, replaced by a deep, crimson flush of embarrassment.

Enraged, Daven charged forward with a roar.

His armor clanked with every step as his boots pounded into the earth, leaving deep impressions. At full speed, he resembled a steel-clad juggernaut, barreling toward his foe with deadly intent.

Samwell, however, didn't budge.

He didn't even draw his sword, standing motionless as Daven bore down on him.

This apparent indifference only stoked Daven's fury, filling him with a dangerous mix of anger and hope.

Perhaps, just perhaps, he could catch Samwell off guard and claim a victory.

With a final burst of speed, Daven swung his longsword in a mighty arc, aiming directly for Samwell's head.

But at that moment, everything ended.

Samwell finally moved.

In a flash, he drew the massive greatsword from his back and swung it faster than the eye could follow.

The white blade struck with the force of a hurricane, cleaving through Daven's armor, flesh, and bone as if they were nothing.

Shing!

Blood sprayed as Daven's body was sliced clean in two.

Both halves hit the ground with a wet thud, twitching briefly before going still.

Samwell sheathed his sword and looked down at the broken corpse with an air of boredom.

"The Lannisters," he muttered, "are no longer worthy of being my opponents."

(End of Chapter)