Chapter 311: Dividing the Stag

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Open the door! Open the door!"

Outside the dungeon, Armand Peake pounded on the iron gate, his voice echoing with urgency.

"Garth! Let my father out! Whatever you want, we can discuss it!"

No answer came from within.

Armand tried again, shouting louder:

"Release my father, and I swear not to kill you!"

Still, silence greeted him.

"If you don't open this door, I won't hold back!"

The door remained shut, as though the person inside was confident and unafraid.

Realizing he had no other choice, Armand turned to his men.

"Fetch a battering ram. We'll smash the door down!"

"Yes, my lord!"

As his soldiers left, Armand waited anxiously, a growing sense of unease gnawing at his mind.

He had never expected that even with Highgarden fallen, such complications would arise.

Was this the Stag faction's last desperate struggle?

Before the battering ram could arrive, however, another figure approached—Randyll Tarly.

"Ser Armand," Randyll began sternly, "we came to Highgarden to deal with Olenna Tyrell. Why are your men rampaging and slaughtering everyone in sight?"

Armand blinked, stunned by the sudden accusation. But with his father still imprisoned, he had no time to ponder Randyll's motives.

"My lord, I did not give any such order," Armand explained quickly. "Highgarden was already in chaos before we entered—"

"Enough excuses!" Randyll cut him off coldly. "Where is Titus Peake? Tell him to come out and answer for this!"

"My father is locked in the dungeon," Armand admitted, pointing toward the iron gate. "Garth Tyrell took him inside and sealed the door. I was just about to break it open."

Randyll cast a glance at the dungeon gate, then declared flatly:

"There's no need. This war is over. Order your men to lay down their weapons."

"But my father—"

Before Armand could finish, the sound of beating wings filled the air.

He looked up to see a massive white dragon descending from the sky, its wings stirring the dust and ash below.

The soldiers scattered as the dragon landed, its enormous frame shaking the ground.

Seated upon its back was none other than Caesar himself—Samwell Caesar. And beside him was Mace Tyrell.

"Everyone!" Samwell called out, his voice carrying authority. "Mace Tyrell has been freed from the clutches of the Stag Faction traitors. He now sees the error of his ways."

"Yes, yes!" Mace stammered, hastily nodding as Samwell clapped him on the shoulder.

"The Stag Faction—they're the real villains here! I was deceived by their lies, and it led to chaos in the Reach. It's all my fault, my fault…"

Samwell smiled in satisfaction before asking:

"And what of the Horse Faction army's siege of Highgarden?"

"It was to help me cleanse the traitors!" Mace exclaimed. "A just and noble act! I have no grievances."

Armand stepped forward, seizing the opportunity to speak.

"In that case, Lord Mace, could you ask Garth Tyrell to release my father?"

"Your father?" Mace asked, looking confused.

Before anyone could answer, a creak echoed from the dungeon.

Armand turned to see the iron gate opening, and Garth Tyrell emerged.

"Garth!" Armand shouted. "Where is my father?"

Garth inclined his head respectfully toward Mace before replying calmly:

"Titus Peake allowed his men to massacre indiscriminately within Highgarden. I have already executed him."

As he spoke, several knights appeared behind him, carrying the lifeless body of Titus Peake.

"No!" Armand roared, drawing his sword and charging toward Garth.

But before he could take another step, the dragon's massive tail slammed down, narrowly missing his face.

Boom!

The impact shattered the ground, sending shards of stone flying. Armand froze, trembling as cold sweat drenched his back.

From behind him, Samwell's voice rang out:

"Ser Armand, put down your sword. This war is over. The punishment of the guilty and the reward of the deserving are decisions for Lord Mace to make."

"Yes," Randyll added, his tone sharp. "Your father's actions were disgraceful. We came here to eliminate the Stag Faction, yet he turned Highgarden into a bloodbath."

"Indeed," Mathis Rowan agreed. "Such wanton slaughter cannot be tolerated."

"And he even drove Lady Olenna to her death," Baelor Hightower remarked gravely. "That is not the behavior of a loyal bannerman."

Hearing the condemnation of his father from every corner, Armand finally realized the truth.

The Peake family was being made the scapegoat.

Armand turned his stiff neck and looked at Samwell on the dragon's back, and the young Storm King also looked over.

At the same time, the dragon's blood-red gaze turned over, piercingly hot and chilling.

Father, you shouldn't have revealed your ambitions for Highgarden...

With stiff movements, he sheathed his sword and bowed his head.

"I trust Lord Mace will deliver justice to the Peake family."

Mace glanced nervously at Samwell, who nodded. Relieved, Mace replied:

"I will."

---

That night, Highgarden returned to an eerie calm. If not for the scattered bodies and disarrayed streets, one might have thought the day's events were merely a bad dream.

Dressed in a regal blue velvet gown embroidered with his family's crowned double-headed eagle sigil, Samwell stepped out into the moonlit garden.

His father, Randyll, was already waiting for him, clad in black formal attire.

"Father," Samwell greeted.

Randyll nodded slightly.

"Did Garth hand over Kevan Lannister?"

"He did. I'm debating how to deal with him."

"Killing him would be wasteful," Randyll advised. "Keep him alive. Tywin values his brother deeply. We may be able to trade him for something worthwhile later."

"Fair point."

They strolled along the garden paths, the roses freshly planted but already trampled, their petals scattered like blood.

After a moment, Randyll asked,

"How do you plan to reward the Horse faction lords?"

Samwell explained:

"Brightwater Keep will go to my brother Dickon. Old Oak to House Rowan. The Shield Islands to House Hightower. Cider Hall to House Merryweather."

"Merryweather?" Randyll raised an eyebrow.

"Although they once sided with the Stag's, they've proven their loyalty. Lady Taena Merryweather even sent her only son to Storm's End as a ward."

"Even so, you don't have to give her Cider Hall" Lord Randyll glanced at his son, "Or has Lady Taena already climbed into your bed?"

"She'd certainly like that," Samwell said with a faint smile. "I know House Merryweather isn't exactly a staunch supporter of the Horse Faction, but that's precisely why I'm giving them Cider Hall."

Randyll immediately grasped his son's reasoning. After a moment of contemplation, he nodded in agreement:

"Indeed. The Horse Faction's power is swelling too rapidly, and that's not necessarily a good thing. Elevating House Merryweather is a clever way to balance things out."

"The Horse Faction's core strength lies in the Hightowers, the Rowans, the Tarlys, and the Peakes. The first three families have already gained plenty of rewards, and the Peakes have been made scapegoats this time—they won't dare to make a sound. As for the remaining houses, some small fiefs will suffice to satisfy them. That's why I decided to give Cider Hall to the Merryweathers."

"Fair enough," Randyll nodded, approving Samwell's allocation plan.

After a pause, he asked:

"And what about Highgarden? How do you plan to handle it?"

"Garth Tyrell is a competent man—clever, resourceful, and pragmatic. I intend to keep him as Highgarden's steward to manage daily affairs. As for the castle's garrison and guards, we should replace them with our own men. However, I don't have enough trusted manpower to spare, so…"

"I'll take care of it," Randyll assured him.

---

The two soon reached the banquet hall.

Hundreds of candles dispelled the darkness and gloom, while rich incense masked the lingering scent of blood. Two long redwood tables groaned under the weight of fine wines and delicacies. Around them, well-dressed nobles gathered in conversation.

When Samwell and Randyll entered, the chatter gradually ceased, and all eyes turned toward them.

Mace Tyrell himself descended from the high dais, wearing an ingratiating smile as he warmly greeted them:

"Your Grace Caesar, Lord Randyll—we've been waiting for you to begin the feast."

Samwell chuckled and clasped Mace's arm, guiding him back to the dais.

Taking a golden goblet offered by a servant, Samwell raised it high and declared:

"A toast to the great friendship between the Stormlands and the Reach!"

The gathered nobles echoed his words, their voices resonating as hundreds of goblets clinked together, signaling the feast's commencement.

Samwell drained his cup in one motion but remained standing. With a sly smile, he spoke again:

"Lord Mace, esteemed guests, I have a gift to share with all of you."

Clapping his hands, he called out loudly:

"Bring it in!"

Curious murmurs spread through the hall as four servants carried in a square table. Atop it rested a roasted stag, its golden-brown skin glistening under the candlelight.

"Lord Mace, does this look familiar?" Samwell asked, smiling.

Mace Tyrell froze for a moment before realization dawned on him.

"Isn't this... the horse you sent me last time…?"

Samwell burst into hearty laughter.

"A horse? No, Lord Mace, this is a stag!"

Mace's heart sank, but he forced a smile onto his face.

"Ah, yes, a stag! Of course!"

"Come now," Samwell said, picking up a carving knife and handing Mace a plate. "Let's divide the stag meat for everyone."

Samwell began with a decisive cut, severing the stag's head.

"Lord Mace, who do you think deserves the head?"

Without hesitation, Mace replied:

"You are our most esteemed guest, Your Grace. Naturally, the head should go to you."

Samwell didn't refuse.

"Thank you for your generosity!"

He placed the stag's head on his own plate, then carved out the tender loin.

"This piece is for Lord Randyll. What do you think, Lord Mace?"

"An excellent choice! A perfect match," Mace nodded eagerly, personally delivering the plate to Randyll like a servant.

Samwell then cut off a foreleg.

"This leg should go to the Hightowers."

Mace hastened to agree.

Samwell carved off the other foreleg.

"And this one is for Lord Rowan."

Again, Mace nodded and dutifully carried the plate.

"This chest meat will go to Lord Cuy."

"This shank is for Lady Merryweather."

…

Piece by piece, Samwell divided the stag, with Mace serving as his plate-bearer. In no time, the entire roasted stag was completely apportioned.

Every noble family present received a portion of the meat—some cuts lean, others rich.

Everyone understood the symbolic gesture: this was a rehearsal for the division of the Stag Faction's lands.

The quality of the meat reflected the value of the territories they would receive.

The assembled lords seemed pleased with the distribution. No one raised any objections.

Of course, not everyone was satisfied. For instance, House Peake didn't receive even a morsel of meat.

But Armand Peake dared not voice a complaint. He knew his family had already been made scapegoats. To escape further punishment was fortune enough; dreaming of new lands was out of the question.

In addition to the Peakes, another house conspicuously received no share of the stag: House Tyrell.

"Oh dear, Lord Mace," Samwell said, feigning regret as he looked at the now-empty table.

"It seems I've forgotten to save you a portion."

"No, no, it's fine," Mace stammered, waving his hands. "As the host, it's only right that I leave the food for my guests."

"Very well," Samwell replied with a smile, making no further pretense of courtesy.

He returned to his seat and drove the carving knife into the stag's severed head.

"My lords, please enjoy to your heart's content!"

A resounding cheer echoed through the hall as the feast began in earnest.

(End of Chapter)