Chapter 258: The Right to Rule
The somber dungeons of Storm's End echoed with the sound of heavy footsteps. Soon, torches illuminated the darkness.
The sudden brightness forced Ser Symon Dondarrion to squint.
Before he could make out who had arrived, the jailer opened his cell door and said:
"Ser Symon, come out."
Keeping his composure, Symon asked with feigned indifference:
"What's this? Is the Bastard planning to execute me? Or send me back home?"
"The bastard is dead," a gruff voice replied. "Storm's End now belongs to Lord Caesar. Come on, Lord Caesar invites you to breakfast."
Symon immediately recognized the voice of Ser Gawen of House Wylde. The news, however, shocked him deeply.
"Edric Storm is dead?"
"Yes," Ser Gawen confirmed, then turned to the other cells, shouting, "The same goes for the rest of you! Lord Caesar invites you to breakfast. Get moving, quickly!"
The loud voice reverberated through the dungeon, stirring a flood of questions:
"What's going on? Did the Reachmen take Storm's End?"
"How is that possible? Gewan, Storm's End is impregnable!"
"Caesar has a dragon, doesn't he? Did it burn down the walls?"
"Even the Black Dread couldn't bring down these walls…"
Ser Gewan barked impatiently, "Enough talk! Lord Caesar is waiting for you. Move it!"
One by one, the knights emerged from their cells. Amid their shock, some faces lit up with hope, while others bore complicated expressions.
These men had been imprisoned for defying the Bastard Lord. With Storm's End under new rule, they saw a glimmer of freedom. Yet, as proud Stormlanders, the fall of their great castle to the Reachmen left their hearts heavy.
Symon followed the group out of the dungeon. The brilliant sunlight outside made him squint again.
They walked through hallways still tinged with the scent of blood, ascended three spiraling flights of stairs, and arrived at the banquet hall.
It wasn't Symon's first time here, and he quickly noted the changes. The blue-and-white marble walls bore streaks of blood. The wool carpets on the floor were clean, likely replaced recently. Burning torches lined the arched windows, radiating heat.
But what stood out most was the massive white dragon lying beside the long table.
The creature was as large as two warhorses, covered in milky-white scales. Two red-gold stripes ran from its triangular head to the tip of its long tail. Its smoky, translucent wings were folded at its sides as it gnawed intently on a deer leg.
"Come and sit," a deep voice said.
Symon turned toward the voice, finally noticing the man seated beside the white dragon, clad in bronze armor.
Samwell Caesar.
Symon instantly guessed the man's identity. The name of the Reachman lord was one he'd heard many times.
It resonated like thunder.
Along with the incredible, almost unbelievable stories.
Three years ago, this man had been nothing more than a disowned hedge knight. Now, he sat upon the seat that once belonged to the Storm Kings.
In all the history of the Seven Kingdoms, few could rival such a meteoric rise. Perhaps only the "Conqueror" Aegon Targaryen himself, three centuries ago, could compare.
Symon glanced again at the white dragon.
They both had dragons.
The other Stormlander knights shared similarly complicated feelings as they took their seats at the long table.
Their gazes shifted to the man at the head of the table, who was now quietly eating his breakfast.
Some of the seats were already occupied by Stormlander nobles who had supported Edric Storm. These men bore visible wounds, evidence of the fierce battle they had recently fought.
Symon lowered his gaze to the food before him.
The breakfast spread was sumptuous—oats, milk, boiled eggs, roasted meat, and fresh berries.
After days in the dungeon, deprived of decent food, Symon decided to set aside his worries for now and indulged in the feast.
The hall grew quiet, save for the faint sounds of chewing and the clinking of cutlery.
Once Samwell finished eating, he set down his knife and fork, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
Noticing the attention on him, he smiled and gestured.
"Please, continue."
"I'm done as well, Lord Caesar," Ser Gewan said, setting down his utensils.
"Thank you for the meal," added another knight of House Wylde, following suit.
More and more men put down their utensils. Even those who wanted to keep eating stopped, unwilling to appear rude.
Even Cleopatra, the white dragon, finished the last deer leg, then settled quietly behind Samwell, lazily using her long tail to scratch her master's back like a playful cat.
Symon tactfully finished as well, wiping his mouth and bracing himself for whatever this legendary Reachman intended to do with them.
But then, he noticed someone still eating.
Turning his head, he saw Ser Lomas Estermont.
Ser Lomas was a distant cousin of lord Eldon Estermont, Lord of Greenstone Island.
What made it peculiar was that Lord Eldon had already set down his utensils and was glaring at Ser Lomas with a mix of anger and warning.
Yet Ser Lomas paid him no mind and continued eating.
Even more brazenly, his son, Andrew Estermont, followed suit, feasting loudly.
The pair's eating noises echoed harshly through the otherwise silent hall.
Symon glanced at Samwell, curious about his reaction. The Reach lord didn't appear angry. He merely sat there, smiling faintly.
Symon guessed the reason for Ser Lomas's defiance. As a relative of Stannis Baratheon, Lomas had been imprisoned by Edric Storm for siding with Dragonstone.
Although freed by the Reachmen, it was clear Lomas intended to stick to his loyalties.
But with Lord Eldon having already submitted to Caesar, the father-and-son duo's stubbornness was both amusing and reckless.
Perhaps emboldened by their actions, a few other Stormlander knights resumed eating as well.
Symon hesitated but ultimately decided against joining them, even though he wasn't quite full.
After about fifteen minutes, the holdouts finally finished. Ser Lomas was the last to set down his utensils, loudly belching as though signaling the end of the meal.
Samwell smiled faintly, as if just snapping out of his thoughts.
"Everyone done? Good. Now, let's discuss the future of the Stormlands."
No sooner had he spoken than Ser Lomas shouted,
"What right does a Reachman have to decide the Stormlands' future?"
The hall fell silent.
The Stormlander nobles wore varied expressions—some cheered inwardly, others watched with schadenfreude, while a few remained indifferent. All waited to see how the famed Reach lord would respond to dissent.
"Ser Lomas, isn't it?" Samwell didn't seem angry. "Who do you think should decide?"
"Of course, King Stannis Baratheon!"
"Your King Stannis is currently soaking in the Blackwater Rush," Samwell quipped, voice dripping with mockery.
Lomas froze.
The results of the Battle of the Blackwater had spread throughout the realm—Stannis's devastating defeat, the annihilation of his fleet, and his own disappearance. Whether he had drowned in the Blackwater was anyone's guess.
"Even so," Lomas countered, "the Baratheons should decide! Stannis has a daughter, and there are Baratheon cousins among us!"
He gestured toward two knights of Baratheon lineage, but they avoided his gaze, looking down instead.
Samwell sneered.
"Why do you think the Baratheons have the right to decide the Stormlands' future?"
"Because the Baratheons have always been the Stormlands' ruling family!"
"Always?" Samwell interrupted. "Last I checked, three centuries ago, the Stormlands were ruled by House Durrandon."
"But Orys Baratheon married the last Storm King's daughter!" another knight interjected, his tone defensive.
Samwell turned toward the speaker, noting his black-and-white swan sigil. He recognized the man as Balon Swann of Stonehelm.
"Ser Balon, right?" Samwell asked. "Let me ask you this—how did Orys Baratheon marry the last Storm King's daughter?"
Balon's lips moved, but no words came out.
Samwell smirked.
"He killed the last Storm King, conquered the Stormlands, seized Storm's End, and then took a Durrandon bride. You call that 'continuing the Storm King's bloodline'?
I wonder, how did your noble ancestors, who once swore fealty to House Durrandon, tolerate such a thing? How did they willingly kneel to the Baratheons?"
Balon turned red, while Lomas and his son were left speechless.
The other Stormlander nobles stayed silent, exchanging uneasy glances.
Samwell leaned back in his chair, his voice cold.
"Don't talk to me about bloodlines. The Baratheons ruled the Stormlands because they conquered them. And because their liege lords, the Targaryens, had dragons.
Now, I have conquered the Stormlands, and similarly, I also have--"
Samwell put his hand on Cleopatra's head and slowly scanned the faces of every Stormland noble:
"A Dragon."
(End of Chapter)