Chapter 199 — Stripping of Titles
Night.
Storm's End.
The shattered stag-antler war helm hung above the great hearth, silently telling the story of House Baratheon's defeat.
Before the high seat lay roasted quail, honey-drizzled bread, and a half-filled golden goblet.
He ate with impeccable elegance.
Slowly and methodically, he sliced the food with his knife, placing each bite into his mouth and chewing unhurriedly.
The occasional clink of metal utensils against porcelain echoed sharply in the otherwise silent hall.
There was no loud celebration.
No grand ceremonial attire.
Yet that calm, indifferent composure proclaimed far more clearly than any lavish display who the true master of this place was.
Below the high table, the seating arrangement was clearly divided.
At the foremost seat sat Lord Leonno Selmy, Lord of Harvest Hall.
The young lord still carried a hint of youthful innocence on his face.
His thick robe bore two ears of wheat upon the chest, faintly gleaming in the dim firelight.
Old Lord Granstin Selmy had died upholding loyalty and honor. The Selmy family had provided crucial support to the royal army.
Granting Leonno the seat of honor was the Regent's way of acknowledging that loyalty—and making sure every Stormlands lord understood the message.
At the second seat sat Lord Mace Tyrell.
He looked entirely at ease.
Although he had not taken the first seat, as an outsider lord he was already quite satisfied—perhaps even a little smug.
He gracefully enjoyed a juicy cut of meat, occasionally sipping wine imported from Dorne.
A satisfied smile spread across his plump face.
After all, he had good reason to be proud.
He was the greatest contributor to the capture of Blackhaven.
Yet the atmosphere beside him was completely different.
Randyll Tarly and Mathis Rowan sat stiffly, their faces tight with restrained anger.
They looked exactly like men sitting on a bed of needles.
The Lord of Horn Hill pressed his lips into a thin line, sharp eyes hidden beneath the shadows cast by the torchlight.
No one could read his thoughts.
Mathis Rowan, meanwhile, kept shifting in his seat, fingers tapping unconsciously against the table.
The fury and resentment on his face were almost impossible to hide.
"Calm down."
"But that bastard is too arrogant. I'm afraid I won't be able to hold back—"
"You will hold back."
Randyll Tarly turned and cut off Mathis in a low, firm voice.
Only after forcing his restless companion to settle down did he resume eating his meal.
They had arrived after the battle was already over.
According to Tarly's plan, their army should have reached Storm's End a day earlier.
But thanks to the "brilliant command" of Lord Mace Tyrell, the Highgarden army had lost over a thousand men in Blackhaven.
To preserve morale, they had been forced to rest for a full day and night before marching again.
By the time they arrived with their army in full force—
Storm's End had already fallen.
The feeling was like arriving too late even to eat shit while it was still warm.
Yes, their operations at Blackhaven had successfully pinned down House Tarth and House Dondarrion.
But still…
How should one put it?
It was like scoring only a passing grade on a test you could have easily aced.
That was exactly how Randyll Tarly and Mathis Rowan felt.
Frustrated.
Especially when they saw Mace Tyrell sitting there so smugly.
But what could they do?
Publicly accuse their own liege lord in front of everyone?
They were not some Northern Lord who had already lost his fingers…
Well.
Former Lord.
Besides, Tyrell had indeed captured Blackhaven fair and square.
Anyone unaware of the full story would simply assume that the two men who had fought relentlessly for two days and nights were incompetent.
So in the public eye:
Mace Tyrell = MVP.
Randyll Tarly and Mathis Rowan = lucky freeloaders.
Yes.
At least on the surface, that was exactly how it looked.
So no matter how furious they felt inside, they could only swallow the anger.
If they exploded publicly, it would be like using a breast pump during childbirth—
pure self-humiliation.
Still, despite their anger, they at least attended the feast as part of the victorious side.
The Stormlands lords crammed at the far end of the hall had expressions far more colorful.
They had lost the war.
Yet strangely, they did not feel too regretful.
After all, their armies had barely even entered the battlefield before the war ended.
But now—
As lords of the Stormlands—
They were forced to sit in the lowest seats at the feast held in Storm's End.
That humiliation was difficult to swallow.
Yet none dared show even the slightest displeasure.
The calm white-armored knight seated above radiated an invisible pressure they could not withstand.
So they stared down at their nearly empty wooden cups.
Some dazed.
Some exchanging uneasy glances.
Fortunately, the awkward atmosphere did not last long.
When Lance set down his fork with a crisp clink, every head in the hall turned toward him.
"It seems none of you have much appetite."
The white-armored knight wiped his mouth with a napkin, his tone calm with a hint of teasing.
Then he tilted his head slightly.
"Though I must say, Lord Tyrell's appetite is as robust as his physique."
"Hahaha!"
Mace Tyrell burst into loud laughter, his booming voice clashing awkwardly with the cold silence of the hall.
"My mother always said food is the source of strength, Your Majesty!"
"Brave knights like you and me must eat well—otherwise how will we have the strength to chop off our enemies' heads?"
Hearing the sarcasm hidden in those words, the Stormlands lords' faces turned even darker.
Go ahead and eat.
No one can out-eat you anyway.
Please eat yourself straight to the Seven Hells.
"Exactly, Your Majesty!"
Just as the oppressive silence settled again, another voice suddenly rang out—
Louder.
More obsequious.
And utterly out of place.
The one who spoke was Lord Ralph, his head still swollen with bruises. He struggled up from the lowest seat, leaning forward awkwardly, forcing a smile uglier than crying.
Bowing repeatedly toward the Regent, he fawned shamelessly.
"Your Highness the Regent is truly handsome and mighty! Even the way you eat carries a noble aura!"
"To defeat the traitor Robert Baratheon and take Storm's End is the greatest honor for all of us!"
"From now on, we are one big loving family! I, Ralph, swear before the Seven Gods that I will serve you like a horse or an ox—"
Before he could finish—
A sharp whistling sound cut through the air.
The flattering voice stopped abruptly.
A dagger, gleaming with cold steel, had buried itself squarely in Ralph's skull.
Everything happened so quickly that the false smile had not even faded from his face.
Only his eyes, slowly losing focus, remained fixed on the Regent.
Then his body collapsed heavily against the chair.
The hall froze.
Every pupil shrank in shock.
Lord Mace Tyrell's smile froze, the golden goblet in his hand nearly slipping free.
The Stormlands nobles turned deathly pale, cold sweat soaking their backs.
They looked toward the high seat.
The Regent didn't even glance at the dead man.
He simply wiped his hands slowly with a napkin.
"Eat when you eat. No need for so much nonsense."
His voice was quiet—almost gentle—as he gave a faint smile.
"Eat."
The moment those words fell, the Stormlands nobles completely lost their composure.
They abandoned all etiquette.
Like starving vagrants who had gone three days without food, they grabbed whatever was in front of them and stuffed it into their mouths with their hands.
But three seconds later—
The white-armored knight spoke again.
"You're really eating?"
Every movement froze instantly.
The lords stared blankly at Lance.
Some still had food stuffed in their mouths.
They didn't know whether to swallow or spit it out.
The scene became absurd and ridiculous.
Seeing them disciplined like obedient hunting dogs, Lance finally laughed.
"Look at that. I was only joking. Why take it so seriously?"
"That fellow seized Fellwood and raped and murdered Lord Fell's wife."
"I sentenced him to death. Perfectly reasonable, wouldn't you say?"
"Eat and drink."
He spread his right hand casually, signaling them to continue.
But now no one dared eat.
They lowered their heads uneasily, stealing glances at Lance to see whether he was serious.
"Well then," Lance said calmly, "since none of you are eating, we can proceed to the next matter."
He raised his chin slightly.
Standing at his right side, Ser Brynden Tully immediately understood.
Without a word, he left the hall.
Moments later, the clanking of heavy chains echoed closer and closer.
Under everyone's gaze, Lord Simon Dondarrion of Blackhaven was dragged into the hall by two Crownlands knights.
His expensive breastplate and noble cloak had been stripped away.
He now wore only a coarse linen robe stained with dust and dried brown blood.
He looked exhausted, his face sallow.
Yet when he raised his head and swept his gaze across the hall—
His sunken eyes burned with unyielding defiance.
His gaze passed over the Stormlands lords seated on both sides of the long table—
Men who had once sworn loyalty beside him.
There was no fear in his eyes.
Only naked contempt and disappointment.
Simon stood in the center of the hall like a steel spike hammered into the ground.
Lord Mace Tyrell wiped his mouth disdainfully.
Lifting his chin proudly and puffing out his chest, he shouted in the arrogant tone of a victor:
"Criminal, kneel!"
He pointed toward the dais.
"Before you stands the great Regent—of the true dragon's bloodline who rules the Seven Kingdoms—"
"The savior of Storm's End!"
"His Majesty Lance Lot!"
"Ha!"
Simon gave a short, mocking laugh.
Straightening his spine, lifting his chin stubbornly, he spoke hoarsely yet clearly:
"House Dondarrion kneels only to the Warden of the Stormlands—the true Lord of Storm's End!"
"You merely occupy House Baratheon's castle by force. You are no lawful lord!"
Then his blazing gaze swept across the Stormlands nobles.
"And you—"
"You traitors who betrayed your oaths! Cowards who abandoned your houses!"
"Look at yourselves—groveling at the feet of your enemies like greedy dogs waiting to lick their master's hand!"
"The name of the Stormlands is shamed because of you!"
His furious roar made the Stormlords' faces even uglier.
Shame, fear, and anger twisted their expressions.
But not one dared speak.
The one truly enraged was Mace Tyrell.
Simon's words had struck not only the Stormlords' weak point—
They had also directly challenged his newly earned glory as the "great hero who captured the city."
To him, it felt like a deliberate attempt to ruin the heroic image he had carefully displayed before the Regent.
Mace leapt to his feet.
His fat body scraped the chair loudly across the floor.
Completely forgetting his usual noble elegance, he pointed at Simon and shouted furiously:
"You damned traitor! I will punish you—!"
"I will punish—!"
"ROOOAAARRR!!!"
A thunderous roar suddenly shook the entire hall.
A dark shape plunged through the doorway with violent wind, crashing into tables and scattering dishes.
Before everyone's terrified eyes—
Ilyon spread his ash-gray wings.
The wingspan nearly two meters wide.
His powerful hind legs slammed onto the cold stone floor of the hall.
His sweeping tail accidentally knocked Mace Tyrell flat onto the ground.
Ignoring the Highgarden Lord completely, the dragon raised its long scaled neck proudly.
Molten-lava eyes locked onto Simon Dondarrion.
"ROAR!!!"
The air seemed to freeze.
The Stormlords nearly fainted with fear.
Some wished they could shrink into the cracks of the floor.
Even the normally fearless Randyll Tarly instinctively tensed, gripping the hilt of his ancestral Valyrian steel sword.
Simon, standing directly before the dragon, could clearly smell the mixture of blood and sulfur from its breath.
He held his breath.
The roar carried a pressure that seemed to crush the soul itself.
A force that could make any creature kneel.
His body trembled instinctively.
Yet he clenched his teeth and stared defiantly into the dragon's eyes.
The young dragon's nostrils flared.
Blood dripped from the corner of its mouth onto the stone floor like a ticking countdown.
Everyone believed Simon would be burned to ash in the next moment.
But then—
A calm voice sounded.
"Relax."
The young dragon's savage eyes instantly cleared.
Snorting disdainfully at Simon, it turned away and padded across the floor.
Reaching Lance, it rubbed its head affectionately against his hand.
The contrast with the vicious beast from moments before was astonishing.
"You've grown again in just two days."
Lance patted its head.
Two sharp horns were beginning to take shape.
Perhaps because of his Dragonrider ability, Ilyon's growth rate far exceeded expectations.
Nearly ten times faster than the green dragon Rhaegal.
And Lance had barely fed it.
He simply let it hunt for food on its own.
Everyone in the hall—including Simon—watched the scene in silence.
Only the crackling of candle flames and the dragon's satisfied purring filled the air.
No one dared disturb the quiet moment between man and dragon.
Eventually Ilyon seemed content.
It laid its large head against Lance's steel boot and closed its eyes.
Only then did Lance lift his gaze toward Simon Dondarrion.
"I've heard everything."
"In two days you repelled sixteen assaults."
"The armies of Randyll Tarly and Mathis Rowan are among the finest in the Reach."
"To hold the city against them wasn't easy."
His tone was neutral—neither praise nor condemnation.
Simon snorted coldly.
If it weren't for that idiot Selwyn Tarth…
But the man had died during the siege.
Blaming him now meant nothing.
Facing reality, Simon avoided Lance's gaze and swallowed the sarcastic reply he had prepared.
After all—
There was a dragon right in front of him.
Lance seemed unconcerned with Simon's defiance.
His gaze drifted away and settled on Mace Tyrell, who had just climbed back to his feet.
"Lord Tyrell."
A faint smile appeared on Lance's lips.
"If I remember correctly…"
"The distance from Blackhaven to Highgarden is about the same as the distance from Blackhaven to Storm's End."
"In fact, Nightsong is even closer to the Reach."
The question stunned Mace for a moment.
Then greed for power overwhelmed his reason.
"Yes! Yes, Your Majesty!"
His voice trembled with excitement.
"You mean—?"
He rubbed his hands eagerly, face flushed with anticipation.
If both castles were added to the Reach…
His achievements would become enormous.
Then his mother would have to trust him more—
No.
Forget that.
Then there would be only one voice in Highgarden.
Mine.
"Well then."
Seeing his excitement, Lance's smile deepened.
But when he spoke, the words shattered Mace's expectations.
"Lord Randyll Tarly, your contributions in this war cannot be ignored."
Mace Tyrell's smile froze instantly.
Then Lance declared clearly for all to hear:
"Because of the treason of Bryen Caron and Simon Dondarrion—"
"I, Regent Lance Lot, in the name of the Iron Throne and King Viserys Targaryen III, decree the following."
"Effective immediately, both men are stripped of their titles as Lords."
"At the same time—"
"Nightsong, Blackhaven, and all their lands and subjects are hereby removed from the Stormlands."
"They are permanently annexed to the Reach and placed under the authority of Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill."
"From this day forward, House Tarly shall replace House Baratheon as the lawful overlords of those territories."
"Every copper coin and every grain of harvest from these lands shall be taxed and delivered to Horn Hill according to the same laws of the Crown."
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