Chapter 193 – A Family of Loyal Martyrs!
Bang!
The council chamber of Storm's End fell into absolute silence.
No lord dared make a sound—this was not the moment to provoke the Lord of the Stormlands.
The heavy table before Robert Baratheon had reached its limit. Hairline cracks spider-webbed across its surface beneath the force of his massive fist.
It had endured far too much these past days.
No one breathed too loudly.
Robert's eyes were bloodshot, his rage fiercer than a rutting stag. His chest heaved as his gaze swept across every Stormlands lord present—open disappointment and towering fury written plainly on his face.
Every man he looked at lowered his head at once, unwilling to meet the eyes of an enraged stag.
Deathly silence.
Only the crackle of burning logs in the hearth broke it.
Even the young servant pouring wine beside the Lord was trembling so badly his heart hammered in his chest—he didn't even notice the wine spilling over the rim.
"Get out!"
Red wine soaked Robert's lap, but he didn't bother with further scolding—just a vicious snarl, and the clumsy boy was spared.
After all, the matter before them was far more serious than wet trousers.
"Blackhaven. Dondarrion. And Tarth."
Robert swept the room again, his voice thick with disbelief and fury.
He spread his fingers wide, each word heavy with rage.
"Five thousand men!"
"Five thousand!!!"
"With basalt walls dozens of feet high and a moat deep enough to swallow souls—Seven hells, if it were me, I could hold that castle for a month against a hundred thousand!"
"I don't understand!"
He swung his thick arms violently, his massive silhouette writhing in the firelight as his fist slammed the table again and again.
"I do not understand why five thousand men couldn't hold a single damn city!"
"Who can tell me?!"
"Which one of you—using those brains stuffed with wine and women—can explain to me what the fuck happened?!"
"Was Simon Dondarrion also a pigheaded fool?!"
Also?
Ah—so there had already been one pig who managed to lose six or seven thousand men to eight hundred.
With that thought, eyes across the chamber shifted—subtly but unmistakably—toward the heir of Haystack Hall.
Sebastian swallowed hard.
Those gazes stabbed into his pride like needles.
He drew a breath, straightened his back, and stepped forward.
"My lord…"
"This cannot be laid at Lord Dondarrion's feet. From what we know, he held under relentless Reach attacks for two days without rest, until his body finally gave out."
"After that, command of the defenses fell—hastily—to Lord Selwyn Tarth."
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
Selwyn Tarth.
In the words of the late Lord Steffon Baratheon:
'A man as kind as Tytos Lannister the Laughing Lion.'
Sebastian returned to his seat and fell silent.
Yet now, he could fully imagine Simon Dondarrion's despair.
He knew all too well what it felt like to be dragged down by incompetent allies.
Robert's face darkened further, turning almost purple.
Especially when he heard the name Selwyn Tarth…
He truly could not understand why his enemies seemed to be gods of war incarnate—while his allies were nothing but brainless boars.
"Hahahahaha!!!"
The laughter erupted without warning.
Loud. Joyful. Almost ecstatic.
It shattered the suffocating silence like a hammer through glass.
Every head snapped toward the back of the hall.
There stood a nobleman in his forties, bent over slightly, clutching his chest as he laughed uncontrollably.
Well dressed. Elegant. Handsome.
On the dark brown field of his surcoat, three golden sheaves of wheat gleamed brightly.
He laughed with utter abandon—shoulders shaking, tears even squeezing from the corners of his eyes.
The hall was stunned.
Had he gone mad?
To laugh like this—now—was outright provocation.
"What are you laughing at, Lord Selmy?"
Robert's voice came through clenched teeth, sharp as a drawn blade, his gaze locked onto Granstin Selmy's smiling face.
"Does the fall of Blackhaven please House Selmy so much?"
The laughter slowly tapered into broken wheezes.
"Oh… heh… cough…"
After a moment, Granstin straightened, cleared his throat, and finally subdued the mirth.
The smile, however, never fully left his face—rosy, satisfied.
He even had time to calmly stroke his graying beard.
"My apologies, my dear Lord."
He bowed—graceful, precise, neither servile nor insolent.
His voice was slightly hoarse but clear enough to carry through the chamber.
"I merely thought of something happy."
"My wife is with child again."
The disbelief in the room deepened.
Even Robert's face twitched violently, as if he'd just been force-fed something rotten.
"Is that so?"
Robert's voice dropped into something dark and dangerous.
"A joyous occasion indeed."
"But—"
His restraint shattered.
"Then explain this to me!"
"Why did House Selmy send its entire army to Bronzegate at this critical moment?!"
"Why did you aid that damned Lance Lot—standing like a nail between Storm's End and the allied hosts, securing his rear?!"
"Why did your son defy his liege lord, defy you, and openly betray the Stormlands?!"
"Has he already grown impatient to inherit your title—and your precious wheat fields?!"
"Granstin Selmy!!!"
He tore the name from his throat.
The room collectively held its breath.
Robert had torn away all pretense.
If Granstin failed to answer satisfactorily, he might very well die in Storm's End tonight.
"That is an excellent question."
To everyone's shock, Granstin neither pleaded nor flinched.
He met Robert's gaze head-on—and countered calmly:
"Then allow me to ask you one as well, Lord Baratheon."
"Before all the lords of the Stormlands—answer honestly."
"Why did you abduct Prince Rhaegar Targaryen without cause?"
"And then place the blame for Lord Steffon and his lady's deaths squarely on House Targaryen?"
"Why did you raise rebellion beneath the banner of righteousness, breaking your sworn oaths to the Iron Throne?"
"And why have you imprisoned every lord here within Storm's End—hostages to your baseless treason?!"
"Answer me, Robert Baratheon."
His words rang through the hall like hammer strikes.
No one had expected this.
To challenge a liege lord so openly—under his roof—was madness.
Silence stretched.
Fear. Unease. Even a flicker of hope.
All eyes turned to Robert, waiting.
Though Granstin voiced what many felt, none dared follow him.
"…Very well."
At last, Robert spoke.
No longer roaring.
Now his voice was colder—and far more dangerous.
"So you are resolved to betray your liege, Lord Selmy."
He slammed his goblet onto the table. Wine splashed across the wood.
Looking around at the hesitant faces, Robert knew—if this wasn't settled now, victory would mean nothing.
"Now… what was your damned brother's name again?"
His lips twisted in cruel mockery.
"Ah—Barristan Selmy."
"The Kingsguard dog in King's Landing, waving banners for the Targaryens in that ridiculous white cloak."
He laughed bitterly.
"Don't think I don't see your game."
"Your calculations are loud enough to wake the dead, Selmy."
He pointed straight at Granstin, his voice suddenly rising as he hurled the accusation at everyone present.
"Look at him!"
"On the surface, he dresses himself in the banner of justice for the Stormlands—but in truth, he's already kneeling in his heart, licking the mud off his new master's boots!"
"You think this is your chance, hm? As long as Lance Lot wins this damned war, as long as my head is hung from the gates of King's Landing—your House Selmy will instantly become the greatest contributor to the Targaryens!"
"At that point, you'll crawl out of this nest of 'traitors' and stand above every noble house of the Stormlands!"
The words landed like a boulder hurled into already-murky waters.
Those who had secretly applauded Granstin moments ago now wore conflicted expressions. Suspicion, calculation, and second thoughts tangled in the air of the hall.
After all, anyone could see that the Stormlands were nearing exhaustion.
If House Selmy truly was as Robert claimed…
Then perhaps it would be wiser to curry favor with them first.
Yet faced with his liege lord's accusation, Granstin Selmy showed neither panic nor guilt.
His back remained ramrod straight, like a spear planted in stone. In the depths of his clear blue eyes burned an unyielding resolve—cold, proud, and tinged with sorrow.
"Your mind is filled with shit, Robert Baratheon," Granstin said calmly.
"And that is why, to you, everyone else looks like shit as well."
"If my House truly sought the revolting profit you accuse us of pursuing, I would never have come to Storm's End—nor waited until this very moment."
"I could have sealed Selmy Castle's gates, watched coldly as you all fought to the bitter end. Whoever won, Harvest Hall would have stood untouched."
"But I didn't."
He stepped forward, meeting Robert's reddening gaze head-on.
"When your summons arrived, I sent House Selmy's finest to answer your so-called 'war of vengeance'!"
"At Summerhall, my soldiers charged at the very front—every lord here can bear witness!"
"We did not betray our oaths, Robert Baratheon!"
His voice rang through the hall as he drew a deep breath.
"It was you!"
"From the moment you blamed the deaths of Lord Steffon and his wife on House Targaryen without proof—"
"From the moment you trampled your sacred oath to the Iron Throne to fill the black hole of your own desire and raised the banner of rebellion—"
"It was you who dragged the entire Stormlands into this inevitable sea of blood and fire!"
"Not me. Not us."
"You."
The impact of his words far surpassed Robert's earlier slander.
Some lords even began to nod unconsciously, murmuring in agreement, emboldened to denounce the Lord's obstinacy.
"You—!"
Robert's face turned iron-blue.
"Bullshit!"
He roared, slamming his massive palm down. The already-cracked table finally gave way, collapsing with a thunderous crash.
Kicking aside the wreckage, Robert strode forward, voice like thunder.
"The Targaryens murdered my parents—that is an undeniable fact!"
"As Lord of Storm's End and ruler of the Stormlands, I have the right to demand that you bastards fight and die for House Baratheon!"
"That is your duty—and the oath you once swore!"
"I, Robert Baratheon—"
"Must avenge my father, your liege lord!!!"
"Good!"
Instead of retreating, Granstin stepped forward as well, his voice sharp and resolute.
"Since you insist you are the Lord of Storm's End, then bear the responsibility of a liege lord—protect your people!"
"Lance Lot is now before Bronzegate!"
He spread his arms wide, his voice carrying the weight of life and death.
"Face him openly. Let victory decide kingship."
"Wash away your hatred with your own weapon—defeat him fairly beneath the eyes of the Seven, and all of this will be resolved!"
"Enough of hiding behind your walls, letting Stormlander lives be wasted for your cowardice!"
"Stand like a man. Like a true Lord."
"Take up the hammer you are so proud of—and fight!"
He fell silent, eyes blazing as they locked onto Robert Baratheon, forcing an answer.
"Do you dare?"
The council chamber plunged into frozen silence.
Shock. Disbelief.
And—unmistakable anticipation.
Every gaze fixed on Robert's towering frame.
If Robert accepted Lance Lot's challenge and fought openly, all these preparations would become meaningless.
Whatever the outcome, they could withdraw to their castles and live out their lives in peace—rather than trembling daily under another man's roof.
A better choice lay before them.
Even if Robert lost his life, at least they would survive.
As Granstin Selmy said—this was the liege lord's responsibility.
Lord versus Regent.
Fair and just.
A bead of cold sweat slid down Robert's forehead.
Since Sebastian delivered the regent's message, Robert had considered the duel more than once. Yet the image of being thrown from his horse at the tourney in King's Landing refused to leave his mind.
But now—
Granstin had set him over open flames.
Before nearly every Stormlands lord, if Robert backed down, even surviving this war would leave him without authority.
And worse—
Bronzegate now housed thousands of Selmy troops. Lance Lot could ride freely outside Storm's End without fear of supply shortages.
Blackhaven had fallen. Reach armies might soon pour through Summerhall.
Could this half-hearted coalition even stand against House Tyrell?
Most despairing of all—Robert had already sent Stannis north with the fleet to confront Lucerys Velaryon in Shipbreaker Bay.
Reports spoke of brutal naval clashes, heavy losses on both sides. They were locked in stalemate, unable to return.
Three fronts collapsing.
Nearly seven thousand men shattered by eight hundred riders.
Robert Baratheon was at the edge of the abyss.
If he refused the duel, flight by ship might be his only escape—perhaps survival across the Narrow Sea under another name.
One minute a hero—or a lifetime a coward?
"I will duel Lance Lot before the gates of Storm's End, under the eyes of the Seven and all men!"
The hall erupted with barely concealed excitement.
Wonderful.
As long as the duel happened, it didn't matter whether Robert lived or died—they would.
"Heh…"
Robert sneered at their eager faces.
Cowards.
When his father lived, they'd been loyal beyond reproach. Now their calculations were written plainly across their faces—they wanted him dead.
"But—!"
He ignored them and fixed his gaze on Granstin.
"Before the duel, I will exercise my authority as liege lord!"
"Granstin Selmy!"
"Your House has betrayed Baratheon and broken its oath!"
"I, Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, sentence you to death!"
Gasps rippled through the hall.
No one had expected such ruthlessness.
Yet no one spoke in Granstin's defense. One life for the Stormlands' peace was a fair trade.
But Robert wasn't finished.
"You think siding with Lance Lot will save you? Dream on!"
"Kill him—now!"
"I want his head on a spear, hung from Storm's End's gate while I duel Lance Lot—let all see the fate of traitors!"
Two guards stepped forward, hands on swords, boots echoing ominously as they closed in on Granstin.
"HAHAHAHA!"
A full, tragic laugh burst forth.
Granstin Selmy did not retreat.
His spine remained straight as wheat stalks on his sigil.
Drawing his sword, he shouted:
"Did you think I ever planned to leave here alive, boy?"
"From the beginning, I was prepared to die!"
"So your father was ready to die long ago."
Before anyone could react, he reversed his grip and drove the blade into his own chest.
Blood spilled from his lips, yet the Lord of Harvest Hall still smiled—elegant to the end.
"I'll be waiting for you… in the Seven Hells."
"Baratheon."
---
Below Storm's End.
Lance Lot sat astride his horse, white cloak snapping violently in the wind.
Soon, a long pole rose—bearing a severed head, hair whipping in the cold.
Lance's hand tightened on the reins.
Beside him stood a young knight in full armor, golden wheat emblazoned on his breastplate. Two ripe sheaves were bound atop his helm—the ancient mourning mark of Harvest Hall.
"Father always said," Leonno Selmy spoke hoarsely,
"that he stole the seat from Uncle Barristan."
Tears finally fell.
"Our debt… is paid."
Lance closed his eyes.
"Your father will not die in vain."
The white knight advanced.
The greatsword Dawn ignited in fire.
And with a single stroke, the flames cut the rope.
The head fell.
And was caught—gently—in bare hands.