Chapter 200 — I've Said My Piece. Who Agrees? Who Objects?
"I object!"
Lord Simon Dondarrion roared suddenly, his eyes bloodshot as he glared at Lance upon the throne.
Like a cornered beast, he bellowed:
"The title of my House was granted by the great Storm King himself! For generations we have guarded these Stormlands!"
"And you—"
"You, an outsider—what right do you have to strip away the honor and lands my ancestors won with their blood?"
"How dare you!"
His voice rang loudly through the hall.
Every lord heard him clearly.
The Stormlands nobles wore complicated expressions.
Though they watched coldly, a faint sense of shared doom lingered among them.
After all—
Who could guarantee that the next noble stripped of his title would not be themselves?
But their unease did not last long.
Simon's outburst accidentally disturbed the gray shadow dozing beside Lance's feet.
The massive head shifted slightly.
The translucent membrane over the dragon's eyelids slowly lifted.
Without any dramatic movement, it simply cast a lazy glance toward Simon.
Just one glance.
Yet the extreme sense of danger made Simon's hair stand on end.
The fury burning in his chest froze instantly into ice.
His roar stopped mid-sentence.
His flushed face turned pale.
Cold sweat soaked through his clothes in an instant.
Fortunately for him, the dragon's impatient eyes closed again almost immediately.
Ilyon shifted its position, resting its chin back on its folded foreclaws.
A soft snoring sound followed.
The hall fell so silent that even breathing seemed loud.
Then Lance's voice cut through the stillness.
"You think I don't know how House Dondarrion became Lords?"
His tone was calm but unmistakably clear.
"You delivered an important letter to that so-called Storm King, survived an ambush by pure luck, and were rewarded with a title."
"And you're proud of that?"
He snorted.
Then slowly stood up, his gaze sharp as a blade as it pierced Simon.
"And besides…"
"I wasn't asking for your opinion."
"Don't mistake my mercy for weakness, Simon Dondarrion."
"If Lord Selwyn Tarth hadn't already paid with his life…"
"You wouldn't even be alive to stand before me."
The moment the words fell—
A crushing wave of killing intent erupted from Lance.
Even the Stormlands lords who had been quietly considering how to protest politely now felt their chests tighten and their hearts pound uncontrollably.
Sensing its master's rising aura, Ilyon lazily opened its eyes again.
The dragon glanced irritably around the hall.
These noisy two-legged creatures couldn't even let it nap in peace.
With a reluctant shake of its head, it slowly rose.
Then it lifted its neck and let out a short but majestic roar.
"ROAR!"
The flames of the candles trembled violently.
Everyone in the hall turned pale as ghosts.
No one dared breathe.
Only after the echo of the roar faded did Ilyon snort contentedly, curl back down, and resume snoring.
Under the double pressure of Lance and the dragon—
Simon Dondarrion stood rigid.
Even his soul seemed to tremble.
His lips moved violently, yet no words came out.
His chest rose and fell several times.
Finally, his clenched fists loosened.
A heavy sigh escaped him.
Defeated, he lowered his head.
Seeing this, Lord Mace Tyrell immediately began shooting frantic glances at Randyll Tarly, urging him silently to show some restraint and not accept every reward offered.
Was this a joke?
Even someone as slow-witted as Mace could sense the danger of Horn Hill's power growing too rapidly.
House Tarly was already one of the most powerful and prestigious families in the Reach besides House Tyrell.
Their lands were rich and vast.
Their ancient bloodline was said to descend from Garth Greenhand's twin sons, Harlon the Hunter and Herndon of the Horn.
A lineage almost as noble as the Tyrells themselves.
And Randyll Tarly was widely acknowledged as the greatest warrior of the Reach.
If he accepted the reward—
He would retain Horn Hill and gain two major Stormlands castles: Nightsong and Blackhaven.
That meant House Tarly would suddenly control three fortified strongholds.
Their territory would stretch from the southeastern Reach all the way to the Dornish frontier and the Stormlands border.
The land would be vast.
Rich.
Strategically vital.
Nearly one-sixth of the entire Reach.
Almost half the size of the Vale.
For a vassal's power to expand to that level—
Any liege lord would feel deeply uneasy.
But as Lord Paramount of the Reach, those lands technically still belonged to his domain.
He couldn't openly reject the grant on Tarly's behalf.
So he could only glare frantically.
After all—
A vassal's vassal is not truly your vassal.
And it wasn't just Mace Tyrell who felt nervous.
The Stormlands lords were sweating as well.
If Randyll Tarly accepted this grant, two of the Stormlands' most important frontier castles would fall into Reach hands.
In any future war, the Reach would hold a massive strategic advantage.
Even Mathis Rowan, sitting beside Randyll, looked at his friend with a mix of admiration and slight jealousy.
Old friend… you're about to become a major power.
Under everyone's gaze, Randyll Tarly lowered his head slightly.
There was little joy on his face.
Instead, his expression was solemn.
He was not a fool blinded by profit.
The Regent's reward could easily make his liege lord suspicious.
Or worse—
If Mathis Rowan gained nothing, resentment between the two houses might grow.
This was a great opportunity for House Tarly—
But also a significant risk.
"Hmph."
Randyll Tarly chuckled quietly, completely ignoring Mace Tyrell's frantic eye signals.
He stepped forward with steady, powerful strides.
Stopping several paces from Lance's throne.
Randyll Tarly has always enjoyed danger.
What did expanding one's lands mean?
Men.
Money.
Power.
With land this valuable lying before him—
If he refused out of fear, he would regret it for the rest of his life.
Taking a deep breath, Randyll drew the dark-glimmering Valyrian steel sword from his waist.
Heartsbane.
He planted the blade tip-down into the stone floor.
Then the Lord of Horn Hill dropped to one knee.
One hand resting on the sword's hilt.
The other pressed against his chest.
His voice was calm but firm.
"House Tarly shall honor its oath."
"We will guard the lands granted by the Iron Throne and protect the vassals entrusted to us."
"This oath…"
"…will endure until death."
Randyll Tarly's oath was solemn and powerful, embodying the loyalty and responsibility of a mighty vassal.
The moment his words fell, Lord Mace Tyrell's expression darkened as if he had swallowed a fly.
Damn that Randyll Tarly!
He doesn't take me seriously at all!
Just wait until we return to Highgarden… I'll raise Horn Hill's taxes… double them… no, triple them!
The fat lord folded his arms angrily across his chest.
Meanwhile Randyll Tarly calmly returned to his seat and sat down again.
Seeing the expression on the "inflated pufferfish," Lance's lips curved slightly upward.
This was exactly the effect he wanted.
The Reach was so wealthy—if he didn't give that "Queen of Thorns" something troublesome to deal with, wouldn't she get bored?
When the Regent's gaze swept across the hall again, the last whispers vanished completely.
Everyone straightened instinctively.
They knew the real judgment that would decide the fate of the Stormlands was only beginning.
"The fleet of Stannis Baratheon."
As expected, Lance's very first sentence struck directly at the core of the matter.
"They haven't returned yet?"
The question was blunt.
It pointed directly at the last remaining military power of House Baratheon—the final symbol of resistance in the Stormlands.
At once, the old Maester Cressen hurried forward from the shadowy corner.
"Your Majesty!"
"I did send word to him, in the name of Storm's End and the Iron Throne."
"But… but the sea offers little reply. Stannis… seems unwilling to return to Storm's End."
The old maester paused.
In his cloudy eyes was deep concern for the stubborn, taciturn child he had watched grow up.
"Forgive my bluntness, Your Highness," he said courageously.
"Stannis was only forced by his elder brother, Lord Robert, to lead the fleet against the Iron Throne."
"In truth… he is a law-abiding and principled young man, not a rebel by nature."
"Perhaps if Your Highness would give him a clear assurance of personal safety upon his return… he might…"
Cressen's voice grew softer and softer until the final plea sounded almost like begging.
He had served House Baratheon for most of his life.
He had watched Lord Steffon and his lady marry and have children, heard of their tragic deaths, and then seen Robert descend step by step into madness and destruction.
He simply could not bear to watch Stannis walk the same doomed path.
But Lance responded only with a cold snort.
"Stannis is already fifteen years old, Maester."
Lance's voice carried unquestionable authority.
"That is no longer the age of ignorance."
"He knows who he is, and he knows exactly what it means to command a fleet against the Iron Throne."
"Forced?"
"No."
"He made a choice."
"He chose to stand with a traitor."
As he spoke, Lance's sharp gaze swept over Cressen—and then over the trembling lords below.
A silent reminder of the price of betrayal.
He leaned slightly forward, tapping his fingers lightly against the cold iron armrest.
The crisp sound echoed through the hall.
"Very well."
After a moment, Lance continued.
"Send word to Stannis Baratheon."
"Tell him to abandon all resistance immediately and sail to King's Landing."
"He will stand before the Iron Throne and face judgment for treason in the presence of all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms."
"This is the Iron Throne's final—and only—chance for him to retain some dignity."
"If he wishes to keep that dignity, I may consider showing mercy."
"He may take the black, go to the Wall, and spend the rest of his life serving in penance."
"But if he does not wish to keep that dignity…"
Lance snorted again.
"Then I will help him keep it."
Maester Cressen's lips trembled as if he wanted to argue further.
But Lance's cold gaze made him swallow the words.
Silence filled the hall.
Some were relieved the fire had not yet reached them.
Others felt a chill of sympathy for Stannis's fate.
Most of the Reach lords remained expressionless—it was, after all, a Stormlands matter.
Only Lord Mace Tyrell continued sulking over Lance's earlier decision, arms folded, refusing even to eat.
At that moment, a series of light footsteps echoed from the entrance.
The heavy silence broke.
Everyone turned.
Ser Balman Byrch entered, leading a very small figure by the hand.
The child wore a well-tailored velvet coat.
But his tiny face was filled with confusion and fear.
Not long ago, someone had returned carrying a body so mutilated it was barely recognizable—and told him that it was his brother.
For a three-year-old child, that was far too cruel.
The vast hall.
The cold stone walls.
The countless eyes watching him.
All of it left the boy overwhelmed.
He clung tightly to Ser Balman's finger, his neck almost shrinking into his chest.
"Come here, child."
Lance's gaze fell on Renly.
He raised his hand and beckoned.
His voice was unexpectedly gentle.
"Don't be afraid."
Renly looked up timidly.
His green eyes were full of unease.
Someone had told him the man before him had killed his brother.
But after hesitating for a moment, he forced himself to stand straighter and walked forward step by step.
His small figure looked painfully fragile in the enormous hall.
Yet every step seemed to pound against the hearts of the Stormlands lords.
"Your Majesty…"
When he reached Lance, Renly tried to recall the etiquette his father had once taught him.
He performed a clumsy kneeling salute.
Seeing the awkward gesture, Lance slowly smiled—a meaningful smile.
He did not help the child up.
Instead, he lightly patted the seat beneath him.
The chair that symbolized the highest authority of the Stormlands.
"This seat," Lance said calmly,
"I do not find comfortable."
His voice echoed clearly in the hall.
"It was born to belong to House Baratheon."
"If your brother had not been so stubborn, I would never have had the chance to sit upon it."
"Don't worry."
"I will soon return it to you."
Then Lance's voice suddenly rose.
Under the complex gazes of all present, he announced decisively:
"I, Regent of the Iron Throne, hereby declare—"
"Because Robert Baratheon and his brother Stannis Baratheon committed the crime of treason…"
"The Iron Throne strips them and their descendants of all rights to inherit Storm's End."
A wave of swallowed breaths spread through the hall.
They had expected it—
But hearing Stannis's inheritance formally revoked still shocked many.
"In the name of King Viserys Targaryen III, I now proclaim…"
"Renly Baratheon shall be invested as the new Lord of Storm's End."
"But—"
Lance's tone shifted again as his gaze swept the hall.
"Since Lord Renly Baratheon is still a minor and cannot fulfill the duties of his title…"
"I appoint Lord Leonno Selmy of Harvest Hall—"
Lance turned toward the young Selmy seated below.
Leonno lifted his head abruptly.
Shock flashed across his eyes, quickly replaced by solemn resolve.
He knew this honor had been bought with his father's life.
"Lord Leonno Selmy will serve as Castellan of Storm's End."
"He will govern the Stormlands in full authority until Lord Renly Baratheon comes of age."
Lance's voice rang with finality.
The judgment was sealed.
Little Renly had no idea what had just happened.
Confusion and uncertainty flickered across his face.
He did not yet understand what the title "Lord of Storm's End" truly meant.
But Leonno Selmy stepped forward immediately.
Dropping to one knee.
"I, Leonno Selmy, swear in the name of the Seven!"
His voice was loud and steady, carrying the honest forthrightness typical of House Selmy.
"I will protect the safety and dignity of Lord Steffon Baratheon's son with my life."
"I will rule the Stormlands with fairness, restoring peace and prosperity."
"I will guide Lord Renly as if he were my own child, ensuring he does not repeat the mistakes of his brothers."
"My sword, my life, and my honor will forever serve the Iron Throne and His Highness the Regent—until death!"
His oath echoed through the vast hall.
There were no grand embellishments.
But it was sincere.
"Good."
At last Lance's smile broadened.
Confidence filled his expression as he looked toward the future order of the Stormlands.
After a brief silence, he leaned back slightly.
His right hand rested casually upon the pale greatsword beside him.
The back of his armor touched the throne.
The candle flames flickered.
Only the sound of heavy breathing remained.
He slowly surveyed the gathered lords—each with different thoughts hidden behind their expressions.
Then he spoke calmly:
"I've said my piece."
"Who agrees?"
"Who objects?"