"Ninety-six thousand gold dragons. That's the demand from House Tarly of Horn Hill."
Alfric, the steward, was past the point of resistance, fully understanding now that the opposing side was dead set on emptying every last coin from Starfall's vaults.
No—more than just Starfall—High Hermitage's vaults, too.
"And finally, for Eagle's Nest," Samwell sighed, "I've suffered tremendous losses in this war."
Nathalie, ever sincere, offered consolation. "Don't worry, Ser Samwell. Starfall will ensure full compensation for all your losses."
Samwell gave a convincingly grateful nod before continuing, "First, due to Ulrik Sand's prior invasion of Eagle's Nest, my docks were destroyed. Thus, I'm requesting the use of Starfall's docks as compensation. Term length: 99 years."
Alfric could barely contain his eye roll. What kind of dock at Eagle's Point could possibly need such a lavish replacement as Starfall's—and for 99 years? Might as well just demand ownership outright!
But he knew that any objections would be useless, so he merely closed his eyes, pretending not to hear.
"Next, my lands were razed during the war. Therefore, Starfall must dispatch seven thousand men to help with the reconstruction of Eagle's Nest. Also, for the heavy losses my soldiers and people suffered, as well as property and supply damage, House Dayne will provide an additional payment of eighty thousand gold dragons."
"Hold it."
Samwell thought the elderly steward was about to object once again, but looking up, he was surprised to see Horas Redwyne stepping forward instead.
"Ser Horas, what's on your mind?"
Horas snorted, "I have no problem with the Florents and Tarlys getting their share, but Eagle's Nest? With how few soldiers you contributed, why would you be entitled to so much compensation?"
Samwell smirked, recognizing the jealousy.
"Heh, you don't realize, do you? This war depleted my entire stockpile of three months' worth of brandy—by itself, a significant amount if we're counting ten silver stags per gallon. On top of that, I mobilized nearly every able-bodied man from Eagle's Nest for the war, leaving key industries like distilling, silver mining, and building projects at a standstill. Have you considered the financial toll? Not to mention, many of my people were forced to evacuate, fleeing in terror, some witnessing the destruction of their homes firsthand—can you imagine the psychological trauma? Then there's—"
"Enough!" Horas cut in, his head spinning from the onslaught of justifications. With no other supporters in the room, he conceded.
Realizing the leading forces in the war had been Florent and Tarly, both clearly supporting Samwell, Horas knew he lacked the leverage to press further. Eight thousand gold dragons was enough to satisfy Paxter Redwyne back home.
Looking around and seeing no other objections, Samwell continued, "Lastly, to prevent future conflicts, I propose a measure to strengthen cultural, economic, and social ties between our lands. Starfall and High Hermitage will offer full tax exemptions to goods from Eagle's Nest, and the Daynes will not restrict their subjects from working, residing, or even settling on Eagle Nest."
"This proposal sounds excellent," Nathalie said earnestly, nodding in agreement. "The wages at Eagle's Nest are high, and the food is good. I'm sure our people will be eager to go there."
Alfric was on the verge of fainting.
With a smile, Samwell patted Nathalie on the shoulder. "I am known to be generous with those who work for me, be they Reachmen, Dornishmen, or even wildlings."
With that, he handed Nathalie the quill and the parchment. "Lady Nathalie, if you have no objections to this list of reparations, please sign here."
"Oh." Dutifully, Nathalie signed her name.
Alfric was torn between rushing forward to snatch the quill or tearing the parchment to shreds. But in the end, he held back—his life was his own, and if Lady Nathalie herself didn't care for the family's fortunes, why should he?
Nathalie's handwriting was shaky, reflecting her limited experience with reading and writing, despite her lessons with Ashara Dayne.
But to Samwell, her signature was the most beautiful sight in the world. It wasn't that he took pleasure in exploiting the young girl; he simply needed to weaken House Dayne's power, for a strong Starfall would resist his influence, endangering Nathalie's new position.
After she signed, the Reach nobles exchanged eager glances, ready to raid House Dayne's vaults and strip them bare.
But before they could move, a guard hurriedly entered the hall, announcing, "My lords, Prince Oberyn Martell has arrived at Starfall and is waiting at the gate."
A silence fell over the hall.
After a moment, Lord Randyll Tarly broke it. "'The Red Viper' wasted no time. How many soldiers did he bring?"
"Only himself…"
Randyll was taken aback. "Invite him in."
"Yes, my lord."
At the mention of Prince Oberyn Martell's name, the room's atmosphere shifted.
The Red Viper of Dorne, Oberyn Martell, was well-known across Westeros, and not just because he was Prince Doran's younger brother. With a quick temper and a ruthless streak, he often settled feuds to the death, sometimes resorting to poison—a tactic scorned by knights yet feared by all.
The Reachmen harbored an especially intense grudge against him, as he was the one responsible for crippling Highgarden's heir, Willas Tyrell.
Samwell discreetly tucked the signed parchment into his coat, grateful that Nathalie had signed it before Oberyn's arrival. Now, unless the Martells openly opposed her claim, the Daynes would be bound to these reparations.
As for the Martells' willingness to defy the agreement, Samwell deemed it unlikely. After this battle, Dorne wouldn't have the strength to launch another large-scale war against the Reach. And Doran Martell's patience was famous. Were it not for his impulsive daughter, this conflict might never have escalated to such proportions.
Lost in thought, Samwell looked up to see a tall figure appear in the doorway.
The man was dressed in flowing robes of orange, yellow, and red. His nose was high and straight, his forehead narrow, and his black hair glistened. Beneath sparse brows, his deep, pitch-black eyes held a menacing gleam—like the gaze of a viper.
"Reachmen." Oberyn Martell strode into the hall alone, yet his presence was as commanding as if he led an army.
His cold eyes scanned the Reach lords one by one, his voice laced with barely veiled threat as he asked, "Where is my niece?"
(End of Chapter)