Of course, Samwell knew that "the Mother of Dragons" had hatched her dragons as the red comet appeared.
And she had hatched three.
But considering only a month or so had passed, it surprised him that Lord Leyton Hightower, all the way across the world in Oldtown, already knew about it. It seemed this old lord had been keeping a close eye on the last remaining Targaryen across the Narrow Sea.
"Lord Leyton, it seems you have a great interest in dragons?" Samwell asked.
Leyton gave a slight smile, not denying it. "Yes. Have you heard the ancient prophecy from Asshai?"
"The one that says, 'When stars bleed and the long night descends'?"
"Precisely," Leyton nodded, his tone filled with a hint of reverence. "I used to think that Rhaegar Targaryen was the prophesied prince, until he was struck down by Robert Baratheon's hammer at the Trident."
He paused, then continued, "Afterward, I turned my attention to the Targaryen siblings across the Narrow Sea. 'Born amidst salt and smoke,' Daenerys was born on Dragonstone, surrounded by the sea and volcanic mountains—a fitting birthplace according to the prophecy. When she later hatched three dragons, I was nearly convinced that she was the prince who was promised. But now, after meeting you, I'm no longer so certain."
Samwell felt a twinge of guilt but maintained his composure. "How could the prince in the prophecy be a woman?"
Leyton nodded in agreement. "That is one of my doubts as well."
Samwell sighed inwardly, relieved. Lord Leyton hadn't yet made the same connection as Maester Aemon had in the original story—just as dragons have no fixed gender, the "prince" in the prophecy might not necessarily be a male.
Naturally, Samwell had no intention of enlightening Leyton; he needed to use this prophecy to win House Hightower's support.
"So, you think I am the prophesied prince?" Samwell asked.
"For now, you seem the most likely candidate," Leyton replied without committing.
Samwell perked up. "Then will House Hightower stand with me this time?"
Leyton chuckled. "This time, House Hightower will stand with no one."
A slippery answer, Samwell thought to himself. Still, it was a result he could accept.
Mace Tyrell's power rested on the Tyrell-Redwyne-Hightower triad, a triangle in which the seemingly modest Hightowers were, in fact, the strongest corner. By remaining neutral, Leyton was depriving Mace of significant support.
"Very well," Samwell replied. "Then I hope you remain a steady observer, watching to see whether the Reach lords are truly willing to back the Lannisters' bastards."
Lord Leyton nodded with a faint smile, then shifted his gaze to Cleopatra, perched on Samwell's shoulder.
"Samwell, might you tell me how exactly you hatched this dragon?"
"Just cracked open the egg with a sword, and out it came," Samwell replied with a straight face.
"That simple?" Leyton raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, yes, and set a fire, too. Just be careful not to roast the egg," Samwell added.
"Is that so?" Leyton said, smiling.
"Does House Hightower have a dragon egg?" Samwell asked. "If you need, I can help with the hatching—I'm experienced, after all."
"We have no dragon egg." Leyton quickly shook his head, then chuckled. "But if we ever come across one, we may call upon you."
"Glad to assist."
"By the way," Leyton's tone shifted, "I heard there's a Red Priestess residing in your lands?"
"Yes, Lady Melisandre from Asshai," Samwell confirmed. "When I was poisoned by the Red Viper, she was the one who saved me."
"Interesting. I had never heard of anyone surviving the Red Viper's poison."
"Perhaps she invoked the power of her god," Samwell said, looking directly into Leyton's eyes. "What exactly are you getting at, my lord?"
Leyton replied with a calm smile, "I'm merely suggesting that blessings from the gods often come at a price."
Samwell pondered this and asked, "What price do you think I have paid?"
Leyton chuckled. "That, I couldn't say. But you must remember that blessings and curses are two sides of the same coin. Just as there's no coin with only one side, there's no way to receive blessings from a god without the possibility of a curse."
Samwell recalled "Bronze Yohn," who had given him similar advice when he handed over the Time armor.
However, Lord Leyton didn't seem inclined to continue on this subject, steering the conversation toward more mundane topics. After a brief chat, Samwell took his leave, though his mind lingered on the encounter.
As he strolled along the flower-lined corridor, he was met by a surprising figure.
"Well, well. If it isn't the Kingslayer," Samwell said, amusement lighting his eyes.
"Who are you calling a Kingslayer?" Jaime Lannister retorted sharply.
Samwell stopped and smirked. "Your sister's son is nothing but a false king, so he doesn't count as much of a king, does he? Besides, I don't go around breaking oaths to protect kings like you."
Jaime noticed that Samwell's gaze kept flickering to his severed hand, prompting him to shift his body to block the view.
This young lord had robbed him of his sword hand, his honor, even his shame. Stripped of all that, what was left?
Jaime's pulse thudded with suppressed emotion as he said coldly, "Oaths? How many oaths have you sworn in your life? Protect the weak, uphold justice, serve your liege lord… can you keep them all straight? And when one vow contradicts another, what do you do? When your lord ceases to be just, do you choose justice, or do you choose your lord?"
"When and where to stand is your own choice to make," Samwell replied. "You're a knight, not a puppet controlled by vows."
"Easy for you to say. Who are you to judge me?" Jaime's voice trembled with anger, his gaze piercing.
When Eddard Stark had stormed the Red Keep and found Jaime seated on the Iron Throne over the Mad King's corpse, he'd looked at Jaime with that same expression—the eyes of judgment.
For years, that look had haunted Jaime.
"Your knighthood—who gave it to you? When Mace Tyrell placed a sword on your shoulder, did you not swear loyalty to him?" Jaime demanded, his voice brimming with bitterness and resentment. "But look at you now. Where's your loyalty? Where's your obedience? Where's your—"
At that moment, Cleopatra hissed and let out a stream of dragonfire.
"Cleopatra, enough." Samwell patted the dragon, soothing her.
He had no intention of killing Jaime here. If he did, Tywin would likely go mad with rage.
For all Tywin's children, Jaime was the true heir. Tyrion, the younger son, had never been given a second thought. Killing Jaime would push Tywin to the brink—he might abandon the Iron Throne just to avenge his son.
That wasn't the kind of grudge Samwell wanted.
The fire ceased, but Jaime's cloak was already alight. Panicked, he threw it to the ground, cursing as he struggled to put out the flames.
"When I was knighted, it was by Margaery Tyrell," Samwell said coldly. "The Puff Fish wouldn't even knight me himself. Why should he expect my loyalty?" With that, he turned his back on Jaime and walked away.
Jaime finally managed to stomp out the flames, coughing as he inhaled the smoke, eyes streaming. The burning remnants of his cloak crackled in front of him, each flickering flame a reminder of his worst memories.
He was back with Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King, who had used flames to kill Lord Rickard Stark, to burn his own Hand of the King, and who had vowed to burn down all of King's Landing.
"The usurper won't take my city!" Jaime could still hear the Mad King's voice. "I'll leave him a city of ashes, a kingdom of charred bones and melted flesh!"
The Targaryens had always been cremated. Aerys was willing to turn King's Landing itself into his own funeral pyre.
Jaime had known that Aerys didn't truly want to die; he, like the deranged Aerys II, believed fire would make him rise anew, a dragon reborn.
Jaime had seen the Mad King order pyromancers to bury wildfire throughout the city—in the Great Sept of Baelor, in the slums of Flea Bottom, in the vaults of Maegor's Holdfast, beneath the city gates… and Jaime had stood by silently.
As a Kingsguard, he'd taken an oath to obey the king, no matter how mad, foolish, or cruel.
Then Tywin Lannister had stormed the city, and the Mad King raged, "Bring me your father's head, or I'll burn them all!"
Finally, Jaime had drawn his sword and killed the deranged king.
And from that day on, he was branded "Kingslayer."
Under the judging stares of the realm, he never explained.
The proud lion disdains to make excuses.
The hand holding the sword was gone, but Jamie could still feel it and feel the piercing pain.
Like a poisonous snake gnawing at his heart.
But this pain was far less than the pain brought to him by a look from the Lord of Winterfell, or a look from the lord who cut off his arm.
You know nothing, you just look at me and decide I'm guilty!
Why?
"What right does an eagle have to judge a lion!" James shouted at Samwell's receding back.
Unfortunately, the other party didn't even look back.
Only the white dragon on his shoulder turned around and gave the "King Slayer" a cold look.
A look that burns and hurts like fire.
(End of this chapter)