บท 472: Chapter 473: The Iron Throne
Faced with Samwell's sharp question, Ser Barristan Selmy hesitated for a long moment before finally sighing:
"Your Grace, you are right. These men have disgraced their white cloaks."
"Indeed," Daenerys chimed in. "In my heart, Ser Barristan, you are the one who truly deserves the title of a White Knight."
Barristan gave a wry smile.
"But I've already taken off my white cloak..."
"Then put it back on," Samwell said with a smile, turning to the page in The White Book that chronicled Barristan's deeds. "There's still space on your page. Don't you want to complete it?"
Barristan stared at the white book in silence.
Yes, it was his page.
It bore the sigil of House Selmy—a brown field with three golden stalks of wheat.
The records began with his time as a squire to Ser Manfred Swann, to his anonymous entry into the tourney at King's Landing where he won the championship and was knighted by King Aegon V himself.
It chronicled his participation in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, where he killed the last Blackfyre pretender, "The Monstrous" Maelys.
It detailed his victories in tourneys—at Silverhall, Harrenhal, and Storm's End—and his rescue of King Aerys II during the Defiance of Duskendale.
It also recorded his defeat at the Trident alongside Prince Rhaegar and his subsequent pardon by Robert Baratheon, under whom he served as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard until his resignation in disgrace at King's Landing.
It was a life of glory—save for its ending.
A white cloak stained with a dark blemish.
"Ser Barristan, there is still a blank space waiting for you to complete your story," Daenerys urged.
Samwell's tone turned solemn as he asked,
"Ser Barristan Selmy, will you serve as my Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?"
The old knight, who had been ready to refuse, suddenly hesitated.
At that moment, Samwell's face seemed to blur, overlapping with that of Robert Baratheon from years ago.
Back then, Barristan had accepted Robert's pardon and served the Baratheon dynasty. Yet that decision had always been a thorn in his heart.
When he later discovered that he was serving the illegitimate offspring of an incestuous union, he had torn off his white cloak and crossed the Narrow Sea to serve Daenerys Targaryen, believing he was fulfilling his original vow to House Targaryen.
When Samwell entered the picture, making Daenerys his queen, Barristan had felt deep resentment. Under Ser Jorah Mormont's subtle provocations, he even harbored rebellious thoughts.
But now, faced with Samwell's sincere invitation, Barristan felt uncertain.
He had seen countless knights during his long years in court. Many possessed exceptional skill or strength but were ultimately consumed by pride, ambition, lust, or jealousy—often becoming pawns in the game of power.
Yes, only those who had fallen played the game of thrones.
In that moment, Barristan realized where he had erred.
The Kingsguard were meant to be swords and shields—the sharpest and strongest in the realm. And swords and shields should have no will of their own.
That was the principle he should have upheld all along.
Gazing at the blank space in The White Book, Barristan Selmy made his decision.
He stepped forward, knelt before Samwell on one knee, and declared in a firm voice:
"You're right, Your Grace. My story should not end as it did. I must find a true king and die in his service. And you are that king."
"Am I?" Samwell asked, his tone laced with complexity.
Barristan froze, looking up to see a trace of doubt in the young Storm King's eyes.
He suddenly understood why Samwell, despite conquering King's Landing, had spent the night wandering the Red Keep instead of entering the throne room.
"I won't lie to you, Your Grace. I once had my doubts about you," Barristan admitted candidly. "I doubted your bloodline, your ability. But now, I see clearly—only you can claim the Iron Throne. Only you can lead the people of the Seven Kingdoms through the coming winter toward salvation."
If anyone else had said such words, they might have sounded like flattery. But coming from Ser Barristan Selmy—a man widely regarded as the most honorable knight in the realm, one who had served three kings and witnessed the best and worst of rulers—they carried unparalleled weight.
Samwell smiled faintly and drew his sword, touching it lightly to Barristan's shoulders.
"Rise, my Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."
"Yes, my king." Barristan rose and stepped behind Samwell, standing tall like a white shadow.
Daenerys watched the scene unfold, a contented smile on her face.
"Sam, isn't it time you went to the throne room? The nobles have been waiting for hours."
Samwell nodded, pushing aside his lingering doubts and striding out of the White Sword Tower.
The sky outside was a clear, brilliant blue, with no clouds in sight. The sun's golden rays bathed the city, sweeping away the gloom of recent days.
Samwell walked purposefully toward Maegor's Holdfast.
The grand structure, a symbol of royal power for nearly three centuries, stood proud and majestic, as though untouched by time.
He glanced up briefly at its towering walls but did not pause. He entered the holdfast, ascending the spiral staircase to the throne room.
When he finally stepped into the chamber, the morning light streaming through stained glass bathed the hall in a reddish glow.
The hall was crowded with nobles from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms, but Samwell's gaze was drawn to one thing—the ancient throne.
The Iron Throne.
Forged from a thousand swords, its jagged edges and twisted metal created a fearsome and imposing seat of power.
The sound of his boots echoed in the vast hall as Samwell approached the throne, its sheer presence calling to him.
He thought back to his arrival in this world, the fear he had felt, the ambitions that had grown in him when he was knighted, and the trials he had endured to reach this point.
It had all led to this moment before the Iron Throne.
He felt exhausted.
Samwell allowed himself a private chuckle at the absurdity of it all. He had expected elation, triumph—but what he felt instead was the crushing weight of responsibility.
"A king must never sit comfortably," Aegon the Conqueror had once said when forging the throne.
Samwell looked at the throne's jagged spikes and sneered.
"Conqueror, huh? What an arrogant man."
He shook off his thoughts, climbed the steps, and sat on the throne.
As expected, it was anything but comfortable. The sharp edges of the armrests and backrest forced him to sit upright, his every movement requiring caution to avoid being cut.
The throne had a history of rejecting unworthy kings. Some had been pricked or even killed by its blades.
This was the pinnacle of power—an outward symbol of glory but riddled with hidden dangers.
From the throne, Samwell looked down at the nobles gathered below. Bathed in the morning light, the hall seemed awash in blood-red hues.
The lords and ladies, row upon row, fell to their knees like wheat before the wind.
"All hail His Majesty! King Caesar!" they cried.
(End of Chapter)
[TL; Henceforth, Samwell's formal title will become "His Majesty". Read 'Author Thoughts' for more details.]
ความคิดของผู้สร้าง 
Iceswallowcome
Iceswallowcome I started slowly changing Caesars formal Title from "Your Grace" to "Your Majesty" ever since the proclamation at the Sycamore Hall. that's where it all began, for those of keen eye can see.
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