Meanwhile, in the Reach of Westeros.
Bitterbridge.
The shimmering surface of the river Mander reflected a kaleidoscope of colorful banners.
The white-and-smoke beacon of House Hightower, the golden rose of House Tyrell, the red fox of House Florent, the blue wine-ship of House Redwyne, the green hunter of House Tarly...
Hundreds of banners belonging to the lords of the Reach snapped in the brisk wind, decorating both banks of Bitterbridge as if for a grand festival.
On the riverside meadows, a massive tilting ground had been erected.
Wooden stands stretched out along both sides of the arena, filled with nobles and knights from every corner of the Reach.
They wore their finest silks and velvets, their faces beaming with excited smiles.
Today was the second day of the tourney. This three-day event was the brainchild of Lord Ormund Hightower.
In his words, marching and fighting were arduous; the officers and soldiers needed to relax.
It was also, conveniently, a prime opportunity for the young knights of the Reach to display their prowess and uphold the region's famed spirit of chivalry.
In the arena, two knights were locked in a fierce joust. One was a knight of House Redwyne in blue and white, wielding a painted lance atop a massive white stallion.
The other was a knight of House Tarly in green and gold, mounted on a black destrier.
The two warhorses thundered across the field, their lances clashing against heavy oak shields with a piercing metallic crack that ignited a massive wave of cheers from the crowd.
"Well struck!" "Unhorse him!" "Break him!"
In the stands, spectators rose in excitement, waving their arms and shouting for their favored champions.
In the center of the front-row gallery sat Lord Ormund Hightower.
In his thirties, handsome and sporting a neatly trimmed beard, he wore a deep blue velvet robe with golden flame patterns embroidered at the collar.
A faint, satisfied smile never left his face as he nodded to those around him, the very picture of a man in absolute control of his surroundings.
To his left sat Prince Daeron Targaryen. The thirteen-year-old Prince wore black armor under a surcoat bearing the three-headed gold dragon on a black field.
His silver hair shimmered brilliantly in the sun.
A polite, practiced smile touched Daeron's lips, but his violet gaze was distant, his mind clearly elsewhere.
To Ormund's right sat Lady Margaery and her ten-month-old son, Lord Lyonel.
Lady Margaery was in her early thirties, a daughter of House Rowan of Goldengrove. She was dignified and beautiful, her golden hair swept into an elaborate high bun fastened with a pearl-encrusted pin.
She wore a pale green gown adorned with golden roses, which perfectly complemented her fair complexion.
However, her face was currently pale and haggard, her eyes hiding a deep, gnawing anxiety.
She held the infant Lord Lyonel tightly in her arms. The child had inherited the classic Tyrell features, soft brown hair, and big blue eyes that were currently wide with wonder.
He watched the boisterous scene curiously, letting out an occasional happy gurgle.
Margaery patted her son's back gently, but her heart felt as though it were being crushed by a boulder.
Highgarden had been surrounded; House Florent had eagerly seized the chance to move against them.
She had no choice but to yield and follow the Hightowers.
Now, she and her son were being "escorted" to King's Landing, nominally to have an audience with Aegon II, but in reality, they were hostages of the Crown.
She did not know what fate awaited them.
In the arena, another round of the joust concluded. The Redwyne knight emerged victorious, circling the field amidst roaring cheers to acknowledge the crowd.
Lord Ormund stood and clapped loudly.
"Splendid! Truly splendid! Pass the word: the victor is awarded one hundred gold dragons!"
A murmur of sheer admiration rippled through the stands. One hundred gold dragons was a fortune, enough for a knight to purchase a small manor and lands.
Lord Ormund sat back down and turned to Lady Margaery.
"My Lady, what did you think of the joust?"
Margaery managed a forced, elegant smile.
"It was magnificent. The knights of our Reach are truly the most valiant in the Seven Kingdoms."
Ormund chuckled, his gaze landing heavily on the child in her arms.
"Young Lyonel will surely grow into such a valiant knight as well, won't he? He carries the proud blood of the Golden Rose, after all."
Margaery's hand tightened slightly against her son, but she quickly masked her emotion.
"My Lord, let us hope so. So that when he grows, he may serve His Majesty Aegon."
"He certainly shall," Ormund said smoothly.
"And when the time comes, I shall personally instruct the Lord of Highgarden in the noble art of war."
Margaery's smile stiffened into porcelain.
The next round began, pitting a knight of House Florent against one of House Tyrell.
Both were young and full of fierce spirit, clashing violently the moment the signal was given. Lances shattered against shields with a deafening, splintering crack.
"Florent for the victory!" a group in red and fox fur shouted from one corner.
"Tyrell for the victory!" those in golden rose surcoats countered fiercely from the other side.
The shouting grew more intense, the air thick with political tension. Lord Ormund watched with a faint, ephemeral smile.
It was common knowledge that the Florents and Tyrells were bitter rivals.
But no matter their deep-seated enmity, here, they had to compete fairly for his amusement in his tourney.
This was the intoxicating taste of absolute power.
He turned to Prince Daeron, only to find the Prince staring off into the distance, seemingly entirely bored by the spectacle.
"Your Grace," Ormund said softly, "will you not try your hand in the arena? With your skill, you would surely win the acclaim of the whole gallery."
Daeron snapped back to the present and shook his head politely.
"No, Lord Ormund. I am still young. Perhaps in a few years."
Ormund smiled and did not press him.
In the stands, a new roar of cheers erupted. The Florent knight had been spectacularly unhorsed; the Tyrell knight had won.
Tyrell supporters cheered wildly while the Florents sat in dejected silence.
At that moment, a low, raspy voice spoke directly into Daeron's ear.
"Your Grace."
Daeron turned to see an old man in simple black robes.
Otto Hightower. His grandfather was the former head of House Hightower and the former Hand of the King.
Now over seventy, Otto's hair was snow-white, and his face was a map of deep wrinkles, but his eyes remained as sharp and calculating as an eagle's.
"Grandfather," Daeron acknowledged with a respectful nod.
Otto sat heavily beside him, his gaze sweeping over the arena before settling on Lord Ormund.
His nephew, Ormund, was entirely immersed in the joy of the tourney, completely oblivious to their conversation.
"The march is too slow," Otto whispered, his tone critical.
Daeron blinked. "What?"
"The march," Otto repeated.
"Ormund treats this invasion like a holiday, a chance to show off like a preening peacock. Our absolute goal is to crush the Blacks as quickly as possible, not to host knightly jousts."
Daeron was silent for a moment, then looked back at Otto.
"But grandfather, there is no rush. Brother Aegon is only severely injured, and besides, Brother Aemond has already killed Rhaenys. We have all the time in the world."
Otto looked at him, a deeply complex light in his eyes.
"Your Grace... do you not find Aemond to be... excessively brutal?"
Daeron frowned. "Brutal? Why?"
"He killed Rhaenys. Your own aunt."
"She was an enemy," Daeron said matter-of-factly.
"Enemies are meant to die."
"That makes him a kinslayer. The Seven Kingdoms will loathe him for it."
Daeron scoffed softly.
"And did you have the ability to kill Rhaenys? I certainly couldn't have done it. Right now, it is my brother, Aemond, who is carrying the entire Green faction on his back. Not you, Hightowers, and not the Lannisters. Grandfather, only dragons can face dragons."
Otto was silent for a long time before he sighed, the sound heavy with age.
"Your Grace, you are young. There are political realities you do not yet understand."
Daeron said no more, turning his violet eyes back to the competition. Another round ended; a Hightower knight had won, and the resulting cheers were deafening.
Otto spoke again, his voice lower.
"If we win this war... in the future, where will you stand?"
Daeron paused. "What do you mean?"
Daeron fell silent. He knew exactly what Otto was implying.
Currently, his eldest brother, Aegon, was crippled, and Sunfyre was near death. Aemond had killed Rhaenys; his military prestige was at its absolute peak, and the army had hailed him as Prince Regent.
If the war were won by Aemond's hand, even with Aegon as King, Aemond would remain the true power behind the throne.
If Aegon were to unfortunately pass away from his injuries, Aemond could become King at any moment.
"Are you trying to sow discord between us brothers?" Daeron asked coldly.
Otto shook his head. "No, Your Grace. I am merely trying to correct a dangerous course. The throne belongs to Aegon II, both by law and tradition. He is the firstborn; he is the heir designated by Viserys I. No matter what Aemond does on the battlefield, he cannot replace him."
Otto reached out and placed a withered hand on Daeron's armored shoulder.
"You have power, Daeron. You have a dragon, an army, and the full support of the Hightowers. You can act as a vital check on Aemond, ensuring he cannot act with total impunity. I am not asking you to harm your brother, only to protect your other brother."
Daeron looked at the hand resting on his shoulder, then slowly, deliberately pried the old man's fingers off.
"What exactly are you afraid of?" he asked.
Otto sighed, his voice sounding incredibly tired.
"What am I afraid of? I am afraid of Aemond becoming a second Maegor. Do you know what kind of man Maegor the Cruel truly was? I do not wish to see those dark days return to the realm."
Daeron was silent for a moment, then spoke slowly, his tone chillingly calm.
"Targaryens are above; the Seven Kingdoms are below. We were born to rule over them."
Otto froze.
Daeron continued, "Those are Aemond's words. And I believe he is entirely right. We Targaryens are the blood of the Dragonlords; the fire of Old Valyria flows in our veins. No matter how wealthy or powerful the lords of Westeros are, they are but our subjects. They can struggle for power and play their little games, but in the end, they must kneel before us."
He turned to Otto, his purple eyes clear and resolute.
"Grandfather, I know you mean well for me. But Aemond... he is different. He can restore House Targaryen to its true glory. He can make the Seven Kingdoms submit to us once again. As long as he does not harm our eldest brother, I will not interfere with what he does."
Otto opened his mouth to speak, but Daeron had already stood up.
"And," Daeron looked down at him, his voice devoid of warmth.
"Grandfather, face reality. You are a remnant of an old age. There is no place for you in the new era."
With that, the young Prince turned and walked toward the other side of the arena.
Otto sat there, entirely motionless. He remembered his long tenure as Hand of the King, when Viserys I sat on the Iron Throne, and he stood by his side, with all of Westeros under his subtle control.
He had orchestrated his daughter Alicent's rise to Queen, watched her bear four strong sons and two daughters, and truly believed the future of the Greens was bright and secure.
But now? Viserys was dead, poisoned. Alicent stayed locked away in Maegor's Holdfast.
Aegon was crippled, and Aemond was the Prince Regent, ruling the war effort with an iron hand.
And Daeron... even Daeron, his youngest and gentlest grandson, had been utterly brainwashed by Aemond's ideology, believing Targaryens were inherently meant to be gods above men.
And he, Otto Hightower, once the most powerful Hand in history, could only sit here watching a boring joust.
Listening to his youngest grandson tell him there was no place for him in the world anymore.
He let out a bitter, hollow chuckle. Perhaps Daeron was right. He truly was old. He couldn't keep up with this brutal new age.
In the arena, a new round began. Two knights clashed, the violent sound of breaking lances piercing the air.
The crowd roared, the sound rising in massive waves. But Otto heard none of it. He was a remnant of an old age.
There was no place for him here.
In the distance, Lady Margaery watched the spectacle while holding her son tight.
She looked down at the sleeping Lyonel, who was blissfully oblivious to the dangerous world around him.
"Lyonel," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, "no matter what happens, Mama will protect you."
The child smacked his lips and continued to sleep. Margaery looked north, toward King's Landing.
She knew an unknown, terrifying fate awaited her there. But she had no retreat.
Having heard the dark rumors of Aemond's brutal temperament, she only hoped to please the Prince Regent and preserve the Tyrells' nominal rule over the Reach.
For in the Reach, there were far too many ambitious houses currently looking for any excuse to replace the Golden Rose.
-----
A/N:
If you are enjoying the start of the story.
Drop some stones to help this book reach higher.
You can read upto 40+ Chapters. + Images
You can also read "+2 Free Chapters".
www.patreon.com/
LastDreamer