The Reach.
Highgarden.
This city, hailed as "the most beautiful city of flowers in Westeros," was now shrouded in unease.
On Highgarden's walls, the defenders gripped their spears, staring down nervously.
On the plains outside the city, an army of twenty thousand stood in formation.
It was the army of House Hightower.
Banners bearing the white tower crowned with flame on a field of grey billowed in the wind.
At this moment, this force had gathered the elites of every house in the southern Reach, along with a standing army that the Hightowers had spent vast sums to recruit and train for over a year.
Spears stood like a forest. Shields formed a wall.
The cavalry was drawn up on the left flank, the archers on the right, and the infantry formed the core in the center.
The formation was precise. The army stood in solemn silence, not a single murmur to be heard.
This was a true army.
Not levied peasants. Not a hastily assembled rabble.
This was the strength the Hightowers of Oldtown had built up over years—and at this moment, the most powerful force in the southern Reach.
But what truly struck fear into those on the walls was not these twenty thousand men.
It was the dragon in the sky.
The Blue Queen.
Tessarion.
The dragon circled above Highgarden.
Its scales shimmered like sapphires under the sunlight. Each beat of its wings cast a vast shadow across the ground.
It did not fly fast, but its eyes never left the defenders on the walls.
That unblinking gaze made their scalps crawl.
At the central tower of the wall, Margaery Rowan held her ten-month-old son tightly in her arms, staring fixedly at the man approaching below on horseback.
Lord Ormund Hightower.
A man in his thirties, stern-faced.
He wore the traditional silver-and-green war cloak of House Hightower and rode a tall white horse, looking up at the walls.
Their eyes met.
Then he gave a slight bow.
A gesture of courtesy.
But Margaery felt none of it.
"Maester?"
Her voice was urgent.
The middle-aged maester at her side stepped forward and lowered his head.
"My lady."
"Have you sent word to the other Reach lords?"
The maester nodded.
"Ravens have already been sent—to House Rowan, House Fossoway, House Tarly, House Merryweather, House Caswell, and others…"
He hesitated, then added: "But it will take time for them to gather their forces."
Margaery looked at him.
"How long?"
The maester fell silent for a moment.
"At the earliest, five days."
Margaery closed her eyes.
Five days.
Below the walls stood twenty thousand men—and a dragon.
And Highgarden had only three thousand defenders.
Three thousand against twenty thousand.
And a dragon on top of that.
She opened her eyes.
She looked down at the infant sleeping in her arms.
Lyonel Tyrell.
Lord of Highgarden.
Ruler of the Reach.
Heir to the Golden Rose.
Eleven months old.
His father, the late Lord Tyrell, had died in a riding accident a year ago.
Now, his mother stood upon the walls, holding him, facing an army of twenty thousand and a dragon.
Margaery let out a quiet breath and stepped closer to the edge of the wall, looking down at Lord Ormund, who had drawn nearer.
"Lord Hightower!"
Her voice rang clear, cutting through the stillness.
Lord Ormund smiled and raised his head.
"My lady."
"Do you mean to rise against your liege lord?" Her voice carried restrained anger.
"You march on your own overlord's lands the moment the lord has died?"
Ormund did not take offense.
He simply inclined his head slightly.
"My lady, you misunderstand."
Seated atop his horse, he straightened and called out in a louder voice: "We come only by command of the Iron Throne, to invite Lord Lyonel Tyrell to accompany us to King's Landing."
He paused, then continued: "My lady, do not forget the oath of fealty."
"House Tyrell may be our liege lord."
"But the Targaryen royal house is our liege as well."
"And yours."
"Now that the Iron Throne has summoned Lord Lyonel Tyrell, will you refuse to go?"
Margaery's fingers tightened.
"Lyonel is only ten months old!" Her voice rose. "Would you have him ride to King's Landing?"
A hint of amusement flickered across Ormund's face.
The Tyrells were nothing special. If not for bending the knee swiftly enough to satisfy Aegon the Conqueror, they would never have risen from stewards of the Gardener kings to lords of Highgarden.
In terms of bloodline, they were inferior to the other Greenhands.
They had simply chosen their side well.
And now, with the entire south bending the knee to the Greens, the Tyrells still wavered.
If not them—who else should be made an example of?
Ormund smiled.
"Of course not."
He pointed upward.
"Tessarion will carry him. Prince Daeron himself will see to his care."
Margaery glanced up at the blue dragon circling overhead.
Her heart sank.
To have a ten-month-old infant ride a dragon?
No matter how steady its back, it was still a dragon.
A creature that breathed fire. That devoured men.
To make an infant fly thousands of miles upon such a beast?
"My lady may rest assured," Ormund's voice drifted up from below. "Tessarion is gentle by nature, and though Prince Daeron is but thirteen, his skill as a rider is unmatched."
"Lord Lyonel will come to no harm."
Margaery said nothing.
Of course she knew he would not be harmed.
The danger was not the flight.
The danger lay in what awaited in King's Landing.
Who held power there now?
Prince Aemond—the man who had slain his own kin, burned Driftmark, and seized Dragonstone.
She had already received word—the Blacks had struck in the Riverlands and attacked House Bracken.
Even a great house like Bracken had lasted only four days under the assault of Daemon and Caraxes before surrendering.
She did not want her infant son dragged into such a brutal war.
What did he want Lyonel for?
A hostage?
To force House Tyrell to declare their stance?
Or—
She dared not continue the thought.
"My lady."
Ormund's voice rose again.
"We act under orders. Pray do not make this difficult."
He paused.
"Or is it that House Tyrell does not acknowledge the authority of King's Landing?"
Margaery's breath caught.
"Or perhaps…" Ormund's voice drifted lazily from below the gate.
"House Tyrell has already chosen to support the traitors of the North?"
Lady Margaery's expression changed.
Rebels.
Rebels of the North.
The Blacks.
Rhaenyra.
She opened her mouth, wanting to refute it.
But she did not know what to say.
Say that they did not support the Blacks?
Then why refuse the summons of the Iron Throne?
Say that they remained neutral?
But the moment she spoke of neutrality, Lord Ormund would likely use it as grounds—failure to uphold feudal oaths, betrayal of House Targaryen—to launch an attack.
After all, there were no shortage of houses in the Reach eager to take the Tyrells' place.
Below the gate, Lord Ormund Hightower looked up at her.
His expression remained calm—one might even call it gentle.
But in those eyes, Margaery saw something.
Patience.
The patience of a hunter watching prey caught in a trap.
He was waiting for her to make a mistake.
Waiting for her to say a single wrong word, so he could act with full justification.
"My lady."
The maester's voice at her side broke her thoughts.
Lady Margaery turned her head.
The maester's expression was grim.
"My lady," he said in a low voice, "look over there."
She followed the direction of his hand.
On the distant horizon, dust rose into the sky.
Cavalry.
A great many riders.
Margaery's heart leapt—had reinforcements arrived so quickly?
But the maester did not look pleased.
"That is…" Her voice was dry.
The maester made out the banners and spoke with difficulty: "House Florent."
Margaery froze for a moment.
House Florent.
One of the great houses of the Reach, who for generations had contested the Tyrells' rule.
They had always claimed they were the rightful rulers of the Reach, for their blood was older than that of House Tyrell.
And now, they had come when Highgarden was under siege.
With an army.
"These traitors…" Lady Margaery clenched her teeth.
The maester finished for her: "They have come to strike while we are down."
Her face darkened.
She lowered her gaze to the infant sleeping in her arms.
Lyonel's cheeks were flushed, his lips slightly pursed, as he dreamed peacefully.
He knew nothing.
He knew only to sleep when fed, and eat when awake.
Margaery held him tighter.
"My lady."
The maester's voice was soft.
"You must decide."
Margaery said nothing.
She only looked at Lord Ormund Hightower below the walls.
He was looking at her as well.
That same gentle smile still rested on his face.
But within that smile, she saw something else.
Certainty.
Certainty that she would yield.
Certainty that she had no other choice.
Certainty that this siege had never needed to be fought.
Because it would never come to battle.
Three thousand defenders against twenty thousand—plus a dragon—and soon, House Florent as well.
How could they fight?
If they truly fought, the Iron Throne would seize the opportunity to strip House Tyrell of its position as Wardens of the Reach.
Margaery closed her eyes and let out a long breath.
"Maester."
"Yes, my lady."
"Open the gates."
The maester hesitated, then nodded.
"Open the gates," Margaery said calmly.
"Invite Lord Hightower into the city."
"I will personally bring Lyonel to meet him."
The maester opened his mouth, as if to say something.
But no words came.
He simply lowered his head.
"Yes."
He turned and hurried down the wall.
Margaery remained where she stood.
Holding Lyonel, she looked at the twenty thousand soldiers below, at the blue dragon in the sky, at the Florent cavalry drawing ever closer.
The wind tangled her hair.
She did not bother to fix it.
She only looked down at the infant in her arms.
The child stirred.
Then went back to sleep.
Tears fell onto his swaddling cloth.
She lifted a hand and wiped them away.
Then she raised her head.
Below, Lord Ormund Hightower was dismounting.
The gates were opening.
She had no way out.
Inside the great hall of Highgarden's main keep, the golden rose still bloomed upon the walls.
It was the thousand-year glory of House Tyrell.
Now, Margaery Rowan stood at the center of the hall, holding Lyonel.
Behind her stood several vassals of House Tyrell, along with more than fifty knights sworn to them.
Opposite her, Lord Ormund Hightower had just taken the high seat.
Margaery said nothing.
Neither did Ormund.
He simply looked at her.
For a long time.
His smile was even gentler than before.
"My lady is indeed wise."
Margaery did not reply.
Lord Ormund continued: "Rest assured, Lord Lyonel will come to no harm in King's Landing."
"His Grace King Aegon is merciful. Prince Aemond may be stern, but he has never been harsh toward children."
"In King's Landing, Lord Lyonel will be well cared for by the royal house. In time, he will grow into a fine lord."
Margaery remained silent.
A fine lord?
Raised under the watchful eye of the crown?
She gave a slight nod.
Ormund observed her reaction.
His smile deepened.
"Does my lady have any further requests?"
Margaery fell silent for a moment.
"I will go with him."
"Lyonel is still young. He needs his mother."
Lord Ormund had already expected this. He nodded.
"That can be arranged."
Of course Margaery understood.
It meant she too would go as a hostage.
It meant that if any member of House Tyrell ruling Highgarden in her absence dared to act, both she and Lyonel would be used as leverage.
It meant binding her life and her son's together.
But she had no other choice.
"I will not leave my son."
Ormund fell silent for a moment.
Then he stood.
He gave Margaery a slight bow.
"My lady is indeed remarkable."
He paused.
"Then please make your preparations."
"In two days, we depart."
"My lady, you have made a wise choice."
He pushed the door open and walked out.
Margaery stood where she was.
Holding Lyonel, she stood beneath the golden rose, in the empty hall.
Outside, the noise of troops filled the air.
The Hightower soldiers were entering the city.
The Florent cavalry was forming ranks.
Those were the sounds of others.
Lyonel stirred in her arms.
He woke.
He opened his eyes and looked at his mother.
Those eyes were large and bright, reflecting the sunlight streaming through the window.
He reached out, trying to touch her face.
Margaery lowered her head to look at him.
Tears fell once more.
She gently took his small hand.
"Lyonel," she said softly, "Mother will always stay with you."
He did not understand her words.
He simply smiled.
Sunlight poured through the window, bathing mother and child.
The golden rose upon the wall still bloomed.
But the lord of this castle was about to leave.
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