Chapter 33: Dragon Song of the Red Mountains
Summer Meadow, once an empty plain, was now covered in dense tents, temporary fences, and wooden walls forming a spectacular city of timber, canvas, and cowhide. Roads were being methodically laid out, giving shape to what would soon become a true seat of power.
"Putting everything else aside, this Prince is truly wealthy," a man in silk said as he lounged in a chair, watching the bustling crowd outside the tent. Though the city had not officially begun construction, facilities were already functioning—taverns, inns, blacksmith shops, schools, and other less reputable establishments hidden among the tents. The Prince had brought back not only men, but women and children as well.
"What did Lord Tarly say?" asked another young man dressed in silk with a high collar embroidered with black and white swans. He wiped foam from his lips after drinking a spiced beer.
"The old lord dared not say anything," said Ser Stannis Storm, a slightly older bastard of Nightsong, pouring himself another cup with a bitter smile. "House Tarth has openly declared for our new Frontier Governor. If it were not for his oaths, I daresay Lord Tarly might have pledged outright. Even if Nightsong were stronger, it could not stand against two—no, three—dragons."
"Be precise," corrected Ser Erryk Storm, a bastard of Stonehelm. "Two dragons fit for war. The dragons of Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys are still young. Vermax may soon see battle, perhaps—but only Sunfyre and Silverwing can truly threaten castle walls."
At this, the silver-haired tavern owner placed a platter of roasted lamb before them.
"If you are nobles from other lands, you may take lodging in the longhouse at the town center. Food and rooms are provided by His Highness's order."
Ser Stannis inclined his head. "We are merely passing through and resupplying. His Highness is generous."
"If you need anything further, go to the longhouse," the owner repeated before refilling their cups.
"Valyrian?" Ser Erryk muttered once the man left.
"They have the look of it. Many of those the Prince brought from across the Narrow Sea carry Valyrian blood."
"Then perhaps we—"
"Do not be a fool," Ser Stannis cut him off. "Silver hair does not make a dragonlord. Lys is full of such folk for the right coin. But a dragonrider? That is another matter."
Ser Erryk fell silent.
Their conversation drifted toward greater concerns.
House Tarth had aligned firmly with the Prince. Blackhaven, seat of House Dondarrion, now housed many of the Prince's retainers, beyond the easy reach of Lord Borros Baratheon of Storm's End. House Selmy of Harvest Hall hesitated, ever cautious. Houses Morrigen of Crow's Nest and Connington of Griffin's Roost remained bound tightly to the Stormlands.
Only Nightsong and Stonehelm now stood at a crossroads.
To compensate lands granted to the Prince, the Iron Throne had purchased holdings from House Swann of Stonehelm—lands once bordering Dorne. House Swann had not forgotten that loss.
Quietly listening nearby was a man who did not look like a lord at all.
He wore a hunter's green cloak dusted by travel. His beard was neatly trimmed, his manner restrained. Something wrapped in cloth rested across his back. He had refused to leave it at the entrance, insisting it posed no threat.
Few would recognize him as Lord Donald Tarly of Horn Hill.
He had entered Summer Meadow separately from his attendants to avoid attention. Alone, he could listen more freely.
He had heard enough to understand the shifting tides of the Borderlands.
In the Reach, House Tyrell no longer wielded unquestioned strength. House Hightower of Oldtown pressed its advantage, asserting dominance. House Peake stirred restlessly among the marcher lords. The balance was fragile.
But politics was not why Lord Tarly had come.
He had come for his children.
His eldest daughter, Samantha Tarly, was wed to a Hightower knight. His second daughter remained at Horn Hill. The ones who had fled were his third daughter, Diana Tarly, and his heir—Ser Alan Tarly.
Lord Tarly had been harsh. Too harsh.
His wife had said so. His daughter had said so. In reflection, he knew it to be true.
He meant to mend what pride had broken.
"Owner," he said after finishing his meal. "Where is the longhouse?"
"In the town center. Follow the main road."
"Thank you."
Lord Tarly retrieved his horse and made his way toward the growing heart of the settlement.
Above him, two dragons crossed the sky—one gold, one silver. Their shadows passed like living storms.
They flew toward the rising fortress taking shape in the distance.
Dragonfire erupted.
Stone melted.
Walls fused.
The castle was being carved by flame.
Lord Tarly slowed his horse, watching.
"Father."
The voice came softly behind him.
He turned.
Diana stood there.
"Diana… have you forgiven me?"
She smiled faintly. "You should watch, Father. His Highness shaping stone with dragonfire is not something one sees twice in a lifetime."
"How did you know I had come?"
"Our riders saw you at the mountain pass. Many lords have sent observers. You are not alone."
She turned toward the growing citadel, its towers gleaming beneath dragon flame.
"This place will soon rival any stronghold in the Seven Kingdoms," she said quietly. "Would you not take part in something that will be remembered?"
Lord Tarly followed her gaze toward the forming stronghold—the future Dragon's Seat of the Red Mountains.
He did not answer at once.
But he did not look away.
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