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The Heart of the Reach, Highgarden
Three pure white walls rise in sweeping rings around Highgarden, the castle so often praised in song as the fairest jewel of the Seven Kingdoms. Sunlight floods its gardens today, bright and golden, yet the mood within those walls is anything but warm.
Not long ago the main strength of House Tyrell rode back in haste, but they brought home no victory for the people to cheer. Knights slouched in their saddles with heads bowed, foot soldiers stared blankly at the cobbles, and the great army now camps in a restless sprawl beyond the gates.
They have not been dismissed as custom dictates when a war is done. Everyone in Highgarden understands what that means. The fighting is not over.
Whispers slip through the perfumed air like wind through trellised roses. The war for the Iron Throne has stalled, yet minds within the city are already turning toward the greater danger. Would their proud lords truly set themselves against the dragon who burned the towers of Starpike to ash?
The thought alone makes even the bold grow uneasy. If dragons could reduce Starpike to cinders, what chance has a garden city built for beauty rather than war? Highgarden stands on the gentle banks of the Mander, its front approach an endless plain where an army, or a winged beast, can sweep in without hindrance.
History offers a bitter reminder. Long ago, the first Highgarden was put to the torch by Dornish raiders until nothing remained but a hollow shell. Three lofty walls now encircle the present keep, yet when real war comes, they feel like a promise that could be broken with ease.
Most who live here are comfortable folk, their lives laced with music, laughter, and sweet wine. They are not all rich beyond measure, yet even a beggar in the Reach eats better than many a northern farmer. Prosperity sharpens the wits and stirs ambition in subtle ways.
Curiosity blooms like the roses on the castle's banners. People from every walk of life keep their ears open and their tongues busy, each seeking, in their own manner, a glimpse of the Tyrells' intentions. If the family of the golden rose intends to bend the knee to the dragon's rule, life can continue in its pleasant rhythm. But if they choose defiance, Highgarden will no longer be a safe haven, and the wise will not linger when fire falls from the sky.
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"So… my foolish son, is this the grand conclusion you bring me?"
Age has added silver to Mace Tyrell's hair and filled his household with children, yet before his formidable mother he remained as meek and uncertain as a boy..
The Reach might call him its lord, but to Lady Olenna Redwyne he was still the same puffed-up child who once earned the mocking name of "the lord puff fish," a title born partly from his own cowardice and partly from the sheer force of the woman who had raised him.
All the Seven Kingdoms knew the truth, that within House Tyrell and indeed across the whole of the Reach, it was the Queen of Thorns who truly ruled. If the reins of power were ever left in Mace's soft hands, some restless vassal would surely rise before long, if only to give him the trouble he seemed destined to invite.
True to that sorry reputation, Lord Mace had ridden to Starpike with banners high and courage loud, yet he came scurrying home in a panic. The very moment he crossed the threshold of his mother's solar, he burst out with a trembling demand. The Tyrells, he declared, must yield to Daenerys Targaryen at once, for the war was already lost.
Never mind that no Tyrell spear had yet crossed with a Dornish blade, nor had their soldiers even glimpsed the queen's hosts.
Lady Olenna's fury flared like a sudden storm. She struck the polished wine table with a crack that rang through the chamber, her sharp eyes boring into her son. "Well done, Mace Tyrell. Tell me, under what noble terms do you imagine we should surrender to the daughter of the Mad King?"
In response to his mother's question, Mace shifted his weight from foot to foot, his eyes darting like a cornered boy. When he spoke, his voice was no louder than a mutter. "Ah… well… our house did stand with the Targaryens when that cursed war began. Her own brother fell because he lacked the strength, and Robert Baratheon crushed him with his warhammer. What does that have to do with us?"
Lady Olenna had lost count of the times her oaf of a son had disappointed her, yet these words managed to rouse a fresh blaze of anger.
She lifted her wine cup and flung its dark red vintage across his plump, well-groomed face. "Is that so, Lord Mace? Do you take the Targaryens for fools?"
Her voice sharpened as the memory of an older war came back to her. "Even Aerys himself saw that we gave him only a show of loyalty, that we never offered him the full strength of the Reach. We humored him, and nothing more. He lost to Robert because he was weak, and he died in King's Landing for his own folly, not ours."
She leaned closer, her gaze like thorns. "And now you imagine we can stroll up to that Targaryen girl, claim we were faithful all along, and she will believe it without a second thought? Put that fantasy from your mind. It will not happen."
Olenna turned away without another glance at her dripping, miserable son. The true ruler of Highgarden began weighing the future in the quiet of her own thoughts.
Unlike the army that had only just limped home, her information flowed from subtler channels. Rumors reached her that the battlefield at Harrenhal had shifted in ways no one expected. Two dragons had been sighted there. Two riders as well, and one of them not a Targaryen.
Some even whispered that this mysterious dragonrider was the very man the Queen of Thorns had been watching from afar, the real commander behind the northern and riverland forces, a young lord named Clay Manderly.
She had already sent her own agents digging into the Manderly line to see whether some ancient mingling of blood with House Targaryen might explain such a marvel. The answer had come back empty. Even so, the reports contained enough detail to give her pause. It was no mere rumor to be dismissed out of hand.
This was no small matter. As a woman herself, Olenna knew too well the disadvantage a woman bore in an age ruled by war and fire. If there truly stood a grown man who commanded dragons, then the game itself would change beyond recognition.
Her thoughts drifted to the old history, to Aegon the Conqueror who had taken two queens and forced all the Seven Kingdoms to bend the knee. In the end, every lord and lady had swallowed their pride and accepted it with pinched noses and silent tongues.
And now? Perhaps the Reach might offer a queen of its own to such a king.
Her mind turned to her granddaughter. Renly, that useless peacock, had left no lasting mark upon her, which in its own way had proved a blessing.
"We must learn the truth quickly," she murmured to herself, the words meant for no one else. "If this man truly lives, the Tyrells must reach him before any other house dares to move."
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"Father… ah, welcome home."
Jamie Lannister sat tall on a white destrier before the great eastern gate of Casterly Rock, the gate carved in the proud shape of a lion. He managed only that awkward greeting as he watched his father ride back from the so-called campaign.
No lavish words of celebration would come. Tywin Lannister had no taste for them, and Jamie knew too well that any show of cheer might sound like mockery to a man who returned from such a march.
He thought of what his father had set out to do, and of what he had brought back. When Tywin Lannister rode forth from the Rock, the sun had glinted on twenty thousand swords, a forest of spears and polished helms so bright it hurt the eyes..
And now?
Jaime had commanded armies himself and could read the truth at a glance. No more than four thousand men trailed behind the great lion of the West. That was the proudest host of the westerlands, the best equipped and most seasoned warriors that every noble house could muster. Had they all been destroyed?
The news had reached him only in fragments. Harrenhal lay deep in the riverlands, far beyond the steady reach of their messengers, and the scattered companies in retreat carried tales faster than any raven. Only when the battered survivors staggered through the Golden Tooth and back into western lands had the full weight of the disaster begun to reach him.
"Well… return to the Rock. We will speak of it there."
Tywin's voice was flat, his face as hard and unmoving as stone. Yet the failure gnawed at him like a slow infection, one he could not shake from his thoughts no matter how he tried.
Victory had hovered just an arm's length away. Harrenhal had fallen. One more step, one more stroke of fortune, and the young wolf Robb Stark would have been his captive, leaving the rest of the North to crumble into dust.
Then the dragons came!
The sudden reappearance of House Targaryen's fire had shattered every careful calculation. They had descended without warning, and there had been no time to prepare or even to understand the full scope of what had arrived.
Even now, Tywin would not name his choice a mistake. To sacrifice the pawns and preserve the king was the only move left upon the board. To abandon men so that the heart of his power might endure… that, he told himself, was not weakness but the solemn duty of a true commander.
Yet the price was ruinous. Nearly twenty thousand soldiers gone, the proud strength of the west bled dry until his banners hung heavy and limp. What remained could barely defend their own gates, let alone strike again.
A darker thought followed. If the dragons turned their wings toward Casterly Rock now, could his weary men truly match the feat of the Dornish who had once brought down Meraxes with a single bold shot? He doubted it. The Rock might stand, but it would stand alone.
Beside him, Jaime reined his horse aside to let his father pass, his green eyes flicking over the straggling columns behind them. He scanned the faces once, then again, a small frown settling as he counted who was missing.
Wait.…
Where was his beloved sister? Where was her son, his own firstborn in all but name? And Tyrion… surely the imp should have been visible among the survivors.
Not one of them was here!
Questions swirled and would not let him rest. He followed his father into the great keep, the main fortress of House Lannister, the weight of unanswered doubts pressing against his chest.
They sat at last in a chamber deep within the Rock, the echo of their steps fading into a silence so thick it seemed to tighten the air. Father and son faced one another across a long table, neither willing to speak first.
Jaime, younger and far less tempered, broke before Tywin did. He leaned forward, restless, and finally blurted out the question that had been clawing at him.
"Father… where are Cersei and Joffrey? And Tyrion… where is he?"
Tywin had expected his son to ask. There was no sense in evasion.
"Cersei and Joffrey are, for the moment, in the hands of Clay Manderly," he said evenly, his voice giving nothing away. "As for Tyrion… I do not know if he still lives."
For a heartbeat the heir of Casterly Rock sat frozen, his mouth slightly open, his face locked in a look of stunned disbelief. Anyone watching could see the shock strike him like a blow.
When sense returned, he surged to his feet, color flooding his cheeks. Words of anger trembled on his tongue, but instinct warned him to swallow them. One does not raise his voice to Tywin Lannister.
He drew in two sharp breaths, the sound loud in the quiet chamber. Under the calm, unwavering gaze of his father, he lowered himself back into his chair. The flush drained from his face until he looked pale and spent, as though the strength had gone out of him.
It was not the tangled bond with Cersei that hollowed him so completely.
As a son raised in the pure bloodline of a great house, he knew exactly what this meant. Aside from himself, every direct heir of Lannister name might already be lost, as if the family's proud branch had been snapped clean.
That thought chilled him more than the ruin of their finest army.
At last he steadied his voice and asked, low but firm, "What… what in the seven hells happened?"
"Nothing more than what happens in war," Tywin answered, his tone as flat as cold iron. "The battlefield always holds surprises."
The Old Lion had no wish to linger on defeat, yet he owed his son the shape of the truth. Choosing only what mattered, he spoke of Harrenhal, how the snare had shut tight, how victory had seemed within his grasp, and how the sudden coming of dragons had torn it all to pieces.
It was no fault of commandship, only the cruel hand of chance. There was nothing to do but swallow the loss.
About Tyrion, Tywin said less. He did not admit that he had made the deliberate choice to abandon the dwarf to his fate with his own hands.
He knew how deep the bond ran between his golden knight and the sharp-tongued younger brother. Jaime, for all his pride and battle honors, had never truly grown past that affection. To tell him the truth would crack what fragile peace remained between father and son, and Tywin would not risk that.
"Father… what do we do now?"
Jaime spoke again after a long silence. A whole flagon of red wine sat empty by his hand, the drink finally cooling his temper enough for thought.
For the first time that night, a hint of satisfaction touched Tywin's eyes.
"Come," he said. "We go to the great hall. It is time to speak with those who returned alive and decide how we will face what lies ahead."
Many of the western lords who had survived the march had followed the old lion back to the Rock. All of them waited for Tywin Lannister's summons.
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