Lord Lyman Beesbury was already at Highgarden when the letter was delivered. Meanwhile, the princes Aegon and Aemond, accompanied by the Hightower contingent, arrived at the seat of House Tyrell to attend a feast in their honor.
Highgarden.
Constructed of pure white marble, it is considered by many to be the most beautiful castle in Westeros. Three concentric curtain walls, each taller and thicker than the last, protect a verdant paradise of blossoming flowers. Courtyards, pools, and shimmering waterfalls adorn the castle grounds. Stone carvings, fountains, and marble colonnades can be seen in every corner. Grapes and roses climb the walls and statues, and ancient vines drape the elegant buildings.
"This is Highgarden?" Aemond said in awe. Standing atop the main tower, he could see for leagues across the manors and fields of the Mander. The fields were a sea of flowers and golden roses, a boundless, natural garden.
"This is more beautiful than the Vale," Aegon said excitedly, clutching a bottle of fine wine. Highgarden possessed a riotous, natural beauty that, at first glance, seemed far more prosperous than the stern grandeur of the Eyrie.
"I like the layout here," Aemond said with envy. The Reach was simply wonderful: the air was pleasant, the grounds were covered in greenery, and it seemed any seed planted here would bloom and bear fruit. The sheer abundance of it all was intoxicating.
"My young princes, if you continue chatting, you will miss the feast. You will sadden the ladies who have come especially to see you," Ser Mund Hightower approached from behind with a teasing grin.
"We are coming," Aegon said, his spirits rising at the mention of ladies.
The Great Hall.
Under a large marble dome hung with glass chandeliers, the white marble floor was cut to form a vast golden rose. By this time, the hall was packed with most of the nobility of the Reach.
Clap, clap, clap!
A stout old man with salt-and-pepper hair clapped his hands, and the chaotic scene instantly quieted. He was the master of Highgarden, the current Lord Tyrell.
The old lord's eyes twinkled. He pointed toward the hall's entrance and shouted, "Everyone, a warm welcome for our royal guests, Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond!"
The nobles, whatever their private thoughts, burst into applause.
Aegon walked in front, murmuring triumphantly, "I didn't expect us to be so popular."
Aemond remained silent.
"With two princes visiting, and whispers of a marriage alliance, you are bound to be welcomed," Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, said as he approached them. Aemond glanced over and saw the old man wiping his mouth, a smudge of cream still at the corner. He seemed a little unreliable.
The old lord, a seasoned courtier, encouraged them, "Don't be nervous. The Reach is an open-minded place, not as rigid and conservative as others."
Aemond could see that. As he entered, he spotted several handsome male couples among the crowd. In his life, he had only witnessed such relationships in the brothels of King's Landing and with his cousin, Laenor.
The three of them walked together to the center of the hall. Lord Tyrell beamed, greeting them with a warm yet modest deference. He then began to introduce the two princes to the distinguished nobles one by one. Aegon, haughty and boastful, dominated every conversation. Lord Hobart followed him, loudly praising his grandson's every word.
Aemond pursed his lips. Unsurprisingly, he was once again being ignored.
"Welcome to Highgarden, Prince Aemond."
Suddenly, a handsome young man in green approached him. He had thick, slightly curly brown hair, piercing brown eyes, and sharp features that exuded an air of humble aristocracy.
"Are you a Tyrell?" Aemond asked, noticing the golden rose pinned to the man's chest.
"Garlan Tyrell, at your service. The Lord of Highgarden is my father," Ser Garlan smiled.
"Is he?" Aemond looked surprised, comparing the stout old lord to the handsome man before him.
"You are being rather impolite," Garlan said with a look of resignation.
"My apologies," Aemond said quickly, realizing his discourtesy. To question the son's appearance was to question the legitimacy of his bloodline.
"It is nothing. My father was handsome in his youth as well; he simply could not escape the clutches of middle age," Garlan said with an understanding smile. His elegant demeanor immediately endeared him to Aemond, who found him far superior to the sinister, sycophantic men of the court in King's Landing. As his cousin Aemon had once said, men of true quality were a rare breed in Westeros.
"If you have the time, how about I show you around Highgarden?" Garlan offered, noticing the prince was being neglected.
"Yes," Aemond readily agreed.
Garlan, a man with easy social grace, led him to another part of the hall and introduced him to a different circle of Reach lords. Aemond spoke with them and found them all to be warm and gentle. He couldn't be sure if it was an illusion, but it felt as if they were in a distinctly different faction from the nobles fawning over Aegon and Lord Hobart.
"It is a pleasure to host you. I hope you can stay in Highgarden for a while, Prince," Lord Tyrell approached again. Beside him was a young woman of striking looks and a charming temperament.
Garlan introduced her, "This is Lady Desiree, of House Crakehall. She is my stepmother."
"My lady," Aemond said, stunned for a moment before hurriedly offering a salute.
"Hello, Prince," Lady Desiree smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she gave a slight curtsy. The gesture, combined with her mature beauty, was a devastating blow. Aemond's face flushed.
Only Aegon knew that he shared a peculiar taste with his cousin Aemon: he preferred mature, older women. His first dalliance, paid for by his brother, had been with a seasoned courtesan with fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. But now, seeing Lady Desiree, he felt that the age of attraction did not have to be quite so advanced. His embarrassment was taken not for disrespect, but for the shyness of a young man.
Lord Tyrell smiled and began introducing him to a host of noble ladies. Aemond, dizzy, responded cautiously. After some conversation, he learned that Lord Tyrell was over fifty. His first wife had given him three children, but only Garlan had survived. Garlan himself was twenty-one. Lady Desiree Crakehall was thirty-one, Lord Tyrell's second wife.
At noon, Lord Hobart approached and said with a smile, "My Lord Tyrell, since today's banquet is so lively, why not arrange for the knights to engage in a few hearty jousts?"
Lord Tyrell, ever keen for entertainment, agreed without hesitation. The nobles moved from the castle to an open space outside. Servants quickly set up the lists, placing tables and benches for the guests. Amidst the wildflowers and roses, they enjoyed the impromptu tournament.
Some knights, eager to show their prowess, rushed to participate. In the first two bouts, the clash of horses and lances elicited cheers from the noble ladies. However, the peaceful tournament soon became fraught with tension. Several knights from vassal houses sworn to the Hightowers took to the field, specifically challenging the knights of the families who had been conversing so warmly with the Tyrells. Even Mund Hightower himself took part, defeating several opponents with exceptional skill.
Listening to the changing cheers, Lord Tyrell's chubby face gradually wrinkled, sensing something was amiss.
"Haha, my Mund is a bit rash," Lord Hobart chuckled. He had been corresponding with his brother Otto and was fully aware of the king's intentions for a marriage alliance in the Reach. His son had even been suggested as a match for Princess Helaena. As a man once favored by the Old King, Hobart possessed ambitions that matched his cunning. He saw Lord Tyrell, much like Lord Grover Tully of Riverrun, as a symbol of mediocrity and incompetence. The Seven had given House Hightower an opportunity, and he intended to seize it. A harsh blow to House Tyrell's pride would send a clear signal to the lords of the Reach: siding with Oldtown was the wise move.
The tournament continued. Ser Mund was not only a skilled rider but a brutal swordsman, wielding the Hightower's Valyrian steel sword, Vigilance. The melee began, and soon blood was spilled.
"Lord Hobart, I challenge Ser Mund," Garlan said, his smile gone, replaced by a serious expression as he rode into the lists.
Soon, two tall figures faced each other on the muddy field. Mund wore silver armor, his shield bearing the burning tower of his house, the Valyrian steel in his hand shining with a cold light. Garlan wore silver armor with gilded rose patterns, his green cloak fluttering in the wind. A fierce battle was about to begin.
"Hahaha, a good fight!" Aegon shouted from the spectator's seats, completely oblivious to the shift in atmosphere.
"Ahem…" Suddenly, two deliberate coughs sounded from behind him. Aegon ignored them, his eyes fixed on the fight. The person hesitated, then limped to the empty seat beside him.
As Aegon was refilling his wine jug, he finally noticed someone was there. Larys Strong immediately seized the opportunity, bowing slightly. "Prince, seeing you in the Reach fills my heart with joy," he said with practiced flattery. "I was but a boy at your great-grandfather's court, but your presence stirs old memories. It seems you will soon marry a beautiful bride, just as your father did."
Aegon's face was a mask of drunken confusion. He only caught the last sentence, something about resembling his father, Viserys. "Thank you, my lord," he mumbled, eager to get back to watching the fight.
Larys, of course, was not finished. "Excuse me, Your Highness, may I have a moment of your time?"
Aegon tried to recall the man's face. He seemed familiar. Though he didn't want to talk, the man had said he resembled his father. "Let us go," Aegon sighed, putting down his cup and walking to a more isolated spot.
Larys breathed a sigh of relief and cut to the chase. "Your marriage is imminent, but King's Landing will one day be your sister's capital. I fear you and your future wife will not have a place of your own."
Aegon, his eyes clear but foolish, asked, "If you marry, can you not live in the Red Keep?"
"Of course," Larys sighed dramatically. "But when your father passes, will your sister allow you to continue living there? Or will she find you… a nuisance?"
Aegon thought carefully. "Rhaenyra is certainly a bit stingy," he admitted. She barely gave him enough coin for his monthly visits to the Street of Silk.
"What do you think of the Reach?" Larys asked quickly, seeing he had found an opening.
"It is prosperous and open. I like it here," Aegon answered honestly, with just enough princely decorum not to mention the beauty of the women.
Larys lowered his voice, his words full of temptation. "I believe you are to marry a lady of the Reach. If you were to build a castle, to carve out a fiefdom for yourself here, you would not have to live under another's roof. You could drink as much as you want and do whatever you please."
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