"Oh?" Aegon asked, a bit puzzled, then nodded perfunctorily.
"You are not interested?" Larys was completely taken aback.
Aegon paused, then said uncertainly, "I am living well in King's Landing. Why would I want to build a castle?" Why struggle when I can simply lie back and enjoy myself? What a madman.
"I will not talk with you any longer. I am terribly thirsty," Aegon said, shaking his head, not wanting to hear another word.
"Wait…" Larys had completely miscalculated. Their ways of thinking were on entirely different planes.
But while the speaker's intentions may be missed, a listener can draw their own conclusions. Not far away, Aemond had come looking for Aegon and overheard the two men whispering.
The Reach… expanding territory? Aemond's heart fluttered. He was not Aegon. As the king's eldest son, Aegon was the center of attention wherever he went. As the second son, Aemond had neither fiefdom nor wealth. Only Aegon could be so shameless as to live as a freeloader. If only I had my own castle…
In the tournament arena, the two equally matched knights had decided the outcome. Garlan prevailed, his vast experience proving superior. He kicked the relentlessly charging Ser Ormund to the ground, seized his shield, and launched a furious barrage of blows. Ormund rolled in the mud, his silver armor smeared, struggling to rise. To the cheers of the ladies, both men left the field.
"Haha, Garlan has practiced his swordsmanship since childhood; his strength should not be underestimated," Lord Tyrell clapped his hands and laughed, deliberately trying to irritate Lord Hobart.
Hobart's face turned a shade of green. He snorted coldly before rising and leaving the stands.
"Huh?" Lord Tyrell's smile froze. He then realized his rival was simply throwing a tantrum after having lost.
Garlan returned to the stands and removed his helmet, revealing his handsome features and earning another cheer from the noble ladies. The Reach was known for its extravagance. With the most exciting part over, the impromptu tournament quickly concluded.
Evening fell. The candlelight in Highgarden flickered as the singing and dancing continued.
Lord Lyman Beesbury stopped the two princes. "Are there any noble ladies you have taken a fancy to?" he whispered.
"They are all very beautiful," Aegon said without hesitation.
Speechless for a moment, Lord Lyman pressed, "I mean, is there anyone you find particularly interesting? Someone you would like to get to know better?"
"But I am overwhelmed," Aegon replied, lost in thought. "It seems I will need to stay a few days longer."
Lord Hobart hurried over, his expression grave. "I have taken my leave of the Lord Tyrell. We will return to Oldtown tomorrow."
"Damn it," Aegon said, his face crestfallen.
Ormund, rubbing his bruised cheek, suddenly asked, "When will Princess Helaena arrive?"
Aemond paused in his eating, his eyes wary.
"What is she doing here?" Aegon asked curiously.
Realizing his impertinence, Ormund smiled. "This is the first time the two princes have visited the Reach. Princess Helaena should come and see the sights as well."
"She is in King's Landing, under my mother's watchful eye," Aegon said, a wicked smile on his face. "My dear mother treats her like the apple of her eye."
Ormund was speechless with embarrassment. As expected of a true dragon, his unruly nephew was not a fool.
"I am full," Aemond said coldly, rising and walking alone into the crowd.
Lord Lyman and Ormund were both a little surprised, wondering how they had offended him. Lord Hobart's eyes narrowed, sensing something was amiss.
"Leave him be," Aegon said, unconcerned.
Aemond, in a foul mood, wandered aimlessly through the bustling hall. Ormund's question had a deeper meaning that he disliked. His sister did not want to marry, and this had caused considerable conflict in King's Landing. His Hightower relatives offered no assistance, instead seeking only to exploit the situation for their own gain. He suddenly had no desire to return to Oldtown.
"Alone again, Prince?" Garlan asked, a glass of wine in hand, noticing the sullen Aemond.
Aemond looked up.
A few minutes later, Aemond returned to Lord Hobart and informed him that the Tyrells had invited him to stay at Highgarden for a time. Hobart was dismayed, but he could not dictate to a prince. Aegon, however, insisted on staying. After receiving promises of further entertainment from Lord Lyman and Ormund, he reluctantly agreed to return to Oldtown.
After nightfall, the guests withdrew to their assigned rooms. Aemond left the drunken Aegon and returned to his own chamber in disgust. In the end, it was Ormund who had to carry his heavy nephew to bed.
The night in Highgarden was beautiful, but an accident happened. A fire suddenly broke out in the castle.
"Quickly, put out the fire!"
"Get water!"
The servants and guards acted in a panic, fetching water from everywhere. But the fire was large, and it was too late to stop its spread. The nobles were awakened and fled in their nightclothes.
Knock, knock, knock!
"Wake up, Prince!"
Aemond was awakened by a rapid knock on his door. He got out of bed and opened it, and the thick smell of smoke hit his nose. The fire could not be contained; the corridor outside was a sea of red.
Larys, accompanied by two guards, pleaded, "Prince, Highgarden is on fire! We must rendezvous with Lord Hobart."
"Alright," Aemond said, stunned for a moment, passively following the other man's lead.
Fortunately, the fire was discovered in time, preventing a greater disaster.
The next morning, a shrill scream echoed throughout Highgarden. Lady Desiree, her beautiful face blackened with soot and stained with tears, collapsed next to a stretcher covered with a white sheet. The upper floors of the castle were a smoldering ruin, and servants were carrying out the charred corpses of those who had not escaped in time.
Garlan, his expression dazed, knelt beside his stepmother. Last night, old Lord Tyrell had slept soundly in his chambers, but he had not escaped. When he was found this morning, his body was pinned beneath a heavy stone from the collapsed doorway.
"Damn it! I almost died!" Aegon's furious cry shattered the dead silence. Lord Hobart was too stunned to notice anything else.
"By the Seven!" Lord Lyman's legs trembled, and he made the sign of the seven-pointed star across his chest in relief. The Lord of Highgarden had been burned to death; the news had to be reported to the King.
Aemond stood silently by, motionless, as if in a trance.
"My prince, my condolences," Larys said, offering a seemingly sorrowful comfort.
Aemond paused. "He was not my family. There is nothing to mourn."
Harrenhal.
After reading the letter, Aemon exclaimed in astonishment, "Lord Tyrell is dead?" A fire that had killed few guests had instead killed the master of the castle. It was strange. Lord Tyrell was supposed to have lived until just before the Dance of the Dragons, leaving behind an infant son. Something was terribly amiss.
"Lord Tyrell's tragic death has led his son, Ser Garlan, to suspect the Hightowers. A standoff broke out at the funeral," Rhaenyra said with concern. The letter was from Lord Lyman, with two copies sent to King's Landing and Harrenhal respectively.
Aemon shook his head. "This matter is indeed strange." But to say the Hightowers did it… he had his doubts.
"What should we do? Should we call Aegon and Aemond back?" Rhaenyra asked, not wanting the royal family to get involved.
"No, what is done is done," Aemon said. He had the malicious thought that old Lord Tyrell's death was not necessarily a bad thing. It was the perfect opportunity to fuel the conflict between Highgarden and Oldtown.
Knock, knock!
There was a hurried knock on the door. "Come in."
Ser Simon pushed the door open, his expression tense. "Prince, an unusual visitor awaits you beneath the weirwood in the godswood."
"A visitor?" Aemon wondered.
"You will see," Ser Simon fidgeted. "He is tall, and he can speak. He says he is your friend."
"Alright, I see," Aemon said, immediately realizing who it must be.
Late in the seventh month.
The funeral at Highgarden ended. Garlan, overcome by grief, apologized for questioning Lord Hobart.
By the Mander.
Lord Hobart rode impassively at the head of his procession. "Father, our consciences are clear. There is no need to dwell on such matters," said Ormund, riding beside him. He understood his father well. Being publicly accused of murdering one's liege lord was an unforgivable insult.
Lord Hobart stared ahead and said coldly, "Do not contact anyone from Highgarden for the time being. Let us focus on arranging the prince's marriage, and let that foolish young man, Garlan, go mad with his grief."
"But Aemond did not come with us," Ser Ormund said regretfully. Aemond had used the repairs and the atmosphere of grief as an excuse to ride Sheepstealer around the Reach alone.
Lord Hobart remained calm. "We only need to hold Aegon. News has reached us from King's Landing that Princess Helaena has fled on her dragon, and the king's attitude is unclear." Viserys was indecisive, nothing like the wise king of his own youth. But even an unfit king was still a king. House Hightower had to remember its place.
"Hyaa!" Aegon galloped on a white warhorse, disrupting the procession's progress.
"No need," Lord Hobart said, stopping his son from intervening. "Aegon is not accompanying us on his dragon. No matter how much time he wastes, it will be faster than an old man with a clubfoot sitting in a carriage."
They were close to Oldtown. Suddenly, the warhorse under Lord Hobart became agitated, bucking and kicking. Just as he was about to calm it, the horse bolted.
"Father!" Ser Ormund cried out in shock.
The horse ran faster and faster, leaving the procession behind. Lord Hobart was middle-aged; his body could not withstand the violent ride. The horse tripped over a stone, and both man and rider were thrown. When Ser Ormund arrived, he saw his father crushed and unconscious beneath the thrashing warhorse.
"Someone, call the maester!" Panicked cries echoed across the Mander.
Oldtown, the Hightower.
Ser Ormund paced the corridor outside his father's bedchamber. Three hours had passed. Aegon and Lord Lyman also waited anxiously.
A knight came upstairs, his face heavy. "The groom noticed something was wrong. The stallion the lord was riding was driven mad by the scent of the mare in heat ridden by Prince Aegon. That's why it bolted."
"What, me?" Aegon was stunned.
"It was not you," Ser Ormund's eyes blazed with hatred. "Your warhorse was a gift from Highgarden. It was the Tyrells who did this!"
The door to the lord's chambers opened, and an old maester emerged, sweating. "What is it?" Ormund demanded.
The old maester looked distraught. "The warhorse crushed the lord's spine. He is still unconscious, but…" The rest was left unsaid. In Westeros, a broken spine was a death sentence.
"Garlan Tyrell!" Ser Ormund growled, his body trembling.
Lord Lyman's face paled, and he quietly slipped away, pulling Aegon with him.
Harrenhal.
In the godswood, beneath a thick, pale weirwood tree. "Your Grace, there is an ominous smell about this castle," Leaf, one of the Children of the Forest, said, covering her small nose.
"A curse?" Aemon asked.
Leaf shook her head. "I do not know, but it smells… fishy."
Aemon thought about the strange rumors surrounding Harrenhal. It was said that the mortar used to build it was mixed with human blood, and that the castle was cursed by the gods. Those who lived within it would not meet a good end. At first glance, it made sense. By the time of the War of the Five Kings, the lineage of every family that held Harrenhal had been extinguished. However, Aemon believed its geographical location was a greater factor. The Riverlands were a constant battleground, and Harrenhal was a crucial strategic point.
"Why did you follow me?" Aemon asked, wary.
"I am free, not your slave," Leaf said, her golden-green eyes widening, her childish face puffed with anger, a stark contrast to her mature, magnetic voice.
"Then deliver," Aemon said, holding out his hand.
"No, no," she said, clutching the green satchel at her waist. Embroidered on it was a lifelike weirwood.
Aemon's lips curled slightly as he called up the [Magic Essence Panel].
[Number of Essence: 14212]
His smile widened. It was enough to charge the [Flame Hammer] once more.
Leaf looked apprehensive. "I need your help," she whispered. "Someone from the tribe is looking for me, and they have brought a large creature with them."
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