Rewriting Targaryen History

Chapter 112: Chapter 112: Highgarden

A month passed between the plan and the flight. By then, the rumours had already travelled ahead of us.

That was expected. Otto’s whispers had long legs, and Reach roads carried more than grain, wine, and summer flowers. By the time Jace and I left King’s Landing, half of Highgarden likely knew we were coming, and the other half had been told enough versions to make the truth feel modest by comparison.

Dravvaxx rose from the Dragonpit with less displeasure than he had shown during our first days in the city, though he still disliked the noise of King’s Landing beneath him. Vermax launched from the open ground outside the walls with Jace mounted firmly between his ridges. The younger dragon kept distance at first, green wings beating hard as he found the air beside Dravvaxx. He did not hiss, snap, or posture.

We left King’s Landing at the second hour after midnight.

The city was not asleep, because King’s Landing never truly slept, but it had quieted into that uneasy darkness where the honest went to bed, and the dishonest lowered their voices. The Dragonpit loomed black against Rhaenys’s Hill, its great doors opened only wide enough for Dravvaxx to emerge without scraping stone.

Jace waited beyond the city walls with Vermax, wrapped in a dark riding cloak, silver hair tied back against the wind. He looked awake through force of will rather than rest.

"Mother made me eat before leaving," he said when I landed near him. "She said princes who faint from hunger during political journeys embarrass their entire bloodline."

"Your mother has always understood statecraft."

"She also made Ser Arryk promise to tell her if I pretend not to be tired."

"Then do not pretend badly."

Dravvaxx had accepted flying with another dragon better than I expected, but acceptance did not mean warmth. He grumbled low in his chest whenever Vermax drew too near, a deep sound I felt through the saddle more than heard. Vermax answered by adjusting his path with the nervous intelligence of a creature not eager to test the patience of something much larger.

Jace noticed. He looked over once, hair whipping around his face, and called through the wind, "Vermax is keeping his manners today."

"Vermax is showing good judgement," I shouted back.

Jace grinned, then turned forward again.

There was a freedom in him while he flew that I rarely saw at court.

In King’s Landing, Jace had begun learning how to carry himself beneath watching eyes. He listened more carefully now, stood straighter, answered with thought, and measured rooms before entering them fully.

All of that was necessary. None of it was light. But in the sky, some of that weight left him. He was still careful, still mindful of the dragon beneath him and the distance below, but wonder had room to breathe.

He looked down often.

At roads curving between fields. At villages gathered around septs and market squares. At streams glinting like cut silver. At farmlands wider and greener than anything around King’s Landing, marked by hedgerows, orchards, grazing cattle, and rivers that seemed to feed the earth instead of fight it.

The Reach deserved its reputation.

Even from above, it looked abundant in a way that made other regions seem harsher by comparison. The fields were not merely green. They were orderly, worked, loved, and owned by men who understood that power could grow from soil as surely as from swords.

Heinrich Adler had seen Highgarden through painted sets, maps, and words on pages. I had read descriptions of it in a world where it was fiction, then heard Westerosi lords speak of it in this one with the half-envious respect reserved for places that produced both food and arrogance in large quantities.

Neither prepared me fully. "Father!" Jace called, voice bright with excitement. "Look ahead. That must be Highgarden."

I turned.

The castle rose in the distance, white against green, more graceful than Dragonstone and less brutal than the Red Keep. It did not look carved from violence, though no great seat survived by beauty alone.

Layers of wall guarded its heart, with towers both square and round rising above them. Pale stone caught the sun cleanly. Roofs of warm gold-coloured tile gleamed between gardens, terraces, and courtyards carefully arranged by hands that had made abundance look effortless.

It was magnificent. Not in the way the Dragonmont was magnificent, vast and smoking, old enough to make men feel temporary. Highgarden was magnificent because it looked like civilisation had decided to dress itself in flowers and still remembered where the swords were kept.

Jace flew closer, but not recklessly.

We had spoken of this three times before leaving King’s Landing. Arrival mattered. A dragonrider who descended like a conqueror made enemies before speaking. A dragonrider who looked uncertain gave enemies a different gift. We would arrive clearly, calmly, and at a distance from the castle walls. The dragons would be seen, but not made into a threat.

A field had been left untouched beyond the outer gardens, broad enough for landing and far enough from the delicate work of gardeners that Dravvaxx would not ruin some poor man’s life by crushing a century of roses beneath one foot.

Below, people had gathered.

From the air they looked small, but their movement told the story well enough. Servants, guards, stable hands, knights, merchants, men-at-arms, and curious nobles stood in clusters beyond the marked boundary.

Some tried to look composed. Others made no effort. Faces turned upward as the two dragons descended, and whatever they had heard from whispers became less useful once shadow passed over them.

Dravvaxx landed first.

The ground trembled beneath him. His wings folded slowly, dark amethyst-black scale catching the sun in flashes of hidden colour. He lifted his head and looked over the gathered watchers with silver eyes. The crowd fell quieter than before.

Vermax landed several lengths away, lighter and more restless. Jace held his seat well through the descent and dismounted with careful dignity. I noticed the effort behind it, but effort was not failure. If anything, it made me prouder.

My own dismount was clean enough that Maeron would only have found three things to criticise.

That counted as progress.

Dragonkeepers had arrived with our escort and approached with proper caution. Dravvaxx allowed them near only after I placed a hand against his jaw and spoke quietly. Vermax accepted attention more easily, though he watched Dravvaxx whenever the larger dragon shifted.

Ser Arryk and Landrey met us at the head of our escort.

A hundred cavalrymen of the Dread Legion stood in good order behind them beneath the purple banner with the white sword within the crescent wreath. Their horses were groomed, their tack properly maintained, and their lines disciplined enough to make the escort look like protection rather than provocation. Landrey had done well.

Ser Arryk bowed first. "I am glad you arrived safely, my princes. The flight seemed smooth from below, though I know dragons have a habit of hiding their difficulties from men standing on the ground."

"It was smooth enough," Jace said. "Vermax kept his distance from Dravvaxx, which I think was sensible rather than cowardly."

"Then Vermax has begun the day with more wisdom than many knights at tourney," Arryk replied.

Landrey looked past me at Dravvaxx, taking in the size of him properly for the first time. The smirk came slowly.

"I admit, my prince, I had difficulty imagining our former captain as a dragonrider. Half the men expected the beast to throw you into the sea simply to correct the world’s sense of order."

I clasped his arm. "That is a unique way to say you are glad I arrived safely."

"I am glad you arrived safely," Landrey said. "I simply did not want the pleasantry to become lonely without an insult beside it."

"Your concern for balance is touching."

"It has sustained me through many difficult conversations."

Jace looked between us with open amusement, but Ser Arryk’s expression remained politely strained. The Kingsguard did not always know what to do with Dread Legion affection when it arrived armed and sarcastic.

Landrey turned more serious. "The camp is established where instructed. The men have paid for fodder and supplies, and no one has insulted a Reach knight within hearing."

"Within hearing matters less than I would like, but more than I expected," I said.

"I have encouraged discretion as if it were a holy virtue."

"Then miracles do occur."

Ser Arryk stepped in before the exchange could continue. "Lord Tyrell expects you in the hall before the melee begins. There are a few hours yet, but half the castle seems determined to see you before then."

"Then we should not disappoint half a castle too early," I said.

We left the dragons with the keepers and made our way toward Highgarden.

Every eye followed us.

That was the point, though living inside the point was less comfortable than planning it. Servants paused with baskets held against their hips. Soldiers pretended discipline while staring over spearheads.

Knights measured me, then Jace, then the Dread Legion cavalry, as if trying to decide which part of our arrival troubled them most. Merchants and lesser nobles watched with the open hunger of people who understood they had seen something worth retelling.

Jace felt it too.

His shoulders drew back, not stiffly, but with intention. He looked young because he was young, yet he did not look small. The black and red suited him. So did the silver hair, the purple eyes, and the quiet effort he made to carry himself as if all of this attention belonged to him by right rather than accident.

I leaned slightly toward him as we crossed the outer yard. "Do not try to impress every man looking at you," I said quietly. "Most of them have already decided what they hope to see. Let them work harder."

Jace did not turn his head, but his voice came steady. "I am trying to look calm without looking bored."

"That is a useful royal skill. Your mother has mastered it well enough to frighten rooms."

"I still feel as though everyone can see when I am thinking too much."

"They cannot. Most men are too busy wondering how they themselves appear."

That helped. I saw the tension in him ease by a fraction.

We were brought into Highgarden’s hall, where Lord Matthos Tyrell received us beneath banners of green and gold. He was a broad-faced man with careful courtesy and the kind of warmth great lords often used to make guests forget they were being judged. Around him stood Reach nobles in fine colours: Tarly, Redwyne, Roxton, Hewett, Hightower, and others whose names mattered in ways I had come here to measure.

Lord Matthos stepped forward.

"Prince Othorion, Prince Jacaerys, welcome to Highgarden. You honour my family by attending this celebration for the birth of my son and heir, Lyonel. I had hoped the occasion would bring distinguished guests, but I confess two dragonriders from the royal house exceed even a Reachman’s appetite for splendour."

I inclined my head. "We appreciate your hospitality, Lord Tyrell. My son has long wished to see the Reach, and your invitation offered a fine reason to correct that absence."

Lord Matthos turned to Jace with courteous interest. Jace met it properly.

"It is true, my lord," he said. "The Reach is often described in lessons as beautiful, fertile, and central to the strength of the realm. From above, I saw that those were not empty compliments. Your lands are carefully tended, and Highgarden is more impressive than any map or history could show. Thank you for welcoming us into your home."

The hall grew quiet for a heartbeat longer than expected.

I did not look at Jace, though pride moved through me with enough force that I had to keep my expression still. He had spoken like a boy trying to be twice his age, yes, but not falsely. The words were formal, yet they carried honest wonder beneath them. That made them better.

Ser Arryk’s face showed quiet approval.

Lord Matthos blinked once, then smiled more sincerely than before. "You speak generously and well, Prince Jacaerys. Highgarden is glad to be judged kindly by young eyes from dragonback. Please make yourselves comfortable. The melee begins at midday, while the joust will take place tomorrow, so there is time for rest, refreshment, and whatever preparations the competitors require."

"I am grateful, my lord," Jace said.

Several nobles had gathered close enough to hear.

Ormund Hightower and Ser Gwayne Hightower stood together near one side of the hall. Lord Redwyne watched from beside a table of wine he had not touched. Lord Tarly spoke quietly with a stern-faced knight whose posture suggested he disapproved of most things before breakfast. Lord Roxton observed with polite caution, while Lord Hewett seemed more interested in the dragons than he wished to admit.

Some looked upon us with awe. Some with suspicion. Most with both.

I chose the Hightowers first. Waiting for them to approach would make the moment theirs. Crossing to them made it mine. "Ser Gwayne, Ser Ormund," I said. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you properly."

Ormund’s face was controlled enough to be nearly empty. Gwayne was warmer, or at least better at wearing warmth without making it look like armour. "Prince Othorion," Gwayne said, bowing. "The honour is mine. I attended your wedding years ago, though the circumstances of such a large gathering did not allow us to speak."

"There were a great many people at that wedding trying to be noticed," I said. "I cannot fault anyone for failing to find one man among the crowd."

Gwayne smiled politely. "You were not difficult to notice, my prince, even then."

Ormund inclined his head. "Highgarden is honoured by your presence, and Oldtown would have been pleased to send Lord Hobert in person if his health allowed the journey. My father asked that I convey his regards and his hope that you enjoy the Reach."

The pleasantries were false in the way many necessary things were false. That did not make them useless. A man could learn much from how another lied politely.

"I am sorry to hear Lord Hobert remains unwell," I said. "I hope his recovery comes swiftly. Until then, we have the privilege of his heir’s company."

Ormund bowed slightly. "You are gracious, my prince. I will pass your words to him."

I turned to Gwayne. "I hear you will fight in the melee as well as the joust. Perhaps we may meet on the field. I am told a bout against a respected knight of Oldtown is worth the bruises."

Gwayne’s smile thinned into something more genuine. "I would be honoured, though I will not pretend eagerness to face a man seasoned in the Dornish Marches and the Stepstones. There are safer ways to earn applause."

"Most safer ways are less interesting."

"That is exactly the sort of answer that makes me hope the melee is crowded enough for someone else to find you first."

It was a good reply.

Ormund did not seem amused, but Gwayne’s courtesy had enough intelligence behind it to avoid dullness. I could see why Alicent remembered her family with longing. Oldtown produced more than zealots and schemers. It produced men trained from childhood to make politics sound like manners.

When the conversation reached its natural end, I excused myself and looked for Jace.

He had not remained idle.

Ser Arryk stood beside him while Lord Tarly spoke with the stern gravity of a man who believed every child improved when addressed as a future commander. Jace listened well, and when he answered, he did not overreach. He asked about the Reach’s levies, the difficulty of defending such fertile lands, and whether harvest roads became weaknesses in war.

Lord Tarly seemed surprised to enjoy the questions. That was useful.

Before I could join them, Lord Redwyne intercepted me. "Prince Othorion," he said, his voice rich and smooth. "It has been some time since we last shared a hall."

"Lord Redwyne. It has indeed. I trust the Arbor remains prosperous?"

"The Arbor does what it has always done. It grows, trades, and disappoints men who think good wine appears by magic."

"A cruel correction to many feasts."

"Feasts require illusions. Vineyards cannot afford them."

I smiled slightly. "I have heard troubling rumours about Ironborn raiders testing the western waters again. Are they as bold as men claim?"

Lord Redwyne’s expression changed just enough to reveal irritation beneath courtesy. The Ironborn had a talent for making proud coastal lords feel personally insulted by geography.

"They have become a nuisance," he said. "A few captains with more hunger than sense have begun troubling routes they should know better than to approach. My ships and soldiers are making work of them, but the rabble from those shit-covered rocks never learn as quickly as one hopes."

His bluntness made the smile come more naturally. "I imagine the lesson will be made plain."

"It will," Redwyne said. "Though plain lessons often need repeating with Ironborn."

"Repeated lessons are sometimes the foundation of rule."

He looked at me more closely then, as if deciding whether I had meant only raiders. Good. Let him wonder.

We spoke a little longer about trade winds, escort ships, and the price of keeping sea lanes safe. It was not idle conversation. The Arbor mattered. Redwyne ships mattered. If the realm ever split, fleets would matter more than songs, and I had not come to Highgarden only to be seen against the sky.

Eventually, I returned to Jace. He had finished speaking with Lord Tarly and looked tired in the way that came from being attentive rather than physically strained.

"You did well," I said quietly.

He looked relieved despite trying not to. "Lord Tarly asks questions as though every answer might be used in a war council."

"That means he respects the possibility you may one day sit in one."

"I was afraid of sounding foolish."

"You avoided that."

"Only avoided?"

"I am your father. I must leave room for improvement."

He gave me a look that belonged entirely to Rhaenyra. Ser Arryk pretended not to notice.

A servant led us to rooms prepared for our use. They were handsome, bright, and full of flowers arranged with the quiet aggression of a house determined to remind guests where they were.

Through one window, I could see the tourney grounds being prepared beyond the outer gardens. Stands had been raised, banners hung, and men moved across the field with the efficient chaos that came before public order.

My armour waited in one chamber, brought ahead by Landrey’s men.

My armour waited in the chamber, blackened plate chased with gold and fitted over deep purple cloth. It was not tourney brightness, nor the polished silver vanity Reach knights often favoured for display.

The steel was dark, practical beneath its ornament, with the white sword within the crescent wreath worked into the breast and fittings. It was armour made to be seen, but not armour made only for being seen.

Jace watched as a squire checked the straps. "Are you nervous?" he asked.

"For the melee?"

"For all of it."

That deserved an honest answer. "Yes," I said.

He looked surprised. "You do not seem nervous."

"That is because seeming nervous rarely improves a situation."

"But you still feel it?"

"Of course. Only fools and corpses feel nothing before stepping into a field full of armed men who wish to hit them hard enough to be remembered."

Jace absorbed that with visible care. "Then what do you do with it?"

"I give it work. Fear can sharpen attention if you do not let it command your hands. I will watch footwork, distance, tempers, and which men forget this is a tourney once pride gets bruised."

He looked toward the armour. "And what should I watch?"

"The lords."

That surprised him more than the first answer.

"You will see better from the stands than I will from the field," I said. "Watch who cheers for whom. Watch which men speak when I win a bout and which men become quiet. Watch Lord Redwyne when Hightowers are mentioned, and watch Lord Tarly when knights grow boastful. Watch your own reactions too. Men will try to flatter you today. Learn how it feels before you begin liking it."

Jace was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. "I can do that."

"I know."

Outside, a horn sounded from the direction of the tourney field. Not the beginning yet. A summons to gather.

The day had moved from arrival to preparation, and soon it would move to spectacle. I flexed my hand once, feeling old aches under the knuckles, then looked toward the field where half the Reach waited to judge what sort of man had flown into Highgarden on a dark dragon.

They wanted a show. They would get one.

But not yet. The tournament would begin soon enough.