Chapter 115: Chapter 115: The Return From Highgarden
We remained at Highgarden for four days after the melee. That was long enough for the bruises to darken, the songs to become less accurate, and the victory to become useful.
The first morning after the final, I woke with my ribs stiff, my shoulder sore, and my left thigh protesting every stair as if Ser Jon Roxton had taken up residence inside the muscle. The maester offered salves. My squire offered sympathy. Landrey offered neither, but did ask whether I intended to limp dramatically enough for the Reach to compose a ballad about sacrifice.
I told him I would limp only if it gained us something. He said that was the most courtly answer I had ever given.
The celebrations continued around us with all the brightness Highgarden could provide. Lord Matthos Tyrell had spared little expense for the birth of his son, and the castle seemed determined to prove that abundance was not merely something written about the Reach by hungry men elsewhere.
There were feasts, music, hawking in the softer hours, garden walks arranged to look effortless, and enough wine poured to make even cautious men speak half a thought more than they intended.
I did not waste the time.
Winning the melee had opened doors, but doors did not remain open forever simply because a man had entered loudly once. The days after mattered more than the applause itself. A victory on the field could make men look at you. Conversation decided whether they looked again.
Lord Crane remained the easiest of the new connections. His son Donnel had lost the final with dignity, and Lord Crane had the sense to treat that as honour rather than injury. We spoke twice over the following days, once in the hall after supper and once near the practice yard while Donnel worked through stiffness with a blunted blade.
"You gave my son a hard lesson without making him small," Lord Crane said as we watched Donnel move through a careful sequence. "That is rarer than it should be at tourneys."
"He nearly made the lesson mine," I said. "He found the bruised rib quickly enough."
Lord Crane’s mouth lifted slightly. "He was pleased by that, though he tried not to sound too pleased when speaking of defeat. I told him there was no dishonour in making a prince work for his victory."
"There is no dishonour in losing well to any man, prince or not. Donnel understood the field better than many older knights."
"I will tell him you said so when his pride can hear it cleanly. Today it is still busy arguing with his thigh."
That was the kind of father I could respect. Proud, but not blind.
Lord Ashford warmed more slowly, though not coldly. His nephew Dickon had become a small favourite among the younger knights after his bout with me, largely because he had made speed look clever before losing to ground he had not noticed. Dickon himself laughed about it by the second evening, which did more for his reputation than sulking would have done.
Lord Ashford approached me during a garden walk arranged by Lord Tyrell’s household. Jace was nearby, speaking with Dickon under Ser Arryk’s eye, and I noticed my son listening more than talking.
"My prince," Lord Ashford said, "my nephew tells me you defeated him twice. Once with a sword and once with a patch of poor earth."
"Your nephew gives the ground too much credit. He was quick enough that I needed help from something."
"That answer will please him more than it should. He has spent two days telling anyone who will listen that he was beaten by terrain."
"Better terrain than foolishness."
"True enough. Foolishness leaves a more stubborn mark."
We spoke of Ashford, of roads leading east and west, of the importance of keeping younger sons and nephews trained without encouraging them to mistake tourneys for purpose. He did not offer friendship. He did not need to. He offered interest, and interest was enough to begin with.
Lord Elwood Blackbar was rougher company and in some ways easier. He found me near the yard on the third day, one shoulder still stiff from our bout, and greeted me with the look of a man who had decided resentment required too much effort.
"My prince," he said, "I watched the final again in my head and decided Ser Donnel should have gone for your ribs sooner."
"He went for them often enough."
"Not often enough to win."
"That is a harsh judgement from a man I struck in the helm."
Blackbar laughed, deep and unembarrassed. "You struck me because I tried to run through you like a gate. My wife has informed me that this is not a strategy, only a habit."
"Wise woman."
"Wiser than me, certainly, though she has had years to prove it."
Lord Blackbar did not dress courtesy in silk. He spoke plainly, drank strongly, and seemed to appreciate that I had not treated him like an old bull after defeating him. His lands around Bandallon mattered less than Oldtown or the Arbor, but smaller lords often carried weight in ways maps failed to show. They held roads, grain, local loyalties, and grudges. I had learned not to despise any of those.
Lord Tarly remained stern, though less distant.
He did not flatter. That alone made speaking with him more pleasant than half the hall. He cared about discipline, competence, and whether men could hold together when command stopped being pretty. He asked Jace several questions on the second day, not cruelly, but with enough seriousness that I watched carefully.
Jace did not answer perfectly. He did answer honestly.
When Lord Tarly asked what made fertile lands difficult to defend, Jace spoke of roads, open ground, harvest stores, and the danger of enemies feeding themselves while moving through rich country. He missed two things I would have mentioned, but he did not pretend certainty when unsure. Tarly noticed that.
Afterwards, when Jace had gone to speak with Ser Arryk, Tarly looked at me and said, "The boy listens."
"He has been taught to."
"Many boys are taught. Fewer do it."
That was nearly praise from him. I accepted it as such.
Lord Redwyne remained courteous and cold.
That was no surprise. He was among those who leaned against Rhaenyra’s cause, and my victory had not turned him into a friend simply because men had cheered beneath torchlight. If anything, it made him more careful.
He spoke with me when courtesy demanded it and avoided me when courtesy allowed it. His smiles were polished, his compliments measured, and his eyes always seemed to be counting ships no one else could see.
On the third evening, he said, "Highgarden will remember your visit, my prince. Few men arrive on dragonback, win a purse of fifteen thousand gold dragons, and leave behind no shortage of conversation."
"Conversation is cheaper than ships, my lord, though not always less dangerous."
That made him pause long enough to show he had heard the edge beneath the words. "Spoken like a man who has learned to respect both," he said.
"I have learned that neglecting either can become expensive."
His smile returned, smooth as poured wine. "Then perhaps we agree on something after all."
"Perhaps we agree on several things and differ only on what should be done with them."
He lifted his cup. "That is often where the trouble begins." He was right. That did not make him less troublesome.
The jousting final came on the fourth day.
By then, most of the lesser contests had finished, and the crowd had settled into the comfortable excitement of people who had been given several days of entertainment and expected the last event to justify their staying.
The stands filled early. Ladies wore brighter colours than they had for the melee. Knights who had been eliminated pretended they had always cared more for the joust. Lords placed wagers with the dignity of men pretending coin was not the point.
The final was between Ser Gwayne Hightower and Ser Ormund Hightower. Cousins.
That gave the crowd something more interesting than a simple contest of skill. It gave them blood against blood without the unpleasantness of war. Oldtown men gathered thickly around the rail.
Ormund rode with controlled confidence, his armour fine, his bearing properly lordly. Gwayne rode with less display and more ease. He sat his horse like a man who trusted training more than appearance.
Jace stood beside me near the Tyrell box, Ser Arryk just behind him.
"Who do you think will win?" Jace asked.
"Gwayne."
He looked at me. "You answered very quickly."
"Because Ormund wants to win, and Gwayne knows how."
"That seems unkind to Ser Ormund."
"It is not meant as an insult. Ormund is capable, but Gwayne is the better knight. Watch how they hold the lance before the first pass. Ormund carries his confidence in his shoulders. Gwayne carries his in his hands."
Jace watched closely.
The first pass proved little to the crowd and much to men who knew what to see. Lances struck shields and splintered cleanly. Both riders held. Ormund received the louder cheer, perhaps because his impact looked stronger, but Gwayne had absorbed his strike with less waste.
On the second pass, Gwayne adjusted.
Not dramatically. A small change in angle, a steadier line, a better use of the horse beneath him. His lance struck Ormund’s shield hard enough to twist him in the saddle. Ormund recovered, but the crowd felt the difference.
On the third pass, Gwayne unhorsed him.
It was clean. Not cruel. Not lucky. Clean.
The lance broke against Ormund’s shield, and Ormund went sideways with all the dignity a man could manage while being removed from a horse in front of half the Reach. He hit the ground hard enough for the crowd to gasp, then rose with help from his squires. Gwayne dismounted before accepting the cheer and crossed to him.
He did not celebrate first. He checked his cousin.
Jace noticed. "Ser Gwayne went to him before bowing to the stands," he said.
"He did."
"Is that because they are family?"
"Partly. Also because he is a good knight."
Jace looked toward Gwayne, who had now accepted Ormund’s stiff congratulations. "You sound sad again."
I did not answer at once.
Gwayne Hightower stood in the sun, victorious, honourable, and applauded by the Reach. He looked like a man who should have belonged to a simpler story. A knight who won tourneys, served his house, protected his kin, and aged into respect.
Instead, if the future I knew still found a path toward us, he would be pulled into the Dance with the rest. Not because he deserved ruin. Because blood rarely asked permission before making claims on decent men.
"It is possible to respect someone and still know you may one day stand opposed," I said.
Jace was quiet for a moment. "I do not like that."
"No. You should not."
That was enough of that lesson for one afternoon.
Gwayne received the honours of the joust with grace. Ormund wore defeat less comfortably, though not disgracefully. Lord Redwyne applauded both. Lord Tarly looked as if the outcome had confirmed something he already believed. Lord Tyrell seemed delighted that a Hightower final had given his celebration another story to carry home.
That evening, the last feast was lighter than the one after the melee, though only by Reach standards. More laughter, fewer speeches, and the loosened mood of guests preparing to depart on the morrow. Gwayne was congratulated often. Ormund endured being congratulated for reaching the final, which men often phrased as though it were not a consolation.
I spoke briefly with Gwayne near the edge of the hall. "You rode well," I said. "The third pass was clean enough that even men who preferred your cousin had little room to argue."
Gwayne smiled with tired modesty. "They will find room by morning. Families are skilled at building chambers for excuses."
"Then I will say it tonight before construction begins."
"That is kind of you, my prince. Or perhaps strategic. I have noticed you are capable of making courtesy serve twice."
"Most useful things should."
He laughed softly. "Then I will accept the compliment and not trouble myself over which purpose it served first."
"Take the compliment cleanly. You earned it."
His expression sobered. "As you earned yours in the melee. I know there are men here who would have preferred not to applaud you, but they did. That is no small thing."
"No. It is not."
We regarded one another for a moment with the strange honesty that sometimes appeared between men who stood on opposite sides of a conflict neither had openly declared. Then he bowed and returned to his kin.
The next morning, Highgarden began to empty.
Not all at once. Great gatherings ended like tides, with some houses leaving early to prove they were important, others lingering to prove they were welcome, and a few staying because their wagons were poorly managed.
Landrey had the Dread Legion escort ready before most of the Reach had finished breakfast. The fifteen thousand gold dragons had been counted, sealed, and placed under guard to travel by road rather than dragonback. Gold was heavy, and I had no desire to test whether Dravvaxx’s patience extended to carrying chests.
Ser Arryk would return with Landrey and the escort. He disliked watching Jace depart by dragon without him, but even a Kingsguard could not guard a prince in the sky without wings.
He spoke to Jace before we left. "My prince, I expect to hear that you obeyed your father’s instructions during the flight and did not mistake confidence for permission to grow careless."
Jace stood straight beneath the warning. "I will be careful, Ser Arryk. Vermax has flown the journey once now, and I know where he grew tired west of the Mander."
"That is exactly the sort of answer that reassures me and worries me at the same time," Arryk said. "Knowing where a dragon tired is useful. Believing that knowledge removes danger would be foolish."
"I do not believe that."
"Good. Then return safely, and give your mother no reason to blame me from a distance."
Jace smiled. "Mother can manage that without reason."
Ser Arryk’s expression remained solemn, though his eyes warmed. "She is a princess. It is her right."
Lord Matthos Tyrell came to see us off, with enough nobles gathered nearby to turn farewell into another form of theatre. That was expected. Dravvaxx and Vermax waited in the field beyond the gardens, watched by keepers, guards, and half the servants of Highgarden pretending to have duties nearby.
"Prince Othorion," Lord Tyrell said, "Highgarden has been honoured by your presence. I hope my son’s name day celebrations will one day be told to him without too much exaggeration, though I confess that may be impossible now."
"Most sons deserve a few exaggerated stories about their beginnings," I said. "Lord Lyonel will have better ones than most."
"That is generously said. Prince Jacaerys, I hope the Reach proved worth the journey."
Jace bowed with careful grace. "It did, my lord. I will remember Highgarden, and I thank you again for welcoming us."
Lord Tyrell looked pleased by him. "You will be welcome again."
Several men heard that.
Lord Crane offered a firm farewell. Lord Ashford did the same, with Dickon beside him looking as though he had decided being defeated by me was now part of his charm. Lord Blackbar clasped my arm hard enough to remind my shoulder of the melee. Lord Tarly gave a short nod that carried more respect than many men’s speeches. Redwyne bowed with perfect courtesy and no warmth beyond what the day required.
That was fine. A cold man who remained polite had still chosen not to be openly hostile. For now, that was enough.
We mounted near the eleventh hour.
The flight back would take most of the day. Eight hours, give or take, wind, fatigue, and the willingness of Vermax to keep steady pace beside Dravvaxx. We had left King’s Landing in darkness for the journey west. We would return in sunset if the skies remained kind.
Dravvaxx lowered himself enough for me to climb into the saddle, grumbling faintly as the straps were checked. Vermax shifted nearby, eager and restless, though less nervous of Dravvaxx than he had been on the first flight. Jace mounted with more confidence than he had left King’s Landing, and I saw him settle Vermax with a hand against the dragon’s neck.
Not a boy pretending command. A rider learning it.
We rose from Highgarden under a clear sky.
Below, the castle shone white and gold amid its gardens, surrounded by fields, orchards, walls, and waving figures. The Reach opened around it, green and generous, threaded with roads that would soon carry stories of the tournament in every direction.
Some would speak of the melee. Some of Gwayne’s jousting victory. Some of dragons over Highgarden. Some of the strange courtesy between men whose houses might one day face each other across bloodier fields.
By the second hour of flight, Highgarden had vanished behind us.
By the fourth, the Mander was a bright line in the distance, and Jace had grown quiet. Long flight humbled excitement. The saddle made its own demands. Wind dried the mouth. Muscles tightened. Even wonder became tiring when the world passed beneath you without pause.
Vermax tired before Dravvaxx.
That was no insult. Dravvaxx flew as if distance were merely an inconvenience the earth invented for lesser creatures. Vermax worked harder, especially when the wind shifted. Jace noticed and adjusted, giving him a little more room, letting him glide where the air allowed, encouraging rather than forcing pace.
I watched without interfering. At one point, he drew closer, still at a safe distance from Dravvaxx. "Vermax is holding well," he called, though the wind pulled at his words.
"He is," I shouted back. "So are you."
Jace’s face brightened, not with childish delight exactly, but with the quiet satisfaction of praise earned in difficulty.
We flew on.
The Reach gave way gradually to harsher country. The fields became less generous. Roads seemed poorer. Villages gathered more tightly around their protections. By late afternoon, the air cooled, and the light began to turn gold.
Jace looked tired now, but not beaten. He had spent four days being watched by lords and most of one day crossing half the realm on dragonback. That would have worn down many grown men.
As the sun lowered, King’s Landing appeared ahead.
The city spread across the hills beside Blackwater Bay, roofs and walls catching the evening light. The Red Keep glowed redder than usual, its towers sharp against the sky. The Dragonpit rose dark and familiar, waiting like a memory we had left only briefly.
Jace turned in his saddle to look at me. He did not shout this time. He only smiled.
We had left with rumours at our backs and questions ahead of us. We returned with bruises, coin, new conversations begun, and a boy who had seen that power did not live only in councils or crowns. It lived in fields, feasts, farewells, and the way men spoke after being forced to look at what they would rather dismiss.
Dravvaxx descended as the sun touched the edge of the bay. Vermax followed, wings bright in the last light.
King’s Landing watched us return.
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