Chapter 15: Chapter 15: The Garden Court
Soon after the display in court, we were led out into the gardens for lunch.
It was not called a display, of course. No one in the Red Keep would have been so honest. Officially, it was a small gathering to honour Prince Daemon’s return from the Stepstones, a pleasant afternoon meal where the king might enjoy his brother’s company, the court might celebrate victory, and the important people of King’s Landing might see for themselves the men who had helped secure the Narrow Sea.
In truth, it felt like another stage.
The gardens of the Red Keep were beautiful in a way Bloodstone had never been. Pale stone paths wound through carefully tended greenery. Flowers bloomed in rich colours beneath the warm light, and fountains whispered softly enough that one could almost forget the city beyond the walls stank of sweat, smoke, fish, and waste.
Servants moved among the guests with trays of wine, fruit, bread, roasted meats, and small delicate things I did not know the names of. Music drifted through the air, gentle and polished, while lords and ladies laughed as if the world had never known hunger, war, or mass graves.
It was almost dreadful.
I stood behind Daemon like his own personal sentry, still wearing the same armour I had worn from the Stepstones. The dents had been hammered out where possible, and the worst of the blood had been cleaned from the plate, but no amount of cloth and oil could make me look like I belonged among silk, jewels, and soft-handed courtiers. Gold-bronze armour, purple cloth, silver-white hair, purple eyes, and World Breaker at my side made me a curiosity whether I wished to be one or not.
And everyone wished to look at a curiosity. Some tried to be subtle. Most failed.
Daemon and Viserys sat together beneath a shaded awning, wine cups in hand, speaking as brothers should. Or perhaps as brothers pretended to when one had spent years causing the other grief and the other was too relieved by his return to remember every wound clearly.
Viserys seemed lighter than he had in the throne room. His laughter came easily, and when he smiled at Daemon, there was a softness in him that made it difficult to hate the man for the future I knew he would fail to prevent.
Daemon, for his part, looked entirely at ease. That irritated me.
He had dragged me from my men, flown me across the Narrow Sea on the back of a dragon, paraded me through court in battle-worn armour, and now lounged in the gardens as though all of it had been a harmless bit of amusement. He drank, laughed, and told stories of their youth with the confidence of a man who knew the world would forgive him so long as he remained entertaining enough.
I longed to be back with the Dread Legion.
I longed for Vaeron’s sharp looks, Dick’s ledgers, Jasper’s blunt humour, Rollis’s calm warnings, Emeric’s complaints, and even Landrey’s endless devotion to horses. I wanted a command tent, a map table, a list of supplies, anything that made sense.
Instead, I had to stand among lords and ladies, nodding at names I knew too well from histories that had not yet happened, and pretend to be fascinated by conversations that moved like knives wrapped in silk.
Viserys was telling Daemon a story from their childhood when they had tried to sneak into the Dragonpit without permission. Daemon denied most of it, which only made Viserys laugh harder.
"You were the one who insisted we could get close enough to touch Dreamfyre’s tail," Viserys said.
"I insisted no such thing."
"You absolutely did."
"I said you could get close enough. I had more sense."
Viserys laughed. "You had less fear."
"That is not the same as lacking sense."
"It often is with you."
For a moment, they looked almost ordinary. That was the strangest part.
Men like Daemon and Viserys were easy to imagine as symbols. The Rogue Prince. The weak king. The dragonrider. The peacemaker. Names in histories become simple because the dead cannot object to being flattened. But sitting there in the garden, laughing over some foolish childhood memory, they were painfully human. That made everything worse.
While the two brothers continued reliving a past that must have felt simpler than the present, a woman in a black and red dress approached.
I noticed her before Daemon did.
Her hair was brown, arranged neatly beneath a veil of courtly grace, and she moved with the careful poise of someone who had learned young that every step in this place could be watched, judged, and used.
She was not old, not even close, but there was already a controlled weariness in her expression that did not belong to youth. Her gown was rich but modest by courtly standards, black and red in honour of the house she had married into, though the colours sat upon her like a role rather than a skin.
I knew her immediately. Queen Alicent Hightower.
She looked very much as I remembered from the show, though seeing her alive made memory feel inadequate. Her face was softer than history would one day make it, her eyes still carrying traces of the girl she had recently been before marriage, pregnancy, motherhood, and court had begun doing their work upon her.
Yet there was composure there too, and caution. She was not simply a young queen walking through a garden. She was Otto Hightower’s daughter, Viserys’s wife, and the mother of a child whose very existence had already begun to pull the realm toward fracture.
By my guess, she was recently a new mother. Aegon the Second would be an infant now. That thought sat uneasily in my stomach.
Alicent approached the three of us, and Viserys’s face brightened at the sight of her. "My queen," he said warmly.
She inclined her head. "Your Grace."
Daemon’s smile changed. It did not vanish. That would have been too honest. Instead, it sharpened into something lighter and crueller, the way a blade might catch sunlight and pretend to be ornament.
"Good-sister," Daemon said.
"Prince Daemon," Alicent replied.
The courtesy was perfect. The warmth was not. I stood still behind Daemon and wished very much to become part of the garden wall.
Alicent’s gaze moved briefly to me, and for a moment I felt the same quiet assessment I had felt from Otto Hightower, though hers was less cold and more wary. She took in the armour, the sword, the hair, the eyes, the foreignness of me, and the fact that I stood behind Daemon rather than beside any proper escort.
Viserys noticed. "Ah, yes. You were not in court for the introduction, were you?"
"No, Your Grace," Alicent said. "I was with Aegon."
The name landed softly. Aegon. The boy who would become king to some, usurper to others, and corpse to history.
Viserys smiled at the mention of his son. "Of course. Alicent, this is Captain Othorion Galeris of the Dread Legion. He fought with Daemon and Lord Corlys in the Stepstones."
Daemon lifted his cup. "He did more than fight. He killed the Crabfeeder."
Alicent’s eyes returned to me. I bowed deeply. "Your Grace."
"Captain Galeris," she said. "The court has spoken of little else since your arrival."
"That is unfortunate."
Viserys laughed softly. Alicent’s mouth curved in the faintest smile, though I could not tell whether she found the answer amusing or merely polite enough to acknowledge. "Unfortunate?"
"I fear stories grow faster in court than they do in camps."
Daemon leaned back in his chair. "And yet far less honestly."
Alicent glanced at him. "I imagine camps have their own lies."
"They do," Daemon said. "But they are better lies."
Viserys sighed, though not without affection. "Daemon."
"What? It is true."
Alicent turned back to me. "Then perhaps you can tell us what truly happened."
There was nothing hostile in her voice, but the request was not innocent. No question in the Red Keep was entirely innocent. She wanted to know what kind of man Daemon had brought into the court. A butcher, a braggart, a fool, a useful sword, or something worse. Perhaps she asked for herself. Perhaps for Otto. Perhaps both.
I chose my words carefully. "The Crabfeeder’s men were entrenched in the caves and ridges of Bloodstone," I said. "They would not come out for a normal assault, and dragonfire alone could not reach them deeply enough to end the matter. We needed to draw them into the open."
"So you offered yourself," Alicent said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
The question was simple. The answer was not.
Because I knew the story. Because I wanted to reach Westeros. Because Daemon refused. Because sending another man felt cowardly. Because I had already changed too much to stop. Because some part of me believed that if I could survive Bloodstone, I might earn a place close enough to prevent a greater war.
None of those answers could be spoken here. "It was my plan," I said instead. "It seemed wrong to ask another man to risk himself for it."
Alicent studied me carefully. Viserys looked pleased by the answer. Daemon looked amused, which meant he heard something beneath it. I disliked that.
"A dangerous sense of honour," Alicent said.
"Most kinds are dangerous, Your Grace."
"That sounds like something learned recently."
I met her gaze. "Very recently."
For a moment, her expression softened.
Then Daemon ruined it. "Our captain is being modest," he said. "He walked alone into the dunes, knelt with that absurd sword of his offered like tribute, and killed the first men foolish enough to come close. By the time the trap closed, half the Crabfeeder’s army wanted his head."
"Only half?" Viserys asked.
"The other half wanted the sword," Daemon said.
I looked at him. "That is a generous division, my prince."
Daemon grinned. "You survived. Do not complain about how I tell the tale."
"I would complain less if you told less of it."
Viserys laughed again, louder this time, and even Alicent seemed briefly entertained despite herself. Around us, nearby courtiers leaned closer while pretending not to listen. I felt their attention sharpening, felt the story attaching itself to me more firmly with every word Daemon spoke.
That was his gift and his cruelty. He could elevate a man while trapping him inside the shape he found most amusing.
Alicent folded her hands before her. "And your company remains in the Stepstones?"
"For now, Your Grace. My brother commands them in my absence."
"You are young to command five thousand men."
"So I have been told."
"Your brother is younger?"
"Sixteen."
Her brows lifted slightly. "And he commands in your absence?"
"He is more capable than most men twice his age."
Daemon snorted. "The boy glared at Caraxes as if the dragon had personally offended him."
"He was offended by the rider," I said.
The words left my mouth before caution caught them.
Viserys burst into laughter. Daemon’s grin widened dangerously. Alicent looked down for half a second, and I thought she might be hiding a smile. I kept my face calm, though inwardly I cursed myself. Vaeron would have kicked me under the table if he had been present.
"Careful, Captain," Daemon said. "I am beginning to think your brother was the polite one."
"He is not," I said. "Only the wiser."
That earned another laugh from Viserys and a low chuckle from Daemon.
Alicent’s gaze lingered on me with renewed interest. "You speak High Valyrian?"
I stilled slightly.
The question seemed casual, but I doubted it was. My blood, my sword, my name, and my appearance had all already marked me as Valyrian in the eyes of the court. Language was another test.
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Fluently?"
"Yes."
Daemon leaned forward. "Do you?"
I looked at him. "Do I what, my prince?"
"Speak it fluently."
I answered in High Valyrian before thinking better of it. "What do you want me to do? Prove it is not mine?"
Daemon’s eyes lit with amusement. Viserys looked delighted. Alicent, however, watched carefully, and I remembered too late that not everyone in the royal family spoke the language with the same comfort. That mattered. Language was not just speech here. It was inheritance. Belonging. Exclusion.
Daemon answered in the same tongue, his pronunciation sharp and natural. "Yes. Let them know the woman."
He was baiting me. I gave him nothing more than a small bow of the head. Viserys smiled, oblivious or choosing to be. "It is always pleasing to hear the old tongue spoken well. Your family kept it alive in Essos?"
"We kept what we could, Your Grace."
That was true enough.
Othorion’s memories carried the language from childhood tutors, family tradition, command phrases, contracts, songs, curses, and prayers. Heinrich had learned it from obsession. Between the two of us, High Valyrian felt disturbingly natural on my tongue.
Alicent nodded. "That is admirable."
"Or stubborn," Daemon said.
"Often the same thing," I replied.
Viserys smiled again, and for a moment the conversation might have continued harmlessly.
Then Otto Hightower arrived.
He did not stride into the garden as Daemon did. He appeared with quiet precision, as though he had always been nearby and had simply decided the correct moment to make that fact known. His green garments were immaculate, his expression composed, and his chain of office rested upon him with a weight he seemed born to carry.
"My king," Otto said, bowing.
"Otto," Viserys said. "Come, join us. We were hearing Captain Galeris attempt to survive Daemon’s storytelling."
"A dangerous undertaking," Otto said.
"Worse than Bloodstone," I said before I could stop myself.
Daemon laughed into his cup.
Otto’s eyes settled on me. "You are adapting quickly to court, Captain."
"I fear that is a generous interpretation, my lord Hand."
"Perhaps," he said. "Or perhaps you understand more than you wish to show."
There it was again. The measuring. Alicent’s gaze moved briefly between her father and me. The movement was small, but I saw it. She was still young, still new to the crown’s full weight, but she understood enough to notice when Otto began taking interest in someone. That alone made me wary.
Otto turned to Daemon. "Your return has stirred much discussion."
"I would hate to return quietly."
"No one would accuse you of that."
"Good."
Viserys raised a hand slightly, smiling but tired. "Let us not turn lunch into council."
"Of course, Your Grace," Otto said.
But the mood had shifted.
The music continued. Servants still moved. Laughter still rose from other groups scattered through the garden, but beneath the pleasant surface, the court had begun doing what courts did. It had seen me. It had named me. It had begun deciding whether I was threat, tool, curiosity, or passing entertainment.
I hated how quickly it happened. On Bloodstone, danger had come with blades and arrows. Here, it came through glances and pleasant conversation. I found myself longing again for the Dread Legion. At least soldiers were honest about wanting to kill you.
The afternoon stretched on. Lords and ladies approached in careful waves, never too many at once, never too openly eager. Some congratulated Daemon. Others praised Viserys for his brother’s victory, which was an impressive act of courtly balance.
A few spoke to me directly, asking about Essos, the Dread Legion, World Breaker, or Bloodstone. I answered with enough detail to be polite and not enough to be useful. One lord with a pointed beard asked whether my company might consider service in the Riverlands if disputes along a border worsened.
Another asked if Valyrian steel truly never dulled. A lady in blue asked whether all men of Essos looked like me, which made Daemon laugh so hard Viserys had to look away. Through it all, I stood, spoke, bowed, and pretended not to feel like a captured animal dressed in plate.
Then the garden changed.
It was subtle at first. A few heads turned toward the entrance. A murmur passed from one cluster of courtiers to another. The music did not stop, but it seemed to soften, as if the players themselves sensed the shift. Viserys looked up, and the warmth that crossed his face was different from the one he had shown Alicent or Daemon.
It was pride. It was love. It was worry hidden beneath both. I followed his gaze. A young woman entered the garden with the easy confidence of someone born to be watched.
Rhaenyra Targaryen.
For one terrible, impossible moment, I forgot how to breathe.
She looked exactly as I remembered from the show, and yet not at all. No image, no performance, no imagined version of history could match the reality of her standing alive beneath the sunlight of the Red Keep.
Her silver-gold hair fell in soft waves, bright against the darker tones of her riding dress, and her face carried that familiar mixture of youth, pride, intelligence, and defiance. She moved like a princess who knew she was loved by the king and judged by everyone else.
The Realm’s Delight. The future queen who would be crowned by some and rejected by others. The woman whose claim would one day set dragons against dragons, kin against kin, and burn the Targaryen golden age down to ash.
She had no idea. That was what struck me hardest.
Rhaenyra crossed the garden unaware of the full shape of the tragedy waiting for her. She did not know how many men would die speaking her name. She did not know what grief would carve from her.
She did not know that the child queen in histories, the woman in songs and condemnations, the half-remembered figure at the centre of a civil war, had already become real enough to stand before me.
I felt suddenly unsteady. Daemon noticed. Of course he did. His eyes flicked from my face to Rhaenyra, and his smile became something unreadable.
Viserys rose slightly from his seat. "Rhaenyra."
She approached with a smile for her father first, then a glance toward Daemon that carried more familiarity and warmth than anything she had shown the rest of the garden. Then her eyes moved to me.
The curiosity in them was immediate. I stood in battered armour, foreign and silver-haired, with World Breaker at my side and every courtier whispering my new-made legend around us.
Rhaenyra looked at me as if she had just found the most interesting thing in the garden. And I, who had crossed worlds believing I might one day change her fate, could do nothing but bow.
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