At the same time, in the Reach.
Bitterbridge.
The surface of the river reflected a riot of colorful banners.
House Hightower's white banner bearing the flaming tower, House Tyrell's golden rose banner, House Florent's red foxflower banner, House Redwyne's grape banner, House Tarly's green hunter banner...
Hundreds of banners from the noble houses of the Reach snapped loudly in the wind, decorating both sides of Bitterbridge like a festival.
A massive tourney ground had been erected on the grassy fields beside the river.
Wooden stands stretched along both sides of the lists.
The stands were packed with nobles and knights from every corner of the Reach.
They wore their finest clothes, their faces brimming with excitement.
Today was the second day of the knightly tourney.
The three-day event had been Lord Ormund Hightower's idea.
In his words, marching and waging war was exhausting, and the soldiers needed time to relax.
At the same time, it was also a chance for the young knights of the Reach to display their martial skill and uphold the chivalric spirit of the Reach.
On the field, two knights were locked in fierce combat.
One was a knight of House Redwyne clad in blue-and-white livery, wielding a lance atop a magnificent white steed.
The other was a knight of House Tarly in green-and-gold colors, also carrying a lance while riding a black warhorse. The two thundered across the field, their lances crashing together with ear-piercing metallic shrieks that drew wave after wave of cheers.
"Good!"
"Strike him!"
"Unhorse him!"
In the stands, the spectators rose excitedly to their feet, waving their arms and shouting support for the knight they favored.
At the very front, in the honored seats, Lord Ormund sat at the center.
He was in his thirties, handsome, with a neatly trimmed beard, dressed in a deep blue velvet robe embroidered with golden flames around the collar.
A faint smile rested on his face at all times. Every now and then, he nodded politely toward those around him, looking entirely composed, as though everything remained firmly within his grasp.
To his left sat Prince Daeron Targaryen.
The thirteen-year-old prince wore black armor beneath a cloak bearing the golden three-headed dragon upon a black field. His silver hair gleamed beneath the sunlight.
A faint smile lingered on Daeron's face, yet his gaze drifted elsewhere, as though his mind was occupied by other thoughts.
To Ormund's right sat Lady Margaery and her ten-month-old son, Lord Lyonel.
Lady Margaery was just past thirty and came from House Rowan, eldest daughter of Goldengrove.
She was graceful and beautiful, her golden hair tied into an elegant high bun secured with a pearl-studded hairpin.
She wore a pale green gown adorned with golden roses, making her fair skin appear even paler.
But her complexion looked poor at the moment, pale and weary, with deep worry hidden in her eyes.
In her arms rested the year-old Lord Lyonel. The child had inherited the features of House Tyrell—a head of soft brown hair and bright blue eyes now opened wide with curiosity.
He stared at the lively spectacle around him, occasionally babbling incoherently.
Lady Margaery gently patted her son's back, yet it felt as though a great stone weighed heavily upon her heart.
Highgarden had been surrounded, and House Florent had taken the opportunity to make its move. Left with no other choice, she could only follow the Hightowers with her son.
Now she and her child were being "escorted" to King's Landing. Officially, they were going to pay homage to King Aegon II.
In truth, they were hostages.
She had no idea what kind of fate awaited her.
On the field, another round of the tourney had ended.
The knight of House Redwyne emerged victorious and rode around the lists amid thunderous cheers, saluting the spectators.
Lord Ormund rose to his feet and applauded.
"Excellent! Truly excellent! Pass down my order—reward the victorious knight with one hundred gold dragons!"
A wave of astonished admiration spread through the crowd.
One hundred gold dragons was enough for a knight to buy a small manor.
Ormund sat back down and turned toward Lady Margaery.
"My lady, what do you think of the tourney?"
Lady Margaery forced out a smile.
"Magnificent beyond words."
"The knights of the Reach truly are the bravest in all the Seven Kingdoms."
Ormund smiled faintly, his gaze falling upon the child in her arms.
"Little Lyonel will become such a valiant knight someday as well, won't he?"
"After all, he carries the blood of the Golden Rose."
Lady Margaery's hands tightened slightly, though she quickly regained control of herself.
"My lord... hopefully so."
"When he grows up, may he serve King Aegon loyally."
"He certainly will," Ormund replied. "When the time comes, I shall personally train the young lord in knightly combat."
Lady Margaery's smile stiffened.
On the field, the next match had already begun. This time, it was a knight of House Florent against one from House Tyrell.
Both were young and hot-blooded, clashing fiercely the moment the match began. Lance and shield collided with shrill crashes.
"Victory to Florent!" several men wearing the red foxflower colors shouted loudly from one corner of the stands.
"Victory to Tyrell!" supporters dressed in golden rose colors roared back from the opposite side.
The shouting grew more heated by the second, the tension in the air becoming increasingly obvious.
Watching the scene, a faint smile curled across Lord Ormund's lips.
The rivalry between House Florent and House Tyrell was common knowledge throughout the Reach.
But no matter how much the two houses despised each other, they could only compete fairly within his tourney now.
That was the taste of power.
He turned toward Prince Daeron, only to discover that the prince's gaze remained fixed in the distance, seemingly uninterested in the tourney unfolding before him.
"Your Highness," Lord Ormund said softly, "would you not like to try your hand in the lists? With your skill, you would surely win the crowd's admiration."
Daeron returned to himself and shook his head.
"No, Lord Ormund."
"I'm still too young. Perhaps in a few more years."
Ormund smiled and did not press the matter further before walking away.
Another wave of cheers erupted from the stands.
The knight of House Florent had been unhorsed, and the Tyrell knight claimed victory.
The Tyrell supporters erupted in celebration while the Florent supporters hung their heads in frustration.
At that moment, a low voice sounded beside Daeron's ear.
"Your Highness."
Daeron turned his head and saw an old man dressed in black robes.
Otto Hightower.
His grandfather. The former head of House Hightower. The former Hand of the King.
Otto was now over seventy years old. His hair had turned completely white, and wrinkles covered his face, yet his eyes remained as sharp as an eagle's.
"Grandfather," Daeron nodded.
Otto sat beside him, his gaze sweeping across the tourney grounds before finally settling upon Lord Ormund.
His nephew, Lord Ormund, was currently immersed in the joy of watching the jousts, completely oblivious to what was happening over here.
"The march is too slow," Otto said quietly.
Daeron froze for a moment. "What?"
"The march," Otto repeated. "Ormund is treating this campaign like an outing. Like some grand display. Strutting around like a peacock."
"What we should be doing is crushing the Blacks as quickly as possible, not holding knightly tourneys here."
Prince Daeron fell silent for a moment as he looked at his grandfather, Otto, before speaking.
"It's not that bad."
"Brother Aegon was only severely injured. Besides, my brother Aemond already killed Rhaenys."
"We have plenty of time."
Otto looked at him, a complicated emotion flashing through his eyes.
"Your Highness... don't you think Aemond has become too cruel?"
Daeron frowned.
"Cruel? Why?"
"He killed Rhaenys. She was your aunt."
"She was an enemy," Daeron replied. "Enemies deserve to die."
"That would make him a kinslayer. The Seven Kingdoms will despise him."
Daeron let out a dismissive snort.
"Then were any of you capable of killing Rhaenys?"
"I couldn't do it myself either..."
"Right now, it's my brother Aemond carrying the entire Green faction on his shoulders alone."
"Not your Hightowers. Not the Lannisters."
"Grandfather, only dragons can fight dragons..."
Otto remained silent for a while before sighing softly.
"Your Highness, you're still young. There are some things you don't understand."
Daeron said nothing more and quietly watched the matches.
Another round of jousting ended upon the field.
Once again, a knight of House Hightower claimed victory, and thunderous cheers erupted from the crowd.
Suddenly, Otto spoke again.
"If we win... in the future, which side will you stand on?"
Daeron froze.
"What?"
He fell silent.
Of course he understood what Otto meant.
Right now, his elder brother Aegon was gravely wounded, while Sunfyre hovered near death.
Aemond had slain Rhaenys, his prestige soaring afterward, and the army had elevated him as Prince Regent.
If Aemond won the war, Aegon would remain king while Aemond continued as regent.
And if Aegon were to die someday, Aemond could become king at any moment.
"You're trying to drive a wedge between us brothers?" Daeron said coldly.
Otto shook his head.
"No, Your Highness. I'm merely correcting things."
"The throne belongs to Aegon II, whether by legitimacy or law."
"He is the eldest son. He is the heir Viserys I personally named."
"No matter what Aemond does, he cannot replace him."
Otto reached out and pressed a hand onto Daeron's shoulder, speaking earnestly.
"You have the ability to do this, Daeron."
"You have a dragon, an army, and the support of House Hightower."
"You can restrain Aemond and stop him from doing whatever he pleases."
"I'm not asking you to harm your brother. I'm asking you to protect your other brother."
Daeron looked at Otto's hand, then slowly pried his fingers away.
"What exactly are you afraid of?" he asked.
Otto sighed again, exhaustion lingering in his voice.
"What am I afraid of?"
"I'm afraid Aemond will become another Maegor."
"Do you know what kind of man Maegor was?"
"I do not wish to see such days return again."
Daeron remained silent for a long moment before finally speaking slowly.
"Targaryens stand above. The Seven Kingdoms stand below."
"We were born to stand above the Seven Kingdoms."
Otto froze.
Daeron continued: "That was something Aemond once said."
"And I believe he was right."
"We Targaryens are descendants of the Dragonlords. Valyrian fire flows through our blood."
"No matter how powerful the nobles become, they are still only our subjects."
"They can fight for power. They can scheme against one another. But in the end, they still have to kneel before us."
He turned to look at Otto, his purple eyes clear and unwavering.
"Grandfather, I know you mean well."
"But Aemond... he's different."
"He can restore House Targaryen. He can make the Seven Kingdoms submit to the Targaryens once more."
"As long as he doesn't harm our elder brother, I won't interfere with anything he does."
Otto opened his mouth as if to say something, but Daeron had already risen to his feet.
"And one more thing," Daeron said as he looked down at him. "Grandfather, face reality."
"You're nothing more than a remnant of the old era. There's no place for you in the new one."
With that, he turned and walked away toward the other side of the tourney grounds.
Otto remained seated there without moving.
He remembered the years when he had served as Hand of the King, when Viserys sat upon the Iron Throne while he stood at the king's side, with all of Westeros seemingly under his control.
He had supported Alicent in becoming queen. She had given birth to four sons and two daughters, and he had once believed the future of the Greens was limitless.
But now?
Viserys was dead.
Poisoned.
Alicent spent her days locked away inside Maegor's Holdfast, rarely emerging.
Aegon was gravely wounded.
Aemond had become Prince Regent, holding absolute power in his hands.
And Daeron...
Even Daeron had been influenced by Aemond's thinking, believing that Targaryens were naturally meant to stand above the Seven Kingdoms.
As for Otto Hightower—the once all-powerful Hand of the King—now all he could do was sit here and watch a dull knightly tourney.
Listening to his youngest grandson tell him there was no place for him in the new era.
A bitter smile crossed his face.
Perhaps Daeron was right.
He truly was old.
Truly unable to keep up with this era anymore.
On the field, another round of jousting had already begun.
Two knights clashed fiercely, lance striking lance as metallic crashes split the air.
The crowd roared madly, each wave of cheers louder than the last.
But Otto heard none of it.
He was merely a remnant of the old era.
And the new era had no place for him.
In the distance, Lady Margaery held her son as she watched everything unfold.
Lowering her head, she looked at the sleeping Lyonel in her arms. The child slept peacefully, utterly unaware of everything happening around him.
"Lyonel," she whispered softly, "no matter what happens, Mother will protect you."
The child smacked his lips and continued sleeping.
Lady Margaery raised her head and looked northward.
Toward the direction of King's Landing.
She knew an uncertain fate awaited her there.
But she had no path left to retreat.
This journey to King's Landing—she had already heard of Aemond's temperament. All she could do was hope to curry favor with the Prince Regent and preserve House Tyrell's nominal rule over the Reach.
After all, there were simply too many houses in the Reach now that wished to replace the Tyrells...
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