Highgarden, The Reach.
The city renowned as the "Most Beautiful City of Flowers in Westeros" was currently shrouded in a veil of unease.
The garrison atop the walls of Highgarden gripped their spears, staring nervously at the sight below.
On the plains outside the city, an army of twenty thousand stood in formation.
It was the army of House Hightower. The banner, a white tower topped with a burning beacon on a grey field, snapped in the wind.
This host gathered the elites of every House in the southern Reach, along with a standing army that the Hightowers had spent over a year recruiting and training with massive amounts of gold.
Spears stood like a forest; shields formed a solid wall. Cavalry was positioned on the left flank, archers on the right, and the main strength of the infantry occupied the center.
Their formation was disciplined, their demeanor solemn; not a single voice was raised in disorder.
This was a true army. These were not farmers conscripted on a whim or a ragtag force cobbled together in haste.
These were the elite veterans of House Hightower from Oldtown, and currently the most formidable military power in the southern Reach.
But what truly terrified those on the walls was not these twenty thousand men.
It was the giant dragon in the sky.
The Blue Queen. Tessarion.
The dragon circled above Highgarden. Her scales shimmered with a sapphire luster in the sunlight, casting a massive shadow upon the earth with every beat of her wings.
She did not fly fast, but her draconic eyes remained fixed on the garrison atop the walls.
Her gaze made the soldiers' scalps tingle with fear.
In the central tower of the wall, Margey Tyrell cradled her ten-month-old son, staring intently at the man approaching on horseback outside the city.
Lord Ormund Hightower.
A man in his thirties with a stern countenance. He wore the traditional silver-and-green battle robes of House Hightower, riding a tall white horse.
He looked up toward the battlements. He and Margey locked eyes. Then, he bowed slightly in his saddle.
It was a polite gesture. But Margey felt no politeness in it whatsoever.
"Maester?" her voice was urgent.
The middle-aged Maester beside her stepped forward and lowered his head.
"My Lady."
"Have the other vassals of the Reach been notified?"
The Maester nodded. "Ravens have been dispatched. House Rowan, House Fossoway, House Tarly, House Merryweather, House Ashford... all have been sent word."
He hesitated for a moment before adding, "But it takes time for them to muster their hosts."
Margey stared at him. "How long?"
The Maester was silent for a while. "The fastest vassals would take at least five days to arrive."
Margey closed her eyes. Five days. There were twenty thousand men and a dragon beneath her walls. Highgarden had only three thousand defenders.
Three thousand against twenty thousand, plus a dragon.
She opened her eyes and looked down at the sleeping infant in her arms.
Lyonel Tyrell. Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South, and heir to the Golden Rose.
Eleven months old. His father, the late Lord Tyrell, had died a year ago after falling from his horse.
Now, his mother held him as she stood upon the walls, facing twenty thousand men and a dragon.
Margey walked to the edge of the battlements, looking down at the approaching Lord Ormund Hightower.
"Lord Hightower!"
Her voice was clear, ringing out sharply in the silence.
Lord Ormund looked up with a smile. "My Lady."
"Do you intend to commit treason against your superiors?" Margey's voice carried a suppressed fury.
"To lead an army to besiege your liege Lord's seat so soon after his death?"
Lord Ormund did not take offense. He merely bowed again.
"My Lady, you misunderstand."
Straightening himself in the saddle, he spoke loudly.
"We are merely acting on the orders of the Iron Throne in King's Landing, inviting Lord Lyonel Tyrell to accompany us to the capital."
He paused, then continued.
"My Lady, do not forget the double oath. Though House Tyrell is our liege Lord, the Targaryen Crown is our ultimate sovereign. And they are yours as well. Now that the Iron Throne has summoned Lord Lyonel Tyrell, will you not go?"
Margey's fingers tightened.
"Lyonel is only ten months old!" Her voice rose.
"Do you expect him to ride a horse to King's Landing?"
A playful glint appeared on Ormund's face. The Tyrells were nothing more than this; if they hadn't knelt so quickly years ago to satisfy Aegon the Conqueror, they never would have risen from being the stewards of the Gardener Kings to possessing a castle as beautiful as Highgarden.
In terms of bloodline, the Tyrells were lesser than many other scions of Garth Greenhand.
They only held their station because they knew how to pick the winning side.
Now that the entire South had submitted to the Greens, and the Tyrells remained ambiguous? If he didn't make an example of them, who else?
Ormund smiled and said, "Of course not." He pointed toward the sky.
"Tessarion will carry him. Prince Daeron will look after him personally."
Margey looked up at the circling blue dragon. Her heart sank.
To let a ten-month-old baby ride a dragon? Even if the flight were smooth, it was still a dragon.
A beast that breathed fire and ate men. To let an infant fly thousands of miles?
"My Lady may rest assured," Ormund's voice drifted up.
"Tessarion is of a gentle temperament, and though Prince Daeron is only thirteen, his horsemanship, and dragon-riding, is superb. Lord Lyonel will be in no danger."
Margey said nothing. She knew there would be no danger in the flight itself.
The danger lay in what happened after they reached King's Landing.
Who held power in King's Landing now? Prince Aemond, the man who had killed his own kin, burned High Tide and captured Dragonstone.
She had received word that the Blacks had already attacked the Brackens in the Riverlands.
House Bracken was a prestigious Great House, yet under the assault of Daemon and Caraxes, it had lasted only four days before surrendering.
She was truly unwilling to let the infant Lyonel be dragged into such a treacherous war.
What did Aemond want with Lyonel in King's Landing? As a hostage? To force the Tyrells to declare their stance? Or... she didn't dare think further.
"My Lady," Lord Ormund's voice rose again.
"We are only following orders. Pray do not make this difficult."
He paused.
"Or is it that House Tyrell no longer recognizes the royal decrees from King's Landing?"
Margey's breath hitched.
"Or perhaps..." Ormund's voice drawled slowly from beneath the gate.
"Has House Tyrell already decided to support the traitors in the North?"
Margey's face turned pale.
'Traitors in the North. The Blacks. Rhaenyra.'
She opened her mouth to retort, but she didn't know what to say. If she said they didn't support the Blacks, why refuse the royal summons?
If she said they remained neutral, Ormund would likely use the excuse of failing to uphold feudal oaths to launch an attack.
Many Houses in the Reach were eager to replace the Tyrells.
Ormund looked up at her. His expression was still calm, even gentle. But Margey saw something in his eyes. It was patience.
The patience of a hunter watching prey in a trap. He was waiting for Margey to make a mistake.
"My Lady," the Maester's voice interrupted her thoughts. Margey turned her head. The Maester's expression was grim.
"My Lady, look over there."
Margey followed his finger. On the distant horizon, dust was billowing. Cavalry. A large host of them.
Margey's heart jumped. Had reinforcements arrived so quickly? But the Maester did not look happy.
"That is..." Margey's voice was dry.
The Maester squinted at the banners and said with difficulty, "It is House Florent."
Margey froze. House Florent. One of the Great Houses of the Reach, which had contested the Tyrells' rule for generations.
They always claimed to be the true heirs to the Reach, as their bloodline was more ancient than the Tyrells'. They had arrived while Highgarden was besieged by an army.
"Those traitors..." Margey hissed through gritted teeth.
The Maester finished her thought. "They are here to kick us while we are down."
Margey looked down at the sleeping baby. Lyonel's face was flushed, his lips puckered in a sweet dream.
He knew nothing of this. He only knew to sleep when full and eat when awake. Margey held him tighter.
"My Lady," the Maester said softly.
"You must make a decision."
Margey did not speak. She only stared at Ormund Hightower below.
Ormund was staring back. That gentle smile was still on his face, but Margey saw the certainty in it.
The certainty that she would yield. The certainty that she had no other choice. The certainty that this siege wouldn't even need to be fought.
Three thousand against twenty thousand, plus a dragon, plus the arriving Florents.
How could they fight? If they did, the Iron Throne would use it as a pretext to strip House Tyrell of their title as Wardens of the South.
Margey closed her eyes and sighed. "Maester."
"Yes."
"Open the gates."
The Maester hesitated for a second, then nodded.
"Open the gates," Margey's voice was calm.
"Invite Lord Hightower into the city. I will bring Lyonel to meet him personally."
The Maester opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing.
He bowed. "Yes." He turned and hurried down the wall.
Margey stood there alone. She held Lyonel, looking at the twenty thousand men, the blue dragon in the sky, and the Florent cavalry drawing closer.
The wind ruffled her hair, but she didn't care. She only looked at the infant in her arms. The baby stirred and then continued to sleep.
Margey's tears fell onto his swaddling. She reached up to wipe them away. Then she raised her head.
Below the walls, Ormund Hightower was dismounting. The gates were opening. She had no way back.
-------
The Great Hall of Highgarden.
In the Great Hall of the Highgarden keep, the sigil of the Golden Rose still bloomed upon the walls, the thousand-year glory of House Tyrell. Margey Rowan stood in the center of the hall, clutching Lyonel. Behind her stood a few Tyrell vassals and over fifty knights.
Opposite her, Ormund Hightower had just taken the high seat. Margey said nothing. Ormund said nothing.
He merely watched her for a long time. His smile was even gentler than it had been outside.
"My Lady is indeed wise and reasonable."
Margey remained silent. Lord Ormund continued, "Rest assured, Lord Lyonel will come to no harm in King's Landing. King Aegon is merciful, and though Prince Aemond is stern, he is never harsh with children. In King's Landing, the Royal Family will take good care of Lord Lyonel. In the future, he will become an outstanding Lord."
Margey remained mute.
'An outstanding Lord? Growing up under the watch of the Crown?' She nodded.
Ormund watched her reaction. His smile deepened.
"Does My Lady have any other requests?"
Margey was silent for a moment. "I am going with him. Lyonel is small; he needs his mother."
Ormund had already expected this and nodded.
"That is no problem."
Margey knew what this meant. She would be a hostage as well. It meant that if any Tyrell regent back in Highgarden dared to move, she and Lyonel would be the ones threatened.
She had tied her life to her son's. But she had no other choice.
"I will not leave my son."
Ormund stood up and bowed slightly to her.
"My Lady is indeed extraordinary. Pray, prepare yourselves. We depart in two days. You have made a wise choice."
He pushed open the doors and walked out. Margey stood alone under the Golden Rose in the empty hall.
From outside came the clamor of the army, Hightower soldiers entering the city, Florent cavalry taking their positions. Those were the sounds of others.
Lyonel stirred in her arms. He woke up, looking at his mother with large, bright eyes that reflected the sunlight from the window.
He reached out to grab her face. Margey looked down at him, her tears falling once more.
She gently squeezed the tiny hand.
"Lyonel," she whispered, "Mama will always be with you."
Lyonel didn't understand. He just grinned. Sunlight flooded through the window, bathing the mother and son.
The Golden Rose on the wall continued to bloom, but the masters of this castle were about to leave
-----
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