Chapter 58: A Feast at Highgarden
"Lord Unwin, mind your words!" Ser Alan Beesbury, seated at the same table, slammed his palm against the surface. He was the grandson and heir of , Master of Coin.
"This is treasonous talk. Be grateful we are not in the throne room, Unwin." Lord Thaddeus Rowan, a broad-shouldered and imposing man, also spoke sternly. "The Prince and the Prince have already arrived. You should count yourself fortunate they are still some distance away."
"I am merely speaking the truth." cast a glance toward Dragonzel and , who had just entered the banquet grounds and had not yet approached the main seating. "When a man lies with a woman, is he not always on top?"
"Silence!" Lord Rowan clenched his jaw, barely restraining the urge to throw wine in Unwin's face. Is this fool blind to the occasion? "Seven Hells—if you wish to die, then find a quiet corner and slit your own throat. Do not drag the rest of us down with you."
"Hmph." Lord Unwin snorted coldly, glancing once more toward the entrance.
At the center of the camp, and Lord Tyrell of had already stepped forward to receive the guests.
Raising his goblet, Ser Gwayne spoke first.
"Welcome, Prince Dragonzel. Your achievements in Dorne have brought joy to the entire realm. Songs of your deeds have spread from to . And you, Prince Jacaerys—please convey my regards to Princess Rhaenyra."
Dragonzel smiled faintly and inclined his head.
Jacaerys took a goblet of Arbor gold from a nearby attendant and respectfully handed it to Dragonzel.
"Lord Tyrell, thank you for such a grand reception. Ser Gwayne, and thank you for coming." Dragonzel raised his goblet in return.
Ser Gwayne gestured gracefully, inviting another forward.
"Prince, allow me to present Prince , the youngest son of His Grace."
Daeron placed a hand upon his chest and bowed slightly.
"Uncle Dragonzel, thank you for the gift you sent earlier," the young prince said eagerly. "The blade you gifted me rivals even my uncle's Valyrian steel sword, Vigilance. I used it to snap my instructor's longsword clean in half. It is an honor to receive such a weapon."
"I look forward to seeing Your Highness's performance at my tourney," Dragonzel replied with a smile, clinking cups with Ser Gwayne. "Of course, I will set an age limit—there will be a proper field for younger competitors."
"The honor will be mine, Uncle," Daeron said, eyes bright with excitement.
Around them, the assembled nobles gradually fell silent, rising one after another to salute the two princes.
"It seems the rumors are true," a knight of House Florent whispered quietly. "Did you see? Prince Daeron scarcely spared a glance for Prince Jacaerys."
"Watch your tongue," his companion muttered, pinching his side sharply. "Do you wish to die? Drink your wine and keep silent."
"Yes, yes—drinking," the knight hissed, wincing in pain.
Similar whispers spread among the long tables, only to be quickly suppressed by cautious voices.
No one wished to provoke the wrath of a Dragonlord.
Even if, outwardly, these Dragonlords appeared indifferent.
"Prince, I had not expected you to choose Lady Diana," Ser Gwayne said as he guided Dragonzel toward the main seat. "Lady Samantha has not yet heard the news—she would be delighted."
"House Tarly has proven itself a loyal vassal," Dragonzel replied calmly. "Lady Diana is also highly capable. With her assistance, the construction costs of Summerhall and Dragon Nest City have been reduced by over ten percent, with results exceeding all expectations. It is my fortune to wed her."
"Haha!" Gwayne laughed heartily, raising his goblet. "Then we shall soon be kin, Prince. Should you require anything, House Hightower will lend its full support."
Dragonzel tilted his head slightly, meeting Gwayne's gaze.
"Ser, there is indeed something I require."
"Please, speak freely."
"The Citadel."
Dragonzel lifted his goblet.
Gwayne blinked in mild surprise.
"Do you require maesters? That is a simple matter. A letter to the Citadel, and they will dispatch capable men at once." He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "If necessary, House Hightower can intervene—perhaps even secure you a man of near-Archmaester standing."
"You misunderstand," Dragonzel said, taking a slow sip of wine. "Have you heard of Maester Viserys?"
Gwayne shook his head, momentarily uncertain.
"He was once a senior member of the Citadel and now serves my house. Under my father's direction, he trained numerous students according to the Citadel's methods. By their standards, they possess the knowledge of full maesters—or at least assistants. However, as I respect Westerosi custom, I wish for these students to be formally recognized by the Citadel."
Gwayne fell silent.
He was no fool.
At once, he understood the implication.
This was not a simple request.
This was a challenge to the Citadel's monopoly over knowledge.
"That…" Gwayne hesitated. "Such a matter is beyond my authority. I can only attempt to mediate on your behalf."
"That is sufficient," Dragonzel said lightly. "In time, I shall visit the Citadel myself—on dragonback—and discuss the matter with the Archmaesters. Surely they would not wish to see knowledge suppressed."
He wiped the corner of his eye with mock solemnity.
"That would surely offend the gods."
Gwayne found himself momentarily speechless.
Even House Hightower could not yield such authority lightly.
The Silver Dragon had placed before him a most difficult problem.
Nearby, Lord Tyrell observed in silence, gently swirling the wine within his cup.
At last, Jacaerys spoke first.
"Uncle, it has been some time."
"Indeed," Daeron replied, silently reminding himself: be courteous, be courteous, be courteous.
In truth, his emotions were conflicted.
Once, in childhood, he and his brothers had not been unfriendly with Jacaerys and his siblings. had even led them in childish pranks against .
But everything had changed after the incident of "an eye for a dragon."
What had once been childish rivalry became bitter enmity.
Family ties shattered.
Blood turned against blood.
"Prince," Lord Tyrell finally said, raising his goblet slightly. "I have heard of your valor in crushing House Weel and securing the Stone Road."
"Nephew," Daeron added, lifting a lighter fruit wine. "This cup is for your courage—and your strength."
Jacaerys smiled faintly, lifting his own goblet.
"My thanks, Uncle. The Dornish are fierce. Even with dragons, we must remain vigilant. Strength is the only path to victory."
He raised his voice.
"To the brave warriors of the Stone Road—may Dorne melt like snow beneath dragonfire!"
A moment of stunned silence—
Then Lord Rowan and Ser Alan Beesbury were the first to respond.
"Well said!"
"To the warriors who struck down the Dornish!"
Goblets were raised across the camp.
Dragonzel smiled with satisfaction, lifting his own cup.
"To the warriors still fighting upon the Stone Road."
"To the warriors of the realm!" Daeron quickly followed, draining his cup. "To Prince Dragonzel, Prince Valarr—and to you, my nephews."
"To Prince Dragonzel! To Prince Valarr!"
The rising tide of voices drowned out whatever mutterings Lord Unwin Peake still uttered.
While the feast raged on in Highgarden—
Far away, at the Varezes war camp upon the Stone Road—
The great she-dragon Silverwing descended slowly into the clearing.
Valarr dismounted, still slightly dazed, removing his helm as he looked toward the assembled figures before him: Lord Edric Dondarrion and Lord Randal Cafferen.
"What matter required such urgency that I was summoned here?" Valarr asked, confusion clear in his voice.
"Your Highness… you must see for yourself," Edric said with a wry smile, gesturing for Amos Fezerel to bring the man forward.
An old figure approached.
Clad in tattered black robes, trembling with each step.
His clouded eyes widened in terror at the sight of Silverwing, and he nearly collapsed where he stood.
Upon his chest was a sigil—
A crowned skull.
"Your Highness…" the old man rasped.
"I am Caswell Manwoody of ."
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