The gravel on the Ocean Road began to turn green beneath the horses' hooves.
On the morning of their third day out of the Crakehall forests, the gray-brown rock walls typical of the Westerlands finally gave way to endless stretches of emerald green. The breeze from the Reach, carrying the scent of grass and trees, swept over the Cannibal's black scales. It was enough to make even that fierce dragon—who had once preyed on his own kind—slow the beating of his wings. His snout occasionally brushed against the blooming broom flowers by the roadside, as if checking to see if this strange, gentle scent was real.
"Finally, no more smell of Western rocks!" Myles River hefted his Northern battle-axe. His dark face was speckled with bits of grass as he reached out to pluck a pale purple wildflower. He was just about to mischievously stick it into the hair of his older comrade, Rupert Crabb, when Rupert swatted his hand away.
"Your hands have been all over that axe handle—don't wilt the flower!"
Rupert's movement exposed half of the silver spoon tucked in his tunic. It was the same one he'd swiped from Ashemark, engraved with the burning tree of House Marbrand. He guarded it carefully, acting as if the wind might steal it away.
Larys Strong rode past on his horse, "Mr. Longlegs," and couldn't help but tease him. "Look at the half-wild boy from House Crabb. Since when are you more sentimental than a highborn lady from King's Landing? A few more days and you'll be wearing that spoon as a necklace, won't you?"
High above them, Daemon silently pulled back on the Cannibal's reins. His gaze drifted past the forest ahead. The Ocean Road curved gently here, and suddenly, a stone fortress surrounded by towering oak trees crashed into view.
The brown stone walls were covered in ivy. On the flags fluttering atop the castle, three green oak leaves on a gold field shone brightly in the sunlight—the sigil of House Oakheart. Carved into the stone wall below was their house words: "Our Roots Go Deep." Worn smooth by time, the letters still carried a weight that seemed to span a thousand years.
"That must be Old Oak, right?" Gael rode up on Dreamfyre, her pale blue dragon wings sweeping over the treetops and startling a flock of colorful birds. "It's much more elegant than Crakehall. Look at those oak trees; they must be centuries old."
Mysaria peered down from Dreamfyre's saddle, a fallen oak leaf caught in her platinum curls. "There are so many knights at the city gates! They're all heading into the city, carrying armor and lances."
everyone looked where she pointed. Sure enough, over a dozen squads of knights in silver armor or green cloaks were gathering along the Ocean Road toward Old Oak. Some had brand-new lances strapped to their saddles; others had armor embroidered with noble sigils—a red nightingale, a crown of green leaves, and even a few variations of the Tyrell golden rose. clearly, they were all headed to the same destination.
"Looks like we arrived at the right time," Larys Strong said from atop his mount—which was actually a gray donkey. The hem of his black robe brushed against the dew-covered grass. His donkey had somehow snagged an oak branch and was chewing on it with great enthusiasm. "Something big must be happening in the Reach. Otherwise, you wouldn't see this many knights gathering."
---
As soon as they arrived beneath the castle gates, a hearty laugh drifted over on the wind.
A burly middle-aged man strode out to meet them. He wore a green robe embroidered with oak leaves and had a longsword with an ivory hilt at his waist. His beard was neatly trimmed. It was the Lord of Old Oak, Dennis Oakheart.
Behind him followed two young men. One looked very much like him, with a sharp, eager look in his eyes. The other stood tall and straight, his gray eyes bright as stars in a forest. He was introduced as the Count's younger brother, Ser Olyvar Oakheart.
"Prince Daemon! Princess Gael!" Dennis grabbed Daemon's wrist. His grip was as strong as Burton Crakehall's, but with the added warmth typical of Reach nobility. "I've been hoping you'd come! I heard you were at Crakehall a few days ago, and I was worried we'd miss you. If you were three days later, my whole family would have already left for Highgarden!"
He led the group into the city. The courtyard of Old Oak was even more elegant than they had imagined: manicured shrubs lined the stone path, and in the center stood a fountain statue of Garth Greenhand. Water dripped from the statue's fingertips, splashing into the pool below.
Handmaidens in green dresses passed by carrying platters of fresh strawberries and peaches—luscious fruits rarely seen in the Westerlands.
"You must be wondering why so many knights are gathering in the city," Dennis explained proactively, pointing to the assembled bannermen with pride in his eyes. "This year marks the fiftieth year of your grandfather, King Jaehaerys's reign. Duke Matthos Tyrell of Highgarden, along with his uncle Martin Tyrell—the former Master of Coin—and Martin's wife, Lady Florence, have decided to host a grand festival in the Reach before the tourney in King's Landing later this year. It's to celebrate His Majesty, and also to show the Seven Kingdoms that the Reach is prosperous—our grain piles higher than Casterly Rock's gold, and we have enough knights to dam the Mander River!"
Gael picked up a strawberry. It was sweet and refreshing. She laughed, "No wonder the road was full of knights; they're all going to Highgarden. Are you going too, Lord Oakheart?"
"Naturally!" Dennis patted his chest. "House Oakheart may not be as prominent as the Tyrells right now, but we are the old bones of the Reach. How could we miss such an event? Besides, I saw your heroism with my own eyes at the King's Landing tourney last year, Prince Daemon. When you struck Prince Daemon [referring to the elder Daemon or a slip of the tongue, implying Daemon struck his opponent's breastplate], the whole Red Keep shouted themselves hoarse!"
His eldest son immediately chimed in, "Father talks about it every day since he got back. He says the Prince's martial skill is even better than Ser Rickard Redwyne's when he was young! I didn't believe it, but seeing the true dragon today, I'm convinced!"
Dennis glared playfully at his son, then turned back to Daemon, his tone turning nostalgic. "Speaking of which, I have a bit of history with your uncle, Prince Baelon. In the 73rd year of the Conquest, my father held a seven-day tourney here at Old Oak to celebrate the birth of my little brother, Olyvar. I was young and brash back then and insisted on challenging a mystery knight called 'The Silver Fool.' And guess what?"
Daemon's heart stirred, and he finished the story for him. "That knight was Uncle Baelon?"
"The Prince knows!" Dennis's eyes lit up. He pointed to a mural on the east side of the courtyard. "Look at that painting. That's the scene!"
Everyone looked. The mural depicted a joust: a knight in silver armor with a blank crest on his visor was falling from his horse. The opposing knight held a lance, his armor embroidered with the grape sigil of House Redwyne—it was Rickard Redwyne.
In the corner of the mural, the moment of unmasking was depicted. The Silver Fool revealed silver hair and purple eyes—a young Baelon Targaryen. Below that, he was shown kneeling to be knighted, a vivid portrayal of chivalry.
"I wasn't happy about losing back then and clamored for a rematch," Dennis laughed, wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. "But when Ser Rickard took off his helmet, I realized it was the Prince! Later, when the Prince was knighted, he specifically patted me on the shoulder and said House Oakheart lived up to being the descendants of the Greenhand and the Oak. Thinking back, that was over twenty years ago. My little brother here is twenty-five now."
Daemon's gaze fell on Olyvar Oakheart, standing beside Dennis. The young man was listening quietly, his gray eyes steady. He stood tall like an ancient oak, his demeanor possessing a reserved strength uncommon for his age.
He looked exactly like the "Green Oak," Ser Olyvar Oakheart, from Daemon's memories of his previous life.
The future Kingsguard to the "Young Dragon" Daeron I. The legend who would die in the sands of Dorne. The hero who, before Daemon was even born in this life, had been just a line of text in a history book.
A dull ache suddenly throbbed in Daemon's chest. He subconsciously touched the black three-headed dragon brand on his right shoulder. In his past life, reading the histories, he had lamented Olyvar's death and been shaken by the blood feud between House Oakheart and Dorne: Lord Edgerran sitting with a hundred Dornish heads at his feet; Lord Alys dying in the Prince's Pass with battle horns still in hand; and the tragic wedding in 12 AC, where Alys Oakheart watched her husband mutilated and father killed before being sold into slavery.
These old stories were crashing into his memory now, carried on the winds of Old Oak.
"Prince? Are you alright?" Mysaria noticed his face had gone pale and quickly handed him a peach. "Is the wind too cold?"
"I'm fine." Daemon took the peach, though his fingertips trembled slightly. He looked at another mural on the west side of the courtyard—it depicted Dornish warriors raiding Old Oak, with Oakheart knights resisting, their blood staining the oak forest. "Lord Oakheart, I've heard... the grudge between House Oakheart and Dorne runs deep?"
The smile on Dennis's face vanished instantly. He walked to the mural, his fingers tracing the blood-red paint. "More than deep. My ancestor, Lord Edgerran, sat and watched a hundred Dornish heads roll on the battlefield. My great-great-uncle Alys died at the Prince's Pass clutching his war horn. And my great-aunt Alys..." He paused, his voice becoming as heavy as old roots. "At that wedding, Lord Wyl killed our ancestors and sold Aunt Alys to a Myrish slaver. The blood the Dornish owe us... three lifetimes wouldn't be enough to pay it back."
"And the Dornish have been getting restless lately," Olyvar spoke up suddenly. His voice was lower than Dennis's but sharper. "After they hit a wall trying to arrange a marriage with the Prince in King's Landing last year, they've started getting close to the Triarchy across the Narrow Sea. Last month, Redwyne ships spotted Dornish merchants secretly trading with Lysene pirates in the Stepstones. They're up to no good."
Dennis nodded, worry creeping into his tone. "The Reach borders Dorne, and most of our lords have ancient feuds with them. This tourney at Highgarden... I believe Duke Matthos also wants to use this event to unite the Reach lords for a while, so Dorne doesn't find a gap to strike."
---
The banquet was held in the main hall of Old Oak's keep. The long table was laden with the specialties of the Reach: golden roasted chicken, lamb chops drizzled in sauce, cream cakes piled high with fresh berries, and even a thick seafood soup made from the catch of the Sunset Sea—so delicious that Myles River drank three bowls and forgot where he'd put his battle-axe.
"Prince, you must go to Highgarden to see this tourney!" Dennis raised his goblet. The wine inside shimmered pale gold—a vintage from the Arbor. "This event is being held on the Rose Road. Duke Matthos has been preparing for three months. A thousand lances have been crafted, and the armor is all from the best smiths in the Reach. Future history books will likely say this was the greatest tourney of our generation!"
Daemon gripped his cup. The scene from the history books seemed to float before his eyes: flags like a forest on the Rose Road, knights charging in magnificent armor, the cheers of the crowd shaking the waters of the Mander.
He remembered reading about it in his past life. He remembered wondering if the "Green Oak," Olyvar Oakheart, had been born earlier, perhaps he would have made his name in this very tourney. But in this life, he was here. Perhaps he could change something.
"I'll be there, for sure," Daemon raised his glass and clinked it against Dennis's. "I'll let the Cannibal and Dreamfyre see if the knights of the Reach are as formidable as the Earl says."
Outside the castle, the Cannibal let out a low, deep roar as if he understood, his black scales glinting cold in the moonlight. Dreamfyre, meanwhile, elegantly pecked at fresh berries brought by a handmaiden, her pale blue wings gently covering the discarded shells, causing Mysaria to sigh in admiration, "Dream is so gentle. Much better behaved than the Cannibal."
Larys Strong's donkey, however, was causing trouble again. It had somehow snuck into the kitchen and was stealing the side dishes for the roast chicken. The cook was chasing it in circles outside the hall, the donkey's black saddle blanket sweeping over the threshold, drawing a burst of laughter from everyone.
Larys hobbled out on his cane, laughing despite himself. "You glutton! Just like your previous owner. You dare touch House Oakheart's chicken? Lord Dennis is going to turn you into a stew!"
---
The night grew deep, and the lights of Old Oak looked like stars scattered through the forest. Daemon stood on the terrace, looking out at the Ocean Road in the distance. The line of knights was still moving toward Highgarden, their torches forming a long dragon of fire that mirrored the Milky Way above.
Mysaria walked over softly and draped a newly woven square cloak over Daemon's shoulders. "Are you thinking about Dorne?"
"A little." Daemon nodded, his gaze resting on the statue of Garth Greenhand in the courtyard. "House Oakheart's roots go deep. The threat from Dorne... might be harder to deal with than the Ironborn."
"But we have you, Prince, don't we? And the lords of the Reach." Mysaria leaned against him, her eyes full of trust. "And there's this tourney. It should unite the Reach lords for a time. Like Lord Dennis said—only with deep roots can you withstand the storm."
Daemon held her hand and looked toward Gael. The young girl was chasing fireflies by the fountain with Olyvar's niece, her silver hair catching the starlight.
He suddenly felt that the wind in the Reach wasn't just warm—it carried hope. The roots of Old Oak were deep, and their path forward would become steadier.
---
The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight hit the oak leaf banner of House Oakheart, Daemon's party set off again.
Lord Dennis and his family saw them to the city gates. Olyvar handed over a map marked with a shortcut to Highgarden. "Prince, if you follow this forest path, it's two days faster than the Ocean Road. We just need to handle a few arrangements, and we'll be setting off in a few days ourselves."
Daemon took the map, his finger tracing the mark for the "Rose Fields."
There, a grand tourney awaited. And there, a storm regarding honor, unity, and the future was slowly beginning to brew.
The oaks of the castle swayed gently in the wind, as if waving goodbye, or perhaps offering a blessing. The greenery along the Ocean Road grew deeper. Pushed by the warm wind of the Reach and the scent of grass and trees, the group moved onward toward Highgarden—toward the place where the roses bloomed.