The waters of the Mander River shimmered with fragmented gold in the morning light. When the Cannibal's dark shadow swept over the river confluence for the first time, Daemon's gaze was immediately seized by the castle standing atop the high hill.
It wasn't the cold, imposing rock of Casterly Rock in the West, nor the heavy gray stone of Winterfell in the North. It was pure white, drenched in sunlight.
Highgarden's white marble walls rose in tiers from the foot of the hill to the summit. The three rings of stone walls looked like honey wrapped in cream. The outermost battlements were covered in climbing roses, their petals caught by the wind and scattered across the flagstones where the Ocean Road met the Rose Road. Even the air itself seemed tangled with a sweet fragrance.
"Gods be good—this isn't a castle; it looks like it was built from flower petals and spun sugar!"
Myles River, carrying his precious Northern battle-axe as always, had a rose petal stuck to his face. He reached up to grab it, but the wind blew it away, making him stomp his foot in frustration. "It's prettier than the silver ships of Fair Isle! Look at that fountain, Rupert—the water is actually clear!"
Rupert Crabb still had that silver spoon half-exposed in his tunic. His white shoulder armor brushed against Corlys Velaryon's squire, but his eyes were glued to the hedge maze between the second and third walls. The manicured greenery formed a dense web. Occasionally, handmaidens carrying baskets would flit through the maze, appearing and disappearing like elves hiding among the leaves.
"We don't have anything like this on Crackclaw Point," Rupert muttered. "The last time I saw shrubs trimmed this neatly was in the gardens of the other Great Houses."
"It's pretty, sure. But if we're talking about the most beautiful castle, it has to be the Eyrie in the Vale, doesn't it?" Lyn Corbray suddenly chimed in, twirling the hilt of his silver sword in his palm. "The Eyrie hangs in the clouds. You look down and see half the Vale. When the wind blows, it feels like you're in the sky. Unlike this Highgarden—it's too flat. Lacks majesty."
The Royce twins immediately backed him up. The elder brother patted the runic greatsword at his waist. "Exactly! The Gates of the Moon below the Eyrie overlooks the whole Mountains of the Moon. When the winter snow covers it, it looks like a gem set in ice. Much better than these white rocks!"
Harlan Hunter nodded, his longbow slung across his shoulder. "And the defense at the Eyrie is what makes it truly formidable. Just the Bloody Gate alone—enemies have to charge up narrow stone steps. Who needs this many walls?"
This commentary didn't sit well with the new squires from the Reach. One boy in a green tunic turned red in the face. "Can you grow roses at the Eyrie? Do you have a maze this big? Highgarden's marble was shipped from across the Narrow Sea; every block took three months to polish!"
"Why couldn't we grow them?" The younger Royce raised an eyebrow. "Our frostflowers in the Vale are prettier than roses. In winter, they bloom like piles of snow. They're much hardier than these delicate little flowers of yours!"
Just as the argument was heating up, a burst of hearty laughter drifted from ahead, mixing with the sound of the Mander River. It was jarringly loud.
Everyone looked over to see a group of people dressed in gold and green finery standing beneath the gate of the first wall.
The man at the front had a round belly, looking like he'd just swallowed a fat goose. His brown curly hair was bound by a golden circlet. It was the Lord of Highgarden, Matthos Tyrell.
Beside him stood a slender man in a simple gray robe, looking quite scholarly—his uncle, Martin Tyrell. Next to him was Lady Florence, wearing an emerald green gown with silver vines embroidered on the hem, the rings on her fingers glowing softly.
Matthos's wife, the Duchess from House Redwyne, wore a pale purple gown with the grape sigil of the Arbor pinned to her collar, exuding a gentle elegance. standing on the far side was a tall young man, his eyes steady beneath brown curls—Garlan Tyrell, the eldest son of Duke Matthos.
"Prince Daemon! Princess Gael! We've been waiting for you!" Matthos strode forward, his round belly swaying with each step. He grabbed Daemon's wrist enthusiastically. "Come in, come in! I've had the sweetest Arbor vintage brought out, and freshly roasted peacock—served with the feathers still on! I guarantee once you taste it, you'll never want anything else!"
---
Daemon followed him inside, glancing up at the house sigil on the city gate—a golden rose upon a green field, blindingly bright in the sun.
The maze between the first and second walls lived up to its reputation. The hedges were tall enough to hide a grown man. Hidden spouts occasionally sprayed thin streams of water, causing passing handmaidens to shriek and dodge playfully. Matthos laughed until his eyes were mere slits. "This maze is quite something. It's not just for play; it defends against enemies too! Last year, a merchant got lost in there for three hours. We only pulled him out after he started screaming for help!"
Gael followed on Dreamfyre, the dragon's pale blue wings gently avoiding the roses overhead. Mysaria peered down from the saddle, a fallen petal caught in her platinum curls. "Princess, look at that stone statue. It's the same as the one at Old Oak—Garth Greenhand, right? He's holding ears of wheat."
As they passed the third wall, the heart of Highgarden finally revealed itself completely. White marble columns lined the courtyard, wrapped in grapevines and roses. Water dripped from the fingertips of a Garth Greenhand statue into a pool below, reflecting the golden roses blooming all around.
In the distance, the main keep's tower was as thin and sharp as a needle. The golden rose banner atop it snapped in the wind, mirroring the shimmering waves of the Mander. It looked like a painted parchment scroll come to life.
"This was all rebuilt by Mern VI Gardener," Matthos narrated the family history as he led them to the banquet hall, pride swelling in his brown eyes. "The Dornish burned Highgarden to the ground back then. It was our ancestor, Ser Osmund Tyrell, who united forty houses to retake Highgarden and help Mern VI rebuild it. Look at this marble—shipped from Tyrosh, ten gold dragons a block! And the 'Three Singers' in the godswood... legend says the Greenhand planted them himself. Three weirwood trees growing together, their branches all tangled up!"
He paused to pat his chest. "Later, during Aegon's Conquest, my great-grandfather Harlen Tyrell surrendered Highgarden to the Conqueror. King Aegon granted us the Reach and the title of Lord Paramount of the Mander! Now, House Tyrell is one of the richest families in the Seven Kingdoms. Our grain piles higher than Casterly Rock's gold. The Redwyne fleet, the warships of the Shield Islands—if I give the order, they can set sail at any moment!"
Martin Tyrell stood to the side, a wine stain on the cuff of his gray robe. He tried to interject a few times but was cut off by Matthos, leaving him to offer Daemon an apologetic glance.
Garlan Tyrell followed behind his father, his fingers unconsciously brushing the hilt of his sword. His gaze swept over the Reach lords in the hall—nobles from House Florent in red and gold, House Rowan in white and gold, and House Peake in black and orange. Though they bowed, their eyes held a hint of distance and disdain. clearly, they didn't think much of this "steward-born" Duke.
---
The long tables in the banquet hall were covered in gold and green cloths and laden with the delicacies of the Reach: golden roasted peacock, muntjac deer drizzled in honey, cream cakes piled high with fresh berries, and soup made from fresh fish from the Mander. It wasn't remarkably different from the fare at Old Oak, except the ingredients were far more expensive.
Matthos ordered a cask of Arbor wine opened. The liquid was a pale gold, glinting in the silver cups. He poured a cup for Daemon himself. "Prince, taste this. This wine has aged in oak barrels for ten years. It's much sweeter than that sour red from Lannisport!"
After three rounds of wine, Matthos suddenly clapped his hands. Several young girls in floral dresses walked in. The leaders were his daughters—some with pigtails, some with long curls, all wearing gowns with the gold and green sigil. They curtsied timidly to Daemon.
Matthos grinned like a bear that had stolen honey. "Prince, these are my daughters. The oldest is fifteen, the youngest just twelve. They are all well-bred and accomplished. If you like, pick one to accompany you for a stroll through Highgarden's gardens?"
Gael's hand tightened around her silver spoon, a chill flashing through her pale violet eyes. Mysaria quietly moved closer to her, her face tense beneath her platinum curls.
But Matthos seemed oblivious. He waved over several young boys. "And these are my sons. Some you met in King's Landing last year, and there are also... well, some I keep outside. They're all capable lads. If you're short on squires, feel free to pick two to follow you!"
Martin Tyrell's face darkened. He coughed, trying to interrupt, but Matthos glared at him. "Don't interfere, Uncle. The Prince is a distinguished guest; we must entertain him properly!"
Garlan Tyrell raised his glass helplessly to apologize to Daemon, whispering, "Please don't mind him, Prince. My father... he's just a bit overly enthusiastic."
This scene, however, reminded Daemon of his father from his previous life—Aegon IV Targaryen. Hadn't he treated Daemon and his bastard brothers the same way?
Seeing Garlan Tyrell's situation today reminded Daemon of his brother Daeron's predicament back then.
In fact, Daeron had it worse. At least Matthos treated his trueborn and baseborn children relatively equally. But Daemon's father? His love for Daeron was less than what he gave the others—though, to be fair, his father cared more about whichever new mistress was in his bed than any of his children.
Snapping back to the present, a scene unfolded that made Gael and Mysaria even more furious. Matthos suddenly noticed Alys Rivers in the corner. His eyes lit up as if he'd discovered a new continent. He nudged Daemon's arm, winking exaggeratedly. "Prince, that lady in the green dress looks special. Is she your handmaiden? She's got a fire in her eyes—much more interesting than our noble ladies in the Reach. You ought to make good use of that!"
Alys Rivers was eating a piece of cake with a silver fork. Hearing this, she looked up, a hint of mockery in her green eyes. She raised her glass to Matthos, a faint smile playing on her lips.
Daemon's hand paused on his wine glass. He subtly moved away from Matthos's arm. "Lord Duke, Miss Alys is my advisor, not a handmaiden. And my aunt, Princess Gael, is right here. I don't think this conversation is appropriate."
Matthos finally noticed Gael's gaze, which was cold enough to freeze water. He laughed awkwardly. "Look at my memory! No offense intended, Princess. I'm just too happy today! Come, Prince, let's drink. No more talk of this!" He poured wine into Daemon's cup, spilling it onto the tablecloth without noticing the helpless look exchanged between Martin and Garlan.
Larys Strong had somehow slipped into the banquet hall with his donkey. He was currently hiding in a corner, feeding a piece of honey cake to "Mr. Longlegs." The hem of his black robe brushed over the rose petals on the floor. He watched Matthos's oblivious behavior, then looked at the distant expressions of the Reach lords. A faint smile touched his lips.
This Duke Tyrell seemed to only see Highgarden's golden roses, completely missing the thorns hidden beneath the petals.
---
Halfway through the banquet, Matthos began to drone on about House Tyrell's "glorious history" again—from Osmund quelling rebellions to Harlen yielding the castle, from the intermarriages of Mern VI to his own management of the estates. Yet, he didn't mention a single word about the dissatisfaction of his bannermen, nor the recent Dornish movements in the Stepstones.
Daemon played along, listening patiently and nodding occasionally. But his gaze drifted out the banquet hall windows. The golden rose banners shimmered in the night, and the sound of the Mander River drifted in, reminding him of how many unspoken undercurrents were hidden beneath this seemingly warm feast.
"Prince, allow me to take you to the godswood tomorrow to see the 'Three Singers'!" Matthos patted Daemon on the shoulder, his round belly forcing Daemon to take a slight step back. "Those three weirwoods were planted by the Greenhand. Their branches are tangled together like a family. You'll love it!"
Daemon smiled and nodded, but his eyes were on Gael and Mysaria. The girls were whispering together. Gael was still clutching her silver spoon tightly, while Mysaria shot Daemon a subtle "be careful" look.
He suddenly felt that the sweet fragrance of Highgarden wasn't just roses; there was an sourness to it, like biting into an unripe grape.
The night grew deep, but the lights in the hall remained bright. Matthos was still playing rowdy drinking games with the Reach lords, his voice shaking the candlelight. Martin Tyrell was whispering with Garlan in a corner, occasionally glancing at Daemon with a probing look. Alys Rivers had wandered over to the window, the dark patterns on her green dress visible in the moonlight. She stared out at the night view of Highgarden, her fingers unconsciously tracing the silver chain at her waist.
Daemon stood up and walked over to Gael and Mysaria, speaking softly. "Tired? I'll walk you through the gardens. We can get some fresh air."
Gael's expression softened, and she nodded. "Yes, it's too stuffy in here." Mysaria stood up as well, clutching a freshly picked rose carefully against her chest.
The three of them left the hall, walking along the marble colonnade toward the gardens. Highgarden was exceptionally quiet at night, save for the sound of fountains and insects. The golden roses glowed softly in the moonlight, their scent even heavier than during the day.
Gael suddenly stopped and looked at Daemon. "That Duke Matthos was too much just now. Introducing his daughters to you, and those illegitimate sons..."
"Don't be angry." Daemon smiled and ruffled her hair. "He's just overly enthusiastic. I don't think he has any bad intentions. Don't you know me by now, Auntie?"
Mysaria whispered, "It's true, Princess. The Prince only cares about you and our circle. He won't pay any mind to those people."
Daemon held both their hands, looking toward the main keep in the distance. The lights were still on, and Matthos's laughter could be heard faintly, weaving together with the sound of the river.
He suddenly thought of the look in Larys's eyes, the distant expressions of the nobles, and the Dornish movements in the Stepstones. Highgarden's prosperity might be more fragile than Casterly Rock's gold. This warm banquet was likely just the calm before the storm.
"Tomorrow we'll go to the godswood to see the 'Three Singers,'" Daemon said softly. "Then we'll go to the Rose Fields and see that tourney."
"No matter what undercurrents are hidden in Highgarden, we have to wade through them."
Gael and Mysaria nodded. The three of them walked slowly along the garden path. Moonlight spilled over them, reflecting off the carpet of rose petals like a golden road paving the way to the future.
Behind them in the banquet hall, Matthos continued to drink, blissfully unaware that the Highgarden beneath his feet was already entangled in dark currents, just waiting for the right moment to whip up a monstrous wave.