The morning light at Highgarden always seemed to stretch the shadows of the golden roses.
As Daemon followed Duke Matthos Tyrell through the third curtain wall, the white marble ground was still slick with morning dew, cool as the waters of the Mander beneath their boots. The climbing roses wrapped around the colonnades were just opening new buds, and droplets of water slid from the petals down the vines, leaving small, dark wet spots on the stone.
"Look, Prince! There are our Rose Fields!" Matthos stopped suddenly. His round belly pressed against his belt, making the golden rose buckle wobble slightly. He pointed toward a vast stretch of green in the distance.
over a dozen wooden stands had already been erected there. The main grandstand in the center was draped in gold and green velvet, with the Tyrell banner snapping in the wind at its peak. Workmen were currently balanced on ladders, hanging golden wreaths along the edges of the platform.
Martin Tyrell followed behind, brushing a few blades of grass from the cuff of his gray robe. His voice was much steadier than Matthos's. "The tourney is set for three days from now. It will consist of the joust, the melee, and an archery competition. Finally, there will be a joust to select the Queen of Love and Beauty. The prizes are prepared according to Reach tradition: the champion receives five thousand gold dragons, along with vintage Arbor wine from House Redwyne and an oak longbow from House Oakheart—all practical rewards."
Garlan Tyrell stood by his father's side. His eyes, set beneath brown curls, swept over the layout of the Rose Fields. He suddenly added, "To prevent accidents, I've had wooden barriers set up around the stands and assigned twenty guards. If a knight loses control of his mount, they can intercept him in time." His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a maturity beyond his years, forming a sharp contrast to Matthos's boisterous nature.
The illegitimate sons trailing behind Matthos showed their differences clearly now.
The oldest wore a suit of ill-fitting silver armor—clearly a last-minute gift from Matthos—and kept his hand on his sword hilt, trying to look imposing but only managing to look awkward.
The youngest was only twelve or thirteen, clutching a wooden carving of a golden rose. He stared wide-eyed at the Cannibal in the distance but didn't dare get too close.
Only the tall boy in the middle seemed composed. He stood near Garlan, occasionally helping to organize the diagrams of the stands. He actually looked somewhat like a proper Tyrell.
"And there's this! There's this!" Matthos suddenly clapped his hands, nearly hitting Martin in the process. "I specifically had a new golden rose bush planted in the center of the Rose Fields, bigger than the ones in front of the main keep! The champion of the tourney will get the honor of pouring the first bucket of Mander water on it. It's an old Reach tradition symbolizing that 'Glory and the land are one'!"
Daemon's gaze fell on the sapling just planted in the center of the field. The tender green leaves were still wrapped in damp burlap, and a circle of white stones surrounded it, marking a boundary for this newborn glory.
He thought of the blood and fire of the Redgrass Field from his memories of the future, then looked at the peaceful preparations before him. The black three-headed dragon brand on his right shoulder felt warm. Perhaps this was the meaning of his presence here—to let this liveliness last a little longer.
"The Duke has thought of everything," Daemon nodded, the hilt of Blackfyre feeling cool in his palm. "The Cannibal and Dreamfyre can come watch too, to serve as 'witnesses' for the victors."
As soon as he spoke, a low rumble came from the other side of the plaza. The Cannibal seemed to understand. The black dragon lifted his head, his pitch-black pupils sweeping over the Rose Fields. His breath condensed into white steam in the morning air, causing the workmen on the stands to freeze, forgetting to even lower their hammers.
Matthos laughed even harder. "With the true dragons of the royal family as witnesses! This tourney will surely make the Seven Kingdoms remember the glory of Highgarden!"
---
Meanwhile, in the gardens on the west side of Highgarden, the scene was quite different.
Gael wore a wool cloak embroidered with pale blue roses. Mysaria was helping her tie the ribbon at the collar. Her platinum curls hung by her cheeks, and her fingertips were stained with the scent of the rose petals she had just picked. "Princess, these roses are even more fragrant than the ones at Crakehall. Shall I pin one in your hair?"
The Duchess, hailing from House Redwyne, walked beside them. The hem of her pale blue gown, accented with violet, brushed softly against the grass. She lifted a silver basket filled with green grapes and offered a bunch to Gael with a smile. "Princess Gael, please try these. They were just sent to Highgarden from the Arbor. They are sweeter than any others in the Reach. Every year at this time, my family's fleet sails up the Mander with ships full of grapes. That man Matthos always fights to eat the first basket."
Although her words were polite, the colors of her dress suggested that the Duchess and Duke Matthos might share a bed, but not a heart. She wore the purple grapes of her maiden House Redwyne, not the green and gold of the Tyrells.
Lady Florence followed behind, her emerald green dress mirroring the surrounding vines. She suddenly pointed to a patch of manicured shrubs in the distance. "That was planted according to the legend of Garth Greenhand. Wheat on the left, grapes on the right, roses in the center—symbolizing the abundance of the Reach. Though, it's not very peaceful near Dorne lately. The Redwyne fleet says they've seen Dornish merchants contacting Lysene pirates in the Stepstones. I fear trouble is brewing."
As the wife of the former Master of Coin—a man once called the "Apple Prodigy" for his financial brilliance—she clearly shared a distaste for her husband's nephew's foolish behavior. Faced with the meaningful words of the Duchess, she had no desire to get involved in family politics.
Gael took the green grapes and took a bite. Sweet juice burst across her tongue. "The minds of the Dornish are always hard to guess. But with Daemon here, along with the Cannibal and Dreamfyre, they wouldn't dare make a move." Clearly, our "Child of Winter" had changed since bonding with Dreamfyre, but in matters of intrigue, she was still as blank as a sheet of paper.
Mysaria nodded in agreement, clutching Gael's sleeve tightly. Her eyes scanned the corner of the garden—Larys Strong's donkey, "Mr. Longlegs," had somehow snuck in again. It was currently head-down, munching on a rose bush. Larys was chasing it, sweating profusely as he hobbled on his cane, the hem of his black robe covered in petals. He was muttering, "You glutton! Yesterday you stole side dishes, today you're eating flowers. If Duke Matthos sees this, he'll turn you into stew for sure!"
The ladies burst into laughter. The Duchess wiped a tear of mirth from her eye. "Mr. Strong's donkey is livelier than most of our Reach nobles."
Lady Florence laughed too. "I heard that when the Princes were at Old Oak, this donkey loved to be in the middle of the excitement. Seeing it today, the rumors were true."
---
Before the laughter in the garden could fade, the sound of hooves came from the main gate of Highgarden—the lords and knights of the Reach had arrived.
The first to arrive was the retinue of House Redwyne. Leading them was a young man on a pure white horse, his silver armor embroidered with the grape sigil of the Arbor. It was the Earl of Redwyne's second son, Alyn Redwyne.
As soon as he dismounted, he spotted the Cannibal in the plaza. His eyes lit up instantly. Ignoring his squire's attempt to stop him, he strode quickly toward Daemon. "Prince Daemon! At the King's Landing tourney last year, I didn't get the chance to test my lance against yours. I want to challenge you at the Rose Fields!"
Close behind him were the knights of House Florent. One wearing red-gold armor and holding a jeweled sword bowed to Daemon. "Prince, I am Mace Florent. The story of how you led the Vale lords to break the siege of the Gates of the Moon last year has spread all over the Reach! If you do not object, I would be honored to serve as your guard during the tourney!"
The crowd began to swell as lords from House Rowan, House Peake, and House Oakheart arrived one after another. Some brought knights, others bore gifts. The crowd made the golden rose flags in the plaza look even more vibrant.
On the edge of the crowd, however, a young man in silver armor was hunching his shoulders, trying his best to hide behind his companions. It was Matthos's direct nephew, Lucas Tyrell.
At the King's Landing tourney last year, the twelve-year-old Daemon had unhorsed him with a single strike, denting his fine armor. The story had circulated in the Reach's noble circles for months.
Seeing Daemon again, Lucas's face went pale. His fingers gripped his sword hilt white-knuckled. The moment his eyes met Daemon's, he looked away as if burned, shrinking further behind a Florent knight like a rabbit that had stumbled upon a dragon.
"Isn't that Lucas?" Garlan noticed the small movement and whispered to Martin, his tone laced with helplessness. "Ever since the Prince knocked him off his horse last year, he's been terrified to see him."
Martin sighed, glancing at his grand-nephew cowering in the crowd. "Matthos always says he's too cowardly, but the Prince's lance work was clean in that last tourney. Anyone who got unhorsed like that would be shaken."
Daemon naturally spotted Lucas but didn't point him out. instead, he gave a warm smile to the eager young talents surrounding him. "At the tourney, let skill do the talking. If Ser Alyn wants to test his lance, I am ready anytime. And Ser Mace, I thank you in advance for your offer to be my guard. But winning or losing isn't what matters; what matters is showing the Seven Kingdoms the spirit of the Reach's knights."
As his words fell, the Cannibal let out a low, deep roar. His pitch-black wings flapped gently, kicking up a wind that sent golden rose petals drifting through the air to land on Daemon's silver hair like scattered gold dust.
Dreamfyre called out in response from nearby. Her pale blue breath condensed into white mist in the morning air, weaving with the Cannibal's dark aura. The crowd looked up, their eyes filled with awe and excitement.
"The Prince's dragon is majestic!" Alyn Redwyne looked at the Cannibal with longing. "If I could follow a dragon like that, we could burn every Ironborn longship that dares to raid the fishing villages below the Arbor!"
Mace Florent nodded in agreement. "With a dragon, forget Ironborn longships—even if the fleet of the Three Whores comes again, they'd be burned to ash by dragonfire!"
Matthos, seeing the lively scene, was grinning from ear to ear. He patted Daemon's shoulder. "Look, Prince! The best seeds of the Reach are all here! The tourney in three days will surely be more spectacular than that rushed affair in King's Landing! I've had the best ale and roasted meats prepared. I guarantee everyone will eat and drink their fill!"
Gael and Mysaria walked over from the garden. Seeing the young knights surrounding Daemon, Gael smiled. "It seems our little Daemon is even more popular in the Reach than anywhere else."
Mysaria handed him a peach she had just picked from the garden. "Prince, have some fruit to clear your palate. The Duchess said this is the last batch of peaches for the year."
Daemon took the peach, his fingers brushing the fuzz on its skin. He looked toward the Rose Fields. The workmen had hung the final golden wreath. The velvet on the main stand swayed gently in the wind, and the distant Mander River shimmered with fragmented gold, as if paving the way for the tournament in three days.
He suddenly felt that the wind at Highgarden was not just warm—it carried a gathering strength. Like these eager young knights, like the breath of the Cannibal and Dreamfyre, and like the fire in his own heart that refused to be extinguished.
Larys Strong finally caught the rose-eating donkey. He hobbled over to Daemon on his cane, petals still clinging to his black robe. "Prince, I just heard from the Florents that House Peake brought fifty knights. They're likely aiming for the champion's title. They've never gotten along with House Tyrell; you should keep an eye on them."
Daemon nodded. He had known of the feud between the two houses since he was a child in his previous life. His gaze swept over the banners in the crowd to find House Peake—their black and orange sigil was conspicuously bright in the sunlight. The leading knight was looking at Garlan with provocative eyes, clearly showing no respect for House Tyrell.
"I know," Daemon said, tightening his grip on Blackfyre. The Valyrian steel ripples on the blade glinted coldly in the morning light. "The tourney has its own rules to handle them."
---
The sun began to dip west, dyeing Highgarden's white marble in gold and red. The lords gradually followed Matthos to the banquet hall. Lucas Tyrell still lingered at the very back, waiting until the crowd had almost dispersed before daring to walk slowly with his own branch of the family. As he passed Daemon, he bowed quickly without daring to lift his head.
Daemon watched his retreating back and smiled. The burly man who had been unhorsed last year now carried fear, but hidden within that fear was a reverence for strength.
Around him, the eyes of the enthusiastic young talents shone even brighter, like sparks waiting to be ignited.
Gael walked to his side, the setting sun reflected in her pale violet eyes. "The tourney in three days will certainly be lively."
Mysaria nodded, still clutching a rose petal. "I'll cheer for the Prince. And I'll bring some fresh berries for Dreamfyre."
The Cannibal and Dreamfyre curled up in the open space of the plaza. Their breath formed white mist in the twilight, reflecting the lights of Highgarden.
Daemon knew that in three days, the Rose Fields would see not only lances and swordsmanship but also the undercurrents and hopes of the Reach. And he would be the witness, the one to guard this liveliness—just as the Cannibal guarded Dreamfyre, and just as Blackfyre guarded the glory of the dragon's blood.
The night deepened. Laughter drifted from Highgarden's banquet hall. Matthos's loud voice mixed with the clinking of goblets, floating on the wind to intertwine with the sound of the Mander River. It sounded like a prelude composed for the tournament.
Standing in the plaza, looking out at the distant Rose Fields, the brand on Daemon's right shoulder felt warm, as if echoing the hot blood and glory that would ignite in three days' time.