Morning light on the Rose Fields always carries the sweet scent of golden roses.
As the first rays of sunlight climbed over Highgarden's white marble towers and spilled onto the vast green expanse, the dozen or so wooden stands were already packed. The lords of the Reach wore finery embroidered with their house sigils, knights' armor glinted cold in the sun, and even the fishermen from the banks of the Mander squeezed onto the outermost grassy slopes, clutching freshly baked oatcakes as they stared intently at the tourney grounds in the center.
A corner of the gold and green velvet on the main stand lifted in the breeze. Duke Matthos Tyrell's laughter carried over the crowd. Today, he had changed into an emerald green brocade robe embroidered all over with golden roses. His belly stuck out even rounder than usual, and he was idly twisting an emerald ring on his finger. beside him sat the Duchess and their only trueborn son, Garlan Tyrell.
Daemon sat next to Garlan, Blackfyre leaning against his chair, the Valyrian steel ripples on its scabbard reflecting the morning light.
Gael was draped in a cloak embroidered with pale blue roses. Mysaria sat close to her, clutching a bunch of Arbor grapes, a freshly picked golden rose pinned in her platinum curls.
Ser Martin Tyrell held a scroll titled History of Tourneys in the Reach, while his wife, Lady Florence, fanned herself gently with a silk handkerchief. Her gaze rested on the competitors below, her eyes hiding a hint of scrutiny.
The most eye-catching sight was the lineup of knights in the field, each suit of armor distinct with its family crest:
Corlys Velaryon's squire, Corwyn Celtigar, wore silver armor. His breastplate was chased with his personal sigil of black crabs on a blue field, and the edges of his pauldrons were trimmed with tiny pearls—a traditional decoration from the coast. The white horse beneath him had blue ribbons tied to its brow band, matching his armor.
Rupert Crabb's white armor looked heavier. The marsh marigolds of House Crabb were embroidered on his chest. Tucked into his belt was that silver spoon he'd swiped from Ashemark; he had tied it securely with a leather thong for good luck. He rode a brown horse with an oak lance slotted into the saddle holster.
Count Thaddeus Rowan's armor had a matte finish. In the center of his breastplate was the golden tree on white of House Rowan. His pauldrons were engraved with ivy patterns, and even his stirrups were carved with vine leaves—clearly the mark of an old, established Reach noble house.
Other knights were equally distinctive:
The red-gold armor of House Florent featured a dazzling fox, surrounded by a ring of lapis lazuli patterns.
House Peake's black and orange armor bore their three black castles on an orange field, with spiked decorations on the pauldrons.
The white armor of House Hightower displayed their beacon tower in the center—a stepped white tower with a beacon fire at the top on a smoke-gray field.
The entire tourney ground looked like a living scroll of Reach nobility unfurled.
"Let the first day of the joust begin!"
Following Ser Martin's command on behalf of his nephew Duke Matthos, the trumpeters blew their brass horns. The sound shook loose golden rose petals from the edges of the stands, sending them drifting down.
The finals of the first day's joust could be described as the brave "Twin Stars of Crackclaw Point" (House Celtigar of Claw Isle always claimed the title of Warden of Crackclaw Point, so many grouped them together) against the former glory of the Reach's veteran knights.
The group stages went by quickly. Knights charged at each other in pairs, the crisp snap of breaking lances mixing with the cheers of the crowd.
Corwyn Celtigar's performance was particularly dazzling. His lance work had the agility of a sailor and the unpredictability typical of Claw Isle. In every charge, he precisely avoided his opponent's lance tip, then lightly tapped their saddle with his own shaft, forcing three opponents to unhorse one after another. The blue crabs on his silver armor flashed in the sun, prompting even Earl Redwyne on the stands to nod in approval. "That Celtigar lad's horsemanship is much cleaner than the clumsy tricks his uncle, the 'Old Crab,' pulled at our Old Oak tourney years ago!"
Rupert Crabb took a more brutal approach. His lance was half an inch thicker than everyone else's, and he relied entirely on brute force during the charge. First, he unhorsed a Peake knight, then in the second match, he smashed his opponent's lance into two pieces. His white armor was splattered with mud, making him look even more ferocious. Mysaria nodded as she watched, "Master Rupert has some serious strength, though his riding is a bit sloppy. He almost slid off his horse just now."
The semi-finals quickly brought Corwyn against Rupert. The two reined their horses at opposite ends of the lists. Corwyn's white horse and Rupert's brown mount were ten paces apart, hooves pawing anxiously at the grass. "We didn't finish our contest at Crakehall; let's settle it properly this time!" Rupert shouted at the top of his lungs, hand pressing the silver spoon at his waist as if pumping himself up.
The horn blew again, and both horses charged simultaneously. Rupert's lance aimed straight for Corwyn's chest with enough force to make the air vibrate. But Corwyn suddenly leaned low, his silver armor grazing the horse's neck. At the same time, he angled his lance upward, striking precisely against Rupert's shaft. With a sharp clang, Rupert's hand went numb, nearly dropping his lance, and his horse reared up from the impact.
"Our half-wild knight's riding still needs work!" Corwyn reined in his horse and called back. Rupert's face turned beet red. He turned his horse for another charge. This time, he changed tactics, trying to flank from the side, but Corwyn's white horse nimbly sidestepped. Instead, Corwyn's lance tip swept across Rupert's saddle. The brown horse spooked, carrying Rupert right out of the ring.
A burst of laughter erupted from the stands. Rupert fell onto the grass. When he scrambled up, his white armor was covered in grass stains. He grabbed the silver spoon at his waist and waved it. "Doesn't count! Next time we fence, I'll beat you for sure!"
Corwyn laughed, dismounted, and reached out a hand to pull him up. "Fine. Next time we fence, but you have to give me a three-move handicap." Since training with Daemon, Myles, and Corwyn, the once haughty and reserved knight from Crackclaw Point had become much more easygoing.
The final was a duel between Corwyn and Thaddeus Rowan. Count Rowan was past thirty, in his prime. Though frost touched his temples, he sat tall and straight in his saddle, the ivy on his green armor gleaming in the sun.
Before the match began, he bowed to the main stand. "Prince, my Lord Duke, today I'll play along with these youngsters."
Corwyn tightened his grip on his lance. His arm was still sore from the tussle with Rupert, and his white horse was breathing a bit heavily.
When the charge began, Count Rowan didn't rush to attack. Instead, he deliberately slowed down. He waited until Corwyn's lance was right in front of him before suddenly leaning sideways, tangling his lance shaft with Corwyn's. At the same time, he spurred his horse, his green armor grazing past the silver. Corwyn felt his wrist go numb, and his lance flew from his hand, smashing heavily onto the grass.
"Still a bit short on experience," Count Rowan reined in his horse, his tone warm with amusement. Corwyn dismounted and bowed to him. "The Count's skill is superior. I yield."
On the main stand, Matthos slapped the table and laughed. "Good! Thaddeus, you old dog, you've still got it! The little crab from House Celtigar isn't bad either. Practice more, and you'll beat this old tree next time for sure!"
The Duchess and Lady Florence exchanged an awkward, polite smile, clearly used to their husbands' lack of decorum. Garlan looked at his great-uncle Martin, and the two sighed silently in unison.
Larys Strong appeared out of nowhere, sighing softly as he caught a grape tossed by Jarmon and ate it. "The little crab is strong enough already. Those moves he used to beat the little savage were beautiful."
Daemon nodded, his gaze resting on Count Rowan. The steady composure of this old noble reminded him of Benjen Stark of Winterfell—both men who hid their sharpness deep inside.
---
The second day on the Rose Fields was even livelier. The melee required teams of five to compete in a "Capture the Flag" format. Five wooden poles stood in the center of the arena, each flying a different colored flag. The first team to seize the opponent's flag and return it to their own base would win.
Rayford Rosby stood at the front of Daemon's team. He wore the gray armor of House Rosby, his breastplate embroidered with the three red chevrons on ermine of his house sigil. He held a longsword. "Lyn, you take Myles and Talbot and charge the left flank. The Royce twins and I will hold the right. Let's scatter their vanguard first!"
Everyone in the team had a role:
Lyn Corbray's silver sword glinted cold; his tactic was "speed," specifically targeting the opposing spearmen.
Myles River hefted his Northern battle-axe, his dark face full of excitement as he threatened to "split their armor in half."
Talbot Crakehall wore the brown armor of his house, the black and white boar sigil on his chest striking. His oak greatsword was half a foot longer than anyone else's—he was the main force for breaking the line.
The Royce twins wore the runic armor of the Vale, bronze-tinted greatswords on their backs. They were responsible for covering their teammates and preventing sneak attacks.
Their opponents were none other than the "Golden Rose Team," made up of Duke Matthos's illegitimate sons. The oldest bastard wore silver armor decorated with various bastardized golden rose sigils, a crooked rose sewn onto his breastplate. The other four also held weapons, standing at the other end of the arena with a hint of ruthlessness in their eyes.
Before the match, Matthos suddenly stood up and shouted to the stands, "Everyone! Prince Daemon's followers are truly formidable! Look at Ser Lyn Corbray's silver sword, the boar-like strength of that Crakehall lad Talbot, and that pair of runic greatswords the Royce twins are swinging—all great skills!"
He paused, then patted the shoulder of the bastard son beside him. "But my sons aren't bad either! They've practiced many times at Highgarden; they can definitely give the Prince's men a good fight!"
The atmosphere on the stands turned subtle at his words. Earl Redwyne's hand paused on his wine cup, and he forced an awkward smile.
The Duchess (the one from House Redwyne) frowned discreetly, covering half her face with a silk handkerchief.
Garlan Tyrell coughed lightly and looked toward the distant Mander River, pretending to admire the scenery.
Martin Tyrell closed his book. His wife, Lady Florence, gave him a helpless look. Everyone knew that while these bastards might have trained together privately, they weren't even in the same weight class as Daemon's followers, led by Rayford, who had experienced real blood and fire.
The moment the horn blew, Lyn Corbray charged out first. His silver sword sliced through the air, heading straight for the lead bastard. The boy hurriedly raised his spear to block, but Lyn knocked it flying with a single strike.
Myles River followed close behind, his axe sweeping horizontally, forcing two bastards to retreat rapidly.
Talbot charged like a literal wild boar, his greatsword thrusting forward and nearly knocking the enemy flag bearer off his horse.
The Royce twins held the right flank, their runic swords driving back the bastards attempting a sneak attack.
In less than half the time it takes an incense stick to burn, Rayford snatched the golden rose flag from the opponent, raised it high over his head, and shouted, "Victory!" A cheer erupted from the stands. Mysaria jumped up in excitement, and Gael clapped with a smile.
Duke Matthos froze for a moment, then laughed and clapped along. "Good! Well fought! My sons did their best too!" As he spoke, he didn't forget to glare at the bastard beside him, who lowered his head, face burning red.
---
The archery contest on the third day was moved to an open area on the east side of the Rose Fields. Ten targets stood fifty paces away. The center of the bullseye was only the size of a palm, painted with a golden rose—a "champion's target" specially commissioned by Matthos.
Among the competitors, Jarmon Waters and Harlan Hunter stood out with gear distinct from the other Reach participants:
Jarmon wore a gray robe, and over his single eye was the gray eyepatch embroidered by Miss Lefford of the stony castle. The bluebell pattern on it had faded slightly from washing. He held a yew longbow, and the barbed arrows in his quiver glinted cold—he had specifically asked a smith to sharpen them.
Harlan Hunter's longbow looked heavier, a specialty wood bow from Longbow Hall in the Vale. His arrowheads were engraved with the silver bow sigil of House Hunter. He stood still, breathing evenly, clearly a veteran archer with years of practice.
In the preliminaries, Harlan hit the bullseye with all three arrows, drawing cheers from the Vale nobles on the stands.
Jarmon was even steadier. Not only did every arrow hit the target, but his last arrow split the nock of the previous one, leaving nothing but a hole where the bullseye used to be.
Both advanced smoothly to the finals. Their opponent was the famous Reach archer, Ser Leo "Longbow." The old knight's hair had whitened considerably since the tourney last year. Despite the wisps of white hair blowing near his eyes, he could still hit an apple from sixty paces. Legend had it that he once shot a deer through the eye while hunting.
The final was a "three-arrow shoot-off." The target was set at sixty paces, further than in the preliminaries. On the first arrow, both Harlan and Leo hit the ninth ring, while Jarmon hit the tenth.
On the second arrow, Leo hit the tenth ring. Harlan slipped up and hit the eighth. Jarmon hit the tenth again. The third arrow would decide the winner. Harlan took a deep breath and hit the edge of the tenth ring.
Leo's arrow also hit the tenth ring. All eyes turned to Jarmon. He adjusted his eyepatch, held the bow in his left hand, and drew the string with his right. The bow was drawn full like a full moon, the arrow tip aiming at the golden rose in the center of the target.
With a thwip, the arrow flew like a meteor, nailing the precise center of the golden rose and pressing Leo's arrow nock down slightly with the force of impact.
The stands erupted instantly. Mysaria hugged Gael's arm and squealed. A smile tugged at the corner of Daemon's mouth. Even Martin Tyrell put down his book and nodded. Duke Matthos slapped the table and shouted, "Great shooting! This one-eyed knight is even better than my own archers!"
As Jarmon walked off the field, Harlan patted his shoulder. "You won. I concede." Jarmon took off his eyepatch, a hint of a smile in his single eye. "Next time we compete, I'll let you shoot first."
---
As the sun began to set, the tourney on the Rose Fields came to a temporary close. Count Thaddeus Rowan held the gold dragon prize for the joust. Rayford's team collected the Arbor vintage wine for the melee. Jarmon accepted the oak longbow from House Oakheart, engraved with the words "Precise as a Hawk."
Duke Matthos took Daemon's hand, insisting on treating everyone to a banquet at Highgarden. His round belly swayed with his steps. "Tomorrow is the jousting tilt, and then the selection of the Queen of Love and Beauty begins! It will be even more spectacular! I've had the fattest peacocks slaughtered, and candied fruits shipped fresh from Tyrosh!"
Daemon followed him toward the main keep. Behind him came Rupert Crabb's shout: "Corwyn! Tomorrow we duel with swords! Don't you try to run!" Corwyn Celtigar turned back, smiling and nodding, the blue crabs on his silver armor shining in the sunset.
Gael and Mysaria walked behind them, playing with the small prizes they had won today—silver badges engraved with roses, a special gift from Matthos.
The golden roses of the Rose Fields glowed softly in the twilight, and the banners of the tourney grounds still snapped in the wind. Daemon looked toward the Cannibal and Dreamfyre in the distance. The black dragon was napping on the grass, while the blue dragon pecked at fresh berries brought by a handmaiden. Their breath formed white steam in the dusk.
He knew that these three days of competition were just the beginning. The undercurrents of the Reach remained, and the threat from Dorne had not vanished. But in this moment, the laughter on the Rose Fields, the cheers of the knights, and the smiling faces of those around him made this land feel exceptionally warm. And this warmth was exactly what he wanted to protect.
The dinner bell rang from Highgarden's main keep. Gold and green lights lit up in the night, looking like stars scattered across the green earth.
Daemon tightened his grip on Blackfyre's hilt. The black three-headed dragon brand on his right shoulder felt warm, as if echoing the fiercer competition to come tomorrow, and the fire in his heart that refused to go out.