The Cannibal's roar was still echoing over the Rose Fields, his master's silver-gold hair gleaming like molten gold in the setting sun.
When Daemon Blackfyre's violet eyes swept across the arena, the once-boisterous stands fell into a deathly silence.
Matthos Tyrell's hand froze mid-air, his wine cup tilting dangerously. Wine dripped down his gold-and-green brocade robe, staining the fabric stretched over his round belly.
Garlan Tyrell's knuckles turned white as he gripped his sword hilt, the pauldrons of his silver-green armor trembling slightly from tension.
Lucas Tyrell, hiding behind the crowd, had his mouth open wide enough to catch a grape, his earlier timidity completely forgotten.
"Prince—why are you here? How could you be..." Matthos's voice trembled. The smile on his round face had vanished completely, replaced by utter bewilderment. "Didn't you say—you wanted to watch the tourney? How did you suddenly—"
Daemon didn't answer immediately. Instead, he lifted a hand to rub his right shoulder—the three-headed dragon brand there was still hot, echoing the heat of the battle he'd just finished.
His gaze fell on a destitute knight being supported by guards at the edge of the field. The man wore the battered iron armor Daemon had shed earlier that morning—his "disguise." The knight bowed deeply to him now, eyes filled with gratitude.
Originally, Daemon had intended to participate in the tourney under his own name. But then he remembered the story Count Dennis Oakheart had told him at Old Oak—about how Baelon Targaryen had entered the tourney there as the "Silver Fool."
He also thought of Aemon the Dragonknight from his past life memories, who had entered a tourney as the "Knight of Tears" to win the title of Queen of Love and Beauty for his sister Naerys.
So, on a whim, he decided to enter as a mystery knight, using this family "tradition" to surprise Gael and the others. But when he went to a Highgarden smithy early this morning to find some old armor for his disguise, he stumbled upon a conspiracy.
"Before sunrise this morning, near the 'Golden Rose Tavern' in Highgarden, I found this knight being hunted down," Daemon's voice cut through the silence following the dragon's roar, clear as the waters of the Mander. "Last night, he stumbled upon a plot hatched by several 'noble' bastard sons. They said that in three days, after the tourney, when the Duke and the lords came to see Gael and me off, they would wait for us to leave on dragonback. Then, using bribed outlaws, they would surround Highgarden, take all the lords hostage, and seize control of the entire Reach in the name of House Tyrell."
These words were like a spark dropped into a barrel of oil. The stands exploded instantly!
Count Florent slammed his hand on the table and stood up, the fox sigil on his red-gold armor flashing dizzyingly. "Outrageous! These bastards dare plot treason?!"
Count Peake drew his longsword, the spikes on his black-and-orange armor glinting cold. "Duke Matthos! Is this how you raise your sons?"
Matthos's face turned the color of pig liver. He waved his hands frantically. "Impossible! Absolutely impossible! How could my sons—"
"Why couldn't they?" Daemon cut him off, turning his gaze to the bastard with the bruised eye—who was now cowering in a corner of the stands, head buried low. "When I went to the Rose Fields this morning, I ran right into this young master chasing down that destitute knight—just because the knight had overheard their plot. After I saved the knight, this young master even tried to recruit me. He said since we were both bastards, and the nobles knew my origins, that if I helped them take Highgarden, they would lead the Reach to help me 'take' the Iron Throne."
He paused, a chill flashing through his violet eyes. "It's a pity they didn't know that I, Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen, have never thought of breaking with my family, nor of conspiring with low-life schemers to seize anything through treason."
Before his voice faded, he raised a hand to point. The crowd finally saw clearly that the bruised bastard pinned to the barrier still had dried blood at the corner of his mouth—and the bruise on his eye was from the punch Daemon had given him that morning.
"You! You..." Garlan Tyrell stepped forward violently. The golden rose on his breastplate nearly poked the bastard in the face. His voice was filled with incredulous rage. "I treated you all well! I gave you armor, taught you to ride, and you dare do this?"
The Duchess was shaking with fury. Supported by her brother, Earl Redwyne, and her sister-in-law, she crumpled the hem of her pale purple gown in her fist. She pointed a trembling finger at Matthos, her voice choked with tears. "Look at this! Look at these 'fine sons' you brought back and raised! To think they'd come up with such treasonous ideas... the face of House Tyrell has been completely lost by you!"
Lady Florence frowned deeply, her emerald green dress sweeping the steps as she shook her head gently at Martin—a look of resigned "I knew this would happen."
Martin Tyrell put down his History of Tourneys in the Reach and sighed. His voice was steady but weary. "Matthos, what's done is done. Handle this. Quickly."
Matthos finally snapped out of his daze and screamed at his guards. "Take—take these ungrateful wretches to the dungeon! Under strict guard!" Several guards in green tunics immediately stepped forward, dragging the pale-faced bastards toward the main keep. Everyone knew "strict guard" was just protective custody—Highgarden's dungeons wouldn't truly hold a Tyrell.
Although the lords were furious, they held their tongues out of respect for Daemon's presence. However, the looks they cast at Matthos were now filled with even more distance and contempt.
"My lords, my lords!" Martin quickly tried to smooth things over, his gray sleeve brushing over wine stains on the tablecloth. "The tourney has just ended, and the banquet is ready. The Arbor wine is still warm. Let us go to the main keep first. We can discuss this slowly!"
Lady Florence chimed in, fanning herself gently with her silk handkerchief. "Yes, Princess Gael and her handmaiden Mysaria must be tired. How can the Reach keep our distinguished guests waiting?"
The lords, though still disgruntled, knew this wasn't the time for an outburst. They rose one by one, but no one gathered around Matthos to joke and laugh as before. Instead, they whispered in small groups about what had just happened, their eyes occasionally darting toward the destitute knight being helped away.
Gael finally recovered from her shock. She walked quickly up to Daemon, her pale violet eyes full of worry, like an agitated kitten. "Why didn't you tell me? Risking yourself secretly again! What if those bastards had knives? What if you got hurt?"
Daemon looked at her furrowed brow and suddenly smiled. He remembered the crown for the "Queen of Love and Beauty" by the stand—golden roses bound with silver wire, still glistening with fresh dew.
He walked over quickly, picked up the laurel with the tip of his lance, and presented it to Gael. "Don't be angry. Shall I crown our 'Queen of Love and Beauty'?"
But Gael was still fuming. She shoved the lance away and turned to walk toward the higher seats of the royal box, her pale blue rose cloak swishing behind her in a lovely arc. "Who wants your crown! Wear it yourself!"
Daemon smiled helplessly and looked up at the sky. The Cannibal was circling over the Rose Fields, his pitch-black wings reflecting the sunset like flowing obsidian. Daemon whistled, and the black dragon dove down immediately, landing steadily in front of him. The dragon pawed the grass gently, as if asking for credit.
"Lend me your wing." Daemon patted the Cannibal's neck. The black dragon lowered his head obediently and raised a wing slightly, forming a perfect "staircase" to the royal box. Daemon walked up the wing, his silver-gold hair flying in the wind, drawing screams from the noble ladies below.
Just as Gael reached the top of the royal box, she was embraced from behind by a pair of strong arms. Daemon turned her around gently and placed the golden rose crown on her silver hair. The pale blue strands and golden petals complemented each other perfectly—a picture of breathtaking beauty.
"Stop throwing a tantrum," his voice was low and gentle, his breath brushing her ear. "I promise, next time I'll tell you."
Gael's face turned crimson instantly, the blush spreading all the way to her ears. She tried to push him away, but he held her waist tight. She could only mutter softly, "Who—who's throwing a tantrum..."
The golden light of the sunset bathed them both. Below, the Cannibal let out a low rumble. He used his wing to lift the pair onto his back, then shot streams of dragonfire into the air as if offering a blessing.
The noble ladies on the stands were heartbroken. Some secretly wiped away tears, while others clutched their handkerchiefs and sighed with envy. "If only I could stand on a dragon's back..."
Mysaria leaned on the edge of the stand, the sunset catching in her platinum curls. She gazed痴ly at the two figures in the sky, a faint smile touching her lips.
Alys Rivers leaned out of a window in the main keep, her green dress pressed against her body by the wind. She watched the couple on the dragon's back, a mysterious smile flashing in her eyes. Her fingers unconsciously traced the silver chain at her waist—as if she had expected this scene all along.
Larys Strong leaned on his cane, standing next to Jarmon Waters. The hem of his black robe brushed the grass.
He watched Daemon holding Gael, then looked at the complicated expressions of the lords. A knowing smile curled his lips. He was even more certain now of the ambition of the prince he followed. Before, he thought Daemon only wanted to stabilize the Seven Kingdoms to take the Iron Throne. Now he understood that this prince's ambition went far deeper than the throne—even the hearts of the Reach were within his grasp.
Jarmon gripped his bow, his single eye scanning the crowd vigilantly. His gaze lingered on the lords with unfriendly expressions, looking for anyone glaring at Daemon. But the crowd disappointed him—Count Peake was still cursing under his breath, and Count Rowan was whispering with Martin, brows furrowed. Clearly, they were still preoccupied with the treasonous plot.
Matthos stood below the stand, looking up at Daemon and Gael on the dragon's back. His round face was full of worry, hands clasped as if in prayer. In his heart, however, he was just relieved Daemon hadn't held him responsible; otherwise, the Reach would truly have been turned upside down.
He didn't even dare look his wife in the eye, staring instead at the Cannibal's claws, terrified the black dragon might suddenly roast him.
Daemon looked down at Gael in his arms. The girl's face was still as red as a ripe peach. Her pale violet eyes reflected the sunset, and his own image.
He suddenly felt that all the trouble just now was worth it. The treasonous bastards were contained, the lords' anger temporarily quelled, and in his arms was the person he cherished most.
The Cannibal flapped his wings gently, carrying the pair in a circle over the Rose Fields. The lords below looked up—some bowed, some exclaimed in envy. Even Count Florent, furious earlier at Matthos's scandalous family affairs, had to admit the scene was as beautiful as a gift from the gods.
The sun gradually sank into the Mander, dyeing the water a golden red. Daemon held Gael, looking down from the dragon's back at Highgarden's white marble walls and the golden rose petals scattered across the fields. He suddenly felt that the wind of the Reach was not only warm, but carried the hope of the future. As long as he held Blackfyre, rode the Cannibal, and had Gael by his side, there was no obstacle he couldn't overcome.
The light in Alys Rivers' window faded. Larys and Jarmon turned to walk back to the main keep. Mysaria skipped along behind them, humming an off-key tune.
Matthos finally dared to raise his head, forcing an awkward smile at the Duchess. "Shall we—shall we go to the banquet? The Arbor wine is waiting."
Only the bastards locked in the dungeon were still screaming in vain. They didn't know that their treason hadn't shaken the foundation of the Reach. Instead, it had allowed Daemon Blackfyre's prestige to take deep root in the soil of Highgarden.
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CaveLeather
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