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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Highgarden, The Reach
The road to Highgarden stretched before them like a ribbon of packed earth threading through an ocean of color. Jon had never seen anything quite like it. Even from a distance, the great castle rose above fields that bloomed in every shade imaginable: roses certainly, but also daisies, lavender, sunflowers, and a dozen other varieties he couldn't name. The air itself seemed sweeter here, thick with pollen and the hum of bees going about their work.
Beside him, Master Luke sat straighter in his saddle, and Jon felt a sudden surge of joy through the Force. Pure, uncomplicated delight.
Jon raised an eyebrow at his teacher. "Master?"
Luke's expression held something almost boyish. "I grew up with sand, Jon. Only sand. Twin suns beating down on endless dunes, moisture farmers scratching out a living from rocks and vapor. This..." He gestured at the flowering fields. "This is beautiful."
"The sands of wherever you are from could never compare to the sands of Dorne," Sarella Sand declared from behind them, her voice carrying that particular pride Jon had come to recognize in her over their journey. "Dornish sands are golden, warm, and they stretch beneath mountains that touch the sky. They cradle ancient castles and hide secret springs. Your home sound rather dreary, Master Luke."
"You are not wrong," Luke admitted with a laugh. "Though they made me appreciate places like this all the more."
Jon found himself smiling despite the knot of tension in his stomach. The festive atmosphere grew stronger as they approached the castle proper. Banners snapped in the breeze, green and gold, displaying the golden rose of House Tyrell. Pavilions dotted the grounds, and the distant sound of music drifted across the fields. To celebrate Renly's marriage to Margery Tyrell.
Their party drew curious stares as they passed through the outer gates. The Hightower banners they displayed opened doors, but Jon caught the whispers. Northern accents were rare this far south, and his own dark coloring marked him as clearly as any banner.
A knight in gleaming armor approached, his surcoat bearing the golden rose. He clasped hands with the Hightower captain like an old friend, their easy banter speaking of old familiarity together or perhaps tourneys shared.
"Ser Garlan," the captain said warmly. "Still keeping your brother's roses from wilting?"
"Someone has to tend the garden while Loras preens," the knight replied with good humor. He turned to their group, his gaze sweeping over them with the practiced assessment of a seasoned warrior. When his eyes settled on Jon, then lingered on Master Luke, Jon felt himself being weighed and measured.
"I am Ser Garlan Tyrell," he said, his tone friendly despite the scrutiny. "Welcome to Highgarden. King Renly awaits Lord Snow and Master Skywalker. The rest of your companions will be shown to quarters where they might refresh themselves from the road. There's to be a feast tonight."
Jon exchanged a quick glance with Luke. King Renly.What in the hells happened now.
"We're honored by your hospitality, Ser Garlan," Jon said, inclining his head. What else could he say? To refuse would be an insult, and Father had enough troubles without Jon adding to them.
As they dismounted, Sam moved past Jon, close enough to whisper. "Be careful."
Jon nodded slightly, remembering their conversations on the road. Sam had spent hours telling him about Lady Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns. Her reputation for cunning and manipulation was legendary, and Sam had been adamant about one thing: "If you're being summoned to Highgarden, it's because Lady Olenna wants you there. Lord Renly likely doesn't care about the Oakenshield incident at all. She's the one pulling the strings."
The words echoed in Jon's mind as servants led their horses away and Garlan gestured for him and Luke to follow.
"Have you ever fought in a tourney, Luke?" Garlan asked as they walked through courtyards blooming with roses.
"No," Luke replied simply.
Garlan's smile widened. "You should consider entering the one we're holding in a few days. It's in honor of King Renly's coronation and my sister Margaery's elevation as Queen. We could use more variety in the competition. Too many Reachmen showing off for each other gets dull."
He turned to Jon, looking him up and down with an appraising eye. "You might want to join as well, Lord Snow. You're already in Highgarden. Might as well show off some of that famous Northern strength."
Jon felt heat creep up his neck. "I'm no lord, Ser Garlan. Just Jon."
"As you say." Garlan's tone suggested he thought otherwise, but he didn't press the matter.
They climbed a wide staircase, passing through halls decorated with tapestries showing the Reach's bounty. Jon's attention wandered until movement ahead made him look up.
A woman descended the stairs toward them. She couldn't have been more than Jon's age, perhaps a year older. Her brown hair fell in artful curls around a face that would have made the singers weep. She wore a gown of green silk that matched her eyes, cut to flatter without being improper. Everything about her spoke of careful cultivation, like the roses in the fields outside.
"Garlan," she said, her voice warm and musical. "I didn't know we had guests arriving."
"Margaery." Garlan's tone held obvious affection. "May I present Jon Snow of Winterfell and his… curious guard Luke Skywalker. Gentlemen, my sister, Lady Margaery Tyrell. Queen Margaery, I should say."
Margaery's eyes found Jon's, and he couldn't look away. Through the Force, he felt a tumult of emotions from her. Curiosity, certainly. Calculation. Something that might have been loneliness, buried deep. Determination. Ambition. Fear. They swirled together in a pattern he couldn't begin to untangle.
"Lord Snow," she said, her lips curving into a smile that didn't quite reach those complex eyes. "Ser Skywalker. Welcome to Highgarden."
Jon forced himself to look away, focusing on a tapestry over her shoulder. "Just Jon, my lady. And thank you for your hospitality."
"You're too modest." Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer before she turned to Luke. "I've heard interesting things about you, Ser Skywalker. My husband tells me you are a teacher for House Stark though the subject you teach has been elusive to determine."
"I try to broaden perspectives," Luke replied neutrally.
Margaery laughed, the sound practiced but genuine. "I'm sure you do. I look forward to speaking with you both at the feast tonight. Grandmother has been quite eager to meet you."
She swept past them in a whisper of silk, leaving Jon acutely aware that he'd barely managed to string two words together. Beside him, Luke's presence in the Force remained calm, but Jon thought he detected amusement.
They continued up the stairs to a solar that overlooked the gardens. Garlan knocked once before opening the door.
"King Renly, Grandmother. I present Jon Snow and Luke Skywalker."
Jon stepped inside, taking in the room at a glance. Renly Baratheon sat in a high-backed chair, looking every inch a king despite his youth. He wore black and gold, a crown resting on his dark hair. The resemblance to King Robert was there in the strong jaw and broad shoulders, but Renly carried himself with a grace Robert had lost to wine and years.
Beside him sat an elderly woman so small she seemed almost childlike. But her eyes were sharp as Valyrian steel, and they fixed on Jon with an intensity that made him want to check his clothing for stains.
"Thank you, Garlan," Renly said. "That will be all."
Garlan bowed and withdrew, leaving Jon and Luke alone with the self-proclaimed king and the Queen of Thorns.
"Lord Snow, Ser Luke." Renly's voice was pleasant, welcoming even. "I'm delighted you made it to Highgarden safely. I appreciate you coming at my request."
Request. Jon kept his expression neutral, though the word rankled. It hadn't felt much like a request when Lord Leyton delivered the summons.
"Congratulations on your ascension, Your Grace," Jon said carefully. "Though I confess I'm troubled by the news. What happened to King Robert?"
The room seemed to grow colder. Olenna's eyes never left Jon's face.
"It seems the Lannisters have killed him," she said, her voice thin but carrying absolute certainty.
Jon's breath caught. Luke's presence in the Force rippled with surprise. "The Lannisters?"
"I have ears in the Red Keep," Renly said, leaning forward. "Good ears. Queen Cersei murdered my brother to hide the fact that her children are bastards. Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen. All of them born of incest with Jaime Lannister, not Robert's blood at all."
Jon's mind raced. He was expecting the news of the royal children being bastards but the death of the the king? And in such a manner? Then the succession...
"But that's not why you're here," Renly continued, his tone shifting to something lighter. "We need to discuss the incident at Oakenshield."
Jon met his gaze steadily. "I won't make excuses for what happened, Your Grace. Lord Hewett was mistreating his daughter. We intervened. My father's men helped me. We left."
Renly's eyebrows rose slightly. "Honest. Your father's son in that, at least." He glanced at Olenna. "What do you think, Lady Olenna?"
"I think honesty is refreshing," Olenna said, though her attention had shifted to Luke. "I also think the reports about the harbor being destroyed by some mysterious force are rather interesting. Is that true, Ser Luke?"
Luke's expression didn't change. "It could be true, my lady. From a certain point of view."
Olenna's eyes narrowed, but Jon thought he saw the ghost of a smile touch her lips.
Renly coughed, drawing attention back to himself. "Yes, well. The harbor. Lord Hewett has treated his bastard daughter quite poorly, from what I understand. I can appreciate why you, being a bastard yourself, would come to her defense. And since no one was actually killed, this matter can be resolved without too harsh a punishment."
He paused, as if waiting for Jon to thank him. Jon remained silent.
"I have great respect for Lord Eddard," Renly continued. "I wouldn't want to strain relations with the North over something so minor. Especially not now, when the realm needs unity."
"What's to happen to Falia?" Jon asked.
Olenna spoke before Renly could answer. "My granddaughter Queen Margaery has need of handmaidens. I've already spoken with her about taking the girl into her service. Queen Margaery has graciously agreed."
Jon felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. At least Falia would be safe, protected by the future queen's household.
"However," Olenna continued, her tone sharpening, "you still acted foolishly. There must be some consequence."
Renly nodded, warming to his role. "The tourney in a few days. The North has no representatives competing. I want you to take part, Jon Snow. Represent your homeland in the games."
He turned to Luke. "And you, Ser Luke. Robert mentioned you to me before his… murder. Tyrion Lannister spoke of you as well. A foreign stranger teaching in Eddard Stark's court. I'd very much like to see what you can do. Consider your participation in the tourney as penance for the harbor."
Jon glanced at Luke, who met his eyes. Through their connection, Luke's voice touched Jon's mind: A clever solution. He punishes you without truly punishing you, satisfying the Reach lords without angering your father. We should accept and this will allow us to leave for the North after the tourney without any real conflict.
Jon nodded slowly. "I accept, Your Grace."
Luke sighed, but inclined his head. "As do I."
"Excellent!" Renly clapped his hands together. "You'll only need to choose one event to compete in. The melee, the joust, or the archery. We'll discuss the details at the feast tonight. For now, I'm sure you'd like to rest from your journey."
It was a dismissal, clear as a bell. Jon bowed, as did Luke, but Renly rose first, brushing invisible dust from his doublet.
"Lady Olenna, if you'll excuse me, Loras wishes to speak with me privately."
Olenna waved him off with one spotted hand. "Go, go. I'm sure your knight has something terribly urgent to discuss."
The dry edge in her tone made Jon's ears burn, though he wasn't entirely sure why. Renly either didn't notice or chose to ignore it, sweeping from the solar with the easy grace of a man who'd never questioned his place in the world.
The door closed. The silence that followed pressed against Jon's skin like a held breath. Jon's hand moved to his tunic before he could second-guess himself. "My lady, if I might have a moment more of your time?"
Olenna's gaze sharpened, the milky film over her eyes doing nothing to diminish their intensity. "Oh? And here I thought we were finished. Come on then, I have only so much time left in these old bones."
Jon walked back toward her chair. Her guards' hands went to their sword hilts immediately, but Olenna raised one spotted hand in a gesture of calm.
Jon reached into his tunic and withdrew the sealed journal Lord Leyton had given him. "Lord Leyton Hightower asked me to give you this, my lady."
Olenna took it, her fingers surprisingly steady. She turned it over, examining the seal. "Did he tell you what it contains?"
"No, my lady."
"Could you summarize it for me?"
Jon met her gaze. "I didn't read it. It wasn't meant for me."
Silence stretched between them. Olenna studied him like a maester examining a rare manuscript. Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Pretty and honorable. Quite a potent combination. Dangerous, too."
Heat flooded Jon's face. He was acutely aware of Renly watching with obvious amusement, of Luke's carefully neutral presence.
"Thank you for your time, My lady." Jon bowed again and fled before his face could burn any hotter.
In the corridor outside, Luke fell into step beside him. Jon could feel his teacher's amusement through the Force.
"Not a word," Jon muttered.
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were thinking it loudly enough."
Luke's soft laugh followed them down the stairs, past tapestries of roses and plenty, toward whatever quarters had been prepared for them.
Pretty and honorable. The words echoed in his mind. He wasn't sure which bothered him more: that she'd called him pretty, or that she'd made it sound like a weakness.
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White Harbor, The North
The Wolf's Den godswood smelled of salt and pine, so different from the perfumed gardens of Pentos that Daenerys still caught herself inhaling deeply, seeking familiar scents that would never come. The heart tree here was massive as it seeped into the castle, its pale bark marked with a face whose red sap seemed to weep in the morning light. Morghaes shifted restlessly in her lap, his black scales warm against her hands, while Viserion and Rhaegal prowled through the fallen leaves nearby.
"They're growing faster than I expected," Wylla Manderly observed, settling onto the ground beside Daenerys with a grace that belied her northern practicality. She'd brought a basket of fish, their silver scales catching the weak sunlight filtering through the branches overhead.
Daenerys stroked Morghaes' neck, feeling the heat building beneath his scales. "Lord Stark said the same. He worries what will happen when they're too large to hide."
"My grandfather worries about same." Wylla tore a fish in half, offering a piece toward Viserion, who approached with cautious curiosity. "It's what makes him a good lord. He sees problems before they arrive. But this isn't a problem is it."
The cream and gold dragon sniffed the offering, then delicately plucked it from Wylla's fingers. Daenerys tensed, ready to intervene if her children showed aggression, but Viserion simply settled at Wylla's feet and began tearing into the fish with quiet contentment. A low rumble emerged from his throat, almost like a cat's purr.
"He likes you," Daenerys said, unable to hide her surprise. The dragons had been wary of everyone except her since hatching. Even Lord Stark kept his distance, though whether from caution or discomfort, she couldn't say.
Wylla smiled, running her fingers along Viserion's spine. "My grandmother used to say the Manderlys have had a certain touch with animals, ever since our days in the Reach."
"That's not how it works."
"Isn't it?" Wylla's eyes gleamed with amusement as she fed Viserion another piece. "You walked through fire unburned. Your dragons hatched from stone eggs that should have been dead for centuries. I think the rules we thought we knew don't apply anymore."
Daenerys watched Rhaegal investigate the base of the heart tree, his green scales brilliant against the white bark. Morghaes remained in her lap, his red eyes fixed on Wylla with an intensity that might have been threatening if not for Viserion's obvious comfort. The sight should have reassured her, this easy acceptance by her children of someone outside their small circle. Instead, it highlighted how little she understood about the creatures she'd brought into the world.
"The Manderly's are from the Reach?" Daenerys said, trying to recall one of the many lessons Viserys had drilled into her during their wandering years, but failing to remember anything on the Manderlys. "Is that why you also worship the Seven?"
Wylla's expression shifted, taking on the quality of someone settling into a favorite tale. "Close enough," Wylla said, her fingers still working the fish into smaller pieces. "We keep both the Old and the New."
Viserion's head tilted at the sound of her voice, his cream-colored scales catching the dappled sunlight filtering through the weirwood's branches.
"The Manderlys are old," Wylla continued, her tone taking on the cadence of a maester reciting history. "So old we can't remember if the River Mander was named after our house or the other way around. First Men blood runs in our veins, same as the Starks."
"Then why leave the Reach?" Daenerys asked.
"We didn't leave." Wylla's mouth twisted. "We were driven out. King Perceon III Gardener feared our influence—too much land, too many swords, too many lords who looked to White Harbor for guidance instead of Highgarden. Political overreach, they called it, though my grandmother had other words for it." She fed Viserion another morsel. "Exile. That's what it was. Sore, friendless, fighting for our lives."
Morghaes shifted in Daenerys's lap, his tail curling around her wrist.
"The Starks took us in when no one else would," Wylla said.
"Loyalty." The word tasted strange in Daenerys's mouth. Viserys had taught her that loyalty was a currency, bought and sold like Myrish lace. Yet here sat Wylla, speaking of it as something solid and enduring as the stones of White Harbor itself.
Wylla studied her with eyes that seemed older than her years. "You're thinking about what your brother told you. About the Starks and the Targaryens."
Daenerys's hand stilled on Morghaes' scales. "How did you—"
"You get this look," Wylla interrupted gently. "Like you're trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. I've seen it before, when father negotiates with merchants who don't trust him because of some old slight their grandfather suffered." She tore another fish, offering pieces to both Viserion and Rhaegal, who had wandered closer. "You can't trust what your brother said about House Stark. He hated them for helping topple the Targaryens. That hatred colored everything he taught you."
The words struck deeper than Daenerys expected. She thought of Viserys's rants about the Usurper's dogs, his spittle flying as he described the treachery of those who'd abandoned their rightful king. The Starks had been chief among his villains, second only to Robert Baratheon himself.
"Just because one house dislikes another doesn't mean every house shares that hatred," Wylla continued, her voice taking on a lecturer's cadence. "The Boltons despise us for our wealth and southern ways, but that doesn't make every northern house our enemy. The Freys resent the Tullys for a thousand petty reasons, yet the Twins don't burn. Hatred is personal, not universal."
"House Stark betrayed mine." The protest emerged sharper than Daenerys intended. Morghaes hissed softly, sensing her agitation. "They fought against my father, helped Robert take the throne that was my family's by right, even with the terrible mistakes made by my father. That's not hatred speaking. That's history."
Wylla didn't flinch from the heat in her voice. Instead, she met Daenerys's eyes with a steadiness that reminded her uncomfortably of Lord Stark himself. "And who told you that history? Your brother, who was a child when it happened? The same brother who struck you and would have sold you to the Dothraki for an army?"
The observation landed like a physical blow. Daenerys opened her mouth to defend Viserys, then closed it again. What defense could she offer? He had hit her. He had arranged her marriage to Khal Drogo without asking her wishes. He had cared more for his crown than her happiness.
"Even your handmaiden betrayed you," Wylla said, her tone softening. "The girl you thought loyal, who helped you flee Pentos, most likely for coin because she was desperate or greedy or afraid. Yet here you sit, under Stark protection, raising your dragons freely in a godswood dedicated to their gods, not yours. Lord Stark could have left you in that burning tavern. Could have taken your dragons and left you to the bounty hunters. Could have delivered you to King Robert for a reward that would have cleared any of the North's debts twice over."
Daenerys stroked Morghaes' head, feeling the truth of those words settle into her bones. Lord Stark had done none of those things. He'd defended her against eleven armed men, risked his life and his men's lives, brought her north to safety despite the political complications. He'd even told her about Daemon, about the nephew she shared with him, though that knowledge could destroy them both if it reached the wrong ears.
"So who is the real villain?" Wylla asked quietly. "The man who protects you, or the brother who taught you to hate the man who protects you now?"
Before Daenerys could formulate an answer, Wylla's expression shifted into something bright and mischievous. "Speaking of complicated relationships, have you heard the rumor that Asher Forrester sent a raven to Gwyn Whitehill and got a earful from Lord Stark?"
The abrupt change in topic made Daenerys blink. "What?"
"Asher and Gwyn." Wylla leaned forward conspiratorially, clearly delighted by this new subject. "The Forresters and Whitehills have hated each other for generations, fighting over ironwood groves and insults older than my grandmother. Yet I've seen Asher, making moon eyes at the enemy's daughter in feasts before. Well," Wylla said, her eyes glinting with wicked amusement, "at least the distance between White Harbor and Highpoint means they can't make things worse by actually seeing each other. Though knowing Asher, he'd probably swim the Bay of Ice just to get another earful from Lord Whitehill about how Forresters are all tree-stealing bastards."
Daenerys found herself rolling her eyes despite the heaviness still sitting in her chest. "You're terrible."
"I'm observant." Wylla grinned, feeding Viserion another piece of fish. "There's a difference. Besides, someone needs to pay attention to these things. Both my Father and Grandfather are too busy with politics and trade agreements. Mother only cares about marriages that advance our house. But me? I like a good story, especially one where star-crossed lovers from feuding families find each other despite everything trying to keep them apart."
"That sounds like something from a song."
"The best stories usually are." Wylla stood, brushing fish scales from her skirts. "I should return before Mother sends guards looking for me. She still doesn't trust that your dragons won't eat me, no matter how many times I tell her Viserion is perfectly gentle."
She paused, her expression turning serious again. "Think about what I said, Daenerys. About trust and loyalty and who really deserves your hatred. History is written by people with their own purposes. Sometimes you need to look at what's happening now, not what you were told happened then."
Daenerys nodded, not trusting her voice. Wylla squeezed her shoulder once, then departed through the godswood gate, leaving Daenerys alone with her dragons and her thoughts.
The morning air felt colder without Wylla's presence. Daenerys gathered her children close, Morghaes in her lap, Viserion and Rhaegal pressing against her sides. Their warmth seeped through her clothing, a comfort she'd come to depend on during the long nights aboard Lord Manderly's ship.
She needed to decide what came next. The dragons were growing, yes, but they were still small enough to hide. Lord Stark had given her safety, but safety wasn't a throne. King Robert was dead now and the realm would tear itself apart over the succession, especially with Renly claiming the crown and declaring Cersei's children bastards.
The thought circled back to Daemon. Jon Snow, who was really a prince, the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. Her nephew. The rightful heir to the Iron Throne by every law of succession, bastard or not. The realm needed a Targaryen king, someone with a legitimate claim that couldn't be openly disputed.
She needed to convince Lord Stark to support Daemon's claim. Not Robert's bastards or Renly's ambition. Daemon had the blood, the name, the right. With dragons at his back and the North's armies behind him, he could unite the Seven Kingdoms before the long night Lord Stark feared descended from beyond the Wall.
But how to convince a man who'd spent fifteen years hiding a Targaryen prince that the time had come to reveal him? Lord Stark valued honor above all else, yet he'd built his entire life around a lie to protect his sister's son. Would he see Daemon's claim as justice, or as a death sentence for the boy he'd raised?
Daenerys looked down at Morghaes, studying his molten gold eyes. The dragon stared back with an intelligence that seemed beyond his few weeks of life.
The world seemed to shift as she held Morghaes' gaze. Not physically, but something deeper, like falling into a dream while still awake. The godswood around her dissolved into grey, ethereal mist that swirled with shapes she couldn't quite identify. Voices whispered at the edge of hearing, speaking words in languages she'd never learned but somehow understood.
Mother of Dragons. Daughter of Death. The blood calls to blood, and the fire answers.
Daenerys tried to pull away, but Morghaes' eyes held her fast. The mist thickened, taking on colors that shouldn't exist, hues that hurt to perceive. She saw flames dancing in patterns that spelled out futures and pasts, saw dragons larger than castles breathing fire across frozen wastelands, saw a great eye opening in the north, blue and cold and hungry.
Above her head, unnoticed, the face carved into the heart tree began to weep. Not sap, but something darker, richer. Blood, red as rubies, red as dragon fire, red as the eyes that watched from beyond the Wall. It dripped down the pale bark in slow rivulets, gathering at the base of the trunk before flowing outward in thin streams.
One stream touched Daenerys's silver hair where it pooled on the ground behind her. The contact sent a shock through her system, and all she saw was darkness.