A sullen dawn broke over the rolling green hills of the Reach. Aryan Targaryen—Viserys reborn, dragonlord in truth—stood in the midst of his swelling host. Gulltown's banners still hung crisp in the mist behind him, but his sight was set much farther south: to Highgarden, seat of House Tyrell, and the richest, mightiest realm outside King's Landing.
News had come in the night: a formidable Tyrell army was marching north, banners fluttering like a field in bloom. At its head rode Lord Mace Tyrell, the proud Warden of the South; guiding him, as always, was his iron-willed mother, Olenna. Rumor said their forces outnumbered Aryan's nearly two to one, bolstered by houses Rowan and Tarly—lords with much to lose and a deep reserve of pride.
But Aryan did not fear numbers. Three dragons wheeled overhead—Verdantyr, grown bold and strong under his hand; Skywrath and the coal-black Storm-Eye by Daenerys. And as always, at Aryan's side, was Daenerys herself, now wise in the ways of both legend and war.
A Meeting in the Field
Rather than wait for siege or slaughter, Aryan sent envoys under a banner of truce.
Under a great oak in the fields north of Bitterbridge, representatives of both sides met: Aryan and Daenerys, unsullied and dragons in their retinue; Lord Mace, gruff and overly confident, and beside him Lady Olenna, green eyes sharp as she assessed Aryan with a mind far keener than her son's armor.
Mace blustered first. "The Reach has bent knee to no pretender since the days of the first gardeners, boy. These hills are watered with the blood of rebels. Turn back your host, deliver your dragons, and we'll grant you life at trial—perhaps even the Wall."
Olenna only watched, a small, knowing smile playing at her lips.
Aryan answered coolly. "I do not come as a beggar or usurper, but as the trueborn of House Targaryen—come to restore order, and justice, and peace. I hold the dragons, and I hold the heart of the smallfolk. Ask your own people, Lady Olenna, if they want golden roses or fire and hope."
He ended with a silent signal; Verdantyr landed between the camps, immense and imposing, fire licking at his jaws. It was not a threat—though none doubted it could be.
The Queen of Thorns' Test
It was Lady Olenna who broke the simmering silence. "Dragons are impressive, boy, but the Reach has fed armies longer than your ancestors have held this continent. Why should we trust fire over flower, when fire has so often burned itself out?"
Aryan, drawing upon both his meta knowledge and his months of leadership, answered shrewdly. "Lady Olenna, you know the games of power. The Lannisters and their gold will spend us all to ashes. I offer alliance, not conquest. Bend the knee not to me, but to the vision of a Westeros free from Lannister tyranny—and my dragons will defend your fields, not scorch them. Your sons will have places at my council. The Reach will eat, and bloom, and prosper."
He added, eyes steady, "Or you can set your strength against mine. I have seen what dragonfire does to armies. It is not a fate I wish on your sons or anyone in these lands."
Lady Olenna studied him, then Daenerys, then the dragons. Finally, she beckoned Aryan in close, lowering her voice.
"I will give you a test, young prince. Choose mercy where others would choose pride—and the Reach will follow you, not out of fear, but out of hope. Start with Lord Tarly, who wishes your head yet dreams of a Reach his sons may inherit."
Battle or Alliance?
Negotiations gave way to tension in the camps that night. Tarly's horsemen made a show of readiness, while Aryan drilled his unsullied and placed his dragons on constant patrol. Spies exchanged rumors—some Tyrell bannermen, remembering their old loyalty to Targaryens, quietly sent Aryan word of support, if only their prideful lords would allow it.
At dawn, combat seemed certain. Tarly demanded a trial by battle, ancient right of the Reach; Aryan accepted, and the field became tense with the weight of hundreds of hearts.
In the ritual combat that followed, Aryan asked for the right to fight for mercy and peace rather than for pride. When a hot-blooded Rowan knight challenged him, Aryan—with help from a swift-and-flame-displaying Verdantyr—disarmed but spared him, winning cheers even from Tyrell levies watching from the ridge.
Olenna, ever pragmatic, rode forth. "Let it not be said the Reach can't see sense. We will join you, Targaryen—on your terms: fair treatment for our sons, reward for their loyalty, and a promise to protect the Reach from Lannister vengeance."
Aryan extended his hand. "You have my oath. And the promise of dragons' protection."
Olenna clasped Aryan's hand, her eyes shrewd and satisfied.
The Storm Breaks
The banners were joined; over fields once ready for war, now dragons flew above flowers, and a Targaryen army twice the size, bolstered by the full might of House Tyrell and its bannermen, turned its gaze toward King's Landing.
Word spread in every corner: the rose had bent toward the dragon—not by fire and threat alone, but by Aryan's resolve to spare when he might destroy, and to make allies when his enemies expected only blood.
A new day broke, and Westeros itself seemed to shift.
End of Chapter 22