4"Please have a seat. The guests will arrive soon."
Margaery sat gracefully on a brown round stool, warmly inviting the Targaryen siblings to join her.
Her bright and beautiful face was captivating, with deep brown eyes resembling a fawn in the forest—one glance was enough to make anyone's heart race uncontrollably.
Rhaegar glanced at her briefly but found that the fruit in his mouth was still sweeter.
It wasn't that he lacked appreciation for beauty, nor that his standards were too high.
When you've endured a relentless baptism of blood and fire—when all you see are wreckage and charred corpses, when the screams around you never cease, and the only scents that fill your nose and mouth are the acrid stench of burning flesh—it's hard to be in the mood for admiration.
Rhaegar smiled faintly at the thought and took a seat on another round stool.
"Brother~"
Helena tilted her small head, sensing something unusual.
Those who are sensitive to emotions always notice things before others.
Rhaegar was momentarily stunned but then ruffled her soft hair with a gentle smile. "Don't mind me. Weren't you feeling a little warm? Just enjoy the ice."
As a dreamwalker haunted by nightmares since childhood, his mind wasn't that fragile.
But after shedding so much blood, a shadow had inevitably settled in his heart.
He needed time to clear it away—just like a servant sweeping out the trash with a broom.
Helena observed him carefully, glancing back and forth before finally turning away.
She trusted her brother.
If he said he was fine, then he must have his reasons.
Margaery had been watching the whole interaction and couldn't help but admire their bond. "You two have such a wonderful sibling relationship. Prince Rhaegar, you're even gentler than my two late brothers."
The sons of Highgarden were all gentlemen, full of warmth and charm.
Rhaegar's eyes flickered, and without thinking, he lifted his cup and took a sip of sweet fruit wine.
Helena, her face already slightly flushed, grabbed her cup and downed it in large gulps.
Margaery: …
Did I say something wrong?
Her gaze landed on her new sister-in-law's freckled face, puzzled as to why she had turned so red.
Rhaegar glanced over and felt a small boot lightly kick him under the table. A smirk played at the corner of his lips.
Ah, the affairs of House Targaryen—how could she possibly understand?
As the guests arrived one after another, the banquet officially began.
After enduring a round of tedious and repetitive greetings, some peace finally returned to the hall.
Rhaegar's smile had grown stiff, and he increased the pace of his drinking.
Margaery covered her mouth and giggled. "The prince still doesn't enjoy social gatherings, I see."
Rhaegar responded with a polite smile.
He had no choice—the seat he occupied dictated his actions.
Tonight's guest list was extraordinary, including members from the Rowan, Tarly, Beesbury, and Redwyne families.
Though most of the attendees were women, they represented the faces of their noble houses.
The soldiers under their banners fought for House Targaryen, so Rhaegar had to toast each one in turn.
As the musicians plucked their strings, the soft, melodious singing filled the warm summer air, adding a romantic touch to the evening.
Margaery seemed to be a natural chatterbox. Her rosy lips never stopped moving, yet miraculously, she never became annoying.
Her voice was like a songbird's, capable of keeping spirits lifted without effort.
Before Rhaegar even realized it, Margaery had already pulled a tipsy Helena into her arms, pressing her delicate face affectionately against the younger girl's.
He had to admit—the sight of two beautiful women, one older and one younger, was quite pleasing to the eye.
"Uh…"
Rhaegar's eyelid twitched as he hesitated, unsure whether he should intervene.
It reminded him of Jeyne, who was resting at the Eyrie.
Before they had met, there had been rumors of her having an unusual bond with Janyce Fossoway.
Many nobles in Westeros had whispered about it behind closed doors.
Rhaegar could confirm that their relationship was indeed… unorthodox. They were close enough to share a bed.
But as far as he knew, they had yet to cross the line into something more than friendship.
Every now and then, when the mood struck, Jeyne would tease him, asking if he wanted to invite Janyce to join them.
That was when Rhaegar knew—Jeyne was losing patience.
"Helena, you've grown even more beautiful since the last time we met. Your skin is as soft and bouncy as a cream pudding," Margaery cooed, reluctant to let go.
Helena, utterly unaccustomed to such intimacy, turned as red as a monkey's backside and stammered, "N-no, it's just that riding dragons makes me happy."
As she spoke, even her forehead began to radiate heat from nervousness.
Rhaegar pinched the bridge of his nose, unable to bear watching anymore.
She had been completely caught off guard.
Margaery giggled, letting Helena rest in her embrace to sober up. Then, turning to Rhaegar, she changed the subject.
"My father visited Oldtown recently. I heard that Lord Manfred Hightower was quite insistent on securing the position of commander for the Reach's armies."
Hearing this, Rhaegar perked up.
Now this was interesting. "Oh? And who does Lord Tyrell have in mind?"
Ever since Alicent married his father and Otto Hightower regained his position as Hand of the King, House Hightower's influence had only grown stronger.
Rhaegar was certain that, no matter how incompetent Lord Tyrell was, he wouldn't let House Hightower's power expand unchecked.
Margaery pursed her lips mischievously. "Of course, he favors Lord Thaddeus Rowan. He and his brother-in-law, Lord Donald Tarly, are both skilled commanders and, more importantly, unwaveringly loyal."
After pausing for a moment, she softly added, "Although Lord Thaddeus is a bit chubby, it makes one wonder if he can even fit into armor."
After finishing her thought, she giggled cheerfully.
Rhaegar understood and smiled brightly. "Lord Thaddeus is a good man, but I'm afraid Mondo Hightower will be jumping with rage."
The Rowan family had been one of the top noble families in the Reach for generations, in some ways rivaling even their liege lords, House Tyrell.
The current head, Thaddeus Rowan, had a sister married to the Earl of Horn Hill, making them wealthy and martial in spirit.
Not someone that fool Mondo, with his big nose, could provoke.
Margaery's smile deepened, and she added, "I also heard that the Hightower family is sending ships to Myr and Tyrosh, planning to establish overseas trade outposts."
As the Rose of Highgarden, she naturally viewed the Hightowers of Oldtown with hostility.
The Hightowers had been secretly contacting various nobles of the Reach, a move that was bound to anger their liege lords.
Rhaegar's eyes narrowed—this was the first time he had heard of this.
Those three Free Cities were among the best ports, forming a crucial maritime trade network on both sides of the Narrow Sea, potentially even surpassing Oldtown, Westeros' largest port.
With the Hightowers' business acumen and sharp instincts, they would thrive in such an environment like fish in water.
Rhaegar thought to himself, "A vassal that is too wealthy is not a good vassal."
The Hightowers were already incredibly rich, with their domain housing both the headquarters of the Faith of the Seven and the Citadel—making them, without exaggeration, the cultural and commercial hub of Westeros.
Thinking about Alicent's stepmother-like scheming, Rhaegar felt repulsed. "A delusional, foolish woman."
As their conversation grew livelier, a graceful figure approached.
Lady Alyssa maintained a composed smile. "Margaery, many noble ladies are looking for you. I can't handle them all by myself."
Her voice was soft and alluring, and her demeanor was poised.
At first glance, she seemed like an ideal noble wife.
Rhaegar and Margaery both looked up at her without saying a word, their expressions unreadable.
After a moment of silence, Rhaegar cleared his throat and said, "I'll take Helena downstairs to rest. You two carry on."
"The banquet has only just begun. Won't you stay a little longer?"
Lady Alyssa's expression flickered slightly, her tone somewhat unnatural.
Rhaegar shook his head. "No, I'll just take a walk in the gardens later."
Margaery stood up as well and handed the drowsy Helena to Rhaegar. "Then I'll take my leave."
With that, she walked past Lady Alyssa and headed straight toward her group of noble ladies.
Lady Alyssa's expression stiffened slightly before she found an excuse to leave as well.
Watching her retreating figure, Rhaegar couldn't help but chuckle. "As if no one else has a stepmother. Her acting skills are far worse than Alicent's."
Annoying as she was, Alicent had still contributed a great deal to House Targaryen, helping manage the Red Keep on behalf of his father.
Even when dealing with Rhaenyra and him, she had at least maintained a polite facade—things hadn't completely fallen apart yet.
Compared to her, Lady Alyssa was simply out of her league.
"Mmhh~"
Helena mumbled drowsily. "Mother? What about Mother?"
It seemed like she had vaguely heard Rhaegar mention their mother's name.
Rhaegar picked her up effortlessly and said with feigned annoyance, "Nothing, I was praising her."
"Oh." Helena believed him without question.
As he watched her close her eyes, Rhaegar felt both amused and exasperated.
Alicent was truly blessed—with a good husband and a group of devoted children.
Feeling the soft warmth in his arms, he found yet another reason to tolerate Alicent.
Annoying!
---
By dusk, the air had cooled slightly, and the sky was painted with brilliant streaks of fiery clouds, adorning the setting sun like an artist's brushstrokes.
In the Godswood, nestled within a private garden of lush greenery, Rhaegar strolled leisurely.
His silver hair cascaded freely over his shoulders, and his tunic was left unfastened at the collar as he wandered along the winding white-marble pathway.
Exotic flowers and plants adorned both sides of the path, their beauty harmonizing with the stone sculptures and reflecting pools.
"Hmm-hmm-hmm~~"
Rhaegar hummed a popular tune, the kind usually accompanied by a harp.
He could have taken out a harp and played it properly, but he didn't feel the need to.
It wasn't even a song he particularly liked—he was just doing whatever he felt like.
It was all just for fun.
Unknowingly, he rounded a corner and found himself face-to-face with a peculiar-looking weirwood tree.
Rhaegar stepped closer.
Highgarden was a relatively open-minded castle, where both the Faith of the Seven and the old gods were allowed.
Tilting his head, Rhaegar scrutinized the twisted tree before him.
Unlike any weirwood he had ever seen, this one had roots sprawling far and wide, gnarled and exposed like bulging veins on the back of a hand.
Its thick trunk split into three twisted sections, resembling coiled serpents. Dense clusters of red leaves cast eerie shadows on the ground.
Carved into each section of the pale bark were bizarre faces—some laughing, some crying, and others filled with sorrow.
At a single glance, Rhaegar was both fascinated and repulsed by the grotesque sight.
Unconsciously, he stepped forward and ran his fingers over the rough bark.
The moment he touched it, his entire body shuddered, and his eyes flickered with a faint glow.
After a brief pause, he withdrew his hand and took a step back.
Crossing his arms, Rhaegar gazed up at the crimson canopy and smirked. "What the hell is this? Your sense of aesthetics is truly twisted."
With that, he turned on his heel and strode away, his pace brisk.
He prided himself on being a pure-blooded Valyrian dragonlord.
A dragonlord had no gods.
Whether it was the Seven or the Old Gods, he could pay them lip service when necessary—but that was all it would ever be.
Glancing back at the weirwood, his expression turned wary.
That brief touch… he had felt a sudden surge of magic.
It had come and gone in an instant, vanishing without a trace.
Rhaegar had never experienced anything quite like it before.
It was as if something was hiding from him, unwilling to reveal its true form to the world.
Rhaegar let go of the thought, not wanting to dwell on it for now.
At the same time, an idea surfaced in his mind.
Compared to the meddlesome Faith of the Seven, the Old Gods seemed to have something special.
He just wasn't sure how much.
"Haven't dreamed in a while. Time to go back and sleep."
Rhaegar yawned and leisurely made his way back to the castle.
After being startled by the weirwood, the stress symptoms brought on by war suddenly felt much lighter.
In an instant, it all seemed… not that big of a deal.
Rhaegar paused at the thought, pressed his hands together, and muttered, "Old Gods bless me, weirwood bless me."
He didn't believe, but he was willing to try.
As he stepped out of the garden, the sun had nearly set.
His expression remained calm, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
His mood felt lighter, and his mind was sharper than ever.
He had already figured out his strategy against Dorne—and how to properly "handle" House Hightower.