Time passed quickly, especially in the pleasure-filled lands of the Reach.
In the blink of an eye, several days had gone by.
On this particular morning, Rhaegar woke up early as usual, descending the stairs with slightly tipsy dark circles under his eyes.
Margaery had been waiting for him and dramatically covered her mouth, exclaiming in surprise, "Your Highness, another restless night?"
Rhaegar glanced at her sideways and replied, "Don't make a fuss."
Casually sweeping back his long, silver hair, he walked straight to the dining table.
Margaery was momentarily speechless, swallowing back the words of comfort she had prepared.
The host and guest remained silent as they took their seats and began their meal.
Rhaegar didn't speak, instead focusing on his simple breakfast of bread and sausage.
Margaery watched in silence, sipping her milk, which now seemed to have lost its fragrance.
The prince, as handsome and romantic as those in fairy tales, unfortunately, had a tongue as sharp as a blade.
People are strange sometimes.
They tend to fill in the gaps with illusions.
But the longer you spend around someone, the more those illusions crumble, leaving behind a sense of disillusionment.
Feeling her gaze, Rhaegar couldn't help but smirk.
From daily observation, he had formed two words to describe Margaery:
Chatterbox + Drama Queen.
If ignored, she could ramble on for an entire hour, effortlessly finding topics that piqued his thoughts.
The best way to avoid being annoyed was to cut her off at the first sign of her "episodes"—forcefully stuffing her words back down her warm throat like shoving a mop into a bucket.
Brutally.
"I'm done eating."
After downing the last sip of warm milk, Rhaegar lightly rubbed his dark circles and asked, "The Duke still hasn't returned?"
"He sent a letter yesterday. My father has already set out and should be back in Highgarden soon."
Margaery perked up, adjusting her expression as she patiently answered.
"That's good. The frontlines can't afford to wait too long."
"Don't worry, House Tyrell is your most loyal ally."
Margaery smiled as she reassured him, speaking of her father's unwavering loyalty and the great efforts he had made.
To secure the prince's claim, he had even clashed with the Hightowers.
He had also rallied the entire region to support this war.
"Old Tyrell is a good man."
Rhaegar nodded, shifting his gaze to a vase of red roses decorating the table.
Besides wealth, Highgarden never lacked roses.
The vast gardens were filled with countless varieties, their fragrance lingering year-round.
The roses on the table were exquisite—three tied into a bouquet, with petals red as blood.
Rhaegar clasped his hands together, lost in thought as he stared.
This bouquet was beautiful, but its vividness almost felt excessive, tipping from perfection into something unnatural.
As he studied them intently, one rose's head suddenly tilted, as if nodding off to sleep.
Plop—
The delicate stem snapped without warning, and the rose tumbled onto the white marble tabletop.
As it fell, a few petals drifted loose, staining the pristine surface like drops of crimson ink on paper.
Rhaegar froze for a moment before shifting his gaze.
Margaery, having witnessed this, remarked, "The servants must have picked a weak one. How did they choose a rose that's barely holding on?"
"Is it the servant's fault? Or the rose's?"
Rhaegar murmured to himself, lost in thought.
It was strange—ever since the war had begun, he hadn't dreamed.
But after coming to this near-perfect haven of Highgarden, where his tense nerves could finally relax, the nightmares had returned. Night after night.
Just last night, he had dreamed of endless fire and war. A blazing inferno devoured vast fields of flowers, the scent of roses mingling with the cries of the dying.
The stark contrast between beauty and carnage haunted him.
Tap, tap…
Light footsteps echoed from the staircase.
At the top stood Helena, dressed in a simple white gown, her hand resting lightly on the railing.
Rhaegar looked up at the sound.
Helena's expression was vacant as she spoke without thinking:
"A beast unchained cannot be stopped."
Rhaegar's brow furrowed, trying to decipher the sudden, cryptic warning.
Margaery wiped the milk from the corner of her lips and stepped forward, concerned. "Helena, what do you mean by that?"
She was sharp—she had sensed something deeper in those words.
DONG! DONG! DONG!
Before Helena could answer, three heavy, oppressive bells tolled outside the castle.
Rhaegar and Margaery's expressions changed instantly as they turned toward the window.
According to Highgarden's tradition, one bell signaled peace.
Two bells meant caution.
Three bells… signified mourning.
BANG—
The grand, carved doors burst open with a muffled crash.
A knight in silver armor, stained with blood, staggered in and collapsed to the ground, his face stricken with grief.
"Your Grace… The Duke has passed away!"
"What?!"
Rhaegar was stunned.
Margaery's reaction was even more dramatic—her eyes rolled back, and she fainted on the spot.
Helena, standing beside her, watched expressionlessly.
THUD!
Margaery's head hit the floor with a solid crack, the pain snapping her back to reality.
She gasped, her skull throbbing.
Rhaegar ignored her, striding past with the knight.
Old Tyrell had been his supporter—the key to maintaining balance in the wealthiest region of the Seven Kingdoms.
Now he was dead, inexplicably and suddenly.
It was a slap in the face.
…
Before long, they arrived at the Sevenfold Sept at the back of the castle.
Rhaegar strode in with purpose, while Margaery and Helena trailed behind.
At the center of the sanctum, several veiled Silent Sisters were cleansing the corpse of a fat old man.
Not far away, Lady Elissa stood with tears welling in her eyes.
Married at a young age to a man twice her age, only to become a widow before enjoying any of life's comforts—what a cruel twist of fate.
Rhaegar stepped closer, his gaze fixed on the motionless corpse.
The man had a kindly face, his hair and beard streaked with white—an elderly gentleman who had taken great care of his appearance.
Now, a hole the size of a bottle stopper marred his chest, the dried blood already wiped away.
"An arrow wound?"
Rhaegar remained silent.
With no other visible injuries, it was clear that the man had been shot cleanly through the heart and lungs, dying without pain.
"Father!!"
Malisanne suddenly let out a piercing scream and threw herself onto the corpse, sobbing uncontrollably.
She collapsed to her knees before the stone bier, grief-stricken and inconsolable.
Rhaegar slowly stepped back, his sharp gaze locking onto a knight nearby.
The knight shuddered under his stare and quickly reported, "The Duke quarreled fiercely with Lord Monde before leaving Oldtown. On his way back, he was ambushed and struck down by a single arrow while on horseback. We barely managed to retrieve his body."
As he spoke, fear flickered across his face.
The ambush force wasn't large—roughly a hundred men—but they were all armed with powerful crossbows.
Lord Tyrell's escort was even smaller: thirteen knights and thirty cavalrymen.
As they passed through a farmland, they were caught off guard by hidden tripwires, throwing them into chaos.
Then, the crossbow bolts rained down from the shadows.
Without armor, Lord Tyrell was assassinated in an instant.
Had the thirteen knights not fought to the death to protect his corpse, it would have been riddled with bolts like a pincushion.
In the end, only five knights managed to return with the Duke's body. The rest were slaughtered.
Rhaegar closed his eyes for a brief moment, his anger growing with every word. Clenching his teeth, he demanded, "Who were the attackers? Did they bear any insignia?"
"They seemed to be mercenaries from the Narrow Sea."
The knight, who had never seen real battle, was hesitant and unsure.
After a moment's pause, he suddenly recalled something and pulled out a steel-tipped crossbow bolt, about a foot long.
Rhaegar took one look at it and let out a cold laugh. "Well, well... a Myrish triple-shot crossbow."
There was no doubt—the ambushers were mercenaries from across the Narrow Sea.
Crack!
With a powerful grip, Rhaegar snapped the bolt in half.
Suppressing his fury, he ground out through clenched teeth, "To assassinate a ruling Duke… how dare they?!"
Even war had its rules.
Before a decisive victory was secured, no one would dare resort to such madness.
Especially an assassination targeting a Duke.
This wasn't just an act of war—it was the most despicable provocation imaginable, one that would ignite the flames of battle to their fullest.
Without another word, Rhaegar stormed out of the sanctum.
Dong! Dong!
Suddenly, two loud bells tolled, echoing through the air.
A warning.
…
### Highgarden – Outside the City Walls
A dust-laden cavalry unit galloped toward the city gates.
Their banner, held high, displayed a green field emblazoned with a burning tower.
Screeeech!
Out of nowhere, an enraged dragon's roar thundered across the sky, like a bolt of lightning splitting the air.
The hundred cavalrymen instinctively snapped their heads upward, their faces filled with shock.
From the clouds, a massive black dragon descended, its powerful wings cutting through the air with a deafening whoosh.
Boom!
The dragon's dark wings blotted out the sun as its mountain-like form landed just outside the city walls.
Black dragon, white walls—the contrast was starker than reality itself.
Screeeech!
The dragon, its green vertical pupils glinting with menace, stretched its neck and let out another warning roar at the cavalry.
At once, the horses panicked, whinnying in terror and throwing their riders into disarray.
"Hold steady! Don't panic!"
Monde Hightower yanked on his reins, shouting to rally his men.
At the same time, the black dragon slithered forward, its green flames licking at its fangs as it crawled toward them.
Perched on the dragon's back, Rhaegar looked down with cold authority.
"A ruling Duke has been assassinated," he declared. "And yet, Count Monde, you arrive unannounced at Highgarden. What is your true intent?"
Lord Tyrell had quarreled with Monde before leaving Oldtown—only to be ambushed on his way back.
His body had barely arrived at Highgarden, and Monde had followed closely behind.
Highly suspicious.
Faced with the terrifying beast before him, Monde instinctively pulled his horse back. His voice trembled as he spoke, "Your Highness… the knights of Highgarden sent for my aid!"
Rhaegar narrowed his eyes, scanning the cavalry.
A single soldier stepped forward—his robe still intact, his round shield emblazoned with the golden rose of House Tyrell.
"A deserter?"
Rhaegar saw through him instantly.
The soldier frantically shook his head. "No! A knight ordered me to seek reinforcements. I first rode to Beehive Castle, then hurried to Oldtown."
Rhaegar's gaze flicked across the cavalry unit, noticing a dozen others carrying shields marked with three beehives—the sigil of House Beesbury.
Uncertain whether the claim was true, he chose not to make a hasty judgment.
Instead, he turned his piercing gaze back to Monde.
"Did you capture the killers?" he asked.
Monde quickly replied, "By the time I arrived, it was already too late. We only found the bodies of a few Tyroshi mercenaries."
Tyrosh was well-known for producing mercenaries—easily identifiable by their brightly dyed hair.
Hearing this, Rhaegar clenched his fists, forcing himself to remain calm.
"Dorne…!" he muttered through gritted teeth. "Damn this war!"
During the Dornish Rebellion, the assassination of the Duke of Highgarden, a man from a lineage that had long held deep-seated hatred for Dorne, was nothing less than a provocation that sent shockwaves through the Reach—and all of Westeros.
Taking a deep breath, Rhaegar roared, "Assemble the armies of the Reach! We march on Dorne at once!"
"Screech—"
The Devourer let out a furious cry, sensing its rider's rage, and with a mighty flap of its wings, it soared into the sky.
Rhaegar felt a chilling numbness spread through him, yet his mind remained sharp and composed.
The assassination had happened only recently. He needed to intercept the mercenaries.
And, along the way, uncover how they had infiltrated the Reach's heartlands.
How had they known the exact movements of the old Tyrell?
...
That night.
A massive flock of ravens took flight from Highgarden, spreading chaos across the entire Reach.
No matter their rank, every noble house was to rally their soldiers and make haste toward Highgarden, marching under the cover of darkness.
A single thought united them all.
Vengeance!
To avenge their fallen lord! To strike back at the invading Dornish!
(End of Chapter)