The next day.
The sun hung high in the sky, and the scorching heat was enough to dry up small streams.
However, the nobles of the Reach burned with a vengeance even fiercer than the sun.
Outside the circular walls of Highgarden, an army stretched as far as the eye could see.
Within the vast host, banners of all colors stood tall:
A white inverted triangle on a golden sun, a flock of golden cranes on a blue field, a red-gold fox's head...
These banners all belonged to noble houses directly sworn to Highgarden, who had ridden through the night to reinforce the stronghold.
By midday, under the blazing sun, more and more nobles continued to arrive from all directions, swelling the ranks of the Reach's allied forces.
The assassination of their liege lord was a humiliation for every noble of the Reach.
The last time they had suffered such shame was during another war with Dorne.
Outside the circular walls, tens of thousands of troops had gathered, and the tension grew heavier with each passing moment.
Inside Highgarden, the great hall was equally packed with nobles, the air thick with unease.
Margaery, clad in a flowing green gown, stood before the assembled lords, sorrowfully recounting her father's tragic fate.
Her words were elegant, her demeanor poised, each sentence stirring the nobles' grief and fury.
In contrast—
Lady Alerie, her eyes brimming with tears, barely held herself together with the support of several noblewomen. Her face was deathly pale.
Time passed, and the ice in the buckets had long melted, consumed by the restless nobles trying to cool themselves.
Then, Monden stepped forward, his expression stern as he interrupted Margaery's speech. He feigned solemnity as he spoke, "Lady Margaery, I understand your grief. Your father was my liege lord as well."
Margaery fell silent, raising an eyebrow at Monden Hightower—the first noble to arrive after her father's assassination.
Too suspicious.
Her brown eyes flickered with thought before she replied, "Lord Monden, what counsel do you have for us?"
Once doubt was sown, it had to be tested.
Monden cleared his throat, sweeping his gaze across the gathered nobles before declaring, "My lords, we all grieve the loss of Duke Tyrell. But with the enemy at our gates—Dorne's army massing beyond the Red Mountains—
"Rather than drowning in sorrow, we must elect a commander and march to avenge our liege lord!"
At his words, a middle-aged nobleman stepped forward. "The Tyrells have no male heir to lead the Reach's forces."
A golden crane on a blue field adorned his chest—a sigil of House Crane of Red Lake.
Their family was closely tied to the Tyrells and directly sworn to Highgarden.
When the assassination took place, he had been attending a council in Oldtown and was among the first to arrive.
Monden took a step forward. "Just as in the recruitment assembly held in Oldtown, we must jointly elect a commander."
"Then the choice should be Lord Sadieus."
Another nobleman, a young man with dark hair and piercing eyes, spoke up. His attire was plain, free of excessive ornamentation, and at his side rested a massive greatsword, its blade nearly a hand's width.
Someone quickly voiced their agreement. "I second Earl Donald Tarly's proposal. Duke Tyrell himself intended for Lord Sadieus to lead."
But where there was support, there was also opposition.
Several minor lords stepped forward, speaking cautiously. "The recruitment assembly never officially decided on a commander. Many lords have yet to pledge their support."
In just a few exchanges, the nobles in the great hall had divided into clear factions.
One group backed House Hightower.
Another respected their late liege's wishes.
The rest were fence-sitters, drowning themselves in wine and avoiding any commitment.
Margaery clasped her hands together, quietly analyzing the situation before her.
Her father had gone to Oldtown to recruit soldiers, while also attempting to check House Hightower's growing influence.
Judging by the current situation, his warning had clearly failed.
Not only that, but Hightower had rejected some of his proposals, leading to a verbal clash between them.
Margaery was clever enough to know that now was not the time to act rashly. So, she remained silent, watching as the nobles argued.
For a long while, Monden held the upper hand in the debate, taking advantage of Earl Sadieus's absence.
Lifting his chin arrogantly, Monden declared, "Lady Margaery, you are but a maiden who knows little of war's harsh realities. Lord Sadieus can barely mount a horse—do you not agree that I would make a fine commander of the allied army?"
It was a question in form, but a threat in substance.
A blatant attempt to intimidate a grieving mother and daughter with no male heir to defend them.
Margaery forced herself to look pained, her voice soft and helpless. "Prince Rhaegar is still investigating the true culprit. We should wait for his return before making any decisions."
"Prince Rhaegar?"
Monden's expression darkened.
Just then, from the corner of the hall, a small figure came running toward Margaery.
It was Helena, her voice sweet yet firm. "Uncle Monden, wait for my brother to return."
Monden's jaw tightened, swallowing his frustration. "Yes, Princess."
Though young, Helena still carried Hightower blood, and her words carried weight in his house.
Margaery exhaled in relief, shooting Helena a look of deep gratitude.
The little girl, grinning proudly, reached out and gave Margaery a light pat on her hip before lifting her chin high.
Margaery's face flushed as she tugged at the slit of her gown.
The hall fell into silence once more.
But not for long.
A thunderous roar shattered the stillness.
"Rrraaaggghhh—"
A deep, bell-like dragon's cry echoed through the sky as a massive black silhouette descended into Highgarden's inner courtyard.
"The prince has returned."
"It's Prince Rhaegar…"
The nobles sprang to their feet, craning their necks toward the hall's entrance.
Through the garden's green waterfall, a massive black dragon, as dark as a coal mountain, was faintly visible.
Rhaegar, his silver hair hanging straight down and his violet eyes ice-cold, walked into the hall without a word.
The nobles took one look and immediately knew—there was no good news.
The chances were high that the assassin who targeted the Duke had escaped.
Rhaegar made no comment, and no one dared to provoke his wrath.
In fact, the mercenaries had indeed fled.
Riding his dragon, Devourer, Rhaegar had searched every route—from the farmlands where the incident occurred to Highgarden, Nightsong, and Oldtown—without finding even a shadow of them.
Suppressing his frustration, Rhaegar scanned the gathered nobles and asked in a cold voice, "Who else hasn't arrived yet?"
If his guess was correct, the ambush on the old Tyrell must have involved a traitor providing information.
There was no way those mercenaries could have vanished without a trace without inside help.
The only question was—who was the traitor?
Rhaegar's thoughts raced, and his gaze instinctively landed on Mound.
Feeling uneasy under the intense scrutiny, Mound stammered, "Lord Thaddeus of Goldengrove hasn't arrived yet. He's gathering troops from the northern Reach. Additionally, Lord Caswell of Bitterbridge and Lord Footly of Tumbleton…"
Several noble families lived in remote areas and were still assembling their forces.
Rhaegar's sharp, eagle-like eyes bore into Mound, as if trying to see through him.
Mound felt extremely uncomfortable. As an experienced lord, he quickly changed the topic. "Your Highness, with Duke Tyrell's assassination, we must elect a commander and rally our forces for revenge in the Red Mountains."
The other nobles shared this sentiment. However, intimidated by the prince's silent pressure, they remained passive.
Avenge their liege lord. Crush the Dornish bastards. That was the Reach's idea of romance.
Rhaegar saw through Mound's scheming and sensed the nobles' strong desire for war.
Turning to Margaery, he asked bluntly, "Who did Duke Tyrell appoint as the commander of the coalition forces before his death?"
He had no interest in competing for the leadership of the Reach.
His role was to oversee the entire war, commanding his dragon to strike at the enemy.
The task of leading the land forces required someone else.
By directing the question at Margaery, he was also sending Mound a warning.
Margaery, as expected, answered swiftly, "My father chose Lord Thaddeus for the role. He is in Goldengrove preparing for it."
Rhaegar turned back to Mound, his expression stiff.
Mound immediately fell silent, awkwardly retreating to his seat.
As one voice quieted, another rose.
Donald Tully respectfully bowed and asked, "Your Highness, have the assassins who killed Duke Tyrell been caught?"
"No."
Rhaegar frowned and shared his suspicion. "They escaped too quickly. I suspect they had help."
A shocked murmur swept through the hall. Nobles exchanged uneasy glances.
Rhaegar remained composed.
Anyone with eyes could see that something was off about Duke Tyrell's assassination.
There was no point in hiding the truth for the sake of unity.
Donald nodded, speaking calmly. "With Highgarden lacking an heir, only Lady Alerie and Lady Margaery remain. I propose increasing their security."
The Dornish were cunning and ruthless, capable of any despicable act.
The Merryweather family of Mistwood had been wiped out by poison—every direct descendant killed.
The Tyrells were already few in number. If something happened to their last surviving members, the Reach would inevitably be thrown into chaos over who would become its next Warden.
Upon hearing this, the nobles exchanged subtle looks, their gazes shifting between Alerie and Margaery.
A Highgarden without an heir was an enormous prize.
Whoever married the widowed Alerie or Margaery would gain control over the Reach for decades.
Margaery and Alerie realized this as well, their hearts skipping a beat.
Margaery took small steps toward Rhaegar, looking up at him with bright, pleading eyes.
Rhaegar glanced at her, instantly understanding her intention.
She wanted to inherit Highgarden and become the ruling Duchess.
Rhaegar frowned deeply. He was not convinced.
There were already two female rulers.
The kingdom had six regions. One or two female rulers were acceptable, but three?
A ruling Duchess might sound novel, but behind the scenes, it led to countless political problems.
Jeyne was strong-willed, intelligent, and decisive, with a level of ruthlessness surpassing most men.
With Rhaegar as her backer, she had completely suppressed the opposition in the Vale, lacking only an official heir.
On the other hand, Cassandra, who inherited Storm's End, was little more than a figurehead.
She had no presence on the battlefield, and the Stormlands' wars relied entirely on her grandfather, Lord Royce, and royal reinforcements.
Politically, she was almost useless.
The noble factions in the Stormlands—led by House Dondarrion of Blackhaven and House Swann of Stonehelm—constantly stirred opposition against her rule.
Now that House Swann had been wiped out and Aemond had seized their lands, things had only gotten worse.
This was not a victory; it was a grave mistake that shook the foundations of House Baratheon.
Aemond was Cassandra's fiancé—who knew if she had secretly approved of his actions?
First, she couldn't command her vassals.
Second, she couldn't control her own betrothed.
Cassandra was either utterly incompetent or completely foolish.
Looking back, it might have been better to let Maris Baratheon, the second of the Four Storms, inherit the title instead.
With these thoughts in mind, Rhaegar ignored Margaery's silent plea, unwilling to make a decision too soon.
The woman was intelligent, but she was too calculating.
Blindly imitating successful rulers wasn't a trait of a true leader.
Seeing Rhaegar remain silent, Margaery grew frustrated and subtly stomped her foot before signaling to a few minor nobles.
Immediately, several voices rose in support. First, they praised Donald's suggestion, then subtly suggested appointing a Regent for Highgarden.
"I nominate Lady Margaery. She may be a woman, but she is the only remaining Tyrell in Highgarden."
Someone spoke up directly.
However, many opposed the idea, arguing, "Lady Alerie is the widow. By all rights, she should serve as Regent."
"Pardon my bluntness, but Lady Eliza is a second wife, and she has only been married to Duke Tyrell for a few months."
"So what? A widow serving as regent—most noble families operate this way."
"Miss Margaery is the duke's youngest daughter—clever, articulate, and more convincing."
"They're both women. What's the difference?"
"..."
The room erupted into a heated debate, voices overlapping, and tension rising.
Donald pondered for a moment before saying, "I recommend Miss Margaery. She knows Highgarden's affairs better."
The Tarly family was related by marriage to House Rowan, and House Rowan was a loyal supporter of House Tyrell.
With Donald speaking up, his words carried the weight of final judgment.
Rhaegar watched silently, uninterested in Highgarden's internal power struggle. What mattered to him was whether Mound had played a role in the late Duke Tyrell's murder.
Just as the tide of discussion shifted and a radiant smile blossomed on Margaery's face—
The long-silent Lady Eliza finally spoke up. Summoning her courage, she declared, "My lords, I may have only been in Highgarden for a short time, but..."
"By the Seven's blessing, I carry my late husband's bloodline."
(End of Chapter)