Lady Elissa turned the tide with just one sentence, taking on the burden of righteousness.
For the widow of a nobleman's second marriage, there was a vast difference in status between being pregnant and not.
Especially since Highgarden had no male heir—if she carried a boy, he would naturally become the rightful successor.
After a brief discussion, the group agreed to appoint Lady Elissa as regent.
A steward summoned the castle's maester to tend to the new regent and escort her back to her chambers for rest.
Margaery's smile stiffened, and she remained rooted in place, feeling uncomfortable.
Such a promising situation, yet lost to a pregnancy of uncertain authenticity.
Of all times, she had to reveal it now.
Glancing at her expression, Rhaegar said indifferently, "Keep a close watch on her. Don't let her get hurt, and don't let her come into contact with outsiders."
Margaery took a deep breath and nodded in understanding.
The Tyrell bloodline could not be compromised—nor could it be defiled.
With the internal power struggle in Highgarden settled, it was now time for the Riverlands nobility to have their turn.
Rhaegar said no more and left with Donald of Horn Hill.
Many nobles were still absent—there was no rush; they would address matters once everyone had arrived.
None of the nobles dared to object, each one organizing their retinues.
---
Three Days Later
At Highgarden, various banners fluttered outside the white ring walls, and armies were encamped, numbering no fewer than twenty to thirty thousand at a glance.
After three days, the Riverlands nobility who could make it had arrived, each bringing their forces.
Major nobles brought between one and three thousand troops each, while minor nobles arrived with anything from dozens to two or three hundred soldiers.
Together, they had assembled an army of thirty thousand, all properly equipped.
---
Inside the castle, over a hundred noble lords gathered, all clad in heavy armor.
Rhaegar sat at the head of the hall, flanked by Margaery and Helena.
Lady Elissa remained in her chambers to rest, as the maesters had confirmed she was already two months pregnant.
The moment the news spread, most of Margaery's smile faded—like a rose battered by wind and rain.
Rhaegar glanced at her and thought to himself: Old Tyrell still had it—his marksmanship was truly impressive.
No wonder their family motto was Growing Strong—they certainly had a knack for reproduction.
Regaining his composure, he turned his attention forward.
Before him stood three figures: the stout Thaddeus, the formidable Donald, and the idle-minded Mond.
All three were clad in armor, wearing helmets of distinctive design.
Donald and Mond each carried a Valyrian steel sword at their waists—Donald wielded the greatsword Heartsbane, while Mond carried the hand-and-a-half sword Truth.
Rhaegar felt a twinge of envy, pondering how he might trigger an Explorer's Quest to obtain one of his own.
The Riverlands were truly wealthy—there were quite a few Valyrian steel weapons in their possession.
Setting aside his personal desires, Rhaegar assumed a formal tone and said, "Lord Thaddeus, the army is about to depart, but we cannot leave the rear unguarded."
"As the Regent Prince, I hereby appoint you as Warden of the South, responsible for maintaining order in the Reach."
Aside from the ducal title, the designation of Warden could be granted to powerful noble lords when the ruling ducal house faced difficulties.
For instance, Lord Yorbert Royce of Runestone held the title Warden of the Vale.
Hearing this, Thaddeus immediately dropped to one knee, his round face filled with emotion. "I swear upon the honor of House Rowan that I will not betray your trust."
With a liege lord still above him, being named a Warden of the South was the highest honor a noble could receive.
Rhaegar gave a faint smile. "I am leaving Highgarden in your hands. Whether maintaining security or overseeing supplies, I have complete confidence in you."
"The Riverlands army will march to the front, while the rear is under your command."
"I trust you."
He lifted his hand slightly, signaling Donald to help Thaddeus to his feet, and smiled.
With the death of the old Tyrell lord, the Reach had become leaderless.
Leading an army to avenge him was gratifying, but the home front would descend into chaos if left unattended.
Thaddeus had both the status and experience—his bulky figure was better suited to managing logistics than leading charges into battle.
With his first order settled, Rhaegar turned his attention to Donald and Mond with a grin.
The commander of the coalition army would undoubtedly be chosen from one of them.
Neither was a fool; both immediately straightened their postures and puffed out their chests, trying to appear as imposing as possible.
Focusing on Donald, Rhaegar said, "It is said that you are an expert in mounted archery and have led multiple expeditions to exterminate the Stone Men roaming the Red Mountains."
The Stone Men referred to the Dornishmen who, unable to survive elsewhere, had taken root in the mountains as hunters.
They were short, dark-skinned, and closely resembled the Rhoynar before their integration with the Dornish, hence the name Stone Men.
Donald nodded solemnly and replied in a steady tone, "I have organized three raids with over a hundred men and participated in eight counterattacks against Dornish incursions."
It was fair to say he was battle-hardened.
"Your valor is well known. As vanguard of the army, you will surely break through enemy lines."
Rhaegar nodded in approval before turning to Mond.
"Lord Mond, you have experience organizing maritime trade and are more adept at large-scale military operations. You will serve as the commander of the coalition army."
"Yes! I will not fail you."
"Go out and inspect the supply wagons and provisions. The army is about to set out."
Rega waved his hand casually.
Donald frowned slightly, eager to secure the position of commander. The role of the vanguard was just as crucial.
Unlike his hesitation, Mond couldn't contain his grin, leaving the room with satisfaction.
Rega observed everything but wouldn't lower himself to offer unnecessary explanations.
The relationship between rulers and vassals in the Riverlands was similar to that of the Reach, where House Tyrell's grip on power was not as firm.
With Thaddeus promoted to Warden of the South, it was inappropriate for an ally like Donald to take command of the allied forces.
Although Mond was not well-liked, he was capable.
Until a successor for Highgarden was firmly established, he served as an effective counterbalance.
Rega mused to himself, "By doing this, I'm staying true to old Tyrell's loyalty."
With the roles of logistics overseer and frontline commander set, the massive Reach army operated like a well-oiled war machine, swiftly moving into action.
The noble lords in the great hall managed their respective private forces.
Margaery excused herself, assisting Thaddeus in overseeing military supplies.
The grand hall, paved with white stone, suddenly felt much emptier.
As Rega watched the bustling servants, he caught sight of a familiar face in his peripheral vision.
A towering figure with a corpulent frame, his chubby face exuded both honesty and solemnity.
"Your Highness, I've returned from the Citadel,"
Tru greeted him with a bow, his oversized maester's robe stretched tight.
Rega chuckled and asked, "So, you've regained your maester status? Everything went smoothly?"
Tru had traveled to the Citadel in Oldtown in June. It seemed he had successfully reclaimed his lost honor.
"Yes, I retrieved my links."
Tru displayed the chain around his neck, composed of links in black iron, bronze, copper, gold, silver, and Valyrian steel.
Each link represented his mastery of a different field of knowledge.
Rega was genuinely pleased for him. A wealth of knowledge was a treasure in its own right.
"During my time at the Citadel, I came across some things I believe I should report truthfully."
Tru hesitated.
"Go on, let's hear it."
"These are just baseless speculations—only for reference."
Tru fidgeted, pulling a wooden box from his robes as he spoke in a cautious tone. "I saw a merchant ship docked at the Crying Wharf. The crew didn't speak the Common Tongue of Westeros."
That wharf belonged to the Citadel and was rarely used.
Rega's eyes sharpened, sensing the gravity of the situation.
He took the wooden box, deciding to inspect its contents before making a judgment.
Tru added, "This is the legacy of Maester Vaegon. It was hidden in a compartment beneath his bedboard—I had to put in some effort to find it."
As he spoke, Rega had already opened the box.
Inside were a thick stack of opened letters, several sheets of parchment covered in scribbles, a Valyrian steel ring, and half of a golden mask.
The Valyrian steel ring was surprisingly light—proof of the Citadel's recognition of knowledge in the mystical arts.
The golden mask fragment served a similar purpose. It had once been Vaegon's symbol as an archmaester, worn on his face for years.
Rega touched each item one by one, but no hidden messages were triggered.
He sighed lightly, maintaining a calm demeanor.
He still remembered Saenyra Targaryen's warning—Vaegon, the dragonless Targaryen, had studied peculiar subjects at the Citadel. She had urged him to investigate when he had the chance.
As fellow Targaryens, he trusted that Saenyra wouldn't speak without reason.
After their great-grandfather's passing, the only surviving children were Saenyra and Vaegon. It wasn't surprising that the siblings had kept in touch in secret.
Rega pulled out the letters and examined them one by one. The signatures at the bottom all bore the name Jaehaerys I.
The letters spanned from the year 78 AC to 103 AC, nearly one per year, written as family correspondence under the guise of inquiry.
The letter from 103 AC stood out—its handwriting was no longer Jaehaerys' but rather the delicate script of Alicent.
Rega pressed his lips together, carefully storing the letters.
His great-grandfather had passed away in 103 AC.
By then, he had long been frail and bedridden, relying entirely on Alicent for his daily care.
Unable to write on his own, he had entrusted Alicent to pen the letters on his behalf.
This final letter expressed a father's longing for his son, pleading for Vaegon to return and see him one last time before his death.
Unfortunately, the request of the aged king was destined to go unfulfilled.
Vaegon, consumed by scholarly pursuits, had grown even weaker than his elderly father, bedridden long before him.
Rega let out a soft sigh, feeling deeply conflicted.
His great-grandfather's later years had been rather bleak.
His only remaining son, Vaegon, passed away shortly after him.
His last surviving daughter, Saenyra, harbored resentment toward her father and refused to set foot in Westeros ever again.
Even at the Great Council of 101 AC, she merely sent three of her bastards in her stead.
On his deathbed, Jaehaerys had fallen into confusion, clutching Alicent's hand while calling out Saenyra's name, believing his daughter had finally returned from across the Narrow Sea.
Alicent, bearing a slight resemblance to Saenyra, had been the old king's caretaker in his final days.
As a result, even though she never married King Viserys and had no childhood connection to Rhaenyra, her standing at court remained significant.
"Sigh…"
Rega felt a heaviness in his chest as he turned his attention to the parchments.
The first two were filled with scribbles—one depicting a monstrous dragon, the other an unfamiliar sea chart.
The third and fourth contained text, seemingly explanations.
[The Academy Rejects Magic, Observing Dragons with Ulterior Motives]
"I cannot delve deeper into the Academy. They are not only jealous of my talent but also wary of my lineage."
"They don't want me to study the arcane? Screw that—there's no knowledge I can't master."
"There are rumors of wild dragons in Sothoryos. The Academy sent a fleet on an expedition, only for it to be swallowed by a massive storm midway."
At the mention of wild dragons, Rhaegar's eyes lit up.
The final piece of parchment was unique—it was the only one containing both scribbles and text.
"To go north, you must travel south. To reach the western lands, you must head east. To move forward, you must step back. To find light, you must pass through shadow."
Rhaegar frowned, perplexed.
"North and south, west and east… light and shadow."
On the parchment was a rough, hand-drawn map, depicting Westeros, Essos, and Sothoryos.
Certain locations were distinctly marked: Asshai in Essos, the Lands of Always Winter in Westeros, and a small, isolated section of Sothoryos.
"Wild dragons?"
Rhaegar's gaze skipped past Asshai and the Lands of Always Winter, focusing instead on the Sothoryos continent.
During his hunt for wyverns, he had indeed discovered the remains of a dragon and the fossilized remnants of a hatched dragon egg.
His eyes darkened as he murmured, "The Academy studies dragons yet despises them… If that's the case, there's a strong chance dragons still exist in Sothoryos."
(End of Chapter)