The hunt lasted a little over half an hour.
With Anguy, a crackshot archer who once shot flaming arrows in the Battle of Blackwater, the team quickly brought down two wild deer, nine plump rabbits, twelve pheasants, and several smaller birds. Anguy's aim hadn't dulled since his time with the Brotherhood Without Banners, and the Dornishmen helped flush out prey with coordinated precision.
When the hunters returned, the camp was already alive with firelight and the smell of burning wood. The Blood Troupe and the Dornish spearmen had wasted no time building cooking racks and lighting spits. Several mercenaries immediately began skinning and gutting the animals, expertly cleaning and dressing the game before roasting it over open flame.
Since most of the team were battle-hardened sellswords, survival skills came naturally. The Blood Troupe, under Wag Huot's leadership, operated with their own internal discipline, and the Dornish contingent—loyal, sun-scarred veterans of Sunspear—took pride in their autonomy. It meant Arthur didn't need to micromanage their every move.
But there was a concern that lingered.
Should any conflict arise between Arthur's orders and their own captains' commands, there was no guarantee these men would obey their employer over their leader. The Dornishmen were more straightforward; even if they were disgruntled later, they'd simply demand their gold and leave. No treachery.
The Blood Troupe, however, was different.
Notorious across Essos for their ruthlessness, their reputation had followed them to Westeros. Many of their number had formerly ridden with the Brave Companions, the same sellswords who'd cut a bloody path through the Riverlands. Most of them leaned toward chaos, and Arthur knew he needed to keep them in check.
He considered using the coming fight with Ser Gregor Clegane's raiders to test their loyalty and burn off their more violent tendencies. If Wag Huot or his lieutenants fell in that fight, Arthur could install a more trustworthy man at their head—perhaps someone like Jules, or a proven veteran from his own Riverlands retinue.
As the scent of roasting meat drifted through the forest, appetites flared. After portions were distributed according to rank, Arthur received a crispy, blackened hind leg dripping with juices. He tore into it eagerly.
After eating, the entire company seemed reinvigorated. Spirits lifted, bellies full, packs repacked—they broke camp and pushed onward.
By evening, they passed beyond the edge of the Royal Forest. The thick canopy gave way to open plains, and the path widened into firm, smooth road. Their pace quickened.
Jules and Piper, Arthur's most reliable scouts, were sent riding ahead with four horses toward the ruins of Summerhall. Their mission: to locate the rumored dragon eggs buried beneath the Targaryen wreckage.
Given the size of the ruined castle and the unconfirmed nature of the eggs, Arthur had set no deadline for their return. He gave them ten gold dragons to cover food and supplies. If they found nothing, so be it—but if they found something…
Summerhall sat at the edge of the Stormlands and Dorne. The nearest lord was Ser Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven, a man who would later become the Lightning Lord. According to rumor, Dondarrion would abandon his noble title during the War of the Five Kings to lead the Brotherhood Without Banners, delivering justice to raiders and defending smallfolk.
A man of honor, not easily swayed by gold or status.
Near such a domain, Arthur trusted that Jules and Piper would remain safe so long as they stuck to their mission and avoided trouble.
Arthur himself led the bulk of his force westward. They crossed the Bitterbridge, then forded the wide green waters of the Mander River—twice—before finally reaching the outer fields of Highgarden.
Here, as arranged, crates of weapons and armor awaited.
Before leaving for the Hand's Tourney in King's Landing, Horace and Hobber Redwyne had sent a raven to their father, Lord Paxter, requesting that a shipment of Redwyne arms be delivered to Highgarden in anticipation of Arthur's campaign. The Arbor, home to the Redwynes, was far to the southwest—crossing the strait to reach it would've added weeks to Arthur's schedule.
This shortcut saved precious time.
And thanks to Arthur saving Ser Loras Tyrell's life during the melee, the Knight of Flowers had also written to his own family. House Tyrell responded quickly. Their armorers sent equipment from their personal stores to bolster Arthur's forces—protection forged for bannermen, now going to war under a Bracken banner.
Between the Redwynes and Tyrells, Arthur no longer needed to court other Reach lords.
The minor houses of the Reach—those who'd toasted and made offhand promises in King's Landing—were likely still enjoying their time in the capital. Sending a man to their castles might yield nothing more than empty words and locked doors.
Arthur had long since learned how fragile a nobleman's word could be once wine wore off and no one was watching.
Few lords in the Reach matched men like Lord Eddard Stark, who lived by the motto "Winter is Coming" and carried the weight of honor even to the executioner's block. Men like that were rare. Exceptionally rare.
Even Ser Loras, as virtuous as he appeared, had used questionable tactics during the tourney. Driving a mare in heat to rattle his opponent's stallion was clever—but hardly noble.
Then again, the game of thrones rarely favored the noble-hearted.
Eight days later…
A vast white marble castle stood atop a gentle hill on the southern bank of the Mander River. Even from a distance, its grandeur was unmistakable—three immense circular curtain walls rising in tiers, with a massive, intricate hedge maze winding between the outer and middle walls like a living tapestry of green.
"This is Highgarden," one of the Redwyne twins announced with a note of pride. "The most beautiful castle in all of Westeros."
The twins were so alike in voice and manner that even after traveling with them for eleven days, Arthur still struggled to distinguish Horace from Hobber at a glance.
"That's just Reachmen boasting again," Anguy retorted with a grin. "Everyone knows the most beautiful strongholds in Westeros are Sunspear and the Water Gardens. The Dornish know how to live."
A debate followed, each man championing his homeland's legacy. If a knight of the Vale had been present, surely the Eyrie—perched upon its sky-high perch above the clouds—would have entered the contest as well.
Arthur, for his part, kept his thoughts to himself. The only great castles he had personally seen were the Red Keep in King's Landing, the blackened ruins of Harrenhal, and now, the resplendent Highgarden. Though his predecessor as Lord Bracken had once visited Riverrun, Arthur had not, and while Riverrun was strong and picturesque, it lacked the monumental scale of these three.
To Arthur's eye, each castle had its own charm. The Red Keep held the iron weight of politics and danger; Harrenhal loomed with tragic power; and Highgarden bloomed like something out of a dream.
He liked them all.
And as a man who disliked choosing when he didn't have to, Arthur half-joked to himself that he could take all three. After all, children argue over which toy they want—adults take the whole set.
Leaving most of the Blood Troupe and the thirteen Dornish spearmen at an inn in the ferry town below the hill, Arthur selected a small retinue and rode up to Highgarden alongside the Redwyne twins and their household guard.
The twins had grown up visiting the castle often—after all, their aunt was none other than Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns. To them, Highgarden was as familiar as home.
Though the shining towers seemed close, the ride from the ferry to the gates still took most of the day. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, and the moon was rising above the river when they finally reached the first outer wall.
Grooms were waiting to take their horses, and the guards—recognizing the Redwyne twins immediately—waived the usual inspections. Four Tyrell guards and a page with a torch were sent to escort them in.
The great hedge maze between the outer and second wall covered a vast stretch of land. Without a guide, Arthur suspected he would still be wandering in it come dawn. It reminded him—strangely—of the labyrinth from that old Essosi play he'd once seen in King's Landing, or even of the over-the-top traps from the old Zhongguo farce "The Chinese Zodiac" that a Pentoshi merchant once forced him to sit through.
Without wings or a guide, you weren't getting out.
They walked for what felt like another half-day, navigating turns and flowered corridors under moonlight, before arriving at the second wall. Here, the procession stopped.
The Tyrell guard allowed Arthur alone to pass through. Even the Redwyne twins left their followers behind, bringing only two personal servants each.
Arthur didn't mind. This was their home, after all, and their rules. Compared to his previous visits to grand seats of power—barging into Harrenhal with a bloody hammer, or the time he beat Cleos Frey in the Red Keep and strode into the throne room amid scandal—this was a far more elaborate, ceremonial experience.
It spoke to the nature of House Tyrell.
On the surface, the Reach lords cultivated an image of kindness and generosity—hosts of tournaments, defenders of harvests, beloved by smallfolk. But beneath the golden petals, there was steel. The maze, the rituals, the guarded gates—these weren't just for protection, but also for performance.
They welcomed the commons with open arms while ensuring nobles bent under layers of etiquette, delays, and procedures.
It was a subtle form of control. A message: you're a guest in our garden—tread softly.
Arthur suspected that this obsession with image came from the Tyrells' relative youth among the great houses. They weren't kings of old blood like the Starks or the Arryns, nor conquerors like the Lannisters or Baratheons. Their rise came from serving stewards and playing politics. As such, there was always a trace of insecurity—compensated for with ceremony.
At last, sometime past midnight, they reached the inner quarters.
The steward of the castle, a soft-spoken, elderly man named Gars Flowers—a natural son of an old Tyrell cousin—greeted them with polite efficiency. He directed everyone to chambers befitting their rank.
Arthur's room was modest by noble standards, though the view over the moonlit gardens was breathtaking.
Tomorrow, the business would begin—discussions, negotiations, and the transfer of weapons and armor promised by the Redwyne and Tyrell families.
But for now, the only thing Arthur wanted was sleep.
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