Meanwhile, in the Reach, at the Bitter Bridge.
The surface of the Bitter Bridge reflected the vibrant banners.
The Hightower beacon flag on white, the golden rose flag of House Tyrell, the Florent flag on red, the Redwyne wine ship flag on blue, the Tully trout flag on green...
Hundreds of Reach noble banners snapped in the wind, decorating both sides of the Bitter Bridge like a festival.
On the riverbank, a massive tourney ground had been constructed.
Wooden grandstands stretched along both sides of the field.
The stands were filled with nobles and knights from various Reach houses.
They wore their finest attire, cheerful smiles on their faces.
This was the second day of the knightly joust.
The three-day competition was the idea of Lord Mondstadt Hightower.
He said the march and fighting had been too heavy; the soldiers needed to relax.
Moreover, it would let the young knights of the Reach showcase their martial skills and display the chivalry of the Reach.
On the field, two knights fought fiercely.
One was a knight of House Redwyne in blue and white, gripping a lance, riding a white horse.
The other was a Tully knight in green and gold, holding a lance, riding a black warhorse. They charged across the arena, lances clashing with a piercing metallic ring, drawing bursts of applause.
"Good!"
"Strike him!"
"Beat him!"
In the stands, spectators excitedly rose, waving their arms and cheering for the knights they supported.
In the front row of the VIP section, Lord Mondstadt Hightower sat in the center.
He was in his thirties, handsome, with a neatly trimmed beard, wearing a dark blue velvet robe with golden flames embroidered on the collar.
A slight smile always played on his lips; he nodded occasionally to those around him, appearing confident and in control.
To his left sat Prince Daeron Targaryen.
The thirteen-year-old prince wore black armor and a cloak bearing the three-headed gold dragon on black; his silver hair shone in the sun.
A slight smile played on Daeron's face, but his eyes were a bit distant, as if his mind were elsewhere.
To Mondstadt's right sat Lady Maggie and her ten-month-old son, Duke Leonor.
Lady Maggie was in her early twenties, born a Rowan, the eldest daughter of Goldengrove.
She was nobly born, beautiful, with long golden hair tied in a high bun, secured with a pearl-inlaid pin.
She wore a pale green gown with gold roses, making her skin seem even fairer.
But her face was not good—pale, gaunt, with deep worry hidden in her eyes.
She held Duke Leonor, who was over a year old, in her arms. The child had inherited Tyrell features: soft chestnut hair and blue eyes, wide open.
He looked curiously at the lively scene around him, babbling occasionally.
Maggie gently patted her son's back, but her heart felt like a boulder was pressing down on her.
The High Court was surrounded, and House Florent had taken the opportunity to attack; she had no choice but to take her son and follow Hightower.
Now she and her son were "escorted" to King's Landing, ostensibly to meet Aegon II, but in reality, they were hostages.
She did not know what fate awaited her.
On the field, another round of competition ended.
The Redwyne rider won and circled the field, greeting and saluting the audience.
Lord Mondstadt stood up and applauded: "Excellent! Truly excellent!" Give the order and reward the victorious knight with a hundred gold dragons!"
A wave of exclamations rippled through the crowd.
A hundred gold dragons were enough for a knight to buy a modest mansion.
Lord Mondstadt sat down and turned to Lady Maggie: "My lady, what do you think of this competition?"
Lady Maggie barely managed a smile: "Excellent."
"The knights of our Reach are truly the most valiant in the Seven Kingdoms."
Lord Mondstadt smiled, his gaze falling on the child in her arms: "Little Leonor will surely become such a valiant knight one day, won't he?"
"After all, he has the blood of the golden rose."
Lady Maggie's hand tightened slightly, but she quickly regained her composure: "My lord, I hope so."
"When he grows up, he will be able to serve His Majesty Aegon."
"He will," Lord Mondstadt said. "Then I shall personally teach the duke martial arts."
Lady Maggie's smile froze.
On the field, the next round of competition began. This time, it was a knight of House Florent and a knight of House Tyrell.
Both were young and vigorous, clashing fiercely as soon as they entered the field, lances and shields meeting with piercing sounds.
"Florent will win!" In a corner of the stands, several people in red and ermine robes shouted loudly.
"Tyrell will win!" On the other side, a man in a gold rose robe was equally unyielding.
Both sides shouted louder and louder, the smell of gunpowder growing stronger.
Lord Mondstadt watched this scene, a slight smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.
The Florents and Tyrells had always been at odds, well known to everyone in the Reach.
But no matter how much they disagreed, they could only compete fairly in his tournament.
This was the taste of power.
He turned to look at Prince Daeron, only to find the prince's gaze looking into the distance, as if uninterested in the competition before him.
"Your Highness," Lord Mondstadt said softly, "Why not try the field yourself? With your martial skills, you would surely win a full house."
Daeron came to, shook his head: "No, Lord Mondstadt."
"I am still young. Let's wait a few more years."
Lord Mondstadt smiled and didn't press further.
A new wave of applause came from the stands.
The Florent knight was unhorsed, and the Tyrell knight won.
Tyrell supporters applauded, while Florent supporters hung their heads.
At that moment, a low voice sounded in Daeron's ear: "Your Highness."
Daeron turned his head and saw an old man in a black robe.
Otto Hightower.
His maternal grandfather, former head of House Hightower, once Hand of the King.
Otto was now in his seventies, white-haired, his face wrinkled, but his eyes still sharp as an eagle's.
"Grandfather." Daeron nodded.
Otto sat down beside him, his gaze sweeping over the field, finally resting on Lord Mondstadt.
His nephew, Lord Mondstadt, was immersed in the joy of watching the competition and didn't notice the commotion here.
"The march is too slow," Otto whispered.
Daeron was stunned for a moment: "What?"
"The march," Otto repeated. "Mondstadt is treating this march as a stroll, as a display, like a peacock."
"We need to defeat the enemy as soon as possible, not hold jousts here."
Prince Daeron was silent for a moment, looking at his grandfather Otto Hightower, and said: "It's alright."
"Brother Aegon is only seriously wounded, and my brother Aemond has already killed Rhaenys."
"We have time."
Otto looked at him, a flicker of mixed feelings in his eyes: "Your Highness, do you not think Aemond is too cruel?"
Daeron frowned: "Cruel? Why?"
"He killed Rhaenys. She is your aunt."
"She is the enemy," Daeron said. "The enemy deserves death."
"He will be a kinslayer, and the Seven Kingdoms will be outraged."
Daeron chuckled: "Then do you have the ability to kill Rhaenys?"
"I cannot do it myself..."
"Now it is my brother Aemond who fights for the entire Green Party with his own strength."
"Not you Hightowers, not the Lannisters."
"Grandfather, only dragons can fight dragons..."
Otto was silent for a while, then sighed: "Your Highness, you are still young. There are things you do not understand."
Daeron said no more and quietly watched the game.
On the field, another round of competition ended.
The Hightower knights won again, and applause erupted.
Suddenly, Otto said: "If we win, where will you stand in the future?"
Daeron was stunned for a moment: "What?"
Daeron was silent.
Of course, he knew what his grandfather Otto was talking about.
Now his eldest brother Aegon was seriously wounded, near death.
Aemond had killed Rhaenys, his prestige soaring, and the army had proclaimed him regent.
If Aemond won the war, Aegon would be king, but Aemond would still be regent.
If Aegon unfortunately died, Aemond could become king at any moment.
"Are you trying to sow discord between us?" Daeron asked coldly.
Otto shook his head: "No, Your Highness. I am just stating a fact."
"The throne belongs to Aegon II, regardless of legitimacy."
"He is the eldest son and heir, appointed by Viserys I himself."
"No matter what Aemond does, he cannot replace him."
Otto reached out, pressed Daeron's shoulder, and spoke seriously.
"You have that ability, Daeron."
"You have dragons, armies, and the support of Hightower."
"You can restrain Aemond so he cannot do whatever he wants."
"I don't want you to harm your brother, I just want you to protect your other brother."
Daeron looked at his hand and slowly flexed his fingers.
"What are you afraid of?" he asked.
Otto sighed, a note of weariness in his voice: "What am I afraid of?"
"I'm afraid Aemond will become a second Maegor."
"You know who Maegor the Cruel is?"
"I don't want to see that day."
Daeron was silent for a while, then slowly said: "The Targaryen above, the Seven Kingdoms below."
"We were born above the Seven Kingdoms."
Otto was stunned.
Daeron continued: "That's what Aemond said."
"I think he's right."
"We Targaryens are descendants of the Dragon Kings; the fire of Valyria is in our blood."
"No matter how powerful the nobles are, they are merely our courtiers."
"They can fight for power and profit, they can scheme, but in the end, they must still kneel to us."
He turned his head and looked at Otto, his purple eyes clear and firm: "Grandfather, I know you are doing this for my own good."
"But Aemond—he is different."
"He can resurrect the Targaryens and restore the Seven Kingdoms to the Targaryens."
"As long as he doesn't harm our eldest brother, I don't care what he does."
Otto opened his mouth to say something, but Daeron was already on his feet.
"And," Daeron looked at him, "Grandfather, face reality."
"You are merely a relic of a bygone era. There is no place for you in the new one."
With that, he turned and walked away, heading to the other side of the field.
Otto sat motionless.
He remembered when he was Hand of the King, Viserys I sat on the Iron Throne, standing beside him, and all of Westeros was under his control.
He had supported Alicent in becoming queen, she had borne four sons and two daughters, believing the future of the Green Party was bright.
But now?
Viserys was dead, poisoned.
Alicent stayed in Maegor's Holdfast all day, never leaving.
Aegon was seriously wounded, and Aemond had become regent, covering the sky with one hand.
Daeron...
Even Daeron had been brainwashed by Aemond's thoughts, believing the Targaryens were born to be above the Seven Kingdoms.
And he, Otto Hightower, the once powerful Hand of the King, could only sit here watching a tedious joust.
Listening to this young grandson say there is no place for you in the new era.
He smiled bitterly.
Perhaps Daeron was right. He was very old, and couldn't keep up with the times.
On the field, a new round of competition began.
Two knights clashed fiercely, lances against lances, the sound of metal piercing the sky.
The audience shouted loudly, the sound waves growing higher and higher.
But Otto heard nothing.
He was merely a relic of a bygone era.
In the new era, there was no place for him.
In the distance, Lady Maggie held her son in her arms, watching.
She looked down at Leonor, who was sleeping in her arms. The child slept soundly, unaware of everything around him.
"Leonor," she whispered, "no matter what happens, Mother will protect you."
The child smacked his lips and continued sleeping.
Lady Maggie looked up, gazing north.
There—the direction of King's Landing.
She knew an unknowable fate awaited her.
But she had no choice. Entering King's Landing this time, she had heard of Aemond's disposition and only hoped to please the regent and maintain the Tyrells' nominal rule over the Reach.
You must know, there were too many families in the Reach who wanted to replace House Tyrell...