Chapter 653

A light drizzle passed through, leaving the land glistening in its wake. The sun broke through the clouds, scattering golden rays across the earth, swiftly dissipating the mist clinging to the distant horizon. A gentle breeze rustled the budding leaves of the trees, and the birds resumed their cheerful song.

A young woman approached the window but did not pause to admire the flourishing spring beyond. Instead, she lifted her arms and, with two crisp movements, shut the windowpanes firmly, sealing away the chirping and rustling of the outside world.

Margaery Ty—no, Margaery Targaryen's personal handmaiden latched the windows shut, then returned to her place behind her mistress, continuing to listen in on the assembly.

This was the grandest hall in Highgarden, and it was packed wall to wall with nobles from all corners of the Reach. Golden trees, grapevines, drawn bows, various apples, and honeycombs—any sigil a Reachman could name was present here today.

And for good reason.

After a month of frantic negotiations, diplomatic efforts, and backdoor dealings, the Reach’s attempt to end the war—or to put it plainly, to sue for peace with the Dragon Queen—had failed utterly. Now, their worst fear had come to pass: the most feared man in Westeros, the Queen’s Hand, the legendary Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Aegor Wester, had marched his army out of the royal camp outside King’s Landing. With banners high and drums pounding, his forces had set out westward along the Rose Road, and just days ago, they had crossed the border into the Reach.

They were marching straight for them.

The air in the hall was thick with unease, but it wasn’t only the impending battle that weighed on them. There was another, far more ominous reason for their dread.

House Hightower—the wealthiest family in the Reach, second only to the Lannisters in gold, the masters of Oldtown, the guardians of the Citadel and the Faith—had refused to answer the call.

They had not sent reinforcements to Highgarden. They had not even left a token force behind at the siege of King’s Landing. Instead, they had withdrawn their men entirely.

Their message was clear: this war cannot be won.

The lords of the Reach could tolerate a great house hedging its bets. But House Hightower’s stance was too familiar—too ominous. Three hundred years ago, during Aegon’s Conquest, the last King of the Reach, Mern IX Gardener, had thought much the same.

The result? The Field of Fire.

No one in the Seven Kingdoms understood that defeat more intimately than the Reachmen. No one had suffered the consequences as deeply. And now, once again, they found themselves facing a Targaryen with dragons.

The battlefield had changed. But the story remained the same.

Margaery, standing among them, clenched her fists. They all did. Now was not the time to rage against the Hightowers’ betrayal. The enemy was at their gates. But if—when—they survived this war, there would be a reckoning.

The Tyrells had long resented the Hightowers, their ancient rivals in the Reach. But this? This was an opportunity. When the war ended, House Hightower would find itself stripped of its influence, its lands encroached upon, its power shattered.

Highgarden would see to that.

A cough broke the tense silence.

At the front of the hall, beneath the twin banners of the golden rose and the three-headed red dragon, stood the man tasked with addressing the assembled lords: Ser Loras Tyrell, the pride of his house, the Knight of Flowers.

He surveyed the room before speaking.

"Our scouts and informants confirm that Aegor’s forces are well-equipped with alchemical fire weapons of considerable scale," he said, his voice even. "With such devastating equipment at their disposal, engaging them in direct combat without sufficient preparation would be suicide. Our forces have therefore been ordered to withdraw strategically, ceding ground to avoid direct confrontation."

He gestured toward a map spread across the table.

"The plan is twofold. First, our cavalry will harass their scouts and outriders, baiting them into skirmishes. If they take the bait and send detachments after us, we will use our knowledge of the terrain to ambush them, whittling down their numbers and morale. Second, we will identify their supply routes. Aegor’s forces may be large, but they rely on long supply lines. If we can sever those lines once they are deep enough into the Reach, they will be forced to retreat or face starvation."

The murmurs in the hall were interrupted by a sharp, mocking voice.

"And tell me, Ser Loras," drawled Harry Strickland, the commander of the Golden Company, seated near the front, "has this brilliant plan worked so far?"

There was a bitter sneer in his tone.

Strickland had been there at Blackwater Rush. He had seen the Queen’s dragon rain hellfire upon his men. He had nearly died—though the bombs had missed him, the shockwave and shrapnel had sent him sprawling, leaving him bloodied and unconscious. His soldiers had thought him dead, and his absence had turned what should have been a close battle into a disastrous rout.

And when the Reach lords had panicked in the aftermath—had scrambled to negotiate a surrender—the Golden Company had been left twisting in the wind. Their supplies cut, their position tenuous. It was only when the Queen rejected the Reach’s peace overtures outright that they had been begrudgingly welcomed back into the fold.

A warm welcome one moment. Treated like beggars the next.

Strickland had every reason to be furious.

Loras, unfazed by the jibe, shook his head. "Regrettably, no. Not yet."

He traced his finger along the map.

"The Queen’s forces have yet to advance deep enough for us to exploit their supply lines. Furthermore, their army—forty thousand strong—marches in close formation, never straying more than an hour’s march from their vanguard. Their scouts and outriders maintain just enough distance to avoid ambushes but not enough to become isolated. They do not chase our decoys. They do not stretch their lines thin. And every night, they halt before sundown, dig in, and fortify their position."

Loras exhaled, his fingers curling into a fist.

"If I had to describe it," he murmured, "I’d say—"

"A paranoid hedgehog," Jon Connington cut in. The grizzled Hand of King Aegon had remained silent until now, but there was a grim amusement in his tone. "Ridiculous to look at, but damn near impossible to handle. The worst kind of enemy."

He turned his gaze to the assembled lords.

"And the most infuriating part?" He gestured at the map with a scoff. "That very army—the one now marching against us? Their food, their weapons, their supplies? Much of it came from the stores your men abandoned in the chaos at Blackwater Rush."

The murmurs in the hall turned into a low rumble.

"If only," Connington sighed, "someone had listened when I advised destroying the supply trains instead of fleeing with them intact, our enemy would not have had the means to launch this invasion so soon."

The lords of the Reach shifted uncomfortably. A month ago, during the disastrous withdrawal from Blackwater, they had argued over whether to burn their supplies or save them. In the end, they had chosen the latter.

And now, those very supplies were fueling the war against them.

The hall erupted into heated debate. Old wounds reopened. Accusations flew.

Margaery’s sharp eyes flicked to her husband, King Aegon, and she saw his expression darken.

She had to act before this squabble escalated.

Reaching out, unseen beneath the table, she lightly brushed her fingers against Aegon’s leg.

A subtle reminder.

The time for bickering had long passed.

The time for war had come.