[36] Garden Party of Highgarden

Chapter 36: Garden Party of Highgarden

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The hall brimmed with color and murmured tension. Lords and ladies of the Reach mingled under the evening sky, surrounded by a flower garden, where late-afternoon light slanted across polished floors. Long tables bore polished silver goblets and platters of ripe fruits, fine cheeses, and honeyed pastries. Smallfolk servants, dressed in discreet shades of green and gold, moved quietly through the crowd, refilling cups and offering plates. Every corner was alive with low laughter and the muted clink of cups meeting in cautious toasts.

The people gathered here were no small names, they were big shots of the Reach. Lord Paxter Redwyne stood with his sons near a table piled high with grapes, and Lord Mathis Rowan leaned in close to Lord Owen Oakheart, their brows knitting as they spoke in hushed tones.

Lord Baelor Hightower and Lord Randyll Tarly, both known for stern discipline and unwavering loyalty, hovered at one end of the room, discussing recent levy counts and the health of the harvest. Beesbury, Mullendore, Florent—lesser names but still weighted with history in this land of fields—drifted in and out of small clusters. They were forging quiet alliances or seeking reassurances.

At the center of it all, Lord Mace Tyrell smiled broadly but listened more than he spoke. His wife, Alerie Tyrell, was with him. They were surrounded by soft laughter and polite nods, yet there was an undercurrent of dissatisfaction that he could almost taste from these lords, as if they weren't quite happy to gather here.

Garlan and Loras were also present, the former with his wife, Lady Leonette. They entrained the guests, keeping things fun. Willas Tyrell, the heir of Highgarden, sat among some of the lords. He'd been away from home till today, and was sitting due to his injury, while his pet falcon sat on his shoulders.

The beginning of the garden party went without an issue, but time revealed his suspicions to be true.

“Lord Mace,” Randyll Tarly approached him, a goblet of wine in one hand and a narrowed look in his eyes.

“Lord Tarly?” Mace looked at him curiously.

“I have an issue,” he said. The bald man’s reputation as a formidable warrior and an uncompromising lord preceded him, and he wasted no time on pleasantries.  “I thought Lady Olenna was going to come visit me yesterday. I waited all day, and then a raven notified me otherwise. Then, I received a sudden invitation to this banquet. I’ll admit, I hesitated to accept at first, it seems insulting, but here I am. My wife pushed me. Yet I don’t see Lady Olenna. Is she avoiding us?”

A hush rippled outward from this confrontation. It was light, but enough that a few lords who had been distracted by their conversations turned discreetly to listen. The Tyrells’ recent shift in allegiance, supporting the late King Renly against the crown, had left many of these men wanting answers. They hadn’t questioned it before, but after Renly’s death it grew into a problem.

They knew where the true power in Highgarden lay, and it was not solely in Mace’s broad shoulders. Olenna Tyrell’s absence at such a gathering stirred annoyance after such enormous events had been going on in the realm.

Mace Tyrell cleared his throat, his smile faltering at the edges. “I assure you, Lord Randyll, my mother is—” He began, but before he could say more, the sound of slow footsteps drew all eyes toward the entrance of the garden.

Lady Olenna Tyrell made her entrance with measured steps, being accompanied by Margery, leaning lightly on her cane, yet losing none of her commanding presence. Margaery revealed a smile at the lords as they approached.

Olenna wore a gown of deep green and gold, the Tyrell rose subtly embroidered along the hem. Her sharp eyes surveyed the room without hurry, taking note of each face that turned to her. The earlier dissatisfaction seemed to vanish in thin air in her presence. Nobody in the Reach dared to offend her.

“Good lords,” she said, voice warm and precise, cutting through the garden's buzz. “I realize how confused you must be recently, and I'm pleased you all accepted our invitation despite that. As for those Houses that chose to ignore this invitation, I'll see to them,” she smiled. It was cold. “My apologies, let's waste time on this. The truth is, I have something… significant to share with you today.”

She took everyone's expression, as they exchanged glances before she added, Something that will shape the future of the Reach, and perhaps all of Westeros.”

An expectant hush fell. Randyll Tarly’s frown deepened, but he waited, watching her carefully. Olenna swept her gaze across the assembly, savoring the attention. Then she made a small gesture toward the side door, and a figure stepped forward.

He was clad in finely tailored garments that bore subtle hints of Targaryen heraldry—a rich black doublet worked with crimson thread, wearing a princely smile, a cape trailing behind his tall shoulders. His silver-blond hair caught the fading daylight, and he moved with quiet assurance. Lady Olenna lifted her chin proudly.

“Lords of the Reach,” she said, “allow me to present to you the rightful King, Viserys Targaryen, third of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.” She smiled, “A king who returned to these shores from Essos, with allies and promises that warrant your ears, your respect, and your swords.”

A stunned silence settled in, while Margarey made sure to smile at Viserys. He returned it. Goblets hovered in mid-air, words died on tongues. Many had heard rumors, whispers on the wind, thanks to the incident where he killed two knights. But seeing him here, in the heart of Highgarden under the Queen of Thorns’ wings, made it real in a way that sent chills through every spine.

For one beat of a heart, no one moved. Then the lords began to exchange hurried glances, questions smoldering in their eyes. Olenna allowed herself the smallest of smiles, pleased by the impact.

****

I stood before them, the lords of the Reach, gathered beneath the fading daylight that slanted through the clouds. Their eyes, some wide with astonishment, others narrowed with curiosity, rested on me. Old Olenna’s announcement had stunned them into silence. Now it was my turn to take the stage.

A few lords whispered anxiously near Mace Tyrell, hushed words I could not fully catch. Instead of straining to listen, I focused on Randyll Tarly as he was the nearest. He stood somewhat apart, his arms at his sides, jaw set in a line.

A formidable man by reputation, he had once struck fear into Robert Baratheon’s ranks during the Rebellion. He was the only man who Robert had experienced defeat to.

I gave him a nod and a smile as if greeting an old ally. “Lord Randyll,” I said, my voice carrying just enough warmth. “I’ve heard of your valor in battle—the time you bested Robert’s forces. A remarkable feat. I was young back then, no older than five, but I felt hope when I heard that story. Many tales reach my ears, but that one I believe. I’m glad to see you still hale and strong.”

He hesitated, the muscles in his neck working as he weighed his response. The Tarlys had served Targaryens loyally in the past, and I sensed a spark of recognition flicker behind his stern gaze. In the show, he'd gone against his established character and defied Dany.

I was curious if he'd act the same in this real world.

Our gazes locked. I kept smiling. Slowly, as if drawn by old oaths and ancient loyalties, he bent his knee. “Your Grace,” he said at last, voice steady if subdued.

“Your Grace!” A young voice followed suit, and I recognised him as Dickon Tarly, Randyll’s son.

The small knot of uncertainty in my chest loosened. One by one, other lords began to kneel—some quickly, others slower, grudgingly perhaps. Not all bent at first, but a single pointed look from Olenna Tyrell, standing beside me with her cane, reminded them of their place in the Reach. It was her land they ruled beneath her patronage; defiance would not be wise. With reluctance, the last dissenters knelt, and a quiet hush settled.

I gestured for them to rise, spreading my hands in a conciliatory manner. “I see quite the hesitation here.”

Many stiffened but I just smiled, “My lords, I know you’ve heard many rumors about me—some that paint me as weak, mad, or unfit. Lies spread by those who fear a Targaryen’s return, and some by myself, to stay in hiding. It's shameful, really, but it was the best choice at that time. I was a kid; I also had a little sister to take care of. I didn't want to appear dangerous. Assassins are everywhere. But I've decided that I won't hide anymore. That's why I'm here. I understand your caution. You’ve seen five kings vie for thrones, and now I appear to claim it too. Perhaps you doubt my strength or worthiness.”

Some exchanged glances, others looked away, still uncertain. I let them hold their doubts for a moment, then continued. “I am not here to beg your favor with empty words. I will show you my mettle, my skill, and let you judge whether I am the Targaryen this realm deserves.”

From a servant’s hand, a spear arced through the air, and I caught it easily. Its shaft felt sturdy in my grip, reassuring. I turned, raising an eyebrow, “Of course, a single battle isn't enough to show worthiness, but I want to at least disprove some of the rumors. Now, who among you would test my prowess?” I said, and nobody moved. “What, I didn't know the Lords of Reach are little girls. Nobody is brave enough?”

There was a rustle, and then Ser Hobber and Ser Horas Redwyne stepped forward. Twins, both broad-shouldered, orange-haired, and freckled. I eyed them as they bowed briefly. “Forgive us, my lord,” said one of them, Hobber or Horas, hard to tell them apart, “but we cannot kneel under a king who is titled a Beggar, a weak coward. We… mean no disrespect. We simply want certainty that you're strong.”

A murmured agreement rippled through the crowd. I inclined my head, smiling. “I appreciate your honesty, Sers. It is far better than talking behind my back. You’ve challenged me, so let’s make it interesting: I’ll face you both at the same time.”

A collective gasp rippled through the lords, and even the twins exchanged startled looks. They hadn't expected that. I was fairly sure they'd been notified about a duel by Olenna from the beginning, even if they might not have known who they'd fight against. But they didn't know I'd challenge them both.

Olenna’s gaze flicked to me, a hint of surprise and worry in her eyes. This was more than she’d arranged, and she worried I was biting more than I could chew. I just waited.

“Let’s give them some space!” A man shouted, and I recognised him as Lord Hightower.

A moment later, the crowd parted, forming a rough circle. The Redwyne twins hesitated, but Olenna nodded at them. Soon, I faced the two of them in a makeshift arena.

The twins lifted their practice swords. They were fine steel. I could see the determination in their stances. They wouldn’t hold back too much when I'd dared challenge them both. They wanted to prove their own worth, too, and they genuinely was interested in what I could offer.

“Start!” lord Hightower shouted.

I shifted my footing, spear in hand, letting the tension hum through my muscles. Without further ceremony, the twins advanced, trying to flank me.

I danced backward, spear tip flicking like a snake’s tongue. One lunged, I parried, the other swung low, and I twisted away. “You guys are slow, young lords,” I said, my spear flowing in my grip, and my movements fluid, as if honed by years among the sellswords and sparring arenas of Essos.

In truth, I've not been training for more than six months.

Their attacks were earnest but not cunning enough. I didn't want to drag this. After a heartbeat of careful observation, I countered—knocking one twin off balance with a swift strike with the blunt side, then spinning to catch the other’s blade with my spearhead and send him stumbling.

My spear moved like a spark of lightning. Their attempts to coordinate failed under the relentless pressure of my quick thrusts and feints. Within moments, I trapped them both in a flurry of blows, rattling their swords out of their grips. They backed up, breathing hard, eyes wide.

I decided to finish it decisively, jumping into steps, spinning in the air, and knocking one’s feet out from under him with a low sweep and catching the other across the helm with the spear shaft. He resisted, and in response, I kicked him in the chest. “Argh!” He was sent his heavy body flying back into the flowers, screaming in agony.

Neither of them moved, unconscious. Gasps rose from the crowd—shock and full of awe. They hadn't expected such a swift and loud ending.

For a moment, silence reigned. “Great fight!” Then Olenna began to clap, the sound sharp and clear, and Margaery also followed. The others did the same, applause rippling through the hall. I straightened, letting the spear rest at my side, and offered a gracious nod.

It was not some outstanding fight, but I had made my point. Let them doubt me no longer. I was Viserys Targaryen, and I would not let anyone insult me using the rumors of my past self.

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