[37] A Hundred Thousand Men’s Backing
Chapter 37: A Hundred Thousand Men’s Backing
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The garden party continued around us as Willas Tyrell, and I sat on a broad marble terrace overlooking Highgarden’s famed rose gardens. He was a skinny man but stylish. Despite his heirship and his venerable seat, Willas had none of the overbearing airs I’d come to expect from noble scions. Instead, he greeted me with a smile that felt genuinely warm.
“Prince Viserys,” he said, his voice gentle, “great fight earlier. I must say, it’s a pleasure to meet you properly. I had hoped to attend yesterday's meeting but only returned home this morning.” He tapped his knee, which he had injured in a joust long ago. “Travel can be a challenge.”
“That’s perfectly fine, Willas,” I replied, offering my hand. “You do seem well, all things considered.”
He laughed lightly. “Yes, I manage. My old friend Oberyn pokes fun at my limp to this day, but it was always in good humor. I do miss him. Thanks to you, I’m glad to hear we may be coming closer to Dorne.”
I inclined my head. “Some alliances are written in blood, others in shared interest. With the Tyrells and Martells, it might be both.”
I knew this man had hurt his legs in a tourney against Oberyn Martell years ago. Lord Mace hated Oberyn because of that, but Willas himself bore no ill intent for the man. Rather, I think he had a genuine fondness for the Dornish Prince, which perhaps extended to all of Dorne. This boded well, especially for me; Dorne and Reach were generational enemies, but with Willas here, bridging Reach and Dorne would be possible. That would solidify my claim immeasurably.
He nodded, his gaze drifting across the garden’s expanse. “We have much to gain from each other, I believe. With this excuse, perhaps I could visit Dorne in the near future to discuss war plans. And,” he whispered, “thanks to your dragons, not just us, I suspect all the border lords with bad history may find a reason to set aside old quarrels.”
I smiled at that, “Hopefully.” We conversed for a bit longer, although it was more of a chat among friends rather than a political discussion between a King and his Lord. I was starting to like Reach; first Garlan, and now his older brother. They were fun to talk to.
Then, I excused myself to mingle further among the guests. The garden party continued without obvious friction. I noticed that Garlan and Loras entertained some lesser lords while Mace ambled around, shaking hands. Over to one side, near a display of orchard fruits and spiced wine, House Hightower held court.
Lord Leyton Hightower, called the Old Man of Oldtown, wasn’t here. He never attended these social gatherings; his heir, Baelor Hightower, attended in his stead. I met up with the man, enjoying their compliments about the fight earlier, sharing some conversations, stories, and a drink. Some other lords joined us, and we spent half an hour there.
A bit later, I distanced myself from that group to find others. Lord Merryweather, a tall, easygoing man with a beer belly, eyed me with a sort of familial curiosity. His wife, Lady Taena, stood close by. I approached them and got through the typical greeting phase.
Soon, Lady Merryweather began to speak much more than her husband. He stood to the side as she flowed the conversation. “We have a daughter your age,” she said, her tone soft but unmistakably suggestive as she ran a hand through my chest. “Perhaps you’ll come visit us sometime? Our families were practically joined, were they not?”
She let out a throaty laugh, and her husband merely smiled as though fully content with his wife’s flirtations. It struck me that Taena didn’t consider any boundary she couldn’t casually cross. She was a beauty of olive skin, full lips, raven hair, and a curvy body. Her accent carried a sultry Myrish lilt, and her eyes gleamed with mischief.
I smiled politely, keeping my kingly image. I had a libido problem, but I didn’t want to ruin my image on my first appearance, so I took a step back. “Lady Merryweather, please,” I said, and she just smiled. Bold woman.
House Merryweather was a little special, I guess. My father had a mistress from this house, though that was decades past. So this woman was trying to act like family. “Please, consider it, Your Grace. If not today, then some other time?”
“It would be my pleasure,” I answered diplomatically, returning her smile in kind. “Perhaps when these turbulent times settle, I’ll pay your land a friendly visit.”
She sipped her wine, a glint of amusement lighting her dark eyes. “I look forward to it.”
I was curious about her daughter, although not by much. Since my father had a mistress there, could this girl have some Targaryen blood? It could be that the mistress was this girl's grandmother, although unlikely. So I’d visit their land someday.
“As you should-” I started, but I couldn’t finish my words. A sudden hush gripped the crowd. The air shifted, and I felt a prickle at the back of my neck. Then, the air snapped like a string pulled too tight.
– Swishh!
Something blurred past a potted rosebush, and a crossbow bolt whistled toward me. Instinct—or luck perhaps—made me jerk my arm up, my eyes lighting up. The bolt struck my palm, biting half an inch in. Pain flashed bright and immediate.
Gasps erupted. Mace Tyrell roared in rage, fists clenched, as he shouted for the guards. I grit my teeth, blood trickling from my hand, though it did not pierce fully. Guards rushed for the spot where the shot had originated, spears at hand, as one of them yanked out a person. I glared, only to see a limp body being pulled out of the brush, the assassin already dead by unknown means.
A chaotic murmur washed over the garden. Lords stood in shock, some drawing daggers or pressing back against the tables. Everything hung in tense confusion for a heartbeat. Then I steadied myself, ignoring the sting in my palm, and raised my voice over the crowd.
“I’m fine,” I said sharply, letting the hush settle. “Though I suspect that arrow might have punctured more than my flesh—it’s wounded our trust, has it not? Someone here wanted me dead, one of you lords, while standing in Highgarden.”
Margaery rushed forward, grabbing my hand and gasping in shock. Olenna Tyrell hurried behind, leaning on her cane as she ignored my eyes and stared at my hand, “Prince Viserys, are you—”
I waved away the worry, pulling out the bolt with a grimace. Blood welled on my palm, but it was a small wound compared to what might have been. Margaery tried to call for servants, but I stopped her. I looked at the crowd and said, “This isn’t the first time I’ve faced danger, my lords, nor will it be the last.” I lifted my hand, showing the bloody bolt tip. It had barely gone through half an inch of my palm. My 32 END wasn’t for show. “But I’ll say this: that was a feeble attempt. I am far stronger than my father and brother. If our enemies think of me so easily dispatched, they’ll need sharper arrows.”
The tension began to subside, replaced by a collective realization that something bigger was at play. It wasn’t normal to block a crossbow with a hand.
Where I was merely bleeding, a lesser man would have lost their head as the arrow would have pierced through his hand. Randyll Tarly’s face had hardened like stone. Paxter Redwyne, Baelor Hightower, and the rest exchanged somber glances. Loyalty, or at least sympathy, slowly crept into their expressions—if only out of false outrage.
“My lords,” I continued, voice calmer now. “Do not let this cowardly act undermine our unity. Let it serve instead as a warning of how truly threatened our foes must feel. I won’t cower or flee. My Targaryen blood runs hot, and I’ll stand firm.”
A wave of murmured agreement passed through the watchers. Among them, Margaery, surprisingly, showed sincere concern. I could see genuine worry in her eyes as she called for maids to bring bandages and stuff. I saw true fear in her eyes. I guess losing one husband was enough for her, I noted. In the TV show, she’d lost three.
Garlan Tyrell whispered instructions to the guards to heighten security. Face red with anger, Mace Tyrell promised to track down the assassin’s master.
Amid the turmoil, Olenna Tyrell’s eyes shone with a private satisfaction. She offered me a subtle nod as if to say Well done. I winced at the throb in my palm, but a faint grin tugged at my lips. My speech was perfect, and I made the best out of the situation. Although I was curious about who ordered this assassination,
The gathering took on a different note after that. No longer just a pleasant garden party, it became a place of shared resolve. The Tyrells and their banner lords closed ranks around me, each of them vowing in their own ways to stand against any shadowy foe.
Suddenly, I had a hundred thousand men backing me.
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