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Chapter 66: – The Realm Trembles
Highgarden – The Seat of House Tyrell
The gardens of Highgarden were in full bloom, the air thick with the scent of roses, lavender, and citrus. Bees hummed lazily around the fountains, the sun casting a golden glow over the ancient stone walls of the Tyrell stronghold.
In a shaded pavilion, Lady Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, sat in her favorite chair, a goblet of sweet Arbor Gold in one hand. Across from her, her son, Lord Mace Tyrell, fidgeted nervously as a messenger finished relaying the news.
"Tywin Lannister is dead," the young man said, swallowing hard. "Executed by dragonfire on the command of Daeron Targaryen."
A long silence followed.
Mace paled. "The Lannisters are finished."
Olenna took a slow sip of her wine. "Oh, nonsense."
Her son blinked. "Mother?"
Olenna sighed. "The Lannisters are not finished, they're merely… inconvenienced. But this Daeron boy? Now he's the one to watch."
She tapped a finger against the armrest. "Dragons are troublesome things, Mace. We learned that the hard way, didn't we?"
Mace shifted uncomfortably. "The Tyrells bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror without a fight."
Olenna snorted. "Yes, and that's why we still have our heads. A lesson worth remembering."
She turned her sharp eyes on her son. "Renly was a fool to march against this boy. And you were a fool to support him."
Mace sputtered, but Olenna waved a hand. "Enough. Send word to Renly. Tell him to be cautious. The game has changed, and we must move carefully."
She sipped her wine again and muttered, almost to herself: "Targaryens, dragons, and war… It's as if the past never truly dies."
Pyke – The Seat of House Greyjoy
The stormwinds howled outside Pyke's great hall, the waves crashing against the jagged rocks below. The Greyjoy stronghold stood defiant, perched upon its precarious cliffs, as if daring the sea to take it.
At the head of the long, damp table, Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands, sat brooding, his fingers drumming against the dark wood. Before him, a thrall knelt, having just finished delivering the news.
"A dragon?" Balon muttered, his face twisting in disgust.
His daughter, Asha Greyjoy, stood at his side, arms crossed. "Aye. A dragon. And a true Targaryen leading the North."
Balon scoffed. "The North belongs to wolves, not dragons."
Asha smirked. "Not anymore."
Balon turned his cold gaze on his daughter. "This changes nothing."
Asha raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't it?"
The room was silent except for the distant roar of the waves.
Balon clenched his fists.
He had been preparing to seize the moment, to take advantage of the war tearing Westeros apart. But a dragon? That was a complication he had not foreseen.
Finally, he stood. "We will not bend, nor will we kneel. The ironborn do not fear dragons."
Asha exhaled sharply. "Then what will we do?"
Balon turned toward the window, staring out at the raging sea.
"We will take what is ours. The wolf may bow to the dragon, but the kraken bows to no one."
Sunspear – The Seat of House Martell
The sun beat down on the towers of Sunspear, its warmth soaking into the red and gold sandstone of the Palace of the Water Gardens. The hot Dornish wind carried the scent of citrus and salt, ruffling the silken banners bearing the sun and spear of House Martell.
Inside his private solar, Prince Doran Martell sat quietly, his hands folded in his lap. He did not speak as the raven's message was read aloud.
His daughter, Princess Arianne Martell, stood by the window, dressed in a golden dress. She smirked. "I told you the boy had promise."
Doran remained still. "So you did."
Arianne turned to face him. "You disapprove?"
Doran let out a slow breath. "I have lived long enough to know that fire is a dangerous thing."
Arianne's grin widened. "Dangerous, yes. But useful."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Doran spoke again. "Daeron Targaryen has power. And we must decide how we will respond."
Arianne laughed. "Respond? Dear father, Uncle Oberyn has already responded."
Doran raised an eyebrow.
Arianne stretched. "Tywin Lannister is ash. Elia, Aegon, and Rhaenys have been avenged. Uncle Oberyn has already given Daeron the Martell blessing."
Doran sighed. "My brother acts too rashly."
Arianne approached her father, placing a hand on his shoulder. "And you act too slowly. You cannot sit in this chair forever, Father."
Doran's fingers tightened on the armrest.
Arianne gave a knowing smirk. "The question is, will we stand behind the dragon? Or wait until he turns his fire upon us?"
Doran closed his eyes.
For the first time in years, he felt the sands of Dorne shifting beneath him.