95(1): The Son of Ice and Fire, A New Order

Maekar stood on the balcony of his chambers in Highgarden, overlooking the famed gardens that sprawled below. The rising sun bathed the scene in hues of pink and orange, casting shadows across the perfectly manicured hedges and fountains that seemed to stretch endlessly. Highgarden truly was a marvel—a testament to the wealth and grandeur of the Reach. In his mind, it was the most beautiful castle in all of Westeros, rivaling even Casterly Rock in sheer elegance. But now, it bore the banners of his house. The golden rose of House Tyrell had been replaced with the red and black dragon of House Targaryen.

Maekar breathed deeply, savoring the scent of blooming roses carried on the breeze. Victory, he reflected, came with rewards such as this. Yet his satisfaction was tempered by the monumental task of reordering the Seven Kingdoms. His Reordering of the Seven Kingdoms had shattered ancient traditions and borders, and not everyone was pleased. The Reach was no exception, though now it was firmly under his control after a month here. Today also marked the end of his stay in this land; he would soon depart for the capital, leaving the Florents and Hightowers to consolidate their rule in their new kingdoms.

He stepped back into his chambers, the opulence of the room greeting him once again. The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries depicting scenes of chivalry and courtly love, illuminated by the golden glow of chandeliers. The floor was a polished marble mosaic, reflecting the grandeur of the room. Maekar dressed quickly, donning the black and red garments befitting a king, and made his way out.

The halls of Highgarden were a marvel in themselves. The ceilings soared above him, painted with pastoral scenes of knights and maidens, lords and harvests. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, casting multicolored patterns across the walls and floors. The air was fragrant, filled with the scent of fresh blooms from the gardens. Servants moved silently through the corridors, their heads bowed deeply as Maekar passed, their expressions a mixture of awe and fear.

The Tyrell guards who had once patrolled these halls were gone, replaced by his Varangian Guard, their imposing forms clad in black armor, White dragon sigils glinting on their chests. 

He had sent Lyonel ahead a week ago to the capital to prepare for his arrival. There, his true work would begin.

As Maekar turned a corner, he caught sight of Elinor and Megga Tyrell standing quietly against a wall. Their heads were bowed, their faces pale with a mixture of shame and fear. He recalled the previous night, when they had come to his chambers, their intent clear: to spend the night with him, perhaps sent to curry favor for their diminished house. He had turned them away, though not without difficulty. There was a time when such a gesture would have tempted him, but now he thought of Rhaenys and Daenerys. He needed to stop somewhere. He was now a king. He did not plan to follow the path of Aegon the Unworthy.

He suspected Olenna had sent them—a final desperate gambit to win back some favor for her house. Olenna herself remained in the castle, though her time here was short. The Tyrells would soon be evicted, their remaining influence reduced to scraps.

He entered the grand throne room, a space that rivaled the Great Hall of the Red Keep in its magnificence. Ornate columns lined the chamber, and sunlight streamed through tall windows draped in velvet curtains. In the center of the room was a table, where Olenna Tyrell sat alone.

She was dressed in mourning black, her sharp features weathered by grief and humiliation. Her once-piercing gaze was dull, her posture slumped. This was not the Queen of Thorns who had once been a fearsome presence at any council. This was a broken woman. Her son was dead, her grandchildren maimed and burned or imprisoned. Her own house, the Redwynes, had betrayed her.

Maekar approached slowly, his boots echoing against the marble floor. Olenna looked up, her expression void of the sharp wit that had once defined her. For a moment, there was only silence between them.

“Your Grace,” Olenna began, her tone measured but heavy.

“Lady Olenna,” Maekar said.

There was more silence until she broke it again.

“The Tyrells have served the Iron Throne faithfully for generations. To strip us of Highgarden—of our home—and reduce us to a minor house is…”

“It is done, Lady Tyrell,” Maekar interrupted, his voice calm but unyielding.

“…unthinkable. An insult,” Olenna finished, her voice rising slightly over his. Her hands tightened into fists, resting on the table before her.

Maekar moved to sit next to her, his gaze sweeping over the room before landing on the single goblet before her. He noticed her trembling hands but said nothing, his own expression unreadable. His calm demeanor only seemed to further infuriate the woman seated before him.

“You chose the wrong side. You lost,” Maekar said bluntly, his tone devoid of malice but firm in its finality.

Olenna’s lips pressed into a thin line. “We are a great house,” she countered, her voice a mixture of anger and pleading. “You cannot erase centuries of loyalty with a single stroke.”

“Then why aren’t more lords making a fuss about it?” Maekar retorted, leaning back slightly. “If you were truly indispensable, the Reach would have risen in outrage at your downfall. Instead, they moved on. Quickly, too.”

He paused, his tone sharpening. “I’ve had more trouble in the Stormlands because of my annexation than I’ve had here. The Tyrell name, it seems, does not inspire the loyalty you believe it does.”

Olenna’s face reddened, her composure cracking. “That’s because you sent most of the lords to the Wall!” she almost screamed, her voice echoing in the grand chamber. “You gutted the Reach of its true leaders, its strongest families.”

Her voice broke slightly as she continued. “My son is dead. My sweet granddaughter—alone with child—now lies in your grasp. And houses we once considered family betrayed us.”

“They made the right choice,” Maekar said coldly. “They chose to survive. To serve the realm under a strong king rather than cling to a weak one.”

“Aegon was the Crown Prince,” Olenna shot back, her voice trembling with fury. “He was the rightful heir. You took the throne that was his.”

Maekar’s eyes hardened. “Aegon was a poor Crown Prince,” he said, his voice lowering. “Westeros needs a strong king, especially now.”

Maekar added, “House Tyrell is not left with nothing. You still have lands, Olenna. I have shown you mercy.”

Olenna’s hands tightened on the armrests of her chair, her knuckles pale against the dark wood. Her voice was a low, bitter hiss. “You think this mercy? A parcel of land by the coast, far from the power and influence we once held? A shadow of what we once were?”

Maekar’s lips curled into the faintest smile, his composure unshaken. “Yet you still have lands. You are not left with nothing. I could have made things much worse.”

“There are still lords who whisper that your family is no more than upjumped stewards.”

Olenna’s breath caught, her composure faltering for the briefest moment. The sting of Maekar’s words cut deeper than she cared to admit.

“Lords care for their lands, their wealth, and their power,” Maekar continued, his voice carrying the weight of cold pragmatism. “If those things remain secure, most care little for whose sigil flies above Highgarden.”

“Spoken like a conqueror,” Olenna said bitterly, though there was a flicker of resignation in her voice. She straightened in her chair, trying to regain some measure of authority. “And what of those who will not bend? Who see the Tyrells as the rightful lords of the Reach?”

“They will bend. They have already bent,” Maekar said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“The Reach is no more, Olenna, and it will never rise again.”

Olenna’s defiance returned, her eyes blazing with unspent fury. “You are wrong. One day, you will answer for this tyranny. The true and loyal sons of the Reach will avenge this humiliation.”

Her hand moved toward the goblet before her, trembling slightly as she lifted it. Maekar’s sharp gaze caught the motion, and with lightning speed, his hand shot out to stop her, gripping her wrist firmly.

“Unhand me!” Olenna hissed, her voice trembling with indignation.

Maekar ignored her protest, his expression cold and calculating as he took the goblet from her hand. He raised it to his nose, sniffing the contents. A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Poison. Lysene, of all things. How unoriginal.”

Olenna’s eyes widened, a flicker of shock crossing her face before she regained her composure. “What now, Your Grace? Will you add my head to your growing collection of trophies?”

Maekar set the goblet down carefully, his expression softening slightly. “I will forget this. Whatever this attempt was—martyrdom, or a final act of defiance—I will overlook it. I have no desire to see the Tyrells erased.”

“Your grandchildren…” Maekar began.

Olenna interrupted, her lips trembling as she fought to hold back tears. “Scarred and burned,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“Yet they live,” Maekar replied, his tone firm but not unkind. “Willas lives. Garlan lives. Loras and Margaery live. Your house still stands, Olenna.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a gentler tone. “Your house words are ‘Growing Strong.’ Go to your new lands. Grow strong. Your family needs you now more than ever.”

Olenna looked away, tears slipping silently down her face. Maekar stood and adjusted his cloak, turning toward the large door. Without another word, he left the throne room, his boots echoing against the marble floors.

It was time to leave for King’s Landing.

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Neferion loomed over the fields surrounding Highgarden, a living shadow against the vibrant greens and golds of the Reach. His black scales shimmered like polished obsidian in the sunlight, faint streaks of emerald etched across their surface, as if the dragon carried the very essence of fire within. His vast and imposing wings stretched wide, casting a darkness that swallowed the bright hues below.

Maekar stood at the dragon’s base, his dark hair catching the sunlight. He ran a gloved hand along Neferion's side, feeling the searing heat that radiated from the dragon's body—a warmth that seemed to pulse with life and power. The beast shifted slightly, massive claws raking the ground beneath him, leaving deep furrows in the earth.

A massive saddle rested securely between Neferion's shoulders, reinforced with steel and leather. Maekar meticulously checked the straps and harnesses himself, ensuring everything was secure.

With practiced ease, Maekar placed his boot into the small, steel-reinforced footholds embedded into Neferion’s side and began his climb. Each step was careful, his hand gripping the leather straps as he ascended the dragon's immense flank. The climb was arduous, the sheer size of Neferion making it a task even for someone as fit and capable as Maekar. The wind tugged at his cloak as he ascended, the vibrant red-and-black fabric rippling like flames.

Finally reaching the saddle, Maekar settled into the seat, leaning back to catch his breath. The climb, arduous even under normal circumstances, was especially grueling in full armor. Neferion was, after all, nearly as large as Vhagar—perhaps even larger. Maekar made a mental note to take measurements someday, though he was confident Neferion rivaled Vhagar in size. He was, however, far from the scale of the Black Dread. Still, Maekar harbored a hope that Neferion would live long enough to one day surpass even Balerion.

He looked out across the fields, the splendor of the Reach spread out before him. Neferion shifted, the movement so powerful that it felt as though the earth itself quaked. Maekar reached for the reins, his gloved hand brushing against the cool leather. With a silent command, he urged Neferion to take flight. The great dragon responded with an earth-shaking roar that echoed across the fields, reverberating in the hearts of those below.

Neferion leapt into the sky, his powerful wings snapping open with a sound like thunder. The gust of wind that followed sent men and horses below stumbling, their eyes wide with awe and terror as they watched the beast ascend. The dragon climbed higher and higher, his wings beating with the force of a storm.

Maekar held the reins lightly, his bond with Neferion rendering words unnecessary. The dragon climbed further, piercing through the clouds. For a moment, they were surrounded by mist, but then they broke free into the golden sunlight above. The sun bathed them both in warm, radiant light, and the vast expanse of the world stretched out before them—rolling fields, winding rivers, and distant mountains, all rendered insignificant beneath the dragon’s shadow.

Maekar sent a silent command to Neferion, directing him north. The dragon roared in acknowledgment, the sound carrying over the wind. His wings shifted, angling their flight, and with a powerful beat, Neferion surged forward toward King’s Landing.

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I need to rethink some parts of the rest of the chapter; I'll post when it's done. Dragonborn Conqueror next, followed by Redoing My Life.