Highgarden, the seat of House Tyrell and the crowning jewel of the Reach, was renowned across Westeros and beyond for its beauty, grandeur, and wealth. Perched atop a gentle hill that overlooked the fertile plains stretching along the Mander River, the castle was a stunning fusion of architectural mastery and natural splendor, with monolithic stone structures seamlessly blending with lush greenery. The castle grounds were filled with breathtaking flowers and truly ancient trees, the plants filling the air with the intoxicating scent of full bloom.
Legends claimed that every plant here carried a spark of old magic, tracing back to Garth Greenhand himself, the fabled first human of Westeros who supposedly planted Highgarden's first seeds and imbued them with life. Most, if not all, of these legends were of course just tales spread by the Reach's overdramatic minstrels, the enchanting beauty and timeless grandeur of Highgarden were undeniable, marking it as a place of both majesty and mystery now mostly gone from the world.
The castle rose in three layered tiers, designed to mirror the delicate petals of a rose. Unlike the severe, bare walls of most keeps, Highgarden's fortifications were alive, draped in vines and brilliant blossoms of golden roses and deep purple lavender, their fragrance permeating the grounds and air around the castle.
Some sceptics thought the countless plants spread around the keep were a flaw in Highgarden's defences, vulnerable to fire or intrusion. Yet, this particular rose had its thorns, as many invaders had learned over centuries.
Between the outer and middle walls sprawled an extensive labyrinth of briars, its pathways deliberately designed to both entertain and slow the attackers, while the vegetation on the walls was surprisingly easy to clear in case of siege. Additionally, as many invaders had learned firsthand, the structure of the castle, paired with lush greenery, allowed the defenders to be quite creative with controlled fires if need arose.
The inner courtyards of Highgarden were a sight to behold —expansive and elegantly arranged with marble statues, fountains, and lush hedge mazes. Paths of white gravel wound through vibrant flowerbeds, fragrant citrus orchards, and towering groves of oak, creating a setting that seemed equal parts natural and cultivated. The gardens were alive with birdsong and the gentle rustling of leaves and the soothing trickle of water, giving Highgarden an air of peaceful abundance.
Today, however, the usual peace of Highgarden was thoroughly disturbed by the imminent arrival of the mysterious visitors known as the "Inbetweeners"- travellers from beyond the Sunset Sea who had recently reached the shores of Oldtown.
Their nature, goals, and power were still unknown, but rumours of their magic and might sparked both grave concern and intense fascination among the people of the Reach. House Tyrell, sensing both opportunity and danger, extended an invitation to these visitors under the guise of a tourney celebrating the birth of Lord Mace's firstborn son, Willas. Though the birth of an heir to Highgarden would normally have been cause for much celebration on its own, somehow it had quickly become an afterthought in light of the unfolding events.
Truly, it seemed all of Highgarden was waiting for the Inbetweeners. The walls were lined with soldiers, merchants, and castle folk alike, leaning eagerly over parapets or gathering near the gates, hoping for a first glimpse. Nobles from across the Reach had arrived in their finest attire, with even houses from other kingdoms represented among the gathering. Remarkably, Highgarden found itse;f hosting both Tywin Lannister of the Westerlands and Steffon Baratheon of the Stormlands, a notable occurrence for a regional tourney. The fact that these two powerful men came in person instead of sending a representative only further proved the monumental nature of the day.
Although some gossiped about the tension between the two lords—who often found themselves in either tense silence or intense, hushed discussions—such rumours were quickly overshadowed by the talk of the Inbetweeners. Almost everyone was focused on this new, unknown power from across the sea.
Among those waiting, none were more prominent than the ruling family of Highgarden itself. The Tyrells spent much of their day gathered at the lower gardens, ostensibly enjoying the fragrant blooms and shaded walkways. But it was obvious to anyone watching that they were merely waiting for their foreign guests, a poorly concealed manoeuvre to avoid the appearance of being overly eager, or worse, weak, by welcoming them directly at the gate. While most Reachmen understood the delicate balance of pride and diplomacy at play, the pretence nevertheless grated at the pride of many.
Leading the group was Lord Mace Tyrell, young and somewhat promising lord of the Reach, who was bearing himself with a mixture of confidence and uncertainty, his resolve tinged by occasional flashes of doubt.
Next to him was always his mother, Lady Olenna Tyrell née Redwyne. Though an outsider by birth, Olenna had long assumed a role well beyond that of a traditional dowager. After the passing of her husband, the late Lord Luthor Tyrell, whose known disinterest in ruling bordered on legendary, Olenna had deftly steered the family's political machinations with a practical, if occasionally meddlesome, hand. Her shrewdness had strengthened House Tyrell's influence across the Reach, while her presence, though somewhat controversial, had earned the begrudging respect of nobles and household alike.
The two of them were accompanied by Alerie Tyrell née Hightower, Mace's wife and a figure of beauty, only barely marred by the toll of recent motherhood. A shadow of exhaustion lingered about her, yet her gaze was sharp, while her movements were quick and restless, underscoring the complex position in which she found herself.
As the daughter of Leyton Hightower, Lord of Oldtown and the apparently keen supporter of the new arrivals, she found herself walking a narrow path between her old and new families. What had once been a celebrated alliance between two powerful houses now looked dangerously close to a rift, with Alerie possibly having to soon choose between her father and her infant son, should tensions rise.
The three of them, naturally, were not alone. They were surrounded by a host of various nobles and retainers, the extended Tyrell family mingling with representatives from both the prominent and lesser houses of the Reach. Everyone was dressed in their finest garments, a tasteful array of silks, velvets, and carefully polished armours, with expressions as finely crafted as their attire- each face set in a mask of neutrality, ready to meet the mysterious newcomers with the dignity and elegance worthy of the Seven Kingdoms' most gallant court.
As it was impossible to tell when exactly the awaited newcomers would arrive, the people of Highgarden had no choice but to anxiously wait, the anticipation growing as the sun dipped lower and lower, the golden rays casting increasingly long shadows over Keep's walls. Just as twilight began to settle, however, a murmur spread among those on the walls- a dark line had emerged at the edge of the horizon, slowly solidifying into the unmistakable form of a convoy making its way towards Highgarden.
At first, there was little to distinguish it from any other procession that might visit the keep.
The carriages, cloaked in dusk's shadows, appeared unremarkable, their shapes blending into the familiar outline of typical Westerosi transports. As they drew closer, however, whispers turned to audible astonishment. The sigils fluttering from the carriages' flags, stark white towers on grey, were the banners of House Hightower—a sight as common in the Reach as golden roses. No strange sigils of unknown meaning, no flags of foreign powers. If not for the fact that everyone was already aware of Hightowers' role in the whole event, it would be impossible to tell that something was unusual.
The seeming normalcy shattered completely, however, when the convoy neared and the figures escorting the carriages grew visible.
Some were utterly mundane, as most of the members of the entourage were quickly recognized as Hightower guards, their helms and armours emblazoned with the familiar tower symbol. But mixed among them were creatures that defied the imagination, each one more alien than the last. It was impossible to miss several tall figures, well over eight feet tall, strolling confidently beside the men, their bodies draped in white cowls and golden armours glistening in the setting sun.
Even more surprising were the pale-skinned women clad in blue, armour-like robes, each astride monstrous, wolf-like beasts. Each creature was larger than even the biggest wolf in the Reach, their appearance causing people to whisper about the North's fabled direwolves.
But while giants and pale-faced maidens could be perhaps considered humans, if barely so, it was impossible to judge as such the beings walking on the convoy's edges- great, translucent figures seemingly sculpted from crystal, their bodies reflecting the fading light of the day, and towering, two-legged jars whose bodies jostled and clanged with an unsettling vigour.
The people lining the roads and the walls could only stare, spellbound. Soldiers tightened their grips on their spears and swords, their stances visibly tense with fear, while merchants' eyes glimmered with a greedy, mesmerized curiosity as they took in the adorned attire and weaponry of the newcomers. Highgarden had become host to a strange spectacle, a mix of marvel and dread, that none present would soon forget.
Behind the towering gates of Highgarden's keep, the Tyrells stood assembled, awaiting the approach of their guests. Alerted by the guards suitably early, they did their best to maintain composure, presenting themselves as the proud sovereigns of the Reach they were expected to be. It was they, after all, who had summoned the Inbetweeners to Highgarden with the aim of ensuring that whatever power these strange beings held would ultimately benefit, or at the very least not harm, House Tyrell. To reveal any sign of weakness now would be unthinkable.
Yet, despite their best efforts, even the Tyrells weren't entirely immune to the strange, almost electric tension that had spread across the keep. Lord Mace Tyrell shifted from foot to foot, clearly torn between anxiety and curiosity, his usual bravado tempered by the unknown nature of the approaching convoy. Lady Alerie, standing dutifully beside him, wore the practiced expression of a proud Lady Paramount, but her hands trembled slightly, a detail only noticeable to the keenest eyes. Even Lady Olenna, usually a master of concealing her emotions, couldn't completely smooth the faint line of worry creasing her brow as she fixed her sharp gaze on the first approaching carriage, likely bearing the ones responsible for this entire predicament.
As the convoy drew closer, the surreal mix of familiar and alien sights brought their nerves to the surface, a strange and disquieting reminder that Highgarden was hosting something beyond the scope of Westeros or even Essos.
It took time, but eventually the front carriage passed the keep's gates and stopped at a respectable distance from the gathering. An expectant silence fell as one of the accompanying entourage- a strange figure clad in dark, leather armour with a mask bearing the weathered face of an old man-dismounted from his horse. With deliberate movements, he strode forward and opened the carriage door, every eye in the courtyard fixed on him.
The crowd held its collective breath, eager and fearful of what creature would emerge first. After all, while they had heard that the leaders of the Inbetweeners were human, the giants and pale wolf-riders who rode alongside them blurred the line, all of them bearing enough resemblance to humans to possibly be mistaken for them.
When the first figure stepped out, a ripple of both relief and disappointment spread among the onlookers. The first one to leave the carriage was a normal human, one familiar to everyone at that.
Leyton Hightower, Lord of Oldtown and father of Lady Alerie Tyrell, was clad in finely embroidered robes of gray and white trimmed with silver, his silver hair gleaming in the fading daylight. As he descended, his gaze falled first upon his daughter, to whom he offered a small, reassuring smile.
Behind him emerged a young woman, clad in a green gown that accentuated her brown hair and deep green eyes. Jayne Hightower, née Fossoway- Leyton's second wife- followed with a polite, if somewhat subdued expression. She was mostly regarded with polite indifference, her presence both expected and unimportant in a grand scheme of things.
But while the Hightowers deserved recognition befitting their powerful status, the crowd quickly turned their eyes to the carriage once again, waiting with bated breath for the true arrivals.
The next to emerge was a man who instantly commanded attention. He was striking in every sense, from his defined jawline to his muscular frame, which seemed sculpted with the precision of a master artisan. His neck-length dark hair was impeccably groomed, and a well-trimmed beard framed his face, lending him an aura of disciplined elegance. His deep blue outfit, embroidered with a symbol unknown to Westerosi eyes—a sword crossed with a staff in a perfect circle—was unmistakably foreign yet captivating in its sophistication, just as the quality of his clothes.
For a brief, hopeful moment, the Tyrells felt a flicker of relief.
This man, with his human features and commanding presence, had to be Lord Hadwyn of House Caria. Though imposing (or in case of some- enticing), he was at least familiar in appearance, evidence that even though the monsters were present among the inbetweeners, it was a human that ruled over them.
But then the man extended his hand into the carriage and the last person emerged. Suddenly they all realized how naïve they were to think so.
As the feast meant to inaugurate the tourney was only set to begin the following evening, the Tyrells graciously decided to give their guests some time to rest and prepare. Yet accommodating the Inbetweeners proved more complex than anyone had foreseen. The astonishing diversity within the inbetweener delegation—their ranks including crystalians, jar warriors and misbegotten among other creatures—forced the Tyrells, for perhaps the first time in known history, to ask very uncomfortable questions about their guests' particular needs and preferences.
The chamberlain's expression when one of the jar warriors politely insisted on sleeping among the stored goods was, by all accounts, something that those present would not soon forget.
Naturally, the chamber reserved for Hadwyn and Ranni was among the finest Highgarden had to offer, adorned with opulence befitting the rulers of the Reach. Sumptuous tapestries, hand-carved furnishings, and delicately embroidered drapes graced the chamber, their bright colors and intricate designs an attempt to create an atmosphere both luxurious and inviting.
While the more stuffy and arrogant nobles from Leyndell- if they were still alive- might have scoffed at the offered accommodations, dismissing them as beneath their usual standards, the current occupants were certainly not complaining. After all, Hadwyn had probably spent more nights in his life sleeping on the ground than on a proper bed, while Ranni, despite her noble upbringing, had spent more than a thousand years in desolate ruins, her body slowly gathering dust in forgotten chambers of her tower.
That's why it didn't take long for the godly pair to settle into a relaxed quiet. Just a few minutes after retiring to their chambers for the night, Ranni could be found reclined on the bed, a thick leather-bound tome resting in her lap, her eyes following the text with calm intent.
Hadwyn, on the other hand, busied himself with shedding the elegant attire he had donned for the travel and introductions. Priceless layers of embroidered silk and fabrics were tossed carelessly into the nearest trunk, one after the other, as he changed into incredibly worn but comfortable clothing that better suited him, a memento of his adventuring years. Though Ranni flicked him a disapproving glance, finding his attachment to weathered rags gross, he wisely chose to ignore.
As a husband with centuries of experience, he knew it would only lead to some argument he couldn't possibly win.
"It was quite the spectacle, watching all those nobles barely containing their curiosity." Hadwyn chuckled as he buttoned his shirt, now back in his usual modest attire. "Especially that boy, Mace Tyrell. Poor kid looked like he was about to burst with questions about us. The entire time we talked, his mother looked like she was seconds away from bursting a vein." He shook his head, both amused and a bit exasperated. "It's obvious they want to know our intentions, so why not just ask instead of dancing around the subject?"
Many assumed Hadwyn was completely oblivious to all matters of politics, but this wasn't entirely accurate.
While Lord Godfrey had rightfully despised the court life of Leyndell, his position as Marika's consort had still forced him—and by extension, Hadwyn—to at least endure the endless stream of schemers and sycophants crowding Queen's court. That's why, despite his best efforts, Hadwyn had inevitably picked up at least the basics in that area, enough to recognize the fairly obvious intentions of the Reach nobles.
That wasn't to say, of course, that Hadwyn actually cared for the schemes and subtleties swirling around him. Far from it. In his view, his duties as Elden Lord were limited to befriending foreign rulers, declaring war or victory as needed, and accepting/refusing unconditional surrenders.
The rest? He was perfectly happy to simply throw Ansbach at the issue.
"Hadwyn," Ranni replied belatedly, not looking up from her book, "tis called decorum. Higher circles speak not their intent so plainly. Tis all wrapped in subtlety. The Tyrells didn't speak with us yet, but you may anticipate many a quiet negotiation, many a backroom arrangement in the days to come. Feasts, tourneys, pleasantries drawn out… very refined. Very tiresome."
Hearing his wife's words, Hadwyn suddenly had a feeling Ansbach would find himself quite a busy man for the next few days.
"Ah, Ranni. You always know how to drain any excitement away from me." Hadwyn sighed, letting himself flop onto the bed beside her. As he settled in, his gaze drifted to the book resting in the goddess' hands. "What are you reading, anyway? That one looks far too new to be part of your collection."
A hint of a smirk tugged at the corners of her blue lips as she held up the book, its cover rich brown leather, embossed with a snarling dragon. There were faint stains of red across it that seemed like fresh blood, though the good condition of the book made it clear the red was added there intentionally.
"Tis a tome called 'Blood and Fire'." Ranni replied, holding it aloft with a delicate gesture. "I am told 'tis one of the most closely guarded texts within the Citadel Academy, though the sorcerers of Raya Lucaria managed to procure copies as part of some recent bargain. This particular one," she added, her smirk turning utterly cold. "was gifted unto me. No doubt, they seek to curry favour by such a gesture…"
It was quite likely that the sorcerers, desperate to reconcile with the Lunar Princess, intended to shower her with gifts of arcane nature to prove their allegiance. Yet it seemed that their attempts were doomed to fail given the unmistakable disdain in Ranni's tone.
Many might have found her words and behaviour unnerving, if not chilling, but Hadwyn couldn't help but find her utterly charming, affectionate chuckle escaping his lips. "Ah, my wife—ever vengeful, ever brimming with spite." He ignored her half-hearted glare and drew closer, wrapping an arm around her. "So, what is it about, then?"
"Tis, in truth, a manual on the various methods of drake extermination," Ranni replied in casual tone, her eyes drifting back to the page before her even as she burrowed deeper into Hadwyn's side.
"Piercing strikes, bleeding and dragonwound grease." Hadwyn spoke without hesitation, an almost reflexive response derived from countless years of practice. "Strategy shifts based on their environment, of course."
"Well, yes. 'Twould be expected." Ranni replied, quite versed in the craft of dragonslaying herself. Her gaze lingered upon the page, her brow drawn with faint puzzlement. "Yet, curiously, the author seemeth most taken with methods of assassination. An entire chapter devoted to smearing oil upon eggs —such that they might perish ere they ever taste the air."
Hadwyn's frown deepened as he tried to make sense of the tactic, if one could even call it that. He eventually just shook his head, clearly baffled by the approach. "If they already have the eggs in their reach, why not simply shatter the blasted things?"
Ranni's lips pursed in thought, her head tilting as she considered his question. After a long pause, she spoke, though with a hint of uncertainty. "…Mayhap it hath to do with these drake-riders, the Targaryens, who rule these lands? Mayhap their kin hold these drakes sacred, and to slay them outright would bring forth grave contempt." Then her lips curved with faint amusement, an unearthly glimmer in her eyes. "Tell me, dost thou think these Westerosi nobles would be more aghast at the slaying of dragons, or kinslaying and the use of kin's soul in a forbidden rite?"
Hadwyn cast her an unreadable look, before letting out a low groan. "Ranni, my dearest goddess... while I find your jokes about Godwyn's death amusing, please don't say such things around Westerosi nobles. It would only make my job more difficult than it needs to be." He shook his head, recalling a recent incident. "It took a while to calm poor Jayne down after our conversation."
"We shall see…" Ranni murmured dismissively, her eyes drifting back to the book, though the corners of her mouth betrayed the slightest upward tilt.
Hadwyn sighed, but then a thought struck him, his face brightening with a sudden grin. Standing up from the bed, he walked to a small chest they'd brought with them to Highgarden, set against the far wall. From within, he retrieved a package carefully wrapped in purple silk.
"Now, I know surprises are hardly my strong suit…" he began, turning back to Ranni as her gaze rose from her book to meet his. "…but since there's to be a feast tomorrow and I did promise you a dance… I had Boc fashion something special for you."
He handed her the package, and as she unwrapped it, her neutral expression softened into one of curiosity and then admiration. A faint smile, rare and genuine, touched her lips, her gaze warming as it met his.
"Aye… I can indeed see myself donning this." she murmured, her words as light as the delicate starlight gleaming in her unblinking eyes.
The Great Hall of Highgarden was resplendent in green and gold as it readied itself for the feast, marking the opening of the tournament in celebration of Willas Tyrell, the newly born heir of House Tyrell.
Banners in Highgarden's colours hung proudly from the walls, each dyed in green, each emblazoned with the golden rose of House Tyrell. Garlands and bouquets, freshly gathered from Highgarden's renowned gardens, filled the hall with a fragrant sweetness, while hundreds of flickering candles cast a warm glow, their light dancing over the gathering lords and ladies.
The tables, stretched in long rows, groaned under the weight of the Reach's finest produce, offering a feast as extravagant as the hall itself. Platters of food displayed the fertility and abundance of the Reach, each dish a testament to the region's wealth.
There were heaping bowls of ripe figs, apples, and golden plums beside roast meats glistening with glaze. Pheasants roasted and brushed with honey, a whole boar studded with chestnuts, and trout poached in rich wine graced the tables, each plate arranged as a masterpiece by Highgarden's finest cooks. The sweet, spiced scent of mulled wine mingled with the flowery fragrance as it was served alongside silver pitchers of mint water and casks of cider for those pacing themselves for the long evening ahead.
Yes, the Tyrells had gone to great lengths to ensure that the evening was a lively, unforgettable tribute to the new heir, painstakingly orchestrated to demonstrate their influence and joy at Willas's birth. Every detail of the evening hinted at their pride and prosperity.
And yet, as Tywin Lannister—seated in the section of the long table reserved for the evening's most distinguished guests—observed with a faint trace of vindictive amusement, Willas's name had yet to be spoken, even once, among the slowly assembling nobles.
The reason for that was actually quite simple.
This feast, this entire tourney, was not truly about Willas Tyrell at all. No, the event's true purpose lay elsewhere.
Beneath the surface of celebration, the tourney was a meticulously crafted stage for the arrival of the Inbetweeners—beings from unknown lands beyond the Sunset Sea. Whispers of their foreign wealth, rumoured sorcery, and strange creatures had captivated and unsettled every noble house south of the Neck. Tonight, lords and ladies of the Reach and beyond had gathered to witness these strange guests firsthand, the birth of the Tyrell heir serving merely as a convenient pretext.
Even now, Tywin could spot the anxious anticipation among the noblemen and women around him. Clad in their finest silks and embroidered velvets, their eyes remained fixed on the doors through which the Inbetweeners would soon enter. Whispers flowed through the hall like wine, a mixture of curiosity, caution, and unbridled greed. Everyone awaited the guests with bated breath, eager to assess whether these beings brought mortal danger or unprecedented opportunity.
Tywin had little doubt that many present would gladly abandon their dignity for even the slightest advantage. If even half of the rumours about the Inbetweeners were true, many of these supposedly noble and proud houses would soon debase themselves in lavish gestures and nauseating displays of flattery. Pride and principles would immediately dissolve in the face of foreign wealth and unknown magic.
But while these people seemed all too willing to debase themselves, the very thought of even entertaining such a behaviour made Tywin's blood seethe.
It wasn't that he failed to grasp the potential in dealing with the Inbetweeners. Far from it.
After all, he had seen the monstrosities in their entourage and the luxury they flaunted. He could also well imagine the power their magic might hold. Negotiating with these newcomers, if done carefully, could undoubtedly benefit his realm in ways he could scarcely imagine. But grovelling-abandoning dignity and sovereignty to foreign powers? That, he couldn't accept.
He had sworn to himself in the water-soaked ruins of Castamere that he would never grovel, not for any man, king, or creature, and he intended to keep that promise.
In truth, Tywin wouldn't have attended the Highgarden feast if he'd had any choice in the matter. He would be at Casterly Rock, by his pregnant wife's side, his young children safe nearby, with a trusted envoy dispatched in his place to assess these Inbetweeners.
But, of course, Aerys had decided to ruin Tywin's plans entirely, as only he, in his spiteful nature, could.
In the royal letter he'd received, Aerys had insisted Tywin personally attend the feast at Highgarden to assess these visitors and determine how their presence might benefit the Iron Throne—or, if they posed a threat, how best to eliminate it. Tywin, Aerys claimed, was uniquely suited to such a task, and as such, he'd forbidden Tywin from delegating it to anyone else.
The memory made Tywin's jaw clench, his thoughts turning to the so-called king he had once loyally served.
Though Aerys's words might have held some merit on the surface and sounded appropriately flattering, Tywin did not believe them for an instant. Whatever goodwill once existed between them had long since withered. No, this forced summons to a dangerous, unpredictable event was a petty manoeuvre, a thinly veiled attempt to see Tywin fail—or even perish.
He could practically picture the cruel satisfaction that would light Aerys's face should such an outcome come to pass.
Hateful, petty, little man, Tywin thought, fists tightening under the table. Unworthy of being king.
And yet, for the sake of House Lannister, he would endure. He would deal with the Inbetweeners, and he would show Aerys that his pathetic machinations would do nothing but serve to make House Lannister even stronger.
"Tywin, save some of that fire for the Inbetweeners." A voice murmured beside him. "With a frown like that, you'll have all these delicate flowers thinking you're here to commit another Castamere, this time in the Reach."
The speaker was Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, head of House Baratheon and Tywin's childhood friend.
Steffon, who sat to his left, cut a striking figure among the assembled guests, with his powerful frame barely contained by his yellow tunic and his chiselled features catching the attention of every nearby noblewoman with courtly daydreams. While his easy smile and nonchalance gave the impression of indifference, Tywin knew his friend was as watchful as a hawk, each glance as sharp as his wit.
"You say that as if it would be a bad thing…" Tywin replied dryly, striving for a casual tone. But a sharp edge lingered in his voice, a remnant of the frustration Steffon's presence had brought him.
Though he still counted Steffon as a friend, the man's arrival in Highgarden had been a constant, rankling reminder of the king's paranoia and hatred. In a bout of sadism, Aerys had sent Steffon, their mutual friend, to shadow Tywin, likely fearing Tywin would betray them at the first sign of opportunity.
That he would even suspect him of treachery was insulting. That he would send Steffon of all people to spy on him was unforgivable.
To Steffon's credit, he'd been forthright from the start, admitting to Tywin at their first meeting in Highgarden that he'd been sent as a royal 'observer', though the act was as honorable as it was unnecessary given the severe lack of other reasons as of why Lord Paramount would travel to Highgarden in person.
Unfortunately, Steffon's honesty had done little to cool Tywin's ire, which had flared into many open arguments. The last few days had been a cycle of clashes and strained silences between them, both men toeing the fragile line between loyalty, pride, and their friendship. They'd held little back, each sharp word a reminder of the bitter strain Aerys had placed on them both.
It took some time, but Tywin finally decided that jeopardizing their friendship further would be foolish. Whatever the orders his friend had been given, it was clear Aerys's poisonous scheming lay at the heart of it.
Directing his anger at Aerys was far easier and far healthier, especially as their friendship had withered and died years ago.
"Well, there are certainly a few Reach houses that would deserve such treatment…" Steffon mused, clearly attempting to keep the conversation going. But before Tywin could respond, a hush fell over the hall as all eyes turned toward the doors, which swung open in a slow, deliberate sweep.
The long-awaited Inbetweeners had arrived.
The hall braced itself for a horde of monsters to spill forth, but to the surprise of many, most of the Inbetweener representatives appeared strikingly human. Some were nearly indistinguishable from Westerosi nobles save for the strange attire that draped them- a mix of exotic masks, embroidered robes and ornate armours never before seen. Others, however, looked utterly foreign, their forms impossibly broad and tall, easily over eight feet, each of their movements charged with a strange, imposing grace.
It wasn't to say, of course, that all of the entering inbetweeners were human. Among their ranks were creatures straight from minstrel tales and whispered nightmares. On the left, hulking lion-like creatures could be seen, their forms roughly humanoid but layered with powerful muscles, gleaming fangs, and a palpable air of restrained violence only barely constrained by the elegant attires on their bodies. On the right, a dragon in human guise, the slender, scaly body draped in weathered yet immaculately crafted rags.
At the forefront of the entourage strode a figure whose presence immediately commanded the hall's attention. Tywin recognized him from the detailed reports his wife had assembled, along with intelligence he gathered through various conversations with Reach nobles.
The foreign lord walked with a steady, measured stride, a quiet yet undeniable confidence that seemed to expand and settle across the room. His attire—a tunic of deep, lustrous blue embroidered with symbols foreign to Westerosi eyes and lined with silver—was both refined and formidable. Hadwyn's gaze swept over the assembled nobility with piercing intensity, his expression calm yet unyielding, the weight of his authority impossible to miss.
And yet, even this magnetic presence was overshadowed by the figure at his side, her arm interlocked with his. When she stepped forward, Tywin noted with astonishment how Lord Hadwyn, for all his presence, was rendered almost invisible by her otherworldly allure.
Princess Ranni Caria- for that was the name of the woman, no, the being- stepped forward, and for a moment, it was as if every breath in the hall had been stolen.
The first detail to capture each gaze was her dress: a gown that seemed to defy the laws of both tailoring and reality itself. The fabric shimmered with an impossibly deep, velvety blackness, as though woven from the night sky, flecked with stars that shifted and sparkled as she moved, a living constellation forever in motion- Pleiades born and dying every second, never to return. It was magic in its purest form, the very essence of starlight and void threaded into cloth.
Then the eyes settled on her face- hauntingly beautiful, ethereally captivating and so coldly alluring. Her skin bore an unnatural shade of blue, its pallor unyielding, as though untouched by life's warmth. Her expression held a strange, motionless calm that was less human, and her eye- deep and glistening – was filled with eerie radiance that shone like starlight from a bottomless abyss.
Among the women in the hall, admiration warred with envy, for her beauty was as foreign as it was unearthly, one they so hungrily coveted yet found beyond their reach. The men, by contrast, found themselves seized by emotions equally intense and no less conflicting.
Her allure was irresistible, yet it was tainted with something primal and disquieting, her beauty so far removed from the realm of humanity that it stirred a rare mixture of fascination and fear, a blend of desire and revulsion that few could shake off. Many noblemen felt the strange urge to look away, yet their eyes, wide with an uncomfortable awe, refused to obey.
But as the crowd continued to gaze, the initial spell of wonder and attraction began to erode, giving way to something darker. The longer one stared at her, the more that admiration and allure blurred and curdled into a creeping sense of unease, a vague horror gnawing at the edges of their minds.
Her face was devoid of expression, pale and unnaturally smooth, as if sculpted from a rare and unyielding gemstone. In the candlelight, her skin gleamed with an ethereal blue undertone that lent her an otherworldly radiance. Her movements were unsettlingly precise and measured, each slight turn of her head or shift of her gaze executed with a meticulousness that felt unnatural. Her eye swept over the room, her assessment unknown, flawless statue brought to life.
A detail previously unnoticed or deliberately ignored- a spectral overlay- now appeared faintly upon the right side of her face, a ghostly double that seemed to emerge from air. Its translucent eye stared out at them with an intense, frozen gaze, the phantasmal smile etched in a way that suggested both promise and threat.
The hall's guests began to notice more peculiarities, each one more disquieting than the last. The woman had four arms, one interlocked with her lord's, the rest lying at her sides with an unsettling symmetry. Her chest remained utterly still as she walked, no breath disturbing its pristine stillness, and her hair, deep and blue as a midnight lake, hung eerily motionless as if even gravity refused to touch her.
Her beauty, striking though it was, felt flawless in a way that it shouldn't be.
What unsettled everyone the most, however, was how vividly real she seemed—real in ways that mattered, more real than any of them. It was as if she alone stood at the center of their world, their lives just pale visages of hers. Her presence felt like a force that bent reality around her, drawing all attention, all existence, toward her. For the weaker-willed among them, it was nearly too much; they felt a strange slippage of their senses, their thoughts blurred and bending toward her in a way that bordered on madness, her will and reality all-consuming.
Even Tywin, confident in his unwavering self-control and strong will, found himself caught in her pull, his mind momentarily slipping before he managed to gather his wits. Steffon's low murmur beside him broke through the trance, the man's words both full of praise and lacking any approval. "Gods be good, this woman is even more beautiful than Cass…"
The words stirred Tywin, the lion lord casting a glance at Steffon, whose declaration was both an objective truth and yet a gross understatement. Cassana Baratheon was indeed a beautiful woman, her charm undeniable, but Lady Ranni's beauty eclipsed hers by magnitudes, making the comparison utterly worthless.
Indeed. As loath as he was to admit it, Lady Ranni was almost as beautiful as Joanna.
Author's thoughts:
Apologies for the delay.
I had to spend the last few weeks working/studying for the exam, so I didn't have time to write. Then, when I was finally able to do just that, I somehow found it easier to write new chapters for my other story, delaying it further.
Regarding the chapter itself:
I deliberately omitted the Tyrells' reactions to Ranni's appearance during the first segment because I decided it would make her feast appearance more impactful.
Also, Tywin' PoV is the first Westerosi PoV describing Ranni, other Westerosi characters that interacted with her (Jayne, Tyrells) felt something very similar. Well, except Leyton- he is just an occult-obsessed freak.
Don't worry, people won't feel the existential dread all the time. After the initial shock people tend to quickly adapt to Ranni's presence. It's a survival mechanic, I think.
Hadwyn/Ranni dialogue in the second segment is not a confirmation (or negation) of the "Maester Conspiracy Theory". After all, according to the current canon, "Fire and Blood" (also known as "the Death of Dragons") is just a book about the various methods of killing dragons, not a book about how the remaining dragons were discretely killed by the maesters.
For example, the author could have found out about the oil method (oxygen deprivation of embryo) simply by watching Baelor I "the cuckoo", that one particular king that spent all days and nights constantly dipping his eggs in holy oils.