The Reach lived up to its name as the breadbasket of Westeros. The land was endlessly fertile, with a booming population working fields of golden wheat, vibrant vegetables, and orchards heavy with fruit. It was a land of plenty, a stark contrast to the crowded, tense streets of King's Landing.
By a twist of fate, I now found myself traveling with the Tyrell contingent itself. My initial plan had been to scout the lands bordering the Stormlands, but refusing an invitation—however casually given—from the Lord of Highgarden would have been a profound political misstep. I was in no position to refuse such a lord, so I swallowed my intentions and fell in with his party.
The air was thick with excitement for the upcoming wedding. The Reachlords, it seemed, were masters of efficient pageantry. Unlike the grim tournaments of the North or the ostentatious displays in the capital, their celebrations were woven into the fabric of their prosperity. There would be a tourney, of course, where winners could earn prestigious titles and, with family approval, even the hand of the lady they crowned their Queen of Love and Beauty. It was a world of romantic wordplay and martial skill, a game I needed to learn quickly.
My current role within the party, however, was an unexpected one: entertainer. I found myself riding alongside the young Lord Willas and his aunt, Lady Janna. The boy had taken a shine to me, and poor Stormwind now had to bear the weight of an extra, endlessly energetic young lord.
We traveled the Roseroad, having passed through Appleton the day before. My integration hadn't been entirely smooth; I had, perhaps foolishly, accepted sparring challenges from the knights in Mace Tyrell's employ and defeated them. My squires, Alban and Alaric, flush with confidence, had done the same to their pages. I knew it bred resentment, so I was careful not to boast, attributing my victories to hard-won experience in the wars of the Free Cities. Not all of them believed me, and men like Ser Jon Fossoway, who trailed behind us casting dark looks, clearly held a grudge. I suspected his feelings for Lady Janna were part of the problem.
The story I had been telling Willas concluded, and the boy immediately launched into a volley of questions. "So Ser Luke Skywalker destroyed the flying evil castle with his smuggler friend and was rewarded by the princess. But who did she marry?" asked the young lord.
"Yes, Ser Harlane," Janna added, a sly smile on her lips. "I must agree. That seems an incomplete ending to the tale."
Why did a princess always have to get married? These Tyrells were too clever by half.
"That is a story for another day, my lord, my lady," I deflected. They both pouted in response, a sight that was, admittedly, rather charming.
"Oh, come now, my lady," Ser Jon Fossoway interjected loudly. "You can't truly be interested in this foreigner's murmurs? The story is absurd. Castles don't fly; the only things that fly are on the backs of dragons."
"That is why it is called a story, Ser Jon, not a history," Janna replied with chilling calmness. "And the 'foreigner' you speak of also has a name." She coldly added.
Ser Jon muttered an apology and spurred his horse ahead. His departure did little to help me; it only made the tension more obvious. One of the Tyrell guards later warned me in a low voice that the knight wouldn't forget the slight. I thanked the man for his counsel.
Lady Janna, however, waved it off. "He will do no such thing. But he will likely challenge you in the joust." A challenge I could work with. The woman herself was a different kind of challenge, peppering me with personal questions about my origins, training, and master. I had to think carefully before each answer, and her expression always seemed to say, 'Yes, of course, I'm sure.'
Then she asked, with a tone of mock disappointment, "So, you often frequent brothels, Ser?"
Where had that come from? "No, my lady, I do not," I replied, my tone firm. I would not let such a baseless accusation slide, even in jest. I glanced at Willas, who looked confused by the adult conversation.
"And what proof do I have of that, Ser?" she pressed, a challenging glint in her eye. "Or is your word the only assurance I must accept?"
I met her gaze squarely. "My word is that of a knight, my lady. It is the only currency of honor I possess. I find my entertainment in song and sparring, not in purchased company. You may choose to believe that or not, as it suits you."
"Hmm," she mused, not missing a beat. "A principled stand. But principles can be a fragile shield. You have provided us with wonderful songs and tales, Ser Julius. I should simply like to know the man behind them."
So, it was my knowledge and character she was interested in, not my martial prowess or my looks. The thought was oddly humbling.
"Your scrutiny, my lady," I said, placing a hand over my heart in feigned injury. "It doth grievously wound me."
She laughed, a bright, genuine sound. "So now the murmuring storyteller speaks again."
She was every bit the daughter of Olenna Tyrell, and I felt a tremor of apprehension at the thought of meeting the matriarch herself.
Then, the castle of Highgarden came into view.
My breath caught in my chest. It was a vision of white towers, green gardens, and shimmering rivers, more beautiful and vast than any song could do justice. The awe must have been plain on my face, for Lady Janna spoke with palpable pride.
"Welcome to Highgarden, Ser Julius. The seat of House Tyrell, built by Garth Greenhand himself. We also have many stories and a great deal of history here, though most people cannot tell the difference."
The wedding itself was a grand affair, culminating in the traditional—and raucous—bedding ceremony. My squires, Alban and Alaric, found themselves unexpectedly popular, blushing and fumbling as they navigated the flirtations of Reach girls. Perhaps this place would indeed help make men of them.
This world was often brutal and unforgiving, but in this moment, surrounded by music, laughter, and staggering beauty, it was hard not to be seduced by its wonders. Highgarden was, simply put, awesome.