As the heir to Highgarden, Alester Tyrell embodies the virtues of nobility and justice. Fiercely loyal to his family, he stands as a beacon of honor in a realm fraught with treachery. But the path to preserving the Tyrell legacy is paved with perilo...
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Outside the gates of King's Landing, the Unsullied stood in perfect formation—silent as statues, spears angled like the teeth of a beast waiting to bite. Their grey armor shimmered beneath the pale light of a cloud-laden sky, discipline etched into every line of their unflinching faces. Each man looked forward without flinching, without blinking, waiting only for the command.
To either side of them, banners of green and gold fluttered in the breeze—troops from the Reach, primarily Tarly men, marched with measured steps. Lord Randyll Tarly, grim-faced atop his chestnut courser, surveyed the lines with the eye of a man who had drilled armies since boyhood. His men mirrored his demeanor—no smiles, no idle chatter, only the silent readiness of soldiers preparing for the worst.
Other Reach lords—lesser bannermen from Houses Kidwell, Ashford, and Vyrwel—gathered their own troops on the outer flanks, their banners swaying in the uneasy breeze. Knights adjusted armor, men-at-arms checked sword belts and saddle straps, and the hiss of whispered prayers drifted through the ranks. The air was thick with tension, the kind that settles before parley or slaughter, and none among them could say for certain which fate awaited.
From atop the city's ancient ramparts, Jaime Lannister gazed down at them, one golden hand gripping the cold stone. Behind him, Bronn paced, glancing now and again at the soldiers scurrying about the courtyard below.
Barrels of thick black pitch were rolled up to the walls by sweating men. The air carried the acrid scent of fire and oil, tension clinging to the stones like a storm waiting to break.
"Oil?" Bronn asked as he passed a soldier overseeing the cauldrons.
"Pitch, my lord," the man replied.
"How many barrels?"
"Five hundred, my lord."
"Get five hundred more," Bronn said, not bothering to wait for acknowledgment.
The soldier nodded and hurried off.
Bronn continued toward Jaime, boots crunching on gravel. "I still enjoy it when they call me 'my lord,'" he said with a grin.
"The thrill will fade," Jaime answered without looking at him.
Bronn shrugged. "If we live that long. Men without cocks..." He glanced toward the Unsullied. "You wouldn't find me fighting in an army if I had no cock. What's left to fight for?"
"Gold," Jaime offered.
Bronn scoffed. "I've spent my life around soldiers. What do you think they spend that gold on?"
"Family."
"Not without a cock, you don't."
Jaime smirked. "Maybe it really is all cocks in the end."
"And yet your brother chooses to side with the cockless," Bronn said, more curious than cruel.
"He's always been a champion of the downtrodden," Jaime replied. But there was something tired in his voice.
