At dawn, as the sky just began to brighten, soldiers patrolled the streets of Highgarden, announcing the lifting of martial law while calling on the populace to gather outside the city to witness the execution.
Upon hearing the news, families set out with their children in tow, heading toward the outskirts. The sheer number of people caused congestion at the already narrow city gates, slowing movement to a crawl. More citizens continued to arrive, making the area increasingly packed.
"This is quite the spectacle—Robert, Mace, Renly, and Wight. A king and three lords overseeing an execution. Outside the Red Keep, you'd be hard-pressed to see such a gathering anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms."
"Of course! But I'm not interested in them. I came to see the dragon! They say that red-and-white beast has scales as big as a wooden tub!"
"Impossible! My uncle's wife's friend's younger brother has been to King's Landing. He swore that a single dragon scale is taller than a man!"
Amidst the bustling crowd, Lord Samwell Tarly smiled as he listened to the chatter around him. A dozen knights bearing the striding huntsman banner of red on green surrounded him, using their armored bodies to shield him from the jostling mass. Given his poor martial skills, the Lord of Horn Hill needed protection from even an accidental shove.
Flanking him on either side were two towering knights—cousins from House Hunt, a landed knightly house sworn to the Tarlys. Their names were Ser Alyn Hunt and Ser Hyle Hunt.
Samwell gestured toward their chests. "Ser Alyn, Ser Hyle, I must ask you to remove the surcoats over your armor today."
Ser Alyn pointed at his chest. "Because of the sigil?"
"Exactly."
"But our house has used this emblem for over a hundred years. Is this truly necessary?" Ser Alyn felt Samwell was being overly cautious. After all, there was no law in Westeros that punished people over their sigils.
"In times of peace, of course, it's not an issue. But now, with the king having been attacked, I received word last night that this purge will claim many lives. Anyone even slightly suspicious will be dragged to the dungeons and tortured. I strongly advise against provoking the enraged stag with three heads." The screams from Highgarden's dungeons had lasted from dusk until dawn, and Samwell, his expression solemn, genuinely didn't want them to suffer an unjust beating.
The sigil on their surcoats was that of House Hunt: a brown stag hanging upside down from a horizontal pole.
After a brief moment of thought, Alyn and Hyle flung their cloaks over their chests. Lesser knightly houses held no standing before an enraged king. If they were accused of anything, even falsely, they'd be beaten bloody with no recourse. There was no sense in suffering a flogging for nothing.
"Sam!"
A voice called out his shortened name from within the crowd—only someone quite familiar with him would dare address him so informally. Samwell scanned the throng, but his height prevented him from seeing past his own knights.
Ser Alyn pointed toward the city gate. "It's Lord Orton Merryweather of Longtable. He's calling for you."
"We're heading that way!" Samwell ordered his men to clear a path, and they began squeezing through the mass of bodies toward the gate.
By the time they reached Orton, Samwell was already drenched in sweat from the effort.
"Why didn't you leave the city with the Tyrells?" Orton asked.
"The inner-city dungeon is on the way to my chambers, and I couldn't stand the noise. I returned to my estate in the city instead." Truthfully, Samwell couldn't bear listening to the screams from the dungeons.
"With all these people squeezing out of the gates, you wouldn't make it outside until noon! Come with me now." Orton waved his knights forward to forcefully part the crowd, encircling Samwell's group and pushing through the throng.
Grumbling rose among the displaced citizens. Samwell turned to Orton. "This might not be the best way to do things."
Orton had an unremarkable face, a head of unruly orange-red hair, and a large nose—his most distinctive feature. Now, he pulled Samwell along like a senior guiding a junior. "Ignore them. The king is making a public declaration today. We need to be at the front to show our support!"
"Alright then." Samwell had no choice but to follow his lead.
Behind them, Orton's wife chimed in. "By the way, Sam, do you have a betrothal yet? Would you like me to introduce you to someone?"
Yet another matchmaking attempt. Samwell waved his hands in polite refusal. "Thank you, Lady Taena, but I'm quite busy in Highgarden these days and have no time to consider marriage."
"If you ever want to meet some fine young ladies, let me know! I know plenty of eligible maidens in the Reach." Taena smiled at him.
"Much appreciated, my lady." Samwell wasn't eager to extend the conversation.
Taena had married Orton during his exile in Myr. She was a striking woman—long legs, ample bosom, olive skin, flowing black hair, large dark eyes, bright white teeth, and full lips. Her exotic beauty stirred the primal instincts of most men.
However, after hearing Varys's intelligence report last night—that Taena had been preparing to offer herself to Robert, only to be thwarted by the king's sudden assassination attempt—Samwell immediately lost all interest.
Orton Merryweather's late grandfather was Owen Merryweather. Years ago, when the Mad King appointed Jaime Lannister to the Kingsguard and Tywin resigned as Hand of the King to return to the Westerlands, it was Owen who took his place.
Owen had no great talents, but he excelled at flattery, which made him quite popular with the Mad King. However, when Robert launched his rebellion, Owen's abilities proved inadequate. As Hand, he declared Robert a traitor and called upon the lesser lords to suppress him. Meanwhile, within King's Landing, he censored and suppressed any news regarding the rebellion.
But Robert's forces continued to grow. By the time word of his strength could no longer be contained, it was already too late—Robert had reached the Riverlands and gathered the armies of three lords paramount, preparing to march south on King's Landing.
Enraged, the Mad King accused Owen of aiding the rebels by deliberately buying Robert time. He stripped House Merryweather of its titles, lands, and holdings, including Longtable in the Reach, and exiled the entire family to Essos.
When Robert emerged victorious and claimed the throne, Owen's incompetence ironically had contributed to his army's success. As the new king sought to issue pardons and solidify his rule, he restored the Merryweather lands and titles. Five years ago, Owen died of illness, and his son Orton inherited the title of Lord of Longtable.
Orton's wife, Taena, hailed from Myr. A few months ago, her father wrote to inform her that he had profited greatly from purchasing bonds and urged her to invest as well. After some calculations, Taena bought a small amount as a test, and the massive interest payments she received a month later convinced her to fully commit. She then persuaded Orton to invest the family's wealth alongside her father.
Now, the couple had poured nearly all their assets into bonds. Still unsatisfied, they began using their lands and sugar plantations as collateral to borrow money from Reach nobility. The great lords of the south, like the Redwynes and the Hightowers, were not easily swayed, and they had already exhausted the credit available to them in the north. With few options left, they turned their sights to the young new lord of Horn Hill, Samwell Tarly.
After the Tyroshi War, Samwell had struggled in business, facing obstacles at every turn. Months of effort seemed poised to end in financial ruin, but it was then that House Tyrell extended an olive branch, inviting him to Highgarden.
Horn Hill and Highgarden were close—just a few days' ride by carriage. At his mother's urging, Samwell accepted the Tyrells' offer.
The steward of Highgarden oversaw numerous administrators handling internal and external affairs, and Samwell was assigned as one of them.
The heir to Highgarden, Willas, evaluated him for some time and confirmed what his father had long known—Samwell had utterly abandoned House Tarly's martial traditions. Despite training, he showed no improvement in combat, making him unfit for any military role. With no other choice, Willas assigned him to administrative duties.
Fortunately, Samwell had a keen interest in learning and an exceptional memory. Any matter he handled was managed with precision and efficiency. Originally, the Tyrells had no high expectations for him, merely hoping to secure the loyalty of House Tarly. However, upon discovering his administrative talent, they decided to groom him as a future steward of Highgarden.
What truly solidified Samwell's position, though, was the marriage arrangement between his sister, Talla Tarly, and Willas Tyrell. Willas had no particular demands regarding his bride's appearance or personality—the marriage was purely a political alliance.
House Tarly was an old and powerful military family in the Reach, descended from Garth Greenhand's bloodline. Willas' grandmother, Lady Olenna, was a Redwyne, and his mother was a Hightower. Now, with a marriage alliance to House Tarly, the entire southern Reach would be united under Tyrell rule, possessing both naval and land-based military strength—ensuring long-term stability.
A group of nobles made their way past vast fields of flowers to a large clearing where the harvest had been completed. A three-meter-high wooden platform had been hastily constructed overnight.
Less than a day had passed between the sentencing and the execution, and the only attendees were those who had been present at Highgarden the previous day.
In this era, martial prowess was revered, and public executions were a source of entertainment. The sight of blood spraying and heads rolling excited the crowd. This was why, in earlier years, the game of mahjong promoted by Wright had only gained popularity in King's Landing, while the rest of Westeros still preferred violent pastimes.
For thousands of years in Westeros, whether one followed the Old Gods of the North or the Seven brought by the Andals, death was seen as an opportunity for honor. Aside from dying of illness, perishing on the battlefield was considered the most honorable end. The fallen—whether friend or foe—would be buried with respect. If a noble died bravely in combat, even his enemies might pay him tribute.
The execution site was adorned with banners of various colors, each representing a noble house. At the center, the enormous crowned stag of the king's banner was unfurled.
The wooden platform was furnished with ornate chairs. In front of them stood several tall gallows, reserved for those deemed especially heinous criminals. On the ground beside the platform, numerous additional gallows had been erected—those of lower status would not receive the honor of dying on the stage.
The king ascended the platform first, taking the central seat. To his left and right sat Wright and Renly, while the other members of the Small Council took their places in order. The lords had no seats of their own and could only stand in the front rows to observe.
Aside from the king, everyone on the platform checked their pocket watches.
At exactly nine o'clock in the morning, a tall young man with short black hair stepped forward from his seat and approached the edge of the platform. The ring on his finger gleamed with a purple light as he bellowed:
"Silence!"
His voice was not particularly loud, yet it carried across the entire field.
"Magical voice projection? Was that Lord Wright?" Orton asked Samwell in a low voice.
Samwell had only seen Wright a few times, but after some thought, he replied, "With the king and all the members of the Small Council present, the one announcing the sentence should be the Master of Laws."
"The one speaking is Renly. Wright is still sitting beside Robert," Willas confidently confirmed.
He had known both of them since childhood. Even the most identical twins had subtle differences. Moreover, the man speaking wore an extravagantly ornate outfit, a thick gold necklace as wide as a thumb around his neck, and ten rings set with different gemstones on his fingers. Who else could it be but Renly?
On the platform, Renly was reading out the charges. The common folk listened with keen interest, while the nobles, including Willas and Samwell, who already knew the details, attended only out of formality, their minds elsewhere.
"I don't see the dragon," Willas muttered. He had never participated in a war, nor had he ever left Highgarden. Seeing Renly's young dragon the previous day had only heightened his anticipation to witness the massive one rumored to be the size of a castle. He scanned the area but found no sign of the great beast.
"A dragon that large wouldn't fit in this clearing. If it landed here, we'd have no place to stand," Samwell reasoned. Then he lifted his head. "Willas, look up."
Samwell's voice was a bit loud, drawing the attention of the surrounding nobles and knights. They all looked to the sky.
"There's nothing there."
"Where?"
Realizing the misunderstanding, Samwell quickly explained, "I meant you should check the sky, not that the dragon is already there."
"Heh!" Willas gave Samwell a disdainful glance.
Meanwhile, Renly finished listing the crimes and shouted, "Bring forth the prisoners!"
The royal guards of the Red Keep escorted Daenerys and the other condemned prisoners onto the platform.
"So this is what's left of House Targaryen? Not very impressive." Murmurs spread through the crowd.
Daenerys was clad in coarse brown fabric, her hair simply tied back with a rope, her face unadorned, and her body marred with sores.
With honor came disgrace. Noble criminals sentenced to death were usually granted a beheading. A swift execution left them merely headless, and their families could collect their remains for a proper burial, allowing them some dignity even in death.
Hanging, on the other hand, was the ultimate humiliation for a noble. Strangulation would contort the face into an ugly grimace. Even after death, their bodies would be left hanging on display, subjected to the jeers and filth of the crowd, exposed to the elements, gnawed by rats, scavenged by birds and beasts. The period of display could last anywhere from three days to indefinitely. For a crime as grave as regicide, the corpse would likely remain until it decayed to nothing.
The first to be hanged were Daenerys' three handmaidens. Their low status and key role in the assassination attempt granted them the "honor" of execution on the high platform. Executioners in black hoods secured the ropes, then heaved them up. Once the ropes were tied to stone blocks, the executioners stepped back. The three women convulsed briefly before falling still.
"Good!"
"These traitors deserved it!"
The nobles standing at the front stepped aside, allowing the commoners to move forward. This was their moment—to cheer, to hurl rotten vegetables and eggs at the condemned.
Renly, standing to the side, had already conjured a magical shield around himself. He then called, "Pycelle!"
The former Grand Maester, stripped of his title by the Citadel, was too frightened to move. Two burly guards dragged him to the gallows. By the time the executioner slipped the noose around his neck, Pycelle had already lost control of his bowels. The executioner, working efficiently, checked the knot, then gave a signal.
"Think a warrior might burst in now, sword in hand, and yell, 'Spare him'?" Samwell mused aloud.
By the time he finished speaking, Pycelle was already hanging limp in the air.
Renly continued, "Daenerys!"
The executioner approached but only placed the noose around Daenerys' neck without pulling it tight. Renly then announced that King Robert had decided to delay her execution. The crowd erupted in even louder cheers.
"The king is merciful!"
"Robert is a just ruler!"