Game of Thrones: Starting by Escaping with the Mad King

Chapter 214 214: The Dragon Festival

The Great Sept of Baelor.

The magnificent dome pierced the skies of King's Landing, while enormous seven-pointed stained-glass windows struggled to cast their prismatic light through the overcast gloom, bathing the interior in a solemn yet resplendent glow.

Upon the high altar stood seven towering statues, their expressions filled with divine compassion as they gazed down upon the gathered crowd.

Before the altar—where once the crystal coffin of the old king had rested—a grander viewing platform had now been erected.

The sept was packed.

Most of the lords of Westeros had gathered here.

The vast hall, capable of holding thousands, was nearly overflowing. The main chamber was crammed shoulder to shoulder, while even the surrounding corridors were filled with finely dressed minor nobles and knights craning their necks in anticipation.

Banners and sigils of countless houses blended into a sea of color.

The spectacle was so grand—

that even the coronation of Aegon I Targaryen had not matched it.

At least two hundred Gold Cloaks stood in formation, clad in newly forged steel armor, doing their best to maintain order with stern expressions.

Though the corners of their mouths twitched uncontrollably.

After all—

just yesterday, they had raided the forge of a blacksmith named Tobho Mott. Not only did they no longer have to pay for their armor, they had even received a generous bonus.

"Keep it together! Show some discipline!"

A sharp reprimand from Janos Slynt made several grinning guards snap back into stiff, cold-faced vigilance as they scanned the crowd.

At the highest point of the sept, a temporary royal dais had been constructed.

Lance had, for once, shed his white armor.

In its place, he wore a dark velvet ceremonial suit, draped with a gold-embroidered cloak bearing the sigil of a red dragon.

The sharp edge of a battlefield warrior was gone—

replaced by a heavier, more imposing authority.

Beside him stood the regent queen.

Rhaella Targaryen wore a luxurious violet gown and a delicate crystal crown, her beauty as radiant as ever.

Yet her smile was stiff.

Distant.

From beginning to end, she did not spare Lance even a single glance.

Between them, seated upon a small golden throne, was the young king—

Viserys Targaryen.

Wearing his crown, the boy tried his best to sit upright, imitating Lance's stern expression.

The three stood close together in a staggered arrangement.

At a glance—

they resembled a harmonious royal family:

A formidable father.

A beautiful yet melancholic mother.

And their much-anticipated heir.

Yet beneath that illusion of unity—

Lance occasionally glanced at Rhaella's cold, impatient profile.

He understood her irritation perfectly.

Unfortunately—

women like her only slowed down his sword.

"Haah~"

A small yawn escaped Viserys despite his efforts to suppress it.

His bright purple eyes tried to maintain dignity—

but under the weight of the long, tedious ceremony, a hint of utter exhaustion leaked through.

And who could blame him?

Who knew how many nobles existed across the Seven Kingdoms?

The audience had already lasted over half an hour—

yet the line of petitioners showed no sign of shrinking.

Despite the council's efforts to streamline the process—limiting each lord's audience to under a minute—

Lance had already received more than thirty Lords.

Even he could feel the strain.

The muscles at the corners of his mouth were beginning to stiffen.

After all, every lord came bearing gifts, carefully prepared speeches, and oaths of fealty.

As the de facto ruler of the realm—

he couldn't exactly greet them with a blank face.

Glancing at the endless sea of color and faces, whatever novelty he had initially felt had long since faded.

This is exhausting.

Far more tiring than fighting twenty bearded monks at once.

"This can't go on…"

His willpower wavered.

Sleep tugged at him.

He made a silent decision.

Once this Dragon Festival was over—

new rules would be established.

From now on—

petty lords from remote, insignificant holdings would no longer be granted audience.

Only Lords—

or great lords like Randyll Tarly—

would qualify.

Just as he dismissed yet another forgettable minor lord from the Westerlands, barely retaining even the man's name—

the herald's voice rang out once more:

"Next to present himself—Lord of Maidenpool of the Riverlands, Lord William Mooton!"

"Mooton…?"

A flicker of recognition crossed Lance's eyes.

The name sounded familiar.

But before the slightly plump middle-aged lord could step forward—

a domineering figure shoved through the crowd, dragging William Mooton aside and arrogantly ascending the steps ahead of him.

Then—

a voice rang out.

Loud.

Confident.

Brimming with pride.

Unlike the cautious humility of those before him.

"Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South, Paramount of the Reach—!"

At once, every gaze in the hall—including those seated upon the high dais—was drawn toward the booming voice.

A tall, broad noble with a protruding belly strode forward, clad in an extravagantly luxurious robe of green and gold. He hurried up the steps and offered a perfectly proper—if somewhat inelegant—bow.

"I, Mace Tyrell, present myself before His Grace the King, the Queen Regent, and His Highness the Prince Regent!"

The Lord of Highgarden's face was flushed with health, his smile radiant and utterly sincere.

It shone as brightly as the golden rose upon his sigil. Every carefully groomed strand of hair seemed to tremble with excitement.

There was no restraint in him—

only unabashed pride.

It was as if he himself had hatched two dragons.

"King's Landing welcomes your arrival, Lord Tyrell."

Lance lifted his eyes slightly, responding with calm courtesy, not even mentioning the blatant queue-cutting.

After all—

this man loved attention.

He had noticed that back at Storm's End.

Below the dais, William Mooton, whose place had been stolen, was just about to protest when a hand landed on his shoulder.

He turned—

to see his liege lord, Hoster Tully, shaking his head.

"Be generous, Lord Mooton."

With his lord speaking, Mooton had no choice but to swallow his anger.

What he didn't notice—

was Hoster stepping forward just enough to nudge him even further back in line.

Clearly—

even the Lord of Riverrun was growing impatient.

"Your Majesty!"

Mace Tyrell's booming voice rang out again, thick with the cadence of the Reach.

Under the weight of countless gazes, though still some distance from the throne—

he looked completely at ease.

At this moment—

he did not feel like a Lord.

He felt like a bard about to win thunderous applause.

A lead actor.

And the entire sept—

his stage.

Taking a deep breath, he raised his voice dramatically toward the three figures seated above:

"To celebrate the birth of dragons! To witness the return of the true dragon to Westeros! And to demonstrate House Tyrell's unwavering loyalty to the Crown!"

"This time, the fertile lands of Highgarden shall present to the Iron Throne—fine cloth, jewels, spices, wines, and countless exquisite products from the Reach!"

"The total value of these gifts…"

He paused deliberately, sweeping his gaze across the assembled nobles, savoring the rising anticipation.

Just imagining their reactions—

made him want to laugh.

And indeed—

his grin widened as he declared loudly:

"Exceeds ten thousand gold dragons!"

"—WHAT?!"

A wave of shock erupted across the hall.

Ten thousand gold dragons!

What did that even mean?

It was enough to purchase the finest estates in King's Landing and live in luxury for a lifetime.

Enough to hire a mercenary company for years.

Enough—

to arm at least three hundred heavily armored knights with full plate, helms, mail, swords, lances, and maces.

Such a force—

would be formidable in any kingdom of Westeros.

So this… is the wealth of the Reach?

Watching Mace Tyrell stand there so casually—like he had merely spent pocket change—many nobles couldn't help but feel a mixture of awe and envy.

House Tyrell truly lived up to its reputation—

second only to the House Lannister in wealth.

Standing upon the red carpet, Mace basked in the stunned and admiring gazes.

It was sweeter than his favorite Arbor gold.

All the pain he had felt at being forced by his mother to part with such wealth—

was now completely gone.

Worth it.

Absolutely worth it.

What could be more satisfying—

than showing off before all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms, in front of the King, the Queen Regent, and the Prince Regent?

Mother truly has foresight, he thought.

"But that's not all!"

Before the murmurs could settle, Mace raised his voice again.

Spreading his arms like a peacock displaying its feathers, he declared with full confidence—almost word for word what his mother had instructed:

"Considering that dragons require food as they grow—"

"We also offer five thousand sheep and two thousand cattle!"

The hall exploded again.

Even louder than before.

This is insane!

The more numerically inclined nobles began calculating rapidly:

Five thousand sheep.

Two thousand cattle.

Even at modest estimates—one gold dragon per sheep, five per cow—

that alone amounted to fifteen thousand gold dragons.

Combined with the earlier ten thousand—

House Tyrell's "loyalty" was now worth nearly thirty thousand gold dragons.

Thirty thousand.

All eyes turned once more toward Mace Tyrell.

Their expressions were… complicated.

Not out of disdain—

but disbelief.

Even the House Stark might struggle to produce such wealth—even if they sold Winterfell itself.

And yet—

Mace Tyrell offered it as a gift.

And this—

was during winter.

Are they planning to go bankrupt or what?!

Even Lance couldn't help but give him a second look.

Thirty thousand gold dragons…

What exactly was this plump rose of the Reach plotting?

Trying to buy the position of Hand of the King?

But—

wasn't that far too little?

After all, the current Hand—

Tywin Lannister—

was no less wealthy.

And he had served the realm faithfully for years.

"Thank you for your generosity, Lord Tyrell!"

Though puzzled, Lance smiled warmly.

With this much food… the dragon should grow just fine.

And once Illyon reached the size of the Black Dread—

and his own power increased—

then whatever gods or shadows dared interfere again—

he'd simply incinerate them.

One breath at a time.

That thought made his smile even more genuine.

"House Tyrell has always been a loyal friend to House Targaryen."

"In the recent turmoil—especially during the suppression of rebellion in the Stormlands—you and your bannermen proved your reliability beyond doubt."

"Your contributions to the stability of the realm are invaluable."

"Both I—and His Grace, King Viserys III Targaryen—have taken note. And we are… very, very pleased."

He gave the drowsy boy beside him a nudge.

Viserys snapped awake, nodding hurriedly.

"Yes—yes!"

"I am very pleased!"

Receiving praise from both king and regent—

Mace Tyrell felt as though he stood at the very peak of power.

Warm satisfaction flooded every inch of him.

In simpler terms—

he was getting carried away.

His gaze lingered on the young king—

filled with naked ambition.

Before stepping onto the stage, he had already drunk no fewer than five cups of wine.

Now, emboldened by alcohol—

he forgot all of his mother's careful instructions.

Patience?

Timing?

Why wait—

if he could seize the moment now?

"Your Majesty!"

Mace spoke again, his tone softening—almost taking on the warmth of a doting elder.

"My daughter… Margaery."

"She is but one year old—but I, her grandmother, and all the lords of the Reach are certain—"

"She will grow into the most beautiful and noble rose in Highgarden."

He paused, lowering his voice slightly.

"I was thinking, Your Highness…"

"His Grace King Viserys is of a similar age…"

"Perhaps… the bond between House Tyrell and House Targaryen—"

"…could become even closer."