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SLW Chapter 78 : Highgarden
🕑 Added 2025-05-29 21:20:45 +0000 UTCTHE REACH - HIGHGARDEN
The sun dipped low, casting a golden hue over the sprawling fields of the Reach. Ahead, like a jewel embedded in a crown of green, rose Highgarden its ivy-wrapped towers and flowering ramparts gleaming in the evening light.
A dark procession stood poised at its borders.
Aeron Grim, draped in his obsidian cloak, sat astride a shadow-forged steed, its mane a flicker of smoke and darkness. Beside him, lines of shadow soliders, knights, dothrakis and beasts, stood unnaturally still no breath, no twitch, no sound. Behind them, the Unsullied waited in disciplined formation, spears at their sides, shields at the ready.
Raya, her armor scratched from battle but her poise sharp as ever, guided her horse next to Aeron’s. Grey Worm stood on foot, his gaze fixed toward the distant walls of Highgarden with the patience of a predator.
“The rose of the Reach blooms tall,” Raya said, half in jest, but her voice was low. “Let’s see how easily it wilts.”
Aeron’s eyes, glowing faintly beneath his hood, remained on the distant castle.
“If we take the Reach,” he said, “the rest will follow. The Vale, what remains of the Crownlands. The Stormlands are ours. Dorne will not fight alone they don’t care about the realm or the crown, but I will conquer it as well. Only the Lannisters will resist out of pride.”
He turned slightly in the saddle, the movement so smooth it seemed the shadows themselves flowed with him.
“Tywin Lannister has one more day to send word. One. If nothing comes... we burn Casterly Rock and I'll take the Capital alone by force.”
Raya raised a brow. “You think he’ll kneel?”
“I think,” Aeron said, “he’ll pretend not to.”
She leaned forward in her saddle, elbow resting lazily on the pommel of her sword. “Then what? Do we send an envoy now to Highgarden? Offer a peacful way? Or should we attack at once?”
Grey Worm stepped forward, his face hard, unreadable.
“Send no one. We attack. Highgarden is not Dragonstone. They are soft men behind soft walls. They know nothing of shadow... or fire.”
Raya scoffed. “Even soft walls can hold if the men behind them believe they have the gods on their side. They will be wrong of course, there is no fighting this afterall..”
Aeron looked between them. The wind tugged at his cloak. Behind him Garm his shadow Direwolf, the let out a distant growl. “I didn’t want to bring death to every doorstep in the Stormlands to start playing the diplomat,” Aeron said, though his voice was calm. “But we aren’t savages. And I'm not a monster that will just kill for the sake of killing.”
He raised one gauntleted hand and pointed to the rose-banners fluttering in the wind above Highgarden’s gate.
“Send a rider. One. Offer them a chance. If they open the gates before sunset tomorrow, their soldiers and house will live. If they do not...”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.
Grey Worm nodded. “At once your grace.”
Raya pulled her reins, turning toward Grey worm. “Wait, I’ll go.”
Aeron turned his head, his glowing violet gaze resting on her.
“No,” he said simply. “Just send someone from the Unsullied.”
But Raya held his stare. Her voice was steady, her tone insistent. “I insist, Aeron. The Unsullied are not of Westeros. These people won’t see honor or parley in their faces. They’ll see strangers, slaves... fodder. They will listen to me instead.”
A beat passed. Aeron watched her, the violet flicker in his eyes dimming in contemplation.
Then, with a nod, he relented. “Very well. But do not waste words. Do not plead. Just deliver the message an ultimatum. Either they accept… or they don’t. It matters little. We are taking the Reach.”
Raya smiled, a sliver of her old sarcasm curling her lips. “How ruthless you are, Shadow Monarch.”
She bowed mockingly in the saddle, then added, with more sincerity and a spark of admiration, “I mean… Your Grace. I’ll see it done.”
She struck her reins, and her horse leapt forward with powerful strides, racing through the dusk toward the rose-wrapped gates of Highgarden.
Aeron watched her go, then turned slowly to Grey Worm and the line of Unsullied officers behind him.
“We make camp here. For the night.”
Grey Worm gave a silent nod, turning to bark quiet orders to his men.
But Aeron turned further toward the field behind him where the shadow soldiers stood like statues, as if waiting for breath or purpose.
And suddenly they moved.
Without a single word or sound, the shadows burst into coordinated motion.
Black hands reached out and split the earth. Axes formed from smoke and steel, chopping trees faster than any man could dream. Tents, great and dark as war banners, unfurled. Fortifications rose in minutes, sharpened stakes plunged into the ground in precise formations. Bonfires were sparked, flickering with fire. Shadow beasts pulled carts. Inhuman speed and unholy strength turned hours of labor into a symphony of efficient terror in mere minutes.
The Unsullied stood in rows, watching in muted awe. One of them muttered a prayer under his breath.
Even Grey Worm, seasoned and stoic, blinked once. Just once. But it said enough.
Within moments, a city of war had sprouted from the field black tents, guard towers, armories, trenches.
At the center, the King’s Tent taller than the rest, ringed with obsidian stakes and guarded by unmoving shadow knights waited.
Aeron dismounted. “You guys went a bit too far... why trenches..”
He entered the tent, ducking slightly beneath the high threshold. Inside, a map of Westeros was already stretched across a war table, markers of glowing onyx indicating armies and holds.
To his right, Grey Worm entered, still silent.
To his left stood a grim assembly that would freeze any man’s soul.
At the front, cloaked in smoke and crimson eyes, stood Vaydris of Asshai his armor was woven in darkness. His presence alone felt like a curse spoken aloud. Behind him, three shadow assassins, their faces masked and bodies cloaked in dark mist, appeared more illusion than real. Further back, two red-robed shadow priests, eyes glowing faintly.
Grey Worm took a step forward, eyes narrowing as he looked upon the silent group.
“What… are they?” he asked, his voice low, as if to not awaken something terrible.
Aeron moved to the table, hands resting on its edge, violet eyes never leaving the map.
“They are the ones who will get the job done,” he said coolly, “from within, should Highgarden choose pride over reason.”
Grey Worm glanced at Vaydris again. The elite shadow knight’s head tilted just slightly as if he knew.
“Just them?” Grey Worm asked, doubt in his voice for the first time in many moons.
Aeron smiled.
His violet eyes shimmered brighter.
“Yes,” he said. “Just these guys.”
****
HIGHGARDEN - SOUTHERN WALLS
The golden bloom of the Reach was dimmed by the coming of shadows.
From atop the battlements of Highgarden, guards peered nervously across the fields. Where once rolling meadows stretched toward the horizon, now loomed a forest of black banners, obsidian tents, and eerie flickers of unnatural fire.
Even the birds had fallen silent.
A Tyrell sentry, young and tight-jawed, clutched the stone of the parapet and muttered, “Gods… what is that?”
Another man stepped forward, his green cloak fluttering in the breeze. His armor gleamed like polished ivy, but there was steel beneath the roses. Ser Loras Tyrell, Knight of Flowers, narrowed his eyes.
He didn’t speak at first.
But he saw it, he felt it.
A camp built with impossible speed, set with a precision no mortal host could achieve. Silent ranks of unmoving soldiers like statues of shadow. No banners of known houses. No drums. No horns. Just a presence that bled into the air and poisoned the evening calm.
“So it’s true,” Loras said under his breath. “What happened in the Stormlands…”
One of the older guards shifted beside him, licking dry lips.
“Ser?”
“The shadows marched through the Stormlands. That not a single knight of the Stormlands matched their might or lived to tell the tale. That men died without their blades ever defeating one of these horrors. And now…”
He looked beyond the field toward the single horse rider approaching.
“…now they’re here.”
The rider wore no helm. Her cloak was dark crimson. She bore no banner, no sigil.
Raya.
Loras straightened.
“Open the gate.”
A murmur of uncertainty rippled among the guards.
“But Ser, that might be..”
“I said open it. That’s no scout. That’s an envoy.”
They hesitated for a heartbeat longer before following his order. The gates of Highgarden creaked open, slow and heavy.
The hooves of Raya’s mount struck the stone like thunder as she rode in alone.
Loras descended from the wall and stood waiting, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. His face was controlled, but his eyes searched reading every line of her face, every twitch in the horse’s step, every breath of unnatural wind that seemed to follow her like a second cloak.
She dismounted without a word and met his gaze squarely.
“You must be an envoy,” Loras said with careful courtesy. “I assume you come from the man they call the Shadow Monarch.”
Raya nodded. “I do.”
He glanced once more toward the camp behind her. Even at this distance, the shape of it unsettled him. He had seen armies before proud hosts of banners and noise and banners. This one was silent. Cold. Exact.
“It’s… as they said,” he murmured. “So all of you are real.. And now you've come for the Reach.”
