Deep Roots at Old Oak, Warm Winds in the Reach

The gravel road of the Ocean Road gradually turned green under the horses' hooves. On the third morning after leaving the Crakehall Forest, the unique gray-brown rock walls of the Westerlands were finally replaced by a continuous expanse of emerald green. The wind in the Reach carried the fragrance of grass and trees, swirling over the Black Dragon of the Glutton, causing even this ferocious dragon, which had once preyed on its own kind, to slow down the flapping of its wings. Its nose occasionally brushed against the blooming broom flowers by the roadside, as if confirming this unfamiliar yet docile scent.

"At least it doesn't smell like the stones of the Westerlands anymore!" Myles Rivers, carrying his the North Battle Axe, his dark face smudged with bits of grass, reached out and plucked a pale purple wildflower. He was about to playfully tuck it into his older Rupert Crabb's hair when Rupert slapped his hand away. "You just touched the battle axe, don't wilt the flower!"

The silver spoon in Rupert's arms was now partially exposed again; it was the same one he had taken from Ashemark, engraved with the Burning Tree of the House Marbrand, which he was now carefully protecting as if afraid it would be blown away by the wind.

Larys Strong rode by on his "Mr. Longlegs" and couldn't help but tease, "How come that half -Wildlings boy from House Crabb is more frugal than the noble ladies of King's Landing now? In a few days, he'll probably be hanging that silver spoon around his neck, won't he?"

Above, Daemon Glutton's dragon saddle, his gaze sweeping across the woodland ahead. As the Ocean Road rounded a gentle bend, a stone fortress surrounded by towering oak trees suddenly came into view:

The brown walls were covered in ivy, and on the banner fluttering atop the fort, three bright green oak leaves on a golden background shone vividly in the sunlight—the coat of arms of the House Oakheart. Below, on the stone wall, were inscribed the words "Our Roots Go".

The proverb "Deep" has been polished by time, yet it exudes a profound weight that transcends millennia.

"That must be Old Oak, right?" Gael rode Dreamfyre closer, her pale blue dragon wings sweeping across the treetops, startling a flock of colorful birds. "It's much more elegant than the Crakehall. Look at those oak trees, they're probably over a hundred years old."

Mysaria clung to the Dreamfyre saddle, looking down. A fallen oak leaf clung to her platinum curls. "There are so many knights at the city gate! They're all heading towards the city, carrying armor and lances."

Following her gaze, everyone saw a dozen or so squads of knights in silver armor or green robes gathering along the Ocean Road toward Old Oak. Some had brand-new lances strapped to their saddles, while others had noble crests embroidered on the edges of their armor: red nightingales and green leaf crowns. There were even a few variants of the Tyrell gold roses. Clearly, they were all heading in the same direction.

"Looks like we've come at just the right time." Larys Strong, riding his grey donkey, the hem of his black robe sweeping across the dew-kissed grass, said. His horse, "Mr. Longlegs," was chewing on an oak twig, which he had somehow acquired. "Something big must be happening in the Reach, otherwise so many knights wouldn't be gathered here."

Just as they reached the city gate, a hearty laugh drifted on the wind. A burly middle-aged man strode forward, wearing a green robe embroidered with oak leaf patterns, a longsword with an ivory hilt at his waist, and a neatly trimmed beard. He was none other than Lord Denys Oakhurst, Earl of Old Oak.

Behind him were two young men, one who bore a striking resemblance to him, with a sharp glint in his eyes, and the other who was tall and imposing, with grey eyes that shone like stars in the forest. He was introduced as the Earl's younger brother, Olyvar Oakhurst.

"Your Highness Daemon! Princess Gael!" Denys grabbed Daemon's wrist with a grip no less firm than Burton Crakehall's, but with a touch more of the gentleness of the Reach nobleman. "I've been looking forward to your arrival! I heard you were at Crakehall a few days ago, and I was worried I wouldn't make it—three more days and our whole family would be leaving for Highgarden!"

He led the group into the city, where the courtyards of Old Oak were more elegant than they had imagined: the stone paths were lined with neatly trimmed shrubs, and in the central fountain pool was a stone statue of "Garth Greenhand" Garth, with water dripping from the statue's fingertips and splashing up tiny droplets.

Several maids in green dresses walked by carrying fruit platters filled with freshly picked strawberries and peaches, rare and delicious fruits found only in the Westerlands.

"Your Highness must be wondering why so many knights are gathering in the city?" Denys explained before Daemon could speak, pointing to the assembled ranks of lords with pride in his eyes. "This year marks the fiftieth year of your grandfather Jaehaerys ' reign. Our Highgarden's Duke Mathos Tyrell, along with his uncle Martyn Tyrell, who stepped down as Master of Coin last year, and his wife Florence Martyn, have decided to hold a grand event in the Reach before the year- King's Landing tournament in King's Reach. This will both celebrate His Majesty the King and show the Seven Kingdoms the abundance of our Reach —our grain is piled higher than the gold of Casterly Rock, and our knights are so numerous they could dam the Mander River!"

Gael picked up a strawberry, its sweet taste filling her mouth, and couldn't help but laugh, "No wonder there are knights all along the way; they're all going to Highgarden. Earl, are you going too?"

"Of course!" Denys patted his chest. "Our House Oakheart may not be as prominent as House Tyrell now, but we are still old bones of the Reach. How could we miss such a grand event? Besides, I personally witnessed Your Highness's heroic figure at last year 'King's Landing Tournament of Champions—you thrust your spear into His Highness Big Daemon's breastplate, and the entire Red Keep screamed until they were hoarse!"

His eldest son immediately chimed in, "Father has been saying every day since he returned that His Highness's martial arts are even better than Rickard Redwyne's when he was young! I didn't believe it, but after seeing His Highness's true prowess today, I'm convinced!"

Denys chuckled and glared at his son, then turned to Daemon, his tone tinged with a touch of melancholy. "Speaking of which, I have a connection with your uncle, Prince Baelon. In the year 73 of the Conquest calendar, my father held a seven-day tournament in Old Oak to celebrate the birth of my younger brother Olyvar. I was young and impetuous at the time, and I insisted on fighting a mysterious knight called 'The Silver Fool' —guess what?"

Daemon's heart skipped a beat, and he followed up, "That knight, was it Uncle Baelon?"

"Your Highness really knew!" Denys's eyes lit up as he pointed to the mural on the east side of the courtyard. "Look at that one, it depicts the scene from back then!"

The crowd looked in the direction of the sound and saw a jousting scene depicted on the mural: a knight in silver armor with an unnamed pattern on his mask was falling from his horse, while the knight opposite him held a lance, his armor embroidered with the grape crest of House Redwyne, making him none other than Rickard Redwyne.

In one corner of the mural, there is a depiction of the moment when the mask is removed, revealing the Silver Fool, purple-eyed Baelon Targaryen in his youth. Below him, the figure kneeling to receive his investiture vividly embodies the spirit of chivalry.

"I was so resentful of my loss that I kept insisting on a rematch," Denys recalled, a smile crinkling his eyes. "Then Rickard removed his mask, and I realized it was His Highness the Prince! Later, when the Prince was knighted, he patted me on the shoulder and said, ' The House Oakheart truly lives up to their reputation as descendants of Garth Greenhand and Oak'—thinking back now, that was over twenty years ago. My little brother is a grown man of twenty-five now."

Daemon's gaze fell on Olyvar Oakhurst, who was standing next to Denys. The young man was listening quietly, his gray eyes filled with composure, his figure as upright as an ancient oak, and his every move exuding a restraint beyond his years.

His appearance was strikingly similar to that of Olyvar Oakhurst, the man Green Oak the same name as him from his past life.

The Kingsguard of Daeron I, the "Young Dragon," the legend who died in the Dorne, the hero who had already become a line in history books before he was even born.

A dull pain suddenly shot through his chest. Daemon subconsciously touched the black three-headed dragon brand on his right shoulder. In his past life, when he read history, he had felt sorrow for Olyvar's death and was shocked by the blood feud between House Oakheart and Dorne: the hundred Dornish heads piled at the feet of Earl Eglyron, Earl Alester blowing his battle horn despite being riddled with spears at Prince's Pass, and the tragic wedding of Conquest calendar Year 12, Alys Oakhurst watching her husband being castrated, her father dying a gruesome death, and herself becoming a slave. These memories were now being blown into his mind little by little by the winds of Old Oak.

"Your Highness? What's wrong?" Mysaria noticed his pale face and quickly offered him a peach. "Is it too chilly?"

"It's alright." Daemon took the peach, his fingertips still trembling slightly. He looked at another mural on the west side of the courtyard—it depicted the Dorne warriors' raid on Old Oak, with the House Oakheart knights raising their swords in resistance, their blood staining the oak forest. "Earl, I've heard— the House Oakheart and Dorne have a deep-seated grudge?"

Denys's smile vanished instantly. He walked to the mural, his fingertips tracing the blood-stained lines. "Deeper than deep. My ancestor, Lord Eglyron, watched a hundred Dornish roll on the battlefield; my great-great-uncle, Alester, died at Prince's Pass, his horn still clutched in his hand; and my great-aunt, Alys— " He paused, his voice as deep as an ancient oak root, "... that wedding, Wyl Earl killed our ancestors, sold Alys to the slave owners of Myr —the blood the Dornish owe us can never be repaid in three lifetimes."

"And lately, the Dornish have become increasingly restless," Olyvar suddenly spoke, his voice lower but sharper than Denys's. "After their King's Landing to arrange a marriage with His Highness in King's Landing was thwarted last year, they've started getting very close to the Triarchy across the Narrow Sea. Last month, Redwyne's fleet even spotted Dorne merchants secretly trading with Lys pirates on the Stepstones. I'm afraid they have ulterior motives."

Denys nodded, his tone tinged with worry. "The Reach borders Dorne, and Dorne us Reach lords have a long-standing feud with them. This tournament at Highgarden is probably Mathos's way of trying to unite us Reach lords temporarily, so that Dorne won't take advantage of us."

The banquet was held in the main hall of Old Oak, where the long table was filled with Reach specialties: golden-brown roasted chicken, roasted lamb chops drizzled with sauce, cream cake piled high with fresh berries, and even a rich soup made with seafood caught from the Sunset Sea. It was so delicious that Myles Rivers drank three bowls and forgot where he had put his battle axe.

"Your Highness, you must go to Highgarden to witness this tournament!" Denys raised his glass, the wine a pale gold, a specialty of Arbor. "This grand event will be held on Rose Field. Duke Mathos has been preparing for three months, forging over a thousand lances alone, and the knights' armor, all made by the best the Smith in the Reach. I estimate future history books will say this will be the greatest tournament of our generation!"

Daemon held his wine glass, and before his eyes seemed to appear scenes from historical records: banners fluttering across the Rose Field, knights charging in magnificent armor, and the cheers of the crowd shaking the waters of the Mander River.

He recalled the descriptions he had read in his previous life, and how he had foolishly thought that if "Green Oak" Olyvar Oakhurst had been born earlier, he might have also distinguished himself at this grand event. But in this life, with him around, perhaps something could be changed.

"I'll go." Daemon raised his glass and clinked it against Denys's. "And let the Glutton and the dreamers see if the Knights of the Reach are really as formidable as the Earl says."

The Glutton seemed to understand, letting out a deep dragon roar outside the castle, its Black Dragon gleaming coldly in the moonlight;

Dreamfyre gracefully pecked at the fresh berries brought by the maid, its pale blue dragon wings gently covering the scattered berries, prompting Mysaria to exclaim in admiration, "Dreamfire is so gentle; the Glutton is much more obedient now."

Larys Strong's gray donkey got into trouble again—it had somehow sneaked into the kitchen and was stealing the side dishes from the roast chicken. The chef chased it around the hall, the hem of his black robe brushing against the threshold, causing everyone to burst into laughter.

Larys, leaning on his cane, chased after them, both amused and exasperated. "You glutton! Just like your former master, you dared to touch the House Oakheart's roast chicken! Earl Denys will stew you!"

As night deepened, the lights of Old Oak shone like stars scattered through the woods. Daemon stood on the terrace, gazing at the distant Ocean Road —where the knightly procession was still moving towards Highgarden, their torchlight forming a long dragon that mirrored the Milky Way in the sky.

Mysaria walked over gently, took out a freshly woven square cloak, and draped it over Daemon: "Are you thinking about Dorne?"

"A bit." Daemon nodded, his gaze falling on the "Garth Greenhand" Garth statue in the courtyard. "The House Oakheart has Dorne roots; the threat from Dorne is probably even more difficult to deal with than the Ironborn."

"But we have Your Highness, don't we? And the lords of the Reach." Mysaria leaned against him, her eyes full of trust. "And there's this tournament, which should temporarily unite the lords of the Reach —just as Earl Denys said, only those with deep roots can withstand the storms."

Daemon took her hand and looked in Gael's direction. A young girl was chasing fireflies by the fountain with Olyvar's niece, her silver hair seemingly tinged with starlight.

He suddenly felt that the wind in the Reach was not only warm, but also carried hope—the roots of Old Oak were deep, and their path would become more and more stable.

The following morning, as the first rays of sunlight fell upon the House Oakheart's oak leaf flag, Daemon's team set off again.

Earl Denys and his family saw them off at the city gate. Olyvar handed them a map showing the shortcut to Highgarden: "Your Highness, this forest path will get you two days faster than the Ocean Road. We'll finish our arrangements for our short trip and leave in a few days."

Daemon took the map and traced his fingertip across the "Rose Field" marker. A grand tournament awaited there, a Storm of honor, unity, and the future was about to slowly unfold.

The oak trees of Old Oak swayed gently in the wind, as if bidding farewell or offering blessings. The greenery along the Ocean Road grew even more lush, and the breeze from the Reach carried the fragrance of grass and trees, propelling their procession toward Highgarden, toward the place where roses bloomed, onward.