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Alyssa spoke even less after that, retreating from her horse back to her mother's carriage. Despite your promise to protect her, you were not close, and whatever strange fear the sight of the red hand had provoked in her was kept closely guarded. You don't know why a dream would haunt her so. You'd heard stories of Targaryens who dreamed true dreams, but even those were just stories, more fables placed at the feet of the exotic dynasty that ruled the Seven Kingdoms. And your sister was certainly no Targaryen.
Girls of twelve were creatures of fancies and make believe, you decided. You didn't entirely believe it. No matter what the image of her terror returned to you, your usually bold younger sister reduced to a frightened beast in the back of her tent. You'd had plenty of nightmares, none had left you like that, not even as a small child left to cry out his fears alone wityh no parent to turn to for comfort.
Starting up the eastern road toward Highgarden, traffic on the Roseroad increased. Before you had passed farmers and other smallfolk in small bands, some led by a septon on a small pilgrimage. Now you saw men-at-arms with noble badges, guarding their lords and ladies in carriage not dissimilar to the one Lady Marisa rode in, while the sers rode strong chested chargers.
Of the devices you saw the hives of Beesbury and the burning Hightower, the sunflowers of House Cuy and the butterflies of Mullendore.
You only recognized House Hightower, even a lackwit from the North would know it, Gareth supplied the rest.
"Lord Tyrell is calling all his banners," the plump boy said, "You'd think it was for a war."
"In a way it is," Ser Lincoln said.
The three of you rode ahead of the others, down the last stretch of the Roseroad, the Mander flowing lazily beside it streaming in the opposite direction.
"Lord Tyrell is hosting a great tourney, but its just practice for the wedding tourney of Princess Daenerys. If all the greatest lancers of the Reach are here, all the greatest lancers of the realm will be at King's Landing. Lord Leo means to win in King's Landing, or for a reachman to win at least. It will tell all the seven kingdoms the greatest knights are from the Reach, and ride for Highgarden."
"The greatest knights 'are' from the Reach," you said, hot to defend your homeland.
Ser Lincoln laughed. "Mayhaps, but for the melee none can match the Baratheons of Storm's End or their bannermen. I'll leave the knightly tilts to you, we stormlanders are unmatched in a brawl."
Unmatched in their wine cups perhaps, you thought. You had little love for stormlanders, the people of your father's wife. You had little love for anyone, including reachers, but at least they were your people and you felt a defensive pride for them. The Reach was the land of Garth the Green, greatest of the kings of legend, High King of the First Men. Even the Starks of Winterfell claimed descent from him.
