Goldenhand (Willas Tyrell SI)

by ragusytlas

Summary:

"Other Great Houses take lions and wolves for their sigils and draw their power from the gold in their mountains or the cold of their winters. But mountains run dry, winter yields to spring, and the rose blooms once more."

A golden rose growing strong is never meant to survive winter, but with a goldenhand to tend its gardens, the reach of the thorns is far and strong. (Originally posted on AH)

Male!SI Self-Insert as Willas Tyrell, the crippled Heir to Highgarden.

Notes:

Hi, there! I'm the original author of this story, originally posted on AH, and now crossposted on SB and Fanfiction, too.

Chapter 1: Prologue - Olenna I

295AC
House Tyrell of Highgarden

- Lady Dowager, Olenna Redwyne b. 228

• Lord Mace Tyrell b.251 m. Lady Alerie Hightower b. 254
• Willas Tyrell b. 276, called The Wilted Rose, The Darling of the Reach
• Ser Garlan Tyrell b. 277, called The Gallant, squired to Ser Brynden Tully, now fostered at Riverrun
• Loras Tyrell b. 280, squire to Prince Renly Baratheon
• Margaery Tyrell b. 281, called The Rose of Highgarden

*Samwell Tarly b. 283, cupbearer and page to Lord Mace Tyrell

• Lady Mina Tyrell b.257 m. Lord Paxter Redwyne b. 252
• Horas Redwyne b. 281
• Hobber Redwyne b. 281
• Desmera Redwyne b. 283
  
  
• Lady Janna Tyrell b. 266
  m. Ser Jon Fossoway b. 245 d. 289 (of a hunting accident)
  m. Lord Monford Velaryon b. 271
• Damion Velaryon b. 291
• Monterys Velaryon b. 293
• Alarys Velaryon b. 293

Olenna I

There was a time when Olenna couldn’t help but to think that her life was filled with nothing but dull and dreariness. Yet those times seemed so far away. Nowadays a stew or another was getting cooked in Highgarden, spices were here and there, and oh how spicy they were, courtesy of her grandson, The Wilted Rose. And the current one was a rather exciting one.

".... Ser Edwyn Frey had fled to Riverrun, so it seems, albeit his wife, Lady Janyce was captured but it seemed that he was able to at least bring his heir and daughter, Walda Frey with him and is currently seeking aid from his liege lord, especially with Black Walder now in control of the castle. Although I doubt that Old Hoster would care much, I imagine he's overjoyed with this opportunity to let the Freys go down in shambles."

Olenna listened to her eldest grandson's latest report of the current Frey Civil War.

Bah! It's time for those sniveling weasels to go down, indeed.

"Grandmother, what do you think?"

That was Margaery, her granddaughter, and the Rose of Highgarden. If Olenna had her way, she was going to be Queen, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And one way or another, the Queen of Thorns always, always found her way.

"I said this already and I will say this just this once again, the whole Seven Kingdoms rejoices at the death of the Late Lord Walder, and his dear departure has already made the world a better place."

Then a snort came from her eldest grandson. Willas. Willas "The Wilted", they said. How such boy- no, a man came from Mace's loins, she would never know. But she could rest easy, knowing that she had a competent grandson that would lead House Tyrell well and to tend the future roses. Crippled, he may be, but Olenna had high hopes, such high hopes for her oldest grandson.

Willas was clever, he knew his way around politics, he spoke the High Valyrian and knew well enough to be a maester. Willas was charming, no maidens in the Reach would deny him with his flowing brown hair, eyes of melancholy, and clean-shaven face. Willas was cunning, every bit his father was not.

Olenna motioned her head at her grandson, challenging him to speak his thoughts.

"And thank the seven for that, then," he said as he raised a cup of Arbor Gold her way, sending a lopsided smirk. It was always a bit strange for her, how that tragic accident, and once again did she curse her son, hadn't turn Willas into some dull cripple. Instead, a rose full of thorns was born from it.

She allowed a little smile to show on her face at that, so it seemed that whispers of a future King of Thorns did hold great promises to themselves.

"I still don't understand this… this folly of yours, to go off gallivanting on Essos. I would've expected that from Garlan, or even Loras, but you, Willas, truly?"

Her grandson gave an airy laugh, and it was indeed a pleasant sound, as expected from one called The Darling of the Reach.

"It's not a folly, Grandmother. And I'm sure of this, that I will be bringing back with me a lot of rewards, exotic, even rare goods among them. You know I have always been interested in the Free Cities, Oberyn told me much of them, you know?"

"Oh, the Free Cities must be so beautiful. I'm gonna envy you, brother."

"Don't worry, I will make sure that a lot of space in my ship is dedicated solely for gifts to my favorite sister."

"I'm your only sister!"

"I know. And perhaps I could find a Prince for you there, I heard that Princes are rather cheap in Essos, even if they are merchant princes, no? Or maybe I should scour Valyria, and mayhaps I could bring us some dragons," she heard her grandson mused to himself, with his hand rubbing his chin.

Her sweet Margaery just shook her head at her brother's words, although Olenna spied a genuine smile on her face. And it warmed her heart, for House Tyrell had never been so united.

Soon, she imagined, just a few more years. Soon enough, her rose would be ready for the great game, she would make sure of it, or she would die trying. Willas, though, Willas had been ready for years already. With Garlan forging ties with the Riverland and the Vale, and Loras building bridges with the Crown, House Tyrell would rise mightily, and it would grow strong, she would make sure of it, even if it should be her last game.

Willas put a hand on her shoulder, his other hand resting atop his cane.

"Grandmother? You are rather quiet today? Truly, I am beginning to miss your wondrous remarks."

"Oh no need to worry about me, dear grandson. I am simply tired of your mummery," she said fiercely.

".. Grandmother?" she heard Margaery ask, her voice clearly confused.

Her grandson, though, was raising one eyebrow while simultaneously flashing her his best smile.

"Well, well, I should’ve never hoped to fool you, Grandmother."

Now it was her turn to smile, "No, you shouldn't. Although I do appreciate it. How nice of you to leave Westeros a parting gift before you leave for your grand travel to Essos."

"They are always going to be a problem. And I'd rather choose for it to be blown before the game starts, than for it to disrupt the game, certainly not when all of the pieces would be set and in place already by then. And anyway, it's not just Essos, mind you, I would also be visiting Hightower and the Arbor, too.

"I- I don't understand. What do you mean? What are you talking about? Grandmother? Willas?"

Oh, the poor girl. Perhaps she should reconsider her estimation, for it seemed that her little rose was still lost when it came to the bigger game. She only just flowered last year, after all.

She waved a reassuring hand for her granddaughter, "Your brother fancies himself a great schemer. It's too bad that sometimes he believes in himself a little too much."

"What? They are a young house. Only six centuries. Control the only crossing of the Green Fork. And the only way North saves for the Kingsroad. Could be either the greatest ally or the worst. Unfortunately, it was looking more and more for the latter as the Late Lord Walder started to forget himself."

She could see Margaery finally understanding the plot, "You assassinated Walder Frey so that House Frey would fall into a civil war, to cripple their power."

Willas answered, and was all too eager to do so, "Right in one, sister. Although assassination is a rather strong word. Old Walder simply got too excited with his new wife on his wedding night, and unfortunately, his heart couldn't survive it, so tragic, truly. And may the Seven rest his soul easy.”

“Yes, yes. Very tragic. Now, Margaery? I do believe that you will have your embroidery lesson soon.”

Her granddaughter understood her dismissal easily, and so she quickly left the room.

For a time, the both of them remained silent, with each of them unwilling to make the first move. Until finally, she couldn’t hold.

“Well? Are we going to speak? Or are you waiting for me to drop dead?”

Willas looked a bit uneasy. Good.

“As much as I like the silence, I do believe that we should speak. Well, except for the Kingsroad, the crossing of the Twins is the only way for armies to march North or for the Northern armies to march South, and with Lord Walder’s second son married to Tywin’s sister, I am not entirely comfortable with leaving the Freys unchecked.”

“The Lannister and the Stark? And why would the lions and the wolves clash against each other, when they both are King Robert’s dearest allies.”

Willas took out a parchment from inside his clothes, pockets… as he called it. He pushed it forward to her, across the table.

And so Olenna unrolled the queer paper, which turned out to be a drawing. Drawing of the royal children. If she didn’t know any better, then she would never have thought of a Baratheon when looking at the drawing, all Lannisters, all of them. And she certainly wasn't lacking the number of Baratheons and Lannisters that she had seen in her life.

“Robert Baratheon drank as much wine as he had whores, and that his bastards were numerous and spread all over the city. They were black of hair, and so was Mya Stone, a girl in the Vale known as his first child. From King’s Landing, it is whispered that the King’s brother, Lord Stannis, had been uneasy, sticking his nose down some suspicious business. And so I believe that the drawing would be able to give you an idea about it.”

She blinked once, and once again.

Gods, it couldn’t be?

She knew that Willas had his own network of spies, of which she begrudgingly respect was a bit more successful compared to hers, what with his obsessions with fools, whores, and brothels, which thankfully he didn't partake in, physically. And that disgraced maester of his, Qyburn, was his name?

“The Lioness had given the Stag horns, although the suspect isn’t clear yet. I, myself, believe that it’s none other than the infamous Kingslayer, Ser Jaime. After all, it’s always said that the twins are rather close to each other. And who would the proud lioness seek for her bed, if not even the King himself is considered?”

She stared at the drawing, and stared back at her grandson.

Before she could speak, however, his grandson continued, “And so the realm will bleed once more. Dorne will not rise for Robert Baratheon or Tywin Lannister, they are united under the desire of vengeance, I know this myself, Prince Oberyn had told me much about it. And the Riverland has always been divided for House Tully never had enough power to truly consolidate their rule. The houses of the Crownsland are still yearning for their beloved Targaryens. Lysa Arryn is- by all means, mad, and should the old Jon Arryn die, she will control the Vale. Robert’s true ally is the North, and the North only. For the Stormland alone, tough as they may be, could never win a war against Tywin Lannister and his mountains of gold. And Balon Greyjoy will be all too happy to send his fleet once more and once again put a crown atop his ugly, dirty head. And so it will be us, the Tyrell, and the Reach that will decide the future of the Seven Kingdoms.”

For a moment, Olenna could only be silent. Not even 20 years ago, she saw the fall of the dynasty that she was originally supposed to marry into. And now, Westeros might very well see a second rebellion.

She recollected herself, and said, “You certainly have thought much, Willas.”

Willas seemed pleased with her words, he had always been yearning for approval like that.

“I do. And I am not letting Margaery wed a lecherous drunk like Robert Baratheon, no matter what Loras is thinking. And Stannis on the throne would see the Reach fall, probably worse than that of Garth Greybeard’s rule. We very well could expect a Florent knife, ready to stab us in the back. And Renly couldn’t rise without being a usurper, or worse, a kinslayer."

Olenna carefully took his words in. And she agreed with his insight so far. Stannis on the throne would bring her sleepless nights, and Renly, the dandy fool, was certainly charming but he was no king.

"Our house owes everything to the Targaryen, and as Osmund Tyrell returned order to the Reach and with that, House Gardener back on the Oakenseat. We shall return order to the Seven Kingdoms, pick up the scattered pieces, and with that, a Targaryen shall sit on the Iron Throne once more.”

So her grandson desired a Targaryen restoration, then?

Olenna certainly could see the merits. And so the Lannisters wouldn’t be the only ones to pay their debts, as the Tyrells would pay their own debt to the Targaryens, and in fire and blood.

For a rare moment, Olenna felt that she was old. She could feel her wrinkles, her sagging skins, the decrepit that she was. The Queen-of-Thorns was aging, but she could see a new garden would soon bloom over the ashes of the old ones. A garden worthy of the greenhand.

“Clever of you to speak to me first. If it was your oaf of a father, he would be tripping over his fat belly twice over by now. Ah well, you know your father, I shan’t speak further then.”

Willas was silent. And even if he kept his composure well, Olenna could know that her grandson was beyond nervous.

She tilted her head just the slightest, “Well. If my grandson desires to garden The Reach, then where else could I be, but behind him to smack his little head when he turned foolish?”

Willas smiled.

"Then I'm afraid we would still have many to talk about. A garden of the Reach is nothing to be laughed at, after all. And first, to yield a field of flowers, we must carefully plant the seeds first."

Excitement. This is what she's meant for.

"Oh? Well, let me see which roses we can pluck from our garden, then. Your cousin and my namesake, Olene is already a woman flowered and...."

Notes:

Obviously, Stannis and/or Jon Arryn haven't actually been looking into any of Robert's bastards, considering how early it was still in the timeline. The bit with Stannis was purely from Willas to convince Olenna, add to the fact that Stannis was notoriously rigid and dutiful. Also, I'm aging up several of the characters. So, what do you guys think?

Chapter 2: Willas I

Willas I

Highgarden. The heart of the chivalry of the Reach. He laughed to himself at that notion, for The Reach and its chivalry was nothing but a facade, especially with what truly lies in the heart of its politics.

He strode through the blooming gardens of Highgarden with his grandmother not far behind him. To think of the high walls and the reaching castles, there were times where Willas felt that he could wake up at any moment. To wake up from a world of backstabbing politics, lies, and deceits. A world of fire-breathing giant lizards, and zombies-controlling, demons made of ice.

He had made peace with his new role and his new place. After all, he was never one to be attached much, even in his old life that now seemed like a dream, far far away. And 6 years of taking a shit in a bucket, waking up to servants dressing up your room was definitely something to help you believe.

Willas still remembered that day vividly, as clear as if it was just happening now. He didn't know why but he remembered finding himself suddenly aware and atop a horse, just as the sound of clashing steels was heard. He remembered falling and remembered trying his best to escape from the saddle. He never was one for medicine and health, but he'd like to think that it was some kind of muscle injury in the knee area, perhaps an MCL or ACL injury or something like that.

Living a life of a cripple was not as bad as he imagined. For one, even if he needed a cane or a stick to help him walk, it didn't leave him paralysed or the sort of that, and he still could do most activities just well. And also, even if he could never be a knight, he could rest easy knowing that he wouldn't be putting his life on the battlefront anytime soon. Although he might want to revisit the matter with Qyburn in the future. It was quite a great move, he admitted to himself, to take Qyburn into his service, especially for his own fledgling spy network.

For now, the servants had been told to stay away and steer clear from this part of the castle, for the kind of discussions that he'd have with his grandmother were the kind that could prove fatal if it arrived at the wrong conclusions and the wrong ears.

"How about the Fossoways then?" he asked.

Olenna Tyrell, for all that she was old, was still walking with that stick of her as if without a care or problem in the world, "Those apple pickers. Ah well, I considered your brother Garlan to be married to Lord Medwick's daughter, you know? Leonette, I believe was her name."

"She's suitable, then? And with the tragic death of Ser Jon Fossoway, our alliance with them might become fragile, especially considering how fast Aunt Janna had been married when not even his body had turned cold yet."

His grandmother lifted her stick and poked his feet with it, earning a response of "Ouch! Grandmother!"

"Speak frankly my dear, I truly tire of these flowery words of yours, no need for mummery here and with me."

"You agreed with me, didn't you? Honestly, I didn't know what father was thinking! Marrying his sister to a second son of a branch house? And a drunk and a lewd at that!"

She gave him a shake of her head, "Your father wasn't thinking just as he is most of the time. How I gave birth to that oaf, I could never know. Perhaps that's how the gods are punishing me for stealing my sister's betrothed. I wasn't originally meant to marry your grandfather, Luthor, you know? He was engaged to my sister, your great-"

"I know, I know, grandmother. Yes you happened to lost upon his chamber and the next morning he could think of nothing but to propose to you instead, after what you had given him the night before."

"The young these days, such disrespect. You are taking away all of my fun, you know? Luthor was an oaf as well, oh his poor soul, fell off a cliff while riding. But he was still my chosen, I chose to marry him because I know that some Targaryen princeling wouldn't do it."

Willas raised an amused eyebrow at that, his grandmother was very predictable sometimes. He rolled his eyes, "And that had nothing to do with the fact that Prince Daeron was a sword-swallower?"

His grandmother stopped at her feet and turned to face him, "Hush now, my dear. Let us not speak ill of the dead."

A smile made its way through Willas' face, a genuine smile. Olenna Tyrell was every bit of a perfect grandmother that he had in mind. Although, he couldn't help but to realize that she was a bit arrogant, and believe in her skills a little too much.

"My cousin, Horas has already seen four-and-ten namedays. I'm sure that the heir to The Arbor is not a bad match for the green apples, what do you think?"

"Your aunt Mina is not an oaf, but she listened to her husband too often, and not too often did she take control. But my nephew, Lord Paxter, is loyal, and surely he could see the merits of such a match. And with those- those- clipper ships of yours, I believe there are little reasons for him to deny us."

He hummed an agreement, "The Redwyne controlled the largest fleet in Westeros. Granted, most of them are trade ships, but they are still ships. With my new designs, I make sure that we have the strongest fleet, too. Ones that not even Stannis and his Royal Fleet could compete with. So it is decided, then? We would speak to father later, and letters would be sent to Cider Hall and The Arbor."

The Queen of Thorns gave a nod, but continued to speak, "The Hightower. Your mother might be one, but Lord Leyton is no true friend or ally of House Tyrell. He'd never come down from his high tower to ride for our help, nor would he actively involve himself in the game."

"I agree. But what could be done? And who? Most of Lord Leyton's children are already married. And his current wife is a Florent, grandmother."

She halted her steps as he plucked out a rose from the nearby bushes, it was red and fully bloomed, "His youngest, Lynesse is unmarried, I believe."

Lynesse Hightower. That was one of the incidents that he had managed to foil before it began. He had proposed to Mace to hold a feast and tourney of his own at Highgarden, to celebrate the victory of Lord Paxter Redwyne, which was also- another one of his meddlings. And so Lynesse was never to meet Jorah Mormont, and they never escaped to Essos, which would also cause a major butterfly. But, Lynesse was a considerable bargaining chip, and he was looking East for her.

And with denying Jorah Mormont a role in the future to come, he was hoping that he was also denying Varys and/or the Cheesemonger's influence for the Targaryens and that he'd be able to put his own piece instead.

"I have half a mind to seek a wealthy magister of Tyrosh or Pentos for her, one of the merchant princes, to help bolster our trade, that would do good for Oldtown."

She threw away the rose that she was holding, "Essosi. Like that wife of Doran Martell, and what good did it do him? She ran back to Norvos, and now he's without a wife and his children without a mother."

"Well yes, but arguably Prince Doran did make a mistake since Norvosi was never known to be political much, unlike The Triarchy, or Pentos, or Volantis, or..."

"I do not understand much about Essosi lordlings, nobles or merchants alike, they always confuse me. A rather different breed of species compared to the fools that are men of Westeros. So perhaps you could look into it yourself during your travel."

He gave a firm nod, "Very well, then."

They continued to remain in contemplative silence, that was until the Queen of Thorns decided to open up the conversation once again, "And what about you or your brothers?"

Willas was caught a bit off guard, and his hand was palming the top of his cane as he weighed his answer, "Prince Oberyn, in his letters, had talked about his niece, Princess Arianne more than once. And with Prince Quentyn fostered by the Bloodroyals, I know that they are cooking up something for Dorne, for the position of a future ruling prince or princess. And if we look to the North, there is Sansa Stark, though she is but a girl right now, and the age difference is a bit large for my liking. From the vale, there are Bronze Yohn's daughters, Ysilla Royce, I think is one of them. Or mayhaps we should look around, perhaps Talla Tarly, or one of Lord Mathis Rowan's daughters?"

"You will visit Sunspear, and you will try to find out what Doran and Oberyn are planning. If we decide to go with your plan, then Dorne is our only true friend, for none would see the Lannister and Baratheon burn more than them."

"I will."

Unbeknownst to her, Willas had already known the Martell plots, of the secret pact witnessed by the Sealord of Braavos, and many more. He also remembered something a deal with the Archon of Tyrosh to help build bridges with the exiled Targaryens, so maybe there was something to look into in his visit to Tyrosh.

"And what about that Tarly boy? Samwell. He's more of a maester than a warrior, unlike his father."

Willas let out a sigh, for it was indeed a troublesome thing, "When I advised father to take him as cupbearer and page instead of my twice-uncle, Lord Paxter, I was hoping that he would be able to shape himself into a proper heir, you know? He certainly has the mind for it, although Lord Randyll desires more, for he's a very warrior-like man. We'd have to speak with Ser Vortimer about upping his training, or maybe Garlan could look into it when he returned. But I think that Randyll Tarly wouldn't risk the wrath of his liege lord to disinherit his heir, not when Samwell is basically being fostered here, at Highgarden."

"And what is your plan for the boy?" she asked.

He licked his lip before answering, "With Garlan in Riverrun, Loras in the Court, and myself in Essos, Margaery would be very lonely here in Highgarden. I'm planning to ask Lord Paxter to send his daughter, Desmera, to be a companion for Margaery, and perhaps a bride-to-be for Sam. Lord Randyll's wife is a Florent, and to further ensure his loyalty, perhaps a match could also be arranged for his daughter."

"Oh? And how would you tie the Tarly twice over to us? Certainly, you're not considering yourself, you'd be a fool to do so."

House Tyrell was by no means weak. When Willas looked into the dealings, holdings, and finances of House Tyrell, he felt comfortable to arrange quite many plans for the grand future that he was hoping to achieve. Two of them were the legacies of the Peake Uprising, a rebellion that caused the death of King Maekar. House Peake was stripped of their two castles, Dunstonbury, and Whitegrove. And the two holdings had been under the management of House Tyrell, ruled by a steward chosen by either The Crown or House Tyrell, more often than not. Willas had in mind, to name a cousin to officially be the lord of either Dunstonbury and Whitegrove, which in turn would raise possibilities of betrothals and marriage alliances.

"I considered the possibilities of naming Leo or Olymer the lord of Dunstonbury and/or Whitegrove. The castles are not in their best condition, far from it, but still prestigious enough for an alliance. Then, Leo's son, Lyoner or Olymer's son, Raymund could be married to Talla Tarly. And then they are free to take a new name, of course."

"With Jon Arryn as Hand, we might be able to get away with it, but-"

Willas raised a hand to placate his grandmother, "Don't worry. I have something in mind to buy this favour from the court."

He had, in mind, to create tin cans and jars for the provisions of the navy, of which he was hoping to curry a deal with the Royal Navy and the Crown. That was just one of the many efforts that House Tyrell was doing to 'endear' themselves with the new dynasty. But of course, that was just a facade. A fostering with the Tully and Arryn, squiring for a Royal Prince, arranging deals with the Royal Navy, they all would present the image that House Tyrell was trying to integrate themselves to Robert Baratheon's reign, add to that the victory of the Redwyne Fleet during the Greyjoy Rebellion. All of which would give him a bit of leeway for his ulterior motives and true goal in undermining the Baratheon rule and taking as many benefits as possible from the chaos to come.

"So that's it, then? My cousin Olene to marry Ormund Footly. Elinor to marry Alyn Ambrose. Horas Redwyne to marry Leonette Fossoway. Lynesse Hightower to marry East. Samwell Tarly to Desmera Redwyne. And a possible match for Talla Tarly with one of our various cousins. With this, there would still be quite a plenty of our cousins, including myself and my siblings to further yield a field of flowers in the future."

"That might do for now. Lord Mathis Rowan is a pragmatic man, and he wouldn't betray us if we are strong, the same with the Oakheart. We should look outside The Reach, Dorne perhaps."

Willas agreed with that. He wasn't looking for Westerland, or North, or Vale. Stormland was also not prioritized. It was the Crownsland, and also Dorne that he desired for an alliance.

"My friendship with Prince Oberyn is enough, I think, to keep the relation between Dorne and Reach cordial-"

"The Red Viper spends half his time chasing whores, and the other knocking men off their horses and poisoning them," interjected his grandmother.

"He's pleasant enough for me," he complained. For Willas truly enjoyed his letters with the famous, or perhaps, infamous Prince of Dorne, "Anyway, Edric Dayne is a boy and a lord of Starfall, possibly a future Sword of the Morning. His aunt, Alyria Dayne is- last I heard, considered to marry a Dondarrion, perhaps to secure the marches. With their alliance with Stormland, and then through Loras and Renly, we could arrange a Reach marriage for Edric. And my cousin Alla is the same age, I think?"

His grandmother seemed to consider this for a while, "That might just do. And then there's this mad scheme of yours, of the Freys…"

"Ser Edwyn Frey is desperate, I heard and was looking to hire sellswords from Essos to help his cause. What do you think if we loan him some?"

"The Crossing. Many would desire the same. Yet many would also not lift a sword for a Frey."

"Sellswords, mayhaps the Brave Companion? It was Qyburn's previous company, and cheap enough for us. Anyway, I believe he has the contacts and networks. In turn, I'm thinking of a betrothal between his heiress, Walda and cousin Luthor, for they are nearly the same age even if they are still children."

Following the walk in the garden, they opted to sit on the edge of Highgarden walls, with the view overlooking the stretched Mander and a vast field of green. His grandmother had summoned a servant of two for some refreshments.

This is it, then. Willas had long thought about who to support in the coming war. He had considered declaring an independent Reach, but in the long run, it wouldn't be beneficial as Westeros would only regress backwards. And he himself was never a big fan of the Stark, save for the gradual changes of Sansa Stark in the show. The Lannister was a no-go, for he knew how badly things could turn. And so he set his gaze to the East, to the exiled Targaryens.

Viserys was long gone by now, and he wouldn't take his chances of rescuing him only for him to wind up the same. Daenerys was next, with her three dragons. And that was why Willas wasn't willing to shelter or rescue her for he feared that he might erase the dragons out of existence. But no dragons could also be beneficial for him, as Targaryen would then truly depend and owe everything to House Tyrell, but there were The Others to consider. She would make a good queen, and he himself could be her consort, but he would need to try his best in turning her interests from Slaver's Bay. But there was also the fact, she might, or might not be, barren from the curse. And so went back to square one regarding the dragons and her marriage to Khal Drogo.

And he wasn't willing to jump into the chaos that was Jon Snow. And then, there's the Young Griff. The story of a secret prince, spirited away, and whatnot was rather more intriguing and interesting for him, compared to the hardships and gruelling trials of Daenerys, or the tragedy of the Stark. There was just a certain charm and excitement to the tale, but he had no way to ensure his legitimacy, not without bringing Oberyn and Dorne to his plans.

His musings, however, were interrupted as he heard his grandmother verbally whipping another poor servant, "Gods, are you daft boy? I asked for the figs to be served first," and that was rather refreshing for his mood.

Steeling himself. Willas was still a bit nervous to say what he was about to say, "I heard a song-"

"Songs, stories, fools. What are the differences? If you want to play the game, Willas, then don't listen to mere songs, or you will turn airheaded like many of your cousins," said the Queen of Thorns as she waved her hands around in a dramatic manner.

He leaned in, closer, and whispered at her ear, "I heard a song. It is a song of spider, spider and griff. Of the son of the sun and the last dragon that supposedly lives."

When he leaned back, he could see his grandmother's eyes turning wide, surprise clearly written on Olenna Tyrell's face.

Notes:

So, Young Griff is the priority, but first he needs to check his legitimacy, and Willas is still contemplating whether to tell the Martell or not.

The second one would be Daenerys, which brings the problems of dragons, and her possibility of being barren, plus Willas is not looking to sit on the Iron Throne or even rule as King as a consort, he's feeling more comfortable to be the power behind the throne.

Also about his marriage, the two priorities are Arianne Martell and Sansa Stark for both himself and Garlan. Also, the Tyrell are still working to establish Margaery as Queen, with the hope that if Aegon (Young Griff) is real, then Doran wouldn't force for a marriage to Arianne.

Chapter 3: Garlan I

Garlan I

Being knighted by Ser Brynden Tully, commonly dubbed as the 'Blackfish', one of the best and most renowned knights of the Seven Kingdoms alive, Garlan Tyrell did feel a certain degree of pride in himself.

When he was first told that he was to leave Highgarden to squire for a knight as famous as Brynden Tully, he couldn't be more excited. He had nearly spent all the remaining days at Highgarden busy in the training yard with Ser Vortimer. That was until his brother, Willas, finally chastised him. Garlan had expected him to be angry or disappointed, perhaps? But instead, all Willas did was smile.

He had asked him whether he was excited to go to The Vale, to become a squire, and then his fosterage with the Tully in Riverland. If he thought about it again now, Garlan did feel a bit ashamed and regretted that he was so eager to leave Highgarden at the time, leaving his brother, who was crippled, alone. Loras was still a child when he left, and so did Margaery, although the both of them must have grown much by now, as he himself had.

He wondered if things would be awkward when he saw Willas and his family again. Whether his siblings would still be the same. If little Margaery would still force him to attend her make-believe parties and to play out the songs from the stories, or if Willas stayed the same, what with his mad schemes, and crazy ideas.

He remembered the time when they would drive the servants crazy, playing 'Tag' as Willas had created and named it, or 'Hide and Seek'. He remembered when he would sneak off to the kitchen to accompany Willas in his lunatic quest to squeeze out dozens and dozens of oranges to make some 'orange juice' or when Willas would stuff out some bread with pickles, meat, or sausage and call them 'hamblerger' and 'hotdog', as he would call them.

It wasn't as if Garlan didn't enjoy his life at the Vale and Riverland. He did enjoy them. He enjoyed his visit to the Eyrie, empty as it was, or to the Gates of the Moon. He enjoyed his camaraderie with his fellow squires and young knights of the Vale, the names of Donnel Waynwood and Albar Royce coming to his mind. But, it was just that his life at the Bloody Gate was…. tedious, and a bit dull, too, if he admitted the truth. His days as a squire mostly consisted of constantly watching over the High Road that led to the gate, and not many interesting things happen every day at the Bloody Gate. But still, Garlan wouldn't trade it for the world. The Blackfish was a good teacher, great even, and he learned much from the famous knight.

The one thing he treasured the most regarding his time at The Vale was perhaps his near brush with The Stranger. Garlan could recall the day perfectly, for it was seemingly no different from the rest when it started. That was until the Mountain Clans had decided to launch a raid on some poor village.

Ser Brynden had immediately ridden off with a group of knights to the nearby village as soon as they heard about it. Garlan had mounted his horse, back then, and had ridden just behind the Blackfish himself. As they reached the village, already pillaged and burnt, he had the brilliant idea of charging ahead of the group when he saw a little girl about to be dragged off and jumped in front of her. He still recalled the smell of smoke and the wailing sound of the women.

He remembered the moment when he was lying on the ground, the helpless feeling, and looking up as he saw one of the Mountain Clans with a dagger on his hand, ready to plunge it into his chest if not for Ser Brynden cutting the arm of his attacker first.

And it was also because of that 'incident' that he became Garlan The Gallant. If he didn't know any better, he might say that his brother was behind all of that, for he used to jokingly call him that during their time at Highgarden. Or perhaps it was indeed his brother that had bribed some poor fools to spread the name… and it certainly wouldn't surprise him.

Then not long after that, he was knighted, just after he had turned six-and-ten. With his squiring done, Garlan was then promptly sent off packing to Riverland, to continue his journey for a 'fosterage' with the Tully, with Lord Hoster. He was already a man grown, and so his time of fostering at Riverrun wasn't as much of a fostering as it was of mingling with the other heirs and lordlings of the Riverland, and sometimes, even the merchants, too. Lord Hoster also didn't spend that much time with him, as the man preferred to keep to his solar and room most of the day, and with Maester Vyman as the sole frequent visitor, perhaps Lord Hoster's health was currently ailing him?

Garlan pushed the thoughts out of his head and focused on his current endeavor. He was standing in the training yard of Riverrun. He took a step to the right, deftly evading the parry of a sword headed his way, courtesy of his companion, and perhaps, friend, Edmure Tully.

Edmure lunged towards him, his sword ready in his hand. But once again, he evaded the attack as he recoiled to his right side. Using the split-second momentary pause in Edmure's form, he raised his own sword, aiming a straight jab to the shoulder. His sword met the air as Edmure lowered his body, ducking under the direction of the sword.

Garlan was about to launch another attack of his own, but then he heard the song of steel against steel, and he saw Edmure barely holding a block against a thrust from Marq Piper's sword. He took a step back, letting the two knights continue their own clash. He swiftly turned back, facing an incoming danger in the form of Patrek Mallister, the heir to Seagard.

He raised his shield to meet Patrek's sword, but the slightly older knight pressed on, and so Garlan quickly pulled back the shield. The effect was immediate, for his opponent quickly lost his balance from the overwhelming force he used to press his sword, but suddenly found himself without an obstacle. He didn't let the opportunity slide, and with one sure and swift thrust, he had the edge of his sword against the throat of the Mallister heir.

"Yield?" he asked.

Patrek turned his eyes to meet his own, but Garlan pressed on, the tip of his sword pressed against his throat.

"I yield," he heard him answer.

Garlan nodded, albeit faintly. He didn't waste a moment and immediately returned to the ongoing fight between Edmure and Marq. He had proposed for them to train like this, for he had always trained himself this way when he had the chance. Willas was actually the one who advised him to do so, back in Highgarden. And Garlan certainly could see the merits behind it, for what the answers that he received from the older knights, a battle was chaotic, and it wasn't going to be some one against one, chivalrous kind of fight.

Edmure and Marq were absorbed in their own fight, and so with some stealth and quiet to his steps, Garlan sneaked around to maneuver amidst the both of them and took his chance when he kicked Edmure's shin dry.

Perhaps it wasn't an honorable or noble attack, and the Blackfish would definitely scold him about it, to do so in the training yard, even if he would only do it half-heartedly. But Garlan blamed it on Willas, for he was the one who put the idea on his head, just when he was about to leave Highgarden and told Willas how exciting it would be to gain honor and glory as a squire and then a knight.

" Garlan... That's silly. There's no glory or honor in war, or in a battle. On a tourney? Maybe, although I didn't feel any honor falling off a horse and crippling my own leg. But promise me this.."

"Yes?" he asked.

Then unexpectedly, Willas raised his left leg, the one that was not injured, and kicked him hard on the shin. He cried in pain immediately, "Argh!", as he clutched his hurting leg.

"You see? If I had a sword or a dagger with me, you'd be dead by now. So don't fight for honor, fight dirty! Take every chance!"

A knight's life was not one of honor, of chivalry, nor was it filled with glory. He knew it now. Ser Brynden had taught him that much, and he himself had experienced it. He had seen the devastation of battle, even small ones like bandit raids or attacks from the Mountain Clans, but one look at it had convinced Willas that all the songs couldn't be more wrong. He just hoped that Loras and Margaery would understand the same.

It was exactly the same thing that his brother had told him before he was to depart Highgarden. Strange, that. Willas seemed as if he knew everything…

But Garlan already knew that Willas was smart, and he was the smartest person that he knew save for perhaps their grandmother. But that's because she was old and knew much more already. With that in mind, Garlan had resolved himself.

It was his duty as a second son. To aid his brother that would one day become his liege lord. It was his obligation to his family. He would be the sword of House Tyrell, and the shield against the blades of their enemies. Willas would never be a knight, that much was true, but that didn't stop him from believing in his brother. Even if they grew up apart, and only connected by letters, Garlan believed him. He believed him when he spoke of ambitions under the lines in his words, or when he spoke of a grand future for their house, he fully believed.

Garlan knew that people were calling his brother as "The Wilted Rose'', with some also calling him "The Darling of the Reach'', partially because of his brother's reputation for flair and flamboyance, such as his plays and 'theaters' that he spoke off in his letters, or his songs and poems, how Willas thought that much he could never know… But a golden rose his brother might be, he knew that he wasn't without his thorns. Much like their grandmother, the Queen of Thorns, and Willas himself had jokingly, or probably not, written to him about a future as a King of Thorns. And whatever future his brother desired for House Tyrell, Garlan would be there beside him.

So, when a letter arrived the day before, Garlan was half-expecting another letter detailing Willas' latest mad schemes or ramblings. So it was a surprise for him when he read the letter and found out that his brother was going on a trip to Essos.

It was bittersweet.

Garlan knew Willas desired an 'adventure', for he had often written so. But when he was here, longing for home, and family, it seemed unfair for Willas to just leave like that, not when he would just return by the time that he would be leaving. But he did feel better when he continued on to read and found out that Willas had invited him along, at least to come with him until The Arbor.

The thought of sea, sailing, and ships didn't exactly endear him, but Garlan thought that at least he could make do with a trip to The Arbor. He did miss Willas, and he would also be able to meet his Hightower and Redwyne kins, and he was hoping that some of them, the ones he didn't meet already, might- just might be able to turn out a little bit better, or tolerable compared to his Tyrell kins and cousins

Leaving the thoughts of the future, Garlan had already found himself standing over the knocked bodies of Edmure Tully and Marq Piper, without too much hassle, both of them lying on the ground, with some dirt over their bodies.

"Gods, Garlan, this is why I told you that we should go to the tavern instead," said Edmure. The heir to Riverrun was always like that, easy-going, far too easy-going for his liking, and sometimes, a little bit irresponsible, too. But he was kind of a good friend to have, certainly better than the rigid, mostly boring, and strung-up life at the Bloody Gate, although the experiences he had there were certainly worthy to compensate for that.

Marq nodded at Edmure's words, "Yeah. Why would I want to get knocked by your swords when I could knock some wenches with mine instead," he finished with a large grin on his face.

Garlan rolled his eyes at that. Although inside, he felt some disappointment. Riverrun, Riverland, Bloody Gate, The Vale, they could never be his home. No, he longed for the sunny days at Highgarden. He was missing home more so than ever that he could only faintly hear Patrek saying, "Oh please stop with the whores. My father would truly kill me this time if he heard about me in a brothel once more."

Edmure, Marq, and Patrek, they were good people, he supposed. He was glad of their companies, but Garlan just didn't feel like he fitted here, like he wasn't meant to be here.

"You coming or not, Garlan?"

He was snapped back to his attention when he heard Edmure calling after him. Forcing a smile on his face, he gently shook his head, "No. I need to write a letter to my brother," but quickly added, "Are you supposed to leave, Edmure? Didn't Lord Hoster ask you to see to our guest, Ser Edwyn?"

Marq and Edmure shared a look, before finally, Edmure broke the silence as he said, "Ah- who cares about the fucking Freys!"

He didn't reply. They stood there and motioned a questioning gesture to him, but Garlan answered them with another shake of the head.

"Ah well, your loss, then," said the Piper heir. "Listen, you have to try this new girl. Betha is her name, and I swear- she has the biggest…"

And so they went off, dragging poor Patrek with them. He liked Patrek, he was the most tolerable of the group, at least for him. As the trio left the training yard, Garlan found himself truly alone, in a castle he didn't love, and left to deal with the troublesome matter that was Ser Edwyn Frey.

For weeks, all the people could talk about was the civil war that ravaged House Frey and The Twins following the death of its liege lord, Late Walder Frey, that now had truly become 'late'. Garlan shed no tears for The Frey, for somehow, his brother had always cursed their name, and had written several… unkind words about them in his letters, as well as telling him to never go to The Twins, even if he never even met any of them. Ah but then again, Willas was just being Willas, he thought.

The evening, Garlan found himself sitting inside Lord Hoster's solar, with Edmure on the chair next to him.

"Father, give me your leave and I will take our best men to put them to heels! This is an insult to House Tully!"

Garlan kept his calm demeanor, but he was busy wrecking his mind searching for a possibility inside. The infighting that was referred to as the "Frey Civil War" kept getting worse. The last raven had brought the message that Black Walder had drowned several of his kins in the Green Fork with stones tied to their bodies.

He wasn't a riverlander, and he would even leave in a couple of days, but Garlan couldn't stop the coming headache every time the topic came up. He was sure that no one would miss Old Walder Frey, for the man really did have a… reputation. But from what little he heard, and from Lord Hoster's several laments, it was the death of Ser Stevron Frey that was the true catalyst of the infighting. For he was the groomed and designated heir, only to perish the night after the death of Lord Walder in his sleep, the one-day lord, they called him. Poison, he thought. A familiar weapon.

Garlan was also there when Ser Edwyn Frey arrived in Riverrun, looking all ragged and his clothes tattered, with a small girl clinging to his side, a horse half-dead, and a small group of soldiers as his retinue. The man was desperate, that much he knew. Garlan thought that Lord Hoster would send his knights to put down Black Walder and the other claimants, in favor of the legitimate lord, Ser Edwyn. But to his surprise, the old lord decided to keep his knights to his castle, and had all but abandoned keeping the King's peace in his land. Worse, he had heard that the chaos had begun to spread into the neighboring lands, and some of the soldiers sworn to House Frey had turned bandits.

"Father! They are our bannermen, and to let them fall into such things like kinslayings, they must be put down!"

Edmure was eager. Perhaps he thought he could gain some glory so that he would have some personal pride to his name, for his own. Or maybe he was doing this to achieve his father's approval, for Garlan had known that Edmure wasn't exactly Lord Hoster's favorite. After all, he had seen the disappointed gaze of his grandmother, directed at his father, far too often not to notice Lord Hoster's own when he would observe his son and heir.

"I will not risk the life of my heir, and good Tully knights to put down Walder Frey's mess. Let them be, and let the Freys know that they would rue the days of the Late Lord Walder until the end of their time."

The matter of the Frey was then not spoken again. Edmure was silent and seething. While Lord Hoster had only shared the details for his coming home journey.

After they exited the solar, instead of going to his room, Garlan decided to approach Edmure. For what reasons? He didn't know, but he just did.

"Edmure?"

"My father has grown weak to allow the Freys to commit dishonorable- unspeakable things, sullying the peace in our land. I will not just stand aside if he kept insisting on doing nothing. This is Riverland, it's our land, our duty! Someday, it's going to be my responsibility."

Garlan knew that something was about to happen, and he had a feeling he wouldn't like it much. Such is life in Riverrun….

"He's your father... and your liege lord. I am sure that he had his reasons," he tried to placate him, shouldering him with an arm.

To his surprise, Edmure shoved his arm away, which was rather unlike Edmure, and with a strength that Garlan did not expect, too.

"I never expected you to understand, Garlan," and with that, he strode off, leaving a befuddled Garlan behind him.

Although perhaps, he shouldn't be so surprised. Edmure always wanted everyone to love him. And Garlan did understand why. He just hoped that Edmure wouldn't do anything stupid.

That night, no longer bothering to try to meddle with the Tullys and their problems, he wrote a letter to Highgarden. He slept blissfully, after that. He slept to the thoughts of home and family, to the sweet smell of its gardens, and to the days in the sun with his siblings, the time when all seemed right in the world.

And so, he certainly didn't know when a retinue of Tully knights and guards sneaked out of the castle, late in the middle of the night, with the heir of Riverrun among them.

Notes:

Well, that's the third chapter done. Just a little something to get the plot starting on another front

Chapter 4: Lord of the Arbor

Lord of the Arbor

The wind was pleasant to his face.

Stooped of shoulder, thin, and balding with only a few orange tufts of hair remaining, Lord Paxter Redwyne strolled through the splendour that was the shipyard of the Arbor, with the swirling breeze of warm summer wind caressing through.

One day, he promised to himself, one day it would rival that of the famed Arsenal of Braavos, where it was said that a war galley could be constructed in a day.

Paxter observed the ships, queer as they might be, yet grand, so very grand. None could compete with the grandeur of the Redwyne Fleet, certainly not with its sails, faster than any ships in the known world.

He looked around and settled his gaze on the biggest visible ship on the dry dock. A marvel of pure ironwood, the Goldenhand. Named for the legendary King of the Reach, Garth Gardener, the Seventh of His Name, who had brought a golden era of peace during his reign of eighty-one years, the one where the Reach truly flowered.

The ship was built and constructed for a single purpose. Voyage. It was commissioned with one particular person in the mind. A gift for his twice-nephew, Willas Tyrell, from which the idea and design of the new ships had been born, for the Heir to Highgarden's grand travel to come, throughout Essos and the its famous Free Cities.

It was a ship that could sail faster than any other ship and could evade even the best and most experienced corsairs of the Narrow Sea.

When Paxter looked up, he saw the great masts of the ships. Three masts for each ship, and each standing tall and proud, reaching into the azure sky above. He saw the vast sails, some white and unpainted, and some of that of the golden rose of House Tyrell, of which they danced to the tune and melody of the summer breeze, flapping in the sky, side-by-side with those of the burgundy of House Redwyne.

The clippers, as they were called. Sleek and slim of build, even almost… thin in appearance. And its revolutionary copper-bottomed hull.

When Paxter first received the design of the ship, just about three years ago, he had been able to foresee the merits of such invention and idea right away. For he himself didn't pour blood and sweat in the shipyard of the Arbor when he was but young and foolish, not to understand what the changes would bring, and how it would alter the course of sailing ships and the watercraft of the Seven Kingdoms.

And it was proven true, for in spite of not being the greatest invention of ships in warfare, naval warfare. The true prowess of the ship lied with its speed. To test them, Paxter had sailed them himself to Oldtown, the majestic city and port of that of House Hightower. Where once a voyage to Oldtown would take 2 days, or a day and a half at best, it would take no longer than a day if one should sail with the clipper.

Cutting down the time of sailing by half.

Eager, Paxter had commanded for the new ships to sail to Blackcrown, to Three Towers, and even to the Summer Isles, and they all reached the Arbor in the same time they used to take just to reach their destinations, with some results yielding an ever shorter time of sailing.

The sheathing of copper in its hull was also a successful means in restricting the fouling of the ship and the growing marine life, extending the survivability and lifetime of the ship. A method that he had ordered to be used in every of the Redwyne flagship, not just for the trade-centred, primary clippers.

When Paxter walked closer, he approached a man. The man was older than he was, and albeit his head was still full of hair, it had turned grey. Lumpy nose, big eyes, and stout shoulders, the man was none other than Arthos Waywind, sixty years of age, and the Head of the Shipyard Guild of the Arbor.

The man noticed his presence almost immediately as he curtsied and bowed, "Lord Paxter, we didn't expect you until the evening."

He nodded a little and motioned for him to rise, "Arthos, you old man. How are you still doing this?" he said as he grabbed the man's hand in a shake.

"It is but my duty, my lord," replied the man. And the Tyrell patronage doesn't hurt either, I'd wager.

His eyes flicked to the side, his gaze focusing on the young boy behind the other man. Arthos caught his attention and pushed the boy forward, "Tis' my grandson, m'lord. Duncan's his name. Smart boy, he is! Smarter than I ever was, and his father before him, too! Said he wanted to be a maester, but the way of a Waywind is the way of the sea, and the sea only!" he finished as he slapped the boy in the back.

Paxter observed the boy. He looked no older than perhaps five-and-ten, and his averted gaze showed that he wasn't used to meeting nobles yet.

"M-my lord.." said the boy as he bowed deeply, albeit clumsily.

He ignored it in favour of continuing his talk with Arthos, "So, is the ship ready yet? The Tyrells are going to be here in a fortnight or so I was told…"

"It is coming along nicely, m'lord. The scorpions are being installed already. We will be commencing a mock naval battle as you commanded in a sennight, perhaps, m'lord."

If the swan ships of the Summer Isles are famously protected by its archers bearing goldenheart bows, then the… clippers of the Reach are protected by ship-sinking scorpions. With the design to include slits in the broadside of the ship, every attempt of an enemy ship to try to board the clipper would end up doomed in an instant, turning the enemy ship into that of a hedgehog. And unlike the mere catapults of an ordinary ship, the scorpions are fully pivotal, without a crank, and easily reloaded. There had also been some… sketches and designs of a scorpion that would shoot multiple bolts at once.

"Good, make sure to test it against the captured Ironborn longship that we have. Those are the fastest ships in the water of Westeros after us, and Balon Greyjoy is never getting his hands on our ships."

Paxter knew that the secret couldn't be kept forever, for a ship would always be susceptible to that of raiders and pirates, especially ones used in a trading voyage crossing the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones. But then again, letters from Highgarden had hinted the existence of something of a… friend in and among the Stepstones.

The older man nodded profusely at his words, and his voice steeled, "Of course, m'lord. We would be ready for those ironborn scums anytime to send them to their Drowned God. No longships of theirs could contest ours."

Arthos had lost his son, who was also Duncan's father, during the ill-fated Greyjoy Rebellion several years ago.

The Lord of the Arbor remembered when he was commanded to perform a regular patrol over the western court of the Reach to that of the Shield Islands and raise the raising of the…. semaphore towers. He thought they were queer, but that was only after a few months later when news of the burning of the Lannister Fleet by Euron Greyjoy arrived. The Redwyne Fleet had been ready for quite a time, courtesy of the orders from Highgarden. And so, joined with Lord Leyton's ships, Paxter had driven back the Ironborns before they could target Shield Islands, and then joined by the Royal Naval of…. Stannis Baratheon as they smashed the final Greyjoy Fleet near Fair Isle.

"...not if they corner us…." he heard the boy murmured.

Smart boy.

"What do you say, boy?" growled Arthos, snapping over his grandson in a manner not unlike to that of a starved bloodhound.

The man's attitude was understandable, yet Paxter wouldn't confidently say that they would be ready for the Ironborns anytime, the boy had the right of it. Fast, the clippers might be, so very fast that perhaps there was indeed none who could contest it, but they also possessed one glaring weakness, they used no oars, which would mean that its fabled speed would be nothing more than a telltale when it came to close quarters manoeuvring. It would only take four of five enemy ships working together in tandem, circling and cornering the clipper until it couldn't escape. And so, the hope of its survival relied heavily on the two or three scorpions set across the centre part of the ship.

"How about the building of the others? How many new ships are ready?"

Arthos seemed pleased at the question, and he spoke in an eager tone, "Splendid, m'lord, splendid! Half-a-hundred has been finished, and we are already building the next half."

Paxter took great pride in the Redwyne Fleet. Before the clippers, it consisted of a thousand ships, albeit war galleys only making up a fifth of the number. Yet now, the clippers themselves numbered nearly three hundred, and hopefully, would one day reach half a thousand. And with the increasing activities in the shipyard, combined with the other war galleys, dromonds, and that of the whalers, Paxter was confident that the number rivalled even that of the Old Volantis and each of the Three Daughters.

"With our current progress, we would be well in our goal to reach half-a-hundred for the number of the clipper ships by the next four or five years, m'lord."

The idea sounded grand and fabulous in his mind, but Paxter was yet again reminded of why the command from Highgarden was to keep the number at half-a-hundred at the most. Perhaps the Tyrells were trying to evade major attention from the Crown, but Paxter himself thought that it was a bit late, for sailors' talks were no different than gossiping old ladies, and words of the new ships from the Reach were spread wide already. And if what they say about the Spider is true...

Feeling content with the development, Paxter decided to end the conversation, "Very well, then. Inform me for the preparation of the mock battle."

As Paxter walked through the rumpus of the docks of Ryamsport, he was reminded of the changes that had been coming to the Arbor in the past years. Ryamsport had grown nearly twice as big as it originally was, and would perhaps match White Harbor in the coming years as its population was also ever-growing.

In the past three years, the Arbor had been seeing wealth and riches that previously, he would never imagine. Quaint yields and peculiar goods came and went, and the golden island of Arbor turned into a mountain of gold with its coffer. And once again, Paxter admired Corlys Velaryon, famously known as the Sea Snake, who with his nine voyages, brought gold and wealth to Driftmark that it rivalled or perhaps eclipsed the Lannister of his time. Taxes were paid, and even if the Tyrell had a heavy and much larger tax due to their share in the creation of the clippers, Paxter could still rest easily assured that House Redwyne would still be ripe for generations.

Upon the first trading voyage of the clippers, they had sailed to the Summer Isles, where ever since, he had been able to acquire a quite considerable amount of the fabled goldenheart, and to an expedition toward the lost islands of Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys that Elissa Farman and her Sun Chaser had discovered. They had sailed to the Further East, to that of the glorious Qarth with its Jade Gates, to the illustrious Great Moraq, and through the Cinnamon Strait beneath it, to Leng where a God-Empress ruled, and to the land of the thousand cities that was the Golden Empire of Yi-Ti alongside its strange riches.

Paxter himself had even overseen the ferrying of a couple of the grand and majestic beasts that were the elephants, beasts of war said to be a favourite of the Golden Company, where they had settled across the grassland near the marches. A lavish gift from the Shan who ruled the Isle of Elephants.

It was as if the Seven had given them their blessings, a golden future of the Reach, through House Tyrell, and with them, alongside came House Redwyne.

The silks, the jades, the spices, all of them were flowing one after another, and with them, they brought a seemingly endless stream of gold. Paxter was not one to underestimate trade, unlike most other lords of Westeros, yet he never did expect them to be…. this much. The saffron of Yi-Ti, in particular, was known to be so expensive that it triumphed over gold in its worth. But with a faster trade using the clippers, cutting down travel time in half, the Reach had in her grasp, the control over one of the most expensive spices in the known world, and the mere thought of it was enough to make any lord salivate over the prospect. Already, gold was piling up, and many… projects had been executed all over the Reach, such as the construction of several… theatres and bard citadels, of which had seemed like they had Mace plastered all over them.

Cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, peppers, Paxter could go on and on. Wines had also been a favourite for trade, and tales of the fabled golden wine of the Far East were proven to not be far-fetched, for Paxter had taken a single sip from its casket and had all but forgotten the taste of Arbor Gold. With that, had also come the inspirations, and already, batches and batches of new wines of the Arbor had been brewed and barrelled. And then, the elegant silks, and velvets, as well as the glamorous gems and pearls of the Summer Isles, had been taken as a liking by the nobility, his own lady wife included, and the demands were ever rising, which in turn, had changed the Arbor livelier and busier than ever, for not even Oldtown had seen the same commotions.

If Paxter's deduction was correct, then there must have been some talks between Highgarden and Sunspear, for trade coming from the East would no doubt need to pass along the coast of Dorne.

When Paxter returned from his stroll across Ryamsport, he found his presence awaited as he was greeted by the sight of his cousin, Ser Desmond Redwyne, and his old, loyal castellan, Marton, standing side-by-side, both looking skittish and somewhat.. impatient.

"What is it, Desmond?" he asked, hoping that the matter would go straight to the point of the problem.

Desmond took a glance at the greying castellan, and it was Marton who answered his question, "My lord, there are… Qartheen envoys waiting for you. They said that they come as the representative of the… Ancient Guild of Spicers, and that of the Thirteen."

Qartheen?

"They must have sailed long ago, then?"

"They booked a passage in our ship, my lord, and they brought the news of an… alliance and offers, or so we were told."

He knew that something was stirring up. "Take me to them," he said. The Qartheen were proud and prideful, or else why would they seek us?

And so, dozens of heartbeats later, he arrived in his solar, facing the two… envoys from Qarth.

"Greetings, Lord Paxter of House Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor. I, Dharo Urlos Rhoxaos, a... humble representative of the proud Ancient Guild of Spicers. With me, is the honourable Gehane Rhaon Gantos, one of the Thirteen, of the greatest city that ever was or will be, of Qarth, the Queen of the Cities."

Paxter observed the two men in front of him. Both of them were garbed in an obvious Qartheen dress, in linen of dark blue colouring. The man of the Ancient Guild of Spicers was bald, morbidly obese, and smelled rather unpleasant. While the… hook-nosed representative of the Thirteen was slim and small in his posture, but overly extravagant with his jewellery.

He nodded, "Well met. I do appreciate the goodwill and news that the luxurious Ancient Guild of Spicers and the Thirteen bring, but I'm afraid, I fail to understand what brings the two of you to an utmost haste."

"Very well, Lord Paxter. As you no doubt know, the Ancient Guild of Spicers, the Thirteen, the Tourmaline Brotherhood, and the Pureborn are always in contention with one another for control of the city. And as the Pureborn rule and scheme from their Hall of a Thousand Thrones, the Ancient Guild of Spicers and that of the Thirteen have made a common cause among each other."

"We have enjoyed trade with Westeros for long, and enjoyed it none as we have with the… Reach in the past years. But I'm afraid, ill news is what we bring, for Egon Emeros, who calls himself the Exquisite, of the Pureborn, had forged an alliance with that of the newly enthroned, Azure Emperor of Yi Ti, who styled himself as Bu Gai, for he had taken the sister of new emperor as his wife, and he, too, had offered his sister as a… concubine of the emperor."

Paxter would have never cared much about the Free Cities, about Qarth, and the even farther Yi-Ti. But with the tremendous changes in the course of trade, he had managed to gather bits and pieces to map the politics of the Further East, especially that of Qarth with its infamous toll of the Jade Gates.

The Ancient Guild of Spicers, the Thirteen, the Pureborn, and the Tourmaline Brotherhood. The four fought for domination, vying for gripping each of their rule and domination over Qarth. The Pureborn were the noble rulers of Qarth, descended from a long history of dynasty and blood, who once ruled the Qartheen as their kings and queens. The Spicers were traders and merchants that proved true to their name. The Thirteen, he didn't know much, except for it was dominated by merchants. And the Tourmaline Brotherhood were nothing more than pirates in a noble's clothes, in his opinion.

For the past years, Arbor and the Reach had enjoyed a warm and cordial relationship with that of the Ancient Guild of Spicers, and that of the Thirteen, particularly in the matter of shipping goods from Yi-Ti and beyond. And the thought of an alliance between the reclusive and arrogant Pureborn was a daunting prospect, one that could threaten the prosperity of their trade with the East. One that he would need to inform his lord as soon as he could.

"We do appreciate the… gesture, yet it still eludes me so. What brings the Spicers and the Thirteen into our halls?"

It was the envoy of the Ancient Guild of Spicers that finally shed a light on the matter, "We would seek an alliance, my Lord Redwyne. A contract where the Reach would agree to a continuous trade with the Ancient Guild of Spicers, and of the Thirteen, in favour over the Pureborn, who despite being allied to the Azure Emperor himself, do not control the flow of trade from Yi Ti, for the reign of the new emperor is not met without its rival claimants and challengers."

"That sounds well and good…. my lords. But I'm afraid that I am not authorized to make such an... authoritative choice for the Reach, for I am but a humble servant to my liege lord of the Tyrell of Highgarden. Yet I would ask this of you the same, what do the Spicers and the Thirteen offer for this… alliance? The Pureborn are of noble blood, no? And I am sure that there are a lot of noble blood here, descended from the Old Kings of the Reach to make a cause, binding enough with that of the Pureborn, or the Enthroned, as I believe they like to call themselves."

This time, it was the Thirteen who answered his question, "Lord Paxter, what we are offering the Reach is a... deduction of taxes through the Jade Gates, for we are not without influence in the patrol of the strait, but in turn, we would also ask for the same with our ships in the Reach. Second, in the terms that we have prepared, the Reach would enter with us… an exclusive contract, in which some distinct… goods would be prioritized for the Reach and from the Reach for us."

Paxter nodded, "Quite the… generous offers from the Ancient Guild of Spicers and the Thirteen."

"Indeed, my lord. And in addition to gold, what we are offering you… is sorrow."

His thoughts came to a halt as he heard the spoken words, and his mind went to the tales of the Sorrowful Men, spoken in whispers and murmurs, as well as their reputation of never failing to kill.

The Qartheen envoy seemed pleased at the halt in his stature, "We would offer you the services of the Sorrowful Men for a duration of… five years, and until a renewal of the contract, should you choose to do so."

"Once again, I am afraid that I hold not the power to make the choice. But I'd advise and ask you, if an alliance is what is desired, to stay here in the Arbor, for the Tyrells would be here in a fortnight or so."

Chapter 5: Willas II

Willas II

It was the definition of summer. The sun was out, proud at its peak. The sky was clear, with only a hint of wispy clouds. It was neither a hot, nor a cool day.

He took a moment to inhale the sweet smell of Highgarden. To bask in its grandeur.

Willas considered himself lucky, extremely so. There couldn't be a better place in Westeros than Highgarden, with its proud walls, blooming gardens, and stretching view. Certainly not the damp, cold, isolated Winterfell, a fortress in a waste of snow. Not the impregnable Eyrie and its Mountains of Moon. Not the gigantic rock that was Casterly Rock, even with all the gold under it, endless as they might be. Not the splendour of Sunspear, dry as it was in the scorching desert. And most certainly, not King's Landing that came with its… infamous reputation of the… stench

He could have just sat around, or to rest easily, drown his life in the pleasantries of the South, and close his eyes and ears from the chaos that would inevitably come. But that wasn't meant to be. As queer as it might come across, Willas had thought of them as family. Them. Mace Tyrell, pure and endearing as his bumblings. Alerie Hightower, distant as she might be, yet she was one graceful lady of a mother. Olenna Redwyne, the sharp-tongued, universally beloved Queen-of-Thorns. Of Garlan and his chivalry, the easy bond that they shared in the past. Of sincere Loras, a someone that he had never imagined that he would grow to… love. And of his little sister, Margaery. Sweet, cunning, and smart. Born to be Queen.

Dreams of green, he remembered.

And so, Willas aimed his sight at the future, uncertain as it might be. And his life turned into that of tedious letters, careful politicking, and schemings in the shadows.

The Darling of the Reach, they called him. They grovelled and simpered. Praises and sweet words. And as the songs, the poems, and the plays went on, and so on, the spell was cast, and the charm would take its turn.

Hah!

In the mummery of light and smoke that perhaps, would never come to be in this world, Olenna Tyrell had spoken words, and never truer words had been spoken when she said that "The lords of Westeros are sheep".

Hightower, Redwyne, Tarly, Fossoway, Ashford, Rowan, Beesbury, Cuy. He could continue and list them so. Them and their lady wives. Them and their heirs. Them and their daughters. Once you know what moved them, they were no more than basic men and women dressed in riches and livery. Once they breathed in the sweet, sniffed in the fruits of the garden of petals, its charm bound them so, in places and in thrall. For nothing was sweeter than the Devil's honeyed words.

And like a good sheep was to its shepherd, so were their people, small and seemingly of no consequence as they might be. Feed them their bread, and the noose on their neck was tightened, ready to be dragged and to be led around. And Willas Tyrell, in a life that would have and supposed to be, was said to be an eloquent breeder of horses,

It was the smallfolk that cheered for Eddard Stark's head. It was the smallfolk that slew the Targaryen dragons. Yet it was the smallfolk that went to war for their lord. The ones that lived, the ones that worked, and died for the game to play out.

They are the life and death of duty. The boon and bane of a lord's work. And for a great lord as Willas would be, it was a delicate balance to trail. A misstep and the toll would be paid in blood, just as the right step would bring him to greatness.

And as now, standing in the height of Highgarden's battlements, once again did he reflect on it. Like the Mander that stretched far and wide, winding and crooked, its flowing water, slow yet sure, making its way toward the great that was the Sunset Sea, his future plan branched out long and stretched, yet it wasn't delicate as the calming peace of the water of the Mander. And what it took would only be a single pebble, dropped amidst the vastness of his plans, an unexpected variable, and the ripples could create a wave.

Willas had learned, first-hand, that in the chaotic world of Ice and Fire, nothing ever did go by smoothly and right. And he was now forced to come face-to-face with the consequence of his meddlings.

Edmure Tully.

In the long-distance that was his old memories, of a life that once was, Willas had… admired the man. Admired the purity, the sincerity of the lord who sheltered his people, desperate for approval and yearning for his own share of glory, trying to prove himself. Crawling and kicking his way out of the giant shadows of a father, an uncle, sister, and that of his nephew. Willas was fond of the character, to say the least.

And now, his fate was firmly at his hands, a result of his actions.

Came a sennight ago, Edmure Tully had sneaked out of the castle of Riverrun, and with him was a group of the Tully knights and household guards, sworn to his lordly father, numbering no more than fifty. And came the next morning, Hoster Tully tried to cover up the incident, all the while sending his own men to 'hunt' his heir, and sending Garlan off on a rushed and swift departure, not that he would complain much.

No more than three days after, the matter was finally shed with lights.

And just the night before, a raven had flown into Highgarden. It bore no seal and no wax. Spies.

The 'gallant' son tried to cross the treacherous water. Rats and snakes were at his behind. . The black weasel turns fisherman, and the now-monger is haggling for price.

Leaning into the walls, a heavy sigh came to him as yet again he pondered upon the revelation. He didn't expect that the civil war for The Twins to be so, so… one-sided. Sure, he did theorize that Black Walder would come close to the top, but never once did he dream that the fruit of his action would become the mess that it was now. And if he cared about his hunch, then Willas might have thought that perhaps, just perhaps, that the pool didn't belong to him only.

Quite the… troublesome turn of events. Ah well, let Hoster Tully stew and deal with the problem.

Realizing that musings and ponderings wouldn't do him any good, Willas set out for the incoming family meeting. Garlan wouldn't arrive for another three weeks, and Loras was making his own sweet time from King's Landing. Which reminded him that the Prince Charming, Renly Baratheon, would also be coming with him. Gah! All of them were leading up to one exact same point, trouble.

He turned back, steps striding, and his cane stomping the stone below as he marched into the castle.

He went past the marble colonnade, lined up tall and grand. He went past the garden of glass, past the easy sound of flowing fountains. and the occasional chirping birds. He strode into the magnanimity that he stood to inherit. Minstrels, bards, and fiddlers, he saw them as he crossed by.

" Moon and stars brightly shining.
Shining for you and I"

A slight smile crept into his face.

" In that moment divine
You whispered you were mine
And you vowed we'd never part
Down by the river of love"

The friendly tune of By the River of Love danced in his ears. A beautiful rejoicing of the Mander, they'd say. Yet the truth was kept to him and him only, a secret of which he danced to in private, with himself. And if he listened hard enough, the tune would come to him, the tune of the familiar, burbling sound of water that he longed for.

And as a small laugh went past his lip, Willas smiled... and then continued on.

---

Sitting in the middle of the room, was the Heir to Highgarden. It was a room of medium size, if one would compare it to the standards of the world. Seats and leather chairs arranged to face each other. And a single table of finely carved wood was laid across the middle of the room.

Playfully, Willas Tyrell traced the edges of the glass of wine, now resting at his right hand. It was the wine of Qarth. Queer and strange. As the days went by, Willas grew accustomed to the world of Planetos, to its oddity, to its peculiarity.

"My splendid boy! Great news, Willas, great news, indeed!" cried Mace Tyrell, jovial and loud.

It was a rare moment when Willas was caught off-guard. Yet he was lost regarding the possibility of the reasons behind his father's happiness, well, happier happiness than usual….

As he looked around, he saw his grandmother tilting her head to the side in a tired manner, eyes closed, and a sigh coming out of her mouth.

Her hand palmed the cane of which her right hand was resting, "Oh would you do shut up, Mace. A trick is what it is. I'm telling you! I know not what game Prince Doran is playing, but the man schemes as he breaks his fast in the morning, or so I heard."

… .Doran Martell? Schemer extraordinaire, Doran "The Grass" Martell?

His beloved lord father puffed up his chest, and proudly said to the Queen of Thorns, "Just imagine, mother! The Tyrell blood ruling the Reach, and Dorne, in tandem! What a splendid future it would be, most splendid so!"

His heart skipped a beat at the revelation. And if his deduction was correct, then Prince Doran Martell, the plotter and mastermind of Dorne's "Vengeance, Fire, and Blood", the one thought to be inept and weak by his allies and enemies alike, was putting up an offer of betrothal on the table. And the only possibility was that of Arianne Martell, which should be impossible as the… rather delinquent princess was betrothed to Viserys "Don't Wake the Dragon" Targaryen, in a pact of a doomed Targaryen restoration plot.

"Maybe we shouldn't rush into a decision too fast, my love. These are heavy matters to think about."

That was his lady mother. Alerie Hightower spoke in a soft voice, demure as herself was, her hands running across the shoulder of her beloved husband. Alerie Hightower held herself in a different manner than anyone else around her, in what could only be described as, well, dignity.

"Yes, yes. You are of course, correct, my dear."

Olenna Tyrell sent a somewhat grateful gaze towards her good-daughter, and ain't that a rare occurrence…

Finally having enough, Willas decided to force his way into the conversation, "Pardon me if I do seem so intrusive, father," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "Yet I couldn't help but to wonder… that as the direct subject of the matter, why wasn't I in the know for... whatever is this?"

His grandmother slammed her cane into the floor, creating a thumping sound, "It does seem that your… friendship'" she spat the word as if it burned her tongue, "with the whoremaster Prince of Dorne is finally bearing fruit, my dear. Prince Doran had offered the hand of his daughter in marriage to you. Not that I know why, the last time I heard, he was intent on offering his prized daughter to the likes of Walder Frey and Eldon Estermont."

No, no, no, no, no, no. That can't be.

"Mayhaps Prince Doran has stopped dilly-dallying with the matter of marriages for his children. He lost his sister to the war, so he might be keeping his children close to him as long as possible. But Princess Arianne is nine-and-ten already, old enough to finally be married," said his mother, her voice calm and soft-spoken.

Willas caught his grandmother's gaze, whose eyes seemed as if they could drill a hole into his head, "That might be. And he had also sent his youngest son, Trystane, to his Norvoshi kin to serve as a cupbearer."

Yes. How could he forget? That had been a small enough change that Willas was willing to overlook it. But now, when he thought of the bigger picture…

The possibility could be disastrous, most disastrous.

Mace Tyrell, however, dismissed the matter entirely and quickly. Mouth stretched wide into a smile, he spoke, "Just like any other lord! Loras is squiring for Prince Renly, and Garlan was fostered at the Riverrun and the Vale. Prince Doran must finally realize the greatness of the Reach, and is now intent on keeping up, allying himself with us!"

That was actually possible. The Reach and Dorne were the only fully loyal kingdoms during the Rebellion. And with the moves that House Tyrell had been making during the past years, Prince Doran might just realize his precarious position if he intended to keep Dorne silent and out of the game. Another possibility was that with a… cordial relationship with the Tyrell, and with it, the Reach, Doran might interpret that Dorne has a better standing in his game, and decided to alter and move the pieces early.

Clearing his throat with a cough, Willas spoke, "Well, if I were to be married to Princess Arianne. What would be the arrangements of the matter of heirs, then? Would she not be giving up her claim to Dorne if she was to be a consort for Lord of Highgarden?"

His father looked a bit flustered at the question.

"Ah, umm, well. Well, Prince Doran said that he is open to discussion regarding the future arrangement for heirs…"

Olenna Tyrell swooped right in, taking control of the conversation, "Doran Martell is not a fool. His brother, the wretched… Red Viper," and once did she spat the word, "... killed the old Yronwood lord, and he paid his price in exile and Doran's son, Quentyn was given to the Yronwood. This is a plot to pave the way for Quentyn's elevation, and perhaps to satiate the Yronwood and steer them clear from rebellious thoughts. Why exactly, I know not. Perhaps, Doran finds his daughter unsuitable to rule."

It was a genuine offer. But that couldn't be, for the Martell should still be hanging on to the plot with Viserys Targaryen. Unless…

Unless the betrothal has derailed.

But how, why?

Willas wrecked his mind searching for the possible reasons behind the major alteration. Could it be Varys? Did he tell the Martell about the Young Griff, about Aegon?

If he did, though, why didn't they try to marry him to Arianne herself? Of course… Daenerys. They need the credibility, the legitimacy, and tying the blood of Aerys and Rhaegar was the perfect way to do that. Panic nearly washed over him, but he calmed himself down with two or three turns of deep breaths.

That was just one of the many possibilities, he convinced himself. And from what he knew of the Spider, he could find no reason for him to change his original plan so hastily, and so early in the game, too.

Alerie Hightower held her husband's hand, and as she leaned to him, "My love, we should consider this first. The Reach and Dorne were rebels in the eyes of Robert Baratheon, and such a marriage between the two great houses of Tyrell and Martell might be consequential for our newfound standing with the new dynasty."

His eyes met with his grandmother, and the two nodded at each other.

Groggily, Willas began to utter the game-changing information, "Prince Aegon Targaryen lives on, or so it was said. Fostered by the Griffin Lord, Jon Connington, who has... faked his death. Exiles across the Narrow Sea."

Mace Tyrell uttered some inaudible reactions at the revelation. He was scrambling around, searching for his cup of wine. His lady mother took the revelation just a bit better. Mouth open and eyes wide, but she held her courtesy quite well.

His mother recovered first from the shock, "But not the Princess Rhaenys?" she asked.

Willas glanced nervously across the room. "No, I'm afraid that she truly perished in the Red Keep."

His lord father was finally snapped out of his confusion, and turned to face his mother, "Mother! You know about this and you didn't- tell me- I am the-"

Rolling her eyes, his grandmother cut his father off, "Oh, shut up, Mace. And, no. As pleasant as it would be for me to say that I do know, this is all the fanciful works of your son."

Willas was startled when a hand rested on top of his hand. It was his mother.

"And you know this, how, Willas? Are you sure it's true?" she asked, and her tone indicated that she wanted nothing more but for the news to be lies.

Swallowing, Willas answered, "We do not know if he is the real prince, or if he is someBlackfyre, or even perhaps a descendant from the mad Aurion Brightflame. And truth is, we do not even know how to truly know. But what we do know is that up and down the Rhoyne, aboard a small ship that goes by the name of Shy Maid, a travelling young boy, four-and-ten, called Young Griff, lives with his ex-sellsword father, Griff, both of whom have their hair dyed blue. Griff, we do know for sure, is Jon Connington. The exiled Hand of the King that joined the Golden Company, and then... supposedly died drowning in his drinks.

The room stayed silent after that. And nearly a dozen heartbeats later, his mother finally spoke once more.

"Do you suppose it's a plot by the Martell?" she asked.

Her grandmother shifted on her seat, and as she leaned forward, taking the cup of wine laying in front of her, she said, "I know Doran Martell, his father, and his mother before him. I met the girl, Elia."

She continued on, "This is no Dornish plot. Too docile, too subtle, too intricate. And the Dornish like their play hot and spicy, the last time I checked."

Once again, the silence did creep on the room and its occupants.

Tired of the gruelling silence, Willas filled in the room with his voice, "This boy, Aegon. If Dorne believes him, he would have the credibility needed. Many a lord broods under the reign of Robert Baratheon. And many a lord still yearns for the Targaryens. Should this prince ever cross the Narrow Sea, the realm would be torn in chaos."

"What about the other exiles, Viserys, and his sister?"

Willas gave a shake of the head, "No. As far as I know, with Willem Darry dead, they are still begging and running across the Free Cities, left in the dark of this plot, I suspect."

His mother pressed on, "If this Aegon is who he says he is, then why don't bring the Targaryen together, then. It's pretty much clear to me that he's but a ploy, a sellsword's ploy."

He nodded, "Yes. That might be true. Yet just as the opposite might just be true."

To his surprise, his lord father was the one who caught on immediately, "Our Margaery would be Queen. She comes with the dowry of one hundred thousand swords of the Reach."

Seeing an opportunity, Willas pressed on, "We have Randyll Tarly's son and heir. Krakens and Ironborn scums sunk in our sea. Our alliance with the Redwyne and Hightower has never been stronger. The Mander lords are loyal, tied to us and one another. Garlan is popular with the heirs of Riverland and the Vale. A friendship with Dorne is on the table. The Reach has never been stronger."

However, for all his jovial and bumbling nature, Mace Tyrell was still a great lord and a son of the Queen of Thorns, too, at that. He wouldn't throw his banners for some mere honeyed words at once.

An inner debate sprung on the entirety of Mace's demeanour. He turned to his mother, "Mother- you cannot- we can not! I am the Lord of the-"

Then unexpectedly, his grandmother rose from her seat.

"I am old. Seven-and-sixty years of age. Yes, old. I have been a Tyrell for forty-seven years., more than half my life. I was betrothed once to a Targaryen prince. I suffered the birth of three children. You, Mace. And your sisters. Ten grandchildren. I saw the death of four kings. Strong, weak, and mad. And a fifth one now sat on the Iron Throne. I saw the fall of the Targaryen, and witnessed the rise of the Baratheon.

"I am fat, old, and my skin has turned to wrinkles. I have problems with my bowel. Some might say that I am rude, or ill-tempered. I am not going to deny them so.

"I suffered your follies," she said looking at Mace, who averted his gaze at that, "Like I did with your father did before you. My dear Luthor, the Gods rest his soul," she said half-heartedly.

"Mother," moaned Mace Tyrell, hands rubbing his face, "I- where are you going with all this?" he asked.

The Queen of Thorns went unbothered with the interruption and snapped her son into silence with a half-glare.

"Some would say that I am attached to power. Disagreeably, yes, perhaps, that might be so. But everything I did, I did for the safety of House Tyrell. All things that I deemed necessary, I did. And so should you.Grow Strong."

His father turned solemn at his grandmother's words. And his expression was that of a man that just got the slapping of his life across his face.

Grandmother...

None spoke, and as the weight of her words dawned on the room, it was his mother who broke the silence.

"Mother…" she said, her hand rising to meet Olenna's.

"Don't call me mother, dear. I would have remembered if I had birthed you," she said, voice tired, in a tone that declared that it wasn't too serious yet she wasn't jesting either.

The daughter of Lord Leyton stayed silent after that. Then, Mace spoke, "But Prince Joffrey Baratheon is unbetrothed. Surely, the alliance of Stark, Tully, Arryn, Baratheon, and Lannister would prevail against Martell and a band of ragged, exiled sellswords."

Willas stared at his grandmother, an expectant look showing on his face. Olenna, however, didn't cave in and signalled for him to stay silent.

He found himself wishing that Margaery was with them. But apparently, she was deemed unready to join such a formal and serious discussion.

Willas drew out a shaky breath, one his hand was put forward, "Hold off any talk with Prince Doran. I would visit Sunspear during my trip, let me talk to Prince Oberyn, and I assure you. Two turns of the moon at the most, and I will find out what is happening. I would."

For centuries, blood and gore painted the history shared among the Reach and Dorne. The Marches and the Red Mountains. A ruined and sacked Highgarden. A ruined and sacked Oldtown. Bitter enemies, they were.

But now…. everything is changing. What once was, is now lost, lost to the wind. What once he knew, now he knows not.

Perhaps, if he wished, just strong enough, then not all would be lost. And as long as the board is intact, not yet broken, then the game could still be salvaged, whatever it was.

He had a letter to write.

Notes:

That's chapter 5! So yeah, that happened. Edmure falls into the Weasel's hold (a captive to ransom), and Dorne is undergoing one hell of a butterfly. But on the bright side, soon, the Tyrells would be complete! Btw, Olenna hates Oberyn because now that she realizes the potential of her grandson (more so than in canon), she is bitter about what could've been had Willas not been a cripple. The next one is going to be either Riverland or Dorne, but I tried to write Edmure POV and it turned out surprisingly tough.

I intended for Willas to come across as arrogant and think himself too smart by half in the first part of this story. He has been inserted for around 6 years, and he had had nothing but mostly successful plots (taking a share of glory for the Reach in the Greyjoy Rebellion, the Freys, etc) and also as the result of the influence by the Tyrells (they are a bit arrogant, after all).

Another thing is that Willas fears the Lannister more than he should. Most of his plots and schemes are to weaken the Lannisters and defeat them as fast as possible (one of them is by strengthening the pieces for Stark). Regarding who he will support, the Plan A is Young Griff, Plan B is Daenerys, and Plan C is Jon. Dragons may or may not happen as it is in canon (considering how GRRM said that it was the result of extremely unlikely conditions).

So, what do you think?

Chapter 6: Sunspear/Arianne I

"The arms of House Martell display the sun and spear, the Dornishman's two favorite weapons, but of the two, the sun is the more deadly," so said the Young Dragon, Daeron of the House Targaryen, First of His Name, in his boasts that was "The Conquest of Dorne"

---

Sunspear

House Martell, of the line of Nymeria, Prince and Princess of Dorne, took the Sun and the Spear as their sigil. Took the Sun and the Spear for their seat. And took the Sun and the Spear as their favorite weapons.

And as now, as the sun slowly crept its way up, and as the shadows fell upon the tall and grand walls of Sunspear, the city glittered with gold. Shining and splendid. The great tapestry of azure blue hung above, the sky rolling upon the festivity below, wide and vast, like a sea hung from heaven.

The stroke of the heat, searing from the golden above was enough to make any of those who stood under it to sweat profusely, and one that not even the calming wind from the sea could challenge. Especially those from across the Narrow Sea, those not native to Dorne. The merchants were sweating like pigs, their bellies and their sagging skins all alike. The smell of flesh was not new, no distant stranger for Sunspear. And then, the striking smell of eccentric perfumes, Lyseni and else, hit the air. Every no more than a turn of half-a-hundred heartbeats would they raise their hand to occasionally sweep the sweats off their heads, yet only to repeat it again. Such was life in Dorne.

The people of Dorne guarded their pride zealously, and their wells even more so. For every wealth under the burning sun of Dorne was measured in water just as much as it was in gold. And such quandary only made Sunspear all the more prestigious, a sad truth that was yet as true as it was to be. Even if the Greenblood and Torrentine ran across Dorne, none of the rivers could hold a candle against the wide, flowing rivers native to the Riverland, or to the Great Mander of the Reach.

Such was a life in Sunspear. And now, Sunspear was alive, bustling with life, more so than she ever did. And it shall never die, for it was the seat of the sons of the sun, and no power of the mighty sun, glimmering and glittering, shining and radiant, for not even the heat of ten thousand suns would the sons and daughters of the Rhoynar bow to. For Sunspear thrived in the sun.

Noises and chatterings feasted in the air. Ruckus and commotions. Merchants and traders spoke loud and boastful, and their shouts echoed faintly in the air, carried by the rustling dry wind of the forever summer, rising and falling upon the streets and the alleys. The people haggled and quarreled. Exotic goods from the Free Cities and those from even further East lined up in a series of long bazaars, filling and dominating upon, laddening that of the streets of Sunspear. Wines, drinks, and fruits alike, littered and lined all over the thousand alleys of Sunspear, in between its narrow passageways, which also served as a safe-haven for those running from the wrath of the powerful. It was not a strange sight, running thieves, both children or grown. For in Dorne, the will of survival triumphed over that of fear. No Gods, and no fears ruled a Dornishman's heart.

Queer and queerer goods from the East. The sparkling cerise of vivid pink, belonging to that of the best cherries from across the Narrow Sea adorned the table and stands. The sweet-tasting delight that was the Volantene beets. Silks of otherworldly quality, woven intricately, treasured, and befit of the highest of high lords. All the way across the sea until that of the glorious Yi-Ti, who brought yet even queerer goods, such as their curious drink of pleasant smell, brewed in hot water and from queer leaves.

For hundreds of years, amidst the rest of the squabbling kingdoms in Westeros, stretching to that of the time of the dragons, Dorne enjoyed cordial relationships with the Free Cities better than the rest of the realm. Traders from Free Cities, traders from Qarth, they all ran rampant over the city of Sunspear. Tyrosh, Lys, Myr, to that of Old Volantis. The Qartheen, strangers in a foreign land. The broken daughters of Ghiscar, humbled by the Dragonlords thousands of years ago. The surge of activity began near three years ago. And as the Reach flourished with their voyages, with their strange ships, Dorne didn't stand idly, and immediately dug into the arrival of the new feast. And even if they must contend with the growing trade of the Reach, Dorne did hold a share of its own.

When once, Planky Town was the greatest settlement in the vast desert that was Dorne, Sunspear was now competing for the claim of the coveted title. Never was a ship not docked in its harbor, even that of the far, illustrious, Asshai, who lingered in the shadow at the end of the world.

In the splendid Sunspear, three massive Winding Walls protected it from the foes of House Martell. The walls encircled upon one another, dozens and dozens of narrow passages among them, cluttering with the swirling crowd, forming one of a convivial labyrinth.

Among the circling walls, stood the proud Threefold Gates. Lined upon one another, the gates stood each behind the other. Mighty and domineering, the gates rose amidst the busy passages of the labyrinth. Upon them was a passage of brick path, lining down, leading up to that of the Old Palace, the seat of the Martell, from which they ruled Dorne as High Princes and Princesses, as they had ever since the days of Nymeria, ever since the ten thousands ships of Rhoynar made port upon the coast of the Broken Arm of Dorne, and then waged a war to unite the petty kings of Dorne, ending the rule of the Dayne, the Yronwood.

Towering from a great distance, a first sight for anyone who ventured into Sunspear, by land and by sea, were the Tower of the Sun and that of the Tower of the Spear, both of which reigned supreme among the other splendors of the castle. Towering to that of a hundred and half feet, the menacing Tower of the Spear could serve as house to that of the bowed, bent, and broken foes of House Martell. While the Tower of the Sun proved true to its name, a great tower shaped in the shape of a dome. And as the sun was all-encompassing, and implacable, the High Princes and Princesses of House Martell ruled the wild Dorne from atop their seats in the tower.

And as of now, as the envoys of the Free Cities, and envoys of the East came and went, offers and deals in their hands, favors and terms in their minds, it was now that Dorne finally stirred back. Awake and of might.

---

Arianne I

The heat was a homeward hug for her skin. A comfort that lingered on. Never once did it leave her, never once did it abandon her, never once did it betray her.

The Princess, Arianne Martell strode with dignity and with grace, across the lustrous marble floors of her father. The Palace of Sunspear remained as grand as it sounded, true to its name. Elegant tapestries lined up upon its walls, fortune adorning every corner of the castle, here and there, glimmering and sparkling. The servants and guards alike nodded and bowed when she went past them, as only befitting for that of a Princess of Dorne. I am their Princess, they all shall love me.

Hers was the steps of the daughter of Nymeria. Hers was the steps of the future of Dorne. Hers was of the blood of the Sun and the Dragon. Hers was the beacon. Let all Dorne know that I am not my father. Let them have what they want, wish what they wish, desire what they desire. Hers was of the future where lions laid toothless, laid dead, and trampled upon their broken rocks, their carcasses and corpses rotting away under the blazing glory of the sun. Let them rage. Rage, rage, like the sun. And the stags in the forest shall join them, their antlers broken and crushed. Or at least, she believed... that she believed so.

In her walk, her hip swayed from side-to-side, from one to another, left and right, to left and right, in a manner ever so slowly. The silken reimagining of the traditional Dornish garb hugged her eloquent figure, fully showcasing her maturity. Nine-and-ten, a Princess of Dorne, and a woman grown.

In spite of the guards and knights flanking her by her sides, the Princess was alone. This time, there was no handsome, no dashing knight of gallantry and chivalry. No rogue for the Princess. No cousins, sweet and beautiful, or sharp and rough. No comfort of a childhood friend was upon her. Yet the Princess remained. Pride. . . was what remained with her. For after all these years, as her dreams were stripped bare, and her world shattered and turned to ashes. To remain defiant and proud, it was all that she had left, after all that happened... She strode just all the same, with confidence. In belief of herself. For her belief was what she relied upon, her belief was the one that stayed true.

Her smitten, sweet, Daemon Sand, was sent alongside that of her uncle, the Prince Oberyn. For reasons she knew not, and for whereabouts she knew not. Drey, her Andrey. . . was confined to Lemonwood, by his brother who was the Knight of Lemonwood, Ser Deziel Dalt. Her Syva was yet the same, spotted Sylva in the Spottswood. Garin. . . Garin was at the Greenblood, when he was due to visit his cousins and kin, or so it was told to her. And her cousins. . . scattered to the four winds, sent away for various reasons, which she couldn't even imagine.

Is it to torment me? Is it to punish me? What is it that I ever do, oh my princely father?

Obara, the eldest of the Sand Snakes, was sent to Gods-know-where, but not Oldtown. . . that's for sure. Second, after her, was Nymeria. The Lady Nym was nearly half a world away. The vastness of the Narrow Sea and Summer Sea flowed between them. Inside the Black Walls of Old Volantis, she resided with that of her maternal family. And then her sweet, sweet Tyene. Sisters, the both of them are. Tyene was left, back in the Water Gardens, for her father had forbidden her from bringing her along and had commanded her to be alone. If he is going to disinherit me, then so be it, and I will look him in the face when he does it, unflinching. I will not bow. I will not bend, and nor shall I break.

Off in her own little world doing her own little things, was Sarella. And oh does she envy her. . . how she longs for the same freedom. Arianne rarely paid any mind for her free-spirited cousin, yet she now thought of her the same as the others. I will rejoice even if it was Sarella here. Even Ellaria was away. Away at her father's castle, Hellholt, with her Uller family and where the rest of the younger Sand Snakes were, little Elia and Obella, and the babies… Dorea, and Loreza.

As the thoughts came and went through her mind, Arianne drifted away to the one memory of that particular night. Arianne remembered the night. And oh how her heart was so full of love back then. A child's faith, such sweet innocence she had. Not yet shattered, not yet trampled, not yet broken.

The night when she went to her father, a kiss of goodnight in her mind, only for her world to break apart.

"One day you will sit where I sit and rule all Dorne."

She had cried for days after that, cried her heart out. Cried herself silly like the silly little girl that she was. Silly little girl with silly dreams, a fool in the game of her father. And to this day, the words still burn brightly inside her, and her tongue tasted naught but the bitterness of the ashes left behind.

What did I ever do?

Arianne still can't find the answer to that question. He loved her, she knew that. There was a time when she loved her father more than anything else in the world, more than herself, and she knew that he had loved her once. What is it? What is it of me that shames him?

My own father would see me grace the bed of Walder Frey. And the news of his death brought consolation for her. She had smiled upon receiving the news. That gave her some small comfort in her present pass; she could not be forced to marry him if he was dead. And with the subsequent ruin of House Frey, she was also safe from any of his sons. Beesbury, Grandison, Rosby, Estermont, Arianne hoped that they would perish soon, for she was a year away from being twenty, and sooner or later, she might be forced to take. . . direct actions for her future. I will not be sidelined, being wasted away like some rotten food. If my father would deny me Dorne, then so be it, but I would have him tell it to my face.

Arianne was a Princess of Dorne. And so, she pushed her troubling thoughts out of her mind, and set her aim on the upcoming meeting with her father. I must be strong. Arianne didn't fear Prince Doran. Yet her resolve. . . her strength, they wavered yet all the same when she thought of a confrontation with her father. If only mother was here, then perhaps. . .

When Arianne came upon the stairways leading to the Tower of the Sun, she had regained her confidence, and a sultry smile was plastered over her face. I must not be unsure. She took the first step with a hint of hesitance. Her pacing had halted at that, only just the slightest, yet halted all the same. How long has it been? The days had turned into weeks. Weeks, to months. . . even perhaps years, already.

Almost a year ago. More than ten turns of the moon had she not stepped foot into the Tower of the Sun. Prince Doran had chosen for her to spend her time in the Water Gardens. Pleasant, beautiful, charming Water Gardens. My exile. I am a Princess, exiled in her own homeland, exiled in her own kingdom. He hasn't seen me, not once. Ever since that, quiet and silence filled the distance between the father and daughter. Prince Doran remained in the dark, doing what little he did, shutting himself from the world outside Dorne, outside of his solar.

Arianne took sure steps as she climbed into the grand Tower of the Sun, belonging to that of the Lord of Sunspear, to the Prince of Dorne, where her father waited for her. My strength must not waver.

As the stairs died out, her steps coming to an end, once again did Arianne halt in her progress. She raised her hands, olive skin, and bracelet of gold. And albeit slowly, she did knock all the same. Three rapid knocks she gave to the door. Rap-tap-tap. The sound was a reminiscence, the one she always did, that she always gave when she was but a child, the same that would grace her father's door, and had rung every night she visited him before she went to sleep. She knew not why she did what she did. Mayhaps, it was the little princess inside her. The little part of her still clinging to the comfort of the past, to that of the days of foolery.

The door swung open.

Areo Hotah, ever so vigilant and watchful, bowed upon her entrance.

"Little princess," he said, and a hint of affection could be traced in his short words. His gruff voice gracing her presence, still carrying that thickness that the Norvoshi held, still deeply rooted, in spite of the fact that Areo had belonged to Dorne for years and years already, yet the once trained by bearded priest still took on his origin quite strongly. It was always good to hear that gruff, deep voice and thick Norvoshi accent, and see his seamed, scarred face. The face of her protector and old friend.

She nodded back at Areo.

When she observed the room, she was surprised to see that it was nearly stark empty. There was no Ricasso, nor was Maester Caleotte there. It was nearly the middle of the day, and the sun was rising to its peak, yet the room was shrouded in shadow, for the rays of sunshine were blocked by the various banners and tapestries. The candles were not lit either, and no fire illuminated over the vast yet empty room. The only sole inhabitant of the room was the figure sat upon the Sun Throne, half-draped in shadows.

Before she could speak, however, a voice cut clear into the silence of the room, "Leave us, captain". The voice sounded weary, not at all commanding of what a Prince of Dorne should be. And once again, the captain of the guard nodded and bowed, and then he stumped the butt of his long axe on the floor, a heavy thumping sound with it. He turned on his heel and then strode out of the room, taking his leave. His footsteps echoed heavily in his trail, even after he had left the room.

Once again did she observe the room, and once again did she notice the emptiness of it. There were no guards on sight, for it was devoid of life save for the both of them. Has my father lost his wits? Has he forgotten the enemies of Dorne? Indeed, the room that was supposed to be the peak of the blazing glory of House Martell looked almost. . . desolate. She didn't know what she felt, she didn't know whether it was anger, sorrow, or pain that had coursed first through her heart.

It was then that she noticed the lone table sitting upon the middle of the room, two chairs, a set, each on each side of the table. Laid atop the table, was a board of checkered pattern. It was black and white, and black and white. She counted six-and-ten figurines of carved wood, intricately shaped and designed. Six-and-ten on each side of the board. Six-and-ten in white, and six-and-ten in black. It was the game of chess. A quaint invention, born out of the fancy of those in the Reach, or so it was said, at least. The board game had arrived on Dorne no more than three turns of the moon in the past, yet it was climbing its way fast upon the ladder of the Dornish court, and was quickly becoming the center of attention for every nobleman and woman in Dorne.

The silence remained upon Arianne and her father. Prince Doran had climbed his way down from his throne silently, and was walking toward her. Arianne took the seat that was facing the throne, and sat upon the chair.

"I didn't give you permission to sit."

"Father," she regarded him curtly, eyes defiant and looking up. She didn't regard him with any more attention, after that. Instead, she idly took a hold of one of the figurines, the White Queen. She brought it closer to her face, inspecting it closely. She twirled the piece around, wrapping it against her fingers, all the while the tension between them remained, yet silent all the same. She knew that the queen. . . was the most powerful piece in Chess. Strange, that, for the sole woman in the game to be the most powerful, towering and triumphing over that of the King's piece.

"Strange, those Reachmen. . . "

Her father's voice startled her. And it was only then that she finally fully noticed him. The Prince wore orange, the shade of blood. Standing upon his feet, his father's height towered over her, who was seated. Her father's hand was in front of her, taking with him another piece of the figurine. For him, it was the King's piece. He doesn't look so old, she thought. Indeed, even if Prince Doran didn't hold a candle to that of his brother, the Prince Oberyn despite their age difference of only ten years, he had looked better than the last time Arianne had seen him. She remembered, Maester Caleotte had begun treating his swells, yet they were now gone from her sight. Distant they might be, Arianne still felt relief upon the revelation. A little triumph for Dorne, perhaps my father wouldn't be so lax any longer.

Arianne finally looked at her father, his eyes weren't meeting her, for they were drawn to the King in his hand. "Why am I here, father?" she asked. She made sure her tone remained. . . polite, and that she didn't wish to draw out the matter any longer. Swift and quick.

His father played her game, and was now disregarding her, instead. "Dorne. . . and the Reach," he said, while his gaze was far-away. "Tell me, Arianne, what do the two of them share?"

Arianne considered the question. What is he playing at? Does he take me for a fool? I am your daughter! Yet she thought of the answer all the same. The Reach and Dorne had shared a common history. A history painted in red, for years, thousands of years. The Marcher lords would attest to that. And so, she raised her head to meet with that of his father's, who had now taken a seat in front of her. She said, "War. . .," she added, "and blood. . ."

There was no change in Prince Doran's expression.

"Do you remember, seven years ago? Your uncle rode in a tourney, at Highgarden. You were begging me to come with him, as did your cousins. . . his daughters. I warned Oberyn not to do it. I told him that it was dangerous. Did he listen to me? No. And now the venom has made its short work, and there's no pulling it back out, I'm afraid."

Still trying to figure out his father's intention, Arianne nodded along. Of course, she remembered. It was the talk of all Dorne, how Mace Tyrell sent his son into a tourney at the age of two-and-ten. How he wanted another Leo Longthorn, only for her uncle to happen upon his son. The boy turned crippled, and the long enmity between Dorne and the Reach stirred once more, tens of years of peace nearly broken. Willas the Wilted, they call him. Yet it was salvaged, and now Prince Oberyn wrote regularly to Willas Tyrell. A viper in the rose, Prince Oberyn had warned her.

"It could've been worse, perhaps. The boy could still walk, after all. The Heir of Highgarden is a strange one. For my own agents told me that it was he that had created this game. Queer, no?"

That came as a surprise for her, for she didn't know that the crippled Heir of the Reach was the one, the mind behind the tricky little game. "I suppose it means that he is smart then. Won't you agree, father?"

The Heir of Highgarden was not someone new to come to Arianne's mind. Indeed, she had considered him a strong potential suitor for herself, for her uncle had spoken highly of the boy. She even tried to go despite him, with Tyene's help . . . but Prince Oberyn caught them at Vaith and brought them back. Lady of Highgarden. . . would I have been happy? Would I wont to surrender?

Prince Doran had put the King piece back to the board and now rested both of his hands on top of the table. He glanced at the board, a quick flickering glance, before looking back up, this time at her. "How well do you know the game, Arianne?"

"I know enough to play," she said. To which a hint of a smile passed over his father's lip. I never saw him smile, she realized. I never saw him laugh.

"Enough to play. But is it enough to win? When you play a game, Arianne, you play it if you know you could win, not because you could play. And sometimes... sometimes it's best when you study a game first before you play it," he said. Silence dawned on them both. That was until the sound of a wood hitting wood echoed in the room. When she looked at the board, she noticed that one of the white pawns had been moved, two tiles from its original place.

"Play with me."

A game. Is this what he thinks this is? A game. Fury raged through her. But she knew better than to burst into anger in front of her father, and so she kept it inside. "A game, father. You haven't seen your daughter in a year and it is a game that you desire. . ."

Then, Prince Doran spoke, in the heavily accented drawl of the Dornish accent, "And what it is that you desire, then, daughter?"

He is baiting me. He calls me his daughter yet he abandons me. A daughter. . . exiled from her own father. A princess. . . exiled in her own kingdom, from her own kingdom. My rights! I have done you no wrong! She wanted to shout.

When she remained silent, it was her father that had spoken for once again. "I know... you have many questions for me, I know. You do not believe in me, and perhaps it is my fault. Oberyn is the only one who truly knows me. Play with me, Arianne, and when you have learned, I shall answer all your questions."

She gritted her teeth, but she relented nonetheless. She took a hold of one of her knights, and then put it forward.

"Where are my cousins? My friends. . . where are you sending them?" she asked, her tone fiery and fierce.

"Obara is with her father. Oberyn, of whom, moves to do my bidding, and your… friend, Daemon Sand is with him, too, for he is his squire. As you know, Nymeria is in Volantis, with her mother. We have a daughter of a Volantene noble here in Dorne, so I thought, why not try to build bridges with them? Tyene is, as you know, remained in Water Gardens as I had commanded you. You are wont to gossip and Tyene would only make it worse. Sarella is busy with her own little game, pushing where she shouldn't be. I let her so, I left her alone. Because they would do no harm. Ellaria is simply wanting to spend time with her father, her children with her, especially with Oberyn currently gone. Your friend, Garin is with his kin in the Greenblood, as I am sure you are already told. There is nothing strange nor wrong for an Orphan of the Greenblood to visit his own home, no?" he said in a long drawl, his words drawn out and stretched long.

By the time Prince Doran had finished answering her question, Arianne had already paved the way clear for her Queen to move around.

"That's your clever reason, father?" she asked bitingly. "I am wont to gossip... You sidelined me, abandoned me as a Princess of Dorne, and your heir, because I am wont to gossip?"

Her father breathed out a tired sigh. "Sidelined you? I never abandon you, Arianne. All I did, I did because it is for the goodness of yourself."

"Oh yes, such goodness it gave me," her words dripped out of her mouth, laced with venom. "An exile to the Water Gardens. You left me there, for a year. I asked for you every time my uncle visited there. Have you truly had no care left for me? For your own daughter? When is it that you decided you hate me so, father?"

"I never hated you, Arianne."

The words gave little solace for her, little comfort, little meaning.

"Your love, father. Such love that you offered me to Blind Ben Beesbury, Old Walder Frey, Greybeard Grandison, Eldon Estermont!"

Arianne had now lost three of her pawns, her knight, and her bishop. Meanwhile, Prince Doran remained with all of his pieces, save for his queen. Her father stared at her as he lifted his gaze from the chessboard. His eyes seemed to have softened for a flicker of a moment. Is that sadness that I see? And he raised his hand in a placating manner.

"Because I knew that you would spurn them. I had to be seen to try to find a consort for you once you'd reached a certain age, else it would have raised suspicions, but I dared not bring you any man you might accept. Hoster Tully wrote to me for your hand, to that of his son, Edmure. Your uncle, Oberyn, had proposed to me about arranging a match for you with one of the Tyrell brothers, more than once."

Arianne stared at him incredulously. The answer hadn't been an answer for her question, and had simply confused her even more so. Lies! What game is he playing at? Another lie. . . Arianne wanted to shout. Just tell me, father, tell me why is it that you love me no longer? Better it be quick and simple. Say it! That you love Quentyn and not me. You are a Prince of Dorne! Just say it!

"Edmure Tully. . . Willas Tyrell. . . They would've been great matches for me. And you deny them so. . . and you didn't even tell me why. You just refuse them. Please, father, I don't need you to lie to me any longer. This is to get rid of me. To finally pave the way clear, for your beloved son?" and when her voice had once been hard and full of anger, it turned soft and fragile as she finished her words.

"Trystane is but a boy, Ari-"

"Quentyn!" she shouted, rage burning and anger flaming. Enough of the useless words! "You wrote him all those years ago. One day you will sit where I sit and rule all Dorne. Don't you bother to deny it. Yronwood! I saw it, I read your letter. All those years ago. I wept and I cried, for days I did. When is it, father? Is it the day Quentyn was born? Is it the day I was born? I always long to be a dutiful daughter, yet you push me away, passing me over. You abandoned me. Insults upon insults, you heaped unto me. What is it that I ever do to you? Just tell me, father. Let me hear it." To her fury, it relented nonetheless against her sadness, and tears pooled on her eyes.

Her father's face now turned to that full of grief. "Very well. Indeed, it seems that you must know. Oberyn himself chastised me for this, yet I didn't listen to him," he said, his voice soft and as thin as a parchment.

"Arianne… I never intend for you to marry any of them. Yes, Quentyn is supposed to follow me, but you, my daughter," and he looked Arianne in her eyes. His own eyes were soft and wilted, almost as if he was regretful. And if Arianne looked close enough, she could even trace hints of genuineness, and even that of. . . love. Impossible. She didn't know if her mind had betrayed her. Delusion, she thought. "You were promised."

A heartbeat skipped through her at the daunting words. Promised?

Notes:

Since this is a fanfiction, and an AU, I am going with the idea that Sunspear is just as prestigious as Planky Town (Despite the latter being right in the mouth of the Greenblood). One of the reasons is that I find Sunspear much more interesting (ruled directly by the Martells) and also, GRRM left a plothole when he said that during the First Dornish War, when Rhaenys burned down Planky Town, the smoke was visible from Sunspear, which means that the distance between the two couldn't be that much.

So, Willas' deductions in the previous chapter are mostly correct. With the rising trade power of the Reach, Dorne obviously receives the luxury, too. And with great relations with the Free Cities, Dorne's standing is now better than it was in canon (cordial relation with the Reach included), and richer, too. I tried to portray Arianne with her inner arrogance but conflicted with that of her insecurity. A somewhat arrogant and proud princess on the exterior, while a broken daughter on the inside.

Regarding Doran, gout is said to be a King's disease, particularly because this is attributed to the rich and extravagant lifestyle, especially food and drink, of the gout patient. So, I imagine that it's more common in Essos (what with the many magisters, merchant princes, etc, etc). And I think it wouldn't be that much of a stretch that Doran's gout was able to be cured in its early stage because now they have information and other examples of the sickness (Well, actually, I just love him and wished to do him some good). Yeah….. the betrothal is broken. Hmmm, I wonder why? And perhaps a certain delicate spider is out there, busy spinning its webs, while subtly nudging here and there.

Anyway, I tried to write some clever Chess, but I figured that it's futile if it is from Arianne's POV, especially since she is not a master at the game by any means (There are already several metaphors in this, but I'm not satisfied). Also, this is a chapter cut in half, so the next Dorne chapter would continue in Doran's POV (which would give more clarity and thoughts). Edmure's is next.

Chapter 7: The Gallant Son

The Gallant Son

His was a tale of mockery.

The heir of Hoster Tully sat on the stone floor of his room. The biting cold of its surface was something of a comfort for him. A little something that hadn't been remiss during his past few days. The room was a bit damp, but it was no less grand than someone of Edmure's standing should expect. It was no dungeon but it was a prison nonetheless, there were no bars but it was still a cage.

It was here. It was here that Edmure was forced to come face to face with himself. To confront his failures. To see what others saw. To see who he really was. A fool.

I am a fool playing at a lord's game. Father is right, I am a failure.

He hadn't slept for three days. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the corpses of those who had come with him. Tully knights and Tully guards. My people, they chose me. Fathers and sons that had chosen to follow him, defying and willing to be at the end of Lord Hoster's wroth, yet there were none now. None of them. The blood-soaked bodies were a sight to remember, and Edmure would never forget the stench. The stench of death. And when once an easy smile would grace the face of the future Lord Paramount of the Riverlands from time to time, it wasn't meant to be now. Now, his time was spent with his face hung down. And when it was once pleasant, his was now glum, filled with doom and gloom.

Garlan was right, I should have never done this. He spared a thought for him. Garlan the Gallant, the chivalrous knight of the Reach, prodigy of his own uncle, and student of the famous Blackfish. Garlan, who just seemed to be better than him at every little thing, no matter how easy it'd seemingly took him. He'd like to think that his father would send him away once news of his capture arrived so that he would be with his family again. Garlan always said that he missed Highgarden.

As Edmure's mind drifted to the thoughts of the training yards of Riverrun, his mind also wandered to the faces of his friends. And the only thing that might offer him little consolation was the fact that he didn't bring his friends along in his mad and doomed quest. He could only quiver in fear to imagine what would happen had the Piper and Mallister heirs been here with him. His father might just disinherit him after this. But once again, Edmure felt a little comfort that his friends wouldn't be punished alongside him.

The time for his brooding was cut off short, however, when a knock resounded upon his door, and once again, and again. Edmure let out a sigh when he stood up, walking lazily towards the simple stout wooden door. He thought that it was probably one of the guards. Perhaps, a summon. If it was indeed a summon, then Edmure was legitimately anxious about what Black Walder could want of him, especially considering that their previous encounters resulted mostly in the other man taunting him. There was no news and words of the world outside The Twins. No words of his father, and no words for the future of Riverlands.

Perhaps father is abandoning me, he thought.

It wasn't seldom that such a thought entered his mind. Lord Hoster Tully had made it clear that he held no great love for his son and heir. Edmure's mother had perished not long after his own birth. His sisters were away, great ladies of great kingdoms in strange and foreign lands. His uncle had distanced himself from the family, albeit the man did make an effort to write to him every once in a while. But all his adult life, all Edmure wanted was approval from his father though it was only recently, because of his current predicament, that Edmure was able to admit that to himself. Admit that at the end of the day- he was no more than a desperate child.

As Edmure pulled the door open, it was then that he saw her again.

Roslin was her name. Apparently, she was one of the few Freys that the Black Walder deemed as worthy to keep around. For what reasons elude him still, but a small part of him was hoping to never find out. The petite girl was of small build, and she was gentle and kind. Small in nose and small in chin, she had a delicate face, more so than ever if one were to look among the many, many progenies of Walder Frey. She had eyes of brown. Big eyes. Glazed and wistful, Edmure kept thinking of the time when he stared at her eyes, even if only a flicker of a moment, but it was there.

"Lord Edmure," she curtsied with a nod.

If it was any other, Edmure would've been angry at being called a lord. For he was a lord in a cage, and no more than a fish to be haggled.

"A-are you alright, my lord?" she said, her voice nervous and her tone hasty, no doubt because of his silent demeanor.

Edmure was, in fact, caught off guard at the question. And so, shaking the embarrassment and burning bitterness inside him, he swallowed and answered, "I'm alright, my lady. But thank you for your concern." Even his voice sounded queer to him. It was rigid and stoic. Although, it wasn't like he had a lot to talk with in the past few days.

After realizing that he didn't even ask why she had come to his room, Edmure cursed himself a brazen fool on the inside, and it was not the first time that he did that. "Uh- may I ask why are you here, my lady?"

He first met her the day after he was brought to the Twins. The rage was burning brightly inside him at the time. Burning like a fire, swallowing foes and friends alike, he didn't care. He had lashed, and he had snarled. Yet the strange Frey girl treated him nicely. She had smuggled him food and clothes, better quality than what Back Walder afforded him. She had even asked about his wounds and injuries. She is a Frey, he thought bitterly. Half-Rosby, reminded the little voice in his head. The little traitorous, treacherous part of him.

The conversations that they had were remembered vividly by Edmure. Theirs was perhaps the only conversation he had worth mentioning during his 'stay' at The Twins, for wits were something rare to pick among the Freys, and especially not with Black Walder. He remembered her telling him about her brothers, who had been mysteriously lost not long after House Frey's descent into madness just started. Perkyn and Olivar, were they? She had confided in him that she still prayed for them, still believed that they were still there, out somewhere in the Riverlands. Yet Edmure hadn't paid the thought a copper that time.

Just as Edmure went on and on in his musings, the Frey girl took a step forward and approached him. She leaned her body into that of himself, and she whispered to his ears, "There's a message from your father, my lord."

Father?

And indeed, when the Tully looked down, he saw an envelope pressed against his hands, and the little pale hands laying at the top of the envelope, with the fingertips barely touching his own. It was dirty and battered, and could certainly pass for a piece of trash, or something of a menial and unimportant matter. He was, however, uncertain of what to make of the piece of paper now laying between his fingers. There was a high chance that it was a ruse. A trap or another one of a sick trick played by Black Walder and/or one of his bootlickers. Is this a sick joke? Some sort of a game, or a play from Frey?

Edmure finally looked back up, staring at the strange Frey girl in front of him. He noticed that the girl was behaving as if she would rather be anywhere else but here. She was extremely uncomfortable if the gesture of her looking repeatedly at the floor below was any indication. She also seemed like she was holding down something. As if she carried a secret, or mayhaps, an emotion buried deep and kept to herself. It eluded him most, of why a Frey girl would bother to smuggle a letter from Riverrun into his hands. Her mother was a Rosby, he knew. And so, it was lost on him of why she would help him. But Edmure was a trout out of the water. Out of comfort and luxury. Instead, he was a trout in the hands of a wicked fishmonger with a hook in his mouth, who had no choice but to follow the flow of the game, even if it should prove to be a wicked game.

"There's no time. You have to open it, my lord," he heard the whispers of the girl.

He answered with a shaky nod. And as his fingers moved to open the letter, the undeniable sound of approaching footsteps was heard from outside the room, across the hallway. Her face was now that of panic, and she shoved the letter more into his hands.

"You must hurry, my lord. I-I'm sorry, I-" whatever she wanted to speak of was cut when the sound of approaching footsteps grew louder and louder, an absolute sign of what could be an impending doom that awaited the both of them. She turned her head to the side, peering into the now still empty hallways. And as the murmurs of low-spoken words were now heard, her face once again turned to meet with his own. Immediately after that, she turned on her feet and made a scrambling, hasty run as she fled the hallways, leaving Edmure in front of an opened door and an empty corridor, with a letter of a thousand questions laying amidst his fingers.

The time of the truth is the time of eventide. The red shall prove true, and the fork of the green will be true. The raging water shall be flowing, and the black will not have its turn.

Edmure could only make out a few of the words. He deduced first that something was going to happen come the dusk. Red was the color of Tully. The Fork of the Green no doubt symbolized The Twins and its position across the river. And the water that raged should mean something of an assault, or perhaps the march of an army. The Black should be none other than the Black Walder himself. And albeit Edmure was a little lost at the 'true' part, he felt that he had understood enough. And so, he set about destroying the letter, throwing it into the small fireplace in his room after ripping it into pieces, hoping that it would fade into nothingness by the dying embers.

It had proven to be the correct choice. Because not long after that, the guards did stop by in front of his room and brought to him a command coming from Black Walder. A command for another session of insults and humiliation, or what Black Walder would call, a meal.

---

Edmure Tully sat upon the high table of the Lord of the Crossing. Dressed in a lord's clothes, and afforded a lord's meals. He slept in a lord's room. Yet whenever his skin touched the cold and damp stone, of the floor in his room, or the walls, he was yet again slapped across the face. And splashed in the face by the cold water of truth. A truth that Black Walder took plenty of pleasure, too much pleasure, in reminding him. A truth of how the Son of the Trout was so gallant, so chivalrous, and brave, daring to cross the murky waters of a treacherous crossing. He paid the price now, paid the toll. He is the price.

Upon seeing the bitter and scarred face belonging to that of Walder Frey, Edmure would give anything in the world to see that hideous face turned into some mangled mess, mauled by hounds, and fed to weasels.

"Your father wrote to me, Tully," he said. His mouth was open, and so his dirty, yellowing teeth were out for the show, for all the world to see. Edmure felt a bit nauseous at the sight, and the taste of roasted duck in his mouth quickly turned sour. He couldn't think of a better and more fitting epithet than the "Black Walder" indeed. Always angry, always irate. And combined with his dirty demeanor, it was indeed the representation of the color black came alive.

Edmure didn't know what to say. And so, he stayed silent. He took another slice of the duck and shoved it into his mouth, desperate to taste and feel anything over the bitterness inside him. Yet even the strongest of taste, belonging to the Dornish spices, was unable to offer him any consolation. It didn't alleviate what he felt. It served no escape from reality. They tasted naught, but of nothing. They tasted of hollowness, of emptiness, much like what Edmure was.

'Thunk!'

A large thunking sound echoed over the room, over the empty tables, and the empty halls. When he closed his eyes, Edmure saw the familiar corpses. Of those who had come with him. The Tully knights and the Tully guards. Edmure also saw the unfamiliar corpses, from when Black Walder showed him the hanged corpses of his family. He also saw the image of the drowned Freys. Drenched in red water and foul of smell, their bodies rotting in the armor they were drowned in. And once again, he thought of the atrocities, and of the empty seats where he imagined the other Freys would've sat, but was now replaced by drowned corpses and headless bodies.

"Didn't you hear me, trout!?" came the angry bellow and distasteful voice of his captor. Black Walder has smashed his goblet of wine into the table.

His gaze was full of anger. More so at himself.

When Edmure turned to meet his eyes with his own, he couldn't help but to think of how Black Walder bore a close and striking resemblance to the image of that of a snarling weasel. How fitting. . . he thought. An ugly look for an ugly man. But even then, Edmure now knew the consequences of outright denying the man. And so, he opened his mouth, no matter how grudgingly it took him to.

"And what did my father write?" he said. Upon seeing the increasing anger in Black Walder's face, as shown by the bulging veins on his face, Edmure swallowed his pride, and added, "... my lord?"

"Why!" he bellowed, out loud. Happily. Too happily. "It seems that your lord father has finally taken to his senses, little lord," he taunted him. And once again a wicked grin did show up on his face as he continued, "Lord Hoster Tully has agreed that I am the legitimate and rightful Lord of the Crossing. And that my traitorous brother, Edwyn," he spat, "would be delivered to me, bound and shackled in chains, in return for your safety and leave."

Even if he didn't show it outwardly, Edmure was surprised by his father's choice. Indeed, all his life he had known that Hoster Tully was a prideful man. A prideful man with a strong personality, which was the biggest reason for the both of them to not be able to get along. So it came to Edmure as a surprise, something that was out of character for his father, to just heed the words and play the game of a Frey, of all people! Even if it would turn out only as a part of a mummer's play. Yet when he heard and digested the news, a little part of him had rejoiced, had leaped akin to that of an attention-starved child upon hearing that his father demanded his safety. A little part which Edmure wanted nothing more but to throw away.

"What say you, Tully? Should I bend the knee to your lord father, then?"

Hastily scrambling his mind for an answer, Edmure was quick to reply, "My… My lord father is a most formidable man, Lord Walder. My father is many things, but his words always ring true. For honor is what we swear upon as a Tully."

He hoped that he had said the right words.

"Hah! You do have a talent for mincing words. Aye…. I wouldn't have expected it for you, but Tullys are great mongers, no? After all, your… lord father did sell two of his prized trouts well. No-no," he said, tutting his fingers at him. "Don't bother to deny it, Tully. My own lord father, the Late Walder Frey as yours would call him, was also many things. And he also said many things. When he told me of the great Lord Tully, selling his daughters to the highest bidders, I knew that something like this would happen. I just- didn't expect it to be this much. Edwyn and I are always at each other's throats, you know that. But to sit here and now, with the heir of Hoster Tully in front of me. And he sold a beggar. The Gods really did smile at me after all…"

The insults were nothing new for him. and nothing for him to do but to swallow.

He had been angry once. He had raged against the walls, against the wind, and against any ears and eyes in his sight. Defiance and pride, he had given all of it. All of it until he was no more than a hollow shell. A hollow shell empty of worth. And now, he couldn't even bother to deny the statements and the insults, let alone to speak against it. He had learned that there was no use for it. And as the days passed and went on, his had turned into that of a river stone, washed away by the eroding water, slowly withering and crumbling away, until the weather finally took it down, and for the water to swallow whole.

Edmure put down the fork and the spoon on the plate, and then he pushed his plate slightly. For he had finished with his meal. A meal of swallowing his own pride away. Or at least, the little parts of it that had remained. But when Edmure was to make a motion to leave, he was given no chance as the song of steel against steel rang free in the air, filling the silence and overtaking senses.

Black Walder had acted swiftly at that. He stood up and immediately barked at the guards and Frey men-at-arms surrounding them, "Do something, you fools! I will not have a traitor in my castle! Bring me their heads and those- anyone, those who dare to defy me!"

For a moment, Edmure thought that he had been forgotten. But his hopes were crumpled away when Black Walder turned to look at him. His eyes were dark, the color of the blackest of black poisons. His face had contorted to form an enraged look. And Edmure wasn't proud to admit that he did feel fear upon being looked at like that. But then, to his surprise and great relief, the Black Walder didn't speak nor did he do anything against him. Instead, he turned into another one of his guards, those who had been ordered to stay inside the room, and yelled another many of his commands. And just then, another of the guards came forward, bringing a sheathed sword, chainmail, and basic leather armor forward.

"You!" he shouted at the guard closest to him, "You go with the trout, and make sure to keep him close. His head would be on yours!"

As Edmure was about to stand up, having no choice and no chance to do anything but to obey and go along, the doors were slammed open. They revealed two guards in chest plate, running desperately into the room. But as the first one opened his mouth, he dropped down to the floor, revealing an arrow sticking to the back of his head. The doors were now closed again, and the surviving guard that had made it into the room finally gave the clarity of what was happening.

"Mutiny, my lord! The men are turning against each other! They said…. t-they said that your brother is marching with 5,000 men-at-arms, and whoever brings him… b-brings him y-your head will be granted lands and a keep, m-my lord."

Madness. Father's plan is madness. It isn't the supposed time, yet. Has something gone wrong, then?

Edmure also wondered about the strange Frey girl. Roslin, he reminded himself. He thought of where the girl had gone after she had smuggled him the letter. Did she flee to safety? Or was she caught unaware, like a hunted animal caught in the middle of all the bloodbath and chaos that had come to The Twins?

"How dare they!" screamed the self-titled Lord of the Crossing as he banged his brutish hand into the table. "And you!" he yelled at the poor guard, which happened to be the nearest to him, "You bring me my brother Lothar here! I will have his head if he doesn't come!"

But before the ordered guard could do anything, he was interrupted by the continuation of the guard that had earlier barged in through the door, "M-my lord. I'm afraid L-lord Lothar has been reported to flee. H-he had also taken his family, a-and Lady Roslin with him…"

He nearly missed the mention of the Frey girl as he continued his inner lament. But Edmure did blink his eyes for more than thrice when the news sunk into him. Another good now lost because of me. However, there was given no time for mourning and pity.

It all began when one of the guards drew his sheathed sword. The slender steel rose against its scabbard, and no more than a single heartbeat later, clanging sounds of swords hitting against each other were heard. Dread and rage now ruled the air, and it took Edmure several seconds to realize that the growling sound akin to that of a hunting dog's in the room was coming from none other but the Black Walder himself. Yet when the weight of the words finally settled inside the minds of those residing inside the room, it was too late for salvation. The wheel spun loose. Cruelty and malice, none could stand in front of the face of chaos. And Black Walder's tyranny did him no favor.

Chaos.

Everywhere he looked, he saw chaos. Everywhere he turned, he saw madness. The soldiers and guards inside The Twins had turned against each other, slaughtering and gutting the man next to them. He saw the limp and heavy bodies of lifeless corpses. He saw the blood pooling on the floor, or the splash of red that sprayed the walls. All of it, because of mere words, mere promises from their lords. At that moment, Edmure didn't run, and he didn't hide. No. He thought. He thought of how a peasant's life would be, of a life commanded and written by a lord. Edwyn Frey promised these men riches and rewards… and not half of them would live long enough to reap what they sowed.

He noticed the darkening look that dawned upon Black Walder's face, standing just a mere four steps away from him. He saw him opening his mouth, shouting and bellowing orders and threats alike. He saw the soldiers scrambling around to fulfill their tasks. But Edmure didn't hear any of it. For he wasn't in it. He wasn't there. Blood rushed into his ears, and the only thing he heard at the moment was but the sound of his own heartbeats, quickening yet pulsing steadily.

For a moment. A fleeting moment of a second, it took over him, overwhelming his doubts, his fears, and his mind. Yet he didn't know what it was.

But, it all happened on a whim.

The heir to Riverrun noticed the blood orange light of the setting sun, peering in through the window. The day was closing to eventide. And so his eyes stared upon the glinting gold reflected by the silver of the fruit knife laying atop the small dressing table. His feet carried him across the room. His pacing was uneven and uneasy, but he moved nonetheless. The little handle felt strange in his fist, but Edmure didn't care for comfort. It wasn't solace he was looking for. And as the moment unraveled, a small voice thundered inside him, telling him to cross the water. Murky and unsure as it was, deep and unclear as it might be.

And then he did.

The red soaked his hands. Blood spurt all over him. A stain of malice that would forever stay with him. Edmure didn't take notice of the foul smell, or the wetness in his hands. He only saw red. Tully colors, Tully red.

When he came back to his senses, it was because of the heavy sound of falling that had snapped him. And when he looked to investigate, he saw the body of Black Walder Frey, laid helpless on the stone floor. Slitted throat and blood pouring, the weasel was as good as dead. His eyes bore anger the level of which Edmure had never seen. They screamed vengeance and venom. But then he remembered. Of the little fruit knife and the golden glint. And albeit how insane it was, Edmure smiled a shaky smile. I am standing. I crossed the waters.

In plates and leathers, the guards were now staring at him. Hands at the pommels of their swords. They won't dare to kill me, he thought. Although if they thought they should, then they would've done so. None of them spared any love for Black Walder, he realized. Eyes met eyes, and glances were shared among the dozen guards left in the room. Edmure steeled himself and hardened his voice.

"Black Walder is dead. And his tyranny ends with him. Tell the castle, tell them that Edmure Tully had slain Black Walder Frey. Tell them that his corpse lay bleeding on the stone floor of his own room. Tell them. . . that any men who are fighting under the name of Edwyn Frey and Hoster Tully. . . that they shall be rewarded."

"For House Tully. For duty and honor."

A gaping silence was what met his words, save for the ragged breaths of his own. But the silence didn't remain for so long. No more than half a dozen heartbeats later, the first guard had raised his sword. And as he raised it, Edmure heard that he answered with the same cry, "Duty and honor."

The words tasted strange in his ears. But it didn't take long for the other guards to follow the action. And relief filled Edmure's heart, even if just a little. Because maybe. . . just maybe. . . he wouldn't screw this one yet.

Edmure drew out a shaky breath and immediately settled on giving more orders. And as his feet carried him out of the room, with that, his tale would begin anew.

Notes:

Many thanks to my beta who had wonderfully edited this chapter!

Well, that feels longer than it actually does. I had so much fun imagining the many possibilities and butterflies of Willas's schemes and plots. And while his original intention of starting the Frey Civil War was to 'humble' the Freys while temporarily destabilizing the Riverlands, he ended up with something greater! I just so love Edmure, and it was a real shame how he was never more than a minor character in the books (more so in the show!)

I also toyed with the idea of "In Spite of a Nail" with Roslin in this chapter. I always picture her as the most 'promising' of the Frey women, hence why the heavy interest in her by other parties. Also, perhaps Lothar Frey's mentions in the second half might seem like something out of the blue. But the man is canonically a schemer, and one of the major orchestrators of the Red Wedding. Lame Lothar with a twisted leg (I'm looking at you, Willas), who would've thought someone so harmless could be so... dangerous?

And also, I don't find the idea of infighting inside The Twins to be something implausible. Edwyn Frey and Black Walder are mentioned in canon as to always been at each other's throats, so it wouldn't be much of a stretch that each of them would already have certain agents and trusted people in the household. And tbh, I always intended for the Frey Civil War to be no more than mentions in passing, but then I tried to write Edmure, and no matter how hard it was, it turned out to be a real blast!

So, what do you think?

Chapter 8: Garlan II

Garlan II

The water of the Mander was always calm.

From its seat of the golden star, the sun shone down upon the wide, stretched Mander. And as the light bathed down upon the gleaming surface of the river, one would be able to see the unmistakable sight of the white stone. The white of the three proud rolling walls, winding and curving around in its rising height of glory. And then, in the middle of it, was Highgarden.

The most beautiful castle in all the Seven Kingdoms. The diamond among the gems, and the pearl among treasures. Highgarden was the beating heart of emerald, laying amidst the treasured jade that was the Reach.

As long as his breaths were still drawn, his blood still flowed, Garlan would never be able to forget the sight. He couldn't. For it was the sight of home. Of which he had rejoiced, where he had danced and bathed in the sun of a seemingly everlasting summer. In the days of the simple and easy. Of the pleasant time that sadly... was not meant to be anymore, lost in the days and years of growing up.

Garlan had gone far. He had gone to the Eyrie, carved from the grandest of the Mountains of the Moon. To the Gates of the Moon, royal seat of the past Arryn Kings of old, standing strong and proud. He had gone to the Riverlands, where a thousand rivers flowed, their streams calm and of beauty. And where the Red Fork met Tumblestone, stood Riverrun, the seat of House Tully, yet still, Garlan didn't want it. Because at the end of the day, Highgarden was and always would be the only home he needed and could ever want.

Time had been a friend for him, for he had made good of his homecoming journey all the way from Riverrun. Not even yet a month and here he was already, staring at the pristine white and the lush green of Highgarden. Staring at the magnificent garden that sprawled around it, of which Garlan could trace the hints of peeking greens that were the rising briar labyrinth, famous ever since the days of the Gardeners. He also stared at the greens draped across its walls, of the vines that had extended their reach, from which Willas had fondly plucked the name "The Hanging Garden of Highgarden" to call them.

He had first gone through the Red Fork, sailing down southwest as the river ended up a few hours' ride away from Hornvale in the Westerlands, the seat of House Brax sworn to the Lannister of Casterly Rock. Not far from Hornvale, was seated Deep Den, the seat of House Lydden, of which Garlan half-remembered had once been King of the Rock during the time of the coming of the Andals if his memory served him right. Another few miles away from Deep Den, was the hills rich in silver, for which House Serret had mined for hundreds or even thousands of years from atop the mountain that was their seat at the Silverhill.

Lord Horton Serrett had been kind enough to provide him with a small ship for his next journey as he floated down the Lesser Mander, sailing south. Yet the peacock lord was apparently all too eager at the prospect of tying ties with that of the second son of House Tyrell and had all but thrown his prized daughter at Garlan's face throughout his albeit brief but suffering stay at their castle. The young Lady Alyssa had been sweet and pretty for all that counted, what with her glinting golden hair streaked with hints of silver. But it didn't alleviate his feeling at all, which he had found maddening and sickening. All of it had made himeven more eager to return home, fasten his pace, and reach Highgarden. Where he would not be a gallant knight that was the shining paragon of virtue and chivalry, but a place where grand and daring words could be left behind. And one where he could rest easy, and be what he was.

Down south from Silverhill, crossing the Westerlands, he had thus docked at Goldengrove, from which House Rowan governed its land across the Northmarch of the Reach. Lord Mathis Rowan had been a pleasant surprise for him. Unlike most of the lords, the grey-haired Lord of Goldengrove had been a sensible and solid figure, whom Garlan actually felt a certain degree of admiration and respect towards. The man was none for much chatters and natters, and thus his short words and bluntness had been somewhat of a refreshing change for Garlan. Yet as sensible as a lord could get, staying at one lord's castle would mean getting introduced to his family. And that was how Garlan met his twice-aunt, the Lady Bethany Redwyne, once as his grandmother's niece, and twice as his aunt, Lady Mina's good-sister. And thus he had also met their three daughters; the eldest, Lady Seryl, six-and-ten, then Lady Marys, four-and-ten and the one child that had favored her mother's lineage as she inherited the orange hair native to the Redwynes, and lastly, the youngest, Lady Riel, of which had apparently barely turned ten the week before Garlan did arrive at Goldengrove.

All in all, if Garlan was to answer, then perhaps his stay at Goldengrove had been most pleasant and/or the one that he had tolerated the most during his homecoming journey. And he did learn some things from the stout and florid Lord Mathis, of which he now considered to be a… somewhat dangerous man that should not be crossed. The man is able, yet he seems overlooked, shadowed by the great mentions of the names Tarly, Hightower, and Florent.

And when Garlan did depart from Goldengrove, he didn't leave alone.

Apparently, a feast was underway at Highgarden, thrown by none other than the Lord Paramount of the Reach himself. Garlan knew his beloved father would take any reason as long as he got to take his cups and hold a banquet, to celebrate. And Garlan's return provided a grand reason to do so. Thus, the surrounding lords had been invited to Highgarden, hence why he now shared a ship with that of the Rowans; the lord, the lady, and all their three daughters.

But the feast was not limited to merely celebrating Garlan's return for they were also honoring his brother, Loras, and Prince Renly. For himself, to celebrate his homecoming after nearly five years of squiring and fostering at the Vale of Arryn and at the Riverrun with the Tullys. For Loras, who had just been knighted and dubbed "The Knight of the Flowers'' at the tender age of five-and-ten, one of the youngest anointed knights in history, and perhaps even the youngest bar that of Daemon Blackfyre who was knighted by his father, Aegon the Unworthy at the age of twelve. And whilst Garlan was none for useless splendors and displays of marvels, a joy had bloomed inside him as a smile of pride graced his face at the wake of the news of Loras's knighthood. And last, it would also be a feast to properly welcome and honor Prince Renly Baratheon to Highgarden, of whom his brother had squired for these last few years, and also the one who had knighted him. A royal at Highgarden, if there was one thing that Garlan was sure of, was that the notion alone of that would create seeds for some unruly weeds here and there, which might or might not grow into things heinous and problematic. After all, the current dynasty would certainly have an… interesting opinion of House Tyrell and the Reach.

Garlan's thoughts also went back to that of his... friend, perhaps, Edmure. The morning after, when he was promptly sent off by Lord Hoster Tully in rush and in hurry, a little something inside him hadn't been right. Perhaps it was guilt, he thought, for he was the last person that the Heir to the Riverrun had seen and talked to before he went off upon his ill-fated quest, and one that failed to convince him otherwise. And so, as Garlan had trotted along the stony roads atop his horse, wandering in the mountainous and rocky terrains of the Westerlands, he had wondered and waited. And indeed it had proven true, that news had been incredibly slow on the road, but it came nonetheless. And when it did finally come, Garlan had smiled a little smile, and had hurriedly scrambled up a short and quick letter. Edmure the Pike, or was it Riverpike, huh?

He returned to the real world, out of his head, however, as he noticed the ship that had neared the small and simple dock, wandering in the water closer and closer to the dry land. And when the ship finally did dock, the raggedy and whinny breaths of the horses immediately took over his attention. And as Garlan stepped foot at the bare and dry green grass, something inside him settled easily… and immediately. And when he climbed up onto the saddle of an already-prepared horse, that was when he knew… that he was finally there. Home.

The short ride from the dock to Highgarden didn't take a long time. For what it took was but several few minutes before he stopped at the front of the castle gate. It doesn't change. And indeed, the castle of his childhood looked every bit that he remembered, save for perhaps a few additions here and there, but it was it. And as he went deeper and deeper into the castle and the dazzling magnificent, albeit somewhat bothersome, briar labyrinth, Garlan was getting closer to finally meeting his family again.

And then he saw them.

Tall, brown-haired, clean-shaved, and a hand resting atop of a cane, was his dear older brother and his partner in all things in his childhood, Willas Tyrell. And next to him, was a woman, a lady in her mature age, still regal but with still significant signs of age, his lady mother, Alerie Hightower. The third figure, though, was a girl… barely at the cusp of her womanhood, hair in the same shade of brown as the rest, and a face that was yet so familiar yet so different. Little Margaery, not so little anymore. A smile sprang up to his face, and even when the guards that had accompanied him and also those that had accompanied his family immediately scrambled to help the arriving guests, he heeded them no attention. He climbed down from his saddle so fast, fastest that he had ever had, and also one that would get him scolded by the Blackfish, but he didn't care. The Rowans were to his side and at his back, but he rushed past them, his feet carrying him to where he belonged.

It was pleasantly resilient, he thought. The feeling of arms on his back, and his arms eloped across the back of his brother, one that he had missed for four years, or was it five?

"Willas," he nodded as they broke apart.

Willas regarded him quietly, their eyes meeting each other's and remained so for a few more heartbeats. Just as Garlan was about to ask if something was wrong, and he did worry that something was wrong, Willas broke into a smile and laughed, "It's been so long, brother. Too long…"

Garlan hugged his mother and kissed her on the cheek, saying all the right words and a bright smile. He then went past her, to his little sister, the now-commonly called "Rose of Highgarden."

"Dear sister, it sure is a sight for my sore eyes to see you after all the years when we were cruelly parted."

Margaery nodded with a smile, "Brother, it is great to see you, indeed. But I'm afraid that you have missed the last fifty times of my tea party."

He laughed at that, a laugh of true joy and true feelings. Margaery had little time to follow with another clever word before he swooped her in a hug, nearly lifting her to the air if not for his sister chastising him for making such a scene. He relented and broke free from his sister, joining the line of the other Tyrells as the Rowans neared with their horses.

"Well, well, if it isn't my gallant grandson…"

When Garlan turned around, he found himself at the end of a questioning stare, courtesy of the Queen of Thorns. His grandmother had aged, that's for sure. It was subtle, but it was there. Her cheeks had sunken more the slightest bit, and her wrinkles had been less the last he recalled. But she remained every little bit the sharp-witted and intelligent matriarch of House Tyrell, possessing levels of cunning that none could rival, save for perhaps his own brother, and the true power behind the Reach.

"I- grandmother-"

"Gods, boy! Have those trouts robbed the wits out of you, yet? Turned you all foppish and floppy? Or did you lose it in all of the honors you won in the bloody Vale? Empty like those mountains they call halls. Foolish savages there, I heard. And remember this, Garlan, vulgarity is no substitute for wits, nothing is. I dearly hope the Blackfish has not dulled you yet for all that matters," Garlan made a move to speak, but he was given no chance as his grandmother continued, "Ah well, roses and rivers don't really go on, do you think? How absent-minded of me. But don't worry, you're a Tyrell, not some half-witted fool. We'll remedy that soon."

He settled at a wary smile instead, half-fondly in adoration and love for his grandmother, and half-uncertainty in a moment of awkwardness and witlessness, and one that he certainly wasn't proud of. And when his grandmother challenged him to reply with his own remark, he was saved, thanks the Gods, by the loud voice that could only belong to his dear, dear father.

"Garlan, my son! Welcome home!"

His family was weird, he decided. Had always been. But he loved them nonetheless.

---

His eyes twitched yet again.

"Oh my sweet summer lass laid in grass!" yet again bellowed his father.

A glass of the best Arbor Gold in his hands, his lord father had led the merriment of the feast by himself, jovially singing along to the tunes of the bards as a beaming bright smile stayed with him all night, and belting out songs himself from time to time. It was a bit disconcerting, but Garlan thought it was heartful. His mother stood by his father's side, trying her absolute best at keeping the regality of such an event, yet failing miserably, for none could contest Mace Tyrell when it came into songs and feasts, and Garlan feared that his brother had done nothing but encourage him during the last few years when he was away.

Although if Garlan did think about it, there had been some... improvements, to say the least, regarding the quality of the minstrels and bards in Highgarden. He had asked Willas of it, and it turned out that it all began as a devious plot. A plot hatched by the Queen of Thorns and his brother in… swaying some leeway, as Willas had referred to it, in order to attempt their aunt, Janna Tyrell to be remarried. And well, she did technically remarry in all the correct and right customs, with the mourning period and such, but it stank nonetheless, not that Garlan would blame them. After all, he already had the honor of assessing his late good uncle, Jon Fossoway too many times in the past, and even the ten-year-old that he was at the time already understood that it had been no great honor, nor was it much of a pleasantry.

It all worked out in the end. Willas had taken it upon himself to play the role of a charming, brilliant, and talented poet. Setting up tunes and verses, he waxed poetic and flowery words. Which led to the birth of the Art Citadel of Highgarden, as it was called. It was, apparently, some sort of institution where instead of learned men with dusty tomes and cluttering links, it was flowery bards and silver-tongued poets. Or "The paragon of free will, for the free-spirited souls desperate to express themselves," as Willas had worded it, exactly like that.

It didn't stop there, however. What began as a cunning plot had now turned into a full-blown independent thing. They didn't stop at songs and poems, no, they went on into theaters and plays. And his brother didn't even blink when he said to him that an exclusive, new building entirely dedicated to it was already underway. But all in all, Garlan supposed that it wasn't bad, and that he did manage to think of a lot worse substitutes. And so, Garlan stayed back, retreating into himself and his private corner of comfort as he watched the theatre of the politics of the Reach unrolled directly in front of him.

His grandmother had excused herself earlier in the night, claiming something about old bones and deaf ears. And Garlan was unable to find it in him to actually blame his grandmother. Instead, envy was what he found.

Margaery had also spent the night down at the halls, mingling with the other daughters and ladies of the Reach, giggling and chattering their way in the innocence of childhood. A natural, he thought, seeing Margaery setting up her own little group of girls, playing the beauty and enchanting daughter of Lord Tyrell to set herself as the undisputed leader of the group while the other ladies danced to her tune. The Tarly girl, the Rowans, the Fossoways, and even Lady Oakheart's daughters. And as the moon rose higher and higher, the smiles went on and on, and the dreams did live on.

It had brought him a somewhat wistful smile, the sight. In the Vale, he was surrounded by nothing but stern knights, and squire boys in obedience to their masters, with the only other option being wild savages of the backward Mountain Clans. Dull, dry, and dreary. In the Riverrun, it had been Edmure pestering him for drinks and whores, and Lord Hoster doing the bare minimum of what was expected for a fostering. And the occasional additions of Marq, Patrek, and Lymond didn't exactly come across as a breath of fresh air.

Yet as he now sat upon the high hall of Highgarden, the walls felt a little strange for him. It was comforting and it tasted of home. But at the same time, it did nothing but to serve as a reminder of how many years he had spent outside these walls, kingdoms away in the world outside Highgarden.

When Garlan gazed down from his seat, he saw his brother, Loras, ever busy with his royal prince. They mingled and they blistered around with the young knights and eager boys, wallowing, basking themselves in the various tales of bravery shared. And loud were their words, drowning the lively hall of Highgarden in daring words and grandeurs. Prince Renly was every bit of a little girl's dream of a perfect knight in bright shining armor, and a prince, too, at that. He was charming, that one was undeniable, as one could only expect from the one brother of King Robert Baratheon said to have been himself come again. The prince was pleasant enough so far, even if Garlan hadn't yet had many opportunities in crossing words or tales with the man. He pampered those eager to be a knight, those little children still ensnared in the world of a summer song, whose eyes shined and dazzled as the feast went on. But if there was one thing to note, it would be that Prince Renly himself at least didn't seem like he really believed in such things and notions, but had only done so out of courtesy as he amused the crowd of young boys with his regal tellings, and with Loras by his side like an obedient squire through the whole night.

And to Garlan's side, sat his brother, Willas. He had been busy all night, charming the lords and bannermen of House Tyrell, especially the likes of Mathis Rowan, Randyll Tarly, and Arwyn Oakheart, of whom, all of those had chosen not to engage in the jovial feasting with their fellow lords and ladies in the… exuberance radiated by their liege lord.

"The Seven damn Randyll Tarly to the seven hells….," he heard his brother sighed to his cup.

Garlan grinned as he turned to his brother. It had amused him so, the stark difference between the Willas Tyrell that was his brother, and the Willas Tyrell that had been the so-called Wilted Rose and the darling Heir to Highgarden.

"Lordly problem, Will?" he asked, raising his own cup in his brother's way.

Willas gave him, as he would call it, the stink eyes, "Wipe that smirk off your face, Garlan. Because starting tomorrow, Samwell Tarly is going to be your new squire," he finished with a sweet smile. Smile that he had only used when he would mask the devious intention beneath the deception.

Ah yes, the strange Tarly boy. "Well, I'd be waiting then. I'm sure that Samwell would be a great squire."

He was a craven and a coward before he came to Highgarden, apparently. And added to that, he had the misfortune of being born as the son and heir of one Randyll Tarly, who put martial abilities and judgment above all.

"Gods, I hate him. "I would expect my heir to return to Horn Hill in a few months, my lord." or "I am sure that Samwell would meet my judgment, my lord. He is, after all, in the care of the capable hands of your father. Old bastard. Now I'm really starting to understand what grandmother said, you know?"

"What did she say?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"That the lords of Westeros spend half their time worrying about the length of what is between their legs," his brother said, dead-beat serious and with a stone face.

Garlan choked and swallowed a strangled laugh down his throat. It wouldn't do for them to laugh at such crude words when they were both at their high table. "Willas!" he hissed at his brother.

He gave his brother a half-glare, but all he got back from Willas was a roll of his eyes as he said, "Oh, calm down, would you? Everyone here is drunk, anyway. Look around you, this- this feast is but a mummery and useless display. Meaningless. Anyway, you know what the worst part is?"

His eyes squinted as he asked, "Are we really still talking about Randyll Tarly?"

"I got his son to drop weight! He is skinny now, well-not that skinny, but still! And he didn't even blink. You know what he said? He said, "At least you resemble a man, now, boy"," Willas said, imitating the gruff and rough voice of the Lord of Horn Hill. "I mean- how- why- how could anyone be that terrible at parenting," he said as he held his chin, supporting it with one hand as it laid on the table, and added, "or is he just a plain, flat out bad person, I wonder…"

Now he knew that the wine had definitely seeped its way into Willas.

"Well- I mean," he continued on in his ramblings, "He doesn't even know what it took! To convince Sam just to try to drop his weight! Just. To. Try!" he half-yelled through gritted teeth. And then, he made a sudden move as he abruptly turned to meet Garlan in the eyes, catching him in surprise, "And do you know what it took?"

The corner of his lip twitched violently, and a smile threatened to break out across his face. He started to think that he loved this drunken version of Willas even better than the regular version.

"Woah, you really can't handle your wine, can-" he stopped as he noticed the darkening eyes of Willas's look, which was never a good sign. And Garlan knew that it would come back later and bite him in the back, much like the times when he would mysteriously find his toothbrush, yet another one of Willas's fanciful creations, smelling foul and tasting strange each time Garlan would do something to displease his brother, thus earning his ire in the past.

"Alright, I get it. But didn't you basically starve the kid? Or what was it that you wrote in your letter? Tough love, I think?"

This time it was Willas's eye that twitched. "I didn't starve him," he half-growled, putting emphasis on his denial of the accusation. "I merely gave him a… deal. He'd reduce his meals, or else I'd restrict his access to the library. And for every run that he made around the castle, he would have more liberty and more books for his leisure. See, it's a fair and kind deal. Not starvation. It worked for both of us in the end, I held my end of the deal to his father, and Sam… Sam got to enjoy his books and studies, I even let him speak with Qyburn once in a while."

Garlan pursed his lip, and shrugged his shoulder, "Whatever works for you, brother. Whatever works…."

Then, unexpectedly, Willas rose from his chair, and pulled him on the shoulder as he leaned to him, "Let's get out of here."

He had no time to protest before Willas dragged him down the table and out of the hall. He mumbled half-hearted apologies and half-thought excuses as they passed by the various lords and ladies throughout their way. He saw some awkward glances here and there, but Garlan couldn't find it inside him to really care. They strode across the corridors, walking past servants and guards, moving by gardens and fountains.

The cold of Highgarden in the night smelled of home, tasted of a fulfillment of a longing memory that seemed so distant yet so near. So close that it was at the tip of his fingertips. But when Garlan stretched his hands, reaching up and forward, he found that it wasn't there.

His brother hummed a tune that he didn't recognize, but Garlan had learned long ago that to ask a question would be much more of a bother than to simply ignore it. "The silver thorn of a bloody rose. Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow"

They stopped at the edge of the bushes. It was a clearing that led to a vast field of green. The grasses swayed low in the song of the night, and the thousands of stars danced above them, gleaming in the dark of the sky.

"So….." he began.

"I couldn't take another attempt of Lady Ashford trying to make… small talks with me. By the gods- that woman is just- is just…" said Willas, lost in the end as his hand flailed aimlessly, lacking the word to capture his thoughts.

His breath left his nose, "You have to pardon her, brother. Lord Ashford died years ago at the Rebellion. And a woman has her needs, too, I heard…"

He was, however, unable to hold back his laugh when Willas glared at him for his comment. It was no big secret, that the widow of the late Lord Ashford was… quite active in those matters, and not subtle, too, at that.

"Is this your usual spot, then, brother? To charm maidens and women alike? Well- I do hope that you're not here to seduce me. Albeit I have to admit, I am curious what your usual words would be," he said playfully.

Willas seemed unimpressed at his remarks. He does always have the better wits. "You can do better than that. If I had known that sending you to the Bloody Gate and the Riverrun would be... this," he gestured with his arms vaguely, "Then I would have ridden a horse myself to pick you up years ago, take you away from those fishes. Fishes are rather dull, aren't they?"

Changing the topic as a breeze of wind came upon them, Garlan asked, "Princess Arianne… really, Willas?"

Willas didn't reply, but one of his eyebrows rose at the question, and he turned to look at him with a resigned form.

"I enjoy dancing with the Dornish as much as the next Reachman. But Prince Doran's offer has merits, Garlan, lots of merits. It is one that at least we would have to consider seriously, and carefully, too. Lest we could draw the ire of Robert Baratheon or the suspicion of Tywin Lannister. A Tyrell and a Martell. One besieged Storm's End, and the other fought at the Trident. No matter how… loyal and much of a leal servant we have been during the reign of the new Baratheon dynasty, the stain of the rebellion would never leave the Reach and Dorne completely, I'm afraid."

Garlan absent-mindedly rubbed his head at that. He understood all of it, though. He knew his politics, that much was true. And even if he wasn't one for much of it, he knew just enough, although he would gladly leave Willas and their grandmother to do the large share of it. After all, he wouldn't wish to get tangled in the many strings and webs of their joint machinations. And knowing both of them? There were probably a lot of them. Plots here and there. Cooked and approved already.

"I shall leave it to you and grandmother, then. And little Margaery, too, I think."

A somewhat mournful smile dawned upon Willas's face. "Not so little anymore, I'm afraid. The day before you arrive? She had apparently turned Lord Appleton's heir into a bumbling mess, and a dear… loyal friend of hers. Although- I assure you, there's no need for you to duel anyone for our sister's virtue. She is smart, you know that already.

His lip curled into a similar smile, "Hah! If I even need to duel anyone for our sister's virtue, then I would not be able to do it before they had fallen into your and grandmother's machination, I'm afraid."

Willas cocked his head to the side.

"Ah well, what can I say?" he shrugged another one of his signature shrugs that he still fondly remembered, "We all have a part to play in this game, I'm afraid. And for me… that part was not of the dashing and daring knight," he finished with an almost solemn smile, and a grim tone to his voice.

When does it change? He wanted to ask. It had once been so simple and so sweet… so easy. Yet each of them was now tied to a part, and when they were once, they were now each. A knight's life was a life of oaths and servitude, but still, it didn't dull his senses. He did, however, notice the new depths in his brother… depths and changes that he wasn't sure if he wanted to find out. Even so, Garlan was still a Tyrell first and foremost. And at the end of the day, whatever was necessary for the future of House Tyrell, he would bear the burden, carry the duty, and would play the part.

"Tell me, then. This royal prince of Loras… What's he like?"

His brother's face turned a little more serious at the question. But he answered nonetheless, "Lord Re- Prince Renly," he began with a somewhat nervous gulp, "To be honest I am not entirely sure what to call him." He seemed uncomfortable if the pursing of his lip was any sign. "He is... he is an… interesting man. Apparently, he doesn't share his stalwart's brother's opinions of us, and if he does hold a grudge against father or House Tyrell and the Reach as a whole, then he must've hidden it well, for Loras has nothing but kind words for him. Too kind, even."

Loras has always been a dreamer.

Willas continued with a few more words, and his tone grew almost entirely solemn, "Just- just… let them be, for now. We will see what comes out of it."

Garlan nodded a tight nod, and he understood the dismissal of the concern, "So…. when do we leave? For Oldtown, I mean."

"A few days, I'd say. We would need to make changes for Sam's addition to the trip. But other than that? I'd say a week, less than a fortnight that's for sure. And also, our uncle had sent a raven from the Arbor, so it seems."

"Really?" he said, surprised. Their uncle, Paxter had been none for too many warmth and familial things as long as he could remember.

"Yeah. Apparently, there are Qartheen envoys there, probably trying to curry deals and some favors. It's all merchant things, probably, so I wouldn't bore you with many details. And our grandfather, Lord Leyton, also sent his words that he is holding a tourney to welcome us properly to Oldtown. Some sort of celebration, he mentioned."

His face turned into a scowl, "Sounds like it's going to be bothersome…"

"Oh- it definitely is. But at least- it's going to be interesting. Us, the South, the sea, and the sun. It's a big world out there. So many, many, many things unknown and unbeknownst to us, Garlan. Mysteries and hidden things. Some of them dangerous... and some of them not." It was rare, he thought. To see this part of Willas that he had buried deep. The part of the dreamer, of someone that wasn't a perfect heir or a perfect son. But just… a normal someone, with dreams, lost in wishful thoughts.

"Our house might just lie at a knife's edge at this moment, and we wouldn't have known it. Hidden treacheries and hidden plots, every corner of every part of the Seven Kingdoms. You know it, already, you've gone far. The Vale… the Riverlands. I have been here all my life. Comfortable… here under the shadows of the summer sun. Maybe it's time, you know? To step out… out of the shadows."

Garlan put his hand on his brother's shoulder and said, "Hey, at least we'll do it together. And I am definitely not missing the Blackfish splashing water down my face to wake me up at the break of dawn. But those things you speak of- you never know, Will, you could be wrong."

A ghost of a smile crept up Willas's face as if one who was reminded of a long-time joke or a distant memory. It puzzled Garlan for a few moments, there.

"I wouldn't know, I'm not familiar with the sensation."

And with that, Willas walked away.

Notes:

I hope I manage to capture the dynamic between Willas and Garlan as I hoped in this chapter. Never have a brother myself, so I basically winged their interactions. So this chapter would hopefully resolve the prologue and first chapter of this story as we would move on to their journey by the next chapter. I'm thinking of going straight to Oldtown, where Willas would meet his dearest aunt, the Mad Maid in the Tower.

So, what do you think? Please reply and comment! They make me work faster!

Chapter 9: Willas III

Willas III

Some people claimed that the tallest structure in the known world was the Five Forts, so distant in the Far-East, spanned between the Bleeding Sea and the Mountains of the Morn, sworn to the safeguard of Yi Ti, guarding its passes against the savages that came out of the Grey Waste, hinterland at the edge of the known world. Others said that it was the Wall, seven-hundred-feet of ice, the legacy of the famous Bran the Builder, of which had separated the North of Westeros against whatever horrors lied beyond it, in the Lands of Always Winter, where legends of the Long Night bestirred with eldritch abominations, veiled in haunting treacheries, hidden in the striking shadows of the unknown.

Those were incorrect, the Hightower was the true tallest construction built by man.

The white of the pale milk stone covered the entirety of the tower, from its base up until its peak where the white of the tower ran out and met with the great torch that was the beacon, of which the lords of House Hightower would rule and give orders to their subjects, and oversee the city that was their domain. Oldtown, the oldest and proudest city in the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, and one that once claimed the title of the richest and grandest, indeed, before Aegon the Dragon descended upon Westeros with his sister-wives and forged himself a city so great that it triumphed over all others in mere years.

The stark contrast was clear, however, should one take a look at the foundation where the proud Hightower stood from. The Battle Isle. Shrouded by the shadows of its own tower, the island was a fortress of mystery.

Black, it was. So black that not even the colour of the night when the hour of the wolf howled through could ever hope to match. Black stone of mysteries and wonders. One that none of the maesters that ever came out of the Order of the Citadel could ever find out. Some had claimed that it was Valyria, black stone forged in the same manner of that of the menacing Dragon Roads now scattered upon the broken peninsula. Some had claimed that it descended from further north, the island of which the Free City of Lorath now stood on, forgotten legacies of what was once the proud race of the Mazemakers. And some had even theorized that it predated even the coming of the First Men before the Arm of Dorne broke apart as the Children of the Forest called upon the Hammer of the Waters to smash it into the Stepstones that it was today. Whispers had also arisen of a legend and tales much older, much more ancient. Tales of a black stone that fell from the sky, and of the calamity that descended from whatever heavens or ascended from whatever hells as the First Dawn of humanity ended.

But Willas didn't ride out atop the saddle of his horse for days to trade theories and mince words regarding magic. For it would have its own time, but not now, and not today.

"Impressive, isn't it?" he heard his brother ask from his side.

From atop of the small hill that they now stood upon, they could see the sun drenched in crimson-orange as it sank slowly into the vast sea, rising lower and lower into the deep of the bay of Whispering Sound. And indeed, upon the setting, the Hightower cut a figure as he had never seen before. Not in a life that once was nor in a life that now was. The building rose hundreds and hundreds of feet into the orange sky, its shadow cut upon Oldtown, shrouding the entire city in silhouette, casting upon them the shade of the evening sky.

If Willas was being entirely honest to himself, then he would admit that the inside of his mouth did go dry upon the sight.

The gentle breeze of wind rustled against Willas's hair, and he turned to say to his brother, "One might wonder why our grandfather never comes down from his high tower. And well, I'm not really sure what they are wondering about. I, too, would prefer to rule from the clouds above..."

The uppermost of the Hightower soared amidst the sky of the setting sun. And as it laid nearly among the wispy clouds of an easy day, Willas must concede that for all of its grand words and grand tales, not even the greenest of the green gardens of Highgarden could ever match the sight of a seat amidst the clouds.

He heard Garlan let out a small laugh as he tried to rein in his horse who had been spooked by the rather hard blow of the wind, no doubt coming from the calm yet still brazen bay of which the city of Oldtown laid upon.

"Shall I send the guards to notify the city of our arrival then, brother?"

Willas nearly missed his brother's question but caught on to it at the last moment nonetheless. He took it for himself a deep breath of the refreshing air, and answered, "You do that. The sun will set soon, I should hate it if we should wander through the city in the dark without escorts."

"What? Afraid of a little bit of shadows, Will?" teased Garland, and Willas could actually see the mirth dropping off from his mouth.

He gave it a scoff, however, "Don't be ridiculous, Garlan. It's just simply going to be a bother to do so."

"Oh, really?" challenged back his brother. "I might recall some… distinct memories of a certain someone who would never let the candles burn out in his room at night," he said, and then added as he brought his hand across his beard, "I wonder who…."

Willas stopped at his track, and reigned in his horse as he looked back to meet with the eyes of his brother, "And I distinctly recall a certain someone who couldn't tell which is left, and which is right without having to hold his own hands up," he said while flashing his best, most charming smile that he could muster.

He promptly turned back, ignoring the indignant sounds and muffled yells that came from his back, "It was hard for some people, alright! Not all of us could be little geniuses, you know…"

A laugh threatened to break out if not for his restraint, however, upon the remark of his brother's squire came, "Uh- Ser Garlan, I don't think one needs to be a genius to do so…"

They continued like that, passing upon the roads and the hills, following down the stream of the Honeywine as it ran deep. Its water ran true and long, down to the Whispering Sound where it would yet again widen into the vastness as it met the Strait of the Redwyne. On each side of the river, were gates mightiest that Willas had ever seen in his life. Flanked by statues of sphinxes, they rose in a majestic manner, towering and domineering. And as the gates adjoined, sprang the long bridge that connected them in an Archstone, bridging over the water of the Honeywine. And again from them, rose the even grander towers, belonging to the various parts of the Citadel, rising above the upriver, almost as if trying to tower over each other. Houses and buildings, all alike, across the majestic bridge, where the Citadel claimed themselves to be the most educated and well-learned place in the world, ignorant of the wider and larger mysteries that were laid beyond the plain view.

"That's the Citadel."

Willas needed not to look or to think of the identity of voice for only one person in their entourage would be roused by the idea of grey-haired old men in chains:Sam, the beloved son and heir of Lord Randyll Tarly, who now had turned into his brother's squire for the past few days.

"Don't worry, Sam. I'm sure we will have much time to spare if you do want to visit the Citadel, won't we, Willas?"

Dealing with Samwell Tarly at the cusp of puberty was a chore that was due the payment of all the gold in Casterly Rock, in Willas's thought. He had none against the boy, and had even found him quite… refreshing in some instances. But the truth remained, that this wasn't the Samwell Tarly who had hardened himself as he desperately threw his life into the freezing Wall at the edge of the world. Worse, he had none of Jon Snow's presence to temper such problems that he had in interacting with the other heirs and sons of the Reach. He slew no White Walker, and nor was he a hero. But as much as Willas would grumble and mutter at the end of the day, he knew that the boy was learning, just a little, inching slowly out of his shell even by the barest gauge.

Still, he would gladly leave it all to Garlan to figure it out. If there was someone who could make it work other than the may-or-may-not-be secret Targaryen Prince from Winterfell, it was his brother, Garlan. After all, Garlan did… in some sense and twisted, mangled kind of way, turned Edmure Tully into a much better person, and much earlier than he would've been, too, albeit it was one that was born of pure chance and a stroke of good luck.

And so he put on a smile, and said all the right words, "Of course. I, myself, have many questions and intrigues regarding the Citadel."

The Heir to Horn Hill did puff up in a bright smile at that, much like an overeager child upon receiving an additional dessert at a dinner or something like that. He matures a little late, he thought. But the differences were there, the changes, and the improvements. Still, there would be no Ser Piggy this time around.

"Are you, really, Lord Willas?" asked the boy yet again.

A little annoyed at the inside, he might be, Willas still upheld his courtesy and answered nonetheless, "Many things, Sam. Arcane mysteries… questions to higher things I don't understand and which knowledge we don't possess. Or mayhaps… I would settle for something a bit more… mundane. Tellings of tales, fanciful histories, journals, or even diaries, perhaps… of the buried, now long-forgotten, which might turn out to be interesting. After all, people tend to keep such interesting secrets, don't you agree? Or just to look inside of the minds, the thoughts of the maesters of old, lords and ladies, or septons, even…"

The pudgy boy was visibly confused by his words.

"You have to pardon my brother, Sam. Well- you see, Willas likes his word game very very much, I fear."

A sudden sense of irritation overcame him as the need to clarify himself arose, "I like them just a normal amount. Much like our grandmother, Garlan. We should all aspire more to be like her, you know that. Margaery already does. Maybe you should, too. I believe I could give you some crash course on some words mincing and witty wits if you want to."

"At least I don't write some prepared clever lines on paper, Will."

"Maybe you should try to. To look clever yourself. You never know when you need one, Garlan. When it's time… it's time," he replied as he finished with a satisfied smile. Yet when their conversations were about to continue, they were interrupted, however, by the cry of-

"Dearest nephews!"

The gates of Oldtown were upon them. Strong and solid. Marvels of iron and wood. They stood in the middle of the city walls, high and mighty. Soldiers dressed in silver armours lined up across the field, their formation steady and formidable. The City Watch of Oldtown. And behind them, was the great banner, flapping proudly in the scattering wind. It was a banner of a white tower across an argent field, reaching high. At its top, was a crown of orange fire, in herald of gules, lit ablaze. The beacon of the south, indeed. The sigil of House Hightower, one of- if not the- richest houses in all the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.

It was Ser Baelor Hightower that led the welcome party. He was the eldest son of Willas's grandfather, and thus, his eldest uncle. Commonly known as Baelor Brightsmile, the man with the hair of a mixture of silver and brown did have a pleasant smile and an easy… charismatic aura that seemed sort of natural for himself. He rode atop of a pale horse of a silver colouring, up in the front, and up in the centre of the party. To his side was yet another of Willas's uncles, the second son of Lord Leyton Hightower, Garth, who was known as Garth Greysteel, riding atop of a large destrier. He rode in full plates, dark and… brutish, with his face bearded. Supposedly, he was one of the best swordsmen in the Reach at present time. Albeit none had claimed that he was the second coming of his grand-uncle, Ser Gerold Hightower, known as the White Bull, and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard that had perished at the Tower of Joy.

But that story was best reserved for another time. Albeit not too long of a wait, he hoped. Soon.

"Welcome to Oldtown, my lords. Or nephews, mayhaps? Your lord grandfather is delighted to welcome his grandsons into his pride and joy. As you must have no doubt heard already, a tourney is being organized to properly welcome you into the splendour of our city. And a feast has been prepared for your coming at the Hightower. And- well, I certainly do hope that you do find Oldtown to be pleasant. It is- after all- not the oldest and the grandest of the cities for nothing," spoke his uncle. And his epithet did ring true once more. Quite the silver tongue, his uncle was.

"Oh believe us, dear uncle. We have not yet stopped talking about the marvel that is the Hightower ever since we saw it. Our journey has been nothing but pleasure, and Oldtown certainly lives up to its reputation. I'm afraid not even the beauty of Highgarden could contest it, and I enjoy myself as a Tyrell very much. And The Citadel is also much to look forward to, especially for Sam, here," said Willas before stopping there as he motioned with his hand for the young Tarly heir to move forward, "And this is Samwell Tarly. Lord Randyll's son and heir. He is currently a squire, you see, for my brother Garlan, as you would know."

The Heir to Hightower inclined his head just the shortest at that, "Well met, Lord Samwell. I, myself, have already had the pleasure to meet your lord father several times before, I must say, but not any of his children yet. Until now, that is. And I do hope that you too would enjoy Oldtown. And if it's not to your inconvenience, I will be glad to guide you through the Citadel myself. Perhaps we can find some time in the morrow, that is, if you would like to."

And with that, they were ushered in through the gates.

The first thought to hit Willas's mind was the smell. Oldtown didn't smell like flowers as many would claim. It smelled of fancy perfumes that had been sprayed on and on again, that its scent had turned muddled. A recipe for headache and dizziness, turning Willas a little bit hazy from its strong and overbearing smell. The smell, however, did lose out once they arrived upon the rather better parts of the city. Mansions and townhouses were lined up upon their left and right. Two-stories and three-stories buildings everywhere. Twisting alleys and crooked bends. This, Willas thought, is the part of Oldtown that earns its reputation.

Oldtown was built entirely on stones. The streets were all cobbled. And if Willas wasn't so sure about the wealth of his maternal family before, he surely was now. For this was even better than the Roseroad that crossed the Mander as it met on Highgarden. He first began to notice the quality of the road as they had begun their ride south to Oldtown. When they departed from Uplands, the seat of House Mullendore, sworn directly to House Hightower. And he did find out that the Hightowers sure knew how to maintain their esteem, or their image, perhaps.

"Father has sent for the best cooks of Oldtown. It sure is going to be a lavish feast, I'll give you that. Foods and wines of the Free Cities and further. All of the best quality, even those strange little black pearls of strange fish eggs all the way from the Port of Ibben!"

Willas nodded at the grand tellings of his uncle, jovially serenading their party as they rode to the Hightower, "We are sure that it will be grand, uncle. And we are really looking forward to meeting our lord grandfather, aren't we, Garlan?"

"Oh, yes. It's going to be a pleasure, that's for sure. Years all alone at the Bloody Gate and then at the distant Riverrun has made me realize the importance of one's family, uncle. And it taught me to take one's chances when one could, too."

Their uncle laughed at that. A soft, but heartful laugh. Smooth and soft, not the kind of the throaty one. He said, "Quite, nephew. Quite wise, indeed. Now-"

"I would like it if you would just call me Garlan, Uncle Baelor. The whole 'nephew' business thing seems a bit too formal and tiring for me."

Willas nodded as he joined the conversation, "As do I, uncle. Just Willas for me, please. We are kin, after all. Oh- and if you don't mind me asking, but is your lady wife not joining us?"

His uncle, Baelor Hightower was married to Lady Rhonda Rowan, sister to the current Lord of Goldengrove, Mathis Rowan, who he had personally met at the feast at Highgarden. And if what he previously knew did hold through in its weight and truthfulness, then the couple would've already been married for years, albeit- still childless, and quite strange, too, that. Baelor, after all, was once a suitor for the tragic and ill-fated Princess Elia Martell. That was- of course, until the rather embarrassing incident happened, one that had birthed his uncle the derogatory nickname of Baelor Breakwind, courtesy of no less than the Red Viper, Prince Oberyn Martell himself.

People often overlooked just how complex the weave of the webs spun across the Reach truly was. Tyrell, Hightower, and Redwyne would always first come to mind. But the Tyrells themselves had various cousins and whatnot, married to a Beesbury, a Serry, a Meadows, a Norridge, and with a Footly, an Ambrose, and many others coming in the future. His grandfather, Lord Leyton Hightower, had many children. Among them were married to a Rowan, a Cupps, and a Redwyne. And his uncles, Gunthor and Humfrey were also still unwed. Yet there still was the remaining highest prize, Lynesse… not for too long, though, and still not counting the many unnamed cousins and the rest.

He was sure that none could triumph over such a delicately knit alliance, not even the Florents, even if they were married to Tarly and Crane, and even with Rhea Florent currently married to his grandfather. And if his gambit at the Hightower would prove fruitful in the near future, then he could rest even easier in preparing to head out against the coming, brewing storm. A storm that would decide the yields of his gardens.

"Ah- yes. I regret not having informed you yet. But the news is still early, and we would rather keep it low. My lady wife... is currently pregnant, and I fear that her health is… not in the best condition. And so she must rest easy until the maesters say otherwise."

"That's splendid news, uncle!" shouted Garlan from atop his horse, "Delightful news, indeed. A cousin on the way… we can't wait, can we, Willas?"

It took a few blinks of the eyes for Willas to come to terms with the revelation. Yet another butterfly… is anything even staying the same? At this rate, the next news would be that a Stark has managed to find gold in their mountains.

But still, he swallowed whatever ailed him down his throat, "Sure. We're really happy for you, uncle. And I expect that mother will, too. You should write to her soon."

The Hightower heir answered with a bright smile, "Fret not, I will. I imagine Alerie would ride down to Oldtown herself to give me the yellings of a lifetime should she hear the news from the others first."

Their horses came to a stop as the road dried upon a simple wooden dock.

A ship had already been prepared for them, or at least so it seemed. It was a modest ship, not double-decked or anything, but still… proper enough as a simple ferry. The Hightower, for all intents and purposes, after all, was an island of its own, sitting atop the illustrious Battle Isle. And atop the ship were the banners of House Hightower and House Tyrell, both flying up and about, fields of silver and green, orange and gold. They danced freely in the air of the evening, and with the glory of the summer wind against them.

The sun had sunken by now. It had set the sky ablaze in all its crimson rage before. Down and into the horizon, did it go beyond, vanished under the line of where the sky touched the sea, and where it stretched into the infinity of the unknown. And as the eventide rolled over the easy evening, the warm sky of crimson above turned into a painting of a thousand stars. Dark blue fell upon the horizon, and the day turned into that of the night. Shadow encroached over the grandest and oldest city of Westeros. And the chaotic Oldtown rested just for a bit at that moment.

Willas, too, was slowly sinking into his thoughts. That was- until he was interrupted by the majestic roar of a raging fury, combusting against the silence of the sky. The beacon.

It was a fire in the dark. Growing ever so slowly, yet so sure. The seemingly fragile light dimmed not once but yet again, and yet again. Still, it roared back each time it dimmed, and the growing fury of blazing flame flared upon all of them. As if a giant claw of fire made its way across the crack of doom, so did the fire of the Hightower made its way across the cold air of the night, across Oldtown. It continued to grow, higher and higher, bigger and bigger. Like a sword of pure flame that rose daringly against the shadow of the night, the fire burned brightly over the twilight of the night sky.

The white of the Hightower shone as its flame illuminated over it. And a sense of unexplainable feeling did wash over Willas at the sight. An embrace that was so familiar yet so peculiar, for it was shrouded in mysteries of the unknown. To his skin and inside, it felt almost like a foretelling, and one that didn't sing a happy song, at that. And when Willas turned to look around, he found the same sight upon his brother. With his mouth parted as his jaw dropped low.

His eyes then found the smirking sight of his uncle, his smile streaked almost like a silver gleaming in the dark, "We Light the Way… Welcome to the Hightower proper, nephews."

Notes:

So that's first on Oldtown. I do apologize if this chapter is a bit shorter than the previous, but as I have already said, I want to break the Oldtown story into several ones. This one would serve as the transition of the sort before we would usher into the actual plots. Next chapters; the Tourney, the Citadel, and the Mad Maid! And anyway, several seeds for the plots have already been dropped here across the chapter. I hope you guys think that it'll be interesting!

Also, do you think that restricting Willas's POV would be a good idea, or on the contrary, would it be bad? Someone on another platform said that the lack of Willas's POV is losing the relevance of the plot. Do you feel the same? I know that most SIs sometimes tend to stick to their own POVs with interludes in between, but I do try to keep true to at least some of the original bits of ASOIAF. Although I must be frank that I really do enjoy POVs like Garlan's and Edmure's.

So, what are your opinions? Please do leave a review or a reply!

Chapter 10: Willas IV

AN: Huge thanks for my beta!

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Willas IV

"For House Hightower and House Tyrell! May the Reach be forever bound in togetherness, in the way of the light and in the grace of the Seven-Who-Are-One as it continues to grow strong!" toasted the Lord of the Tower.

The feast was a merriment. Course after course went on, born of the best of Oldtown, no doubt. Born of its bountiful trade and its rich luxury. Drink after drink, it seemed as if they were emptying the wine cellar of the Hightower tonight. Caskets and gallons, Arbor Gold, Dornish Red, and even the fabled Golden Wine of Yi Ti.

The feast also marked the grand showing of the intimacy and the solidarity of House Tyrell and House Hightower, a long fruitful union that began with the wedding of his parents. His sweet mother, ever dutiful and courteous, wed to his father, back then still a mere heir to Highgarden, a half-Redwyne, and thus marking the creation of the power bloc of Tyrell-Hightower-Redwyne, of which they now ruled the Reach, with their blood and with marriages.

When he looked upon the grand hall of the Hightower, he saw the dozens and dozens of tables. Little lords and ladies, vassals of his grandfather's house. Knightly houses and young knights yearning for repute. Squires at Oldtown. Men from the Citadel and the Starry Sept. Their eyes were as plain as noon, their thoughts laid naked for Willas to see. Whispers and half-hidden murmurs. Hushed words fell upon the hall as an uncertain buzz rang throughout the room. Lord Leyton in his high tower.

His grandfather, he decided, was a strange, strange man. His appearance at the feast tonight marked the most public appearance he had in perhaps, the last decade. Men and sailors had whispered, old wives and servants in the taverns, even wenches in their beds of feathers, of the Old Man of Oldtown that shut himself in his high tower, barring his doors and his gates, preferring to rule from the clouds, and drowning himself in witchery and spellbooks.

With hair as silver as a Targaryen, even if Willas never did see an actual, living Targaryen in flesh and in blood, his grandfather cut a striking figure. Lord Leyton Hightower was by no means- a feeble old man, let alone weak or sickly. And even if his hair had begun to bald, just a little, and that his belly began to show his old age, the man was still fit for his age, all things considered. His face was not yet sunken and he still held a charisma to his own, like a bottle of wine growing ever finer as the time went on.

He sat with his wife, Lady Rhea Florent, to his side. Regal and noble, befitting the title of Lady Hightower. Yet there was a sadness to her, a dampening disconcerting mood that surrounded her. Twelve years they had been married, and twelve years did Lady Rhea remain childless. Perhaps it was a good thing, this would mean that the Florents would never have a claim to Hightower, while also ensuring that their alliance would be meaningless. With the Crane of Red Lake flanked by the Oakhearts and the Rowans to their left and right, Lord Alester wouldn't dare raise his banners so long as the Tyrells didn't fumble as they did with their foolish gambit with Renly in canon. And even with Melessa Florent being the mother of the Tarly children and heirs, Randyll Tarly had slaughtered his own wife's bannermen and knights in what was meant to be, or would be, or perhaps would have been, whatever Martin's books could be considered at this point. Added to that, with Samwell Tarly in their… custody and a Redwyne marriage on the way, Tarly's loyalty should be all but questioned.

To Lady Rhea's right was her brother, Alekyne Florent, thirty-two years of age, the heir to Brightwater Keep and still unwed. The Florents had been remiss in the feast at Highgarden, with Lord Alester ailed by a fleeting fever and his children scattered. His heir, Alekyne, had apparently… been staying with his sister, Rhea, and her husband's family for the last few turns of the moon, preferring the quiet solitude of the Citadel and the Hightower. And by all accounts, he was shaping to be a quite capable lord in the future, albeit he wasn't the most martial or the most masculine by any means, not that Willas would have anything to say about it, or could.

Perhaps, he thought, perhaps the foxes could be tamed. And the sweet smell of roses might just lull them to sleep long enough, or even charm them, if the Gods are good.

After all, Lady Victaria Tyrell, a cousin, barely nearing thirty, and thus of suitable age, had already been widowed. Her late husband, poor Jon Bulwer died in a skiff accident last year and thus leaving their only child, little Alysanne Bulwer, the Lady of Blackcrown. And now Victaria ruled as regent and dowager, gaining her enough prestige of her own, albeit hailing from quite the junior branch of House Tyrell. But alas, the Florent heir, if what he heard was true, was not one to be seduced away, for he had little interest in the matter of the flesh. And so, a marriage approach to deal with the Florents seemed unlikely to happen.

The night went on. His grandfather excused himself. And then his wife. And then another, and another. His uncle Baelor had now been the one to organize the rest of the feast, conducting joviality while keeping the festivity of the night to live on.

"Uncle Baelor. You have to forgive me but I think I'm turning in for the night. I'm afraid that quite a lot of riding has made my injury quite a bother tonight."

Willas tried to spare his leg as little attention as he could but when he remembered how it previously was so easy to walk, to run, to swing his legs freely, it proved to be a difficult thing to do. Yes, it wasn't mangled or anything horrendous, and his leg looked quite… normal, even. It was mere limps most of the time. But it didn't stop it from flaring up every once in a while like it was right now.

His uncle nodded at his excuse. "Very well, then, Willas. Do you need anything? Any kind of medication, perhaps? Shall I send up a maester up to your room?"

He raised a placating hand, giving away a soft sigh, "There's no need for that, uncle. This is quite normal. I simply need to rest, it's all there is."

Once again, he received a nod as an answer. But when he stood up and made to leave the room, a hand caught upon his own. Garlan's.

"You're leaving?"

He stared back at the worried eyes of his brother. And while he appreciated the gesture, it wouldn't do for him to show such weakness in such a public display, especially a feast this important. "Yes. But you should stay. I will not rob you of your 'youth', dear brother. You don't have to do everything with me, you know?" he said with a smile. And Willas found himself a bit surprised at how much he did mean it.

He had accepted long ago that he wasn't meant to be the best person. Not a paragon of virtue, certainly not someone that had come upon this world to set it straight like some sort of a foolish savior. Things vile and horrendous, he had done. The tragic accident of Ser Jon Fossoway. The death of Walder Frey and the subsequent Frey Civil War, full of bloodshed, men and women, and unspeakable atrocities. Let alone his patronage of Qyburn, of which would open a whole new can of worms to be talked about. For House Tyrell, for my family, he assured himself. And so he clung, clung to those thoughts and ideas. He thought of a rose with a name like any other, alone in the sunny garden, blooming in a different shade, but brimming, nonetheless.

Garlan was about to rebut, but he cut him off, "It's fine. No- I want you to enjoy this. Believe me, I've had my own share of feasts, too much of a share, even, while you are away at the stony Vale and damp Riverlands," he continued to assure Garlan, and then stretched a finger as he pointed the figures down the hall. "Go talk with Uncle Gunthor or Humfrey. Honestly, Garlan, I'm beginning to feel like your nanny, here."

An averted gaze and half-hidden smile of embarrassment were the ones that answered him. It was in the reverse, actually. Garlan had always been the mother hen of the flock, always had been since they were but children. Ever the stalwart son, the one that had been the least mischievous among them.

"Very well, then, Will. I guess I'll see you in the morning."

Willas gave a silent nod, turning on his feet, and walked his way out of the grandeur of the feast. Before he could leave, however, he heard the half-laughing shout of, "Grow strong, brother!"

Willas smiled to himself, it was these little things in life that he found were refreshing. It began as a joke- born out of their grandmother's continuous ramblings of mockery of the words and sigil of House Tyrell.

Yet when he dwelled upon it, he found that the more he looked into it, the more he admired the simplicity of the sigil as well as the easy words, too easy to be overlooked. A golden rose, signifying its rarity, its worth, and its salience. Growing Strong. Ever reaching and ever-growing. Thousands of years ago, the Tyrells began as but simple Andal adventurers, eventually settling their way in the Reach and getting into the good graces of the Gardener Kings. Ever since then, they were stewards to the Kings of the Reach, serving them as their leal servants and wise counselors. Three hundred years ago, the dragons struck. And Harlan Tyrell's cunning earned him the titles of Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Reach, and the Warden of the South. Titles they held up through this day. And when other houses take lions, direwolves, krakens, and fierce beasts of the likes as their sigils, the rose of the Tyrells symbolized their connection to the Earth, their close proximity to the ground, in the low and the calm, until it sprang forth with bloody thorns. Perfect for what he had in mind, and one that I will write the future with.

His apartment belonged to the near-top part of the Hightower, much like the one that belonged to the Lord of the House and the main family. And the Hightower was a monstrosity that easily reached past a thousand feet. If Willas were to climb the stairs all the way up, then he might as well die by throwing himself out of the nearby window. And thankfully, he didn't have to. For even in a world as stagnant as Planetos, even the brightest minds had thought of an actual, working elevator system. Willas hadn't had the chance to actually delve into the stories and the theories behind the engineering, but he was pretty sure that it probably involved weights and counterweights using some sort of a winch system to control the acceleration. So, they were simple and basic physics theories at the end of the day.

The guard nodded and bowed as he stepped into the elevator.

His weight felt strange at the sensation of going up. A feeling that had been lost at him for seven years and counting… now returned, no matter how different it was. The force of the simple lift carried him against the gravity of the earth, his body heavy and pressed of the result of the change in acceleration. Willas claimed himself no scientist, and nor was he the brightest mind that ever was, albeit he still counted himself far from lacking at the department, but he wasn't sure whether the acceleration that the Earth had was the exact same as the Planetos had. He knew that it was larger than Earth, and definitely far from being a replica that mirrored the Earth closely.

Yet the sight of another guard was what greeted him when he arrived. But before Willas could ask him for directions to his room, the guard spoke first, "Lord Willas," he nodded and bowed. "Your lord grandfather has asked you to join him in his room for tonight."

A dozen thoughts ran their way through Willas's mind at the spoken words. Half-remembered theories of Lord Leyton Hightower, so engraved in books of spells, and whispers of witchery and witchcraft.

It took him a split second to register an answer, but he nodded and answered at the guard, "Very well. If you would show the way then-"

"Addam, m'lord."

The halls of the tower were empty at night. From the windows lined up upon its walls, hung high, the natural light of the moon shone into the deserted hallways, filling them with the luscious silver of the airless night as it rammed into the shrouding shadows that ruled the stone corridors in darkness, their lights flickering away in the blue moonlit sky. Meanwhile, crackling sounds leaped and soared through the vacuum as the burning orange of the lined torches came upon him, accompanying him in his stony silence.

At last, they came upon a black wooden door. Albeit gate was a more proper word to use, since it was more of a sealed archway than a simple door to a room. The black of the wood was emblazoned with painted flames. Seven burning fires, the shade of gold and orange, of the torch of the tower, scattered across its proud surface. The guard left him when the door swung open. And thus, Willas stepped in, into whatever mysteries or complexities lied beyond the door.

Inside the room, the figure sitting at the chair behind the table was not the first thing that he noticed, however. It was instead the woman with hair of silver, standing beside the chair. Her silver hair resembled that of the wealthiest of the silver metals, polished and streaked, shining like platinum, almost radiant in the room draped by shadows. Pale hands and pale skin in a white dress.

It could be none other than Malora Hightower. The eldest daughter of Lord Leyton Hightower, a maid untouched, a maiden unwed, and one that earned the epithet of The Mad Maid. His aunt.

"Lord grandfather," he curtsied as he properly arrived at the room, still feigning ignorance and innocence of the identity of the silver-haired woman.

Lord Leyton Hightower looked up from his desk. And in a span of mere hours, the man seemed as if he had aged ten years. His face was sunk and gaunt. His hair was disheveled and unkempt. There's almost an… unnatural touch to his presence and the entirety of the room, brightly burning almost like a beacon but one that Willas couldn't exactly pinpoint where and what the torch was. His skin was pale, the same shade as the woman beside him, displaying stark difference to the healthy and hale Lord Hightower that had come down to the feast before. Sorcery, he thought. And his heart did skip a beat at it.

"Willas," said his grandfather, welcoming him into the room, with his voice raspy and whispery, "It is good of you to see me in such a short and unwell notice. But you have to pardon me for this is all for the good of House Tyrell… and House Hightower."

He nodded at the useless explanation, mere words of formality from someone of the blood yet also someone who he had never met before this.

"This is- as you might have guessed-"

"Malora Hightower, the Mad Maid, lord... nephew."Her voice was the silkiness of the sutra but also carried with her a hidden lace of poison underneath, traces of venom and power that lingered in between. And the pause between 'lord' and the word 'nephew' instantly alarmed Willas.

Still, he swallowed his doubts, and minced nonetheless, "Aunt Malora. It's so nice to finally meet you in person. I rather wonder about your absence at the feast-"

Yet before he could continue, his lord grandfather took from under his desk an object that he placed at the table, showcasing it in full display. It was a candle. Tall and twisted. Monstrous and crooked. And as black as the night is endless. Valyrian glass candle.

"The glass candle flickered, my lord," said the Mad Maid, her voice easy and as soft as the small breeze of wind that accompanied it.

He tried hard to hide his surprise, for he had long learned to try to abolish every trace of weakness, at least on the outer side, but he failed. And in a flicker of a moment, a fleeting heartbeat, his eyes widened, and the secrets inside were laid bare to the naked eyes of the world.

"I- pardon me, Aunt… Malora. But isn't the glass candle a… merely diminished legacy of the Dragonlords of Old Valyria? Trinkets and tools of their sorcery. Long-gone and long-forgotten in the new world," he said, while his eyes fleeted momentarily to his grandfather, almost with a pleading gaze.

Who am I jesting here…

His aunt smiled a little smile. And Willas found it to be a haunting sight that he would remember, forever engraved in the mind. Perhaps, it was merely addled by his nervousness and the situation, but it was haunting still for him.

The Lord of the House remained silent, preferring to observe as the moments rolled over, and as the haywire strings unraveled.

"That is sweet of you. But try you may be, deftly evading the threads of fate. A lord, an heir, a game of politics. Entangling yourself in the strings of the worldly, woven in matters of the inconsequentials. You are blinded still, by the mirror that was cast, a trick of the shadows. But it's not meant to be yet, not yet the light, indeed."

Cursing himself to the deepest level of hell on the inside, Willas desperately scrambled for hasty reasons and hasty words, "I- uh… I fear I don't really under-"

"Flickered my lord. As I said, I remember. It was the seventh day, the day of the Stranger. A summer day like any other, plain and bare. Yet now so strange and so quaint. Two hundred and eighty-eight years after Aegon the Dragon broke Westeros, shattering it forever as he forged himself a kingdom. A hundred and thirty-five years ever since the last dragon died, misshaped, withered, stunted, and miserable as it was."

And so it was with increasingly growing unease that he once again made a desperate attempt at salvaging the situation, "Aunt- my lady- Aunt… Malora, I'm not sure where you are going with-"

"Magic left Westeros that day. The days of the Broken. And then, the Brightflame came. The Dragonflies. The Unexpected came. They tried and they failed. Following them, the Mad… and the last, the one who thought himself the Prophesied."

He understood the references. "Aegon the Third. Aurion Brightflame. Prince… Duncan? And Aegon the Fifth. Aerys the Second, the Mad King. And Prince Rhaegar."

She nodded at his answers, and the feeling of dread washed over him yet again as the chill hit his spine, a sense of premonition of something that's to come.

"They were weak men. Feeble men. Deluded fools trying to find the lost track of magic. We-" she looked at his grandfather "-are sure that you are aware of this. There are a lot of such men and we know one ourselves. So eager and so spirited, yet looking in the wrong direction, I shan't bother you too much. They all failed. Until that day. Until you."

For a split of a moment, the topmost of Hightower seemed to have transformed into the barren hinterland of the Lands of Always Winter. Frost and cold and a winterbite.

"It burned for near a sennight. Gleaming in gold, shining brighter than even the light of a thousand sun. It showed things unseen and unknown. I saw the bleeding star that splits the sky. I saw a tide, rising high, sweeping upon a storm that it reached even the sky. And the great sand sea, coarse and angry, I saw them bloom. Pale hands, dead as the night, clawing their way out of the deep snows and the deep water. Rubies and steels. The thorns, the webs, and the strings. I saw the hands of gold that sowed a banner of white, and the little white dove that flies from it, and of the seeds that fell upon the blackened ground, ashes of the scorched earth."

His throat went dry at the words, his tongue died, alongside whatever words he had prepared. The only good grace that remained, would perhaps be the fact that the conversations were not leading up to his past and nature, or if the Hightowers really did know or not.

And it was then that Willas walked closer to the desk, his eyes set on the twisted arcane of the now-ruined and doomed Valyria. He inched closer and closer. He knew not why. And almost without a care in the world, he outstretched his finger, aiming for its slender tip, gleaming in a silver light of the reflection of the moon. The crooked edges of the candle were twiddled, sharp enough to cut a shallow cut on one's skin. And as his skin broke upon the cold edge of the candle- it burst. Little drops of crimson hit the wood.

Gold. He swam in a river of honey gold. Yet he found no such sweetness.

Willas found himself assaulted by imageries. It tasted of a conjurer's trick, only malignant. He saw- for each of them- a fleeting moment of a split of a second. Lions, stags, and wolves. Krakens, falcons, and vipers. The trees and the grapes. The huntsmen and the black gates. Of a seahorse riding the sky. Grey tears upon a lake. Crowns of thorns, and the bleeding heads under them.

He then saw Hightower. Only this time, it was shorter, much shorter. It wasn't made of white marble. No, it was black stone that gleamed in the sunlight. The sight was one of the hooded men. In robes of grey and brown, standing atop it. The sea clamored around it, all of it, and all under it. While the clouds spiraled upon it. From the above, was the blazing fire, pale as death, and as fiery as a god's wrath was. It blazed. The eye of the storm. And the eye grew to reveal itself a pale and flaming star.

He saw an empire forged from golden marble and mountains of white pearls. Of a land that stretched so long and wide. He saw cities towering over the mountains and the clouds. And when he looked up, he saw them danced. A thousand of them. In a serpentine form. Their colors were of all the shades of light. Wings fluttering in the open sky. Feathers graced the wind, and their dance was swift. Their tails seemingly endless. Everywhere, the dragons danced the sky.

But then the shadow fell. And the two rings graced the sky of the night. Luminous white, they were. It remained until the second ring broke through. At first, it split. But soon it cracked like the crack of doom. Like a fire that roared through the soaring stone towers. He tasted the malice, the cruelty. And as it happened, he saw the streak of black that fell down from the middle of the sky. The night soon turned to grey. At last, it shattered. And out came, the monstrosity. They twinkled like an easy star, each of them a lone painting of a canvas that went blank. But when they did soar, they shed a trail of grey, ash that choked the air, and the cries soon followed.

That jolted him out of whatever trance he was in. But before he could return, he saw them, for once more. He saw gardens in the desert sand, the pool of crystal blue, and the trees that swayed low. He saw the stones sunk in sea as the water took them. He saw the man with no face standing still. He saw roses, of gold and red, and of black and white. They grew like vines. Their thorns intertwining and gripping, dripping crimson of blood. He saw the skulls dipped in gold, and of the gilded men and gilded corpses. He saw those who laid toothless. Willas dreamed of flames that burned green. And long last, he dreamed of water, black and blue, over the wide and vast green, upon a golden spring. And when the water washed over it, he saw the crows feast. On a field of dead.

Eyes of silver met him at his return.

"I never was really sure. Until today," came the voice of silk.

Willas didn't care. He didn't spare it a thought, not when it was all he could do to stop himself from falling over, and the sight of the cold stone floor never seemed so seductive.

Panting through his breath, clinging to whatever thoughts and memories that flashed through his mind, desperately gripping upon his sanity, Willas cried out through his exhaustion, "B- but- that- t'was- glass… glass candles. T-the Valyrians- they- they- they only… communi-"

"And where do you think the Red Priests of R'hllor looked from? Men claimed how the dragonlords of Old Valyria were unbeatable at the back of their mounts. Fierce beasts and fiery flames. of how they ruled the skies with their dragons. They are wrong. The lamb herders didn't become kings of the world over the flesh. They ruled from their towers. The glass candles were their bridges."

"The Targaryens are many things. But they have the right of it with their words. Fire and Blood. Fire and Blood ruled Valyria. And what just unraveled- was the magic of the blood. The blood of Garth Greenhand, first of the First Men, run through your veins, but they should mean nothing in the face of the sorceries of the dragonlords. Yet they lit all the same. How… quaint," she finished with a deceptively sweet smile.

He took a seat, a long-awaited one.

Lord Leyton stood up from his seat and said, "And so it is that magic once again walked over Westeros. A flicker, it might be. But this means that it is not dead."

There is no last hero, no gallant prince. No warrior-made-flesh. I saw nothing of a burning sword. There is no great destiny. There is no great fate that awaits. There is no promise from the other side. All the world is a stage, of mockery and jeers. A play without end. Yet the ink is wet.

"Willas, dear. I shall not ask you about anything that you saw if it's not meant to be seen by me. Your room has already been prepared, and a servant has waited for you should you wish for anything. I can only-"

"Sorcery," said Willas, pointing to the two occupants of the room, "You. Her."

A white hand reached down on him, a silent offering.

Their skin touched, and something inside Willas stirred. His exhaustion left him, and he found himself to be breathing easier than ever. And for a beat of a heart, the Mad Maid of the Tower seemed to shine in silver, and her light was enthralling, but he blamed it on his addled mind.

"We at the Hightowers never forget. Not since the follies of Otto and her daughter when they danced away the greatness of our house. The lords and ladies simper and bow, scraping and kneeling. They play their little game, forgetting that the true light is not down there. It is above. And we are its entrusted. From the day of Uthor the First. Until the day of the Witch-King. The Nightwalker. He-Who-Walks-by-the-Shadow. When all shall be enlightened."

Notes:

This chapter is quite exciting for me to write. And no, I have no current interest in turning this into a kind of high fantasy of the sort. The Hightower screams nothing but magic, so the proximity of being in it is the deciding factor in the magic stuff here. And it's going to probably be sort of a one-time thing. I'm laying a few grounds for when the story would turn from war and politics into the endgame of ASOIAF; the Long Night. And this, I hope, is also serving as a way to fill in the gaping hole of the huge question mark that is House Hightower. Of how they have another interest that lay on their hands rather than joining the chessboard in canon. So yeah, this is kinda a one-time thing for Willas, and he's not going to be some Warg King or Bloodraven reborn, and magic is not going to be heavily featured, not until much latter. I'm also hoping that I'm able to keep the sense of vagueness, of how the world of ASOIAF is still tinted with magic at every turn, but not entirely present.

I read quite... a lot of stuff and theories online for this one. Azor Ahai, Aeron's vision, of Marwyn and the Glass Candle, and many many others. But I figure I'd try to chip in and write it my own, rather than blandly copying one of the theories out there, but still taking inspiration. Also, the Glass Candles, are said to be devices and tools of the dragonlords, of which they could see beyond mountains and seas, and send messages through dreams. But I figure that it would be much more of a carbon copy of the Palantir rather than something exciting. And so I took one of the theories that I saw, mentioning that Red Priests and their flames are mirrors of how the Glass Candles were used.

Anyway, not all of the stuff in visions and prophecies would come true. This is ASOIAF- the future is always a fickle thing. But it's been a joy in creating a magic-related character and writing the visions (while looking at my notes:p)! I always believe that the "Beside him stood a shadow in woman's form, long and tall and terrible, her hands alive with pale white fire" could refer to Malora. Oh, and I also try to include more of Willas being his own person and himself rather than using him constantly to drive the plot (I thought his character was quite lacking). The next one would end our time at Oldtown, with the tourney and the stop at the Citadel. After that, the Arbor!

Chapter 11: The Sowing in Oldtown

Summary:

The glass candle flickered and magic streaked in the Hightower for but a fleeting moment in the last chapter. Strange tales and ominous signs were given. In this, the Reach rejoiced in its reputation as the heart of the Chivalry with the Tourney of Oldtown. Meanwhile, Willas continues to plot, and decides to a pay visit to the Citadel...

Notes:

First of all, thanks to my beta 6thfloormadness (over at AH and SB) who had wonderfully beta'd this monstrosity of a chapter and gave some advice about it. Also Tertius711, thanks for helping with some ideas and discussions regarding the last part of this chapter. This chapter consists of two POVs; Baelor Brightsmile and Lazy Leo Tyrell. Thought about separating them, but I want the Oldtown subplot to conclude here.

BAELOR

Baelor walked through the stairs and the steps. He saw the little bends, the crooked edges at the end of the little turns. The stairways and the stones. Baelor knew them like he would the back of his hand. For he was born beneath these walls. And beneath these walls, his future would reside.

Today, Oldtown stirred. It stirred with a sense of splendor sprayed with the scent of something great that was to come. An expectant feeling washed over the air. Like the setting sun at the end of a drab, dreary day, waiting for the closing curtain as it would yet again unveil came another morning. For at the end of the day, was yet another day dawning.

That morning was here. And it brought with it, the sour air of a biting wind of gloom. And it was yet another day of waiting. Of the uncertainty of the rising sun, and whatever it would bring in its new dawn for House Hightower.

The empty chairs were a sight he couldn't miss. His father and his sister were once again absent, as they had more often than not. Garth had gone down to oversee the preparations of the tourney ground since the break of dawn. Leyla, Denyse, and Alysanne were wives, now. They had their lord husbands and they had their new homes, new families.

The door opened. And came in his nephew, Garlan, the Tarly boy, and his youngest brothers with them; Gunthor and Humfrey.

He nodded for them to sit before asking, "Where's Willas? Is he not with you?"

Garlan gave him a soft shake of the head. "I'm afraid not, uncle. He sent a servant to inform me that he's still tired and that he's not feeling the best at the moment, and asked me to deliver his apology to you."

And so it seems that dear old father and Malora have run him dry, he thought.

Baelor didn't envy his nephew. He had been the receiving end of many of his father and his sister's entangling strings. And even if he had little interest and little inclination at such… arcane learnings, sorceries long-forgotten and sorceries long-departed, whatever his father had and would command him, Baelor still would, at the end of the day.

He gave his nephew a bright smile, all the while raising a hand to dismiss the matter. Courtesy never hurt anyone. "There's nothing with it. I can only pray to the Gods that he will get better soon. Shall I send food up to his room, then?"

"The servant had already offered, uncle. So there's no need for it."

He nodded. "Will he be joining us at the stands, today, then? And I hear that you're going to be in the melee."

Garlan gave the barest hint of a smile, his face tinted with embarrassment, almost like a child. The poor boy is alone. At least on the inside.

"I don't think so. Willas never does like tourneys much. I'm sure you could understand… why," he said while grimacing as his face contorted with hints of grief. "But he did mention the possibility of visiting the Citadel today."

Mace Tyrell wanted for himself another Leo Longthorn. Yet his prized rose turns wilted now, but still a thorn of his own. Quite the thorns… indeed. Most curious, this one, one that Mace Tyrell has begotten.

"Eh, we're only beginning today. And the melee is not going to be as grand as the joust, anyway. So, you're in for today, Garlan?"

"I wasn't going to. But uncle Gunthor and Humfrey here persuaded me to enter alongside them," he said, motioning to Baelor's younger brothers.

"Of course you should. Your reputation precedes you, dear nephew. A squire to Brynden Blackfish at age twelve, and then knighted by him and dubbed Garlan the Gallant!" said Gunthor, always jovial and always cheerful. "Oh, I can already hear the cries of the fair maidens. My gallant Ser Garlan," he snickered as Humfrey joined him.

Baelor didn't reply, but he smiled politely. Look at them and let them. And when the servants arrived with their food, he invited them all to immediately dig in. "I shall arrange the suitable arrangements and inform the Citadel, then."

"Oh- there's no need, uncle. Willas said that he doesn't want to make this a big deal."

The eyes of the Tarly boy fleeted between him and his nephew. And Willas had said that the boy had the misfortune of being born a maester yet in the body of Randyll Tarly's eldest and heir.

It was Garlan that first noticed him. "You seem as if you want to join him, Sam?"

The boy practically burst with stars in his eyes, "C-can I, really, Ser Garlan? B-but then I'm to be your squire, and you will be fighting today!"

"Uncle Baelor said it himself. It's just the melee today, so I won't need much. I'm sure that I can easily find a replacement for you. Perhaps a cousin or two. Don't worry, Sam, I'll ask Willas for you to come along with him. I'm sure that he won't have a problem. If- if that's alright with you, uncle, that is…"

"Of course it's alright! Many of our… lesser cousins would be delighted with the honor," he bellowed jovially even if inwardly, he was enjoying the quiet amusement from the irony that befell Randyll Tarly. "Anyway, Lynesse is not joining us?" he asked his brothers.

It was Humfrey that answered him. The two were always close, especially since they were both the youngest children of their father.

"No," he said, shaking his head and still chewing his food, "You know her. She's not happy with you, or father. Nor anyone, really." He followed up with a shrug.

He could sympathize with her. Twenty-two years old and a maiden unwed. At least in the eyes of the realm. Lynesse has repeatedly begged their father to send her away. She often dreamt of heroic fools and chivalrous heroes from the songs. And with her hair shining gold, more so than even the Lannisters or the Targaryens, it wasn't exactly tough for the loveliest daughter of Lord Leyton to find a suitable suitor.

That may change soon, he reminded himself. Willas had discussed the issue over his father and himself the night before. With the growing trade of the Reach, the power balance in the East had shifted. And when formerly, the Jade Gates of Qarth were shut tight and guarded even stricter than that of a Braavosi courtesan's cunt, it had now changed. Rumors had also made their way to Hightower, of a Yi Ti Emperor forging an alliance with the Pureborn of Qarth, once again opening the illustrious and golden Yi Ti to the world. For so long had Yi Ti been isolated. Hundreds and hundreds of years, mayhaps. Comfortable in their seats of pure gold. Heh. Baelor snorted at the drunken sailors' claim.

Yet for all their wealth and power, Qarth still sat at the edge of the world. Too far. And too many seas laid between them. Instead, his nephew had proposed to seek a more suitable middle ground. And that was Old Volantis. North of Essos, the Braavosi ruled Lorath in all but name, and Pentos was still under their iron grip from the wars in the past. On the other side, Norvos and Qohor remained as isolated as ever, paying little mind to the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. And so the ones that left were the Three Daughters and the First Daughter herself.

Lys was too small, too perfumed, and too focused on their prized whores. Added to that, history had also taught them that it could be taken in a storm of a fortnight. The other daughters; Myr and Tyrosh, they laid on the wrong end of the Stepstones. Volantis, meanwhile, was perfect. Sprawling over the mouth of the Rhoyne, it bridged over Westeros, Qarth, the Slaver's Bay of the Ghiscari remnants, and even that of the Summer Isles.

The Volantene was also currently expecting a new election for the position of Triarch. And as they grew rich and content with trades, the Elephants had never been stronger as it sat even more comfortable over the now trampled and nearly-toothless Tigers. Maegyr, though, might just remain this one last time, he thought. Willas had also pointed out that it was in their interest, of Westeros in the long-term, to see Volantis turning more and more into a merchant city, to let their steel rust away, and for the Century of Blood to fade into but mere words on forgotten books. "Let the First Daughter grow fat. I'll feed her myself if I can. Let them sleep easily on their beds of gold. For a fat soldier strikes the weaker than the one that's fit. And should they fall, they fall the heavier. And should they try to rise again, they would find it harder, too," his nephew had said.

The world of the merchant is an ever-changing one. Powers had risen and fallen, new and old. And his nephew, so it seemed, had done his work and assignment well. He had kept a tap on one Alios Qhaedar, one of the strongest and richest merchant princes in the court of Volantis. Young and unwed, a man of twenty-nine years old. He had none but a nephew, born from his late sister, to inherit his trade empire, and the boy had only lived to see six name days. Surely, even a merchant prince of Volantis could see the merits of the hands of Lord Hightower's daughter. A Lord Hightower in alliance with the Redwynes and their grand trade fleet, and with their liege lord of the Tyrells.

Baelor swallowed down the warmth of the broth that came with the spoon, taste of relief in the bite of the morning, "She wants to marry. A marriage. I understand. And she may actually get one this time if she behaved."

"R-really?" choked out Humfrey, making a fool of himself as he frequently did. "To who? Not Blind Beesbury, I hope. Lynesse would sooner shave her head bald if that's the case."

"No. Not Blind Beesbury," he reassured them, a mischievous smile plastered over his face. "Although, what does your sister think of the Long Bridge of Volantis?"

"So it's to be a Volantene merchant prince, then? Ah, I'm sure she'll be delighted to hear that," nodded Humfrey happily.

Garlan joined in their conversations, "Congratulations, then. I wish Aunt Lynesse could find happiness there. Although, if I may ask, is this Volantene groom-to-be the same as Willas had mentioned before?"

Baelor nodded. Alerie's sons are sharp. "Yes. Alios Qhaedar. He's a new rich, as your brother had called him, but the Qhaedar's name is still an Old Blood, albeit nearly impoverished a few generations before. A shrewd and able man, he rebuilt his house's greatness. And another of your uncles, Lord Paxter, had long established a trade connection with him, and Willas thinks that it won't be long until we can fully have him. The man is also expected to be elected as Triarch, not this year probably so maybe the election after that. But, Lynesse might very well be the lady wife to a Triarch of Volantis," he finished while raising his cup.

"To the very best, then," answered his nephew in a toast.

"To the best of us all," he replied. "Well, in that case, it's better that we get prepared soon. I hear that we have quite a lot of guests. Eager knights and young boys living the dreams. Why! I even hear that some of them are Dornish! A Dayne or something, I think…"

***

The banners danced in the wind.

Baelor spied the yellow flowers of House Cuy, the white hands of the Oldflowers, and even the ominous sigil of House Blackmont, a baby on a vulture's grasp. The butterflies of the Mullendores were to his left, alongside the black roses of House Costayne. To the right, he could see the purple sable of House Dayne, yet with its famous falling star in black instead of white. But it remained, that the two largest and mightiest were but the green and silver of House Tyrell and House Hightower.

He found himself thinking back to the days of the Rebellion. Of crossing into the marches of Dorne and the Red Mountains. Of the damp and wet Stormlands. Baelor remembered the march-

His thoughts were cut off short, however, as the loud cries that came from the crowd roared yet again. And Baelor could see Ser Hugh Beesbury getting knocked out of the melee area.

The melee had thinned considerably. When once more than half-a-hundred men had stood inside the arena, now less than a fifth remained. Through the field of seven men that remained, Baelor could make out his nephew in his silver and green armor, with twin roses adorning his chestplate. To his left and right were Baelor's brothers; Garth, of whom was called the Greysteel, in a full plate of gleaming dark silver, and Gunthor, who preferred simpler armor that he dressed with a simple white cloak, plain if not for its bottom half licked by Hightower flame.

Aside from the three members of his family there were two Reachmen still in. Ser Emmon Cuy had managed to distinguish himself in the melee, knocking out Ser Alekyne Florent and even Ser Robar Royce. The Royce knight, after all, for he was so far and miles away from his homeland at the Vale, was a renowned tourney knight, winning bouts of melees and sometimes even jousts throughout the realm of the Seven Kingdoms. The other was the mysterious Oldflower knight, clad in bright green armor from head to toes, with a lone white hand adorning his breastplate. Baelor would admit it to himself, that the overeager young Reachman didn't exactly inspire such air of mysteries, as the color of his armor would blind any who would even look in the first place. But Baelor would then remember his lessons when he was but a child, of the sigils and the words. And of House Oldflower's supposed ancestry.

That made it five. The remaining two, however, were Dornishmen. Confidently clad in brown Dornish leathers, snakeskin, perhaps? was Ser Melgar Blackmont, the younger brother to the current Lady of the House, Larra Blackmont. Yet it was not the outfit that drew Baelor's attention. No, it was the sigil of the flying vulture that he displayed proudly. Must Oldtown suffer yet another petty Dornishman in the future? It had burned under Samwell Dayne, the Starfire, once, and it did not need a repeat. And with the ever-popular rumors and theories, of which he agreed, partially, regarding the legendary Vulture Kings and their connections to House Blackmont, Baelor kept a guarded gaze and wary eyes for the man.

The last man in the melee was a Dayne. His hair was that of silver, no less than a Hightower's, but with a distinct, divisive mark of a streaking black across them. He was far away, but Baelor could recognize the purple eyes that had been native to House Dayne, them swirling in anger and in dark. This Gerold Dayne, apparently, had gained quite the dark reputation as he would call himself the Darkstar. Baelor's lip curled at the thought, and he spared little respect for such a man going around and desperately spreading his moniker like that. Yet still, Baelor would reserve a considerable amount of caution against such a man. And his swordsmanship skill was one to heed so far.

Baelor could see the Blackmont and the Dayne both charging against his kin. The other two, the Cuy and the Oldflower knight remained on the other side of the arena as it seemed that they had struck a truce, and had chosen to cleverly wait for the outcome between the hot-headed Dornishmen and the Hightowers.

The song of steels rang through the air. The Blackmont knight had charged ahead with his morningstar, proving himself a match against Garth's strength and bigger build. They were dancing a one-man dance, for the Blackmont was parrying left and right and up and down, spinning and turning on his feet while the more robust Garth await with his advantage to let the Dornishman tire himself out. A snake and a tower. Ser Melgar slithered across the arena, his smaller body and much quicker speed allowed him to run circles around the heavier Garth. Yet his brother still chose to stand his ground, unmovable and unyielding, much like the tower they took their sigil from.

The other duel happened to their right, with Garlan and Gunthor working together to take the continuous attacks coming from the Dayne Knight, a branch of the Daynes, he reminded himself. Gerold Dayne was cruel with his longsword, sending jabs and thrusts against the lightly defended Gunthor, while Garlan took a step away from them, ready to spear in once an opening would present itself.

Baelor could make out the mouths opening and closing repeatedly, but he couldn't exactly hear the words, not with the wind of the Whispering Sound raging like a gale. They were gathered on the edge of the city walls, and the tourney ground was a clearing surrounded with pavilions that led to the open bay. But even with the wind, there were still some that had come to Baelor, words and mentions like "Arthur Dayne," "Shame," "Embarrassment," and a little something about "Flower" and "Rotten".

As the Darkstar seemed to have been overwhelming Gunthor, the last two knights in the bout finally decided to join the array and press their advantage. Baelor could see Garlan easily holding off both of them at the same time. A true talent on display. I see Uncle Gerold in him. Baelor was but a young child when he would still see his uncle, the famed White Bull, from time to time. But he remembered the dazzling amazement that he felt, with them now coming back as they overlapped with his senses.

Another cheer came, and Baelor smiled proudly upon seeing Gunthor currently hard-pressing his opponent. The Dayne's stance was sloppy if him deflecting Gunthor's parries and thrusts at the very last moment were any indication. And when Blackmont claimed speed over Garth, the Dayne's speed was redundant for Gunthor was made of similar build, quick and agile. His brother's sword took no later than a heartbeat before it yet again approached the Dornishman. And it damn well near succeeded, for the Dayne had temporarily lost his grip against his brother's stronger momentum, but Gunthor's sword remained missing the main target, and it skirted off along the edge of Darkstar's sword instead and stopped at the edge of his throat.

"Yield!" he heard his brother shouted.

"I-" the Darkstark made a move to open his mouth, only for it to twist into a malicious smile. A gasp went from the stands, and Baelor could see the Dayne's foot over his brother's hung cloak. Gunthor reacted fast, thank the Seven, and tried to jump back, forgetting the main obstacle hanging from his shoulder.

The sound of fabric getting torn was heard, and Baelor could see Gunthor's cloak nearly shorn in half as Gerold Dayne's longsword deftly cleaved it in the middle. The thrice-damned Dayne then lunged toward his brother, his longsword firmly gripped on his right hand. Gunthor, however, was unprepared, and as he made a fade to avoid the thrust of the coming sword, his right foot caught up on the torn half of his cloak. Fool! yelled Baelor in his mind. Yield, you damn fool… he wanted to say- up until he remembered that the Dornish knight had never given him the chance in the first place. And knowing Gunthor, the impulsive and short-tempered boy that he was, Baelor knew that his brother would rather sell Oldtown than yield. He's insulted. He then took his gaze to his right, observing Humfrey who was already half-leaving his chair. He had gone down earlier in the melee and thus had joined him on the stands, bandages in white yet soaked in red around his leg. It was the same Darkstar that had felled him, sword to the thigh. Gunthor, you chivalric fool! As if all this would matter anymore if you're dead!

As the confrontation neared nearer, the young son of Lord Hightower would then made a move to pivot. Baelor deduced that he would try to use the momentum of the spin to meet Dayne's sword with his own, but the fabric remained caught on his foot. And then it twirled. His brother came crashing down, tumbling on his twisted foot, all the while Gerold Dayne's sword was now on level with his head.

"Gunthor!" he heard his youngest brother yelling from his side. Baelor had now stood up from his seat.

Gerold Dayne now held a vicious smirk on his face, believing himself triumphant already. But then a kick would come to his thigh, courtesy of Gunthor's left foot as he desperately tried to get the Dayne to fall alongside him.

It worked. Yet the Dayne's sword remained entrenched in his right hand, only instead of facing sideways, it had now turned vertical as its tip was directed at the right side of Gunthor's head. And Baelor's heart did skip a beat at that. He didn't realize it, yet he was shouting, and his feet had carried him out of the stands and into the arena. The seconds passed painfully slow, almost as if the Gods in their heaven had slowed it down purposely as they made their way to watch. A slice went through the air. And the blood trickled down Gunthor's ear as it was cut off. Baelor saw red-

A scream. It was Darkstar's. And when Baelor stopped to look, he saw the tip of a silver sword coming out of the Dayne's palm. Garlan's sword.

Gunthor rose back to his feet in the confusion. And as the arrogant Dornish had deemed it unnecessary to arm himself in full plate, he had but few leather armors scattered along his arms.

His brother had now stood up. His hands were on the pommel. His knuckles were white. And his face was ablaze with the flaming torch of their tower. Gunthor swung. And so blood poured out of the Dayne's hand… or what was left of it.

---

LEO

Leo Tyrell had risen from his bed since the wake of dawn. He had written the five-page that Prissy Perestan, the old twit that he was, had asked. And thus, he was free to be out of the Citadel, today. Supposed to be.

The city of Oldtown was alive with and ever since the coming of the Tyrells. Lord Hightower had feasted his grandsons in a feast that was said to rival the wealthiest of Yi Ti emperors of the past and present. Yet that was not enough, a tourney was also to be held today in honoring the future lords of the Reach. No men had claimed that it was a second Harrenhal, but even in a kingdom where tourneys could be found on every corner on every sennight, a tourney thrown by the Hightowers of Hightower themselves was still one to behold.

The main branch of the Tyrells now consisted of the sons and daughter of his first cousin, the Lord Mace Tyrell. Leo himself had not seen them and he did not really know them either, but surely- him being a Tyrell would be worth a difference, and hopefully a huge one, too, at that.

And so, it was with yet another of lazy sighs and half-hearted steps that he left the gates of the Citadel. His father had spoken to the Archmaesters to let him off for the day. And not even Vinegar Vaellyn and his acid tongue of rotten wine could spoil his day, not a one!

In the morning, the pavements of Oldtown shine like silver. And the easy river streams of the Honeywine were misty so early in the day. It was always like this. Breezy and damp, those were what Oldtown was. They were little details that Leo noticed- but convinced himself that he heeded no mind of it.

He threw a dirty copper star at the beggar that blocked his way, feeling that he was not yet ready to bother words so soon. And with dragged steps, Leo finally reached the office of the City Watch. Irontooth Todd nodded at him at the door, his crooked teeth for all the world to see. Inwardly, Leo sneered, such a man that was so incapable, a useless lickspittle that leeched off his father.

He gave a short knock at the door, not bothering with courtesies and stuff, meaningless. His father bid him to come in, and so he strolled into the office, making sure to drag his steps and put on a long face.

"Will I be going to the tourney with you, father?" he asked.

Morin Tyrell was a burly man of fifty-three years old. His hair that once was brown had now turned to white. And it was once long and flowing, it had now thinned and turned to bald. He wore a cloak of silver stamped with green, as a Captain of the City Watch only would.

"You are not to go."

His eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Lord Willas Tyrell is intent on making a visit to the Citadel today. He would take alongside him, Samwell Tarly, Lord Randyll's son, the two of you have met before-"

"That pig of a craven?" he snapped.

"You will watch your words in front of them. Ser Garlan will be fighting in the melee today, but Lord Willas informs me that he is not coming to the melee, a change of plan. And he would be there for the joust instead tomorrow. So instead, you will accompany them."

A sense of irritation flared up, and Leo had to bite back his tongue, a rather rare occurrence to happen, but this was his father- after all. "Why me? Serenading boring lords is never one of my hobbies, I recall."

His father looked up from his desk, taking a break from the stack of papers and ink. "You will do well to be careful, Leo. Lord Willas is the future lord of our house, and he inherits far more of his grandmother and my good-sister rather than that of my nephew."

"So what?" he lamely waved his wand, dismissing the trivial concern of his father. After all, it was not like he could do anything. Leo was the second son of a fourth son, it was not like he would have anything to do with House Tyrell in the future. Soon, they would even forget his father and him, he wasn't even sure that those cousins of his would even know he existed. Even the Redwynes would come first before him or any of his direct family.

"If you could not understand, then perhaps it would be better if you give up hope of forging your chains," said his father in a final tone.

Leo hated this. The world never seemed to leave him alone. All he wanted was an easy day of watching the tourney, and perhaps some pretty maidens would be there- crying or weeping from the horrors of such brute actions that would happen.

"Alright, I'll do it," he said as he stood up from his seat, and thus leaving his father's office, muttering half-a-hundred curses he had learned from Vinegar Vaellyn under his breath,

It was near noon when Leo finally saw them.

Lord Willas Tyrell was draped in satin silk of green and gold. His hair was cut short, as opposed to the long one that Leo had seen on him upon his arrival at the city. A fiery rose in blood orange clasped the emerald cloak that he had donned. And around his neck, was a crown of silver necklace, grey chains. He was clad in leather, black and brown, feet to the waist, up until it met with the strip of gold of his belt. His right hand laid atop of the long black cane, lined with strips of Tyrell rose and green. His face was sullen, and Leo knew that kind of look.

The pudgy boy beside him was a sight from his memory. Samwell Tarly, the heir to Horn Hill. Such cruel japes the world gave. He was fat no more, but no one would claim him skinny still. His eyes didn't change much, Leo thought, still bore that cast of fear, of doubts. As opposed to the grand Tyrell heir, the craven was dressed in much simpler clothes. Clad in a brown and green doublet that didn't suit him much.

Leo walked over them as they passed the gates, a score of guards and Tyrell men-at-arms around them, silver-plate and golden rose painted on their breasts.

"Lord Willas, my father has bid me to accompany you around the Citadel, today. I'm Leo. Leo Tyrell, a son of Lord Mace's uncle, Morin."

He gave him a curt nod. "Well met, cousin Leo. You are a novice at the Citadel, yes?"

"Yes, it has been for three years. I hope to forge my first chain by the end of next year, cousin," he said.

He gave him another nod. And so it seemed that the Heir to Highgarden was not much of pleasantry. Either that or something was currently troubling him. But Leo figured that he didn't care enough to ask, nor did he want to have anything with it.

"This is Samwell Tarly. He is a squire for my brother Garlan, as you might have known him. I understand that you two have met before."

Leo nodded this time, and he gave a sly smirk. "Indeed, we have. It's nice to see you again, Sam," he said sweetly, but his eyes and the corner of his mouth promised something else different for the boy. "Isn't Ser Garlan fighting in the melee today, cousin? My father told me about it. Shouldn't Sam be with him, then?"

One of the guards glared at him, no doubt thinking of him as an insolent boy. Let them be. It's not like it matters.

"We are to leave Oldtown after the joust is done. It's a tight ship to run, the time. And as we want to visit the Citadel today, my brother is agreeable to get a replacement squire, one of our Hightower cousins, for the day. It's only the melee, after all."

Leo nodded silently. He preferred to keep his wits for later, because who knew when he would suddenly need them.

"Are we going to the Seneschal first, my lord?" he asked as they continued to walk past the statue of the Young Dragon.

"No. My grandfather, Lord Leyton, had already sent words to the Citadel. No, instead we are going to your uncle and my Great-Uncle. Are you familiar with the library here, cousin?"

"Any novice here is familiar enough, Lord Willas. They got us cleaning it every other day, more so when the Archmaesters would have something to chastise us about. I, myself, am extremely familiar with it. I find that life is fleeting, cousin and that we wouldn't get to enjoy it much if we never take a few bendy and crooked turns along the way."

Leo spied his cousin's lip curling into a smirk. "Indeed. You're quite… wise, aren't you? How old are you again?"

"Five-and-ten. And I do try, my lord," he answered with a similar smirk as he mockingly bowed upon the compliment. This Willas Tyrell might be a little less boring or dull than he had judged him first, so it seemed.

"Why the Citadel, then? If life is so dull, that is."

Leo raised his shoulders and pursed his lips, "The question is not why. It's where. Where else could I go? I am the second son of a fourth son, and even my brother has already had grandchildren."

When he turned to look, he saw the eyes of his cousin studying him, almost intently, but still clouded by the gaze of indifference. Indeed, Lord Willas guarded himself so zealously, so tightly wound and shut.

"A shame. I guess we can't choose where and who we came from, can we?" spoke the Heir to Highgarden. His voice was raspy- not quite hoarse, still soft, yet it bore the level of curiosity that drilled something inside Leo. A wondering of some kind. "If only we can," he added after the long pause of quietude, with the corner of his lip curled ever so slightly this time.

They continued to walk like that. In silence as they made their way to Archmaester Gormon. And Tarly was silent, too, Leo had spied, albeit his eyes were anything but that.

"So, what interests you here at the Citadel, Lord Willas?" he spoke as they approached the door to Gormon's office.

"Lately, cousin… I have found my faith quite shaken, and that I've begun to wonder more and more regarding the mysteries of a human's faith. Is there really an all-knowing being up there? Of which we would be judged and either be sent to heaven or to hell. King Jaehaerys the Conciliator sought the advice of a Septon and his reign was regarded as the best of all the Targaryens. And so, I, too, am seeking for some faithful advice… perhaps from books that Barth had left behind, or-" he was cut off as the rattling sound of a key upon a lock was heard, and the door swung open.

Gormon Tyrell was fat and old. He dragged his dirty grey robes across the floor, accompanied by the clanking sounds of his chains against each other. Some might say that he was yet still a robust man, yet Leo saw nothing much in the man. And to be fair, it wasn't like he had much respect for all the doddering old men here at all.

"Ah- Mace's son, aren't you? Come in, my lord," he said before adding more as his eyes turned to Leo. "And dear Leo, too, how is Morin doing with all the haste and the ruckus in the city?"

They entered the room with the guards staying outside. The chairs there were of leather. He then heard his cousin say, "You have what I've asked, Great-Uncle?"

The old man took three books from upon his shelf, all dirty and dusted. "Yes, yes. A most puzzling request, I must say, nephew, but it's always right to consult with religions and faith when one is in doubt. Here's Septon Barth's personal writing during his days as the Hand of the King. Unfortunately, the Citadel can't bear to part with the copy of his Unnatural History, so you must pardon us. And here's Septon Eustace's accounts on the Dance of Dragons. Now, I must warn you, Lord Willas. I, myself, failed to much enjoy his writings. It's a bit dry… and ponderous, you see, and it's not exactly one that I would call… justified in the tellings of the true Dance."

"It's fine. Although I must confess that I am saddened by the lack of Barth's Unnatural History, his personal writings must've been worth as much if not even more, I'm sure of it," Willas said with a smile. Not a genuine one.

"Quite," the old man agreed, "Ah- and here's the last. It's a bit peculiar. The last High Septon during the last days of the Targaryens. It took me quite a long time to find it. It was stashed away, you see, not cared much in the last fifteen years, and so it has not been transcripted yet, and some of the pages might be unclear. I think I distinctly remember something about him- oh yes," he said while stroking his gruff beard, "How do I put this? Hmm… the last High Septon was quite the odd egg, you see. When others would see it as an honor to shed his birth name, Septon- Maynard, I think was his name, had been known to insist on using his personal name every once in a while. He didn't stand out much, save for perhaps- his taste of wandering about the various septs of the Seven Kingdoms. Yes, yes, now that I recall- it had once driven the Most Devouts and the Starry Sept quite vexed, yes. But I am sure you have your reasons to ask of it, my lord."

Leo kept the count in his mind. Septon Barth. Septon Eustace. And yet another one- the crackpot of a High Septon. He might've sneered openly at his cousin and future liege turning such piously. Leo was never one for naivety. Yet Leo just knew that lying under his words, or hiding behind his eyes, Lord Willas Tyrell was something much more of what he seemed to be. A secret Leo was unsure whether he would want to unveil or not.

"I just think that it would be interesting to see the perspective of the Faith during the Rebellion, Great-Uncle. As we know it, the Faith and the Targaryens shared some… really interesting history. I just think it might shed some clarity."

And then it wasn't long until the expected dismissal came to him.

"Cousin Leo, would you mind showing Samwell around? Perhaps introduce him to your fellow novices? It is his wish, after all, to at least study here in the future," he was asked kindly.

Leo knew that this wasn't his pool. And that fishing with any kind of hook wouldn't matter here. Not his game. This is no quick japes and easy words on Quill and Tankard. And so, he relented. Because at the end of the day, it's what he would.

"I sure won't mind," answered Leo. "My lord," he curtsied and nodded as he turned around on his feet, with the formerly fat Tarly at his back. And when Leo reached the door, he grabbed the knob and turned once again to Lord Willas, giving yet another nod of parting. Yet before he had managed to make a move to leave, his eyes caught upon something. Its head was tilted as it spied the room.

There, upon the window stool of a sunny, summer day, was perched a lone black raven. Its eye blood red.

Notes:

My first time writing a fight scene, and a melee, too, at that! Well, I hope you guys enjoy it. I had so much fun daring myself to write into unexplored territories (for me) on this chapter, even if it was such a pain in the ass. So yeah, our favorite Darkstar made an appearance, here. Cheerio!

And Leo's... I found myself fascinated by his character in the books. Hopefully, I could integrate his character into the story more in the future. So yeah, diaries, well you know how that'll turn out, more details on the next chapter as Willas would recount it. Also, do you guys catch that at the ending? I hope you do! Please let me know what you think!

Chapter 12: Garlan III

Summary:

Willas and Garlan arrive at the Arbor following the controversial Tourney of Oldtown- in which blood was shed and a certain Darkstar was crippled. But they would soon face another trouble, this time in the form of Qartheen envoys, seeking an alliance with them.

Notes:

I'd advise you to re-read Chapter 4 (Lord of the Arbor) before reading this chapter since they go hand-in-hand heavily and quite a lot of grounds had been laid in that chapter, ones that we would explore further and resolve in this.

GARLAN

The sea didn't agree with Garlan.

"How- how long is it again? 'Till we arrive." he asked his brother, his voice shaky as yet another wave passed through the ship.

Willas, on the other hand, seemed to fare much better than him. Much better indeed, mayhaps it was the Redwyne blood that had manifested truer in him than Garlan himself. He sat on his chair, comfortable in their room below the deck.

Upon his question, Willas turned his attention toward him, snapping his book shut and setting it aside on the small table with the candle beside him. It was dusty, old, and battered. Leatherbound yet with pieces of it already torn. More often than not, Garlan would be able to spy the multitude of blotches inks splattered across the frail pages with their brittled edges. It was a… quandary to say the least. Yet Garlan had never outrightly asked his brother about it. He knew not why.

"By dawn-" said Willas as he then paused, observing the green look of Garlan's face as the wild and rocky Redwyne Straits yet again shown its worth. "You know, if the bards see you now, I would imagine that there will be no more songs sung about 'Garlan the Gallant', no verses and no poems, no longer."

Despite this, Willas was smiling, and Garlan wouldn't fault him for that. He was just fine during his trip down the Lesser Mander, down from Silverhill to Goldengrove, then as it joined the Mander to Highgarden. But then again, they were rivers and this was a sea. Wide and vast, wild and untamed, waves and storms on their way. And Garlan must- would admit it to himself, that it did make him a humiliation of a knight, not that Garlan would care much about his reputation, but this meant that Willas would have another thing to add to his master list of what he called a "Black Book."

So, Garlan convinced himself that it was time to ask. "Will, what is it that you're always reading?"

Willas' eyes fleeted yet again to the leatherbound book now laid atop the small table before finally turning to meet his eyes, "This book?" and at Garlan's nod, he continued, "You sure you really want to know, Garlan?"

"What, it's not like it's a list of Robert Baratheon's dirtiest, deepest secrets, no?" he said, half-joking as if to ease the tension that had suddenly appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.

"No," affirmed Willas, "But how about his greatest shame?"

Garlan's eyes narrowed at the words. Indeed there should be no prying eyes or listening ears here. They were both safely stashed away under the deck of the ship. Dead of the night. The men were loyal, or so Garlan would like to think. And the guards were ever-vigilant, especially since this was his brother's personal guards.

"Fine, then. Let me tell you a story of a boy born with but a name. His mother died birthing him, she was but a peasant, yet another inconsiderable smallfolk in Flea Bottom of King's Landing. He had but a name, the only thing his mother gave him. Maynard, he was called. This boy with but a name eventually found his way into the doorsteps of the Faith, and what a brilliant young boy he was. And so it was it, that he was raised and taught behind the walls of the Great Sept of Baelor itself. The boy took his vows in his 17th year, still a boy- not yet a man, he swore himself to chastity and to the holy vows of a Septon. No longer a boy, now a man, in his 45th year, he was elected one of the Most Devouts of the Faith, charged to the governance of the Faith of the Seven Kingdoms in the grace of the Light of the Seven.

"His story, however, didn't stop there. It was much… much more than that. In his 67th year, no longer a man- but an old man, he was elected the High Septon. In a robe of white and ridiculous crown of crystals. It was the year two hundred-and-sixty-nine after Aegon's Conquest. The old man with the name Maynard would reign as the High Septon for twelve years, quite short for all that he was healthy and hale. When other High Septons would shut themselves behind crystal doors, Maynard felt… confined by all the strict necessities and regulations of a High Septon. He was pretty much, a rebel at heart.

"And so he turned to travel. Maynard wrote of his dream of visiting every single Sept of the Seven Kingdoms, all the way from Dragonstone to the Starry Sept. From the Riverlands to Dorne. It was quite a pity, Maynard was in the Stoney Sept at the Riverlands when tragedy struck the realm. Harrenhal, and tales of a Crown of Love and Beauty."

"When Prince Rhaegar crowned Lady Lyanna Stark as his…" Garlan trailed off.

"Exactly," replied Willas with a surprisingly easy smile. "Fearing for his life, and already read the signs of a brewing storm, Maynard rode fast for King's Landing. But he didn't even make it out of the Riverlands when he met with the most curious riding party he had ever seen in his life. The Silver Prince, the Winter Rose, and three White Knights of the Order of the Kingsguard.

"Maynard wrote of both of them, the Lady and the Prince. Of how Lady Lyanna smiled a smile, alight with a thousand suns, that would melt even the winter of the North. He wrote of how she clutched the crown of winter roses in her hands. The Prince, however, was different. He was solemn, sullen, and filled with gloom. He spoke little words, but what words that he spoke- he spoke of sacred vows and holy matrimony."

"You can't mean that- but Lyanna Stark was kidnapped!"

"Prince Rhaegar spoke of the Doctrine of Exceptionalism. Of the favor of the gods and the great destiny that belonged to the blood of Old Valyria. Maynard had three swords to him- among them the Sword of the Morning's and the White Bull's. And so, they rode hard. Not East, not the Crownlands, not the King's Landing. But South, to Dorne."

"You can't mean that they eloped, Will. Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna Stark? What about Elia Martell, then?"

Willas nodded, and this time, his smile was a solemn one. "They did. And Prince Rhaegar claimed under the Doctrine of the polygamy of the Targaryens of old. He said that what he did- he did not out of love and lust, but of duty. He spoke of the Three Heads of the Dragons. By that time, little Prince Aegon had already been born. And Princess Elia was described to have always been seemingly frail. Her second childbirth left little room for another in the future. And so, enter Lyanna Stark, the girl… desperate to run away from her betrothal, from the drunk and lecherous Robert Baratheon to the gallant and chivalrous, perfect Prince Rhaegar."

Garlan could hear the sarcasm dripping out of Willas' words. Yet again, he couldn't fault him. All the revelations- were things that would require a long, long time for Garlan to comprehend. Perhaps with a sword in hand and some enemies on the other side, where he could finally think clearly.

"Did they- did they, you know, get married, then?" asked Garlan, voice heavy as the lumps went down his throat.

"Summerhal. It's a poetic irony, perhaps. Prince Rhaegar was born there and he was the only survivor of the tragedy. And it's not a secret that the Prophecy Prince would visit the ruins from time to time, with a harp and with his dearest friends with him. Jenny of Oldstones was his favorite song, or so it was said. They wed in the shadows of the Ruins of Summerhal, charred ruins and ashes around them, much like the realm after the war that they'd soon cause. And so they continued on, to the Tower of Joy, a small stronghold at the edge of Dorne. But then came the news, of Brandon and Rickard Stark's. And the Stark girl turned from a fair maiden in a song, into a prisoner of great tragedy."

"So they ran away to Dorne…" muttered Garlan weakly. "I need a drink," he said, scrambling off to find a jug of sweet wine or something stronger. "But, how could no one ever know? Did Maynard never tell?"

"He couldn't. He felt that he was responsible for the war, for he had officiated the marriage, pressured or not. He couldn't face his sins as he had written. He couldn't bear them. He returned to King's Landing, and would soon die of a fleeting but high fever. His diary was never opened, and he had entrusted it only to his prodigy that he never mentioned the name, and had decreed for it to be sent to the Citadel or the Starry Sept, as the High Septons before him had done."

"This- this is big. And how do you even know how to look in the first place? Hells, Will, why are you even into the Targaryens of all things?"

When Garlan turned to stare at his brother, intent on having the whole truth, he found an unexplainable glint in Willas' eyes. Garlan knew that Willas had secrets, probably quite a lot, either personal or plots. For long, Garlan had left it at that, secrets that remained between them. Yet now, when Garlan couldn't put it off any longer- of the difference of the distance that formed, he needed those answers.

"Very well, then. I'll tell you. All of it."

And then he did.

---

And so Willas did tell him. Of Cersei Lannister, her children, and the Kingslayer. Of the exiles in Essos. The Spider and the Cheesemonger, as Willas had called them. Jon Connington and the supposed son of Elia Martell. Viserys Targaryen and his sister, and the former pact signed between Willem Darry and Oberyn Martell. And last, Willas spoke of the Bastard of Winterfell and Eddard Stark's honor.

Garlan Tyrell knew his brother, or so Garlan would like to think. Yet apparently, that case was straying away further and further from being the truth. When does it change? He had asked yet again. The easy innocence of the easy days of their childhood, was it lost among the stones of the Vale, between his bloodied sword and the corpse rotting away underneath? Willas had shed it too, peeled off between his plots and schemes as he carved the way for the sake of their house, or so Willas would like to think. He didn't like it, but then again, he didn't have to.

The rising sun rose above the calm water of the Arbor. The light of dawn came from their side, its rays brimming with warmth, and its wind the scent of a glorious new day. The Redwyne Straits where it arrived from the Whispering Sound stretched wide and vast, its color the calmest shade of deep blue. If Garlan looked hard enough, he could make out the shapes of the sea creatures that dwelled below it, for the water of the Arbor, deep and dark it might be, was pure and clear, so different than the usual sight of the muddy Mander.

They made their way to the dock nearer and nearer, the ship steadying as the water turned still. They both stood upon its deck. In burgundy and in green, to remind House Redwyne of its close ties and alliance with House Tyrell, his brother had said. Garlan didn't know what to make of it, surely the presence of their aunt sharing their uncle's bed had been enough of a reminder for that. But then again, Willas loved his little games, his grandeurs, and he loved his theatrics.

Garlan could see the sprawling town ahead, smoke rising out and the roofs lining up. Ryamsport. The proudest and grandest town of the Redwynes, and one which growth had turned quite the number of heads in the last few years.

Garlan counted four orange hairs in the welcoming party and one that stood out in brown. Their Uncle, the Lord Paxter Redwyned, and their Aunt, Lady Mina Tyrell. To their side, were their cousins; Horas and Hobber, the twins of both similar stocky build, and the girl, Desmera. Indeed, Garlan had caught his squire's face turning into the reddest shade of the red upon being introduced to the girl. Willas would like it. Sam stammered and fumbled his way out of their talks, but Garlan found it amusing more than disconcerting.

Upon their arrival, Garlan had also seen the rising fame that was the Arsenal of Arbor. Lining up along the rocky coast of the island, the Arsenal was bustling with live, clanking sounds of woods and irons echoing against one another. Proud banners flapping about in the wind among the thousand sails of Willas' peculiar ships. Some of the ships docked at the dock were the largest that Garlan had ever seen. And one did particularly caught his interest, the marvel of gleaming ironwood. Majestic and mighty, it had turned out to be their Uncle's gift for his brother. The Goldenhand, its name. The new guiding hand of the future of House Tyrell. Appropriate, he thought. And when one would factor in the many slits lined up along its starboard, added with that of the hidden glints of silvers hiding behind them, any ship trying to board it would sink long before they could manage to. A golden hand with an iron touch.

Exhausted and tired, Garlan paid little mind throughout the whole irksome and frivolous welcome. Useless grandeurs. He had nodded and mumbled politely enough, through his Aunt Mina's hug, and through the twins' incessant questions of his knighthood, and what was apparently- his grand victory at the Tourney of Oldtown. He still shuddered at the thought of it, for Garlan was never much for an unnecessary shedding of blood. Gerold Dayne had fled to High Hermitage; his seat, came the dawn after, not wanting to await Lord Leyton Hightower's wrath and judgment upon the Dornish folly. So much for a mere and simple "grand and lovely travel of the world" that Willas has promised. Garlan didn't even end up participating in the jousting part of the tourney, and Ser Robar Royce had won that one, instead, reclaiming his 'honor' after being defeated early during the melee.

Yet that was not all that was. Their afternoon had been pleasant; a meal of quaint Eastern goods- the seemingly mad yet surprisingly tasty labors of Yi Ti. Ugly, sluggy little things that they called 'noodle'. And then a tour throughout the town was in conduct, and Garlan swore that he saw Willas' eyes turning into that of a pair of gold dragons upon their inspection of the Arsenal. Their Uncle had also shown them to one of the breweries in the town, showcasing the famous and prized Arbor Gold. Again, Willas' eyes had held a dangerous, incredibly dangerous, glint to them upon some mutterings that he had muttered underneath. Garlan wouldn't be surprised, Willas had once or twice told him about his ideas of boiling wine to make 'Brandin' or something.

It was pleasant, up until the heavy blow of the hammer that possibly rivaled Robert Baratheon's came in the evening when their Lord Uncle informed them of his honored guests, who brought ill-poison yet also a mead of honey gold with them. Which was why Garlan currently found himself sitting in the solar of Lord Paxter Redwyne. Willas sat on his side, and their uncle in the middle. In front of them, across the other side of the room, were men dressed in queer clothes. Qartheen.

"I apologize for keeping you waiting for so long, my lords of Qarth. But I didn't dare send a message to my nephews in case of it getting intercepted," said their Uncle as he opened the conversations.

"Indeed. You must've traveled, what was it, for five, six moons?" continued his brother.

The hook-nosed man with a ring on his nose answered his brother's question, a representative of The Thirteen if Garlan had recalled correctly. "No, Lord Tyrell. We booked a passage in one of your ships, ah, what is it called, again-" he turned to his companion, fat and bald, The Spicer, "The Clippers, Master Gantos."

"Ah yes, the quaint Clipper, yet so very special. It took no more than four moons for us to arrive here, yes. When usually, reaching the Sunset Kingdom would take the better part of the year."

Willas nodded. "My Lord Uncle here had already explained to me about your offers, my lords," he motioned the orange-haired Redwyne in the room, "And I must say, that the news of the alliance between the Pureborn and Emperor Bu Gai came as quite a surprise for me. Never has Yi Ti opened its gate to the outer world before, not like this."

"Yi Ti is stirring. I can't imagine that the lords of the Sunset Kingdom would know much about it. But whispers… have arisen, of eldritch things waking up in the Far East. Of the legendary city of Carcosa, once again alive, this time at the hands of a Sorcerer Lord. The Jhogos Nai to the North is stirring, too. They had marched closer and closer to the border of Yi Ti, getting bolder yet also more rash in their raids. Emperor Bu Gai is not heavily popular there. And his indulgence had led to the Imperial Commander, Pol Qo to break away from his rule, declaring the Trader Town in the North as his seat, proclaiming himself the Orange Emperor. Meanwhile, the Five Forts to the East have grown more silent, especially after their foolish expedition to the shadows of K'Dath. Their reports are that of grey mist in the Grey Waste, and of the shrieks heard beyond their border."

"So they are in shambles, and as a shark is drawn to blood in the water, this- this self-called Egon Emeros the Exquisite has pounced upon the weak emperor, then?" asked Willas.

Their Uncle was next. "What guarantees that we could gain the same or even better trade with the Spicers and the Thirteen rather than that of the Pureborn and the legitimate Emperor? We have no horses in your race, and Westeros has no care or share in the matters of the East. Why should we bother and risk tying ourselves to you if we could just continue through the official source of line, then?"

A mummer's farce, Garlan thought. Willas and their Uncle had established the deals, what they wanted and what they would give before they had stepped foot into the room. It's all a matter of appearance. Looking tough and hard to win, Willas had said.

"We are in contact with the rebels in Yi Ti, my lords. Egon Emeros is not a generous man, he would tighten the chokehold that Qarth already has on the Jade Gates. He will demand and he will extract a high toll. Such is the nature of the Pureborns, arrogant fools who sit on their thrones merely because of their blood. But Emperor Bu Gai's rivals? They will lessen their price, extract a lower toll, and offer more prizes. Why? Because they need to compete with the Empire."

Willas signaled for him to pitch in, his line already prepared. "Forgive me, Master Gantos, and Master Rhoxaos. I am no merchant nor am I a trader. But I'd consider myself a fighter. And these rebels- lesser lords and petty emperors, what resources do they have to be able to wage war against the capital of Yi Ti? How long until their rebellions squandered and crushed. For rebels, they do not last long most of the time."

"Indeed, what my brother said is true. You asked for a contract of five years, an exclusive contract, with an open clause at the end of the period to be… suitably rewritten. And what if these rivals and contenders fall before that time? Would this Azure Emperor or even his successor not blame us, then? It's already tough to establish a trade with Yi Ti, what little we have and what little we could."

The perfumed man spoke, "The children. The emperor's children are fractured. The girls demand equal inheritance, of their rights to succeed their father. The boys… their ears belonged to half a hundred men. Poisons and whispers. Emperor Bu Gai rules on a divided court, and how long until his new concubine of the Pureborn would stir things up even worse? He has but one loyal child. His second son and favored successor, Bu Dan. An adventurer, it will take him no longer than a moon before he would be convinced to explore the cursed jungles of Sothoryos." He finished with a small laugh, and what a terrible sound it was.

Willas brought his hands together, almost as if he was thinking the matter seriously. "Say that I am convinced. Five years would the Reach trade with the Spicers and the Thirteen, and with them- Yi Ti. Taxes would be cut both ways, here in the Arbor, and there at Qarth, all the ports that belonged to House Tyrell and those under your influence. Second, you offer us exclusive trade on some selected goods. I want the tea, queer drink of fragrant leaves, and I know that it has arrived here… scatteringly mayhaps, but Dorne already has. I know the Yi Tish are reluctant to share it with anyone else, and only the fewest of the few of our merchants and captains have managed to acquire it, and in very small amount, too. I want you to find a way for an exclusive trade for that. Westeros has no lack of gold and silver, but silks, cotton, wools? I want samples of the best qualities. And more trade on the Qartheen sour wine and the Golden Wine of Yi Ti."

The Qartheen men turned to look at one another, seemingly having a silent conversation on the matter, until one of them finally nodded. "Half of the usual tax for both our ships and your ships. Exclusive deals for Yi Tish silks, cotton, wools, the wines, and that strange drink that you mentioned, whatever it actually was. In return, one of the islands surrounding the Arbor of the Reach to be held under the governance of a representative of the Spicers and the Thirteen. And the service of three of the Sorrowful Men for a duration of five years."

"And trade with the Reach will be prioritized. Triple the number of the other ports of the Seven Kingdoms. Three-quarter of the price of the Qartheen goods, tax deduction not included. And the aforementioned trades that have been specially listed will arrive solely through the Reach, and not through the other regions," added Willas.

This time, the envoys were definitely not happy with the demand. An ugly look came into the balding man's face, his lip twisting and his nose angling. "The ships. The Spicers and the Thirteen would do their best to limit the number of trade of ours and even of Qarth as a whole with the other kingdoms. In return, we want the design of your ships. Exclusive."

Willas swiftly shook his hand. "Unacceptable. Commission, we could agree. The Spicers and the Thirteen may ask for six of the ships for each year of the duration of five years. Six, no more. And should this agreement be trespassed or breached in any way, it's completely void. Thirty ships, in the span of five years. No more than that. You ordered, and we would commission. Here," said Willas, tapping his hand and foot at the table and the floor, "Constructed and built at the Arbor. At the Arsenal of the Reach."

"Eight."

"Six for the first two years. And if the Spicers and the Thirteen hold their end of the bargain, eight for the last three. Thirty-six ships. You can't call us ungenerous. Thirty-six of the fastest ships in the known world for exclusive trade deals, and five of the Sorrowful Men," replied Willas.

Garlan had asked Willas before of how they would seemingly bet and sacrifice so much on the Qartheen deals. And he had warned him that they would be taking huge risks to go along with it. But apparently, sorrows triumphed gold in his brother's eyes.

The Qartheen grunted at his brother's price, "Six ships for the first two years and eight for the final three. And the captains of your fleet will privately teach our sailors. And five of the Sorrowful Men, one for each of the years for the duration of the five years."

"Fine," agreed Willas, albeit it was slightly a grunt.

"And a marriage," added his Uncle. "The governor of the Qarth Trading Outpost will be stationed at Stonecrab Bay. House Eugene has perished during the Greyjoy Rebellion, and their castle of Crabclaw has been managed by a castellan. The future governor must marry into the Reach, preferably one of the Redwyne cousins, to solidify our alliance."

"We can agree with the terms. And in this long-lasting friendship, we are hoping for a… mutual partnership. Assistance, especially for our ships in the waters of the Stepstones. Corsairs and pirates, Westeros or Essos alike."

Willas had briefed him on the situation of the Stepstones. If the Qartheen chose to ignore their deal, then they could use the Stepstones to harass and dissuade their trade, troubling the flow of trade to the Narrow Sea. It still puzzled Garlan how Willas could so confidently say anything resembling control over the notorious Stepstones. Yet when asked, his brother had only said that ships were the only price, and mentioned the name of "Lord of the Waters."

"Very well. We will do our best." And then Willas closed the door with his next words. "So, are we in agreement, then? Then I proclaim the friendship between House Tyrell of the Reach, the Ancient Guild of Spicers, and the Thirteen of Qarth. May this friendship last for a thousand years and until the end of time."

With that, the Qartheen men left the room. Their queer robes in bright colors sweeping upon the floor of his Uncle's solar.

The door had just been closed when his lord uncle decided to share a piece of his mind with his brother. "Bold, you call it, nephew. Unwise, I say it. It's not wise, Willas, for you to outrightly promise such nullification of the contract should our agreement be breached in any kind of way-" "I shall keep that in mind," interrupted Willas.

"The Clippers are marvels, and you treasure their designs heavily, so do I. You've been living in Highgarden all your life, boy, green gardens and flowing fountains. You might see this as your pretty little game, but I've dealt with merchants and traders for half of my life. The so-called representatives and envoys of the Free Cities and even further. Ostentatious men with delicate pride, they are, never change, never do. It's unwise to show such an unveiled threat. Steels and blood are the words of Westeros, yet you will be a fool to consider the same with them. And all of this- business with the Stepstones. What unwavering faith do you have with your so-called friend in it? You wrote to me about it a year ago, and I relented. I believed and I waited, and it has worked so far. But the promise of safe passes? These men are no friend of us, boy. A good ruler would have his promises. A good ruler knows of the things he can promise and the things he can't. A good ruler knows of the things he should promise and the things he shouldn't."

And so that was it. Their uncle was far from one that a man would necessarily call pleasant. His voice was gruff as his hair and his tones were ragged with grumbles. Garlan saw Willas sitting still on his seat, face entirely unchanged and his eyes kept. And Garlan wondered what thoughts were passing through his brother's mind at the moment. Willas was one that Garlan would call prideful, and a little too much at that sometimes.

He saw Willas' face stretching into a smile. His game smile, as Willas had called it. "Because that's the truth, and I am no man's boy, Uncle," he heard him say, smile the same and his voice the same. But there was something different to Willas. "I will wait and I will watch. The Stepstones could be the place for us to prove our newfound friendship, or a sword of ours waiting for their treachery. Filled with rocks among shallow waters, it's not easy to catch someone in the open in the Stepstones. There's a reason it's a pirate den, after all. They will serve us a multitude of layers, ready to be used, to hide, or to not. And if our new friends need more… encouragement to favor trade with us, then it's going to be an unfortunate thing that we can't help them against the barbarians of Stepstones, then."

A low rumbling sound escaped their Uncle's throat. "Consorting with pirates and sellsails, my, have the Tyrells fall so out of grace. My aunt would find your choices of companies that you keep yourself in to be so delightfully interesting."

"Rules are writ with iron, dear Uncle. The strong forces the weak, and the high and mighty command the-"

"Yet there are those much higher than us. Your father, to start with. Jon Arryn, Hand of the King. King Robert Baratheon. His Lannister Queen. His brothers."

As silence dawned the room, Garlan cleared his throat to interrupt. "Pardon me, but I'm sure that Willas is merely saying that there are none who- uhm, could enforce rule in the Stepstones. The Rogue Prince and the Sea Snake failed to do so, mayhaps my brother thinks it unlikely that King Robert would have much to do with it."

"Very well," replied the Lord of the Arbor, seemingly concluding the matter. "And who is this elusive friend in Stepstones, then? What guarantees- what keeps him loyal to our cause?" said their Uncle, unflinching and unyielding.

Willas gave him a shrug. And Garlan did sigh at that. "Why, my good-uncle, of course. Aurane Waters, born to the Late Lord Lucerys Velaryon, raised in Driftmark alongside his trueborn brother, the current Lord of the Tides. He is a promising sailor and a great captain, perhaps one of the best in all the Seven Kingdoms. His price is easy, ships. A natural-born son would find his way to greatness to be tough, but with the resources of a Great House? He last wrote to me of clearing up the Torturer's Deep, and he has fancy it to stylize himself as the Lord of the Waters." Willas finished with a sideways look at him.

A visit to Aunt Janna's family is long-overdue now, I guess. "Oh yes, I remember him. He did visit Highgarden around the time Aunt Janna got married. He's... nice all things considered, at least to my recollection. I remember that I had found him… awe-inspiring," added Garlan. He fumbled with the words, but then again, none would accuse Garlan to be the spokesman of the family. And great sailors and great traders the Velaryons might be, but his brother had deemed it too dangerous to involve them so openly, not when they rested but miles away from Dragonstone, and mere two days away from King's Landing.

Lord Redwyne remained silent as he sat behind his great table of carved oak painted in the burgundy of the Redwyne's. Garlan's thought then wandered to the legendary Oakenseat of the Gardeners of Old, said to have been planted by the Greenhand himself, lost to a Fowler King thousands of years ago, chopped to pieces, and thrown to the Mander.

"Uncle Paxter, you're family. Father speaks highly of you- he thought of you as his dearest friend. I know, you know, and he knows. You know I know. And grandmother, too. And Gods know she speaks highly of no more than the number of fingers in my hands. You may take me for a lame, melancholic cripple. Yet I must ask you to respect my position, as the son of your liege lord, and the future Lord Paramount of the Reach.

"Samwell Tarly, my brother's squire, is an interesting boy, you see. Tarly desires a great future for him and his house. He's a nice boy, able and smart, smarter than most, and saves for but a few. I know it myself that Tarly seeks to tie himself into our alliance. And you have a suitable daughter, for Cousin Desmera seems like a lovely girl, and would undoubtedly grow into a beautiful woman, befit for a future Lady of Horn Hill, perhaps?"

Garlan spied that there was a glint in his Uncle's eyes. After all, what lord wouldn't be grateful for a suitable marriage arranged for their children.

"And my Cousin Horas, four-and-ten already, is old enough to start considering matches, no? My father had once entertained Lord Medwick Fossoway of tying our houses together, but I disabuse him of that notion. The power balance in the Seven Kingdoms is not yet stable, and my house can't afford to put our fate to hang in the uncertainty. Many great matches shall be needed to consolidate our position in the future. And so, I must ask it of you, to consider the match between Cousin Horas and Lady Leonette Fossoway. In return, I will grant you what you seek."

Ryamsport, Garlan thought. He had not the sharpest mind for politics, yet docking at the Arbor had been plain as a day for him. The Redwynes are growing too fast, too soon. The Tyrells put a heavy tax on them, their leash magnanimous yet also cold as an iron sword. Willas had further wrangled more gains on them, humbly sharing his ideas and designs for their continuous cooperation. And with their blooming trade and flooding market, rising high as the tidal waves that arrived at the wake of the Doom of Valyria as the maesters had said, how long would it take them should they aim to be the new Hightowers?

For half of their reign, the Tyrells must contend themselves with being beneath the Hightowers in power. That was until the Dance- when they overreached and overgrasped, and finally fell from grace, allowing enough empty space in their way for the Tyrells to establish control over the Reach. Willas had said that their current alliance would suffice for yet another two generations at the most; their cousins and their sons after them. The Tyrell Fleet has not yet come into existence. And up until then, of his brother's grand plans of garrisoning the Mouth of the Mander and building a settlement at its split, the Tyrells would have to contend bowing to the Redwyne Fleet. He had asked Willas if he would end up linking the Mander to the Blackwater, and the two shared a laugh at that, Willas more so than him.

"Five and ten years. It may not be you by that time, but my Cousin Horas. Five and ten years, a city charter for Ryamsport. Kings rise and fall, princes born and died. 'Tis a time for heavy changes, no? The return of the office of Grand Admiralty of the Reach, and last, the impost of the additional tax for the usage of the Clippers will be deducted by half in ten years' time, and lifted in twenty, and so the Arbor could go back into paying the old taxes as agreed previously, ever since the days of Meryn III Gardener when he first took the island into the Reach."

Their uncle's eyes were stoic as the rocks that littered the water around the Arbor. His gaze was piercing and his stare heavily questioning. "And what do you want in return?"

"Starfish Harbor," his brother said, curt and short.

When Gilbert of the Vines took but a dozen of longships to sail across the bay of the Whispering Sound, seeking glory and pride for himself, he found the isle of the Arbor. Dense and lush, a paradise of life and nature. He had taught the people native to the Arbor the art of distilling vines and grapes, and the Arbor Gold was born ever since. In times, it grew.

Gilbert's descendants of the Redwynes would then continue his reign at the Arbor. Three towns would spring in that thousands of years; Vinetown, the port of the South, lush with vines from which it took its name, and the palace of the treasured winemakers, Ryamsport, lined within its Northern coastline, the beating heart of the trade of the Arbor, and last, Starfish Harbor, a harbor deep within the mouth of the river of Goldenspring. Ryamsport had been the biggest, for the Redwynes took their seat and traded from there. Vinetown, meanwhile, had focused more on its wine production, and not as much of a trading point as the former. While Starfish Harbor, deep and landlocked between the peninsulas split by the river, was calm and yet it left much to be desired.

"There's no precedence for that," answered their Uncle, his voice surprisingly calm.

"Not… officially," gestured Willas as he brushed his hands under. "Instead, the Tyrells will establish a foothold, or trading outpost if you will, taking account of the generous size of the Reach and its various disparities. A Tyrell-elected steward will manage the affairs of the rown. Starfish Harbor is not a trade-centered city but still holds enough prestige to influence quite the wide selection of parties. Enough to birth Tyrell's presence on the island and to help keep our long-lasting friendship for the hundreds of years to come. Three-quarters of its income will be given to House Tyrell as well as the rights to manage and fund the city by itself, so long as there are consultations and agreements between our houses from time to time."

Mad, Garlan would say. A town is a lord's treasure, and Willas was intending on stealing one from their Uncle, even a stagnant one like Starfish Harbor. Stonecrab Bay had already been promised to the Qartheen, albeit that one was to be a mere office of the seat of the representative of Qarth. And all things considered- the office wouldn't come with the power to hold any independent influence over the said island.

"Stonecrab Bay is a desolate place, t'was little price for the Qarth, and it hardly matters to me. But now you're asking me this, control over one of the three towns of the Arbor. In return, a city charter, and the lift on the Clippers impost in ten years' time. The Tyrells have done me or my house no wrong, and your ships have made us richer than ever. I will allow it, but with the guarantee that there will never be a City Charter for it."

Mad, he had thought. Even madder, he thought now, of how Willas' half-cooked and half-insane plan had worked, against all odds. Paxter Redwyne, after all, was never said to be a man of many pleasantries, instead preferring short yet biting remarks. It was in times like this, that Garlan felt the answer was slipping away out of his hands, laying beyond his reach but it was there. Perhaps, he should stop trying to understand Willas. The writings, the plots, and the songs. Garlan didn't need to understand it all.

Willas' face broke into a smile. "Excellent. We could work out the details later, but Uncle, if it's not a bother- I have but a small favor to ask of you." Willas would then continue at their Uncle's nod. The shadow fell upon Willas' face as the litany of words came out of his mouth. "Last," added Willas, "I want… a powder. Black alchemy, flaming medicine, death dust, whatever the name. It's Yi Tish. Flames would crackle and dance with it, and upon sprinkled, they would hiss and they would leap. It's… explosive and violent, and as it roars- its roar is the sound of the booming thunder as it splits the sky. Its color black as the night or the darkest of grey. It has alchemic roots. And it burns, fast, highly fast. At the very least, I'd need your words that you will try to get it."

Lord Paxter nodded. And Garlan didn't know it yet at that moment, but what was soon to come- he would wish they hadn't come.

Notes:

This chapter feels really heavy to write to be honest, but it needed to be done- the deals and the agreements. Paxter Redwyne is coming on a bit... strong perhaps, but he's Mace Tyrell's closest friend and I think of him as somewhat of a pragmatist. And so albeit respects Willas, he's still holding him somewhat differently due to him seemingly overstepping his boundaries as heir. We also resolved the deals with the Maynard's diary and set up the grounds for future businesses regarding it. And at the end, we would soon welcome the introduction of the very earliest form of black powder, so no guns no muskets no cannons for Willas. Instead, he will experiment the hell out of it with WILDFIRE to try and recreate the Byzantine's Greek Fire, probably by bribing Alchemists and trying to dismantle the magic out of it that made it hella unstable. We're next off to Dorne! I think of skipping directly to Sunspear to speed up the plot, but let's see where we would go.

Let me know your thoughts! And the Sorrows... wonder who would Willas use them for.

Chapter 13: OMAKE: Crossover I - Encounter and Plots (A Rose By Any Other Name)

Notes:

A/N: First of all, it's been such a joy working together with a brilliant writer like @Deductive Logic . Writing this came so easy and so effortless, we just typed it together for four hours straight- laughing our asses off and this 9k words monstrosity is born!

Welcome to the first crossover chapter between Goldenhand and A Rose By Any Other Name, by popular request. It’s a long one, but hopefully, this sort of thing goes on regularly. There are a few key points for the sake of continuity:

1. The universe will be a separate universe from each of the ones from canon, diverging at Goldenhand’s Chapter The Sowing in Oldtown and A Rose By Any Other Name’s INTERLUDE: Olenna, Mace, and Alerie, and will strictly go from there - so nothing in this fic is canon for EITHER of our verses. If anything, this crossover is a “How the Tyrell SI combine forces to solve things faster”.

2. A few assumptions are laid in this - that Westerosi is an entirely different language than English in A Rose By Any Other Name’s verse (otherwise known as the Roseverse, thanks Ragusytlas!). Goldenhand hasn’t really gone into the issue but it’s following the Roseverse for now), Willas and Margaery are the exact same as they are in their individual fics, and both have memories of their respective childhoods, and that age-wise, Margaery has just turned seven, and Willas is about to turn thirteen at the time of the tourney, which roughly occurs at the end of 288 AC, just before the Greyjoy Rebellion.

3. The links for each of the fics will be posted here.

Hope you guys enjoy this!

Just as a note, A Rose By Any Other Name will be here and Goldenhand will be here

Happy reading, all! Please let me know what you think!

---

Westerosi

Thoughts

English words

 

OMAKE - CROSSOVER I - ENCOUNTERS AND PLOTS

 

Willas and Margaery (Dual POV)

 

Margaery’s eyes hastily opened in the infirmary of Highgarden, and she stared out the window, trying to figure out what time it was, and it was dark, most likely indicating it to be nighttime. Seven, did she really faint in the middle of a tourney in front of everyone?

 

The rest of her memory of the day’s events hit her, and she remembered Willas’s injury and the reason why she fainted in the first place.

 

What happened to Willas? Is he alright? With his hands, he…., Margaery thought, before turning her eyes and seeing her brother laid on the bed next to her. She decided to do what she always did, and carefully climbed out of her bed with all the sneakiness her seven year old body could muster, before climbing atop Willas’s bed, sitting primly at his bedside and poking his face, like she used to do when she was younger.

 

“What the- I- what the-,” Willas shouted, as he awoke from his slumber. Strange memories assaulted him, memories of a life he could recall yet also one so different. To his growing panic, his eyes widened as he observed his hands- they were shaking uncontrollably. Yet it was not as much as the panic that he felt when he observed further down- and saw his legs moving- both of them, easily and painlessly.

 

“What the fuck? Nobody else is supposed to know English here!” Margaery cursed, but quickly covered her mouth guiltily. If someone else knows English, a language native to my...well, our homeworld, I guess, and it’s through Willas, then…

 

“Who are you?” Margaery asked coldly, staring down at her brother. “What are you doing in my brother’s body?”

 

Willas rose from his bed faster than he had ever done in his body. To his shame, he had only managed to sit up- somewhat something inside still making him unable, or perhaps, afraid to move his legs so much. “Y-you M-margaery? You’re small! A-and- and you, how do you- when did you- what?”

 

“I’m seven named-- I mean, seven years old, as far as I’m concerned, so I’ve always been like that,” Margaery replied sardonically. “But someone is in my brother’s body, and I want to know why.”

 

“Why don’t you keep the clever bites for later and tell me why are we children again! No- wait! How in the name of God are you saying these- how could you know,” he stumbled around looking for the word, his hands- still shaking to his ever-growing horror, “No, why don’t you tell me what fucking happened to my fucking hands!?”

 

“I--” Margaery stammered. “Okay, let’s slow it down. First, I assume you’re some kind of self-insert or something equally fantastical? I mean, considering that you’re...well, you’re speaking English in a world where English doesn’t exist. I haven’t exactly gotten around to teaching you, Gar, or Loras, so….”

 

“Of course I am! It’s been seven years! I’m nine-and-ten on a ship to the Arbor with Garlan, so tell me- how do I end up in Highgarden, several years younger, with you speaking English!?”

 

“It has most certainly not been seven years--I’ve been here since I was born! And you’ve shown no inclination for English, so I guess…”Margaery said quickly. “Okay, seriously, fuck Westeros. No way is this happening.”

 

“Wait- so this means that- this means- that this is some sort of a… parallel world of some kind, you’re seriously telling me this!?”

 

“Well, I always knew self-insert fics existed in my-- our? Homeworld, but uh, I guess some bastard decided to insert you into my world, so I guess I should update you, since you’ll be here permanently.”  Margaery said in wonder.

 

Willas brought his hands to his face, cupping it ever so gently, but they didn’t stop shaking- they didn’t no matter how hard he tried to reign them it, “Fuck- fuck- fuck….,” he cursed as he threw his head backwards, collapsing yet again into the bed of what he assumed- was the infirmary in Highgarden. “It’s all for naught, then… fuck fuck fuck- my hands, what happened to them? I’m supposed to be crippled by the leg!”

 

“Honestly, stop acting like Father...er, a version of Father,” Margaery replied, rolling her eyes. “It’s most certainly not all for naught, considering no divergences have happened yet other than the tourney. Also, I should probably let you know that your hands are the injury I tried to change - I tried to change, uh...Original Willas’s...injury by, you know, reminding him not to catch his feet in the stirrups, but I guess Bloodraven had it out for us or something…”

 

“Oh, really-” said Willas, anger quickly coming to him, “Why don’t you spend seven years- building new ships with new designs, get a trade with Qarth and Yi Ti, arrange a variety of betrothals throughout the Reach, get rid of the Freys, discover the secrets in the Hightower, and then it turns out- they’re all for naught!” he finished, groaning into his hands yet again.

 

“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a lady. I mean, seriously, do you know how hard it is for ladies to do anything? At this rate I’m going to be betrothed to Joffrey, play nursemaid to Tommen, deal with Cersei’s...Cersei-ness, and die via wildfire!!!!” Margaery shouted.

 

“Yeah well, you don’t have to contend with being a lame cripple. Poor, sad, wilted Willas Tyrell,” said Willas mockingly. “Fuck- did you say Bloodraven?”

 

“Who else would go so far as to manipulate a tourney injury? I mean, the Fates don’t exist here, we’re not in Percy Jackson, so….” Margaery replied tersely.

 

“I don’t know- how about whatever eldritch abominations lay in the Hightower, then. They have a glass candle there for fuck’s sake, lit and alight! With flames!”

 

“No fucking way, I always knew Grandfather and Aunt Malora were doing something but…” Margaery said, before her eyes brightened. “Wait, that must be the insert point!!! WILLAS, I FIGURED IT OUT!!”

 

“Yeah… imagine getting dropped that bomb in the middle of night. And then all of a sudden- wait what, you figured what!?” Willas said. His eyes were tired and he let out yet another sigh to his fucking stupid shaking hands.

 

“Okay, assuming this isn’t some weird shadow magic shit, which...it probably is, the glass candles probably triggered the dimensional shifting through….I dunno, magic?” Margaery replied excitedly.

 

“Could be… Aunt Malora did say that the candle lit for seven days after my insertion- in my… world, that is.”

 

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but I think this is permanent, which means I’ve been going about this whole thing all wrong.” Margaery noted, before holding out her arm awkwardly. “I guess it means I should introduce myself? I’m your...sister now, and I mean, unless you’ve lost all memories of us, welcome to this new world?”

 

He brought his hands to his face again, feeling his nails deepening into the flesh of his cheeks. “I guess, now. And I’m your new brother. And no- you can’t imagine how stupid it is to have a memory of a 17-year-old back on Earth, two set of childhood memories from this body, and a memory of being a self-insert for seven whole damn years…”

 

“Oh, are we talking about those lives? Well, I mean, I died because I was in a car crash with Taylor Swift blaring in the background, so as far as deaths go, mine was pretty embarrassing.” Margaery stated sheepishly. “Anyways, we should probably work together now to, uh...fix the realm. Just don’t marry me to Joffrey, please.”

 

Willas barked a laugh at that. “Yeah- that’s pretty stupid. Although I must say- my original memories feel quite suppressed, and I don’t really recall my death or anything like that…” he muttered as his voice turned small at the end. “Joffrey- no! Do you know how many moves I have planned against the Lannisters in my world! A dozen of dozens! No- instead, you will be marrying the perfect Dragon Prince out of the stories if I had my way…”

 

“Ah yes, the Blackfyre. Lovely thought, getting burnt to a crisp. Daenerys is still a threat, which is why if I had it my way, I would be marrying Robb Stark.”

 

“Daenerys is a frightened little girl who has dragons. Then, she turns into a lovesick teenager playing the Conqueror. Honestly Margaery- can I call you that, then? All we need is to scoop her up before or right after her marriage with Drogo. Robb Stark- no, no, no- we already have too much in our hands, you don’t need us carrying the stupid North the whole time throughout the war!”

 

“Frightened little girl she may be, but I mean, she’s one with WMDs, so I feel like we should take the appropriate caution. Also, must I remind you that the whole point of this is to survive the Long Night? Robb Stark may be an idiot, but he should be an attractive idiot with a built-in safety net, so….” Margaery said, before continuing. “You;ve always called me Marge in...our childhood, so feel free to do that, and I guess...I’ve never given you any nicknames, so unless you want to be called Will…”

 

“Ten gold dragons say that the Northmen here- are probably not Sophie Turner and Richard Madden. No, a secret Valyrian Prince would be much better,” he finished with the stupidest smile he could muster at the moment. “Marge, huh, reminds me of that- aunt of Harry Potter, then. Eh, Will is fine, Garlan called me that, a lot- fuck, I left him at a ship to the Arbor! What am I ever to do now...”  

 

“If we’re assuming divine self-insert shenanigans, it wouldn’t be improbable that you still exist in the other world.” Margaery pointed out, thinking about what she knew of the whole self-insert process. “We’ll just call this a separate world and leave it at that, your Garlan and your other self are probably fine, and are plotting right this minute. Anyways...we probably need to discuss plans now before we ambush Grandmother.”

 

“Well- I don’t have to like it, but I guess- what choices do I have. The Gods really love their cruel japes, huh?” Willas said, his voice solemn. “Alright then mastermind, whatever is going on in here? What changes already?”

 

“Uh….” Margaery began, before turning red with embarrassment. “Nothing, actually, other than cultivating a more bookish reputation and trying to convince Mother to set up a penpal thing with Robb Stark. Did you know that Aunt Malora was originally betrothed to Father and plotted with Mother to change their betrothals?

 

“Huh, in two years after I was inserted- I arranged the death of our good-uncle Jon Fossoway, married Aunt Janna off to Monford Velaryon, constructed the semaphores along the coastline- and told Paxter Redwyne to patrol the coast during the Greyjoy Rebellion. Wait- what? Father… and mother? I guess they always seemed kinda happy- although I was never really… close to them by any means,” he stopped as his voice turned smaller, “There’s some- there’s some… hatred, or resentment, perhaps, carried along from the memories. Mace Tyrell is the one who forced me into the stupid fucking tourney, anyway- and why didn’t you try to change it?”

 

Margaery sighed heavily, her face looking aged, and turned away from Willas guiltily.

“I’m a seven year old girl, and so...no matter how much I screamed, or begged Willas, or begged Father, he-- they wouldn’t listen. Even Grandmother told me to not worry, which is…”  her voice hitched in helplessness and pain ”..which is actually why I’m here right now - I passed out screaming because of the blasted Tourney. Watching Wil-- I mean, you, carried off by Oberyn Martell while you were screaming in pain...that damned lance went in wrong. I guess it just had to happen the way it did.”

 

“Well, I guess you’re right- he could be really stubborn like that. It’s not your fault- don’t worry. Grandmother, huh… I think I was closest to her- in my world,” he stopped temporarily, the memories coming back to him as a smile made its way through his sullen face. “We plotted many plots together, you know? And Oberyn… guess I’ll just have to accept it and make nice, again. A Prince of Dorne would be helpful once we reach out to them. I was about to visit Dorne and finalized my betrothal to Princess Arianne there, you know?”

 

“Thanks, Willas,” Margaery said, going through the familiar motions of hugging her brother, before aborting her movements halfway through the hug, aware that her...new brother might not be comfortable with that. “Anyways, uh, it seemed like it was better than in canon, because it was clear that it was an accident and not done deliberately, at least, from what I saw, before I fainted in Loras’s arms.”

 

“My hands… At least I could run again. But my fucking hands!” he said while yelling a muffled scream to the pillow, with one hand still kept around his- sister’s body. “I- uh, I… write a lot in my original world, you see? So excuse me, but this damn stuff is just- gah, it’s horrible!”

 

Margaery nodded, looking at her brother. “I know this...won’t help much, but maybe...maybe you could get a page? Someone to do the writing for you? I know it isn’t perfect, but as grandmother says, we play the Game with the hand we are dealt? I can do it too! At least, as long as I’m here.”

 

“Could be… but I write blackmails and- stuff, you see? Or stories, even. I got Mace distracted by building him an Art Citadel. Yeah, the bards went to shit about it. Although a page might be helpful, I think I need a fucking Qyburn here.”

 

“I suppose we’ll spend a lot of time together, then, plotting with Grandmother”  Margaery said, brightly “Or at least, I can deal with Father, Mother, and the rest. I’m obviously the favorite in the family, but Loras is my favorite right now and you’ve got a ways to go, New Willas. But back to the original subject, we need to plan. Grandmother is obviously having a meeting tomorrow, most likely with Father and Mother, to discuss the implications of the Tourney and you’re actually both old enough and respectable enough that you can force your way in.”

 

“Oh god- Loras. He was in his sick lovey-dovey part with Renly when the time I was- well, you know. Force my way in, huh?” he asked, smiling. “You know it was you that would force your way in through some of my and grandmother’s quality-time plotting. I think you went into shock when you figured out the thing with Walder Frey.”

 

“Yeah, I get that, I’m just...more aware of my position in this world, I guess,”  Margaery replied soberly. “I’d say not to involve Loras with Renly, but, he loved him, like, really loved him, and besides, it brings the Stormlands. Who else can we wrap our fingers around with Loras’s move? I mean, he’s gay, for gods sake, give him his doomed gay romance.”

 

“I don’t know. I just left it up to fate, to be honest. And I’m not that optimistic about the Stormlands- there’s this little thing, you see? It’s little and it’s red, and it’s fucking ancient and named Melisandre. But I supppose- we need to maintain the pre-canon influence that we have with Loras and Renly like in canon.”

 

“Ha ha ha, very funny, Will,” Margaery replied sardonically, “Melisandre and all of our enemies will be done for in time, after all, there’s two of us to bounce theories off of now. You seem to be a Targaryen Restoration...ist, I guess, while I’m gunning for the Starks. Can we at least do Jon Snow? I mean, he is a Targaryen, bastard or no. We can use that.”

 

“Starks, huh. Not that big of a fan, and yep- he’s a Targaryen. Rhaegar’s polygamy and Septon Maynard and all that- there’s a book in the Citadel, his diary, I got Grand-Uncle Gormon to get it for me.” Willas replied.

 

“Wait, no way!” Margaery said, excited. “That removes, like, half of the problems around him as an option! Only the other half is three big fucking dragons in the hands of a little girl...actually, why don’t you marry Daenerys? Save her from Viserys, play the Big Damn Hero, etc etc etc, and you can be King instead. I’ve always wanted a sister...” she finished dreamily.

 

“First of all- that’s icky. And second of all, you seem to be forgetting the little problems that came in two shapes- Varys and Mopatis. You don’t just- move against them, you know?” he said, arms gesturing grandly as he tried to showcase his words.

 

“Forgot about Mopatis, that bastard. Obsessed with Serra, who could, y’know, totally be a Blackfyre?”

 

“Marge- if I can call you that, that bastard owned a freakin’ Triarch of Volantis in his pockets. Which by the way- I got our Aunt Lynesse to marry one of the Old Bloods instead of Jorah Mormont. Well- what if he’s not, then? Varys said that ‘Power resides where men believe it resides’ and I was planning to take Oberyn to find out the truth, anyway…”

 

“Yes, yes, Varys’s magnus opum, his grand speech, I know.” Margaery replied. “That still doesn’t excuse the possibility of becoming dragonfire though. Any claimant against Daenerys Targaryen will most certainly die, unless you kill her first, but the dragons, and the alternatives are Cersei, who, y’know, mad bitch who blew me up, or Robb ‘military genius’ Stark and the wonderful Stark plot armor. Think of the plot armor, Willas! That could be us! Although, given that we’re self-inserts...”

 

“Which can easily be solved by scooping her up when her beloved Drogo died! Nurse her back, be the damn heroes, old loyalists- always loyal and all that bullshit. Get her here, but I am not marrying a little girl. You do realize that Self-Inserts- well half of the time everything went fucking smoothly- half the time we’re screwed ever more. And don’t get me started on Euron-” he stopped, catchin a few breaths as the imagery came back to him. “When I was in Hightower. I pricked my finger on the Glass Candle- no, don’t laugh! And then I saw visions, I suppose. One of them is a water of black washing over a field of green. If it’s not some beacon about the fucking Not!Antichrist then I don’t know what is.”

 

“I’d offer to accompany you to the Hightower to see how it works in this world, but knowing our luck, we’ll be screwed again or something, Margaery offered.  but...no, I mean, I try not to think about the icky parts of it all, but we’ve got work to do, and might I remind you that we’re biologically and mentally whatever our age is, even if we have memories of another life? Shouldn’t we play it safe? I mean, Grandmother avoided the Targs to marry Grandfather, and from what I know, he was an idiot, but he did his job.”

 

“Marge- playing Stark is not playing safe. Oh yes they’re oh-so-mighty and noble. But a Stark Dynasty could never last. 

 

“I’m not talking dynasty, Will, I’m talking surviving the long night! Look, we know House Tyrell needs to be a power equal to the other Great Houses, and the best thing we can do is to keep our asses alive and, I dunno, throw Loras at the Night King to cultivate a reputation that will lead our descendants through the ages before the smallfolk rise up and guillotine us all. Make up songs with those bards you talked about, or something, but you and I both know Queenship is a terrible idea, considering that we’re at the precipice of an apocalypse. I say go for the experts on winters, which means the Starks, and unless you want to marry Sansa….” Margaery pointed out heatedly, her voice trailing off as she emphasized Sansa’s name. “I don’t think we’re getting to the solutions tonight, so I suggest we talk about it with Grandmother. With her in the know, we won’t get locked in a madhouse. Maybe we can do something to stop Father’s mad planning - you know he has ideas, so let’s...get some sleep and go for tomorrow?

 

“My, what a clever little schemer you are.” Willas replied, face twisting into a playful smile. “I was planning to sic Sansa Stark on Garlan. Since he’s all gallant and all, Sansa would love him. You know what else I saw with the Glass Candle? Dawn. Great Empire of the Dawn. Marble mountains and city carved from gold. A thousand dragons that danced the sky- up until the streak of black fell through the sky. I assume it was the Bloodstone. But whatever it was, it brought doom and the end of Dawn. I was planning to consult more with the Hightowers on the matter, they seem to have descended from them, I think.”

 

“Garlan? Wouldn’t that require the death of like, every Stark other than Sansa?” Margaery asked incredulously. “It’d be easier to, y’know, marry me to him or to Jon. Actually, Jon wouldn’t be so bad, other than the brooding, and I mean...he does bring the Starks.”

 

“Well since the Starks seem to have such bad luck- I’d probably save that match up until we could have Sansa in our hands. Jon Snow, huh, I don’t know. Technically- we hold the key in our hands, with the Citadel. We could make him a Targaryen or not, depending on our intention. But unless- unless he does something really crazy during the Long Night, valiant deeds and glorious tales or that, I don’t think the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms would warm up much to him. Since you know- Lyanna and Rhaegar started the war both. The girl was smitten and the Prince was convinced it was his duty. It was written in the diary.”

 

“Jon Stargaryen--” Margaery said, trying to stifle her laugh “is literally walking plot armor. Seriously. Main character energy. Easily manipulated. Come on, have you read any Rhaegar Wins Fics? Jon Snow will always prevail against Aegon, simply because he has bullshit plot armor that Bloodraven specifically manipulated. Or the author.”

 

“I hate those things to be honest… and nope, I’m not hitching my wagon to Jon up until I have the truth or the answer of Dorne to Aegon first. We have the time. We could even start earlier than I did in my world.”

 

“Well, I still think you should be betrothed to Daenerys, but in lieu of that, Arianne is a good option, Garlan and Arianne wouldn’t be bad either, considering that Father actually has leverage against Prince Doran. We need to take care of this tomorrow before Father does something drastic.”

 

“ Nah, poor Garlan would never be able to match her. She’d eat him alive. You know, I have him squired to the Blackfish and fostered at Riverrun in my world.”

 

“Man, you really are good at all of the little side plots and schemes. Better than me, at any rate, at looking at the small things. And you set him up so hard for Sansa - honestly, Will, I’m starting to get a sense of predictability from you here.” Margaery jested, sticking out her tongue at her brother.

 

“Why my lady,” he mockingly bowed to her, “That’s very flattering of you.”

 

“We can at least terrify grandmother into working with our competence. Seven knows Loras and Gar won’t do so otherwise, but...stop on the big plans, they’re going to get us killed. I mean, killing off Uncle Jon? I know he’s useless, but I mean, damn, did he tease you or something?”

 

Willas brought a hand to brush the strays of hair that fell down the front side of his face, remembering the reason that he had cut them short. “Man is a drunk, and a lewd one at that. And not even close to inheriting the Fossoway lordship. Father must be heavy on his cups when he arranged the match.”

 

“Ugh, you don’t just kill people off like that. You gotta think interpersonally, Willas, you can’t just-- just kill off people any time they annoy you! Father might be heavy in his cups, but you know that Aunt Janna is an idiot who fell in love with him at a tourney. Well, did she even mourn him? Because if not we might as well…”

 

“Huh, must be a divergence or some kind. Aunt Janna wasn’t madly in love with him in my world. Yes she- well, hooked up with him. Foolish youth thing to do, and when Mace got words of it? He betrothed them!”

 

“I’m starting to understand why Grandmother hates our aunts, I mean, imagine if Loras or Garlan did that! But no, in this world, Mother pretty clearly confided to me that they are madly in love, and that Aunt Janna hated Grandmother’s politics-- don’t give me that disgusted look, Will-- so no, do not kill him off. Find another poor soul to get that Velyaron alliance..”

 

“ I don’t know what you’re complaining about, grandmother is the one to pitch the idea to me.  I just well- agree to it. Maybe, there’s a cousin of ours that’s supposed to marry a Bulwer or a Cuy, I can’t remember which, but she should still be unmarried now. Poor woman? Aunt Janna was happily married with three kids already in mine. You know at this point, I can practically recite the whole family tree and who marries who in my sleep.”

 

Margaery groaned. “Of course she would.” She trailed off into light curses about her family’s complete lack of interpersonal skill, and her new brother’s clear trigger-happiness. “It is getting late though, Will, we need to sleep for tomorrow, and then we can go to the meeting, and, yes, interrupt Father’s scheming.”

 

“Fine, but I don’t want words from you suddenly betrothing yourself to Robb Stark. You’re not getting away that easily!” Willas said. His voice was serious but there was a smile on his face.

 

“Margaery Stark, Margaery Stark,” Margaery taunted as she tried to dodge away from her brother’s grasping hands. “You’re looking at the next Ms. Robb Stark, I mean, hotter Richard Madden.”

 

“Nuh-uh, future Ms. Aegon Targaryen, the perfect prince!”

 

The Maester entered the room to find Margaery and Willas teasing out another, and smiled.

 

“Willas, you are not supposed to be moving your hands like that! And Margaery, off to bed with you? I imagine you’re feeling better already, so I will inform your Lady Mother to escort you to your room.” Old Lomys chastised.

 

“Guess that’s it, then, Will.” Margaery said, smiling.

 

“I guess,”  he answered, giving her his favorite shrug, “I guess I’ll see you in the big scene, tomorrow, then.”

 

“Alright, the solar, at….noon, then? We can overhear the conversation - I can definitely butter up Left and Right to take a leave or something. I expect Father and Mother will be there at least, and Grandmother will walk in at some point. Sound good?”

 

“Yeah… that sounds good, I guess,” Willas said, his voice trailing into nothingness as he absently stared at the silver light of the small window in the infirmary.

 

“Alright, bye Will!” she chirped in Westerosi, winking at him as their Lady Mother arrived. “Check your language skills for me before you sleep, dear brother.”

 

“Language? There’s no need to worry, sweet sister, I trade barbs with Randyll Tarly long before you’re up to anything.” He finished with a wink, returning it to his sister.

 

And with that, she left the room, and Willas had the time alone to finally think it through. He didn’t, at the end. He pulled up his sheets and waited for his Lady Mother to pick him, a million thoughts running through his mind.

 

---

Olenna

In retrospect, Olenna knew the meeting was doomed the moment it had begun, but at the time, it had been a simple thing. It had started out as a simple meeting at first, with Mace and Alerie wishing to keep abreast of Willas’s condition after the frightful tourney that they had experienced.

 

But, Gods, what a fool Mace was, sending such a green boy out to fight in the lists. My oaf of a son wanted prestige and it cost him Willas.

 

Still, that was an uncharitable interpretation, she chastised herself. The boy could still read, still write, and still had a brain, and if the Gods were good, he would only get better at dealing with the lordly pursuits with his time cut at the tiltyard, and she had reminded her son and good-daughter such.

 

The meeting, then, had become a simple measure of assigning a page for Willas, but then the conversation turned to the Martells, and somehow, there she was, watching all Seven hells break loose.

 

"What of the Martells?" Alerie had asked, hesitantly. "Surely there must be some recompense."

 

"It was clear that Willa's injury was an accident, yet a dangerous one for Dorne and for the Reach.” Her son rambled. “I sent a raven to Doran Martell with plans for recompense. The one most strongly agreed upon in this moment was a betrothal between our boy and Arianne Martell--"

 

The doors slammed open, with a THUD!, and Willas and Margaery ran into the room, both out of breath. It looked as though Willas had kicked the door open with the sheer force of his anger, an uncharacteristic fire blazing in his eyes. Poor Margaery looked as though she was ready to run, her eyes darting frantically between Mace and Willas, as if they were about to explode at one another.

 

“We, uh...overheard--” Margaery said frantically, and out of breath, before Willas interrupted her.

 

“Dearest father. I do hope that you’re not planning any betrothal with me without involving me, the actual groom-to-be. And pardon me if I do seem so intrusive, but I think I have the rights of it- to wonder… what is it that you have cooked so specially for your prized son?” He finished while bringing his hand to caress his chin, the little fits of shaking on display for Mace to see.

 

“Ah, Willas!” Mace brightened, going in to hug his son, but was rebuffed by his cold glare. “I-- er--- that is to say---”

 

“Arianne Martell, father?” Margaery said, belaying a knowledge that Olenna had only seen flashes of but was bright and full bear today. “Not that it’s a bad betrothal, but you realize that either Willas has to be Prince Consort or she gives up her position?”

 

“They do have the right of it, Mace,” Olenna found herself contributing. “Please explain yourself for us all, because I most certainly do not understand. Prince Doran will most certainly not want her to give up her position, unless you mean for Willas to become Prince Consort?”

 

"I-- I mean for Willas to become Prince Consort to Arianne, and for Garlan to take up Highgarden in his place." Mace confessed, in a small voice as Willas glared down at his father.

 

"Mace! Are you so foolish as to hand away your eldest son's birthright because of an injury?" Olenna barked, angrily.

 

"Mother, I--" Mace babbled, but she continued to shout him down, glaring at her son.

 

 "Have you even once begun to consider the implications of this? Willas may not even survive his wedding night, thrown to the Vipers, for what of the enmity between our house and theirs? Does that resolve itself before then?" the Queen of Thorns spoke venomously. "By the Seven, Garlan has not had any lessons on heirship, and your boy will see it for the insult it is! Your lords will begin to talk about the fat, ambitious flower, and resentment will build. Before we know it, we'll have an army of our own bannermen storming Highgarden--"

 

“I see.” Willas said, his voice cold as the winds of winter. “So I am to be nothing. Lords and ladies, Princes and Princesses. You play the game of kings and queens and I am to be but a pawn. Hah,” Olenna heard him laugh, more so at himself than any other. “Then I haven’t got the thing to lose, then. That makes me dangerous if you think I’m going to stay silent and be the obedient little son as you sold me to Prince Doran. A broken thing, wanted no more.”

 

“Willas, please,” Alerie said desperately, trying to head off the conflict. “Your father didn’t mean it like that, he just wants the best for you and Garlan…”

 

Willas brought a hand up to placate her good-daughter, and a little something in Olenna died when she saw her grandson’s hand never stopping to shake. “Oh, please, let him continue, dear mother. I mean- I was to ride in a joust against the Red Viper. Clearly I was wrong here- and that father is always looking out for the best of his children, then. I mean, this was his tourney. He could’ve fixed the list, he could’ve- I don’t know, matched me up with a random hedge knight or something. But no, chivalry matters more, apparently.”

 

“Honestly, Will, we were supposed to butter him up before the insults,” Margaery said, groaning. “I mean, you’re right that Father has been particularly careless,” and at that, she affixed her own glare at Mace, which looked out of place on her normally cheerful face, “But if Father does not stop this, why, I’m afraid we would have to do something about it.”

 

“Margaery, Willas, really--” Mace babbled, “I mean no disrespect, but..” and he broke out into a nervous smile. “I just thought it would be best for you?”

 

This was Mace Tyrell’s final mistake, in Olenna’s opinion, as her grandson and granddaughter affixed the combined forces of their already-present glares at their oafish target.

 

“Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Mander, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach, and Warden of the South. Born to Lord Luthor Tyrell and Lady Olenna Redwyne, the Queen of Thorns. Besieged Storm’s End during Robert’s Rebellion, he chose to stay loyal to the dynasty that gave his family their titles. He has four children- only one daughter. But Lord Mace Tyrell only has two sons, two prized sons; little Garlan and little Loras, so very good with their swords. But no, that’s not enough. He wants for himself, another Leo Longthorn. Forces his eldest child and heir to ride in a tourney when he’s two-and-ten. I never wanted any of this- swords, lances, shields. You know I have little interest in it. I have been but a dutiful heir, a loyal son, and a caring brother. Yet that’s not enough for the great Lord Mace. And now his heir is a broken, twitchy little thing, and off to be sold to the vipers, carted off to the barren desert of Dorne, apparently.”

 

“Not only that,” Margaery continued angrily, “Why, by the Seven, would you even send him to the Vipers? I’ll grant that they’re not bad people, but Prince Doran wants the same thing every other Lord Paramount seems to want - to want their daughter to become queen, and Arianne Martell can most certainly not become Queen if she is married to Willas! You would literally be putting Willas in harm’s way, only to have Gar replace Willas, and upending succession laws in the process? Father, you are a complete idiot!”

 

Olenna’s face twisted in confusion. “How, granddaughter, would Willas be in harm’s way, other than the Dornish-Reach animosity? I’ll grant that Prince Doran wants his daughter to be Queen, but he is hardly going to marry his daughter to a Baratheon.”

 

“The Sack of King’s Landing.” Willas answered. “Princess Elia Martell’s blood is still unresolved. King Robert Baratheon welcomes the lions with open arms. A Lannister Queen and the Mighty Tywin now stronger than ever. Jon Arryn, the Hand who wishes nothing but peace. Oh yes, he brokered a peace with Dorne. But Prince Doran is an intelligent man, I highly suspect that he’s playing the long game. The exiles- Viserys and Daenerys are still roaming the Free Cities. And I don’t know about this, but maybe you forget who has a Free City wife here? Oh- and don’t get me started on the Griffs, the Cheesemonger, and the Spider!”

 

“Don’t forget Jon Snow too, Will,” Margaery pointed out. “Targaryen claimants are all around and Prince Doran might find out what really happened at the Tower of Joy. Lyanna Stark’s secret son with Prince Rhaegar was deadly, but a poor-man’s dragon is much better than the alternative for Prince Doran.”

 

With this, all motion in the room stopped, as Olenna, Mace, and Alerie simply stared at their children. How, by the Seven, did her two grandchildren know any of this?

 

“I’m sorry, grandmother, but...Willas and I cannot keep the facade anymore.” Margaery explained. “Oh, we were content with your scheming at first, letting you think that we were merely precocious children, which is why I kept begging you, Mother, to write letters to Robb Stark, who, by the way, Will, I will marry! But now that you’ve truly gone and fucked it up, we’re intervening with our superior knowledge, so for once in your life, shut up and listen before you make the worst mistake of your life.”

 

“You most certainly will not! I will not have my sweet sister rotting away in the desolate North! Not when there’s a perfectly available Dragon Prince waiting around the corner, and I’m talking about the one that actually knows something!”

 

“The Others are literally approaching, I thought we discussed this last night!!!” Margaery complained, exasperated. “Honestly, we’re faced with a world-ending apocalypse where ice demons are literally going to destroy the entire realm, and dragons will burn us to a crisp if we don’t support the right candidate, so no, actually, Will, I will not hitch myself to a potential Blackfyre.” She threw her hands up in the air and stared at her brother, who returned her look with equally as much stubbornness.

 

Olenna’s mind spiraled at the words dripping out of her grandchildren’s mouths. What madness is this? Secret Targaryens? The Others- has Margaery taken a leave to her senses in her grief? And what’s Lomys been feeding her grandson, was it Milk of the Poppy?

 

“You don’t believe us, do you, Grandmother?” Margaery noted. “Okay, fine, let’s do this the slow way, Will. I know you were once betrothed to a Targaryen prince, Grandmother-”

 

“Which by the way- was definitely not a sword swallower,” interrupted Willas.

 

“And that you successfully got out of the betrothal by seducing grandfather and leaving him unable to walk,” Margaery finished. “You haven’t told me or Willas this, so how could we know if we didn’t have access to some kind of secret piece of information, other than if we knew things beyond our age? What else do you want to know? We have all the information you need on the major players of the Game of Thrones, and yes, that does include Varys’s master plan.”

 

“Which by the way- may or may not be a secret Blackfyre, a secret Brightflame, or- whatever, really…” Willas continued.

 

Olenna stared in shock at her grandchildren. They were right, damnable business that it was, but how would they know? And dragons? How?

 

“Anyways, we need to decide as a family whose boat we are hitching a ride, or, I suppose, claim to, and you will listen to us,” Margaery said fiercely. “We will be the ones deciding this family’s future, as the next Lord Paramount of the Reach and the successor to the Queen of Thorns, unless you want to hear the grim future that awaits us. We hitch our claim to Renly Baratheon and he dies, so we go for the Lannisters, and their bastard gets.”

 

“Oh yeah, Cersei Lannister’s children are bastards, by the way, and with her twin, too, at that.”  interrupted Willas yet again.

 

“Father, Loras and I explode in a mad torrent of wildfire at the Sept of Baelor, all because Cersei Lannister, mad bitch that she is, does not want to share power.” Margaery continued, as if this wasn’t the most horrifying thing Olenna had heard in awhile. “Garlan and Willas die to dragonfire via Daenerys Targaryen” (and at that she muttered something incomprehensible at Willas, to which both shared a look),”...and, you know, the Long Night approaches, the Others destroy the Wall and half the realm, King’s Landing once again burns in flame, and a sellsword by the name of Bronn takes over Highgarden, in the absolute worst case. This is why you need to listen to us.”

 

“Anyway- I was thinking that we assassinate that Bronn fellow as soon as possible. Oh by the way- Loras died taking Dragonstone from Stannis Baratheon’s hands- not wildfire, that’s you sweet-sister. That and a ton of our lady cousins, probably.”

 

Margaery sighed. “Shit, I forgot that’s how it goes in one world, there are plenty of other worlds we know about too.”

 

Worlds? Olenna thought in disbelief, Her grandchildren knew about their fates in different worlds? Alerie looked ready to faint out of shock, and Willa’s cold glare at Mace kept him quiet, but…

 

“Willas! Margaery!” Olenna barked. “Are you two absolutely certain that these aren’t fabrications? Because if this is some kind of jest, or joke, this ends now.”

 

Willas answered first. “As sure as the sun that rises in the east, the blue that is the sky, and the water that flows down the Mander, beloved grandmother.”

 

“We are certain, grandmother,” Margaery answered as well. “We can prove it, seriously, go ask Uncle Baelor or Grandfather Leyton, they’ve got the magic for it, or so Will tells me.”

 

Willas nodded frantically. “Oh yeah, they have a glass candle there. And it’s lit too, by the way, by the hands of our Aunt Malora- which I just discovered, dear father, to be your original betrothed. My, aren’t we a lovely little family, scheming their ways into the marriage beds, no? Oh and before I forget- Balon Greyjoy is going to rebel in about, say a year, I think, burning the Lannister Fleet anchored at Lannisport. Man, was Tywin happy about that, I wonder...”

 

“Yeah, no way I’m scheming my way into a marriage bed, Will, unless it’s Robb Stark’s,  right Willas?” Margaery said, her voice trailing off into gibberish.

 

“No, don’t give me that look. I may not be scheming my way into a marriage bed, but I damn sure am scheming a lot of other people’s marriage beds. And yours, too, to Aegon Targaryen.” 

 

“Hah, as if, dear brother. The secret dragon up North is a much better match, and Ms. Jon Targaryen doesn’t sound too bad if you really want a second choice. Seriously, I thought we were discussing this later!”

 

“If you want Mr. Cold Fish then sure, I’m sure that Ned Stark would be very happy to receive a letter from me, maybe a letter that by perchance- mentioned the Tower of Joy?”

 

“He’s not a cold fish and I can totally fix him, Will! Honestly, he’s a bastard and more obsessed with that purity thing than Catelyn Tully, but all it takes is a little manipulation on my part, and then you have a much better option then Mr. Who The Fuck Is He Really, Targaryen, Blackfyre, Brightflame, etc etc etc.”

 

“Fancy yourself a second Natalie Dormer, aren’t you? Well I’m just going to wait and laugh my way through you... learning seductions, dear sister.”

 

“I’m Margaery Tyrell, damnit, my genetics are gonna carry half of me through this thing and the other half of it will be catering to exactly what he wants me to be. Someone who is kind, with a conscience, and also treats him the same way whether he’s a bastard or not. If you are so insistent on me marrying a Targaryen--and don’t give me that look--you were planning on just straight up watching the Starks die out and marrying Garlan to Sansa when we could, I dunno, secure the west with Myrcella Lannister? We’ve got options.”

 

“I am not letting Garlan marry Cersei Lannister’s bastard. Nuh-uh, I’d marry Lollys Stokeworth before it happens. And waiting for them to die- which I have to mention, by their own foolishness and not in any way through any possible future machinations from me- then marrying Garlan to Sansa is a perfectly reasonable idea. I’m sure grandmother would agree, right, grandmother?”

 

Olenna Tyrell would die of heart failure at this very moment, or spawn grey hairs. Her grandchildren devolved into gibberish, unintelligible except for mentions of Stark, Targaryen, and Lannister, after sassing her, Mace, and Alerie to the Seven Hells. Apparently, her barbs had transferred in the worst way to her two grandchildren.

 

Oh dear, Luthor, was this why you rode off that cliff?

 

“Fuck- you- you- idiot!” Willas barked at his sister. “Language check!”

 

“Well, shit, sorry Will, my bad,” Margaery said sheepishly. “Anyways, to summarize, we are discussing the benefits of marrying either Robb Stark, Jon Snow, or Aegon….you know what, I’m not even going to bother with a House name. I still maintain you should marry Daenerys, but Arianne Martell and the Reach are your best options if not that. She’s not going to give up her throne easily, you know.”

 

“Oh, I think she is- she will be when I charmed her. It’s not just you with the genetics, you know. They called me the Darling of the Reach in my world.”

 

“Eww, Will!” Margaery groaned. “Did not need to hear that.” “Okay, fair enough.”

 

“I trade letters with Pedro Pascal! Are you not expecting some of his charms to leak out?”

 

“Yeah, but would Pedro Pascal even give you the key points you need to seduce his niece? I mean, if anything he would discourage it, no? But we’re missing the point - and I think we need to wrap that up before we terrify Grandmother, Mother, and Father to death.”

 

“Fuck no, that’s- that’s… very surreal coming out of a seven year old’s mouth.”

 

“Okay, sorry, Grandmother, we’re being very rude, leaving you out of the conversation like this. It’s this super secret language that we share. You know, to avoid Varys!” Margaery said sweetly. “No, Father, you do not get to talk right now...actually you know what, Father and Mother, shoo. The adults are talking.”

 

“Margaery!” Alerie barked. “Apologize right now,”

 

“Oh Mother, you really think you’re in control here,” Margaery said, stifling a laugh. “No, I don’t think I will, you both have disrespected Will too much today for me to care. We all know Grandmother runs this House anyways, why should we listen when we know more than you? This is a planning session, after all, and Father runs everything through Grandmother, though with his occasional cases of brilliance, so we know who is really in control here. Now go, before we take the really drastic measures...why, I’m sure Father’s reputation would love to take a hit with his disowning of his son.”

 

Willas gently nudged his sister’s shoulder as he leaned down to level his head with her ears. “Uh, Marge- that’s kinda stepping on what I was about to say.”

 

“Margaery,” Olenna sighed. “Fine, have it your way, you two. But we will be talking about this later, after this conversation. Mace, Alerie, I will talk to them myself.”

 

Alerie and Mace exchanged a nervous glance, before fleeing the room, and so Olenna sat in the solar with her two grandchildren, staring her down.

 

“Now, what madness has befallen you two to insult your Lord Father and Lady Mother like that?” Olenna asked, “Queen of Thorns I may be, but I do not condone this behavior.”

 

“Grandmother, we’re literally learning from you,” Margaery said, exasperated. “You’re missing the point here - the point is the conversation we are to have. We want to run these moves through you because you have actually played the Game-- sorry Will, yes, I know you’ve played the Game too-- but you are here because we need to make a plan for the future, and that’s all there is to it.”

 

“So, anyway, I have this little idea about Aunt Janna and her husband-” Willas said before Margaery cut him off.

 

“No, Will, we are not killing off Uncle Jon because he’s useless. I do need a sworn shield after all, or at least some kind of guard. Get one of the cousins to marry What's-his-face Velyaron instead.” Margaery replied. “Grandmother, tell Will that we cannot kill people off because they’re useless, unless...wait, is that what happened to Grandfather?”

 

“Hmmm, now that’s something I want to know, too, Grandmother.” Willas joined in, crossing his arms. “I read quite a lot of theories and fanfics about that, I think.”

 

For one in her life, the Queen of Thorns was out of words. Completely outwitted, and out-thorned by her grandchildren, she had no idea where to even start. By the Seven, killing off people because they were useless? She marveled inwardly at the ruthlessness that her grandchildren showed, but knew she needed to take a handle on the situation before it went even further out of control.

 

“Willas! Margaery!” she snapped, as they both snapped out of whatever side conversation they had in their secret language. “If we are going to have a conversation of this nature, you will sit down before I kick both of you out of the room and send you there for a moon to think about what you’ve done. Impossible knowledge, you two may have, but you are not invincible, and you cannot kill off anyone you want to. Is that clear?”

 

“Perfectly,” Margaery smiled at Grandmother. “Will?”

 

“Fine.” Willas grumbled. “But I already got away with it!”

 

“Willas!” she snapped at her grandson. “No side conversations. Now, we will deal with your marriage, and we will deal with Margaery’s marriage later.”

 

“Ugh, grandmother!” Margaery complained. “This just gives him more time to plot against me! Now I’ll never marry Robb Stark!”

 

“So I’m still thinking of Princess Elia’s long-lost son for her. For me, hmm, I can agree with Arianne Martell- so long as I’m confirmed to still be the Heir. Sansa Stark is too young for me, I think. Mathis Rowan’s daughter could also work, I suppose. Not Tarly’s tho, Gods, I hate him.”

 

“Okay, we cannot just double up on Dorne like that, Will.” Margaery argued. “Jon Snow is a better option, and if we kill off Aegon before he arrives, no one will ever know, right? We’d have to lay a false trail or something so your lady wife doesn’t kill you, Will, but whatever is necessary for the Game, right?”

 

“Hey- Grandmother has just said no just running around killing people, useless they might be. And talking about useless, now who you should talk about is your beloved Mr. I-Know-Nothing.”

 

“He is very gorgeous to me, Will. The plot armor, Will, the plot armor!” Margaery rebutted.

 

“Plot armor, my arse. Let me know what happens once I’m done sending a letter to Tywin Lannister about the Tower of Joy.”

 

“Ah, but normally House Tyrell would---” Margaery said, before pausing. “Wait, never mind, we are House Tyrell, so all I have to do is bat my pretty little eyelids at Father, and he’ll bring armies to our side, or I suppose you...or did you want your sweet sister to die? For shame, Will, for shame.”

 

“The Starks are nothing but heavy baggage, Marge- did we read and watch the same thing? The Red Wedding, the Pink Letter, fucking Lysa Arryn, all that- you really want us dragged down by their strings of bad lucks? You talk about plot armor- now you talk about the Lannisters!”

 

“Ah, but Bloodraven-enhanced plot armor will win the day. You know full well that Jon Snow is the Prince that was Promised, and someone has to beat the big, bad ice zombies before they kill us all. All Bloodraven has to do is to use his warging skills and realm manipulations to kill his enemies, but...whatever, we can decide that later. Grandmother, Willas and Arianne - is that a good enough proposal for us to end on?”

 

“With confirmation that I am still Heir.”

 

“That too, Will, and you can’t try to kill Father because he pissed you off. Think of how Mother would feel.”

 

“I enjoy my schemes very very much, but I’m not one to be a kinslayer, sweet sister. Mayhaps just a few of something to loosen his bowels in times of war?”

 

“Just functionally dismantle Father from power and take control and we’ll call it a day.” Margaery replied. “After all, Father never wanted to be the Lord of the Reach anyways...give him an early retirement. He and Mother can spend their days touring the Arbor, touring Westeros -- I promise, Grandmother, we’ll give them something to soothe their egos so that they don’t complain to you -- but in terms of the big and small decisions, the three of us will decide it, at least, until I’m wedded and bedded to whatever King you prop me up to.”

 

“A Tyrell Queen, Tyrell Hand, and half-Tyrell Princes and Princesses sure sound great.”

 

“I dunno, Garlan looks like a good candidate for Hand right about now,” Margaery teased her brother. “You’re on thin ice, Will. Marry me to one of the Starks and I’ll reconsider it.”

 

“Oh you just and wait and see- Garlan will never go against me. Because unlike some, he’s a loyal and dutiful sibling. If only we all could be like him!”

 

“Right, Will, we’re excluding grandmother again.” Margaery commented. “Grandmother?”

 

Olenna sighed. The sight of an open window never seemed so tempting for her. Dear Luthor, what if I joined you? What did I do in my misbegotten younger years to deserve this madness? I will quietly check up on their sources, to make sure they are not going mad, but if not...

 

“We will play it your way,” Olenna said tightly. “Now, I need a drink or two. Or three. By the Seven, I have created monsters. Monsters, the two of you. Taking control of the Reach like that...”

 

She walked out of the room, her cane clicking as it hit the ground. Before she left, though, she heard one final piece of conversation from her two grandchildren.

 

“That went...well, I think.” Margaery pointed out to Willas. “Next time we have to be a little less overt with the threats, I guess.”

 

“I don't know, I think it’s perfectly well, already.”

Notes:

It's such a joy to write this little (9k words!) crossover, I had the biggest smile the whole four hours writing this with @Deductive Logic. Oh, and if you haven't check their story, be sure to check "A Rose By Any Other Name (Margaery Tyrell SI)". It's really sweet and interesting! So the whole point is that Goldenhand!Willas (right after the chapter "The Sowing in Oldtown) is getting dropped into the body of the newly-crippled Willas in A Rose By Any Other Name (Chapter 5). And when two SIs met? Chaos ensues! Olenna has a damn well near heart attack while Mace seems to be getting actual heart attacks! No offense to the Mace the Ace (I love him) but if it seems that he's kinda bashed here it's purely for the sake of comedy! And this is NOT CANON to the story- but existed separately as (hopefully) a series of omakes. Once again, this has been really REALLY fun to write, and I hope that you guys enjoy it as much as I do! I will be waiting for your thoughts on this- and who knows, we might be able to turn this into a regular thing!

Chapter 14: Arianne II

Summary:

The Tyrells arrive at Sunspear as the honored guests of House Nymeros Martell. Lost in the game of her father, Princess Arianne Martell desperately tries to find salvation for her future.

Notes:

Enjoy the chapter! And don't forget to let me know what you guys think of it!

ARIANNE

Arianne's feet touched the stone below. But it was cold. Dorne is never cold.

It took her moments to realize that she was in a dream, the sweet flower of sleep. In the dream, she was younger, four-and-ten, and a loving daughter with a loving father and both a loving mother. Fourteen… was when she lost her maidenhead. She lost it to the Bastard of Godsgrace. It wasn't sweet and it wasn't beautiful like the song- they were clumsy and foolhardy, but Arianne remembered them fondly. But before all that, fourteen was when her world changed. I came to bid you goodnight, a kiss on the cheek, but what awaited me… It had often confused her to this day. Prince Doran was never one any would accuse as clumsy and rash- but the letter laid bare on his desk, the night the hour that Arianne would often visit, how… why…

Arianne saw her mother. Lady Mellario, short of five feet, much like Arianne herself. Her hair was black and her eyes were those of a swirling dark pool, one that's inviting and one Arianne would forever treasure. In the dream, they were back in Sunspear. The Tower of the Sun. His father sat on his throne, regal and mighty, robed in Martell orange. His mother sat on the other throne, belonging to the Consorts of the Princes and Princesses of Dorne from the past. In the dream, they smiled happily, and Arianne smiled back.

In the dream, Areo stood as vigilant as ever. His eyes were that of a hawk, always hunting and always searching. Arianne remembered her reluctance and her fear. But Hotah's eyes followed her, always and forever. His eyes were trailing after her- traces of predatory instincts yet one promised to sworn. His eyes followed her as she dragged her mother through the hand. And his eyes followed her as she hugged his father, her head reaching up no further than his belly. His father would bend down- he always did, Arianne would feel a gush of air running through her hair, flowing long as her mother's own. He would sniff her hair, sands among them tasting of the burn of the desert, for the sun of the Rhoyne never shies away.

They danced in the dream. They danced in the gardens amidst dunes. His father wore red and gold and orange, and her mother white and green and yellow. Arianne would dance on her father's feet. The bells were ringing in the dream, Arianne knew not- but she remembered her mother's tales of the Bells of Norvos. The bells rang, their sound a distant call in the air, and when Arianne turned to look, she found none. She couldn't find it. She saw none. The bells were a song of home that Arianne couldn't remember. Whatever it was, the wind lost it for her.

In the dream, she was at the Water Gardens. It was a scorching day. The sun had shone even brighter than she usually would. The water was warm, and the palms in the gardens swayed along with the wind. They were dancing, Arianne thought. The water danced the same- only to the tune of children instead of the wind, the tune of silly laughs.

She saw a bundle of white resting on her mother's arms, Trystane. The brother she never gave a chance to. She looked around and she saw Nymeria. She saw Obara and she saw Tyene. She even saw Sarella, her curly hair of Summer tied neatly. She saw Ellaria and Oberyn, their tongues intertwining with that of each other. Always. But Arianne did not see Quentyn. Her eyes were searching yet she couldn't find the hair of black the same as hers.

The water dripped down from her skin, olive roasted in the bright of the day. Arianne walked to the edge of the pools- where her father and mother would wait for her. There she saw him, Quentyn. Father's hand was on his arm, a smile on his face. To her face, there wasn't a smile to Arianne's.

A whisper came upon her. Push him. Quentyn was but a boy nine namedays. I shouldn't. He's not at fault. Father is. Father- not him. Uncle Oberyn- not him. But to see his face, so reminiscent of her father- people always say Arianne favours her mother's look- was another twisting thrust of the knife lodged upon her heart. The iron kiss of the Stranger. "One day you will sit where I sit, and rule all Dorne." She wondered, did Quentyn ever reply? Did he ask of her? Did he ever wonder?

When Arianne turned around, she saw the eyes. Piercing and gazing. A thousand sets of eyes. In the darkness and in the daylight. In the corners and in the turns. Arianne saw the eyes. Questioning and judging. Their looks bore half a hundred questions, their stares were the demons of her nightmares. Their lips sneering at curling. They were laughing- laughing at her, and the world laughed along. They pointed and they jeered. Look at the Princess of Dorne.

They were not the worst. No, the stupid girl named Arianne looked to her front. And it was then, that she found herself at the end of her father's disappointed eyes, his look disapproving, stripping her bare of whatever was left with her. Father- no, I can explain. Father, wait! Father- stupid, stupid, stupid! She cursed at herself. The stupid little girl that wanted and wanted. Yet it was all for naught The game and the play, she lost a little of herself along the way, a little more with every step, and was left a little less at every turn. A little less, up until she no longer remained.

She opened her eyes to the image of the sun and spear of her house, emblazoned onto the ceiling of her domed roof. The sun was an angry shade of red, soaked in crimson blood. The spear was that of yellow; bright and unwavering.

Princess Arianne slept in satin and in silk- the fabrics of her nightgown squirming around her skin, white for her olive. She moved to rise from her bed, her chin meeting her knees as she hugged her legs on her bed.

And this time, when her feet touched the stone below, it was warm.

The sunlight of the break of dawn arrived through her open window. They were a comfort to her, ones that never left her. Not yet. Arianne moved to ring the servants, ready for her morning bath, her dress, and whatever it was for the day.

She stopped at the sight of her reflection. Upon the grand and beautiful Myrish glass, their edges carved in wood and their mirrors stretching to form three parts of one large mirror, unfolding in three.

Dark eyes and dark hair. Her ringlets fell on her shoulder. Her skin was of the beloved olive of Dorne- kissed by the sun. Her body curved and shaped, the Princess of Dorne was a sight to see. She brought a hand to caress her cheek- the bags under her eyes still visible. She tugged on the strands of hair close to her ears. Twisting and rounding on her finger. She twirled on them, stretching them down to the shoulder of her loosened nightwear. She buried her face on it, a smile brimming for the world not to see. A bitter smile.

The knock arrived and the servants waited at the door. Princess Arianne climbed her way down her bed. Her bare feet caressed by the warmth of the stone. Before she left for the door- she took another look at the glass. My, what a lovely girl. How could her princely father have left her?

---

The Fish or the Roses, his father had told her. Edmure Tully, Willas Tyrell, or Garlan Tyrell. Heir, Heir, and a second son.

Arianne Nymeros Martell, born to Prince Doran Nymeros Martell and Lady Mellario of Norvos. Eldest child and the rightful heir to the Throne of the Sun. Cast aside for her younger, more dutiful brother. Betrothed to the exile, Viserys Targaryen, in a secret pact forged in Braavos between Ser Willem Darry- and Prince Oberyn Martell, the Uncle whose loin had spawned the root of her tragedy.

There was a time, Arianne remembered, when she had adored her Uncle. Strong, swift, and sharp. The Red Viper of Dorne, a master of the spear and a master of poisons. Tamed his way through the brothels of Westeros and Essos, half a thousand boys and girls, men and women among them. There was a time, when Arianne had wanted to be her Uncle more than anything. Dornish pride and Dornish beloved Prince. So full of life, blistering. The blood that ran high and the endless turns of exciting adventures. Then there was a time, when it all went wrong.

Yronwood. And would that she could, Arianne would march an army there, razed the castle of the arrogant Bloodroyals to the ground, and made Anders Yronwood bent before her. For Dorne. For Dorne. And for Dorne, her father told her. "Sacrifice is a part of life that I regret every day of my life, and a part that I never should. A Prince of Dorne is a Prince of his people. And so are you, a Princess of Dorne."

Arianne still recalled the day, of the breaking of lies and the unveiling of the bitter truths. She had not swallowed them all, not whole, not for days and weeks. Her father told her of a botched plan for the dragons- whispers of madness and a second coming of the Mad King. Arianne nodded along, believing the words of his father- for he had never sounded so sincere and her eyes didn't lie. Eyes that stared disappointingly at me in the dream. Eyes that bore the hidden traces of… love, Arianne would like to say. For after all this time, she was a daughter that lost her father in a single night, lost him to a pair of ink and parchment.

The blood of her Aunt. Aunt Elia is dead… but her ghost is all around. She thought of her cousins; Rhaenys and Aegon, the both of them dead, skulls split and bashed, Tywin Lannister's mad dogs. They told her that she had once held her cousin in her hand, not that she could remember. But their blood remained here, not in King's Landing, but in Dorne. It haunted them, her father and her Uncle. Arianne liked to think, sometimes, of what might have been, had the mad Prince Rhaegar not shamed her Aunt, had the Rebellion never happened- how different would her life be? She didn't know, but Arianne liked to think that it was a simpler and happier one.

Now she must choose. Her father gave her the names. With the Dragon Prince disappearing amidst his begging days roaming the Free Cities, her father and his trusted agents had apparently deemed the boy mad, and Prince Doran Martell wished not for the fate of his sister to befell her daughter.

Still, the matter was a heavy one to consider. My place as the Princess of Dorne. She had once been desperate, wanting to escape to Highgarden, in the hope that she could marry Willas Tyrell and forged herself a kingdom in the Reach, or it might be enough that with such a match, her father would reconsider his decisions and name her his heir. Her beloved father had now turned the freedom to her hands, such freedom. He had confessed that Quentyn has been prepared to follow him, groomed to rule, and taught to inherit. Yet the sideways glances he sent her, Arianne knew enough that her father had asked her to concede, and surrender her claim to Dorne.

The possibility had come to Arianne's mind more than once. Leaving Dorne and her father - free to forge and shape her own destiny. She had dreamed of the magical lands of the East, mayhaps her mother would take her in, and surely- there would be a rich merchant prince willing to marry her in Norvos or the other Free Cities. Volantis, much like Nymeria's mother, or even Lys. She dreamed of taking a ship, sailing to the edge of the world. And perhaps, she would meet a Prince of Yi Ti and an Empress she would be.

If I marry Garlan Tyrell, I can convince Father to let me succeed. The Gallant Tyrell was a second son, set not to inherit Highgarden, but tied so very close to the current Warden of the South and the future Lord of Highgarden, with blood ties and ancestry stretching out to the Hightower and the Arbor. I still can have Dorne. Dalt and Spottswood will rise for me. And Lord Franklyn Fowler disliked Anders Yronwood probably as much as her, the Warden of the Prince's Pass. Dayne will not bestir, but Ellaria- can I rise Harmen Uller for me? Jordayne, Toland, and Blackmont were ruled by women, and if perhaps, she could spin the tale- of her father trying to alter and mess with the Rhoynish custom, then-

"Sweet niece." A voice called out to her.

She turned around. Thereupon the door to her room, stood Prince Oberyn Martell, dressed in traditional Dornish garbs, a mix of yellow and orange, both his favorites. The linens layered with folds, suns and spears upon them. "Uncle," she answered, inclining her head ever so slightly.

The Prince took his time to survey her room, his eyes darting from one corner to another. One of his hands was perched on the wall, and the other was holding the door. "I would've thought that you would find your return to Sunspear a bit… more enthusiastic. No boys, Arianne?" His eyes set on the bed, white sheet untangled.

It had been past a fortnight of her return. A moon could already pass but it wasn't as if Arianne paid them many a thought. The Red Viper returned the day before, off from yet another gallivanting to Essos. The Bastard of Godsgrace didn't return with him, my Daemon. Instead, he was sent to Godsgrace to return to his Lord Father, Ryon Allyrion. Arianne knew the reasons. The Tyrells are coming. The Wilted one and the Gallant one. A visit that would alter her fate for… forever.

The Red Viper of Dorne slithered one of his hands into the pocket of his robe and threw. "Blood orange? Doran gave me some."

Arianne didn't raise her hands, and so was it that the blood orange fell to her bed. Ripe and sweet, plucked at its best. The skin felt like a hazard to her own. Coarse and hard, the skin of a blood orange peeled with a knife- not hands.

"Why are you here, Uncle?" She asked, preferring the direct thrust of a knife, jaws of the viper. Her Princely father had been content to leave her alone for the past fortnight, granting her the gift of solitude and time. Time, in which she had mulled her life over and over, yet again and again. And as the memories played, the images overlapping with each other, Arianne took a walk down the lane of her life. Bright and bleak, both.

Her Uncle averted his gaze for a split of a moment. "Doran- Your father has asked me to bid you in welcoming our esteemed guests in the courtyard."

"Oh, they're here already? Have they forgotten that I'm living here again that no one has told me, then?"

"Arianne," he said, shaking his head. "Doran has told me of what has… transpired between the two of you. I never met the boy. Darry wouldn't have it. If I had known, then I would never-"

"Betroth me to the son of the Mad King and the brother of the Prince that shamed our Aunt for a Northern whore?"

"Elia. . . Elia was ever-sweet. You don't know, Arianne. When he rode past her in Harrenhal-" He cut off as he sighed. "I raised Dorne for Viserys, not much knew that. Qorgyle and Uller, they were with me. The entirety of Dorne raged at Elia's murder, and her children, your cousins. Yronwood and Fowler, old enemies desiring the same. The Wyls and the Vaiths. Dalt, Allryion, Jordayne, Blackmont. It would've been what- the Fifth? The Sixth Dornish War? And when Doran gave Jon Arryn bread and salt, I marched to his room, spear in hand. I had thought - that your father was weak, timid, afraid, and intimated by the Usurper and his dogs. Doran sat on his chair facing the window. The sun was in his face. The rest was shadows. And in his eyes. If you would've seen him, eyes ablaze with a thousand of the suns of our sigil. When he spoke, I begged for his forgiveness. "Not today., he said. "Not now. Dorne can't stand alone. The Usurper has married the Lion's daughter. The Falcon his Hand and the Wolf his loyal pet. Mace Tyrell has bent the knee. We're alone. Not today, not this year. But we will have it all the same. Vengeance, Justice, Fire and Blood. We will have them all the same.""

"Aunt Elia is dead, she has been that way for more than ten years. I'm alive, his daughter, his flesh and blood! And he pays me less mind that he has her. The Dragons spit out insults and shame, the Stags injustice and dishonor. Tell me then, what is father's oh-so-grand plan, then?"

Her Uncle clenched his fist, the sound of rattling knuckles against the wall. "You speak of her that way. Yet you don't know why Doran could never put it behind him. Behind us." And there was a slight growl to his voice. "He was already a man grown when Elia was born. A man grown when I was born. Two brothers- dead in the cradle stood between him and us. He had thought we would be, too. And you would've thought we would never be close. But our mother, bless her sweet soul. The Late Princess Mariah, so widely beloved, she was- she was… close to the Lannisters," her Uncle practically spat the name in his growls, "the Mighty Lion's wife, Lady Joanna. We visited Casterly Rock, and my brother ruled Sunspear as its Castellan. Elia would've been Lady of the Rock. But as you know, it didn't happen. On our return to Dorne, Doran negotiated with the King, Aerys- not yet Mad as people know it now. Elia's hand for the Prince. And a Dornish Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

"So father-"

"Guilt does terrible things to the greatest of men, Arianne. I remember... I was six, a boy in the Water Gardens. Doran was a squire of Lord Gargalen. He came home, seven-and-ten, lanky and tall. I admired him, my brother, and my future sworn Prince. I stood by him, always. I was there when the dark wings came to Dorne. I broke dozens of spears in the yard of Sunspear for a fortnight, hands ran red with blood. Doran… Doran shut himself, locked his room, and barred his door. Your mother, Mellario, didn't even get to see him. So I took over, then. Ravens flew, and the messages came and went. But they died with Jon Arryn's arrival."

Arianne took the moment to digest the words. The heart of her that asked for love withered at the thought. The tragedy that struck House Martell. Yet the whispers were there, the betrayal. Her father should've learned the lesson with her aunt, yet he still tried to betroth her to the Dragons yet again. Does he not learn?

"Come, niece, their ship was docking when I came here. It wouldn't do for House Martell if we are to be late, no?"

Arianne looked up to her Uncle, her dark eyes wide and large. "Very well. I guess it wouldn't do if one of them is to be my husband, no?"

The Prince left her in her room. And no more than half a dozen heartbeats later, the servants swoop in, silks and dresses in tow, jewels and jades in hands. Arianne chose the silk of pale brown, loosely sewn, unlike those that she had usually preferred- tight and close to hug her figure eloquently. Her shoulders were bare, and open were the sun-kissed freckles. Jewels of pale violet adorned her ears, hanging in rings of gold. And last, Arianne chose the bottom drawer of her cupboard. The green shawl littered with pearls and gems, tiny and small- they glittered like the water in the desert. It was her mother's.

---

She counted five. Two brown hairs. Two silver hairs. And the last dark of hair.

Her confusion must have shown on her face, for her Uncle had turned to her and bent down, whispering in her ears. "Lady Lynesse Hightower and Ser Humfrey Hightower, the two youngest children of Lord Leyton Hightower. The girl is to go to Volantis and meet her betrothed, Doran said."

The Hightowers. Her aunt was once supposed to marry the eldest. But the betrothal fell through, in a story her Uncle had too much delight to tell. And then, the latest thing- the Tourney of Oldtown. Gerold Dayne, the so-called Darkstar, had apparently tried to kill Lord Leyton's son in the melee- up until the Tyrell knight joined in and then the said Hightower ended up chopping his hand.

Supposedly, the Darkstar was a handsome fellow. Hair of silver and eyes of purple, a true Dayne. Once she might've considered bedding him and earning the loyalty of the Daynes for her, but her father's sudden change of plans with the Water Gardens followed by him recalling her to Sunspear had halted any attempts to put them to life.

"Lord Willas Tyrell, the Heir to Highgarden, son of Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Reach, and the Warden of the South. His brother, Ser Garlan Tyrell, and his squire, Samwell Tarly, son of Lord Randyll Tarly. His kin and companions, Ser Humfrey Hightower and Lady Lynesse Hightower, children of Lord Leyton Hightower," announced the crier in the courtyard.

Arianne's eyes followed the steps and the sound. She saw them- her potential future husbands. The Tyrell Heir, in the front, leading the party. Hair kept short and his face shaved clean. His tunic was that of gold and orange, with a rose emblazoned stitched into the chest. One of his hands laid at the top of the slim black cane. His walk would be barely distinguished if not for the little limps every once in a while. Her Uncle's handiwork

The brother followed behind, lean and tall. Built differently from his brother, the so-called Gallant Knight was big and well-muscled. The sword strapped into his side swung back and forth with his steps. And to his rear, was the squire, a pudgy little boy of the name Samwell Tarly, the Heir to Horn Hill. Son of the only man that ever defeated Robert Baratheon.

A few steps behind were the Hightowers. Compared to their liege lord of the Tyrells, the Hightowers cut a more striking figure, chiselled and sharp. Arianne's eyes searched for them, studying them. But the male Hightower was apparently not the one that had crippled the Lord of High Hermitage. For it was their older brother, who went by the name Gunthor.

"Lord Willas," greeted her father as he nodded to the Tyrell heir. "I, Prince Doran Martell, do extend this welcome and the hospitality of Sunspear for you and your companions. Be welcome in the splendour of Dorne and Sunspear, in our tables, in our halls and beneath our roofs. Have this bread and salt with us." He finished with the last part as he motioned the servant nearby to bring the mentioned bread and salt.

The rite of the guest right went on shortly, thankfully.

"Princess Arianne," she heard him say as he took her hand into his, bringing it up to his mouth before planting a chaste and soft kiss into it.

"Lord Willas," she replied back, the same smile and the same courtesy in her tone. A cripple he may be, but a life as a Lady of Highgarden… her thoughts trailed off, seemingly lost as the Princess tried to assess her future. The crippled Heir to Highgarden wasn't a sight that sore the eyes, and if Arianne was being truthful to herself- then him being a cripple didn't exactly bother her. He comes with power and gold, influence and strength. And if Arianne needed to look more, then those eyes of his- melancholic and wilted as his epithet suggested it, then they would be enough, she thought.

The next one was the knight. "Princess," he said, short and curt. He held a gaze different from that of his brother's. He does not wish to marry me, she thought. Mayhaps the Tyrell brothers had discussed it beforehand- and that the Heir had been the one to propose for her hands. She had dreamed… of the Tyrell brothers vying for her hands like the Lannister twins- Jason and Tyland were their names?- had for the hands of Princess… Queen Rhaenyra.

The pleasantry in the courtyard was soon already over. She saw the Tyrell heir clasping arms and shoulders with her Uncle, the man that had crippled him. She wondered - whether it was genuine or not. Could one forgive such a deed? To just… let go? The thought was unfamiliar to the Princess. Arianne caught the eyes of her father just as she moved to leave, however. Prince Doran seemed so regal under the sun, wrapped in the blood orange of his beloved fruits. His eyes were tender, and when they were once guarded and tight, she saw them growing lax upon her. She didn't forgive him, not yet. But when his gaze yet again strayed into the Tyrell brothers, before flicking back at her- it became plain to her - that he hadn't yet let go of herself. A pawn, I still am...

---

It was past eventide when she finally caught him. The sky remained tinted by hints of crimson-orange as the night rolled over. It was a naked night, the sky was clear of clouds. And it wasn't a starry night either. And so the moon was the one that remained perched on the sky, shimmering in its glorious half-crescent form. The gold of the sun was long gone and the shadows unfold upon the streets and halls of Sunspear. It was a dark desert night.

She found the elusive Heir to Highgarden standing beside the pillar to one of the balconies of Sunspear. His arms rested on the-

"Silent night surrounding me on the shore of wistful sea"

She heard him sing. His voice was soft- and the tranquil air of the pale night carried it across the empty night as if a serene lullaby. It was a song that she never knew before, for its tunes and words fell upon her ears as a stranger. Yet Arianne stood there, perhaps she enjoyed the thought of catching the so elusive and reclusive Tyrell in surprise. Or might it be that she would find delight in upsetting the gentle Wilted Rose of Highgarden?

"A kindest heart made me believe... The world as I wish it to be... Passed away in beauty's gloom… The good in me, the child within… The cruelest heart made me forget… The world as I wish it to be-"

To her own self-loathing, Arianne couldn't stop the words rolling out of her tongue. "And what kind of world does the Heir to Highgarden wish it to be?" Mayhaps it was the words. The child within and the cruelest heart… has my father grows ever so heartless, indeed?

He didn't flinch. Nor did he show any outward sign of surprise. The Tyrells do love their politics, her father had said. So it made sense that their Heir would be incredibly self-controlled. I wonder… will he break?

"Princess Arianne," he nodded his head as he regarded her. "I… wasn't expecting to see you at such a moment like this."

His eyes were soft, she thought. He wasn't Daemon, for he held no such rogues and sharpness to him, nor did the warrior-like body and coarse look. No, the Tyrell Heir was one that was the exact opposite. Unassuming and unobtrusive, the sight of the poor, crippled man wouldn't raise much herrings for most people. Yet Arianne learned already, that look wasn't all that it took- her feeble, weak-willed father who had hidden so many poisons inside. But still, if Arianne was to look- she would still find such sharpness, in his guarded and hidden gaze, in his certainty of words and self-confidence in the way he carried himself. His wits and his sharp-tongue, of which he had probably inherited from the famous Queen of Thorns.

"Neither do I, my lord…" A lie, for she had deliberately set foot to try and assess the possible suitor of hers even further. "But I learned that some things are just meant to be."

"Quite," he agreed with her. "As for your… earlier question, Princess. Then the kind of world I longed for is perhaps, a world of certainty."

She raised an eyebrow at that. What a quaint answer. Other men would've answered gold, women, and castles. Some would prefer power and title. And some would even be content with love, she had learned. "Certainty?" She asked, her voice disbelieving.

"Certainty," he assured with a nod. "We live in such fragility. A world where sickness could claim you in a sennight. A world of treachery, one where lies lay on every corner of every turn. Hidden daggers and honeyed venom, such a world of unexpected tricks. The High Lords mayhaps have the rights of it with their Game of Thrones, for no truth more bitter nor truer ever represent this life of us so correctly, I fear."

The Game. Her Uncle had briefed her of the Tyrell's inclinations toward politics and courts. Of his clever words and angled plots. "And aren't we High Lords, too? Would it make us players of the game, then, my lord?"

Willas Tyrell replied with a tilted smile. It was oddly charming, Arianne thought. But then again, the company of men hadn't been on her thoughts for days and weeks by now. "Fortunately, my father is lord, as is your father is the Prince of Dorne."

Fortunately. She laughed inwardly at the word. "I hear we are to be betrothed, my lord."

His eyes flickered between staring at the seemingly endless void of the night and herself. His gaze held the passion of a candle in the wind. There was something burning behind them, behind the eyes of hazel brown, yet Arianne knew not.

"Why, I hear the same thing, too, Princess."

He likes his little game. "Oh? I didn't know that it's anything… formal yet?"

"There are letters and words involved. And if it's not presumptuous of me, be it then a fault of my own, if we are to be… betrothed, may I ask you to call me… Willas, then?"

"Certainly, Lo- Willas… and mayhaps I'll let you call me Arianne, but I rather like being called a Princess, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't know, Princess, I've never been such a Prince in my life," he said, cocking his head from one side to the other.

"My, so many courtesies, my lord? And here I thought all the songs about the chivalries are just mere songs."

"Oh no, if you want the chivalry of the Reach, then I'm afraid you have knocked the door to the wrong brother."

"Maybe…" She let the word linger on, the strange taste of bitter night air hanging between them. "I do like a gallant knight. How else would I ever be protected from the treacheries and evil plots seeking to foil me down? I dearly hope my Uncle hasn't robbed you of your mettle, my lord." She let the supposed insult hang in the air, I will not have a spineless coward in my bed, I haven't fallen so low, I need not stoop that poor...

"My fair lady," he said as he took her hands into his yet again. Yet there was an expression on his face- displeasure of some kind, "Far be it from me should I leave a fair Princess locked up upon her tower. A gallant knight, I may not be. But rest assured, I have… different ways to quench my enemies and face my problems. Fear not. And I assure you, Prince Oberyn hasn't robbed me of anything… not yet at the very least." He teased her with a wink near the end.

To her surprise, his words cut deeper than Arianne had expected. I am… a Princess in the Tower, locked upon and left alone. "Oh? That's a pity then," she said, conveying her curiosity and disappointment both with her voice. "And what are these… other ways, then?"

There was a glint in the Tyrell's face, a streaking yet fleeting moment of unrecognizable emotion to her. "I do hope that you're not insinuating what I think you're insinuating, Princess. Whatever would the people say of that?"

Arianne's lip curled into a smile. A rather genuine one, she'd admit. "And what do the people say of you, then, my lord? There in the Reach," she added. "Do they fancy yourself a second Silver Prince, then? Of poetry and songs? Do the bards clamour and swoon? And what of the fair maidens in the Reach?"

"I haven't heard anything about Prince Rhaegar. And I dearly hope not… for his memories are not entirely fond, especially in certain ears, now, are they?"

"You're right. A Martell and a Tyrell, whispering in the hidden corners about the Last Dragon? The heads would roll come the sunrise," she replied as she flashed him a coy smile.

"My father deals with the bards far more than I do. His beloved Art Citadel… I just swing by every once in a while. But I must admit that I do enjoy the songs and the verses. And I hope that you don't think of me as some poor, sad, melancholic fool who drowns himself in the poems. Out of all people, you would be the least that I wish to think of me that way."

Even if you're the lamest person in the world, Highgarden is still too big of a prize for me to let go of. "Oh, and why is that?" She asked, her voice lightening as she leaned down on her body upon the Tyrell heir. "Once I might found the roses of the Reach to be boring and dull. But here and now…" She let the it trailed uncertainly, her fingers grasping upon the green tunic of the Tyrell's, pulling him closer ever so slightly, "I find that the rose does have its thorns, my lord. Cold as the glinting steel yet so alluring to touch. A temptation of a heart of gold, I wonder… what would happen when one pricks the thorns?" She ran her lone finger across the jawline of the Tyrell, continuing across the high cheekbones and the soft curls of brown hair. She held them in her finger, twisting and pulling. "I wonder… would I bleed?" She added as she gently nibbled at her lower lip, catching the Tyrell's eyes at her, flickering back and forth.

She raised another hand to pull him close, to wrap her hand on the back of his neck - pull him by the nape and let them sink in together. But when her left hand made its move, another hand- bigger and stronger- stopped her.

Willas Tyrell cleared his throat with a cough, his eyes darting off toward the vast clearing of the balcony view. "A- well- Princess Arianne. As flattered as I am, it won't be proper if we are to- your princely father will…"

She saw him losing control, the tide of the conversations finally tilting at her. The sweetly woven mask began to crack. His face flushed red with hints of embarrassment. Sweet. She pulled him yet again- her mouth in level with that of his shoulder due to their height difference. She let out a ghost of warm breath, air gushing out of her mouth as she buried them into his neck. "Whatever stands between us, beloved," she tried the word, yet it tasted foreign to her tongue. "If my father yet again stands in my way-" she trailed off as she ran her hands down his slender form, coursing through the fabrics and down his torso- up until the hand caught up into hers yet again.

"Princess," he said, his voice heavy and his tone serious, yet with a sense of urgency to it. Good. "It doesn't bode well for our future should we start whatever may be and whatever may come our way in such- such… fashion as this." By the end of his words, his voice was hoarse- his words raspy and ragged. Yet he didn't scorn her nor did he judge her.

"There are no rules in love, my lord. All there is-"

"You might think of me as weak prey, Princess Arianne. The lame, secluded, lonely Heir to Highgarden. A fine catch for the viper." His voice was steel and his words were laced with venom. They cut through Arianne's thoughts of continuing her seduction like Areo's axe would to a trunk. "Yet I must caution you, sweet Princess. What seems to be may not be what it is. All that glitters is not gold, and true for its reverse. The jaws of this viper might find it difficult to swallow such a meal if she is not careful. In time, she will give up her fight and bend, or else... she will break." He finished with a surprisingly sweet smile. It suits him.

He bites back. And strongly, too. My, what a wonderful surprise. "Pardon me, my lord. It seems that I was… overtaken." I shan't stoop so low… I am no beggar, I shan't beg nor shall I grovel at anyone's feet. If he dares to ask me so - the sun burns bright, and it burns fiercely. Arianne recoiled at the rejection, but even a smile came to her. Perhaps it was the bitter smile of desperation, but it was a smile nonetheless.

"Willas, I prefer should we speak frankly," she said before continuing at his nod, "I am a Princess of Dorne and the eldest child of the Ruling Prince. By Nymeria's laws and the Rhoynish succession customs, I would ascend into the Throne of the Sun after my father. Yet that seems to not be the case-"

"I heard. Why else would Prince Doran foster his son with the Yronwoods? Your Uncle is not… the most agreeable man. Some might find it in their hearts to be lacking to be able to forgive him and to let go of past deeds. There's a saying- that "Blood needs to be paid with blood" and I fear that's the case here…"

She hung her head at the words. If a Reachman could figure it out then… the implications remained in her head, trailing off into nothingness. "I don't much understand my father."

The Tyrell gave a soft, small laugh at her words. Does he forgive ever so easily? "No," a voice inside her would say. He let go of the matter easily, too easily. Say something! She wanted to scream at him. He pretended very well - and he was born no lord, Arianne was sure that the Tyrell would find gold with the art of the mummers.

"I know. Believe me, Princess, I have my own share of troubles with my father, either," he said, tilting his right leg- the crippled one- forward. "I was twelve. I was a… bookish child, you might say. I have little interest in swords and shields, they have always been my brothers'. Yet here I stand… seven years later, the fruit of that day would remain forever.

"It seems simple enough, once. When we were children, small children, who understood nothing. But then we grew, and so did they. Parents… they didn't remain parents, they didn't stay easy. The more you learn the more you see… that they are people. People, with flaws and faults."

The silence lingered between them. The angle remained shrouded in shadows, and Arianne lost her way in discovering the Tyrell heir. And so it was that the blue of the silver moon shone down upon their faces. The Princess was agreeable to let it remain so, but when she felt the brush of another fingers on her own, she turned to look-

"You think of me that I can give you Dorne."

Was it guilt, or was it shame? Whatever they were, they plagued Arianne's thoughts with the words. And it ceased to become wondering- the reasons why the Heir to Highgarden was known for his gentle, dejected nature. Poor, wilted Willas Tyrell.

"I- I can't deny you that the thoughts haven't crossed my mind." She then steeled her voice, always have courage, her mother's parting was. "Half my life, I spent them obsessing over my inheritance and my father's throne. My rights. But so long you have prepared, countless times in the dark of the night have you whispered the words to yourself, they still won't prepare you, when the moment finally comes." Arianne knew not why she told him this, but there was no worth in playing around- not when the Tyrell heir seemed to have held all the pieces in his hands.

"It must be tough. My father once considered my brother to replace me as the Heir to Highgarden. I was this- broken little twitchy thing. Mayhaps it was desperation, but my grandmother talked him out of it. I never forget it, nor do I forgive… but I let go."

"He used to kiss me every night before I went to sleep. A kiss on the forehead. I would sit on his lap, upon his knees. And one night… I went to his room, and then I never do anymore. Mayhaps he stopped loving me along the way. And if I am not to be my father's heir, bend my will and accept the strings of fate, then I suppose I must find the bitter relief to be a Lady of Highgarden, no?" She asked him, her eyes shimmering in the dark as she ran her hand through her waist and into the Tyrell's.

He brushed her away. "Highgarden is the crowning jewel of the Reach. The walls are layered in three- all white, pristine, winding upon the gem of Garth Greenhand. The Roseroad met the Mander outside the walls of the castle. And the Mander? It stretched long and wide, sparkling in the golden sun. The winds sweep across the blue of the vastness of the sky and the trees swayed low as the leaves fell on the water. The hills roll in green- and the Reach paints the picture of an eternal spring. The vines grow on the walls, and the gardens are green, of which the rose springs forth forever. And on a summer's day, the tunes would play low in the air, singing that of the song of love and hope."

"That sounds lovely," she said, all the while catching herself in the surprise of the weight behind the uttered words. Arianne had grown to love Dorne for nearly the entirety of her life- Dorne with the golden sands and Dorne in the striking sun. The orchards and the fields of orange, and the painting of the crimson ablaze as the day turned twilight.

"It is. And I'm sure you feel the same way about Dorne. But it would be a great honor, should one day-" he paused as he took her hands close, "you will find it in you to love it the same as me."

Arianne caught her smile as it stretched wide. "Very presumptuous of you, Lord Willas. One might think that you're intending on stealing one such fair maiden. That's not very gallant of a Reachman, do you think?"

"That depends, Princess," he said as his voice rumbled low. He is different, she thought. "Should I prove my valor first to be a worthy suitor of the Princess? One might think that this one would have the stomach not to wait that long."

She hid an abashed smile as she looked down upon the words. And to her honest surprise, she found herself enjoying the little game they played around- the pretending, the dilly-dallying as they toed the line, finding the delicate balance around the thread of the needle. A game of figuring out one another. "That depends, too, my lord. Am I in the presence of malicious thoughts? Must I call upon my valiant champions, then? Or can I trust you with your mere words… my lord?" She ended demurely.

As if without a care in the world, Arianne would then find herself enjoying the trade of words and stories she had with the Tyrell heir, her possible future husband. He told her of a life in Highgarden. And in turn, he asked her about life in Sunspear. Of Dorne.

"I have told you about Highgarden and the Reach. Tell me, then, about Dorne, about Sunspear…"

"I'm afraid that you will be disappointed, then. Dorne has no roses, nor gardens, either. There is no river of love here. River of life is all there is, the Greenblood that gave life to Dorne. But under the golden sun, the sands in the dunes of Dorne would sparkle. They glitter like ground dust of gold, daring the blazing sun. But what the desert touches - the desert kills..."

"I wouldn't know about that. Once, I dreamed of gardens in the desert sands. They say flowers don't bloom in Dorne- yet I stand now in front of one. A rose of a different kind, one I have never seen before. Not in Highgarden, or Oldtown, or Arbor has there been such a rose. She burns with the fiery blaze of her beloved sun, this desert rose."

She laughed. And it might prove not to be the most appropriate reaction nor the suitable moment to do so, but Arianne couldn't digest the absurdity of the thought. "I'm sorry," she bid him an apology, "It's just… what japes the world leads us to, no?"

"All the world's a stage, Princess. All the men and women merely players, with their own parts to play. But I have found - that in this play of mockery and japes, that the end is not yet writ. We turn and turn and turn, but we round the roundabout. Yet the ink is still wet, and I intend to write my own ending. What of you, Princess?" He said as his own hazel eyes stared upon Arianne's. They held to themselves - a kindling flame that smoulders and burns - but one that flickers gracefully in the shadow of the flame.

Arianne returned the stare with her own. "My father left me little ink to work with, I'm afraid. The parchments are dry and the waxes are pressed. But perhaps, I could just turn them around, and take the quill for myself. They say that the most beautiful story is the one writ in the face of history, no?"

---

 

Notes:

It's a nice change of pace, I think, getting away from all the plots entangled with one another. I really enjoy writing Arianne, she's such a fascinating character! And more often than not, she is assassinated in most fics, reduced to no more than a sexual object. I hope I capture the dynamic between Arianne and Willas well enough, as well as laying up the groundwork for future things. Arianne is direct and straightforward, while Willas prefers the mummery and word games. So rest assured, they both will have an interesting dynamic in the future, and the plot will progress into becoming somewhat more personal.

So, what do you think of the chapter? Please let me know and reply! Also, which chapter of Goldenhand have you been enjoying the most? Which part of the story do you like the most?

Chapter 15: Willas V

Summary:

The wickedly delicious dance between Willas and Doran, each the schemer and mastermind of their own respective Great Houses.

Notes:

So, first of all, I wanna say thank you to 6thfloormadness who has returned to beta the story! Also, shoutout to Robert Drake too in his contributions to the chapter! I really enjoy writing this, and I hope you can enjoy it as much as I do!

WILLAS

The warm weather of Dorne was a refreshing change, to say the least. Sweats dripped down from his temple, and Willas felt the gush of heated air yet again breezing over his skin, the thin Dornish garb was loose upon his own.

"So, how was your… mission last night, brother?" A voice came from his side. Garlan's. He cocked his head, his lip curling into a delighted smirk as he questioned him. "I hear that you return pretty late. My, my, Will, what will Grandmother ever say should she hear?"

Willas didn't turn to see, yet he could see all the same the tilt of his brother's head as well as the growing smirk on his face. "First of all, Grandmother will likely compare it to the-"

"Her 'Lost upon Grandfather's chamber' story?" His brother quipped.

A thin smile fleetingly made its way into Willas' face. "Yes, that would be the one. The classic and ever-legendary story. With how much she mentions it, I'm puzzled on how the entire Reach has not known it yet, to be honest. And also- to say the least, I'm not telling you everything, Princess Arianne… well - she is… she is an interesting woman," he said, before adding, "One might say that."

"Is she now?"

And again, Willas didn't stop nor did he turn to see, but he could see Garlan raising his eyebrows- since he couldn't do it with only one, and the stupid smile unfolding upon his equally silly face all the same. "Yes," he answered, this time letting the annoyance and feigning hints of boredom into his voice. "She's well-spoken, quick-witted, and certainly not afraid of speaking her thoughts, that's for sure. And of course, as expected, she is a viper. Both fangs and jaws, both. Easily underestimated, too, I'll say."

The choked noise erupting from his brother's throat halted Willas in his walk. They were both strolling upon the corridors of Sunspear, orange walls and crimson tiles. "What is it now?"

Garlan groaned as he pulled his hands into his face, letting out half-spoken words and murmurs into them. "By the Gods, you two are a love match made in heavens, then. Or in hells, who knows?" He added the last part, shrugging his shoulders.

"Whatever is that supposed to mean?" He asked, his voice showing the barest hint of him getting irritated.

"Good Gods…. If she's this serpent woman that you describe her-" said Garlan before Willas cut his brother off.

"I do not describe her as a serpent woman, thank you very much. And mind your words, these are Martell men-at-arms around us!"

"Fine. But don't you see? Are you really not knowing where I'm going with this? Why, so it turns out you're not always so smart, eh, Will-"

"Would you please just get to the point?"

"Fine. Well, you scheme and plot. And you know what they say of the Dornish… This Princess Arianne, if she's cunning as you have described, then- well you know," he said, his hands lamely gesturing upon Gods-know-what. "Forget it, brother. I think you two will be very very happy together. Why, truly, I can not wait to see the two of you plotting your way to conquer Yi Ti!"

Willas paused in his steps, his mind drifting back into the conversation the night before. To his surprise, he had found himself enjoying the little dance they danced around each other's feet. Dancing upon their toes, twiddling and tip-toeing over the edge. And of course, Princess Arianne had also revealed herself to be quite fast with her words and wits, one that had gotten Willas a sense of enjoyment.

"You seem really cheerful come this morrow, Garlan. I believe it's now my turn to question, did something happen last night, then?" asked Willas, this time returning the tide against his brother.

"What?" His brother answered nonchalantly, averting his face as he stared at the lines of the walls instead. "A man can't be happy for his brother?"

"Oh, please tell me it's not a serving girl or a chambermaid, Garlan…" He said, shaking his head fervently in a display of disappointment.

"No- what, no!" spluttered Garlan in denial, face flustering, flushing of red. "Now, you're speaking mad, instead."

"Oh, really? Now I'm the one who's mad. Well, you can't have your bread and eat it too, Gar."

"What is that even supposed to mean… and when did you even start calling me 'Gar'?"

Willas let out a sigh. "Ah- well, just forget it. And you call me 'Will' every time, but I can't call you 'Gar', huh? Or 'Lan' perhaps? Garlan is a mouthful you know, have some mercy for your lame brother…"

"Such blasphemy... those people who call you lame. The Most Devouts of the Faith will faint upon such ignorance of the perversity of the mind. I'm half-tempted to tell them the truth, you know? Perhaps my warning will give them enough time to book a passage on a ship to Braavos before the wrath of Willas Tyrell descends upon them, no?"

In the end, Willas chose to laugh instead, barking out a short noise followed by a snort, but Garlan didn't follow-

The sunshine glinted upon them. There, leaning upon of the pillars of the yard of Sunspear, was Prince Oberyn Martell, famously… or perhaps, infamously known as the Red Viper of Dorne.

"Prince Oberyn!" greeted Willas, his voice immediately going cheerful at the sight. Willas didn't know whether his own voice was genuine or not- albeit it sure sounded genuine enough to his ears. Mayhaps, it was that he had been doing it for too long- and at long last, the line blurred, for it was now too far away and seen as but a simple dot from where he now stood.

"Willas!" greeted back the Dornish Prince, with a stupidly charming grin upon his face.

He clasped arms with the Red Viper yet again, as he had done upon his arrival at Sunspear. Trading letters and words had been easy enough, the usual pleasantries to begin with- and then slowly delving deeper and more meaningful as their… comradeship aged with time. Oberyn was not a man to be easily crossed, Willas learned and understood that long enough. Yet there were much ways around the man, and would it that Willas could find the trick to run circles around the Oberyn- he had found enough pleasantry in their… friendship, to say the least. But when the hole was there upon the ground, why waste the opportunity not to dig the ground deeper? For such treasures were often found in such depth.

"And Ser Garlan," Oberyn moved to greet his brother.

Garlan returned the enthusiastic greeting with a firm and tight one of his own, "Prince Oberyn."

Willas was afraid that Garlan disliking Oberyn would be a rather long stretch of an understatement. Much like most of his family members, Garlan had taken a turn at blaming the Red Viper of Dorne for his condition- which technically, was true and justified. He didn't remember such hostility in the words that he had read, in a life that once was- but Garlan himself was never much once to be dwelled upon by Martin.

Garlan was close to him, Willas knew that. He didn't know what changed or what differed- against the life that was supposed to be, but mayhaps Garlan's time at the Vale and the Riverlands had led into him treasuring every bit of the traces of family and home he could muster- leading him into the person that he was now instead who he was supposed to be. And if Willas would admit it, then perhaps he was glad of it.

"You're here to spar, then, I presume?" asked Willas.

"Nay," the Dornish Prince answered with his thick accent, drawing out the word. "My Princely brother, Doran, wishes to speak to you, Willas."

And so the viper strikes.

"Oh?" Willas's voice was full of curiosity, yet still feigning enough surprise in it. "Very well, then, where does he wish to meet me?"

Then the heavy steps of heavy boot clanking against the stone of the floor was sounded. Areo Hotah, Willas presumed. Broad-shouldered and tall, the trusted Captain of the Guards at Sunspear posed an intimidating figure. And on his hand, was a longaxe, shaft easily taller than a grown man. The sun of the midday shined upon the glinting edge of the axe. Sandsilk dressed the man, copper scales and cloak of yellow- billowing in his strides. His head was sheltered by a Norvoshi half helm, bound in the orange of Dorne.

"Areo will lead you. He is my brother's trusted, you see."

Willas nodded a tight nod. Doran will never try anything. "Prince Oberyn," he parted in farewell, as well as asking, "You're not coming?"

A brimming smile bloomed upon the Dornish Prince. His hair was black as jet, crowned by the rays of the unforgiving sun. "Me? You jest, Willas," he said while grabbing his chest with a hand. "Nay, this part is Doran's. And yours, too, I suspect. For me? My turn comes in later, my friend."

Willas hadn't yet given a reply before Garlan cut in, "Excellent! Then perhaps we can use the opportunity to… spar, perhaps, My Prince? It is not every day one is granted the chance to fight the fabled Red Viper of Dorne, after all."

He cursed in his mind. And it wasn't hard to deduce the gears of chivalric honors and familial bond progressing inside Garlan's mind. Always a bleeding heart, aren't you, Garlan? I only wish that the sun will forever shine upon our smiles…

Oberyn regarded him with a glance, almost as if asking for some sort of silent permission. Willas, in his part, glanced at his brother, instead, finding a face carved from stone, solid hard and rigid still. At long last, his head inclined- just by the barest of hint.

"Well, it seems that I must miss such a display that's sure to be… entertaining. Garlan," he nodded at his brother, "Wait for me, will you?" To the same tight nod given by his brother.

Then he turned to the Red Viper, regarding him with a warm smile. "Prince Oberyn, I dearly wish my brother will not rob you of your… virility," he said to the Dornishman, teasing him. "But I can promise you no guarantee, I fear. Very well, I will take my leave then."

And into the Viper's den do we go.

---

Prince Doran Martell sat upon the chair in his solar. He was garbed in crimson, a rather stark difference between the orange that Willas had seen upon him the day before. The room was badly lit- and the light of the sun was occluded by the various casts hanging upon its glass. A myriad of tapestries hung gracefully from the domed ceiling of the room. Indeed, Willas spied the gigantic bolt of a scorpion, flaming in crimson sun, penetrating that of the eye of a dragon. Rhaenys and Meraxes… Hellholt. The other was that of a sea crowded with ships, and the orange that engulfed them- Nymeria. What a pleasant welcome, he thought sarcastically to himself. It was a pity that there wasn't one displaying the scorpions falling into Lyonel Tyrell's bed at Sandstone.

"Prince Doran," he greeted the man in welcome. The room was shrouded in shadows. How fitting… for ones who work from the shadows.

"Lord Willas," answered the Prince of Dorne, rising to his feet. And wasn't it a surprise… it seems that Prince Doran triumphs over his gout here. Would it be that it was a secret recipe from Yi Ti, potion from Qarth? Or just… regular butterfly?

He took a seat on the chair opposing the Prince of Dorne. The table that laid between them was bare, but in the corner of the room- Willas spied the familiar sight of a checkered board, eight timed eight, and thirty-two pieces of carved woods- half in white and half in black. A smile came to his face. "Prince Doran, I wasn't aware you enjoy… Chess. I am gladdened, though, for then the gift that I have brought will be suitable. Indeed, I have commissioned the best woodworker in the Reach for a regal set of Chess for you."

"My gratitude for you, Lord Willas. Indeed, I had first thought of such queerness to be beyond enjoyment, yet when I have learned, I find that your chess is a fine piece of worldly reflection."

"Worldly reflection, My Prince?" He echoed.

The Prince of Dorne nodded at the question. "I have found it refreshing… for when the Game of Thrones never ends, always playing, with the rules writ in blood, and victories forged with steels, the Game of Chess is played with the dead kind. Much suitable for a rehearsal before the stage is set and the curtains unveiled, no?"

"Why, I am flattered, Prince Doran. It seems that you hold me in such high esteem, but truth to be told, the game is born more out of myself wasting away my rather sizable spare time than some devious plot of multiple cunnings. I have no time slotted for practice in the training yard for my day, you see?"

The Prince's eyes studied him intensely, his eyes narrowing down like a hawk, of a viper hidden in the grass. Its tail wound uptight and the slender form of its slithering body coiled back, the viper would strike when the prey meet its eyes. "I am… aware. Lord Mace Tyrell seems rather agreeable to the offer that I sent him, my daughter's hands in marriage for yourself, and the union of our proud houses of House Nymeros Martell and House Tyrell. As I understand, you have seemed to strike a rather cordial relationship with my daughter."

"Princess Arianne is an interesting woman. I am sure that she will thrive in the gardens of the Reach, and that she will bloom as a Lady of Highgarden, and Consort to the Lord Paramount of the Reach. Yet the question stands-"

"On Arianne's claim to Dorne."

"Claim? I call it rights and legitimacy, Prince Doran. As I recall, I have been taught ever since I was but a boy, of the different Dorne. Dorne and their pride. Dorne and their proud legacy of the Rhoynar. Dorne and their Princess Nymeria. Dorne and their different succession customs. I'm sure Lady Toland or Lady Jordayne will be delighted to think of a woman's right as a claim, might as well Lord Fowler's daughters, too. Twins… if I recall correctly, yes?"

"If Arianne is Heir to Dorne, then shall I pass my congratulations to your brother, then? Ser Garlan, the Heir to Highgarden."

"Come now, My Prince. You shan't strike so low, like that. I'm merely… staging up the preparation for the grand play. After all, candor is such a boring concept, no? Why take the short road when the longer one brings you much more interesting sights? Now, now, Prince Doran, I hear that you are such a clever man, I'm curious why you sought me out."

"House Tyrell has been making some interesting moves-"

"Debatable."

"Your brothers were squires to Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, brother to the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, good-uncle to the Warden of the North and the Warden of the East, as well as the Knight of the Bloody Gate. Furthermore, your brother, Ser Garlan, was then fostered at Riverrun, under the care of Hoster Tully, amidst his own heir, Ser Edmure, and a dozen of young Riverlander lords and heirs. Your youngest brother, Ser Loras, was squire to Prince Renly Baratheon, traveling back and forth between Storm's End and King's Landing. I'd imagine that he'll be well-versed in the art of the Court by now. Why, Lord Willas, might I be a lesser man, I might ignore all the signs, yet here I am."

"Reading the writings on the walls. The winds of change. Yet for all your supposed tale of grandeur, the ambition of my house - fosterage and squiring are but an expected thing to do for a lord with his sons. After all, your son, Prince Quentyn, is fostered by Anders Yronwood at Yronwood, no? Why, Prince Doran, might I be a lesser man, I might ignore the deeper implications of it, yet here I am…"

You need Dorne united, he wanted to add. Doran's grand plans of vengeance were a string of tangled webs, spun here and there, some not even connected to each other. Dayne is lost to you. Aldrin Dayne was an able Lord of Starfall- brother to the famous Arthur and Ashara Dayne. Yet the ailing man was living his life to an early grave, and his young son… Edric would need a regent for Starfall. Dare you claim the title of regent, Prince Doran? And to the Marches… Prince Oberyn had left a wound too deep to cover in the Yronwoods, the deep gash of spilling blood red would've painted the Red Mountains true to their name had the plot with Quentyn not succeeding. Fowler was ever mighty in their seat on stones and sky- tilting their nose up at their rivals of the Yronwoods. The Old Hawk was a dangerous man, willing to cross men he would consider his enemies. And in his daughters… The Fowler twins, Nymeria Sand had them for Arianne should she wish to raise her claim.

Oberyn had the Ullers for the Martells through Ellaria. But with Allyrion- yet another prominent house sworn to the Martells, allied with the Yronwoods, the board would be well-stacked on each side. Blackmont, Jordayne, and Toland were ruled by women- and if Arianne would convince him to raise for her, then it would take little to spin a song of a Dornish Prince forgetting his roots, messing with the succession custom of the beloved Nymeria. Prince Doran couldn't afford to simply favor one over the other- for should the worst come to worst... Prince Doran needed peace as a way out, but what is the price he wishes to pay? How far does his will stretch? Arianne would have Dalt, Fowler, Uller- if Ellaria should prove agreeable, Fowler- even if only that they could go against the Yronwoods. As well as other such houses with female rulers. Quentyn would have the Marches under the Yronwoods… and the Allyrions in the Godsgrace. Gargalen, Qorgyle, Vaith… they shall prove to be the deciding factors should war come to Dorne.

"Very well. Dodge might I try to, it seems that I have indeed erred in my way, for I have found myself backed into the corner of my own strings. You understand the implication of Quentyn's fosterage at Yronwood."

"And I understand that you need this settled peacefully. Arianne or Quentyn… blood will run red on the sands of Dorne, either way, should they not break. You need one to bend. And Arianne being out of the way would ensure you the loyalty of your strongest vassal, all the while nabbing a crucial alliance for Dorne, one that's high and prestigious enough that fewer heads will think of you as sabotaging your own daughter. Two birds killed with one stone."

"Arianne is a sweet child, always has been. She understands her duty as a Princess of Dorne."

"I hope you don't think of me so low, Prince Doran. But I didn't come here to do charity work by solving the mess that you made-"

"You will extract the tolls for it."

"That made me sound like a Frey," Willas chuckled as he answered. "And Freys are ill-omens, I hear, these days. Eh, we'll find better words for that, I'm sure. Very well- how about this then… in the wake of the joyous happenstance to come in between our two Great Houses, hereby I offer you the hand of mutual friendship between the Reach and Dorne- bind up the old wounds, to put the histories of blood and steels behind us. It's a pity when one lets the chance to end a quarrel bygone. Isn't it better than letting the wounds fester even more? And so, here's to the forging of-"

"A little peace?" offered the Prince of Dorne.

"A little? Why so modest, Prince Doran? How about eternal peace? Now, that's a thought!" He bellowed the words merrily, arm raised high in a toast of wine. "A friendship of tens of thousands of years, lasting until the end of time. A timeless union, unwithering against the changes of the world."

"And what would you seek in such a grand union, Lord Willas?"

"Many things, Your Highness. You would be surprised to know how the littlest thing could forge even the grandest of the future. But we are not here to talk about the little details, no? I think I will delegate my faith and belief in your ability to comprehend tacitly, My Prince. Here goes… I'm not going to waste thousands of good Reachmen to secure a throne I am not sure myself or my… wife would be able to hold, so rest assured on that, for the Reach will not be pushing Arianne's claim should indeed, you wish to name Quentyn your Heir. Indeed, I believe that it will paint quite the pretty story. A beautiful song for the bards. The Wilted Rose and the Desert Rose. Flowers in the sands of Dorne."

Soft chuckles dripped down Prince Doran's mouth. And if Willas was surprised should he admit the truth. "And am I to believe that you are a helping hand sent by the Seven, then?"

Willas gave out a weak laugh. "Nay, it is only in my wish to see that the gardens bloom. The gardens of the Reach and Dorne. For it's the gloomy things in the gardens that need a guiding hand. When the harvest is brimming and the petals are sunny, why meddle any longer, then?"

So you will owe me, Willas wanted to say. Negotiation and politics could be summed- at the most basic, down to the rather simple concept of stick and carrot. Threats and rewards, underlying amidst one another, entangled and woven together. Doran must have understood, he's giving me his dirty laundry. And if the Dornish Prince would think himself to have any semblance of control over the Tyrell- then he would be in for a harsh slap of fate. It is better to butter your enemy… for the knife would cut through them the easier. But it stood to reason, whether Willas would leave Sunspear with Martells as carefully considered allies at best, or enemies that lingered under the shadows at worst.

"And would it be correct should I presume that these gardens are that of the Stags and Lions? You may presume us weak, my lord. House Martell's words are-"

"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. I know, I memorized them with my maester when I was eight. How mighty, don't you think? 'You may burn us, my lady, but you will not bend us, break us, or make us bow.' Princess Meria was one of my heroes growing up, such boldness and fearlessness- but in time, I must admit that admirations fade into sneers as I-"

"And what would you have done instead in her place?"

"I'll surrender. I need not fight to win. I need not spill the blood of good men, not when they would serve better purposes for Dorne. The Dragon will have my castles, my men, and those who remain loyal to me. Those that aren't… I'm sure that my new liege lord would be all too happy to serve them Dragonfire, much like the Dragon's Wroth that befell Dorne." Were I Princess Meria, I would've fed the Yronwoods, the Fowlers, the Ullers to the Dragons.

"And what Prince would do that? When the legacy of his people was that of the wicked empire whose remnants you would so eagerly bend your knee to? What courage-"

"Courage? The right courage is the tidal kind, it comes and goes. Much like the evils that knock on our door. When the time comes, a wise ruler would choose the lesser one. For better not a heart than a bleeding heart. That is… if one wishes to survive."

"Survive? Is that what you're offering me, Lord Willas? Survival?"

"It is not survival that I offer you, Prince Doran. But rather… desire. Your heart's desire." His words were whispers in the wind, rotten worms soaked in honey gold.

"You claim that of my heart's desire. Tell me then," he said as his hands fondled the skin of the blood orange in his hands. Doran's eyes were hardened, and his voice bellowed seemingly so loud for words spoken in half a whisper. "What is my heart's desire?"

Willas' smile took a turn, twisting itself into a sinister one as it danced in the flickering flame of the torch upon the wall that shadowed his face. A gush of air left his nose, a sigh that came. He leaned back into the chair, his shoulder meeting the hardwood and his eyes set on the Prince's own.

"Vengeance. Justice. For the Lannisters to burn and the Baratheons to fall. Feathers of a falcon and pelts of a wolf. Even the trout in the water. For the Lion to lay trampled upon their broken rock, and for the antlers of the mighty stags to be crushed. And may the sun shine upon their remains. Fire and Blood, are what I'm offering you."

Prince Doran's eyes didn't betray him. He kept his composure, with only the barest hint of his shoulders tensing to showcase his reaction. The blood orange remained in his hands until the finger dug inside it finally broke the skin whole. The water drenched the Prince's fingers. And revealed, was the fruit inside, watery and ripe.

"One may think of your words as treason, Lord Willas." His voice was toneless and steady. And the mastermind of Dorne remained cautious in his gaze.

Willas kept himself well, his chin inclined just by the barest of him- a display of defiance- at the words. "The Dornish have a gift for hating, My Prince. And for that, they have a gift for loving, too. They are rash and they are hot-blooded. The Dornish took their vengeance as fiery as the sun. For they love so fiercely, your brother… is one. What would they whisper of Prince Doran Martell, I wonder? A son, a brother, a husband, and a father. Even my lords of the Reach remember the Sack of King's Landing. Even Robert Baratheon's dearest friend remembers Princess Elia. I admire you, breaking bread with the Old Falcon, brokering peace- I wouldn't know if I would have the restraint, and pray that I would never come to find out. And at the end, Dorne survives. You demanded tax deduction, discreet reparations, and even more autonomy to be given to the already special Dorne. But someone, somewhere, over a drunken cup of wine or coins of gold, a Dornishman will be there. A spear or a poison. In the sun or in the dark. Prince Doran, at the end of the day, the choice is there- your vengeance… or other's."

Prince Doran raised a hand to halt him. "You need not lecture me on how the world sees me, Lord Willas. For more than a decade I stood by the whispers. Feeble, they call me. Weak, they would scorn. Coward, they would brand me. A disgraced Prince who lost face in the wake of his sister's cruel murder, at the wake of the spilling of his own blood. Lannister's puppet, some had claimed. You need not tell me again. And here I thought the Reach and Dorne are binding up old wounds in favor of a grand peace to a long-lasting friendship."

Willas gently rose from his chair. "Oh no," he denied the other man, with his voice still low. Mere whispers. "I admire you, Prince Doran. The pact your brother signed with Ser Willem Darry at Braavos with the Sealord as witness? A masterstroke!" Willas said, raising his glass to the Prince, his smile both solemn yet joyful. "And during the Greyjoy Rebellion, too, at that… You really are a clever man, Prince Doran. I wouldn't wish for us to meet in a peace treaty for terms in the future, opposites at different ends of the table, My Prince."

There. That should suffice enough. Into the viper's jaws, we go. And when one pulls the viper's tail...

"You are not your father, so it seems," he said, taking his hands together in front of his face. His face was the desert amidst the sandstorm- unseen and sightless, clouded and untraceable, not one that Willas could divulge.

And so he spoke - the Prince's words were well-spoken, yet there was another layer to them. "You will sell us out to Robert Baratheon. Yet you are not so foolish, nor rash to do it, eagerly lapping yourself up to the new reign. Yet you will, you will the moment you think that I think you are not going to do it. You will dare the moment that you think that I think you will not dare. So long as I fear, so long as House Martell quivers and shakes? Is it? A piece of advice, Lord Willas. Be wary. When the sky is all you're looking for, the grass beneath might hide what is to be your downfall."

"'Tis all true, Your Highness. One can never be too careful in forming bonds and alliances. A good ruler is always prepared, with contingencies and leverages firmly in place. And any man who tries to be good all the time is bound to come to ruin when among the great number of those who are not good. The Pureborn of Qarth gifts their friends and foes alike with sweet wine- half of those in poison and half of those in honey. A hand to shake the other's hand, while one remains in the back, on its grasp- a knife, always ready.

"Such shame, though. For when you think of it, it all seems very lame, doesn't it? Born out of the ignorance over the nobler and kinder traits- scrapes of a heart of gold treasured in the hearts of men. Men fear what they don't know, and in such shrouding shadows, doubts and mistrusts rule the heart of men. Only to mind our differences… the disagreements, grudges, the dangers which we might all pose to each other. But what about what we share?"

"Which is-?"

"Our Borders. Sea. Trade. Robert's Rebellion. Desire to see a worthy monarch of the Seven Kingdoms. To see our kingdoms contribute to that and prosper while doing it. To improve the lot the women on this wretched continent are given. Again, justice for Princess Elia, Princess Rhaenys…"

"You presume much, Lord Willas."

"Presume? I know so… And last, your daughter, Princess Arianne. For she deserves much more, a kinder fate that she is given, to be seen as a person that she is. So long after years of neglect, kept in the shadows of a wicked game-"

"You dare to scorn your host so callously?" And to his voice, there was a rise to it, akin to that of a flare in the sun.

"It is true that I dare, Prince Doran. I dare to utter truths in order to better your situation, Prince Doran. The hand of friendship between the Reach and Dorne. United, thousands of years of bad blood to be put behind us. Let us welcome together, the future. Your daughter will be by my side- and in time, perhaps we shall grow to… trusteach other. To give birth to an alliance that would benefit both our houses and have the common goal if it's sealed."

"And what fanciful common goal shall it be, then, Lord Willas? Your father bent the knee when it came to Viserys Targaryen. And with your knowledge of the Pact, then you shall know that it is broken, for the Boy King is his father comes again, and I will not have my daughter wed to a mad-man, no matter what his blood brings. I presume that you will feel the same with your sister. So tell me, then, Lord Willas. What grand goal shall it be? Independence? Surely you're not as stupid as to hope for us to come to the Usurper begging for favors like your family seems to be so fond of doing."

Willas brought a hand to his face, fingers softly grazing the traces of beards that remain in his shaven face. A smile of a breaking laugh was hidden from the world. "The keyword is seems. Everyone sees what you seem to be, yet only few know what you really are."

"And why would you utter these treasonous words without an actual will to do the deed?"

"Why, of course, it's because I have that will, My Prince. For I believe your nephew lives still."

The dry desert of Dorne knew no storm. Yet there was one brewing in Prince Doran's eyes. His gaze was that of the swirling thunderclouds, hiding the roaring thunder behind. His eyes darted upwards, cutting straight into Willas' own. They were sharp, striking sharper than the cut of a Valyrian Steel and the edges of a hundred daggers.

"In Highgarden, spiders are a-plenty. They scale the walls and they roam the gardens. In the dark, they weave their strings, spinning their webs. In the shadows, you can see the eyes. We let them be. But when they got underfoot- we crushed them. And it happens to be that a song made its way into the heart of Highgarden. And it is a song of a spider that sings the queerest of verses. A song of spider and griff. They sang such honeyed words, of the son of the sun and the Last Dragon. Who lives on…"

"Elia's babe… Aegon…" weakly voiced the Prince of Dorne.

"Indeed. He has been in the supposed hands of Jon Connington, the exiled Hand of the King, who has faked his death. You might recall him as a… ah, dear friend of Prince Rhaegar. But the truth remains undivulged, My Prince. And it is now that I bring the words upon you and your family, in the wake of- hopefully, a joyous union that is to be formed between our houses. And again, it is with your help, for none would know the blood of Elia Martell than her own, shall we divulge that truth. Together."

When Prince Doran spoke again, his voice was weary, ladden with weights that had seemingly tripled in the last seconds that passed inside the room. Yet he was unreadable, his exterior of stone unassailable for Willas to probe upon. "And what shall your house gain from it? Should he indeed, be true of my blood."

"A worthy King on the Iron Throne. The return of the legitimate and rightful dynasty upon the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. A chance to prove our ever unwavering loyalty. And of course... my blood on the Iron Throne."

"War it is, then. You will seek war upon Westeros," the Prince said. And when Willas remained in his silence, he would then continue, "You spoke truly before. Dorne will always hunger for vengeance. My sister is a beloved Princess of Dorne. My mother before her and my brother after her. But a Prince's duty is not to himself, and not his heart. But to his people. When Princess Nymeria refused to take arms against the Valyrians- seeing a lost cause, she fled with thousands of her people, for a new day and a new dawn. What of my people, then, my lord? If it's vengeance that I seek, then whose vengeance shall be avenged when the blood spilled on the sands of Dorne, the marches of the Stormlands, or the plains of the Reach? Whose vengeance shall be avenged in turn, then?" To his voice, there was pressure on them. The words spoken, dripping sternly and strongly, flowing as if the Greenblood that gave life to Dorne, Prince Doran's words were commanding like the sun of his sigil.

"Never was anything great achieved without danger. When you play the Game of Thrones, Prince Doran, you win or you die. There is no middle ground. And for men like us, the stakes are set on the board, the pawns are scrambled and the pieces are yet still scattered. Deny it, you might try, but the chaos arrives all the same. And with chaos, comes the war, for Westeros knows only war. For it knows but the language of blood and steel. There is no avoiding war, Prince Doran. All we have is to set the time. The choice is in your hands. And which one shall it be, My Prince?"

Notes:

So, that's the chapter. Not much is revealed in this chapter, and nor does the plot progress aggressively or something like that. This chapter is more on flexing the political finesse of the story, as well as myself trying my hands of some heavy, purely words game not involving trade deals, grand plot revelations, etc etc. And I like to think that I did a pretty good job here. Hopefully, we can resolve the Dornish plot, soon. Oh, and I also chose to end the chapter on more or less the same note as Arianne's, to further showcase that father & daughter are not that different... So, what do you think? Please reply/comment/leave a review, they make me work so much faster- reading your thoughts on my story is a delight! Please let me know!

Chapter 16: Interlude - Petals in the Wind

Summary:

A glimpse of the Court at King's Landing. A meeting between the Hand of the King and the Master of Whispers- the Falcon and the Spider.

Notes:

Have this little short interlude! This chapter is co-written with the marvelous Robert Drake And also, thanks to my beta. Hope you guys will enjoy this!

JON ARRYN

The tidings came to King's Landing in the evening, at the end of a sunny day. The Hand of the King had just retired into his chamber, his thoughts filled with the yet another quarrel he had with his wife the afternoon before. Oh, Lysa…

Old. Jon Arryn was old. Seventy-six years of age. Yet he found no peace in his old age, only duty. His duty to his son. I can not- will not leave Robert alone. The Realm was at peace- in name yet no more. Tywin Lannister strengthened his grip upon King's Landing with each day passing. The Stag King in the iron grip of the Warden of the West, in a chokehold in all but name. And with the Queen undermining the King at every turn, rest became a word he didn't recognize in his time at King's Landing.

Jon sighed, heavily. He could feel it in him. His bones, they decayed, with every year that took a turn, he grew a little weaker and weaker. His arms, for they were now heavy, more than he could ever remember. He could smell it in him, his breaths- they stank of death. It hovered over him, like a dutiful companion to its master. The Stranger was upon him, but it wasn't yet the time- I still have a good few years in me. Five… ten… mayhaps Prince Joffrey will soon grow into the Prince he's meant to be. To hold the realm together.

Unlikely, voiced the treacherous part in him. Is it treasonous to want an heir to the throne being raised just and honorable? The Queen would certainly think that way but- But it was then that gentle knockings came upon his door.

When the door swung open, the sight of a silky robe of violet greeted him. Varys. The perfume was unmistakable, for the Lyseni smelled of lavender and rosewater more often than not.

The plump and bald Master of Whispers stood there, the same smile plastered at his face as always. Jon often thought that it was a smile of mockery. A jeer and ridicule, hinting that the eunuch knew more than he let on, and that Jon was a fool playing right into the Spider's hands. And years of servitude at the Capital hadn't done Jon any kindness. In King's Landing, he needed to watch over his shoulder, the corner of his eyes fleeting to catch the slithering shadows in the bends of corridors of the Red Keep. No, I am a paranoid old man, seeing sinister plots in his deluded days of old.

"Lord Hand," bowed the eunuch.

He allowed the man to come in, and the Lyseni proceeded to the visitor's chair. Jon took a bottle of a particularly fine Arbor Gold from his own cupboard, a little relief, perhaps, for such a tiring day. He poured two chalices, one for himself, and the other for the Master of Whispers. Varys took the glass with a full smile, his plump figure moving almost gracefully while at it. It reminded Jon of the easier days in the Vale. The Eyrie… my sons, Ned and Robert, what has befallen us now? Their victory against the Targaryens was nothing short of legendary, fitting for books, to be forever engraved in the memory of history. Yet Jon tasted naught but the ashes of a bitter victory. A desolation was what was left for him.

Varys took a sip, letting out a strangled moan after a gulp. "The sweetness dances merrily in my tongue," he said, putting down the chalice. "My lord Hand, it has come to my attention-"

"Your little birds, I presume?" Jon cut to the chase.

Varys regarded him with a smile that Jon would describe as no less but sly. And it was like that, things that made Jon fear the eunuch at times. "A song from Dorne, my Lord Hand. From Sunspear."

Jon's eyes narrowed at the mention of the Martells. Is it a rebellion? No, Prince Doran was too cautious. And too smart to know that he had no chance of meeting the entire might of Robert and his allies. Unless… the Reach? The Tyrells were visiting Sunspear the last time the Spider reported to him. And there have been no words on the Targaryens in the East for a while. His mind took a grim turn at every thought passing upon his head, scrambling for the worst of the worst.

"It seems that Prince Doran's daughter has found... love, Lord Hand." At this, the eunuch paused, waiting for perhaps a reaction from him. But Jon remained silent, content to let the spymaster elaborate. "Love. In the form of Willas Tyrell. The Wilted Rose. The Heir to Highgarden. The Princess has joined the Tyrell in his… travel to Essos, so it was said, against the wishes of her father, or reluctant acceptance, mayhaps. It seems that father and daughter are not so different, Lord Hand. For if you remember, Prince Doran, too, met his wife upon his travel, only in Norvos instead of Dorne. He married her, Lady Mellario, defying the expectations of Dorne, and with the reluctant blessing of the Late Princess Mariah."

A Tyrell-Martell union. A union that could spell doom for Robert's reign. "Have they announced a betrothal, then, Varys?"

"Not yet, My Lord Hand. It seems that Prince Doran is willing to let his daughter… abscond with the Tyrell boy for now. No doubt, the Queen of Thorns will have words with her grandson, too. Last I heard, Mathis Rowan, Medwick Fossoway, and Randyll Tarly have been frequently visiting Highgarden. Such a story for the songs, it seems," the spymaster said, his voice tittering with small waves of laughter. "Two youths… discovering the wonder of love. The people have begun calling them the Wilted Rose and the Desert Rose. I can see the playwrights in Braavos rejoicing upon such a fresh inspiration for their plays." At his words, he brought a hand to his face, his sleeve of lilac silk covering his mouth, hiding his coy smile amidst his tittering laughs.

"This is... an unforeseen development, Lord Varys. One that could spell trouble for His Grace."

"My lord?" he asked, seemingly scandalized by such a thought. Lost, his voice seemed genuine at the question. And Jon would even call it coy.

"House Martell has never forgiven Tywin Lannister for Princess Elia and her children. And they are no friends of Robert, either. The Tyrells are always seeking, always eager to probe upon the holes in the specks of dirt. They wish for the roses to spring forth."

"I would imagine so. But do we know what the Martell brand of justice is? Not historically but in this particular case? Prince Doran is, after all, a cautious man. A wary man. If he has such a plan, then he has been waiting for years. I see no reason for that to change, now of all time, my lord."

"Are you defending them, Lord Varys?"

"Merely advocating for caution," the Spider was quick to deny. "I would wager Lord Tywin won't be pleased should he hear the news. He might even jump on this opportunity to try to invade Dorne in hopes of nipping the Martell retaliation in the bud. To cow them and take hostages, most likely. Such a thing would be a folly, of course. Meanwhile, we don't know whether the Prince of Dorne plans vengeance upon our King and his dynasty or not. I don't suppose the Martells are fond of the Mad King or the Targaryens as a whole, either. The Mad King did, after all, hold hostage Princess Elia and her children. And if the rumors are correct, then young Viserys has indeed, always been his father come again. Prince Rhaegar shamed Princess Elia with his foul affair with Lyanna Stark, and Aerys heaped insult upon the injury, salt into the gaping wound, by naming Viserys his heir and bypassing little Prince Aegon.

Varys took a pause, before yet again continuing, "And Tyrells are indeed seeking but what? It seems to me they want to ingratiate themselves to the new regime and maybe even try to marry into the royal family, if numerous accounts of Lady Olenna raising her granddaughter to be a future Queen are indeed valid."

Jon took the eunuch's words carefully, digesting them as the gears in his mind turned. "The girl. Margaery, her name, right?"

"It is, My Lord Hand. And she's of age with Prince Joffrey. And there are also other matters to consider. Ser Loras Tyrell is a dear friend of Prince Renly. And Ser Garlan was knighted by the Blackfish and fostered at Riverrun. And it seems that he struck quite the friendship with Lord Hoster's heir during his time there. It's not in their… style to do something as rash as... fomenting rebellions, my lord. In any case-"

"They are waiting for the best offer. I've met Olenna Tyrell several times before. And if I knew her, even as little as I think I do, is that she will wait for it. And that she's a haggler. She would know she has the pieces necessary in her hands. Mace Tyrell sat his force on Storm's End. He had forty-thousand swords for Aerys, right there. Yet what did he do?"

"We know what he did and Targaryens know that too. Why did he do that though? I would speculate that they were actually resenting the dragons for denying all sorts of royal marriages they were desperately seeking in order to gain more legitimacy in the Reach. Luthor Tyrell was once to marry a Targaryen Princess, and the Queen of Thorns, a Prince."

"And why are you doing this, Varys? Advocating for caution that is."

"Because there will be enough of those with power who - at hearing this small piece of news - will jump to conclusions and start a war over what might be a merely… erroneous speculation when in truth it very well might be something so trivial as young love or a haggling attempt for a royal match. Or who knows, Lord Hand, mayhaps both."

"So for the sake of peace. Is that it, Lord Varys?"

"For the sake of the realm, my lord. For the children. War will only bring chaos and destruction. War brings savages. War breeds the darkest of the vileness in the hearts of men. Think of the children, my lord. War will see their homes reduced into rubble and ruins. Think of the people. War will turn their fields and their grains naught but ashes. The high lords play their great game, but it is the smallfolk who pay the price with what little they have. Their own limbs.. and their own very lives, my lord Hand."

"Lord Varys… you seem to have quite a bleeding heart for a man who served King Aerys… so faithfully and yet with such tragic consequences both for nobles and commoners." At these words, the spymaster, perhaps the first time since Robert's crowning, had flinched. Not in fear per se but rather in... shame? Regret? Can a man as competent and shrewd feel that way about his faithful service? For Jon had long known that there's no gentle heart to the Spider. And if the whispers about his "little birds" are true...

"My Lord Hand…" Varys gulped and then visibly and audibly drew breath as if to collect his thoughts. Were it appropriate and he wasn't dying from curiosity, Jon would have grinned in satisfaction for putting such a formidable person in the corner. "When I first arrived upon the soil of Westeros, I had done some… preparations, you see? I already knew the structure of power- its society. I memorized the scrolls, already. Its histories, who are always feuding against who, bitter rivalries, and their customs. I thought that I knew enough. Such is the folly of arrogance, my lord. Yet in turned out- what I have prepared in theories, had not yet prepared me for The Game-"

"The Game, Varys?"

"The only game there is, Lord Hand." And to his words, Varys' eyes held a dangerous glint to them. "I had erred... and in my immodesty… I failed to see the bigger picture. I looked and I saw. I observed… but I didn't see all of it."

Jon thought his voice was genuine. But Baelish… the boy, and thank the Gods for him- for Lysa had quarreled me less nowadays, had warned him of the Eunuch's talent at mummery. "I don't think I wholly understand, Lord Varys?"

"I grew up in a land where commoners could rise due to their work, not necessarily an honest work but work nonetheless. And when Free Cities wage war it's always sellswords or specifically bred slaves like Unsullied who are actually fighting. There, you do your thing and you prosper or suffer quite accordingly. Westeros isn't such a place, it's rigid and inflexible.

I thought it was foreign at first. Yet they descend quickly into contempt. In my pride, I was unreasonable… and wanted to leave my mark upon the world. Forever and lasting. By providing whatever information I was able to collect about his vassals to the Mad King I thought it would lead him to strip them of many of their powers, and thus decrease the power of warrior nobility as a whole."

The Hand of the King was trying to contain his exasperation at the audacity but not quite succeeding at it. But still, even the surprise of it all couldn't suppress his curiosity, if somewhat morbid. So, without trying to mask the accusatory tone, he asked.

"So you were directing Aerys to bring us, all nobles, low? To what end?"

"Directing? No, my lord, for I dare not to be so arrogant, nor did I feed him falsehoods, as many have claimed. Merely giving information that there was, the way they already were, and the King's already ill mind did the rest. Or do you claim that there was no talk among the lords and ladies to overthrow Aerys? Lord Walter Whent had not the coins to throw a Tourney so grand with his coffers alone." There was a sneer, a tone of someone who knew that you knew that what he was speaking was true. "Truly, it seemed so convenient at that time. I just had to do my job, bringing whispers, and the King, the most powerful man on the continent, would do the rest of the work. I thought that Westeros will change… and in my image, akin to even that of Braavos."

"Why though?"

"As I said before, because of my prideful desire for lasting recognition and fame."

"I understand that this flaw of yours allowed such… an ambition to take root in your mind and kept you working on it. Yet you did choose such a way to satiate your sense of self-importance. To change an entire realm. Why?"

"I came from nothing. My friends came from nothing. As a former slave, I was enamoured with the lack of slavery here. Yet still Westerosi, nobles and smallfolk alike, always frown upon- even resorting to violence toward people who rise above their station. In my arrogance or maybe ignorance, I presumed that the Seven Kingdoms must be remade in accordance with my perceptions. Segregation destroyed, root and stem. A land where a peasant can become a bank in himself. Where a female commoner can govern a city. A boyish dream of a former slave, you might say."

"It's… very unconventional. But it was obviously disastrous. Why did you ever pursue that, Varys?"

"As I said earlier, arrogance or ignorance. Probably both. To be more specific, I failed to understand… how ingrained in all Westerosi the concept of warrior nobility was. I don't know whether a rebellion would occur or not, even had I not have such a misguided ambition. But I made a mistake. A terrible mistake."

"And are you now a changed man, Lord Varys? Reformed? Is that the reason you took Robert's pardon, then? To repent for your sins? Your penance?"

"I would like to think so, my Lord Hand. I provide whatever information I can gather in order to ensure the King's Peace. In turn, people live their lives as best they can."

"One would speculate that you have another dangerous ambition. Peace at all costs, that is."

"Ever prudent as befits your office, my lord. But you should not be as wary of my ambitions as you are now for reality has disillusioned me quite thoroughly. Eternal peace is impossible, such is the nature of men, be they Westerosi or Essosi. But it doesn't mean that we must always resort to violence either. We can only savor what little relief is already given to us. You brokered peace with Dorne once, my lord. In Sunspear, with naught but Prince Lewyn's remains. I shall remain in my confidence of yourself, Lord Hand."

"What would you suggest then, as a member of the Small Council?"

"We have an effective hostage in Loras Tyrell. Why, we can even turn the boy against his family, but such a thing is too monstrous for my liking. When Prince Joffrey comes of age, he might even find himself a Tyrell for a Princess. Another hostage... and one to quench any rebellious thoughts in the roses' mind. And I trust you remember the Dornish inheritance law, my Lord Hand?"

"The eldest inherits be it he or she." Jon must admit that he drew a suffocating breath when the realization dawned upon him. "And the Dornish Princess is the heir by that law."

"Yes and no, Lord Arryn. The law says so. But will Prince Doran let his daughter succeed if she's to be a Lady of Highgarden? The Reach and Dorne are historical enemies, their rivalry stretched back for thousands of years compared to the one year they spent fighting together in the Rebellion. But if you bind House Tyrell through a royal marriage then we will effectively have the means to disrupt the unity of Dorne itself if necessary. There are many things to ensure that the Reach and Dorne never truly unite, my lord." And in the flickering shadow of the eventide, the Spider's glinting smile seemed almost sinister to Jon's tired eyes.

"So you'd offer the girl for Prince Joffrey, then?"

"I would. But alas, that's likely not to come to fruition. King Robert's eyes will be set on the North when the time comes that Prince Joffrey is to be betrothed. Lord Eddard Stark has two daughters, my lord. And I believe it won't be a stretch to say that His Grace will want to formally bond House Baratheon and House Stark, as he originally wished to be done for himself. Lady Sansa is a sweet child, I heard."

"Robert will indeed never agree to such a match. He will want Ned's daughter for his son. And what Robert wants, Robert will get. What was the saying again, Varys? 'The King shits and the Hand wipes.' Heh," and Jon found himself laughing amidst the bitterness. "How low have we fallen…."

Robert drank his way to the grave, fornicating his way into driving the Lannisters further and further away. My son… what changed you so? For the boisterous boy he had once greeted upon his arrival at the Eyrie… to have twisted… into things unrecognizable… a King- yet still a boy- only one that Jon knew no longer. Has the Iron Throne cut upon you as it did Maegor and Rhaenyra? Where goes the Warrior-King we crowned upon the Trident, my son? And it is only I who remain… remained to salvage whatever little salvation they could spin from the spiraling wheel of command over the humongous ship that was the Realm.

"If my lord asks it of me, then I would remind my lord that His Grace has a daughter, too, and Lord Stark; a son. Of course, I would even suggest for my lord Hand to ask for Lord Stark's help, for the son of the Warden of the North will be suitable for the daughter of the Warden of the South, no? Two good alternatives if anyone asks me." If only Ned was here… but he was needed in the North. The boy- no, man- already paid too much price to the Iron Throne, and Jon dare not to ask him more. They had their duties, each their separate ways.

"The Tyrells will never accept it, Lord Varys. And the Crown can't be seen as heavily interfering with the matters of marriages between the lords, especially Great Lords. We have not the power… nor the leverage. But I must admit, Lord Varys, your suggestion has merits."

"What misfortune, then. And alas, merits they may bring, but I must confess that I failed to factor in how the Northern lords would accept yet another Southron woman for their Lady of Winterfell. The Princess might work, but the Tyrells? The Northern lords still, after all, remember the follies of Lord Rickard Stark's great Southron ambitions, my Lord Hand."

"If I didn't know better, Lord Varys, I'd say that you are purposely leading me in circles, here. Such a thing against the Hand of the King can be considered treason, Varys."

The Eunuch smiled at his words. A beaming smile, for his face was lit whole- akin to that of a flickering flame, burning bright. "You honor me, my lord Hand. For I am merely giving things for my lord to consider. For I do try." He finished with a different smile, this time. A sickeningly sweet one. And Jon's stomach curled at the sight.

Jon leaned on his seat, savoring what little relief he had amidst the twilight of King's Landing. The smell had bothered him no longer, for so long had it been, 'till it finally grew upon himself. "You're dismissed, Lord Varys. And I thank you for bringing the matter to me. I will call a Small Council meeting tomorrow. Mayhaps I can convince the King to deem it important enough for his attendance."

Varys bowed at his words, his silken robes falling down upon his posture. And then he turned on his feet, leaving the room, his steps shuffling out silently. The Eunuch left- his plump shoulders jiggling up and down… as if laughing upon Jon's staring eyes- simpering and tittering- as he has always done. The Spider.

Notes:

There are like a ton of Jon Arryn's interpretations out there. So this short interlude will hopefully give you a glimpse of his character as I made it to be. That at the end of the day, he's a tired old man- bound by duty, willing to dedicate himself to better the Realms, and for his foster sons. And our dearest lovely Spider- keeps on spinning and keeps on crawling... I hope I manage to show the complexity of Varys' character, and not the whitewashed & goody-goody servant of the Realm in the show.

So, what do you think? And what do you suggest the Crown and Jon Arryn do in retaliation to the news? Making Willas suffer a bit of a setback every now and then will be interesting, after all. Please, leave your reviews and comments! They fuel me to write (this chapter is written in like two days *pat myself in the back*).

Chapter 17: Garlan IV

Summary:

Garlan Tyrell reflects on his brother upon a conversation with Princes Arianne, atop the deck of the Goldenhand, leaving Tyrosh, sailing for Pentos, where truth awaits.

Notes:

Beta'd by 6thfloormadness. Written alongside the wonderful Robert Drake! Also, do keep your eyes to read something between the lines in this chapter ;)

GARLAN

The Bleeding Tower of Tyrosh bled away, growing smaller with each passing. As the Goldenhand made its way across the harbor of the city, it drifted further and further away, leaving the dock of the city.

Their stay in Tyrosh was a short one. Pleasant, but short, indeed. They stayed for a mere three days in the city- four if they would count the day of the departure. Four days and three nights.

One of the nine of the so-called Free Cities of Essos, Tyrosh was a breezy city that stood upon a bleak stony island, hours away from the Stepstones. As part of the Three Daughters, once united as the Triarchy, or the Three Whores, as the less pleasant mouths would suggest, Tyrosh had a reputation for its trade and fleet. Even now, Garlan could spy the set of galleys docked upon the harbor of Tyrosh, the Bleeding Tower rising upon the mouth. It was no Hightower, but Garlan thought the tall fortress- painted in crimson red- to be fitting. A warning against those who seek the wrath of the Archon of Tyrosh.

The Archon. The one his brother had met the day before, the Red Viper of Dorne with him - and did Garlan sneer inwardly at the thought of the prince, let alone sharing a ship with him. For once, Garlan had been left in the dark as his brother conducted whatever business he had in the city. Yet judging from the smirk plastered upon Willas' face… as well as the half-smirk and half-sulk - what was that one about? - of Prince Oberyn then they must've been successful in whatever wicked endeavor they had sought out in Tyrosh. He thought to ask... but decided against it. It was a rather refreshing change, to not be shoved into the whirlpools that were Willas' machinations.

Garlan's mind played the recollection of his stay in the city. It was a strange city. And a striking one. For the look of the people was… indeed striking. Forked beards, some even tied in three braids, and strange hairstyles decorated the faces and the heads of the inhabitants of Tyrosh. Their colors, bright and shining, provoking to the eyes. All the way from a smoldering deep shade of green to the conspicuous vivid shade of blue.

Another thing to note on their stay in the city was what drew his brother's ecstatic response upon discovering it, a Tyroshi drink they called Pear Brandy, brewed and boiled. His brother had been overjoyed, immediately going into ramblings and half-coherent murmurs at the revelation. Was it related to his idea that he mentioned at the Arbor?

A queer people, the Tyroshi.

The inhabitants of Tyrosh went about their day as if without a care in the world, rarely minding each other's businesses. The picture that was painted was very much so different from Westeros. Tyroshi, or mayhaps the people of the Free Cities in general, paid little mind to the quarrels of others. Instead, they focused on whatever endeavor they sought to do that day. To each their own, Willas told him.

It was a pretty picture of freedom and peaceful coexistence. Up until his eyes made out the inevitable. Those were but the nobility, families and members of the magisters of Tyrosh. Fat traders and merchant princes. Councilors and governors among the Conclave. The slaves, however, would share a story so very different from their masters. In Tyrosh, slaves outnumbered the freeborn three to one. Garlan had the need to restrain the look of disdain from showing upon his face during his stay in the City for, as Willas had told him, they needed Tyrosh. For what, Garlan knew not. But he relented, albeit with grudging acceptance and a taste of bitterness as if his mouth was full of ashes. He swallowed them whole, for his brother's sake.

His ponderings would eventually come to end, however. Garlan let out a sigh, but he resolved himself. He found his steps tracing the wooden floors of the ship, ironwood, finding their way into his cabin under. For apparently he had regressed into the age of six without realizing it, and Willas was now suddenly Old Lomys. His heirly brother had taken it upon himself to assign Garlan the study of ponderous tomes. As if I was a child again.

Worse still, the tomes were regarding the North. Books thicker than even the girth of his arm. Maps and histories, lores and tales, Garlan suddenly began to recall the wooden table in Lomys' chamber… back in Highgarden. How the four of them, he and his siblings, would often find themselves cluttered around the small table. Margaery only wanted the songs and the stories, while Loras threw away anything but tales of grand chivalry. Worse still, even if Lomys was not there to chide him to focus, he was still sure that Willas would be capable enough to serve in the maester's stead.

A groan came to him, the sound of frustration nearly escaping from his throat. But he held it back, it wouldn't do for the crews of the ship to begin whispering about the brother to the Heir to Highgarden. He would prefer training Samwell any other day but Garlan made the most use of their last day of stay at Tyrosh by running him ragged and has promised him a full day of rest, which is now. More importantly, Willas has unilaterally scheduled the testing of his knowledge to be conducted the day after tomorrow. He would have protested vocally if it weren't for the fact that the reading was assigned to him right after they sailed off the Dornish coast. He grits his teeth at moments like these and his brother would remark concisely, Necessity knows no laws.

The problem here is, however, that now apparently, no one bothers to explain to him why and how necessary his given tasks are, he would appreciate that very much. Truly, all these and what for? Gods, if this is yet another of Willas' schemes... But of course it was! For what else would it be? So much for hoping not to be dragged into Willas's plots. His steps halted as he mulled yet again over the dry prospect of studying the accursed books. As if the Warden of the North will deign to marry his eldest daughter to the second son of a Southron house? Great House, the Tyrells might be, but the Starks of Winterfell are notoriously prickly of Southern matters, let alone to be willing to involve themselves in the... deviancy that his brother was cooking. They were isolationists- up until Lord Rickard Stark, yet Willas was sure that the fruits of said Lord's work didn't do the North any kindness in overcoming their self-isolation.

He felt that he had had enough of Archmaester Goren droning on and on upon… hundreds of pages about the scarcity of food in the North, and how such cruelty had befallen them, binding them in chains of harsh climate. The book listed the various Kings of Winter of old, those who tried to gamble, taking chances to open the North, only to meet their doom one way or another. It had somehow made sense, Garlan thought. How the North was so… isolationist, content to stay above the Neck. The North was too exhausted with its wide, stretched borders. Spanning from the Sunset Sea to the Narrow Sea, yet so little population.

The Starks, who seemed so beloved in the North, couldn't afford to take any risks. No leap or trial, for every grain in the North mattered. There was no sparing any. He thought it was cruel, how an entire kingdom was beggarly shackled in that vicious cycle. Yet the Northerners had pride, too much of it, in his opinion, or else they would've succumbed to their destitution.

Yet when Garlan had asked his brother about the fruitfulness or lack of it in his readings, there was that again. That thrice-damned smirk. A smirk that screamed it to him, as clear as the sky is blue that- I know something you don't. Garlan didn't press, for he had long yielded politicking and secrets that go with it to the Heir to Highgarden. Instead, he gladly accepted the burden upon his shoulder. His duty to his house.

The Tyrell was about to resume his steps, intent on finally settling the matter of his assignment when he was stopped as a voice called out to him. A husky voice.

"Ser Garlan."

Garlan turned to look. And then he saw her. Standing gracefully even amidst the swaying deck of the ship. Beneath the thousand sails of the peculiar ship of his brother's creation. His brother's betrothed.

"Princess Arianne," he regarded her in reply. He must admit, Princess Arianne was indeed a pleasant sight. Short, she might be, but there was a delight, a beguilement of some kind to her. An Allure.

"So courteous, my lord? If I am to be your… good-sister, then, might as well you call me Arianne, Ser. I hope you can spare some time for me, Ser Garlan. For I wish to learn to know my future good-brother better, I think. Mayhaps a little walk around the deck? The wind is lovely so, after all."

"Very well, Prin- Arianne," he rolled the word on the tip of his tongue, but it tasted queer for his ears. "Then just Garlan for me, as well. Being called a 'Ser' rather reminds me of the baggage that comes with it."

"Oh?" the Princess asked, tilting her head, face curling in interest.

"Indeed, Pri- Arianne. People only hear stories, you know? They listen to the songs, to the words, and the tales of grandeur. And when the outside is pretty enough for them, no one bothers with the inside. Why, last I heard I was supposed to be this shining knight in gleaming white armor, paragon of virtue, and defender of the weak. I take my vows to heart… It's the one thing the Blackfish succeeded the most, I think. But still, there's still more to a man than his deeds. I don't believe we shall judge someone merely by repute. After all, stories tend to stray away from the truth, don't you think? They might stray just a little, but they differ nonetheless."

"But it's most 'gallant' indeed, no?" the Princess asked her, this time playful and with a smirk on her face. "I should know how that feels, Ser- Garlan."

"That's merely our duty, Willas told me. What is another burden to bear? He always said that there are two for every person- every noble. The real one… and the one they cheer upon when you ride across the streets atop of your high horse."

"Lord Willas seems like an interesting person..."

So that's what you're after? Nevertheless, he went along with it, for otherwise, it would be rude. And Willas would appreciate him in furthering their ties with the Martells. How his brother had forged an alliance with the Martells, thousands of years of enmity left behind, Garlan would never know. He knew not of the words spoken between his brother and Prince Doran behind closed doors. He knew of the secret prince, yet that was all. For now.

"My brother? Interesting? Once upon a time, I would think it to be a jape. Willas was always scuffling around in books and quills, reading with Maester Lomys, our maester in Highgarden, that is. He was very pious, sang all the songs of the Seven, and recited all the prayers. He would go down the training yard only when our grandmother would chastise him, he wasn't bad or anything, by all means, no… but it's just- not him, you know?"

"But then it all changed, yes?"

"It all changed. Yes. It was a tourney. Our father wrote Willas' name on the jousting list. He was twelve, and I, eleven. He complied. Willas was that, dutiful and noble. Always. But of course, Father's dream of chivalrous glory would soon be shattered, by-"

"My Uncle. It was an accident, they both agreed. And they remain good friends with each other for years afterward. I can't see why we shouldn't let that be behind us… our houses are to be joined, after all."

You would like to think so. And Willas, too. Yet I do not have to like it.

Garlan remembered the spar he shared with the Red Viper at Sunspear. He had been conquered by his anger at that time- rash, bold, and brash. None would blame him, Garlan knew that, less so his own family. But still, it didn't stop him from gritting his teeth at the sight of the Dornish Prince. Tall and lanky, standing as if without a care in the world. His brother chastised him in person after that, but Garlan thought that Willas had grown deluded, he had even whispered the word "feeble" in his mind during their talk, but he dared not to utter it. He abhorred himself for his treacherous thought, but it was still there. We need him, Willas told him. But it was still yet lost to Garlan, whether Willas had been truly forgiving of the Red Viper or not. He knew the extent of depth and length that Willas willed to go for his… dreams. Will he ever be able to find it in him to forgive Prince Oberyn?

"Very well, then," he said as he took the offered hand of the Dornish Princess, his skin tingling upon contact with that of her own. "For the future of our houses. Together."

They remained in silence after that, settling into breezy stillness as the wind of the Narrow Sea passed through them triumphantly. But tranquility of mind through wavegazing was not to be achieved for he felt the Princess's eyes upon him, searching and questioning. Garlan had resorted to keeping one hand on the temple of his face, stopping his hair from covering up his face as the winds were getting stronger in the Sea of Myrth. It was a good thing that there had been no signs of a swirling storm to come in their way.

"So," he called out to his companion amidst the howling wind, "pleasant weather today, huh?"

The Dornish Princess laughed at his jape. It was a soft laugh, yet somehow empty. As if the mirth had been carried away by the same wind howling among them. "I have something a little less pleasant in mind, good- Garlan."

"I'm afraid we will be stuck with it until we reach Pentos. It shan't take more than three days, though. Anyway- where was I again? Willas! He, well, he changed…"

"I'm sure we've established that already," said the Princess. It was a jape, but Garlan couldn't find it in himself to share a sense of amusement.

"There was no Willas for a moon or two after the… incident. Nay, he shut himself alone. With books, a league of parchment and quills. Margaery, our sister, would incessantly knock upon his door every day, yet there wouldn't be such an answer for days. Not in the day nor in the night. There was nothing but a half-hearted shout, telling us to go away. Loras didn't understand, but Margaery already did, so I took over. To be the eldest sibling. There was a talk that Father intended to name me his heir and replace Willas. He didn't. And I am thankful for it. Not long after, Willas' shell would crack. He came out, it was slow, I remember, but he changed again nonetheless. This time for the better, I think."

The Princess put a hand over his shoulder, reassuring him. Garlan thought the gesture queer, but he had been uncomfortable around much physical interactions either way after so many years of being away. Her voice was soft as she spoke, "It must have been horrible for your family. But I am glad that Lord Willas overcame that tragedy and turned out the way he is now. He could have been… a different person had it not happened to him and had he not found his resolve, as crude as it might sound... And yet, I'm glad. I am glad to know your brother the way he is today. The man that he is now. And the days, little they might be, that we have spent together… I treasure them."

Indeed, it had been but seven days since they left Sunspear. Three to reach Tyrosh, a turn to the Stepstones included. And another three they spent in the city. With today being the seventh day. Willas had moved quickly, so it seemed. The Princess' words were genuine, and Garlan would even call them heartful. The Darling indeed. Willas had apparently charmed the girl with his wits during the brevity of their travel. Strange, he should've been happy, yet Garlan felt none of it. Only a vacancy that remained, a gaping pit.

"I am glad, too. It seemed that Willas made his peace and gathered his strength during that time he was lost to us. He returned. But it was not entirely him, you know?"

"What do you mean?"

"As I said. He wasn't the same. He wasn't gentle, bookish, pious Willas Tyrell any longer. There was another edge to him. A sharper one. But whatever it is, I suppose a man can't be greedy. I got my brother back, in the end, and I supposed that I shan't ask more. That's enough for me. That he returned. And that he is here. And I am here, too, by his side."

"You are close to your siblings, then?"

"We were inseparable. Willas was the brain of the group. The devious one." He chuckled at the memories, unable to leave the sense of longing in his words. "He's the wicked leader, running circles around the castle's servants and our parents, sometimes even pitting us against each other over some ridiculous matter for the amusement of grandmother and his own... Loras was the guise. He's eager and he's charming. Margaery, meanwhile, would be the Queen of the group. We catered to her words as she wrapped others around her fingers. I, on the other hand, gladly settled to be the rational voice of the group, for more often than not, my siblings tend to get lost amidst their mischiefs."

"That must be nice," replied the Princess with an averted gaze. And Garlan cursed himself inwardly at bringing up the wrong subject, seeing the almost dejected look on her face. "And beautiful. I have not a… something like that. There's Tyene, but it was different. We are sisters, the two of us. Trystane is eleven namedays younger than me. While Quentyn… Quentyn is…"

"I understand," he said to quickly reassure her. "You need not tell me. Arianne, you must pardon me if I have offended you in any way. Rest assured it was not deliberate of me to get you to think of the less pleasant matters…"

"And here I thought you're not a Gallant knight, Garlan?" spoke the Princess in small chuckles.

"Oh no, the courtesies are real," he said, mockingly bowing at her, "A Tyrell learns courtesy when he or she is but a squalling babe... lest they suffer some discipline from their lordly and ladily relatives."

The Princess laughed again at his not so inaccurate jape, albeit it was a weaker, half-hearted laugh this time. But still, Garlan thought that it was a lovely sound, regardless. "I'm sorry, but it's clear that for all the courtesies, I think a Tyrell is not much suited to be a jester?"

And even to that, Garlan found a little smile to bloom upon his face. "Well said, Princess- Arianne-"

"Or mayhaps you can just call me 'Ari. Arianne is a bit mouthful, don't you think? And 'Ari was a name I went by as a child," she said to him. To her face, there was coyness in it, in the fluttering of her eyes. And when Garlan felt his cheeks warmed at the sight, the Princess laughed at him.

He nodded, abashed. "Very well. 'Ari, it is then."

"Where's your brother, anyway?" She asked him.

"I have nothing but guesses. Although, he did mention not to disturb him. He said that he wanted to prepare for his meeting with Lord Aurane-"

"The… Pirate?"

"Our good-uncle, yes. Aurane Waters. There's something to be settled regarding the Stepstones, I think."

They had met the natural-born brother to their Aunt's husband not long after they departed from Sunspear. The now self-styled Lord of the Waters had commanded a dreading fleet of pirates and corsairs in the Narrow Sea. He had set up for himself, a base at Torturer's Deep. Garlan thought it to be queer, especially when there was unoccupied Bloodstone, the former seat of the Rogue Prince, Daemon Targaryen, who once forged himself a Kingdom in the Stepstones.

Yet his brother had apparently supported the decision, fearing that Bloodstone would be too striking of a choice. He had frowned upon the thought… consorting with the likes of pirates and corsairs. Repeatedly, had he told Willas about his concerns… But when all is said and done, Garlan would just follow his brother's will.

"Would this matter tie into the meeting your brother and my uncle had with the Archon, you think? You know, I was once to be fostered at Tyrosh. And the daughter of the Archon at Sunspear. But my mother disagreed, for Norvoshi do not foster their children. She didn't understand. And so the arrangement fell through."

Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh had a long, bloody history with the Stepstones as well as that of the Disputed Lands. And if what Willas told him was true, then the Three Daughters were once again on the path to war. Their clippers as well as the ever-growing trade of the Reach had played a part in that. With them creating an influence on Volantis through his Aunt Lynesse's upcoming marriage, the pressure on Lys would be heavy, his brother told him. And with the Free Cities bidding over the shipbuilding contracts, Willas had seen it a must to increase areas of their influence, this time with the Three Daughters.

"I confess that I do not know. But indeed, with my brother and your uncle meeting with the Archon of Tyrosh the day before, I'd wager that it will have something to do with it. And if I know Willas as I think I do, then yes… that's most likely. Tyrosh still claims Stepstones, albeit they have not pressed it since the Daughters' War."

"...I, too, have a confession, Garlan," she suddenly said. Garlan turned to regard her with a questioning stare, tilting his head as he silently asked her to continue. "I confess... I don't think I much understand your brother," she said, clearly intent on getting more information on Will from him.

"It is no sin, Princess. I've stood by him for years, and there are times where I think that I'm standing to a stranger. Willas is… Willas is different. He's unlike anyone else. Willas is a riddle. You don't get to peel him like you do an orange, then see what's inside. I surrendered that notion long ago. And I have made my peace with it. "

"I… can tell. He's my peer both in age and station yet he seems… much more determined, as if with a clear vision of his role in this world. And don't start me on how much he's... informed." He wanted to interrupt her at that, lest some damning secrets spill but it was unnecessary, much to his relief. "But, Garlan, could you share more of your own thoughts on my intended, to elaborate?"

Poor thing, he thought. The Princess reminded Garlan of himself, lost and desperate, starved and seeking. Willas is going to twist her into his schemes. I can no- I….

And yet he couldn't help but to scrutinize her. A Dornishwoman, and a Martell. Does it mean she deserved to be left in the dark about her future husband? Does it warrant to treat her with suspicion because of her origin? A Blackfish in his mind said that Elia Martell didn't deserve her fate, largely begotten from her circumstances of birth and arranged marriage. And he agreed. Princess Elia didn't deserve such vileness for her end and his brother seemed inclined to think so, too. To hear the story of her and her children- well… child if their entire purpose in Pentos would ring true.

"About Willas, huh?" He stopped to let out a few breaths, steeling himself. "Well, that depends, 'Ari. What do you want to know about him?"

"Anything you can share with me and that could help me understand him, understand my future. What drives him? How he came to be so knowledgeable about Essos? His favorite things? Anything you feel comfortable telling me." There was resignation in her tone, posture, eyes, resignation to that he will not be generous with information. For if I tell you everything, you will swim the Narrow Sea back to Prince Doran, Ari...

"What drives him? That's as good a question as any. You're right in that he has a vision of his role in the future that is much clearer than many heirs have even in his age. Yes, he's the heir that stands to inherit Highgarden. It and its vassals. The Mander, the Marches, and the Honeywine. The Reach. He knows what he wants. He always does. The picture was crystal clear for him. Willas has this image that he wishes to pursue. He considers life as a dream to be made real and he's the painter. But the details, I do not know."

"And you, Garlan? What shall you be, then?"

"I shall gladly settle as the brush, Princess. For I will do my duty to my family when the need arises, and when it is asked of me. And as for your question about Essos. I don't see why not, 'Ari. It's always better if we are prepared, no? Willas likes to study things before he takes them into his hands. And Essos is no different… My brother merely wishes for us not to charge in blind. Not when the stakes are so high, right?"

"So it was him, not the Queen of Thorns, who… caught the interesting rumour regarding-?"

"Words are wind they say, Arianne. Yet it still travels. Even whispers. I have no knowledge of who caught it and under what circumstances." She bit her inner cheek. You better learn prudence now, Princess, lest you suffer grandmother's lashings with thorny bushes.

"Pardon me, Garlan, it seems that I am still…"

"It's fine. You just need to better watch the words you're saying from now on. How loud you voice them. Where you utter them. And to whom. And as for other things… about Willas. Well, his favorite color? I would say maybe gold… or green? He does favor to wear a darker shade of emerald- not quite like jade but deeper. Food? He likes his "chocolate" and "coffee" made from seeds from Summer Isles. They're not much of a thing outside Highgarden yet, though... Songs… He actually writes and sings them himself, but I guess you already have heard." At his little tease, she blushed demurely… well, as much as a woman with olive skin can be expected to. But it painted a pleasant sight, Garlan thought.

"Did he… does he…"

"Does my brother what?"

"Has Lord Willas ever been entangled before? You know, with another woman… Or does he…"

Prefer the company of men? Nay, for that- you're asking for the wrong brother, Princess.

"He's interested in women, for sure, if that's what you're asking. Whether that's partial or complete, preference or not, I do not know. Regarding his past affairs, I can't say since I was… away. There were rumors of him and Leonette Fossoway, or Seryl Rowan for that matter, but I don't believe them. He's appreciative of female beauty. However, he's not of the lecherous or overly flirtatious sort, in that regard he doesn't abide by male stereotypes. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, he likes to say."

"And what is beauty in the eyes of Willas Tyrell? What does he like?"

"He never did tell me. But as far as I understand he would like someone who can challenge him. I'm not saying this as if I can read his mind or know his heart, but as a brother, I would like to think that I know him, even if not completely. My brother prefers to satiate his taste of curiosity, always searching… his eyes- they scrutinize. He's a seeker. As I said, curious. Searching for new things, perusing them, daring them. He does not do so out of thrill, or boldness, or fearlessness. Every move that Willas makes… they mean something. Little things, little touches, they are strokes of his world, he challenges it. Willas… respects a person that can keep up with his game. One that's capable of playing with him. He doesn't rely overly on anyone. Willas stands on his own, alone. And pity is the last thing he would want. But I know that he would like someone able to be with him. Someone that understands worth.. A person to share the burdens… Are you such a person, Princess Arianne?"

"I will be. If it's my duty, I will do so, and gladly. "

"But you would prefer another man." Willas' tongue would lash him once he found out and then sell out to grandmother for tenfold more but he just couldn't help to give voice to his suspicions. How could he not?! For all his cunning and resourcefulness Will was… a cripple. He felt shame in thinking of his brother that way - gods knew he admired him for his resilience - but sadness in Willas's eyes was always there, his insecurity buried deep beneath marriage and squiring schemes, assassination plots, treasonous ideas, and realm-shattering secrets. And deeper, before all else- was fear. Will and their family made sure that he's more than that but the reality was glaring at them all the same, thereupon his brother's knee. They could pretend otherwise, yet the whispers would always remain.

"Nay," the Princess was quick to deny. "He's… smart, and charming, and courteous. I shall be happy to rule by his side as the future Lady of Highgarden."

The flickering glance the Dornish Princess casted upon the surface of the water told him otherwise, of something else still laying under- still buried. "Yet there's something that bothers you, isn't it?"

"I- uh…" came the reply of his brother's betrothed, her gaze averted as it turned downwards.

"Is the deck much more interesting than your future good-brother, 'Ari?" he said, cutting through her moment or nervousness, teasing her.

When she returned, she had seemingly steeled herself. There was resolve in her eyes, for they burned as if the sun of her house's sigil, so resolute. Her dark eyes, the blackest shade of brown, swirling deep, mesmerizing- a void that Garlan found himself lost amidst. Self-consciousness came to him, mortification taking over. His brother's betrothed.

"There were times. He was kind and his voice was soft. His laughs rang like a bell in the whispering winds. His words were inviting and it was all a song. Yet I couldn't help but notice. The side glance. The split of a moment of hesitation. His eyes, they betrayed him in the flickering beat. When he laughed with me and danced with me. Was that just a duty? The burden of the nobles that you spoke of? Conforming to the fitness of most things? A mummery?"

I have not the heart to tell you the truth, Princess. "My brother… my brother is many things. But I assure you, a liar, he is not." Lie. "At least... not to you. I see him, when he's with you, when I talked to him the morning after the two of you met- he was different then. I knew it. The two of you are a match made in heavens, I told him. He sought you out… that night in Sunspear. He thinks of you as someone interesting, someone that aroused his curios-"

"Does he think of me a riddle, then? A- someone… something to solve. A mere plaything? For years I endured so under my father. Yet if I were to-" To her voice was the betrayal to her carefully composed mask of stillness and resolution. They wavered, much like the ship swaying ever so crassly upon the tides of the sea.

"No," he denied. A little too fast. He grabbed her hand. His brother's betrothed's hand. Warm hand. Awareness came to him a little too late, and in a flustering beat of a moment- he dropped her hand as if it carried the Greyscale itself. His heart quickened. "I- Pardon me. That wasn't proper of me."

His eyes refused to meet with the girl, yet he caught the abashed smile on her face. "Again… I'm sure that my brother meant no dishonor. It's the last thing he would wish to do. He likes you, very very much. To be truthful, he has been… different ever since meeting you. I know that you have only shared seven days, is it? But Willas- he… he's different. Free. At leisure. He's been more at ease now. I see glimpses of the part that he hides to the world- but not to you. And I think that speaks tremendously for someone like Willas."

"I… thank you, Garlan. Willas is really fortunate to have you as his brother. Now, if you excuse me," she said, bidding him goodbye.

And Garlan would find himself muttering, "Yes," as an answer. Weakly. He knew not what gnawed inside him, but there was something unsettling. Something so close yet also one he couldn't wrap his fingers around. He sighed, amidst the brisk wind of the tumultuous Narrow Sea. They were restless, and with them, they carried a bitterness that Garlan failed to recognize.

Garlan would then look up, staring at the vastness of the azure sky. It was a clear day. And it was then that he saw them, ravens- circling around the sails of the ships. Dark ravens, black as the night. They cawed, much like a hunter circling upon its doomed prey. His eyes narrowed. Amidst the sea, were the ravens. Amidst the sea, dark wings where they shouldn't be. Amidst the sea, the ravens cawed.

Don't tell me it's your fault, Willas.

Notes:

This chapter serves a transition, one might say, as we traverse across the previous plot into a new one, now focused on Willas' antics and unraveling schemes in Essos. If you manage to read between the lines, then you'll notice the lingering vagueness from Garlan's side about his brother's betrothed. It's interesting, I think. And quite realistic too. Rest assured tho, it doesn't mean that the story will descend into a family & romance heavy-drama with angsts everywhere or something like that. I like to remind you guys that our characters are people, deeply flawed- even one seemingly as perfect as Garlan. They're human and we should be able to relate to them.

Next chapter will be…. Pentos! Where we will meet the second half of our beloved Chaos Agents- the Cheesemonger himself, Illyrio Mopatis! Will the truth come out? Alliance to be forged or for heads to roll? One way or another, it's bound to be a bumpy ride! And hopefully an interesting one, too, at that.

So, what do you think? Please let me know your thoughts by leaving a reply or comment, they help to keep me spirited for writing! Anything you would like to see in the future of the story? Certain death? Certain decisions? Criticisms, suggestions, and requests are very much welcomed!

Chapter 18: The Spear of Dorne

Summary:

The Red Viper comes slithering across the Narrow Sea. And the wind of change brings him to Pentos, where a certain Cheesemonger plots in the shadows.

Notes:

As always, many thanks to 6thfloormadness who beta'd this and Robert Drake who helped me in writing! Enjoy!

THE SPEAR

He was the spear. The Spear of Dorne. The gleaming tip, glistening in the sun. The sharpened end of an edged shaft.

The Bay of Pentos came to him in the smell. The scent of the salty sea, coursing up through the gusty wind. It was not Oberyn's first time in Pentos. Nay, he had toured the Free Cities already, more than once. Albeit his first remained treasured in his heart. He had been six-and-ten, young and brash and foolish. A boy caught up in fear of confinement, afraid to die a wasteful death, a worthless end- to remain in the same corner he had lived for all his life.

Such folly, he chuckled back to the memory. Eager boy. The young boy who wanted to see the world. And saw, he did. All the Free Cities, all nine of them. Oberyn didn't remember Pentos for much. But he did Lys. He remembered the Lyseni that shared his bed that night, his first arrival to the City of Sigh. Pale woman, but with a fiery heart. Her hair was the purest of silver. Yet that Lyseni brothel seemed so far away now.

Years had passed in between. That eager young boy, brazen and rash. The boy was gone. And in his place, was both a father and a grieving brother. Years of joy- he remembered the smile that stayed on when Obara chose to return with him to Dorne, Oldtown left behind. Or when he returned from Volantis, Little Nym with him. Oberyn even smiled when Rhaegar… cloaked Elia with the red of the three-headed dragons.

Then Rhaenys was born. Black of hair, Elia in all but name. The sweet little girl that he remembered… who wanted to ride Balerion the Dread- yet dragons are dead, he told her. She settled for a black cat instead, he remembered. An ugly little thing. But Oberyn treasured them, for the dragons are dead, he had thought. Yet those years of joy quickly turned into years of grief- when the raven came to Dorne.

Nay, the dragons were not dead, lest so his sweet sister wouldn't die. The dragons were not dead, and they killed Elia. He remembered them. Them and their faces. Mad Aerys. "She smells Dornish," he said. Rhaegar… his sister's accursed husband. Her tormentor and her anguish. Oberyn dreamt of plunging his spear into his heart at night. He always smiled, Rhaegar. He mocked him, even in death, a jape left unsaid. His sister's thrice-damned husband. He had thought the brother, Viserys, to be different.

Oberyn bore no love for the dragons- not after the insults upon insults heaped upon them. Upon Elia. Upon Uncle Lewyn. Yet their quest for vengeance demanded them so, and the Mighty Lion had grown mighty by the side of the Usurper. And so he relented, swallowing his resentment. He traveled to Braavos, met Willem Darry, and signed the Pact. He didn't see the children. Nay,Darry was too fearful to let them out.

Yet it was all for naught, he thought with a smile. A thin smile of bitterness. And laughter coursed through his throat at such a thought. Of course, the boy was mad! The Gods did love their cruel mockery, after all.

Yet here he was. In Pentos. Clad in a gilded half-helm, green cloak hung low from his shoulder. Gold doublet upon his chest, a golden rose sewn on his right breast. Who would have thought? A Martell dressed as a Tyrell guard. Inwardly, Oberyn laughed at such irony. For thousands of years did the Reach and Dornish go to war with each other, blood spilling upon the Marches, painting the Red Mountains true to their name. Torn limbs in the sands of Dorne. Ashes in the fields of the Reach. Treason and war make strange bedfellows, indeed.

He looked to the right, to his Tyrell friend. Willas Tyrell was a boy of nineteen years of age. A boy, no matter how seemingly wise he would carry himself. No matter how careful he spoke his words, he was a boy, nonetheless. A boy that was his niece's betrothed.

Arianne had been told to stay behind on their ship, for it wouldn't do if a Tyrell heir came to the Free Cities to discuss trades with the oh so illustrious Magister of Pentos, yet while bringing the girl he was due to marry, newly-betrothed, no less. Not yet a fortnight. Though it wasn't the only reason. His Reacher friend insisted on the diversion consisting of casting an image of him staying behind in Tyrosh. Nay,Willas told him that they need to be Tyrells for the day. Oberyn didn't argue, nor was he insulted. Instead, amusement came to him at such a puzzling picture.

The Tyrell was clad in regality. The most striking piece of that was a silk-samite waistcoat, jet black with golden floral patterns and diamond-adorned silver buttons sewn into it, tight-fitting for his lean shape, queer in that it had high collars. He topped it with a thin hooded mantle- its color of emerald green, the color of his house and the Reach. Despite being lined with golden roses closer to his wrists and shins, it flowed swiftly with the coastal winds, unclasped. The Tyrell had his fingers resting at the knob of his black cane, trimmed with silver. He wore but one ring, a ring of crimson. Rubies, he thought. They glimmered as liquid blood would in a maester's glass. In crystal.

Oberyn thought that the Tyrell looked more delectable than ever. He ran his tongue across his lip, savoring the sweat under the cloudless day of sunlit Pentos. Half-a-dozen thoughts ran through his mind- sinful of nature. Carnal desires- of which he thought not for the first time. But alas, it wouldn't do for him to bed the intended of his niece. The Yronwood incident had been enough, Oberyn thought. If he persisted, his brother might feed him for true to the Bloodroyals should he dare to upset the betrothal of Doran's daughter.

Yet the temptation remained. He wondered if his Tyrell friend would concede in a battle in bed. Would he surrender? Would he spill? Men would be men, he thought. They might dress in plates and mails- all ridiculous and mighty. Yet they fell victims to the bed, all the same. Oberyn desired that- to unravel the mystery that was Willas Tyrell. He wondered yet again, would his friend be any different than other men? Would he disappoint? Oberyn didn't know, but he grew more curious and only more with the time that passed. To peel the Tyrell bit by bit, and taste the fruit inside. His curiosity demanded it. But alas, it wouldn't do. And Oberyn must surrender, even before the fight had begun.

He had first thought Willas to be more Doran than he. Calculative, a thinker- he who laid out plans before daring to move a piece. He had thought that the boy would be patient, as cripples tend to be. Calm demeanor to hide the sharper edges inside. Much like Doran- the grass for the snake. The sun and the spear. The spear is deadly, yet the sun even more. Doran is the sun… the sun who shines upon the spear. The sun is all-commanding. The sun is implacable. And I, the spear. Breakable and replaceable. Yet it is the spear that draws blood.

Yet he was all rose- all rose and its thorns. For beneath the petals, all nice-smelling, shades of lovely colors- were the thorns, sharp and prickly. Bloody thorns. Yet now as he thought more of the Tyrell, he found that they were not as different as Oberyn might once think of. The boy was eager, much like him in his youth- not that Oberyn hadn't changed over the years. Willias had not the patience to wait, as shown when he brought the news of Aegon's apparent survival to Doran. Rash and bold, he thought. But not as short-sighted as I was, it seems. Loathe it may him to admit, but it was imprudent to lay with the prick Yronwood's paramour, now that he thought back to it

The Tyrell was not Doran, nor was he Oberyn. He was both of them. The grass and the viper, all by himself.

He watched the Tyrell walk, radiating confidence. Oberyn settled to be a few steps behind him, after all, he was to be one of the Tyrell guards that would accompany the boy in meeting the illustrious magister. Illyrio Mopatis, of whom Willas had shared- was so dangerously intimate with that of Varys the Spider, the Master of Whispers from Aerys' court and still was, even during the Usurper's reign. To Willas' side was his brother, standing oddly tense. Garlan, his name. The boy who didn't like him much. Oberyn wouldn't fault him, yet he wouldn't grovel and beg forgiveness from the Tyrell either. Instead, he settled to be amused. After all, what is life if not to be enjoyed? Amusement could indeed, be found in every corner...

The door to the Magister's reception chamber was opened by two Unsullied, plump- as household Unsullied tend to be, spears in hand. Yet they were deadly still. There was no underestimating Unsullied, eunuchs they might be. Oberyn had learned the lesson the hard way during his time in exile- forging his own little sellsword company. The sight reminded him of himself, he whose spear was vengeance. The gleaming tip of sharp death. Like the Unsullied were slaves to their masters, Oberyn too was a slave to his revenge, in his own way. But now, a sliver of hope had sprung. Mayhaps with a piece of his sister left, it need not be that way forever.

The Magister was fat. Too fat to sit a horse, perhaps, save a warhorse. It was the first thing to come to his mind. Bloated cheeks and eyes resembling that of a pig's. The sweat dripping down his cheeks didn't help him alleviate the resemblance, either, Oberyn thought. He had a forked yellow beard, much like a Tyroshi. Queer. Oberyn could make out the belly sagging out from underneath the tunic of brown and yellow. The man was morbidly obese, and he had man-breasts, sagging down like sacks of sueve, much like an elderly woman, that is. He wore heavy perfume, the magister. The smell hit him right away- it wasn't pleasant. But then again, it was an unusually hot day in Pentos.

"Lord Tyrell!" greeted the man jovially to Oberyn's liege. "Do forgive me for not welcoming you upon your arrival to the city. But I was so tired, you see. I had this magnificent feast last night! Oh so magnificent, you should've come a day earlier, my lord. But alas, let bygones be bygones. Come now, I heard that you want to speak with me. Illyrio is confused on what a Westerosi lord would want from him."

"Magister Illyrio, no need to worry about that. It is us who thank you for meeting us on such short notice, in your magnificent palace, no less. Though I must emphasize that I am no lord of anything, Magister," denied Willas politely. His voice was measured and calm. "My father is the Lord of Highgarden, while I am but a mere heir until the Gods see it fit for him to return to their place, and me- to serve in his stead. But, of course, where are my manners, this is my brother, Garlan," he motioned to his brother, who nodded respectfully. "We have come to discuss… trade matters. Deals of significant importance, Magister."

The large man's eyes shone like a glutton upon a feast. He brought his large hand to stroke his forked beard. "Deals, you say? Well, Illyrio is always interested in those, hah!" He bellowed a laugh, slapping his belly. "Come now, come, my lords. It's lunchtime, no? How about we discuss this over a meal? I have the best cooks in Pentos, you see? I promise you- you shall find no finer food in the city than in Illyrio's manse!"

The Tyrell gave a soft smile to the eager Magister. "Lovely as it sounds, my lord, I'm afraid we also have other matters to see to in the city. But perhaps, some refreshments now and dinner tonight? Or in the morrow perhaps we can break out fast together. We do plan to stay in the city for a few days. Of course, as long as Pentos will have us."

"Illyrio will always be a friend to Westerosi. You shall have hospitality here, my lords. The Prince of Pentos might have barred his gates for me, but Illyrio has many friends in the city still!" the Magister bellowed jovially yet again, his shoulders jiggling up and down.

"I'm sure you do, magister. I have heard an inspiring tale of your steep rise to prominence. You were a bravo, were you not? Yet through able tradesmanship and connections, you have acquired vast amounts of wealth, which in Pentos, they say, means power. Commonborn, yet you climb your way up. Now a powerful man with powerful friends in many places. I respect that."

"Ah, so knowledgeable, my lord?" asked the Magister, preening almost as if a peacock. But his eyes- they held a dangerous glint. He feigned curiosity at Willas' words. "Indeed, indeed, you seem to have done a lot, I see. Illyrio is flattered to be known by a Westerosi Great House like House Tyrell. Yet not only do the Tyrells have titles of much authority, but last I heard- the Reach products are now traded vigorously in the Free Cities, many thanks to the efforts of your extended family. Many a Westerosi lord would frown upon trade - eh, what they call it? Ah, coppercounting, yes - yet you shy away not, my lord. Most curious I must say. Even more curious, last I heard you were at Tyrosh. Meeting with Archon Canzion. Most curious…"

The Magister's eyes were dangerous. Behind the rapacious eyes, were resolution, hard as stone bricks that made up the walls of the manse. He's challenging Willas… if he knows about Tyrosh- then- Then his Tyrell friend was right in suspecting that Varys and Illyrio used messenger birds in Essos, too. Very unusual… and unreliable. Yet the speed was indeed a temptation too hard to resist for them, it seemed.

"Oh?" spoke the Tyrell half-heartedly. As if the Magister's words concerned clouds in the sky. "Is it not common for heads of the City-States to receive foreign dignitaries? And generous the hospitality of Tyrosh might be, I'm afraid that I found no respite from the boredom of travel."

Oberyn's mind wandered to the meeting with the Archon, and he did curse again at that. To his nephew. Poor Trystane… Soon we will meet, nephew, if everything goes according to plan.

Magister Illyrio chuckled all-too-knowingly, then motioned to the nearby woman. A slave, for she was branded on the cheek. "Come, my lords, let us talk," he said as he invited them in. "But alas, our talk will be most unpleasant should there be two- or three too many heads in the room. Mayhaps, you can convince your guards to stay here, Lord Willas. My Unsullied will see to it. No harm will come to you here in Illyrio's manse. The walls are twelve feet high, none would dare!"

"Of course, magister. But I would like to keep my sworn shield, however."

"Ah yes, of course. Come, come, I will ask the servants to bring the best cuisines of Pentos for our talk. What a delight it will be!"

Willas nodded at him, to which he nodded back. They went. Scuffing almost silently to what was likely the Magister's opulent parlor. Oberyn followed the brothers and passed by one of the guards- an Unsullied, bearing spear and shield, with spiked top. Their eyes met, and Oberyn could see the hardness in the eunuch's eyes. He didn't budge, nor did he fear. A eunuch wouldn't stay in the way of Oberyn and whatever chance it was for the survival of a piece of his sister.

The room, while spacious enough, felt quite private. With a huge chair for a huge magisterial arse, of course. There were two Unsullied, their eyes hard as stone. The brothers sat and he stood behind them like a loyal guard. Oberyn must admit- that he bit his tongue to stop himself from laughing at the jape.

"Now, my lords, what is it that you wish to discuss with Illyrio? Wine? Cheese? I'm a known trader in cheese myself. Why, they call me-"

"The Cheesemonger, yes. We have heard the tales of the Great Cheesemonger of Pentos, Magister," said the Tyrell, only this time it was the brother- not Willas.

"Ah, so you do know!" replied the Magister, tilting his head from his grand seat. "What is it, then? I must warn you, though, my lords. Your new ships are very grand, indeed. But if it's what you're offering me, I fear that I have not the interest for them- nor can I afford, too. The other Magisters will tear me apart should it be that I possess the prized ships of the Reach, bidding be bypassed."

"Ah, well, it's… convoluted to say the least. I had heard from my Uncle, Lord Paxter Redwyne, that the Arbor's bidding pool for the ships has become… rather tumultuous as of late."

"Yes, yes, the Three Whores like their saber-rattling, no? Were their envoys indeed brawling like drunken peasants at the auctions as rumors suggest?" What an odd piece of gossip, Oberyn thought as the jovial man rambled on with visible delight.

"Actually it's not that, Magister. You see, recently- we have entered into lucrative trade deals. Most recently, with Qarth." At Willas' revelation, Oberyn felt chagrined- for he had confirmed it not before.

"I see. Egon Emeros is a vain man, how ever did you manage to wrestle gold from him, my lords? I shall admire you should you indeed be able to do that. The Pureborns are, after all-"

"I'm afraid they asked not to disclose their identities or alignment, Magister Mopatis."

"Hmm," he said, yet again stroking his beard. Oberyn had a fleeting desire to chop the beard off his cascading chins, tired of seeing the fat Magister running his sweaty hands through his forked yellow ugliness yet again. "The Spicers? Or the Thirteen? The Tourmalines are, after all, glorified pirates... But it seems that you have no desire to tell Illyrio, my lords. So I shall keep the guesses to myself."

"Thank you for your understanding. What we want is, Magister, for Pentos to open its gates to the Reach, a little more, perhaps. You trade heavily with King's Landing, Driftmark, and Duskendale. We are hoping to see if we can turn your sight to something a little bit more Southron?"

The Magister smiled and considered Willas' words carefully for a few moments. "Clever, how clever. I see now, my lords. The Tyroshi… you wouldn't dare to try to have me trying trades with the Reach without Archon Canzion's support. You're wary of the Three Daughters, then? They quarrel and quarrel- always, never ends, I tell you. You shan't pay them too much attention, my lords." He felt relief at that, maybe, the Fat Magister doesn't know about the contents of their deal with the Archon.

"I shall take your words to great consideration, Magister. After all, it wouldn't do to ignore the words of someone so wise- so experienced in trade. But I speak of more delicate matters… Yi Tish spices. You must already know by now- for it is an open secret- that our clippers allow us to trade with Yi Ti, for the first time in Westeros- ever since the days of the Sea Snake. These spices shall be of great interest to you, I believe?"

Mopatis laughed. He laughed a terrible laugh. An ugly sound. "Very clever. I haven't had this much fun in years, my lords. It is no wonder, then, how the Reach is on the rise- with a clever heir as yourself, Lord Willas, promoting trade even with the faraway Golden Empire. You have the spices in your hands. You have Tyrosh in the middle of our way, a dagger that now can be wielded by you, no? Ha! Clever indeed. But you're forgetting Myr and Lys, my lord."

"I forget none, Magister," answered Willas curtly. He had a tight smile on his face, Oberyn spied. "So, what do you think of our… proposition? I sought not the finer details, for now. We can always discuss them later."

The other Tyrell pitched in, "Indeed, what my brother said is true. We only wish to know your interest in the matter. And as you said, there are many of those who are powerful in Pentos, no?"

"So I engage with you now or risk losing a lucrative deal to other merchants?" Illyrio paused as he grinned widely. "One could say that you were born to a merchant prince of Essos, not to the warrior nobility of Westeros, my lords… But let none say that Illyrio Mopatis shies away from gold! Yes, my lord, I am very interested and willing to negotiate terms. Tomorrow sounds good, don't you think?"

Willas nodded. Soon. Soon my time comes.

"That will do, Magister. And I must tell you. It's such a pleasure to meet you. It really is," he said. Oberyn saw Illyrio preen one more time, opening his lips yet Willas cut him off, "However... There are certain matters that should be resolved before we commit to negotiations. Certain things- that are of interest to us."

"Do tell, my friend. If it is in Illyrio's power then Illyrio will certainly try to help his new friends."

"It concerns… eunuchs. They seem like such capable and valuable assets to have despite… well, you know. Maybe it is this lack of desire that allows them to be so successful. What say you, Magister?"

"You're... interested in acquiring the Unsullied?" At this, Mopatis paused as he let out a quick laugh, an ugly bark of a laugh- his nose snorting as if a pig's snout would. "Not that I am to judge but my, my, whatever would the other Westerosi lords think of that?"

Mayhaps the Magister was trying to dodge, or maybe he hadn't yet a clue- for his sly smile seemed as coy as ever. But it was as good an attempt at dodging as any,Oberyn thought. A well-played one. He's a good mummer, as can be expected from him. But still, if you knew what to look for, you could spot tiny changes in his demeanor and tone. He was discomforted by the remark. Good work, WIllas, now here's to surviving- for us to make it out of this alive.

"As formidable as they are, you're right that it would be unacceptable, not only due to what others might think and would do but also because of our own beliefs. I'm more interested in a certain eunuch, a certain one rather than many. The eunuch who whispers… such sweet things he whispered. I'm sure that you understand what kind of a eunuch I meant, magister."

"My… Lord?" the Magister asked, his voice confused. Yet his shoulder said otherwise, perhaps a lingering… a remnant of the once-proud warrior. The Magister had a statue, after all, that was proudly displayed upon the marble pool they came across in their journey to the heart of the manse. The statue had his hand raised high, a shimmering bravo on its grip. Later they were told by the servants that the naked statue was Illyrio in his youth. Oberyn grew amused, recalling the... finer details. Well, the man certainly thinks a lot of himself.

"No need for theatrics, Magister Mopatis. You are a powerful man and Lord Varys is ever elusive. But even the best marksman is bound to miss, at least once. The two of you grew up together, no? A thief and a sellsword. What sweet story…" Illyrio was shocked and displeased, that much was visible. Yet Willas continued, "Do pass my greeting to Lord Varys, will you?"

"Lord… Varys, my lord?"

"Yes, yes. Varys, the Spider. The Master of Whispers of Aerys Targaryen and Robert Baratheon. The Eunuch."

"I'm afraid you misunderstood, my lord Tyrell. Or gone... misled by the others. Illyrio has enemies as much as he has friends," denied the man. His eyes fleeted to the corners of the room, to the two Unsullied standing- ever stalwart- in the corners of the room. Oberyn's grip on the pommel of his sword tightened. "Yes, it's true that Illyrio follows the political court of the Westerosi. I know of your Baratheon King. Yet even if I know the name of his Master of Whispers, I fear that I-"

"Never plot with him? Never did once you two plot to smuggle a certain dead Prince of the Realm? Out of King's Landing during Tywin Lannister's sack, no less. Or faking the death of an exiled Hand of the Mad King?" Willas asked in a jovial tone.

"Very well, Illyrio must admit. Acquainted with Lord Varys I might be in the past, I'll give you that, for he was a spymaster- and Illyrio, a merchant, a rising one. Acquaintances, each furthering their own cause. But I know nothing about the prince you are speaking about. To be truthful, Lord Willas, this… this slander- I do not condone it. It sounds so outlandish I'm wondering how you came to believe it."

When neither Tyrell spoke, Illyrio continued, "I expected much more from you. A Magister of Pentos and the Eunuch in service of King Robert? Working together? Hah! Yi Ti would sooner be ruled by a Jhogos Nai!" He slapped his belly yet again, breaking into laughter. Distinctively fake ones.

"I speak of the boy you dyed in Tyroshi blue," Willas persisted as if the Fat Man's words were a mere breeze. "I speak of the Griffin who lives aboard the little ship that is the Shy Maid. I speak of his supposed son. What do they call him? Ah yes. I speak of Young Griff, the boy who sails up and down the Rhoyne- for all- for most of his life."

"Lord Tyrell, I'm afraid that I must ask you to leave should you-"

One of the Unsullied raised his spear, but Oberyn unsheathed his sword faster. In one short draw, he slashed through the Unsullied's spear, a weapon he knew all too well. Clank! The steel-tipped half fell to the floor. Willas rose, his hand gripping upon the top of his cane, almost as if to- twist? His brother stood by him, his hand moving to the sleeve of his tunic- a hidden dagger, mayhaps?

The Magister couldn't afford to kill his honored guests here. The man was clever enough to know that he had been pinned to the corner of his own manse. Should he dare, then Oberyn was sure that the wrath of the Queen of Thorns would see Pentos be reduced to ashes. What a comforting thought, to have such a formidable avenger of my death.

However, they couldn't afford to be forced to leave now. Not when they're so close. For Elia. And Oberyn's thoughts went back to the sweat-drenched days and broken spears upon the yards of Sunspear. The blood upon his scuffed hands. Blood along the length of his weapon. For Elia. All of it. For Elia.

With two Unsullied having already assumed defensive stances by his side, Illyrio was not cowered. He shouted in a bastard Valyrian dialect. Pentoshi? He knew not enough to make out the words, but Willas seemed to understand. The other Unsullied rushed inside the parlor- only stopped as words rang through the room yet again.

"We wish for peace, Magister Illyrio!" offered the Tyrell Heir to placate the man. "There is no need for unnecessary bloodshed. We can be allies here. Great allies."

"Your savage made the first move, my lord."

"Right you are. But ah," he wiggled his finger at the Magister. Oberyn smiled. "He's not my savage, you see. Magister Illyrio Mopatis, allow me to introduce you to such an esteemed guest. A dear friend of mine and my future good-uncle. He has much more interest in this… smuggling business of yours than I do to be truthful. A Royal guest for a royal man like yourself."

Oberyn's fingers dug into the base of his half-helm, the other hand of his unclasping the green cloak from upon his shoulder, the brooch of unassuming green marble falling into the floor. Oberyn had not the love for armor but on his friend's insistence, he took one on this trip and revealed it now. The plate of light orange hue hung above his waistline, wrought by a Qohorik master smith, decorated with burning sun and spear, each of red and gold.

He reaffirmed his grip on his sword, wielding it as to point its glinting edge to the Magister's throat. It was no spear- I am all the spear that Dorne needs- but he would make do with what he had. Oberyn saw the realization dawning upon the man, fear creeping up through his sunken eyes. He grinned at the sight. Bloodthirst coursing up through his hot-blooded body of a Dornishman.

"Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell of Dorne, called the Red Viper. Brother to Prince Doran Martell, the Prince of Dorne. And last, Uncle to the rightful heir to the Iron Throne… Prince Aegon Targaryen." Might I've been a lesser man, I would have blushed, Willas.

"Magister Illyrio," he spoke in a lazy drawl, inclining his head. "We are long overdue for a meeting, I fear. What is this that I heard about you having my sister's son, magister?"

---

 

Notes:

Many thanks to those who have remained in support of this story! I appreciate the feedback and suggestions, especially and mostly after the last chapter. Well, this chapter flowed really easily during writing, I must say. Got the first full draft in mere hours, and polished it for the rest of the week.

I think I managed to capture Oberyn quite well. Oberyn thinks of himself as the extension of Dorne. Dorne's vengeance. This plays into the title and general theme of this chapter- The Spear. The breakable, replaceable spear. He has accepted that. But with new revelation? Who knows what our dear Red Viper would do.

And his thoughts of Willas? Will his curiosity prevail after some time? He thinks of him as a mix of Doran and himself. Plotting but ready to spearhead their execution when convenient. Do you think Oberyn is right about our protagonist? I hope I showcased Oberyn and his… complexity of being a natural asshole but a sympathetic and charismatic-as-hell one at that.

Our beloved Cheesemonger also made his first appearance here. After capturing Varys quite successfully, I also hope that I manage to do Illyrio justice, too. To showcase his innate 'ugliness' and ruthlessness (in bits tho, this chapter doesn't focus on it). Like what are these two's endgame? A Spider and a Cheesemonger, working together. What is their angle(s)? That will be a journey, indeed, as we travel the story further and deeper.

Please, let me know what you think, any suggestions and criticism you have! Also, any guess for our next POV? :p

Chapter 19: Young Griff

YOUNG GRIFF 

On the morrow of his seventh nameday, when the roots of his Tyroshi blue washed away in the water of the Rhoyne, Griff once told him, "You are the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. Prince Aegon of House Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia Martell." In the murky waters of the river, Aegon saw himself for what he was. A Targaryen. An exiled Prince. And an orphaned boy.

Fom that moment he believed he would havep ursue his destiny, rally lords of Westeros, and launch a war against the Usurper. For his birthright. For his family. It seemed such a daunting thing to do but he always thought that he would be prepared once he was a man grown. Now, however, it seemed that his destiny decided to come first instead and untimely so, knocking be damned, barely with a warning beforehand.

He must admit to himself that he was anxious, sitting in his cabin like a minor lordling, instead of the Prince that he was meant to be- as Griff had repeated to him time and time again.

The crew of the Shy Maid had returned from their little scouting and reported sightings of a fairly large 'Andal' looking party flying two distinct banners, a golden rose on a green field and a gold spear piercing a red sun on an orange field. Two great houses. Two of eight. He wouldn't be so worried for his mother's house if it weren't for- no, it couldn't be-

"Stop fidgeting, Your Grace," said Griff, apparently, to little avail since he had to continue, "You are their rightful King, you must not grovel before them. Remember what I said to you."

"I most certainly do. But to be fair, before the missive, you cared not to mention that there could be any questions about my legitimacy, from my own family, no less." It wasn't fair toward Griff, he knew deep down. But he was still angry that it never occurred to him before.

Griff- Jon sighed tiredly at his words. Aegon refused to look away- growing guilts be damned. "One day, Aegon, you shall be King. From the sands of Dorne to the barren hinterland that is the North. People will see you as their King. Their beloved King. As it is only meant to be. I only pray that I could remain by your side by then. Yet it matters not. For the fulfillment of my promise to your father. To the oath I swore on his grave. It is you that matters. Not me."

"And what is it that's meant to be? A King will not be one with his legitimacy in question. What if Prince Oberyn doesn't recognize his kin in me? At best we will be left without the only two great houses that might be willing to support us with tens of thousands of swords! At worst-"

"The Golden Company is the best fighting force there is in all of Essos and Westeros, my prince." Beneath the roots of his red brows- shrouded in the remnants of Tyroshi blue, Aegon could see that Griff's eyes were not so bold as his words were.

"The Golden Company is a sellsword company. A foreign sellsword company that also needs a large fleet to be on Westerosi soil in the first place."

"Aegon, my prince, I apologize that I haven't prepared you for this as much as either of us wanted. But the moment of truth has come, here and now, and I swear this to you, Your Grace. I will die before they ride away without promising their allegiance to you."

"No! You will die when I command you to. And that is not today, Griff. I am sorry… I know that it's been difficult for you, too." And that's the truth of it, for those who inhabit the Shy Maid- little and few as they are, have been thrown into a frenzy- a madness of frustration and distress after the… news of the unexpected visit.

"My Prince," he nodded at him. Griff took his leave with the words, turning on his feet- muttering excuses and apologies as he claimed to need to seek Haldon, for matters Aegon knew not. It seemed that Magister Mopatis or one of Griff's men had insisted that the Tyrell-Martell party make an encampment at the agreed location nearby the ruins and sometime later 'stumble' upon their encampment a little up the river that was now being set up by their faithful crewmen.

"Griff!" he called out to the man just as he stepped below the doorway. The red-haired man halted in his steps.

"My Prince?"

"I….." want to tell you that I- "It's nothing."

"Then I shall take my leave. Your Grace," he bid him yet another goodbye, this time with a bow.

"You're selfish," he told the man. The words blurted out of his mouth all of a sudden. Aegon could hear the wooden floor of the ship creak at the stopping footsteps, the exact moment when it did. Jon's eyes were questioning. "What you said before. When you told me you wouldn't care whether you'd be by my side or not, so long as you fulfilled your promise to my father," the father I've never known- unlike… you, "You're selfish. You might not care- but I do. I care. I told you that you'll die when I commanded you to. That's not today. And that won't be. Not ever." Aegon loathed the wavering of his voice, yet he would loathe more to see Jon's face in reaction to his weakness. I am a Prince, I shall not be weak.

As if by the grace of the gods- in the shrouding shadows, Aegon couldn't make out the man's face. "I… apologize, Your Grace," he said. And then he left. And Aegon sat alone in the cabin that they had shared for countless nights.

He was young. But he was no fool. Griff had dressed himself in a lord's clothes. And himself, in a Prince's. Yet underneath the conviction that Griff desperately portrayed to him, Aegon knew he was as anxious as he himself was. He saw them- the little fidgets that Griff made, his eyes assessing him. Do I look like my father? Does he believe in me? Or does he see me… and disappoint?

Aegon's eyes lingered on the book sitting in the corner of his room. Rhoynish lores. Yet he had spent his life- most of his sailing up and down the Rhoyne. He was tired of it. And so he rose from his seat, his steps carrying him outside the little cabin that he called home for twelve… thirteen years?

The Rhoyne smells like home though, he thought. There was none on the deck save for Yandry, climbing atop of the roof, the rest working on the river's shore. If Aegon squinted, he would be able to make the shadowy figures of the ruined Ghoyan Drohe. The crumbling towers and roofless domes. A formerly proud city of the Rhoynar- until it was destroyed by the dragons. By Valyria. The blood of his mother… and that of his father. Aegon thought it was quaint, how the two went to war to such great extent in the past- with the Rhoynar ultimately perishing upon the Second Spice War. Yet now, their blood was inside him, both the Rhoyne and Valyria. His mother's and his father's. Should that- should he indeed… be true.

Aegon never recalled his mother. Or his father. Or his sister. All dead. All three lie beneath their graves. One slain on the bank of the Trident. And two… slain in their own chambers. I shouldn't be here, in all likelihood. Aegon didn't remember them. He only knew the stories- the words that Griff- Jon- no- Griff would tell him on a restless night of cloudless dusk. But Aegon would like to think that he knew them. That he dreamt them.

He didn't remember the Red Keep, either. Stronghold of impeccable defense built by the Targaryen Kings of Old. Griff would tell me that Maegor's Holdfast is impenetrable. But Aegon knew not that to be the truth. Lest he wouldn't be a boy- alone in a raggedy boat for all his life, far away from the land that he would like to call home. Land… of which he will reclaim for his family. I must, and I shan't falter. But he did dream of them, all the same. Of red bricks and red walls. He dreamt of dragon skulls. The dragons are dead, Haldon would chastise him. That to dream of dragons would be to reach the unreachable.

He dreamt of… a cat. Black cat. Poor, ugly, dirty little thing. One-eared, with the other torned. Filthy-faced. Often times the cat would hiss. And in the dark corridors, those eyes were seemingly red as blood. Yet just as often, the cat would come to him. To his fingers. Aegon didn't know why he dreamt of such things. Septa Lemore would tell him that dreams are gifts- yet also trials, sent by the Seven. A mystery to guide those who remain faithful, those who passed the trials. Haldon would tell a different story. He would tell that his ancestors survived the Doom of Valyria because of dreams. Griff, meanwhile… Griff would tell him of his father. His father and his prophecies. Aegon could see, could taste the distaste that dripped down Griff's words when he spoke of them. After a while, the dreams didn't leave- but he didn't tell. He kept them to himself. Much like the dream that he had the night before, a dream of green. Green light, black night. He told none of it.

Returning to earthly matters, he recalled information on the Westerosi party and the regions that their houses ruled, the information that was passed to them by the magister. Mopatis, Jon told him. His missive emphasized how crafty and daring was the stunt they pulled on the meeting with the Pentoshi merchant, a stunt worthy of tales. Two men from two houses with historical enmity, two men with enough ground for personal enmity, working together to make such a powerful man as Illyrio Mopatis to arrange a meeting with a hidden prince, the rightful King, the meeting with him.

The words regarding his uncle Oberyn were quite what Aegon expected. What he imagined of the man. The Red Viper of Dorne all the way, just like anyone who heard tales about him would expect him to act. Willas- Lord Willas Tyrell, however, was a figure he hadn't heard anything about before, save his heirly standing and crippled state, caused by the aforementioned Red Viper, no less. Yet the magister's letter brought an abundance of information on how Lord Willas's new ship designs and able politicking helped the Reach become ever richer and House Tyrell more powerful. He even said that the two had visited the Archon of Tyrosh just before coming to Pentos and expressed suspicion of the meeting being not strictly trade-related. A tale for another day.

And, of course, there were also Princess Arianne and Ser Garlan coming. His cousin and the brother of Lord Willas respectively. The latter is said to be squired for and knighted by the famed Blackfish. Tully. Together with the squireship and knighting of another Tyrell brother, Ser Loras- at the hands of Renly Baratheon, brother to the Usurper, they made an unnerving picture, he would admit to himself. For it raised a tangible concern about just how reliable House Tyrell could actually be. Griff would tell me the Tyrells are grasping opportunists, yet here they are- and not the others.

Griff would speak of the Tyrells with distaste. He would tell him that they were unfaithful- Mace Tyrell's claim of the only victory over the Usurper be damned. Aegon didn't know what to make of it. He agreed that Lord Tyrell's strategy was obviously flawed and shared some bitterness over the fact. But he thought that they wouldn't be able to afford to bargain. They mock my Uncle, the Beggar King… yet what difference stands between him and me? Beggars shan't be choosers… Haldon once told him- thank the Gods for sending an honest man to his small retinue. And at that moment, with the winds of the wetness of Rhoyne passing through his face- Aegon never felt more a beggar than he had ever been. For he would- could not afford to bargain. Not when two Great Houses came knocking and no one else.

No use to fret now. Breath in and out, like Griff liked to say, breath in and out. He must present himself a prince, no, the prince, the heir to the Iron Throne, the one who is owed fealty by their houses.

He wasn't feeling as confident as he wanted to but needs must, as they say. It turns out he has calmed himself just in time. He could see a shock of green and gold, orange and red in the distance, moving at a smooth pace. He drew a last breath in and out before jumping off the Shy Maid to go inside the compact pavilion the magister has provided and the crew has set up.

"Nervous, lad?" He heard a voice called out.

"Yandry," he greeted the man atop the roof. The old man with a warm smile. Aegon thought it was nice to see the raggedy, kind face of Yandry. "Of course I am. You see them, do you not?"

"Aye, a magnificent sight, I must admit. Green and gold and red and orange. Mother Rhoyne will be pleased. Ghoyan Drohe… alive again." Yandry was an Orphan of the Greenblood, coming home to the lands of his ancestors- the Rhoynar. He would speak of the wonders of the Rhoyne- of the Palace of Love and the sprawling cities. He would speak of Mother Rhoyne, and how she would look- forever and always upon her children, from beneath the water that surrounded them.

"I'm sure she will."

"You are unsure," Yandry told him, as if Aegon didn't know it himself. He knew more than any other of himself. Of the failure that threatened to overtake him. He thought of them with a clenched fist. "Look at the water. Tell me, what do you see?"

It was a queer thing, yet Aegon did, nonetheless. He leaned to the riverside, finding the water of the river flowing ever calmly. Aegon saw a boy of four-and-ten. The blood of the dragon, but a boy all the same. The purple eyes stared back at him. And in the leaden water, the purple seemed almost blue, a deep, dark shade of blue. It was a handsome face, Aegon must admit. Silver hair and purple eyes. Legacy of Old Valyria. His eyelashes jutted out from beneath his silver brows- they were long. Eyelashes that Duck had been gleeful enough to tease, for they made Aegon look like a girl, he had said. A pretty one. My eyes are purple and my hair is silver- I am the blood of the dragon- yet half of the Lyseni possessed the same look. So much for the tales of the fabled blood of the dragon.

Aegon looked closer. The face in the water did the same. Is this the face of a King? He asked, to whom he did not know. Aegon had seen no kings in his life. But he dreamt of them. Of Aegon the Conqueror- his namesake and the foremost of his forebears. The man had united a squabbling realm of Seven Kingdoms into one. Six, whispered the Dornish part he treasured inside. He forged for him a realm of fire and blood. And from the ashes of his Dragonfire, rose a realm so great and mighty. Westeros. That was what awaited him. Across the Narrow Sea. A Kingdom to forge. A Kingdom to unite.

"A Kingdom waits for you, Young Griff," Yandry told him amidst his musings. "Griff told me that it will be your destiny. Why do you hesitate?"

"I…. am a boy. How can I be a King if I am still a boy, Yandry? An orphan boy."

Yandry laughed at his question. "I am an Orphan of the Greenblood… coming home to his Mother. It kept calling me. The sea to home. And so I did. I crossed the sea that Nymeria crossed a thousand years ago. The wait is long, but I do return."

"So I shall wait? Is that it?"

"The Mother looks for her children. So long as the water flows, the water sees. This is not your home, lad, you know it in you. Beyond these ruins, beyond these desolations, there is a greater fate that awaits you."

"How could someone know their home if they never even know it?" Aegon asked the man.

"They couldn't," he answered, chuckling at his own words. "You will just need to see. There is a place for everyone in this world, lad. Good and bad. You will just need to find yours." Aegon nodded, only for Yandry to ask again. "Do you know who you are?" I am Prince Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Elia. He voiced it inside, but Yandry seemed to hear it even so, for the captain of the Shy Maid smiled at him. "Good. And I only pray that Mother River will guide you so."

"I hope so…" He inclined his head. "I shall go then."

"Good luck and show them what a good lad you are, Aegon. You have a good heart, always remember that." They almost never use his name but when they did, it was empowering, causing him to smile, just like now.

"Thanks, Yandry."

"When you're King!" he heard the shouting from behind him. "Never forget that kindness, you hear me?" Aegon didn't stop to turn around. But a smile did appear on his face. He nodded, not overly but enough that Yandry would be able to see. And with a fulfilled heart, he continued his steps.

Later on, he would take his place inside the pavilion, and after a firm pat, Griff went outside to greet the party. He had half a mind to ask the man, "Do I look like my father?", but he chose not to in the end. The fruits and refreshments were there, as adequate as they can be expected to, he hoped. They will certainly owe Illyrio a position in the Small Council should he indeed buy them the Golden Company's services. Another debt to pay, and I am not even King yet.

Griff waited for them outside. He stood there, clad in armor of plain silver, covered with a jet black half-cloak, clasped with a dragon brooch of dragonbone. Duck, meanwhile, stood by him, in leather-jack, unassuming, while donning a cloak of crimson red over his shoulder. He had the same wide smile plastered over his face as always. Aegon smiled back. It was small… a little thing, yet it meant much for him- for he found himself smiling back at the knight, a smile just as wide.

And then the horses were there, eight of them. He saw through a thin lace veil- the two men and one young woman descending from the beasts with the distinct bearing of high nobility. When greeting his foster-father and invoking the guest rights, cousin Arianne wore a thin smile upon her face. Prince Oberyn's and Lord Willas's expressions were almost half-serene, half-emotionless. This does not bode well. And yet, Aegon didn't see the supposed Tyrell Knight, the brother- Garlan.

The company, led by Griff and followed by two knights in the Tyrell and Martell livery respectively, smoothly approached the tent. They lifted the veil and entered.

"His Grace, Prince Aegon Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia Martell. The rightful heir to the Iron Throne. The rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. And the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms," cried out Griff- Lord Jon Connington, from his side, while his guests were looking- studying Young- Aegon intently.

His foster-father told him to wait for their greeting but he forsook that advice to avoid stretching the silence for too long.

"Prince Oberyn, Princess Arianne, Lord Willas, 8I bid you all a good day. I thank you for seeking me out and meeting me in these humble condi-"

"I had heard you were dead," were the first words that Prince Oberyn- his uncle, the man in the Dornish garb of orange hue, said to him. His voice was that of a jape. Yet the darkened look upon his face said otherwise.

Aegon didn't falter. "A necessary mummer, Uncle. For the Usurper's spies are always close. And with them, comes the dagger in the dark." Was that flowery enough?

"Prince Aegon. Or so you claim yourself to be. Yet I do not see a crushed skull upon your head. Tell us, then, how ever did you manage to survive the enormity that is the false knight, Gregor Clegane?" spoke the man with the cane and in the elegant green dress. Lord Willas.

He didn't hesitate. If the Tyrell thought of himself as clever, then Aegon would be happy to comply and play. "It was a tanner boy in the Pisswater Bend. His father sold him for a jug of Arbor Gold. A Pisswater Prince. In the deception, Lord Varys spirited me across the Narrow Sea, into the hands of-"

"Jon Connington… as I live and breathe," drawled his Uncle, interrupting him. "Healthy and hale. Very much so alive. Was the story of how you drank yourself to death your idea, Lord Connington?"

They are baiting us. They are testing me. Us- Jon, too.

"It was necessary," his foster-father answered in his gruff voice. "They remember gallant exiles with noble ends. But they forget those who drank themselves to death."

Willas Tyrell jumped to answer, this time. "Is that so? Very well, then. Far be it from us to question the words of such an honourable knight. Although, I must confess… I am no knight, myself."

The silence lingered on. Prince Oberyn's eyes were upon him. Hawk's upon its prey. They were searching, Aegon realized. Does he see my mother- his sister, in me?

The Tyrell was fidgeting, restless, he spied, hand running along the length of his cane, seemingly in anticipation. To his right, his cousin- Princess Arianne stood ever regal. She wore yet the same thin smile he had seen upon her at first sight. When Aegon looked around, he saw the same look- restlessness. The time ticks down. Yet his Uncle's eyes remained.

"Come, boy," suddenly spoke the Dornish Prince as he strolled over to where Aegon stood. Griff had his hand on the pommel of his sword, while Duck had unsheathed his entirely. The others followed- and soon, more swords were drawn, songs of steels rising against their scabbards.

The Tyrell raised his hand, placating them. So did Aegon, sending a glance to his companions. Jon and Duck relented, their hands finally settling back to remain by their sides.

He stepped forward, letting himself be closer to the Dornish Prince. His Uncle.

Prince Oberyn brought one of his hands up. Aegon's eyes stared into the Prince's own. His purple against his uncle's dark. The rougher hand of the older man came upon his cheek. He was tracing them, he realized. Inspecting him, scrutinizing him. As a man would with a good in the market. His uncle's eyes narrowed- peering into him, past and right through him, but they also held a glint. Of which Aegon couldn't quite put his head around. After moments passed, the Prince withdrew his hand. His lip was pursed thin. Aegon searched in those eyes- desperate for reactions from the older man. They told him that the Red Viper was brash, that he rushed ahead into things. Yet now they stood, a dozen lifetimes seemingly passed already in between.

"Aye, there is no mistaking it," said the Prince. His voice was raspy, and the half a dozen words that he spoke carried much more weight than they sounded. "Your cheeks… Elia's cheeks. Your nose… Elia's nose. Ones I can never forget. My sister's son. Elia's son… returned from the grave."

Aegon smiled in an exhale, confidence returning to him. He smiled a brimming smile as he turned his gaze to meet with the other man's. "So long, Uncle."

"Indeed... I hope you take after me there?" Oberyn's haughty, self-satisfied smirk and pointed look left no questions of what he meant. His cousin had a look of indecision on her face- seemingly caught between scandalized or amused. Her betrothed, meanwhile, had actually snorted, rolling his eyes. Griff… had his face turning red as his hair. He mumbled incoherent, indignant reproaches at his Uncle's words.

"Come, Lord Connington, let's not be all somber here. T'is just an uncle's privilege to ask such a question after, indeed, such a long time," Lord Willas perpetuated the base jape with a mock Dornish drawl and his Uncle gave it a laugh.

Griff shared not the humour and sent the Reacher lord a pointed look. The Tyrell, in return, regarded him with his chestnut brown eyes. They were soft, yet they also seemed dangerous, Aegon thought. The eyes of one who knows much and many, who doesn't expect anything to truly surprise him.

"T'was a jest. A jape of me. It would be treason to actually require to see His Grace's apparatus," said his Uncle, with a huff. "Yet here I see that Connington has raised you to be as dull as he is. We must remedy that soon, dear nephew."

His foster-father scoffed at the apparent insult. He knew not of what bad blood lay between Prince Oberyn and Griff- and Jon Connington, yet the two men seemed to be at odds with each other.

"Now, do you wish not to embrace your family?"

Aegon spared a glance to his side, his eyes meeting with Griff's own. His eyes were hard and they were darkened, yet he still nodded. Aegon turned his gaze back to see the Dornish Prince spread his arms invitingly and his cousin Arianne beside him, with a smile, much softer than her previous. He quenched the little reluctance that was left inside him, and he took a step- forward. To the new direction.

---

After a long time of conversing with the guests he felt his throat dry, in response to which his perceptive Uncle offered his already favourite 'orange juice'. A Tyrell novelty, he said. How many things this Great House seemingly came up with and promoted is both wondrous and intimidating, if he had to admit truth to himself. One more reason to make them commit to my cause. It was a pity that Ser Garlan didn't join them, for he was told that the other Tyrell had the duty of standing guard and patrolling around their encampment, few miles behind.

The talk was mostly about family, in blood or not. In his case, they were talking about his days, old and recent, spent with Griff and the crew, their little adventures, who were his crewmen, and also his likes and dislikes. Uncle Oberyn and cousin Arianne told him of Dorne, his other uncle and cousins from mother's side. Strangely, cousin Arianne seemed… estranged with her brother Quentyn. She was projecting the same sense of care for him as for cousin Trystane but not quite succeeding. One more thing to learn about in an appropriate setting.

Evident from his accounts, Lord Willas was fond of his family and home. It sounded like a piece of heavens on earth, and not in a boring way. New sorts of games their household liked to play, new dishes melting the hearts of hard men like Lord Tarly, 'Art Citadel' treasured by Lord Tyrell like a babe of his own and Lady Olenna- the Queen of Thorns- keeping them all sharp and with the thick skin. Though he did mention insufferable bannermen, particularly how Florents grew bolder in their 'whinings'. The tone and historical context hinted that they were indeed not so subtle threats, born of ambition.

"Worse still, none of them deigned to even show up for the feast my father held for the homecoming of my brother, Garlan, and that of the knighthood of Loras. Nay, they claim that a fever had struck Brightwater Keep," said Lord Willas, rambling on the despicableness of the ever-sneering Florents, as he had put it. "But of course, Lord Alester may have his Royal Marriage. His beloved niece to the dour Lord Stannis. But what good does it do him? None. The Florents are locked out of influence in the Reach. Not with Oldtown to their south, Highgarden to their north, and Horn Hill to their east."

Aegon saw it for what it was, a demonstration of their worthiness for the Queenly match without appearing too seeking or imposing. And judging by the knowing look and serene smile, the Tyrell was perfectly aware and satisfied with the fact that he saw it. Everyone at the table saw it, though only Jon seemed to feel disdainful about it. He needed to lighten the mood before it-

"Something on your mind, Lord Connington?" His Uncle had moved before he could with a tone that unmistakingly contained a challenge. The Seven help me.

"Forgive me, Prince Oberyn, if a skeptical feeling I have toward House Tyrell made you lose your positively predisposed mood."

Lord Willas let out a snort, a small puff of air coming from out of his nose. "Remorse fills my heart to hear you say that, my lord. Come, now, we are all friends and allies here. What is this about House Tyrell? If you do come to Highgarden, I'm sure you'd recognize little of it anymore."

"Your lord father sat his bannermen and his army outside of an untakeable castle. A worthless siege. With another forty-thousand men at his behest, Rhaegar would've destroyed the rebels at the Trident root and stem."

Strangely, the Tyrell didn't seem insulted by the words of his foster-father. "Yet there were Reachmen at the Trident, but no Griff. And indeed, that was my lord father, yes. You might have noticed that he is not the brightest in crafting strategies and war plans of high cunning. Most of the high lords know that the Usurper's defeat at Ashford was largely due to Lord Tarly's able command over the van and intimidation of superior numbers of the main host. But my father is not here. I am."

"Yet he is the Lord of Highgarden. Not yourself."

Griff, what perturbs you so much? If you don't stop alienating my future loyalists...

"I am sure that Lord Connington only meant that would Lord Tyrell be as amenable as yourself, Lord Willas?" Aegon said, intent on putting the foolishness between the Tyrell and his foster-father before it could grow. "I'm sure with an heir as bright and worthy as yourself, Lord Tyrell will be inclined to hear you out. Yet I do not, nor can I presume that Lord Mace will be eagerly raising his banners from the comfort of Highgarden for a boy, half a world away."

"Hmm. Your modesty does you wonder, my prince. And Gods know the realm needs a monarch like that. And I know my father. Rest assured of that. So long as he gets what wants, my father will be the most agreeable man in all of Essos and Westeros."

Queenship.

"His daughter for Aegon, I presume?" asked Griff from his side. His voice was tight.

Lord Willas nodded. "I wouldn't dare to presume to impose upon His Grace a match with a lady unknown to him." Yet your lordly father would, is it what you want to say? "However it would be remiss of me not to say that my sister Margaery is not known as the Rose of Highgarden for nothing, my lords. I am sure you will be of the same mind if and when you do have the opportunity to meet her." But your house would prefer me to commit to the betrothal now.

"Ah yes," continued his uncle, sipping at the chalice of Dornish Red that he had so proudly claimed and offered to him earlier. "Words of your death are much exaggeration, now that we know of it. I wonder, when should we remedy that? Soon, I hope."

He spoke as if he wasn't proposing to plunge an entire realm into chaos, into war. Griff made sure that his displease is known at such a rash suggestion, intangible sounds of protests and refusals coming from his mouth.

"Now, now, Prince Oberyn," interjected the Tyrell heir. "We have waited for more than ten years. I say what's another one, or two, or three? I'm sure we can afford to wait. Soon, I'll guarantee you. Soon a crack will appear, and from that crack- fire and blood shall flow through."

The Tyrell spoke his words boldly, confidence lacing in on every word that he said.

"Now that, I like," his Uncle quipped from the other side of the table. He poured yet another drink into his chalice, raising it high. "Dornish strongwine, dear nephew. Dark as blood and sweet as vengeance," he said to Aegon's questioning look. "To the end of the Usurper!"

Aegon toasted him, finding the wine true to its name. Strong. Griff did, too. His gruff voice seemingly lost its sternness in the flicker of a moment. And so did cousin Arianne. But when he spied the Tyrell's face, he only saw the man raising his chalice ever so slightly, a calm smile resting on his face, as if it was only courteous. His eyes, Aegon saw, were not so lit as the others' in the table were.

"Say, Lord Connington," said the Heir to Highgarden, chewing on a white grape. Water dribbled down his lip. "Say we never knew. What would be Lord Varys' grand plans for His Grace, then? I must say, on behalf of Prince Oberyn and the Martells, I'd feel quite insulted to not be informed of the apparent survival of my nephew. Let alone him being the last surviving piece of Princess Elia."

"Indeed," his Uncle added, "I, too, find myself wondering about the plans of the oh-so elusive Spider. And the Cheesemonger, too. Or is my nephew merely a gnat? After all, I claim not to know the mind of a eunuch. For I am quite the opposite, myself," he finished with a roguish grin.

"I think we already know too much about your virility, Uncle. No need to overstate it, or do you feel so diffident about it?" spoke his cousin Arianne. The first words she spoke in a while, for she had chosen more to be an observer during their shared meal- lingering glances and subtle smiles. Aegon smiled at the weak jape. And so did the others, Prince Oberyn more so than the rest.

"Varys has… plans," Griff said begrudgingly after a while. "He only left me instructions. For me to teach his grace to my best, and shape him into the King that he's meant to be." Yet what is it that I am meant to be?

"Ah, so you do not know, then. Well, save us the time and just say that you've been led blindly by the Spider this whole time, then, Lord Connington."

Aegon didn't see, but he imagined that Griff would grit his teeth at the words. Lord Connington. It was but a reminder of his failure, as Griff had often referred to it to be.

Griff swallowed his chalice whole, the clanging sound as it hit the table echoed through the windy pavilion. "And what is your plan for Aegon, then? If you expect him to be your puppet for vengeance in your game of-"

"We do not treat our kin as puppets. I'm afraid it is jealousy that clouds your judgement." Oberyn's words were short and brisk, but they held a depth that Aegon hadn't foreseen in his Uncle. "Mayhaps griffs should descend from the skies, at last?"

"And you're one to talk about jealousy? Let me then shed some sunlight on the matter you are feeling frustrated about. If Varys gave you Aegon, you would have doomed him and the Targaryens in your hot-blooded short-sightedness."

"Doomed?" Oberyn spat the word as if it burned his throat. "It is a divine stroke of luck that the Spider is on Aegon's side, otherwise, your mysterious alias would have doomed him well before his majority. And not straying from the matter, I know the truth, Lord Connington. The truth is you don't want Aegon to have true kin but yourself. Jealousy paints an ugly picture of you. Because all you ever wanted was a piece of your beloved silver prince.,"

Aegon reeled back on his seat, surprised at such a level of hatred heaped upon the name of his father, by his own Uncle- no less.. And the implication of it… Was Jon truly? No-

"I- I did my duty as best as I could. And the Mad King exiled me for it. You know nothing of what I had to go through, Martell. And forgive me for protecting my charge-"

"Your charge? Protecting? By keeping him off his kin? His own blood? Or were you too busy seeing your beloved Prince in my nephew?" His Uncle's words were a poison of a sneer. And then Jon's face was that of a horrible realization, but of what?

"You- you dare to insinuate-"

"Such passion you nurtured. Deep in your heart. Yet everyone knows how you were obsessed-"

"Oberyn, it will be an affront to continue with these aspersions-"

"Not now, Willas."

But the Reacher lord had a resolute face and moved to respond swiftly. "So you can destroy Aegon's family?" His Uncle was knocked into silence at that. There was denial painted on his face, one that was crumbling. Meanwhile, Jon's face lightened slightly and even had a hint of a grateful smile directed at the Tyrell. Whatever they mean?

Stillness came to their table. And after a while, his cousin had the first words after the cumbrous quietude. "It is an embarrassment to our standing and title if we can't make it past through one- one sitting of a meal. Together. For my cousin's sake. And Nuncle, you should know better than anyone about jealousy, do you not?"

"I agree. I couldn't have spoken it better myself," added the Tyrell, directing a smile at his betrothed.

Aegon nodded at that. "Now that we are over such an outburst of a silly tantrum, will any of you deign to clarify the matter? I wish to know what it is that seeks to threaten the unity between us."

"It's nothing worth-" tried Griff to thwart the question. Only for him to be interrupted by a cough, courtesy of the Tyrell heir, who accompanied it with a beaming yet awkward smile.

"Eh, fine, Your Grace. Your uncle Oberyn here, in essence, is talking well. Let me ask you this first. Have you ever… had an intimate relationship with anybody or not?"

What a- an inappropriate line of questioning, Aegon thought but he answered honestly, his ears burning. "Ah, no."

"Like at all? Even kisses?" And now his cousin Arianne joined her intended, it seemed. Her teasing tone wasn't helpful.

"Ah, I had kissed the girl at the market- but we did nothing else I swear- Griff knows this, and he told me to stop it."

"Such a cruel man you are, Lord Conington, to quench the rising spirits of youth." Never change, Uncle. Gods...

"What I've done, I did only for the best of the Prince. Or would you rather he sleep around, bedding the wives of high lords like yourself, Prince Oberyn?"

"He got you there, Uncle. Your debacle with the Yronwoods keeps coming back to bite us in the buttocks, I fear."

"His paramour, not wife."

The table collectively shared a laugh at the Red Viper's miserable attempt to justify himself. Well, save for Jon, that was. Aegon would've pestered, realizing how they had cleverly and subtly maneuvered the topic of the talk, evading his question. Yet that all stopped when he caught the look that Jon was giving him. Dark clouds swirled in them. Eyes that Aegon knew all too well. A promise and a plea, ones Jon would give him amidst their doubts, amidst shared words of how uncertain the future seemed. Hardened eyes. Tired eyes. And so, Aegon relented.

But, at least, they came to peace, even if grudgingly, and that was of paramount importance. He wouldn't pretend not to see the hidden glares and sullen look hidden behind chalices of gold. Yet it was a start, nonetheless, or a restart rather. He knew there was some context he didn't catch but that was something to ponder about later, for now he should keep their tempers at bay.

Not long after, they adjourned the meeting. Due to the sun closing in on the horizon, Willas and Arianne had to return to their camp. His Uncle would spend the night with him. And as a formal host, Aegon escorted departing guests to the horses.

"I hope our meeting didn't disappoint you, cousin, my lord?" He asked as they approached the saddled beasts, ready to be ridden.

"Well… I think it's safe to say that our alliance shall prove to be most interesting in the future. For the… energy that flows between Prince Oberyn and Lord Connington if nothing else." The Heir to Highgarden smirked but Aegon was reluctant to share lord's thrill and could only sigh.

"They need to settle their hostility, hopefully here and now, so our… future ventures are not impeded by resentments."

"Worry not, Your Grace. I am sure that Prince Oberyn and Lord Connington both meant well. And don't be intimidated by the work it will take to bridge the division between them. The Reachers and Dornish warred with each other for millennia and more, yet apparently, we are to be united in both marriage and cause, soon. If two kingdoms can put their bitter grievances behind and work together, then two men surely can."

He had to admit to himself, Lord Willas was a wise young man. Five years older than him, yes, but the heated and almost disastrous back and forth between his Uncle and Jon proved that years alone do not a wise man make. Aside from the maturity, he was proven capable, for their talk revealed that it was Willas who brought information about him to his princely uncles. Though it was hinted that the wind of his survival was caught by none other than the Queen of Thorns.

Aegon was grateful to the Gods that the Reacher lord was apparently predisposed to his cause and held sway over his lordly father and formidable grandmother. He shuddered at the thought of the Tyrells bringing the news to the Usurper instead of his kin.

"Your perspective gives me hope, Lord Willas." The best courtesy is a genuine one, unsurprisingly. "So, cousin, my lords, you still intend on our meeting tomorrow?" At this Willas smiled and arched his brow at Arianne. The two of them seemed to like each other, but not infatuated. More like friends- or an old couple? What a queer comparison-

"We surely will, cousin, but my intended here is itching to do some exploring of the ruins of Ghoyan Drohe. I like this idea of his but I wonder if he should have been born a Princess of Dorne and me a Reacher lordling since he is so much more interested in the remains of ancient cities of the Rhoynar than I am."

Aegon could see the glances that the two of them shared with one another. They are playing. "Oh, Arianne, I am standing right here, so you just know. But yes, Your Grace, aside from the itching part, the princess did not lie. We both wanted to dedicate the first half of the day to onsite observation of the ruins. Wouldn't it offend you, my prince, if we come after noon?"

"Of course not, take as long as you need to. And also, I do hope to be able to meet your brother, Lord Willas. They say that Ser Garlan is a true knight. I would wish to meet such a person."

"Eh, most assuredly, Your Grace, if that's what you want. My brother will certainly be delighted to meet you."

When parting pleasantries were exchanged his cousin had already ridden off but Lord Willas hung back and stayed behind with his horse. He reigned the animal as he inched closer to him. Aegon found it perplexing, of what matter the Tyrell wanted to speak about. "Your Grace, we have only met today, but if you would allow me to share something. The reason why Prince Oberyn and Lord Connington often disagree in… well, most matters, actually. Well, that reason is… your father, my prince."

"My… father?"

"Yes. I imagine that it is not a story that Jon Connington would tell you. Not out of malice, of course, but due to… personal reasons. I was but a babe during the Rebellion, so I am not fit to talk about it. But if you would seek your Uncle? I believe it will help you. To find the answer to your questions."

It was almost an insult when the Tyrell flashed a smile and rode off, leaving Aegon with no chance to clarify and ask for more. Yet there was no sparing any for the thought, not when his head was filled with other thoughts. Of questions that he had been asking for his whole life.

---

It was the hour of the bat. The sun painted the Rhoyne red and orange when Aegon found him. His Uncle, standing on the riverside. He had a spear slung over his back, its tip clothed white.

Your father was kind. Your father was brave. Your father was noble and valiant. Greater than Arthur Dayne with his sword, even against Dawn. Your father sang beautifully- he would sing even amidst the slums of Flea Bottom. Your father treasured his harp, he played it better than the greatest of bards. Your father dreamt of many things, he yearned for that-

Jon would often tell him about his father. When they fished from the Rhoyne or when they washed their clothes on its shore. When Duck parried his slashes, Jon would tell him of his own father and his grandsire's Kingsguards- The White Bull, Arthur Dayne, Barristan the Bold. In the dead of the night, Jon would tell him stories of Prince Rhaegar from the dark of their cabin. Yet Jon rarely spoke of his mother. Little words were spared for sweet, gentle, good-hearted Elia Martell. A kind soul with a tragic end. Aegon longed for the dreams when she never died.

Jon made his grief and guilt known to Aegon. Of how he spoke of Rhaegar. The sadness seemingly clawed at his throat whenever Jon would speak of Prince Rhaegar in regret. The sorrow was there, too, when he would remind Aegon of his mother and sister. In times of indecision, or when Aegon felt himself at the brink of surrender- Jon would remind him. Of vengeance. Of fire and blood. For your mother, he would tell Aegon. Yet Jon spoke of her seldomly nonetheless.

Even Septa Lemore had been of little help. There was no word written in the Seven-Pointed Star that quenched his thirst for a mother's love. Even just to know her, just a little. The Septa would tell him that the Mother Above would be the mother that he needed- yet Aegon found no respite in the recited prayers of the Faith. Haldon had been even less of a help than her, as he was a man of knowledge, not heart. And not even when he thought of Jon- of Griff as... his father would the longing pass.

"Uncle Oberyn, I must apologize for Lord Connington's words. You must know that it is-"

"Aye, I know. When Elia was taken from me, I clung to her memories. Of the water splashing our skin, and the sun glinting above the Water Gardens. We were together, the two of us." His words were wistful, unlike the daring and rogue Red Viper that he would imagine.

"It must be beautiful, the Water Gardens…"

His Uncle bent down, picking up a worthless pebble from the many that lay on the riverside. "It is," he said curtly, throwing the pebble into the stretched river. The water trickled down at the shock. "And there will come a day when you see it. I only pray that the day will come soon. Doran longs to meet you."

Ah yes, my other Uncle, Prince Doran Martell, the Prince of Dorne. "So do I. Dorne is beautiful, I imagine. Uncle," he called the man, the word still tasting strange. "Would you… would you-" Be the Prince that you are, he told himself. "Would you tell me about her? My mother, that is."

The Prince regarded him with a tilted head. There was a spark to his eyes. "Elia… her smile was as warm as the sun. Her heart was the same. That of the sun. People will say that she was sweet, so very sweet, so gentle. Too gentle, others would scorn her. And yet they knew her not. Elia burned brightly. Burned fiercely. Underneath, she was a true Martell. Unbowed, Unbent, and Unbroken- to her last moment. Elia was… easy. She was kind, there was no detesting her, to any who had met her. But to meet her end… at such the vilest creatures of a man just as vile, she didn't deserve it.

Doran was nine when Elia came. And ten, when I did. We loved him for it, and he us. But that didn't stop me from growing closer to Elia than to Doran. Elia chastised me. She slapped me in moments when I became the fool that I am. At Sandstone, she cheered me- consoled me when Aaron Qorgyle beat me into the sands. I was eleven. Elia… Elia was the Darling of our family and of the whole Dorne. Our guiding star.

And then she wed your sire. The gallant, perfect Prince Rhaegar. She loved him. She bore his children- Rhaenys left her bedridden for months, and yet she loved fiercely still. She swaddled her. Rocked her. And where is she now? Her blood on Loch's blade is all that remained.

She fed you herself, you know? You and your sister, she wrote of how she wouldn't let your wet nurse touch you. That's Elia. She loved fiercely. And when your father rode past her at Harrenhal- the smiles died down. Elia didn't falter, she smiled all the same- her hands on her belly. You were inside her. And yet he crowned lovely Lyanna Stark as his Queen of Love and Beauty.

She loved him still. That's Elia. Eversweet Elia. But beautiful, noble Rhaegar Targaryen left her for another woman. For a half-wildling.

That started a war- and instead of dousing it, your grandsire fanned that flame of war when he burnt Lord Stark and his son, and that war… that war ended with Elia. When the Mighty Tywin Lannister took King's Landing. She had no Rhaegar to protect her. No Silver Prince to defend her against the Mountain. I'd like to think she remained defiant to her end. But it was her end, all the same. Alone, in the hands of the monster that Rhaegar knighted."

Gritted teeth and clenched fist resumed his Uncle's words. "They mocked us, Aegon," he said to him, roughly as his hand grasped upon his shoulder, fingers digging in through the fabric of his linen shirt. "They never stop. The Gods and Tywin Lannister."

Aegon nodded at the words. Absently. His Uncle's hand remained on his shoulder. Grasping down hard, digging in deep. And in the nightfall, the Rhoyne never seemed so cold to him.

---

 

 

Notes:

That was a... big chapter. Aegon is such a fascinating character for me. In canon, he is a Perfect Price, a product of years of careful teachings and manipulations, crafting and shaping thae one true ruler for the Iron Throne. True or not, it is never about it. His character is so much more than a Blackfyre Pretender at worst or a tragic legit Prince at best. I try to dismantle that image of a Perfect Prince, taking the opportunity to bring down Aegon from the mighty seat of which he sits in my headcanon. Instead, humanizing him, bringing him down to the ground. Doubt, anxiety, and uncertainty. A boy of fourteen.

So, what do you think? I dearly hope that I succeed with this chapter, and that you all enjoyed it. Please, let me know your thoughts! Likes, replies, comments! Everything is appreciated. Any advice? Criticism? Let me know

Chapter 20: A Flawed Mother (Mellario)

Notes:

As always, much appreciation for dearest Robert Drake!

MELLARIO

Mellario remembered her father's words.

So you will throw your life away? He is a Prince of a distant country-

I love him, Father, she had once said.

A Prince of Cruel Westeros.

He is kind and he loves me back, Father, she had once declared.

Westerosi who send their children away from home. Who sell their daughters for power. Who trade their sons as hostages in their games. The land of prideful barbarians!

He promised me he will care for me and my children! she had once so proudly claimed.

Is that what you want, Mellario? To see your own babe, your flesh and blood, plucked away from your suckled breast to be fed by another woman? And see them forced to be away.

Doran and I will love them! - she had shouted like a petulant child she still was back then.

Cold and distant and heartless, those Westerosi.

But Mellario didn't believe him. Even after words of Elia's horrible fate, she clung to the belief of Doran loving their children above all else. And it wasn't until she was dreaming of the Yronwood in her nightmares did she finally understand what he meant. And when your children ever return to you, you will not greet your flesh and blood. Nay, you shall greet strangers.

She had been silent and stunned when her father said that. Stay here. In Norvos. Where home will be on every corner. She had refused him. She had refused the dull, old, never-changing Norvos. She had found her Prince. A Prince from a land so far away. And in her shame, she remembered the weakness of the thought of becoming a Princess.

But they were all so distant now. Her husband was distant. Her children were distant. And her father? Long dead, his remains scattered across the Wild Daughter of the river Rhoyne.

Do you not love us here, Mellario? Do I not have your love? - were the last words her father said to her before she boarded that ship. That ship with the flag of red and orange. That ship with the banner of the sun and spear. And the ship that changed her destiny. She had regretted her silence- her mistreatment of the one person who loved her unconditionally. The unspoken words that remained unsaid, the hurt caused by indifference displayed on her part.

New lands, new people, new love have suppressed her guilt. Only for it to come with vengeance not long after Trystane was born, near ten years ago, as the messenger came to Dorne… Beware the grim-faced messenger, did the saying go in Norvos. Doran would later tell her that the Westerosi had one of their own - dark wings, dark words. But when her family's long-serving slave arrived with a face carved from stone, Mellario understood right away. A fleeting fever burned right through him, they would later tell her.

Twenty years. More than twenty years have passed in between now. And Mellario was alone. In Norvos with her father's wealth. With a husband half a world away.

She straightened her back, taking a deep breath, steadying herself. She gazed in the mirror of her dressing room. Will I know her face? Or will I know only the face of my own? A servant would later come, bearing shaving razors, soaps, lotions, combs, and various utensils, and whatnot. Mellario smiled at the old but kind face of Dorea who had served her family for as far as her memory stretched.

On the side table, was laid a selection of wigs, and her thought went to the ones she left in Sunspear for her daughter. In the end, she chose a pretty wig of rolling dark curls, falling in ringlets as Arianne's own. Let her think of me as her mother. Let her see me still.

She remembered that it did come as a surprise for her when that letter from Sunspear arrived. And then Ser Manfrey Martell came, a lesser cousin of House Martell, she recalled. And with him, was a boy of eight, small and dark and mop of black hair. Trystane. She had clutched at him then, a mother finally reunited, if only with a piece, still incomplete. He was but two of age when she left for Norvos. And now, to see his face, was a delight and yet it was also a burning reminder of her shame. The failure of a mother that she was.

After she finished dressing, donning herself in a dress of yellow and green, so similar to the one she wore when she met Doran. The bells were ringing and the bears danced the steps. And under the pale and wan sun of Norvos, I asked Areo, "Who is it that shines so bright?" She came to Trystane's room, in time to see him finished getting dressed by the servants. He looked at her with his small, round eyes, unblinking.

She kissed him on the head as she sat on the bed. "My love, you do know that your sister is coming, don't you?"

"Ari?" he asked.

"Yes, 'Ari," she said with a smile. "Well, there's no use of waiting, don't you think? Let's meet your sister."

Trystane smiled a toothy grin at her with the crooked teeth of a child. He was clad in yellow and orange. Martell colors. His father's colors. "But 'Ari has never seen you! How will she know that Mother is her mother, too?"

"Oh, you silly child," she said to him. But inside, her heart twisted yet another time. "Arianne knows, my love. I left Dorne when you were a babe. But Arianne was a grown child already by then."

"Unfair," her boy muffled into her dress, "How come you raised her and not me, then?"

"Oh, I do wish I could've stayed and never left, my love. But you would hate your mother if she had stayed in Dorne. You would hate the mother whose love is poison. I would've destroyed you. I was unwell in Sunspear." I would turn you against Doran. Against Oberyn. Against Dorne. I would break your heart. Had I stayed, I would bring ruin upon our family. Desolation in my desperation. I betrayed you, yes. My vows and my motherhood. But had I stayed, it would've been a bigger betrayal, my love.

"But you're alright here… in Norvos?"

"Yes. Yes, I am. But it all turns out for the best, does it not? I have you now, my little Trys. And I will have your sister, too." And yet not your brother.

"I guess so," the boy shrugged at her words. Mellario smiled at the innocence of his naivety. So untainted. So pure. "I could never hate you, Mother, you know?"

"I know, my love. I know." And she kissed him on the top of his head yet again. But I can't promise to never hate myself.

Later that day, when the sun was at its highest, Mellario set out from her manse with an entourage of servants and relatives of her lesser cousins. Trystane stayed by her side, looking nervous and yet giddy at the same time. They took the Sinner's Steps, climbing down from the grim and cold Upper City into the exciting, boisterous, and ever-lively Lower City, where the majority of the Norvoshi resided. From the bottom of the steps, however, Mellario and Trystane stepped inside the gilded palanquin where the nobility of Norvos was always expected to travel. To walk bare is to bare our sins, the bearded priests claimed.

From behind the shut drapes, Mellario spied the sight of running children. Laughter and cries in the air. And again, she thought back to her own. My children. She thought back to Trystane. Of his laughter and cries that she missed over the years. She didn't know whether she still had the right to call herself a mother. What mother abandons her children? I should have fought- Doran might have listened- but I ran… ran back to the home I once spurred. She should have known that was not the solution as Doran couldn't risk being seen as weak. No more than he already had been after the peace deal with the Stag King and the Yronwood affair. Nay, not Doran, she reminded herself. Doran was the man she loved. But the Prince of Dorne was someone else, someone different. The Prince of Dorne couldn't risk being seen as weak. And to her grief, there must always be two of the man she loved. For the Prince of Dorne belonged to his people, and not to his own heart.

She remembered the Water Gardens. And how Doran would tell her that a Prince's duty was to his people. The children in the Water Gardens were such. Innocent and bright and untouched by the sin of men. A Prince's duty was to his people, to keep them from war, to make peace for them, a life where a boy should never need to pick up a sword… and fight other people's wars. And so it fell to the Prince to make such sacrifices, Doran told her. And his wife and his children, too, no, Doran?

After the… savage act worthy of the Dothraki screamers that was the murder of sweet Elia and her children she realized that Doran would try to 'foster', as they say, her daughter in another place for the sake of an alliance. After some time she made peace with the idea and soothed herself with the belief of having her boys by her side until at least they reach their manhood and maybe a little while after that. But it was not to be, and because of not the Prince of Dorne but his wild brother. The Viper, she wanted to spit at the thought, if only you could see farther than your cock.

And now the past had passed, and here she is. Safe in the nest of hers and that of her ancestors, with her pride restored but without her children. I have my Trystane and soon Arianne, but Quentyn is still far away.

After some time, the entourage finally reached the outer wall of Norvos. At the gates of the city, Mellario waited. And pondered. As he had always done. When the first banner came bearing the sigil of a golden spear piercing a red sun, Mellario knew that she couldn't run any longer. And with a heavy breath, she stepped. Forward. Arms outstretched, hands waiting for the daughter that she left behind.

The first to greet her was a man whose face had frequented her dreams. Dark and lanky and with a widow's peak. Oberyn.

"Sweet sister," he said to her, his hand reaching for her own. Mellario complied, if only for the sake of formality and not else. He brought her hand to his mouth and planted a chaste kiss upon it. It is lucky for you I am not a quarrelsome person, for that hand of mine would strike that face of yours were I so. "Warm is my heart to see your face again after so many years. I see now that they have been kind to you. Doran sends his love and heart, as well as an apology."

How dare he. How dare he speak so lovely, so easily. So calmly. Does he not know that I resent him? Does he not know that he is the reason? "Oberyn… it's been a long time. I bid you welcome to my home. The Free City of Norvos." He called her his "sweet sister". With such endearment that she once might've believed it. It was not as if she wished for it. But at the end of the day, there could only ever be one of Oberyn's sister. The Princess of Dragonstone. And Mellario must keep the smile on her face all the while savoring the bitterness of the hollow words. Strangers surrounded me… strangers I shall greet.

"Dear nephew," he greeted Trystane, who only nodded and shyly smiled at him.

And then Mellario saw her. She did not see the little girl with the pudgy face. No, she saw a woman, instead. Grown and matured. Beautiful and olive-skinned. For a flicker of a moment, Mellario saw her and only herself in her. Not Doran. Just her daughter. Hers. She looked her in the eyes, finding her daughter's eyes staring right back at her. Mellario didn't smile. She didn't dare. You will greet your children as strangers, rang his father's words in her mind. What mother leaves her children behind, added her own treacherous voice. But her worries and doubts were quelled when she heard her daughter.

"Mother."

It was a simple word to say. One word. Alone and easy. Yet with an unmistakable break in the voice, with the longing of a child. Or is it my mind playing cruel tricks? The tears welled in her eyes, but Mellario held them back. She must hold them back. It wouldn't be dignified for a noblewoman to- I am a mother reunited with her daughter. And so, Mellario let go.

"My daughter," she said to her amidst her tears. Mellario never wanted to let go of the hug she shared with her daughter. But courtesy came calling, and little sacrifices had to be made.

Arianne looked at her, dark eyes staring at her. The dark of the Dornishmen's vengeance, Oberyn remarked once. And at the time- her daughter was looking at her with the same eyes that Doran had looked at her all those years ago. During their stroll in the violet gardens of her father. Areo, ever her loyal protector- not any longer, now- accompanied them that evening. Mellario remembered the day, for it was the day she first knew that she wanted to marry Doran. The day she knew that she wanted that strange Westerosi Prince. Shy and withdrawn and quiet. Not at all the ribald and indecent and vulgar that she would've expected from the reputation of his people. Not at all the wanton and wicked Dornishmen from the tales. The sun was falling and the sky was burning when Doran told her. Petals of lavender danced in the air that evening. Under the branches of the tallest violet tree... where Doran would then propose to her.

It was hard, Mellario realized. To see the eyes. To reminisce. She had left her baggage in Sunspear. And flew to the cageless freedom of Norvos. But here and now, her daughter in front of her- the daughter that she longed for, it all came back to her. And Mellario found herself with nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. I must face my sins. Let me repent for them. And let this be my atonement.

"I will never leave you," she whispered to Arianne as she moved on, hands heavy as she left her daughter's shoulder. As she left, she saw Arianne hugging her brother, picking him up in her arms. The sight warmed her heart. I am not a failure of a parent yet. She then turned to the next set of guests to be received.

They came under the banner of green and gold. A golden rose on a field of green. House Tyrell.Doran had written off the incoming match set for his daughter, and the betrothal with the Heir of the Reach. A kingdom Dorne would often war against in the past. The only other kingdom to side with Dorne during the accursed Rebellion that had destroyed the Martells. She could smell a plot stirring from reading the words alone. A plot that gambled on the lives of her children. One she would need to see for herself.

Doran's letter had also told her of the inheritance… how Arianne would surrender her claim, and how Quentyn would rise. Quentyn that's been raised by the Yronwoods. And not little Quent. In Dorne, the eldest inherits- female or male, whatever happens, it never changes, he told her once long ago. Yet now it's just another lie from the Prince of my heart. Another false truth to bear and set aside for Mellario.

"Lord Tyrell, I bid you welcome."

Her daughter's future husband regarded her with passive eyes. His eyes… silent like Doran's. She scrutinized him, close and thorough. The breaker or maker of her daughter's heart. I will not let Arianne make the same mistake as mine. The boy stood resolute with confidence that she could have easily mistaken for arrogance… if not for the lack of conceit in how he carried himself.

"Lady Mellario… It's a great honor to meet the mother of my intended. I see now where Arianne inherits her exotic beauty from," he said as he kissed her hand. Flirtatious, this one. Not so much like Doran. "My, my, the Gods really must smile at me, then. To have the chance to be joined with such a family."

"The honor is mine, my lord. It gladdens me to finally have the chance to see my daughter's future husband."

"I wouldn't dare to presume so, my lady. I do not know whether I am worthy of such honor. Your daughter is beautiful and lovely. A woman of many dreams. I wouldn't dare to marry her before I gain the blessing of her just-as-beautiful lady mother." As if the betrothal would be made null and void without my consent. Consorts in Westeros almost never have a say in political matches, and every match is political among high nobility of the Sunset kingdoms.

"I'm truly flattered by your praise, my lord. I hope you will always treat my daughter just as well." And we shall see about that.

"And I hope to convince you of that during my stay in the City. And if one day, you can find it in you to call me 'son', and I - address you as 'mother', then I'll count myself the luckiest person in the world, indeed."

Charming, this one. Mellario caught her daughter's eyes and smile at the tail of the boy's words. She found the same look that she saw in the mirror all those years ago. Affection. Infatuation. Doran was something new. Something daring. A change. A kindling flame, a spark of hope amidst the dull of her youth. And now it seemed that her daughter had fallen to the same spring. Roses, they called them as Doran told her, the Wilted and the Desert ones.

She promised to herself that she would see Arianne not go down the same path as her, and not make the same mistake. And so, she resolved it within her. Whatever happens, I will be watching. Whatever happens, whatever the Gods throw at her this time, Arianne will have her mother beside her.

---

She was seated in the center of a sparsely-lit room. From the edge of her view, she saw the shadows dancing, flickering upon the walls of emerald hue, spawned by the lined torches hung across the room. The green-lit room was once the private dining hall that belonged to her father. But he was here no more, and Mellario now became the hostess of said room. Twenty, she counted the heads surrounding her. Lesser cousins, old family friends, political figures, and whatnot. The Westerosi were seated on one side of the table, with the Norvoshi on the other, arranged to face each other. She was not one for a sumptuous feast, however. And so, the time weighed down on Mellario as languor began creeping up to her. She saw the empty seat to her right. Trystane's seat. And even now I miss him still. In Norvos, children under the age of ten were not permitted to partake in festivities. For they are not yet whole, the Bearded Priests said.

The conversation at the dining table, meanwhile, was flowing rather easily, with all of the Westerosi nobles being surprisingly fluent in High Valyrian. Albeit the common tongue was bound to slip out every now and then, the Norvoshi had not much problem since they shared the knack for it… well, little that they shared, at least. She felt a hint of… pride at seeing her daughter so easily conducting herself in the public display of festivity. To see her triumph at such mummery of carouses.

"Have my lords and ladies here ever heard of the story of the Northern Bear Hunter? I thought not," he said at the shake of heads, "Well, I have told Princess Arianne here, and mayhaps she will help me with the story?"

"Why, my lord, I heard you are in need of a Princess' help."

"Indeed, I am. If you would be so kind. After all, I am no knight to save you from a dragon." They shared that mischievous look again. She resolved to question her daughter on the details of their already forming bond after the feast. Now is the time to hear a story, apparently about a... tree worshipper? Yes, Doran told me they worship trees there. "The Northern Bear Hunter traipsed his way into the Wolfswood of the North, where summers are filled with summer snows, and cold is a friend that never leaves. And so it is that the hunter made his way into the woods eagerly. WIth giddy steps, he goes deep, deep, deep within the heart of the forest. He crouches down, low on the ground, and then he sees it-" regaled on the Tyrell lordling, dressed elegant and expensive, in a theatrical manner that absurd tales are often told.

"-a bear!" continued on her daughter as she rose from her chair. The Dornish Princess was garbed in a loose satin orange dress, jewelry all around. On the crown of her head, she had a pair of slithering snakes, adorning the ringlets of her hair. And on her hand, was raised a chalice of gold. "Standing there is a bear… scratching furiously into the bark of an ill-fated tree. A bear! All black and brown and covered in hair! And the hunter thinks to himself-"

Arianne's intended snatched back the tale for himself, "-he thinks, "By the Gods! What good loving would my wife give me if I cloak her in bear fur!" And so he reaches down to his back. An arrow… grasped in his fingers, and a bow… ready on his hands. He murmurs to himself- a little prayer. And then he nocks, draws, and loosens the arrow! But when it hit the bear-" he said, cut off as Arianne took over once more.

"Puff! The bear exploded into smoke! But when the smoke clears away… there's no blood! Nothing to be seen. Not a bit of the bear! "Got it?" the hunter asks himself. But then he felt a tap on his shoulder. The hunter turns-

"-and then he looks up! And he sees it! The bear, standing over him, looming high and tall and ominous! The beast then says… The Tyrell mockingly lowed his voice for the mummery, "No one shoots me and gets away with it! Now you have two choices; either I rip your throat here and devour you now…"

"Or…" continued on her daughter, wiggling her black pronounced eyebrows at the audience. "Or you drop your breeches, bend over, and let me have my way with you!"

The room collectively burst in to laugh at the bawdy joke. Mellario shared not the taste, nor the spirit. She did, however, put on a bright smile as she nodded along at the words. One of the ladies laughed particularly the hardest, a hand covering her mouth while the other moved to the top of her head, patching up and tidying the rolling curves of her wig. In Norvos, the Bearded Priests- sworn and anointed, were forbidden from ever shaving their hair. While the others, noblewomen included- shaved their heads bald. But of course, at least they often donned wigs, especially in the company of dignitaries from other places outside Norvos. She remembered the first time she grew her hair, and how queer it first seemed. She would stare at herself in the mirror come every morrow. Mellario used to think she looked silly like that, but Doran would laugh at her and kiss her on the head. Prince of my heart. And I… the Queen of his. When she left Dorne, her hair had reached the middle of her back. And yet when she stepped foot at the Bay of Pentos, there was none of it left.

"And so the hunter thinks, "Anything is better than death!" With that, he drops his breeches, bends over, and the bear does exactly what it says it would do…"

"Sometimes later, the hunter staggers back into the town. Swaddling, limping, and… somewhat bow-legged," said Arianne to another burst of laugh that surged up across the room. Oberyn seemed to enjoy the tale more than the others, being the manchild that he was, if his peals of laughter- howling, more like, fist banging upon the table, and a stretching grin plastered on his face were any sign. Mellario, meanwhile, couldn't immerse herself completely in the mummery. Not when the stakes were high. And a mother's love should never rest.

"The hunter is furious now. And so, there in the town, he buys for himself- a bright, new, shiny hunting spear. Sturdy, firm, and ha-a-ard!" The other Tyrell, the brother, whistled vicariously at his brother's words together with his squire, sharing a cup of wine. Mellario watched them, their eyes and their mouths. In the midst of swallowed cups and emptied chalices, Mellario watched them with eyes that never left.

"He returns to the woods. And not long after, he sees the bear again! Big and black and brown! He throws the spear! And the bear explodes into smoke! But only a moment later, when the smoke clears away… he felt yet another tap on his shoulder."

"He turns and sees the bear standing over him. The bear says- "

"You know what to do!" Arianne's words earned them yet another wave of laughter and she was eager for it. It is like you never were given enough freedom before, to be yourself, daughter. Fear not, I won't impede your happiness and wellbeing.

Her daughter's intended continued on, "And afterward... when the bear has done his worst and only the absolute worst, the hunter then pulls his breeches back up and hobbles into town. He's mad now! And so he empties his pocket, all of his entire life-savings! And buys for himself, a rare…"

"A scorpion!"

"Yes, a rare scorpion! He puts it in the woods and waits, He sees the bear not long after. Loose! So powerful did he launch the scorpion bolt, the device buckled and the hunter fell right into the dirt! Later on… dizzy, head spinning, and thinking he's winning, the hunter smiles. "Got it!" he says. But when the smoke clears away… there stands the bear. Grinning. The bear then-"

"-says to the hunter," and at this, Arianne paused, lowering her eyes. A moment later, she spoke, her voice salacious and solicitous, "You're not really in this for the hunting, are you?"

Where there were once waves of laughter, the room was now collectively exploding in guffaws, chortles, sniggerings, and all of it. Old Dormys hooted playfully at her daughter's words, almost as if teasing. An old friend of the family, she let him be. The loudest voice of the bunch was clear- the Red Viper, who had seemingly descended into half-madness from the hilarity, wine spilling uncontrollably from his chalice.

It wasn't hard to understand, Mellario must admit. She had heard of the fledgling trade empire of House Tyrell. Of their revolutionary ship designs and clever maneuvers as they secured various allies in the right places. Last she heard a fabled Magister of Pentos had been swayed to their cause, and Arianne told her of the meeting with the Archon of Tyrosh. The same Archon that would've once taken Arianne from her. Even Volantis. Arianne told her that after Norvos, they would be making their way to Qohor and then Volantis, particularly for the wedding of Lord Willas's aunt to an Old Blood of the First so they had set their eyes on the Theocracy that ruled Norvos, eager to secure an important inland trading center to expand their webs of influence. And it seems that they will get it. She could begrudgingly respect them, for her late father had, after all, excelled in the art of trade, and doubled the family wealth from it.

The Red Viper, thrice-damned that he was, rose from his seat, eyes scanning about the room like a vulture. Half-drunkenly, he filled his chalice with whatever wine there was that the Norvoshi kept. And proposed a toast, he did. "My niece and future good-nephew, my lords and ladies."

Mellario, the center of the event of the night, sat as regal as ever in the grandest and tallest seat of the room. She saw Arianne. And she saw her looking back. She is I come again, she thought to herself, realizing the mannerisms that they shared. Such similarities. Physical, stature, look, all of them. Mellario saw herself. But when Mellario of Norvos wilted in the desert that was the Westerosi game of politics, Arianne of Dorne seemingly triumphed at it.

She rose. And the room went silent at that. She stood in the middle of the room, formidable while all eyes were on her. She spoke after long last, "Friends and family," she called out to the entire room. "It is with great delight that I announce to all of you. By the blessing of the Gods and the want of men. That my daughter, Princess Arianne Nymeros Martell of Dorne," she said as the Princess stood, "shall marry Lord Willas Tyrell of the Reach, the Heir to Highgarden. Soon after the turn of the year is upon us all."

Applauses rang through the room. Mellario didn't clap. But try she might do already, he couldn't deny that the Tyrell and the Martell made an oddly suitable pair. A match made in heavens, if she ever saw one, or in hells. She claimed himself far from an expert, far from being learned in the matter of the heart. For she had set aside her own so long ago. Or so I keep telling myself. But even if they might complement each other so well, play along so well, dance around each other's toes, and so on- the things they did around each other that sickened him, Mellario saw it for what it was. She saw it as she had once been in it. Excitement. Something new. Something different. Something fresh. Something daring. Mellario reserved her caution, let alone the history of the bad blood that ran between their houses as Doran had written her in his letters, but she spoke none of it. None to her daughter. Love is the last thing I should counsel. I shall not rush to disparage Arianne's intended. I shall not cause destruction of her future family unless necessary.

"Thank you, Lady Mellario," answered the Tyrell Heir as a blue-haired boy filled his chalice. Strange, the boy… shy of self but a wanderer in those deep violet eyes of his. Valyrian. "Or should I say… Mother?" And at this, Lady Mellario laughed. But even then she felt that it didn't reach her eyes. And the Tyrell did notice it as well, it seemed.

"Someone wise once told me that the nature of life is not permanence, but flux. The road is ever-changing. And the ship is ever-swaying. I'm a realist, myself, and dreams I might have, I do not fool myself that the trial ahead will be easy. For my infamous grandmother once told me, "Marriage and parenthood shall test your might, much more than war and politics will." To which many chuckled relatably. She herself felt bitter irony at the words. "But on this lovely night, on a perfect evening with such esteemed companies, I only wish to say… that I count myself fortunate to have the chance and build a future- with a woman as lovely as my betrothed."

That marked the end of the evening. For in Norvos, the Bearded Priests had decreed that no feast or festivities of any form should extend past the setting of the sun. For the time of night was reserved for rest and in the company of Gods.

She saw Ser Garlan, the younger Tyrell, clapping his brother on the shoulder, and Mellario saw the two sharing a laugh, over what she didn't know. The two brothers contrasted each other in stark differences, Mellario thought. Like Doran and Oberyn but so unlike them. The first one was outspoken. Willas Tyrell seemingly triumphed at a game of words, the finer and subtle art of politics. And where the elder was a cripple- my daughter is marrying a cripple- the younger couldn't be more different. They called him the Gallant, and Mellario could certainly see. She wondered whether the second son would've made Arianne happier… a second son wouldn't threaten her claim to Sunspear, she needs not surrender her birthright. But there was no use living foregone in a world of what-ifs, and all that remained was to look at the future. But I will certainly have words with Doran upon my return.

The guests began excusing themselves, among them the stocky and yet pudgy squire of the younger Tyrell. Taryn? or Tarly? But there was none faster than the Red Viper, arms snaked around the waist of some Norvoshi noblewoman whose name she only half-remembered. Mellario sneered inwardly. It won't kill you to be callous, will it? Had you could, my son- that I carried for nine months in my womb, that I labored for hours to bring into the world- my little Quent needed not to be sold a coin to pay a blood debt. Your blood debt.

Mellario herself lingered on for a while. She had her eyes set on the strange blue-haired cupbearer of her future good son. I know his face. But from where and when? They told her that the Tyrell rewarded him, taking him as his cupbearer after the boy saved him during a bandit raid in the grueling Demon Road that led to Norvos. It wasn't unheard for sure, and yet, she couldn't- for the life of hers- to pinpoint why the boy had unsettled her so when it wasn't uncommon for a Tyroshi to have Valyrian features. Added to that was the strange Tyroshi sellsword that the Tyrells and the Martells kept close. Mellario's eyes traced the roots of red beneath its blue, and the sellsword's eyes held too much weight in them for him to be a common sellsword. Highborn, that one, or a half highborn, at the very least. The way he would stare at Mellario, unabashedly, unflinching, and daringly, had only proven her suspicion at the matter.

They do promise for a… thorough talk and… discussion later on. Mayhaps I can dig for the truth this time, and not lie forgotten in the corner. She promised to herself… she wouldn't be forgotten this time. And she wouldn't be so easily set aside. I am not going to be ignored.

Mellario shared a look with her daughter, seeing a silent plea to excuse herself from Arianne's eyes. She smiled, and Arianne left. Hand joined in with that of her betrothed. As they walked, hand in hand, the Dornish Princess had a dazzled look upon her face. The dazzled look of Mellario of Norvos, twenty years ago. Young love, she whispered to herself. A scoff rose within her as she struggled whether to believe in it anymore. Will it last? she wondered. And yet she knew the truth. There is no living the fairytale happily ever after. In life, there is no such end. And everything goes on.

Let them be, she thought, almost as if convincing herself. Let them be. Let them be the children that they are. Before the world wrecks them so. The voice whispered so softly, as soft as the poems that Doran would recite to her during the days in the sun, when sunset had not turned her spark into a mere candle, now flickering in the senescence of the night.

For later on, they will rejoice, she thought softly. And yet Mellario couldn't help the whisper that came to her. . . or as you before them, they will rue.

---

 

Notes:

So sorry for the rather long wait, but life's been fucking me up, and my final exams start tomorrow, so hurrah for that :)

Mellario is a fascinating character, one I could hopefully exploit beautifully. This chapter is more of a study of character and exploration on the theme of motherhood as well as cultural clash in the world of ASOIAF. Mellario, for her kindness and compassion, still frown upon the thought of her daughter marrying someone as distasteful as a cripple like Willas. Gallant love stories and fairytales are mere songs, while the truth of true love in a world as cruel as Planetos will leave the lovers with bitter taste instead, especially nobles who couldn't afford to marry out of love. Mellario is a lady of a distant city. Even amidst the Free Cities, Norvos is somewhat isolationist... and mixed with the daring, exciting sensation of a foreign Prince, yeah it explodes like wildfire alright.

Next one we will have our beloved Jon Connington and all the baggage of issues that come with his thoughts. Hope you enjoyed this one, let me know your thoughts! Criticisms, reviews, suggestions, and things you wish to see in the future! Reviews help me evaluate and develop myself. And most importantly, they keep me passionate to write since they remind me that my story is doing and giving something!

Chapter 21: The Griffin in Exile

JON CONNINGTON

His hair was blue yet again. Roots of red hidden below what was supposedly the dark blue of his beloved, dead Tyroshi wife. The lie played on and on in his mind. Lord of Griffin’s Roost. The Hand of the King. Reduced to a beggaring exile, forced to dye his hair, living in hiding and in lies. Forced to wander about as if a lost sod, some poor wayfaring fool.

My sacrifice will not be for naught. For Aegon. For the debt I owe Rhaegar, he told himself.

Willas Tyrell and his betrothed were both already away, to meet some wealthy nobleman or magister of the sort. Jon might loathe it, but he found himself surprised that the two had not exploded in wildfire as their houses' shared history would suggest. The Red Viper himself was long gone, his lip latched onto a Norvoshi woman’s own the last Jon saw him, sickening him with the sight.

The younger Tyrell, meanwhile, opted to go with his squire. Randyll Tarly’s son. Earlier at the welcoming feast, he heard Ser Garlan and young Sam ask the hosting lady about libraries of Norvos and her own collection of books.

At last, he managed to catch Aegon alone.

"Aegon."

"Ser," answered the boy that used to run to his knees, nonchalant.

Jon sighed inside the half-helm that he wore. Aegon had been… different. Cold, he would even say. Of course, it was all the fault of the damned Red Viper. The accursed Dornishman had been feeding Aegon his lies, so it seemed. Or not so much lies as- No, I must not go down that path.

"You needn't call me that. We are alone,” he had said to the boy, trying to assure him.

"As a matter of fact, I need to go. Lord Willas is waiting for me. He has offered to provide me with a chance to further prepare myself as King.”

“Has he indeed?”

“Most assuredly. There is a lot more about ruling one’s lands and people than I could draw from books and tales alone. I would like to be actually worthy of my future title. To be the King who can listen to the counsel and grievances of his subject, adjudicate disputes between them, forge alliances and make peace."

They have turned you, he thought. And yet, he didn’t dare to voice it. So he smiled weakly, "You remind me of your father, you know? Always so dutiful."

"Quite the revelation. After all, you have always insisted that I am my father's son," was the boy’s curt answer. He then turned, and Jon was left standing in the empty hallway.

He looked at him. The boy. He wasn’t Rhaegar. His eyes were a shade lighter than Rhaegar’s. And in certain lights, they were dark blue instead of violet. His mother's legacy, Jon kept telling himself. And against the wasting sand of time, the golden-tinged memories of Rhaegar began to fade. And with each day passing, Jon felt them slipping away, further and further.

Meanwhile. Aegon remained here, close by his side. But Jon kept looking the other way. He had felt guilt over it. Seeing the father, not the boy himself. But now he saw Aegon, not Rhaegar. . Saw the boy that he raised. The boy that once climbed unto him in the dark of night, and whispered to him a question, “Why are you not my father?”

I am sorry, Aegon.

---

The cloak of orange that he wore fell to the floor as Jon unclasped it. Martell colors. They love him not, the Martells. The Red Viper - more so than the rest. Jon never did love Elia Martell, either. Gentle, sweet-hearted, fragile Elia of Dorne. She was never enough for him. She never was worthy. And what good did it do them in the end? For the Martells, for the Tagaryens. Childbirth scarred the woman. And Rhaegar was forced to look away, driven to the arms of the Northern harlot. Half a child. He knew not of what Rhaegar saw in the girl. Only that he spoke of a great destiny. Of ice and fire. And is that destiny still so great now, Rhaegar?

Yet Jon chose not to dwell on the matter any further, tired of the seemingly endless day he had endured. At least, inside the isolation of his chamber, he needed not be Griff, a sellsword with a dead wife. He needed not be nameless and so small. A clenched fist welcomed his thought. A sense of determination washed over him, side by side in harmony with desperation. It doesn't end yet. I have time. And only then can I face him. And Aegon will sit on the Iron Throne.

When Jon looked out from the window glass of his small comfort, he saw the black night of cloudless sky of Norvos. In their journey to the Free City, the Tyrells and Martells brought with themselves a rather sizable company, numbering nearly four hundred according to the count of Jon’s memory.

And we are a part of that, he thought with gritted teeth, which only increased when he remembered Aegon’s commoner garbs. The idea was proposed by none other than the Tyrell heir, endorsed and insisted upon by the Red Viper. According to the story the Reacher lord has forged for them, they were sellswords hired by Lord Willas Tyrell for additional protection after a bloody encounter with some brigands on their way from Pentos while Aegon served the Reacher as his cupbearer. It wasn’t unheard of for nobles to take common-born and smallfolk as their servants, after all.

Another deception. It would be suicide for Aegon to land on the soils of Westeros. Lord Willas had informed them of the inevitable scrutiny his house will fall under after the rumors of the Tyrell-Martell match. And so, to further give opportunities for the young Prince to know his family, maternal and soon-to-be - the Tyrells, he thought again with gritted teeth - the Prince would instead follow them to the Free Cities of Norvos and Qohor. But not Volantis, where Westerosi eyes are much more common compared to the former two.

He had to admit to himself, it was a good idea. Aegon had been smitten by his maternal family. He shone like a radiant child, basking eagerly in the tales indulged to him by the Red Viper. With his cousin, he was at first reluctant, but no longer. In mere days, he had changed… the boy. And when he saw him, he didn't see Young Griff, the orphan boy with a sellsword father. No, he saw Aegon, a Prince of House Targaryen. And of course, there was the fixation on the Tyrells. Parrying swords with Ser Garlan the Gallant and obsessing over the older brother- the heir, asking questions and such.

And so it was that a Tyrell shall be Queen, after long-denied the honor they deserved. He tried to pay the impending match less mind, but when he saw him - Aegon, he couldn't. Rhaegar's son. I must protect him. I will not have him a puppet. A pawn in the same cruel Game that swallowed his father whole. He swore himself to Rhaegar's grave already. He wouldn't let Aegon fall into the clutches of those who want him only for his throne, for but his blood.

He will be the King. Just and firm, strong and fair... Yet he is a child, only four-and-ten. Not a boy and yet not a man, but half of each. Two halves that Jon realized now he never knew, not truly. But Jon took the prize of consolation to himself, keeping it close. The prize of seeing those smiles, so bright and wide. They were so reminiscent in his mind. Is it desperation? Even too much at times. A smile I once thought I could never see again.

Jon fell into the bed, finding them a temptation too hard to resist. He closed his eyes and drifted off. Or so he attempted to.

To his agitation, Jon found not the time and chance to relieve himself. His neck snapped around as he turned his head, noticing the frantic sound of scuffing footsteps in front of his room. A knock came and Jon moved to stand. The door swung and out came, a slender boy- no- man, hand on a cane.

As he came to stop in front of Jon, the Tyrell had his eyes on level with Jon’s own. There was none but certainty in them. “My Lord Connington, I hope that I am not catching you in a bad time. If so, you must pardon me for the interruption.”

“Must I?” Jon asked, his tongue getting the better of him.

“Oh?” There was no slight in his voice, only interest. “Interesting. And yet Prince Oberyn kept telling me that you’re some bore of a dullard that wouldn’t understand a joke even if it danced naked in front of you. Well, he certainly didn't say so, I just made up the words. Again, I do apologize if this is too much of an intrusion.”

“Whether you do or do not, you already did or did not. Come,” he motioned for the Heir to Highgarden to sit on the chair next to his bed. "Forgive me, my lord," he excused himself, pouring the jug of wine that had been silently waiting upon the counter into a nearby glass. "I- would you care for one as well?"

“Oh no, I’m all set.”

“Your loss, then.”

“Well, if you live in the Reach as I do, the beating heart - no less, wines would rather bore you after a good few years, I’m afraid. But still, I do appreciate the offering.” How polite. Was this how the Tyrells grovel on their bent knees, scraping and bowing upon the Usurper?

Jon took a seat opposite of him. And so, he asked, straight to the chase. "What can I do for you, Lord Willas?"

“It’s not so much of what you can do for me, truth to be told. I do not come here asking for that kind of favor. But still, indulge me, if you would. Well, it hasn’t been remiss of me to notice your.. Disinclination for my family. My house. I understand, my lord, truly I do. And yet, I wouldn't wish for the strange air of malaise that hangs between us to dare disturb or worse, jeopardize the future of our alliance, my lord. For Prince Aegon's sake, if you will." As if you care for Aegon. You care for his name and blood only.

Nonetheless, Jon nodded. "Yes, you're right. I won't pretend to like you, Lord Willas. Nor do I like your father or your house. I shall not cast aspersions and illusions, or to play the mummer's troupe. But for His Grace's sake, I will tolerate you. And in time, mayhaps we shall be able to work together as great allies."

“Fabulous, then. You’re a nice breath of fresh air, you know, Lord Connington?” Jon made a move to speak, but the Tyrell gave him no chance, “Westerosi lords prefer to go a long… long way, and most end up in a rather merry dance between cat and mouse at the end of the day. But here, with such frankness - well, we are allies, still, not lovers in bed that pour their hearts out to each other - I realize there is indeed an art to the… frugal use of words.”

“Indeed. I have been in Aerys’ Court for too long to tire of such farce displays of decorum.” And yet you Tyrells love them so much, do you not?

“You must be very wise by now. But truly, I’m glad. It pains me, after all, should I fail to reach a level of… cordiality with that of the father of my future good-brother.”

Jon paused at the words, his shoulder tensioning. “Prince Rhaegar is dead, my lord.”

“Prince Rhaegar is dead. Indeed, quite the accurate observation, my lord. His sire is dead. But his father? He is sitting in front of me right now.”

“A folly of a thought. I am but His Grace’s caretaker, entrusted with the duty of sheltering him, raising him, and helping him. All of them, I do not for the promises of rewards, I do it for the debt I owe his father.”

“A noble cause. I understand that you were… close with Prince Rhaegar. Sadly, I never knew him myself. I was five when the Rebellion erupted. And so, I knew them only from the books. The stories and the whispers.”

“We were squires together. We grew up together. In King’s Landing. I was a… close companion to him. Aegon’s father.”

“Still, Lord Connington. It does not change the fact, the truth, and only the undeniable truth, that His Grace does see you as his father. I know that look. Longing, yearning for approval and guidance. His eyes are still very young, after all.”

“I fail to see how this is relevant in building some sort of cordiality between us, Lord Tyrell. In fact, I rather think that it is quite the opposite of it.”

“Pity. Now, there’s no need to be so… defensive, Lord Connington. I’m something of an expert in that area.”

“And which- what area is that?”

“A child’s thirst. Thirst for love. You didn’t grow up with brothers, sisters, or any sibling, did you, my lord?”

“I didn’t.”

“Every parent has one favorite, you know. And for my lordly father, it has always been my brother Loras. Leo Longthorn comes again, the finest jouster in all of Westeros. He knocked the Kingslayer into the dirt in a joust at the Capital. Bright, shiny, valiant Loras. Who they now call - the Knight of the Flowers.”

“And you are telling me this, why? So I can reprimand your lord father when we arrive in Westeros?” He wondered whether the Reacher was doing this on purpose, damning him with long words as Jon had told him of his distaste for it earlier.

“No,” denied the Tyrell with a soft laugh. “No, no. For that, I can do it myself. And I assure you, I need not any assistance... Well, I am no knight and I will never lead my house’s army from the utmost front of the war. I made my peace with that. My family has. Yet I do not forget the time when my father once considered elevating my brother Garlan as the Heir. For who would follow a cripple, you think?”

“My sympathy goes with you and my heart grieves for you. Is that what you want to hear, Lord Willas? I still do not see the need for such a grand telling.” The time began to weigh on Jon, weariness catching up to him. This can't end quick enough.

“Yes, yes. Poor me. I am merely sharing the burdens and grievances of a child. If ever comes the day, should you get married and have children - flesh and blood, heirs of your own, then perhaps this experience of mine will be worth something.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” He would’ve shouted the words once. The younger him certainly would. But Jon Connington didn’t spend his years in exile nursing up old wounds for none. His eyes narrowed at the words, but he kept his composure.

“Things that don’t need to be spoken loudly. Things we know very well already,” answered Willas Tyrell, unfazed. It began to irritate him, of how the Reacher would shrug off anything thrown into his way as if mere winds. “You may think me impudent, crude, or crass. But my advice, as an outsider, perhaps, and as someone who will be His Grace’s family in the future, is that you should set things out with him.”

Bold, this one. There was a time when he thought of the Tyrell to be an airheaded oaf, filled with grandiose and meek deference, as his father was known before him. But that time certainly wasn’t now. “And what is there to set out, as you put it in words?”

“Prince Aegon is a kind soul. With a heart of gold if I ever know one. I wouldn’t claim to know yours, my lord Connington, so I shall leave ‘what’ to between the two of you. But I must caution you to approach the situation with the utmost consideration. He is our future King. The burden will fall on him. Already so, if I must say. For better or worse, the crown will land on his head-”

“Or worse?” questioned Jon. His words were growled more than they were spoken. How dare he-

“Yes. For better or worse. I have seen the realm burn down, descending into chaos and madness under a King who fails to separate his personal indulgences from duty. Charming Prince Aerys, now remembered as the Mad King. Charismatic Robert Baratheon - beloved in his youth, now wasted away in whoring and drinking. And who would have ever thought of the noble Rhaegar Targaryen to steal a noblewoman? A great lord’s betrothed, too, at that.”

You are not worthy to speak of his name. “Slander and lies. The Usurper’s propaganda.” He might try to deny it, but there was always a part of him that cursed Rhaegar for his foul affair with the Stark girl. An affair I warned him against.

“Call it what you will. Lord Connington, I would hate it if the quarrel between us cast a looming shadow on the Prince. I would hate to see him torn between his uncles, his cousins, his good family, and that of the one person he seemingly treasures most. But I must confess that I tire of watching you watch the world in that rose-tinted glass of yours.”

“Rose-tinted,” he scoffed, anger rising rapidly. “You dare speak of that when you act all high and mighty as if you’re doing this for the oath of fealty your house owes Aegon? I know of the likes of you, Tyrell. I know of your kind. And I know what you seek.”

“You speak half a truth shrouded in anger. I find your lack of faith disturbing, my lord.” To his damnation, Willas Tyrell remained ever calm with his words.

“Half a truth? House Tyrell had the chance to win all the glory there was during the Rebellion. But your lord father was too much of a coward to seize the opportunity.” If Rhaegar had another-

“Glory? The same glory there is in occupying Stoney Sept? Parading hostages and offering pardons? And where did that glory bring you to, Lord Connington? A bitter exile. We made our mistakes and we repent for them. House Tyrell has pledged fealty to Prince Aegon, is that not enough? A Tyrell bride, Tyrell gold, Tyrell companies, our blood and ties - all for His Grace. Do they not suffice? For I think they do. And should.”

Jon let the insult pass away. “I was there, my lord. During the days of Aerys. Loyalists, they name themselves. Lickspittles, I name them."

“My house is risking our heads at this very moment. If King Robert catches even the barest hint of a whisper of the true nature behind our visit to Essos, heads will roll come the morning. And I will not even know about it. Because I am here, so far away, risking everything - that for three-hundred years, my house has built, for a King half a world away with a false name.”

“And what a grand sacrifice it is. A story for the bards and poets. A song that will last a thousand years, no?”

The Reacher ignored him. “If my prediction is correct, then by now Tywin Lannister should have made his move and tried to make more allies. Stark and Tully, most like. And if everything is going by smoothly, then my sister should well be in King’s Landing by now.”

“King’s Landing?” The city of my joy and doom.

“To beguile the Crown. Jon Arryn is a peace lover. But Robert’s wife is a Lannister. And Tywin Lannister has the Crown ringed in iron. My sister would stay there for a month, mayhaps two. There, the grasping Tyrells should seek favour for a Royal Match, only to return dejected as the King denies them so. So, I will have you reconsider some of your distasteful opinions of my house. This gamble will be paid in blood, my house’s blood. And we have never done so before. Not even when the dragons danced twice.”

“And how would you guarantee that such a Royal Match will never happen?” He asked, sharp and brisk, his mind going on the possibility of the Tyrells betraying them.

“Only a fool would think otherwise. King Robert was denied a Stark match once. He will not have it denied for him yet again. Even if it is for his son, this time.” There was something strange to the way the Tyrell said his words, but Jon didn’t ask.

I got my time coming to me. But it is not now. I have waited for so long, I can wait for more. “Very well, then. So be it. And may the oathbreaker be damned to the lowest pit of the Seven Hells, for always and for eternity."

“Yes, indeed. Accursed is the oathbreaker. But as a matter of fact, I do not come here merely to discuss my advice about His Grace, nor am I here to receive… questioning about my loyalty. The wars to come-”

Jon cut him. “One hundred thousand Tyrell swords and fifty thousand Dornish spears are pledged to His Grace’s cause, no?”

“Yes. Albeit I must express my caution for that… figure. But no, Lord Connington. I speak of elephants and exiles. I speak of the Golden Company, the one that is also promised to join His Grace’s cause.”

His thoughts went back to the days with Myles Toyne. Blackheart. And the shame of a farce that was its end. “Ten-thousand of the best fighting men in the continent. What of it?”

“The people of Westeros remember them. And they remember Bittersteel. Who he was, who his parents were, and who he fought for. I do not doubt that there will be lords who wish to deny our King, branding him a pretender, or worse - a Blackfyre.” And we will come to you a beggar. “How reliable are they? I know that they have never broken a contract before. But the Golden Company fighting for a dragon of red ?" And so House Tyrell will rise as the mighty savior. You think so, my lord Tyrell? You overplayed your hands and thought yourself twice too smart. I will not be deceived.

“My decision stands firm on the matter. Lord Varys and Magister Mopatis have worked blood and sweat in swaying the Golden Company to our cause. To break the contract will be an insult. One Myles Toyne will not take kindly. And we will drive them away into the open arms of the Lannisters, instead.”

“Myles Toyne is an old man. Do you think his successor will be half as competent? He groomed you to succeed him. But now? Who is left to continue his glory? Homeless Harry Strickland? And yes, I have done some preparations before our talk. You fear them, my lord. Varys and Illyrio. A gallant exile and story of redemption, cut short when a spider thrust you into a plot of ignoble end and drunken death. Do you think them friends, my lord?”

"I know better than you of what the Eunuch is capable of." And when we take the throne, I will not be forgotten. “I do not consider them friends. They are allies, for now. But I will see it to the justice and only justice when we take the throne.”

“What an interesting choice of words. It seems that we have found our common ground, Lord Connington. Good.”

Silence descended upon them. After a long last, the Reachman asked, “Do you ever think of the other?”

“The other?”

“The other Royal Children. Rhaella’s babes.” Jon Connington never tried to think of them. Not willingly, at least. But he saw it in his mind, two of them begging in the streets, forced to sell any prized possessions they might have salvaged in the past.

“They… they are doing their part for their King. Their... sacrifice will not be for naught. When Aegon takes the throne, they will be rewarded.” He cursed the falters in his voice, but there was none to do.

“Rewarded? Princess Daenerys is a girl, probably not yet flowered. Prince Viserys is half a man, and all his life he is mocked as the Beggar King. Spurned and jeered and insults follow them. Rhaegar’s siblings care not for reward, I am sure. They will care more for a roof over their heads”

It pained him to neglect them - Rhaegar’s siblings. Jon remembered Prince Viserys. Shy and withdrawn, lurking in the shadows. The words didn’t do him justice when they called him to have always been Aerys comes again. And Jon remembered Rhaella. Kind and regal, but deeply scarred, the one Rhaegar treasured the most, more so than his children. He thought of her laboring amidst storms, and as she died with her babe plucked away. He wondered whether her corpse had even cooled when the Usurper’s brother seized Dragonstone.

“And what do you want me to do, Lord Willas? Play the gallant hero and rescue them from the Usurper’s knives? I have no choice but to-” Varys and Illyrio have me. Me and Aegon. Our lives, both.

“I want you to remember. Very well, to our friendship, then? For His Grace the Prince Aegon. For the best of his interests and only his. And not others’,” said Willas Tyrell with an outstretched hand.

Connington took the offered hand, finding the gesture odd. When he made it to exit the room, Jon asked the last question, “Why?”

Willas Tyrell halted in his steps, turning his neck. “Why what?”

“Do you seek us out?” It had gnawed at him, the wondering. “Your house has never been a staunch friend for the Targaryens. Why now, of all the time? There’s no reason for it.”

“Reason? Well, my lord, if I were to look for reasons, I wouldn’t look for it among the Westerosi nobles, for first. But jest aside- why, you asked. All I did. All I do. I do it for the best of what will come to pass. The murderers of children in lion cloak do not deserve the Crown. And neither does the Stag who drowns himself in wines and whores. And what is left for the realm, then? Ashes. No, Westeros needs a strong grip. And the future I envision is where House Tyrell survives, where Prince Aegon sits on the Iron Throne. My sister by his side. And only then shall the garden bloom over Westeros. A new spring for a new dawn. A golden age of a new reign. Together.”

"You speak grand promises."

"That I do," was the Tyrell's simple answer. His fingertips remained perched on the closing door for a while before he turned, and said to Jon, "Speak with Prince Aegon. He has heard too much of the one half of the story. Oberyn loves you not. And his sire? The Martells love him not. He needs to hear the other half."

I ran away. Ghosts from my past. And now I’m paying the price.

"For what? Justification? Or for the sake of the truth alone?"

"Truth? There is always too much truth in the world. Truth ruins the fairytale. Truth ruins the song. In my experience, I have found that truth is not always the best to rely upon. Men believe what they want to believe. They will hear only what they want to hear."

"You dare suggest that I feed him lies? Careful now." Jon's hand was on the pommel of his sword. "You speak words of treason, Lord Willas. Where is that honor that is so cherished in the Reach?"

"There is an omitted truth and there is an outright lie. It’s a fine line to tread. And haven't you heard, Lord Connington? Cripples have no honor, they say." As I can see.

---

When the Tyrell left, Jon returned to sit on his bed. The vision of the blue-haired boy soon came to him. His ward and care. The King that he was raising for Rhaegar. Soon. My wait is not for long. I can put him on the throne that should’ve belonged to his father soon. The throne that should've been his prince's. And only then, I can rest.

But it was then that the bell toiled. Clang!

Strong and deep and powerful. Jon only half-remembered the names. Narrah? Nayel? Noom? He had thought it queer, to have bells govern the lives of the people. Telling them when to eat, to rest, or to work. Even in consummating… carnal desires, he had heard.

The bells of Norvos toiled and toiled, seemingly without end. Their toils, however, were not the toils of death and mourn. Their chimes were not of doom and war. But it took him to that fateful day all the same. When the bells of Stoney Sept toiled for a whole day.

Then it all came to him yet again. The terrors of his nightmare. He might have evaded them - being Griff and all that came with it. But here, alone and only him, he needed to be Jon Connington. An exiled Hand of the King. A lost and landless lord. And a failure, all things considered.

The bell toiled again, uncaring for his plights. And all Jon Connington could see was his axe upon Hoster Tully's leg. He chugged the nearby jug of wine, emptying the pitcher in short gulps, and yet finding the strong taste to no avail. If only that- no, it wouldn't do for him to drown himself in what could have been. He had enough of that. And Myles Toyne had once slapped him over the head, dousing him with the harsh truth of reality. I could've done more. But it matters not. What matters is that I can do more. Now and not before.

Stoney Sept was long behind. But still, the bells persisted. And Jon Connington cursed the Norvoshi in his mind. Them and their nameless gods. Denys Arryn’s blood came to his mind. The sight of the light leaving his eyes. Jon remembered that the melee didn’t stop around them. I killed him, and yet they didn’t break. No glory welcomed him in slaying the Arryn heir. There was no triumph in the day.

He searched for his personal flask, finding them amidst the ransacks of his little belongings. He drank, his tongue tasting the sweet relief of dreamwine, an old company of his restless nights. Haldon would berate me should he know, recalling the little dose he smuggled out of the halfmaester's cabin. Soon, Jon's back met with the softness of the pillow mattress. In his fatigue, the bells toiled for his lullaby. His eyelids closed, seemingly involuntarily. The sun outside the little window was nowhere to be seen. It was not yet late, but Jon drifted off all the same. The sound of the bell gradually went smaller, unheard at last. But what came with it didn’t leave so easily. The scaled walls of Stoney Sept returned to him. Northmen and direwolf banners. But Jon Connington went nonetheless. To a place, of which he didn't know and never would.

Wind-carved rocks, jagged spires, and growling sea welcomed him. Wind against his face. But he wasn't cold. Moist and damp, air trickling down with water. But he wasn't wet.

Jon knew the sight. He remembered them all too well. Upon the high battlements of Griffin's Roost. He remembered the door that led to the roof of the East Tower, the tallest in the Griffin's Roost. He remembered how it rose, daunting and reaching. The sky within its grasp. But not so quite held. As did I. And my star in the sky.

Jon felt wariness. Afraid to even step the littlest step. Afraid to glance even the littlest glance. For fear of all of it to snap away. The lingering seconds came ticking to him. But it wasn't ticking seconds that he heard. What he heard… he heard the bells instead. Clanking and ranging. Mighty and triumphant. The bells of the Stoney Sept. The bells of the town's watchtower. The beat of its rang timed with the parry of his axe. Chiming endlessly. Chiming the chimes of death. My death. My exile. My end.

He felt it all slipping from him, the time. Jon dared not to look. And then there was silver in the air. Flowing in the wind of the stormy waters of the Shipbreaker's Bay. A face he couldn't see. The most and the least that he wanted to see. To tell the truth, it was not Jon's first time to see him. Nay, the Silver Prince was a guest that frequented his dreams, plagued his nights, and haunted his mind. As it has always been, always will be. The stolen touches and the lingering glances. Jon was fourteen when it started.

And then he spoke. Rhaegar. The words that he had heard before. Years before. Words that sparked the fire inside him. Inside the boy that he once was.

"Your father’s lands are beautiful."

One day they will all be mine, he had said back then. Boys. Foolish, eager, clueless boy. Rhaegar wore the same clothes as he remembered them. A shirt of black and red, lined with golden laces. Jon, meanwhile, Jon stood in the livery of a sellsword. It wasn't Ser Jon Connington, the Heir to Griffin's Roost that stood there. It was Griff. Griff the Exile. And Griff the Lost.

"And one day it would've been yours. As well as that of the Arbor. All the way to the Wall. One day that never did come."

Rhaegar regarded him with questioning eyes. Madness. Half-mad, I have turned. "Hmm, is that so?"

Yes. Slain by the hands of your own cousin. "This is madness. I have turned mad. To conjure such cruel imaginations of my own. My destiny, is this? I shall not waste my time to frivolously indulge myself in falsehood."

"Most people never particularly like their destiny, you know." And by the Gods does the voice sound the same. It clawed at him, demonic hands. Anguish-bearing hands. From the deepest pit of the Seven Hells, they came for him, singing the song of lamenting torment. Damn this and damn all of them. I damn myself!

"You're just a memory," he said. Only the thing was, Jon didn't know who he said it to. To himself, mayhaps, desperately trying, seeking for conviction. "A long-gone memory," he added.

"My great-great-uncle once told me in his letter that no one is ever really gone. Nothing ever is. We are the sum of everything that came before us. And in ourselves, deep and inside, we carry a little of each of them."

My father and his father and his grandfather before him. And I am the sum of their disappointment. "You never told me that before." Has my mind deluded me so? Crafting words of wisdom and guidance by itself.

"You never did ask."

"If only it was so simple." If I had asked you what I wanted to ask of you…

"It does not have to be simple. It needs not. For it is the duty each of us must carry. One must shoulder the burdens they are born with."

"Born with? Seems so cruel."

Rhaegar's eyes averted themselves at his words. After a long last, Jon had grown to maturity, and the Silver Prince in front of him was but a boy. It seems so queer to think of this as if it is real.

"Life is cruel, isn't it? But it is also giving. Trials and joys. Plights and pleasures. Everything is balanced. As they should and only would. It is the eternal song of Ice and Fire. Biting cold and raging flame. Never to end, and never to stop. But their cycles are all the same."

The Ghost of Rhaegar Targaryen. Jon laughed at the absurdity of the thought. Perfect Rhaegar and his burdens of great destinies. Such clever, ingenious trick of the mind. I endured my tortures already. And now it renews.

"So all of it… is it for your glorious destiny? A great purpose of mankind? I tell you this, my Prince, it is not worth the struggles."

The wind came to a tumultuous stop. And Jon felt the shift in the air. "Mayhaps. But I do not fail in the end, do I?"

The hammer struck him deep inside. Jon fell to the stone below. On bended knees. "I-" he tried to speak but he found himself losing the words. "I… I failed you, my Prince."

And then the lip turned into a sneer. Curling, disparaging, and judging. And blood came trickling down the cheek of his silver prince. Blood dripped down his nose. "You did." And those words were the nails upon his coffin, hammered down by the Gods themselves. Blood dripped down his ears. "You failed me. My mother. My brother. My sister." Blood came, soaking his shirt, pooling in his chest. "You failed me. But you will not fail-"

"Your son." I failed the father, I will not fail the son. "I will die for him. I will. So long as I fulfill my promise to-" I will die for him. Like I would've you.

His Prince snapped away, withering in crumbling dust. Jon reached out, his fingertips outstretching his hand. But he didn't meet any. Only empty air. Only empty void. Nothingness as it was only supposed to be.

And where there was once a boy, red-haired, youthful and soft and passionate. Now was left a man, blue-haired, old and rough and devoid. When he woke up, he woke with tears staining his cheek, glistening and dripping down on his right. Jon brought a finger to his face, rubbing it over his shame. Over his hard, coarse, and callous skin.

And it was then that Jon Connington knew… he would not enjoy his time in Norvos.

---

 

Notes:

Sorry for the long wait, but this chapter underwent several heavy changes throughout its writing process. Jon Connington is a fascinating character, so complex, and so... grey. It's safe to say that he will have a lot to juggle and quite the role to play in the future of the story.

The conversation between Willas and Jon Connington didn't come out as electrifying as I hoped it would be. But then again, unlike Doran and Willas, this one doesn't have the luxury to be completely truthful. Willas is wary and careful of Jon Connington, stepping in only in the edges of his feet. While Jon is a person that is not much for a political talk that Willas is comfortable at, and so the situation in this chapter is an awkward zone where the both of them are strangely reluctant at. A disadvantage for both Willas and Jon. But one they have to stomach nonetheless.

So, what do you think of the chapter? Reviews, please! Got to say I'm a bit disappointed with the lack of for the previous chapter. Any criticism and suggestion are welcomed! Also, what do you think of the incoming King's Landing shenanigans?

Chapter 22: Olenna II

OLENNA

The wife of the Hand of the King was a sad, miserable, spiteful little thing. Sad of eyes and yet petulant of mouth. Red of hair, kissed by fire - as the singers would have it, and yet it was pale, too pale for the supposed Tully’s fame of the fabled fiery hair. This one is wasted away, already. Her smile was bitter and her words were even more so. And yet underneath the prideful display, Olenna could easily see right through them, the misery and desolation the trout wallowed in. An open book, as her darling grandson was so very fond of saying.

“Is the Queen not joining us today, Lady Lysa?” came the regal voice of her beloved good daughter. Silver-braided Alerie Hightower seemingly triumphed at the Royal Court amidst the stinking shithole that was King’s Landing. The courteous, graceful, and kind Lady of Highgarden was quick to steal away the other noble ladies at the Court with sweet words and honeyed wine, driving them away from the clutches of the sour and surly lioness queen.

“The Queen,” the girl answered, seemingly startled. “The Queen,” she repeated again as if she was some half-witted daughter of a dullard. Is this one of Hoster Tully’s two prized daughters? “The Queen, I- I fear, she doesn’t spend much of her time outside of Maegor's Holdfast. I fear that she dislikes spending much of her time with the other ladies at the Court. I- I think… she sees it as-”

“As what, my lady?” nudged in her good daughter yet again, her tone full of kindness and care.

“I- I shouldn’t say this. But I think she sees it as rather… well- Uhm, below her station. Unbefitting her royal stature. The- the Queen, she prefers to keep to herself, and her children, perhaps… as well as that of the Kingsla- her twin brother, that is."

Olenna had seen enough mummers in her life. And certainly, Willas’ brilliant idea of indulging Mace with the Art Citadel had done nothing but to guarantee that. And so, she knew a mummery - or ‘theatrics’ as he called it - when she saw one. And right now, the wife of the Hand of the King was playing one… and rather badly at that.

Still, she wondered who was putting the clearly-trained words in her mouth. Old Arryn? But then, the Old Falcon was too honorable to put any notion of using his dear wife in discrediting the Lannisters. And that one is a peace lover, above all else. One name did come to mind. A name that her grandson had warned her of. “Littlefinger is one of the most dangerous men in Westeros. He rises too fast, quicker than he has any right to do so.”

“That’s a pity, then,” Alerie answered calmly yet again. Over the years, her opinions of the Hightower woman had slowly changed, seeing the dull doll of a wife that was too eager to stay silent flowering into a woman that was capable of reigning in Mace Tyrell. And the Gods knew that was a true testament to one’s strength. Her way with words was rather different than Olenna or her grandchildren, but she supposed that there would need to be a rose to hide the thorns beneath.

The vexatious silence that followed was rather cumbersome. But Olenna refused to let the opportunity slide away. “Oh? So the two first ladies of the realm are not getting along, then? My, my, isn’t this just wonderful,” she said with exuberant giddiness that deliberately lead to-

“Grandmother!” And right on time, her granddaughter chastised her. “Must you speak so crassly? What would Lady Lysa think of us…”

“Oh, please, spare me the admonition, my dear. My years of being given a dressing down are far gone behind me. I’m an old woman now, not a gullible girl chastised by her father for kissing a stableboy. Ah, how I long for those days. What say you, Lady Lysa?”

“I- certainly, but I don’t think it’s a… it’s an appropriate thing to-” and just as she expected, the girl turned the bright shade of red.

“I think what my good mother was trying to- guess, my lady, is that- are you and the Queen not getting along well, then? We hardly hear anything going on here in King’s Landing, after all. Highgarden is a bit far.”

“Ah- well, I- i….” Gods, how pathetic. And this sad little woman is the wife to the Hand of the King? No wonder Old Arryn is too eager to drown himself in his office works, hah!

By the grace of the Gods, they were saved when the unmistakable sound of childish shout rang in the air. It was a boy in blue and grey colors wrestling his way down from the arms of a wetnurse. “Mother!”

Olenna, however, focused on the other person standing next to the wetnurse. He was clad in brown samite. Short and slender body. A pointed beard of greying black rested on the end of his chin, the same color of his hair, dark with running threads of gray. His eyes were green and gray, but their colors were not what Olenna was interested in. Mocking, those eyes were. Always seemingly laughing. A mockingbird indeed…

The boy, meanwhile, was only four or three of age, if Olenna was to guess. A sad little thing, much like his mother was. The Heir of Jon Arryn. Hah! Soon, they will all be wasted away. “My baby boy, have you missed your lovely mother? Mother is sorry, my dear, but she had to talk with some friends, but it is over now. Don’t worry, I’ll make it nice for you, we’ll go lunch with Uncle Petyr, won’t we?”

Petyr Baelish. The Master of Coin strode into the room, approaching them with his ever-confident manner. He brought his hands high in the air and bowed. “My ladies, I’m grievously sorry that I must steal away such a lovely maiden from amidst your group. But I fear that it is rather a… quandary, I suppose, that Lady Arryn and I are already planning to sup our meals for lunch together. I have just hired a Volantene cook, after all, and their cold soup of beets is supposedly richer than even the sweetest honey of the Reach, no offense to you, of course, my sweet ladies of the Reach.”

The man that Willas told her of was unassuming in look. But what lay deep down… Olenna was already warned to stay at her best alert around the man. A swindle, but an extremely clever one. And Willas had also shared to her, of the intricate past that bound the two friends - Lady Arryn and Littlefinger - together, a tale of fosterage and young love. So the trout is off carroting with the mockingbirds rather than the falcons in the high sky.

“Lord Baelish, is it?” She called the man. “Or do you prefer to be called Littlefinger, my lord? Well, I certainly hope that finger is the only part of you that's little.” She said to the barely suppressed giggles of the girls in her company. Foolish flock of hens, indeed, but at least they have their uses every now and then.

He didn’t twitch at the rather derogatory moniker and neither did he at the joke. Dangerous indeed.

“Lady Olenna,” he answered, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips, “I regret that fate hasn’t seen it fit for us to meet again ever since your arrival to the city. I must say, it has been very interesting with you here with us.”

“Oh, a charmer, aren’t you? And I don’t even need to tell you to kiss my feeble hand. My, what a gentleman. But a blushing chambermaid I am not, my dear, so I will tell you to keep your lines to yourself and sow your oat upon far more fertile, younger soils rather than this exhausted, drying one.”

“You sell yourself short, my lady. We all have, after all, heard of the prowess of the Queen of Thorns.”

“Good. Then you shall remember it well, Lord Baelish.”

And again, the Mockingbird’s eyes were laughing. “Is that so, my lady? Then I will tell you to wait for an invitation from me. I do so want to talk with you, after all. And I certainly will not let Lord Varys steal you away before I do.”

“Afraid you’re going to lose against a eunuch, are you? Doesn’t exactly say much about your mettle, does it, Lord Baelish? And while we’re at it, I suppose I might need to congratulate you. Newly appointed Master of Coins, is it not? Six years ago, you were a custom officer at Gulltown, or so I heard. I suppose that mockingbirds do love to fly, after all.”

Littlefinger laughed at that, his eyes crinkling and its corners turning into crow’s feet. “Well said, my lady. Well said, indeed. And yes, six years ago Lord Grafton was kind enough to accept me to his service. And three years ago, he wrote to Lord Arryn with good words, and so I was brought to King’s Landing. Now, if you would excuse me.”

“So short, my dear? But this is the most excitement I’ve felt in years.” Come now, don't shy away from me, Littlefinger. I have heard you are oh so interesting, after all...

“I’m sure that’s not true, my lady. With the Art Citadel in the Reach? I hear that Lord Mace and your grandson are doing some very interesting things with it. And speaking of your grandson, it’s too sad that I’m unable to meet him. I’ve heard a lot of things about him-”

“Have you, now?”

“We are all friends here in King’s Landing, my lady. And friends don’t have secrets. I suppose you would just need to pass along my regards to him. I dearly hope he’s enjoying Essos. I, myself, found it to be of little liking. Now, if you would really excuse me, I would hate to make Lady Arryn wait and tarry any longer. Until we meet again, Lady Olenna.”

And with that, the upstart - and they call the Tyrells upjumped stewards - Master of Coins and the wife to the Hand of the King walked away, with the little Arryn boy up in his mother’s arms. Some had whispered that Lysa Arryn would breastfeed the boy even in the middle of the court, but it seemed that the woman had the common sense to put on some decency in her decorum with them today. Olenna shared a look with her granddaughter, both knowing the danger that the Master of Coins posed behind his friendly look and laughing eyes.

“Lady Lysa sure does brighten up when he sees Lord Baelish,” said the Fossoway girl, the betrothed of her Redwyne grandson, sharing a giggle with the other bunch of little flowers.

“Well, they are childhood friends, my dear,” Alerie immediately said, “And the bonds that are formed during our young years can carry tremendous weight even after long years have passed.”

Smart of her. It wouldn’t do for rumors of the Hand’s wife and the Master of Coins to begin circulating just when the Tyrells are visiting King’s Landing.

“Well, it’s my turn, now. I would rather not wait until I crumble to dust sitting here and doing stitches like a-” before she could finish, however, the door swung open yet again, and in came a Tyrell guard, bearing a sealed envelope.

“What is it, Ser Gawen?” her good daughter asked as the envelope was handed to her.

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to know, my lady. But a knight in Oakheart livery arrived this morning saying he was sent to deliver important messages to the Hand of the King and you, my lady.”

When Alerie broke the seal and read the news, gasps resounded throughout the room. Blushing maidens of innocence, she scoffed at them as she caught the tail of her good daughter's words "...peacefully passed away in her sleep not a sennight ago."

But she supposed that it was a grim tiding, indeed. Arwyn Oakheart had been an able ruler, a steadfast supporter of House Tyrell. Never once was her loyalty ever in question. She had begrudgingly respected her in the past, finding the common ground in their shared grievances- men and power.

There was a time when Olenna had accepted, made peace that she would one day be a lord's broodmare, to be kept away secluded in some dusty, old keep, spitting out children while her lord husband would whore the night. Instead, she had taken matters into her own hand, that pinched, rodent-faced Targaryen Princeling be damned, and kicked her way into being the Lady of the Reach.

And when Arwyn’s father died in the War of Ninepenny Kings years before her majority, it was Olenna who argued to Luthor Tyrell against the regency of Arwyn's envious and corrupt uncle, which in turn yielded Old Oak’s unwavering loyalty. Till now, at least. From what she had heard of her son and successor, then it wouldn't do to put much hope for the future of the Oakhearts. A mulish slime of an oaf who takes too much after his Peake father.

"A raven must fly to Old Oak, then."

"How very sad. Lady Arwyn is- was… she was kind and gentle, and she seemed like such a nice spirit. She would often smile at me whenever she visited Highgarden. She had a great deal of advice that she had given me in the past," her granddaughter said with a sunken voice.

"It is a tragedy, my dear. A kind soul has been plucked from amidst our gardens. Lady Arwyn had always been a staunch friend of our house. Her service will forever be missed."

Pale and frail. Small and weak. But healthy, yes… so very healthy. To die so suddenly- "Grandmother, you knew her, didn't you?"

"Oh, I knew her indeed, my dear. A bit of a prig and a bit of a prude, not a woman of much excitement, Lady Arwyn was. But still, still… married to that bullheaded Peake of a husband of hers, there’s no greater testament to her strength. A pity she has to meet him again, now.”

“We mustn’t speak ill of the dead, grandmother…”

“Well, the dead can’t hear us, can they?”

“I think Margaery speaks truly, mother-”

“Oh, hush, don’t call me that, dear. When you do, you rather remind of that bint of a Florent that is married to your lord father. His fourth wife, is it? Ah well, you do not call her your mother, do you not?”

“Mother, even if the dead can’t hear us, it befalls on us, as good followers of the Faith, to live by the Seven-Pointed Star, and that - is to pray for the dead. I rather think it is a good idea to invite the other noble ladies at the Court to pray together in the Great Sept of Baelor. For Lady Oakheart. May the Seven rest her soul easy.”

“And may the Father judge her justly,” chorused the other girls in their companies as they nod along. The Gods may help me with these pious fools. At least Margaery never wanted to be a septa like that Targaryen princess did, whatever her name was.

“Well, as much excitement this is bringing for my old bones, I rather think I’ll bid you farewell and tell you to enjoy the remainder of your day.”

“Grandmother, how could you not be coming with us?”

“Oh, I would love to, dear. Well, actually I rather not. But still, this decrepit body won’t survive endless hours on bended knees on the floor of Baelor’s madness. No, no, save that pity of yours for yourself, Gods know you need it sometimes. I rather think I will have enough excitement to keep going on about the day.”

“Excitement? Do I not misheard this? My, I shall write this to Willas, I think.”

“Don’t be such a stooge in your brother’s puppetry, my dear. It makes an appalling look on you. Better to come up with your own lines. And remember, you're meeting Prince Joffrey later today."

Better be a pious fool and scare the lions away. For Willas had written of words from Essos. And unraveled the truth of the hidden dragon. Braving Dothraki hordes and crossing treacherous seas, all for a prince with a false name- or not. A most dangerous gambit, to be sure. But should they win… and they would win. Olenna would die to make sure of that. Even if this should be my last game.

"Now, if you would excuse me, Lord Lannister is waiting for me.”

---

 

 

The door to the chamber of Lord Tywin Lannister was guarded by two scores of knights, each dressed in red liveries. Lannister Red Cloaks, she thought. Lady Olenna herself was flanked by her two personal guards, the tall twins of whom she referred to as “Left” and “Right” respectively.

“Open the door, would you dear?” She said as she stopped in front of the Lannister guard. “Lord Tywin is waiting for me. We shan’t keep the Great Lion waiting, now, shall we?”

The door swung open. Seated behind the desk, a stack of parchments atop it, hand on a quill, eyes set on the inking, was Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West. The Mighty Lion, indeed.

“Had I known this door would lead me to twenty years in the past, I would’ve flung myself from the walls to spare myself from seeing my oaf of a husband yet again. Well, either that or as I see it now, someone’s missing being the Hand of the King.”

The Old Lion looked up from his desk, regarding her with unyielding eyes. “Lady Olenna,” he remarked to her, silently offering the chair opposite of his own and looking down again.

“Do put the quill down, my lord, it is unbecoming for a gentleman to behave so in the presence of a fair lady. And seeing there is also no wine offered for a chat I wonder if rudeness is now all the rage in the West?”

“Hmm, fair lady, you say?” He moved to pour some wine for them both. At least not as arrogant as I thought you would become, Tywin.

“Well, whatever’s left of it, I suppose. I’m afraid that I can’t pull the blushing, demure chambermaid quite as well as I used to anymore. I could try it if you want, of course.”

“There will be no need for it. Come, you are the one who asked for an audience-”

“Let’s not pretend that the Lord of Casterly Rock himself doesn’t wish to have an audience with the Lady Dowager of Highgarden. I have not the patience to wait any longer in our merry dance of cat and mouse, my lord, lest I crumble from all those winds whirling around us.” She raised her glass and he followed with his, however perfunctory.

“Well then, do pray and tell, what is it that you wish to discuss between House Tyrell and House Lannister?”

“For a man with a reputation such as yours, my lord, you rather disappoint me. Still, still… I find myself wondering why the elusive Old Lion is strolling about in the gardens of King’s Landing. Whatever happens to the Rock? I should hope that your son hasn’t drowned it in wines and whores yet, Lord Tywin.”

“A grandfather can’t visit his grandchildren?”

“Oh, a grandfather can. But you’re not in this as a grandfather, are you not? I wonder what it is that’s keeping you and Old Arryn so close like jolly lovers in youth these days? Blossoming romance? I must warn you, though, the High Septon will likely be rather-”

“The Hand of the King seeks my counsel and advice… in a few matters regarding the administration of the realm. I fear that information is not to be disclosed to the public but by the Hand himself.”

“You keep me young, my lord. So I shall keep on guessing, then?”

“The matters between the Hand of the King and-”

“Yes, yes, it’s very private. Very well then, you can keep your secret tryst, my lord. Although perhaps, I should congratulate you, should I not?”

“On what occasion?”

“On the betrothals of your nieces, of course, Lord Lannister. As I understand it, your late wife’s brother’s daughters, who also happens to be your cousin himself, are soon to be wed, no? To your bannermen, a Serrett, and a Lydden, if I am not mistaken. But of course, I’m ancient already, I might misremember the names. There are just so many lords in Westeros, after all. Like sheep, they are.”

Tywin Lannister studied her with resolute eyes, solid as the rock that was Casterly Rock itself, so it seemed. “Thank you, then, my lady. I shall pass on your well-wishes to my good nieces.”

“That you do. Still… interesting choices you make for them, I had thought that you would try to- ah well, forget it. It does seem that lords and ladies are betrothing their sons and daughters left and right, I think I don’t have it in me to remember them all. What say you, my lord?”

In his eyes, Olenna could see that he understood the hint of the slipped knowledge that she possessed. “Mayhaps it’s a rather big coincidence that most of them are coming of age around the same time, my lady. It’s no crime to betroth one’s own family, after all. Now that we’re at it, I shall pass my congratulations to your grandson, too. A Dornish Princess for the future Lord of Highgarden?”

“Oh, my Willas does have an exquisite taste, indeed. That boy spends half his time wasting away in books and drowning himself in questions and ponderings, of which, I think the most should be reserved for the philosophers. Ah, and, of course, those insufferable tales and songs. What a waste of time and gold. But at least it keeps Mace happy and busy, though not enough it seems.”

“He certainly has an… exquisite taste when it comes to choosing the future of his house. I wonder if he shall prove to be as knightly as his forebears, no matter his own shortcomings. What do they say about him in the gallant and chivalrous Reach, hmm?”

“They like him enough. No one, truthfully, expects him to charge into battle. With any hope, he will come to be an able tactical commander, much like yourself, my lord. And much like you, he has a loyal younger brother. I would not concern myself in that regard overmuch, for what about your heir, Lord Tywin? Seeing as I am not the only one in this room who has a descendant with physical shortcomings. Truth to be told, you rather disappoint me, indeed. I thought you would have more tact, my lord, considering you have circumstances quite similar to ours.” The lion’s fists or jaws might not have clenched but Olenna registered enough to know she touched a nerve and that he was bracing for another, more thorny remark. Fear not, my lord, this will satiate me, for now.

It irritated her that she would need to hold back her tongue for once. Hated that she would have to be courteous enough for Tywin to grow the notion of House Tyrell seeking to prove themselves loyal to Baratheons after ‘the lapse in judgment’ or ‘haggling attempt’ that was their betrothal with vipers.

“Perhaps.” He raised his glass of wine and she followed with hers, abandoning the topic of her crippled grandson and his dwarf son, or at least their physical deficiencies. “Maybe I misinterpreted, my lady, but you made it sound like the match with Princess Arianne was the initiative of your grandson, not of your lordly son or yours. You did not approve?”

“My own husband, the late Lord Luthor died whilst hawking, but you know that already. They said that he was too busy looking up to the sky, and paid no mind where his horse was taking him. And now they say that my grandson is doing the same, only this time he’s dancing with vipers. And, of course, Mace was tempted by the ‘prestige’ of having a princess as his good daughter. But whatever, the boy has made his bed on his own accord, and now he must lie on it at night.”

“Indeed. Now remind me, what happened the last time a Tyrell made his bed with the Dornish?”

“Half a thousand scorpions fell out of the canopy of his bed, yes, yes. You need not lecture me of Lyonel Tyrell, Tywin. I was a child, too. Once. And so I learned it with my maester. Toothless and bald, Edgerran was… I wonder what he would think of me right now.”

“I’m sure he would marvel at the woman that you have become.”

“The woman that I’ve become,” she repeated as chuckles fell through her mouth. “Am I such a disappointment for you, Lord Tywin? I told you that I can’t pull the blushing chambermaid as well I used to, but again, if you insist, my lord-”

“Please don’t make a fool of yourself in my chambers, Lady Olenna. What would your son think of you? And my question was merely a precaution, my lady. After all, it is well known that the Reach and Dorne share a-”

“Don’t pretend that you have a concern for my house and my family, Lord Tywin. This sham and farce, why don’t we dismiss them all, and talk heart to heart like lovers in some broken little brothel? You might find that you enjoy such a break of refreshment before you die.”

“You were the first to approach me on this matter, my lady. Why don’t you tell me what it is that concerns House Lannister in the matter of House Tyrell?”

“Such a bore you lions are. What you’ve coveted for so long… a royal marriage and your grandson’s bony little arse to sit on that ugly iron chair in the future. Come now, don’t play the demure maiden with me. I just hope that you will extend an invitation to Highgarden when it comes to the opening of the Bank of Lannisport. Our kin in Oldtown, the Hightowers, will find the news very much of interest to them, I am sure.” So very typical of you, Tywin… I suppose the lords of Westeros do love to measure the little sword between their legs.

“The Bank of Oldtown has been a moderate success. The Hand wishes for the Seven Kingdoms to thrive from such commerce. And in his wisdom as the Hand of the King, Lord Arryn believes that the Lannisters of Casterly Rock will be capable of the task and thus are entrusted with the heavy burden that is the future prosperity of the realm.”

“I am not a half-wit or a child of seven namedays, Lord Tywin. Big words don’t confuse me. Let’s speak of this of what it is. What it actually is.” Have your precious new bank for now, Tywin… you will not have the time to see it means. It amused her, the length that the Lannister went on just to even out a betrothal. But what good did the word "vain" serve if not to be used to describe the Lannisters?

When the Old Lion remained silent, Olenna continued to push, “Do you think us to have some devious plot, my lord? Consorting with Dornishmen and dancing with the vipers. And here I thought the lions do not concern themselves with the opinion of the sheep.”

“Baseless rumors and old wives whispering, I am sure. I have full confidence that House Tyrell is ever loyal to His Grace and the Royal House Baratheon.”

“Yes, we do take our vows, our oaths of fealty quite seriously. Gallantry and chivalry and all that, well- I suppose…”

“Why do you come to King’s Landing, Lady Olenna? I believe upon your arrival, and in your own words, I distinctly remember you referring to the city as a “stinking pile of shit of a cesspool laden with vipers'' in front of the King.”

"Oh, but I do miss the court, my lord," she said to Tywin's stony eyes. At the Lannister's silence, she continued, "You know why we are here. I wish for my granddaughter to learn the ways of the court."

"In the hope that-"

"In the hope that she will befit the noble Lady of her birth and station."

"The Hand of the King seems to think that Tyrells are digging for a Royal Marriage, my lady. Is there any truth in that claim?"

"And what house would not wish for a Royal Marriage, I ask you now, my lord. Tyrells have always been dutiful, fervently serving king after king that we swore our oaths to. And yet we have been slighted yet and yet again. Spurned and turned around. The Targaryens dishonored the sacred betrothals made in the Light of the Seven. I have high hopes that the Baratheons will be oh so different from their cousins."

"The Targaryens are gone, my lady.”

“Exiled, Tywin. The little boy and his sister still live in Essos. Begging their way around the Free Cities, last I heard."

"Yes. Exiled. But not for long, I hope. It’s way past the time that the issue should’ve been dealt with already in my opinion. The rumors of the Beggar King and now the Mad Dragon prove that he doesn’t know what is good for him and I would advise the Crown to take measures against him and his associates.”

“They may be it,” she shrugged, finding the half-veiled threat insipid and dull. She continued, “I truly wonder at the honorable Ned Stark, for he has dissuaded our King from sending swaths of assassins after them, considering His Grace approved of the fates that befell Princess Elia and her children.”

“I am sure new circumstances would make His Grace reconsider the issue. And regarding your wish, Jon Arryn is inclined to approach such matters, yet with utmost caution. But he fears that the King will not be so receptive."

"The Stark girl. King Robert was denied the love of his life. Oh don’t give me that look, we all know he is married to your daughter, yes. Lyanna Stark was kidnapped and Lyanna Stark died. And now he wishes for another Stark girl, but this time for his son, I suppose. But what of you, Lord Tywin, will you be oh so receptive?"

"Quite. But Lord Stark happens to be King Robert’s dearest friend. And so Jon Arryn told me that the King is rather insistent on that."

"Bah! The Starks in their frozen hinterland they so lovingly call home. What is it that they offer more than the verdant Reach? I rather think it is the time for the Tyrells to return to the fore. But then again, the Starks are becoming oh so interesting lately. A Tully wife and now his heir is betrothed, isn’t it? To a Karstark, I believe. Such a shame, I had thought that the honorable Ned Stark would’ve joined us in our game and announced a southern betrothal for his boy, Robb, isn’t it? After our beloved King. But I suppose it’s too much of a hope. And who knows, mayhaps he did consider a southern betrothal at first.”

She would’ve gone on, for it was just so fun to taunt Tywin with her knowledge of the failed betrothals that he tried to arrange with the Starks and the Tullys. Willas had been correct in his assessment, and his prediction did come true. Three moons ago, ravens did fly from Casterly Rock to Riverrun and Winterfell. Yet the trout and the wolf both spurned the lion... with Ned Stark hastily arranging a northern betrothal for his son and Hoster Tully claiming the instability in the Riverlands as an excuse. Why, she had even caught a hint of the Dreadfort being considered, what with the heir fostered in the Vale, but she supposed even the mighty Lord of Casterly Rock knew to bite no more than he could chew.

It was too cruel that she couldn't openly say such things in front of the man… but I must be patient. A cornered beast would bite the hardest, as Willas had poetically said oftentimes. Not to mention that the Lannisters were not without power in the Reach themselves, for the current Lord Peake was married to a lesser Lannister if her memory served her. Troublesome, those Peakes, the Oakhearts before, and the Lannisters now...

But as she opened her mouth to shift the topic, knockings came and the door swung open. And the two men did stroll into the room. Well, one and a half - for the second one was a eunuch.

Jon Arryn stood regal and proud, uncaring for his old age. But Olenna could see the Stranger's scythe upon the Old Falcon's neck. A few steps behind him was a plump figure in a ghastly lavender robe, smelling of Lyseni perfumes. Varys. The Spider.

"Lord Tywin. And Lady Olenna. It's a most fortunate coincidence that you both are here. I am hoping to invite the two of you to the Small Council meeting, where I feel that your wisdom and experience will prove fruitful for the benefits of the realm."

"Well, well... How can I reject such an opportunity? You really do make my day, Lord Arryn."

"Lady Olenna," said the eunuch, "I regret that we haven't had much time together ever since your arrival to the city."

"I'm sure we'll have many opportunities for that time, Lord Varys."

"Indeed," tittered the Master of Whispers in a way that always unsettled her. Added to the fact that the Spider hadn't yet approached them in regard to the dragon business… he would've already known by now, for sure.

As they made their way from the room, Olenna looped her arm through Old Arryn's own. The Hand of the King was unsettled at first, she could tell. "Fret not, my lord Hand, I wouldn't dare to steal away such a wedded man. And even then, what would happen when the decrepits bump against one another? Ah, a question for the philosophers…”

Notes:

 AN: Next chapter is Arianne. So, what do you think of the chapter? Please do leave a review - criticism and suggestion are always welcomed! And also, happy holiday! 

Chapter 23: Arianne III

Notes:

Dialogue-heavy chapter coming up, thought I'll give you guys a wee bit of a warning. Enjoy!

ARIANNE III

Her eyes stared at the pristine white of the ceiling above. She was draped in satin silk, legs raveled amidst the sheet of her bed. As she half-sat from where she was laying, her eyes lazily scoured the room that she had stayed for the past moon in the so-called grandest Free City of Essos. “Darling?” she asked as she called out to the empty room, “Come back to bed.”

As the bliss dwindled down and out of her, fresh from the coupling she shared with her betrothed, Arianne found herself thinking back to her last day in Norvos, under the violet tree as she bid her mother a farewell marred by tears and quarrels. Her mother told her that Willas rather reminded her of a younger Doran. She warned her- warned Arianne of their flaws and faults. They speak with honey and they lie so sweetly, so easily. She had scarcely believed it then. Wheels and gears — more device than man, her mother told her.

Arianne knew that she was - above everyone else, the best to disagree with the sentiment, to swear that he was made of flesh, and yet she sensed it - the cogs of his mind, turning. In his kisses, there were questions. In his touches, there were wonderings. And as he sweetly made his love to her, Arianne saw beneath his eyes, of the ever-quick mind still working, calculating as always. Too many questions. In his love, Willas Tyrell gauged every bit - every littlest part, wondering, asking, determining how she would react to the smallest of his touch, and what it would mean to him.

Would him having ‘deflowered’ the Dornish Princess - for she had known that subtlety never was the Tyrell’s intention - be something he could use to leverage his gains against her father? Or would him pleasuring her, fingers grazing and trailing tongue, serve to guarantee the promised Dornish spears in his quest to seat his sister as queen? Could he make her his, thoroughly and wholly, fulfilling? I want his hand for his power and he wants what he could coerce out of my father for my hand. My, aren’t we a pair?

She indulged him as much as she indulged herself. Arianne honestly did find herself drowning- basking in the thrill of their game. For at the end of the day, Sunspear was still a prize she kept close to her heart. And at the end of the day, the question remained whether between what he wanted and what she wanted, which would come to fruition, and trespass the line of being a mere daydream. And who would know, mayhaps they could have it both their ways.

“Willas,” she called out again, stopping in front of the door that led to her balcony. There she saw him, still clad in his nightwear, a loose white tunic shirt that he wore unbuttoned. Their rooms in the manse of Willas’s aunt’s husband - Qhaedar, was his name - turned out to be adjoined with a shared balcony, where the view of the Summer Sea would regale them as it was stretched out over the sprawling city. Whether it was deliberate or not on her betrothed’s part, Arianne didn’t know, but she couldn’t care to find out, either.

“Willas, I am not going to be ignored.”

Her betrothed regarded her with half-asleep eyes and small grin from where he was slouched over the chair in their shared balcony. “Of course, you’re not. I can never ignore you, my dear,” he said as he tried to get up from his chair. Arianne snuck from behind him and pressed her hands onto his shoulder, effectively holding him down in his place.

The sun that rose over the sea was yellow and gold. It was weird when it wasn’t followed by the glitter of gold that normally would be the sparkles of the desert sand of Dorne, but Arianne supposed that the world was a most interesting place, indeed, as her Tyrell betrothed had continuously told her so.

“Are you still thinking about the red priestess?” she asked as she leaned down on his ears.

“I really can’t convince you to let go of that, can I?”

“How could I? Zealots follow you as if they are moths drawn to a flame. First, the bearded priests of Norvos. And now the Red Faith, tsk. Even in Dorne, we have them, running amok and preaching where they are not wanted, rare it might be. The priestess - what was her name again?”

He gripped his new cane, acquired in Qohor. Queer choice, it doesn’t appear to be as rich or artistic as his old one. At least they left the city in time it seems, for the news arrived recently of the priests of the Black Goat having performed a- a mass sacrifice. What a despicable religion.

“Kinvara. And she’s no ordinary red priestess. She’s what the High Septon is to the Faith. There are the words light and servant in the title, but I couldn’t bother myself to remember fully. Apparently, my new good uncle is quite resourceful indeed, and somehow managed to get the High Priestess of R’hllor to bless his marriage.”

“Is that not a good thing, then?” The wedding was a lustrous affair, Arianne must admit. A wedding of an Old Blood of Volantis. The bride and groom came in atop of dwarf elephants, and Yi Tish contortionists performed the queerest of tricks as the fire-conjurers danced with the flame that the Volantene so lovingly worshiped for their faith of R’hllor. And a handsome pair, they were… she thought back to Lady Lynesse with her silver hair in a polished silver dress. And the fair Lord Alios in the regal attire of the wealthiest of the Volantene. The Hightowers spare no expense in their luxury… I wonder, how will the Tyrells be?

“I suppose. Yes, it is a good thing. But it’s just - never mind…”

“You know I always mind. I know that the two of you shared a talk. And evidently, whatever it was that was said or done that day, it affected you until now. Your tongue is uncharacteristically still these days, you know?”

“Even the devil rests, too, my dear betrothed. But I must admit that I am flattered by how attentive you are with my tongue’s work.”

“So what was it, then? Should I fear that she has seduced you, maybe put you under her spell and bind you to her faith? It will make a good story, don’t you think?” She whispered yet again as she rested her head on the crook of his neck. “You’ll be the princess under the thrall of the evil sorceress, and I shall be the gallant knight sent to rescue you. Consorting with the red faith of R’hllor… my father will be overjoyed in needing no more reason to cast me aside.”

A hand caressed the top of her hair as she felt the Tyrell loop his arm around her head. “Hmm, I’m sure it will not be so bad. And he means well, your father. But as you know, politics is the undoing of men. Anyway," he said, noticing her groan, "the Red Priestess did unsettle me with something that she said."

“Oh? Did she tell what fortunes lie ahead?”

“More like how stars will align themselves, which no man can affect. Vague bastards, all of them priests, I damn their lot and their precious prophecies."

“So why all the musings over something you cannot change?”

“Oh, I disagree. Nothing is ever unchanging. But I was thinking more of the past. Heir of the Green King, she called me. I wonder if she meant it in a technical sense, seeing as I am the heir to Highgarden, or more- metaphorically.”

“Hmmm, Tyrells did intermarry with Gardeners, did they not? Or were there other Green Kings that I am not aware of?” Once she would’ve laughed at the talk of magic and lore, but the ruins of the Rhoynar cities had been an eye-opening experience for her.

“Well, there was Garth Greenhand before that. The First King of the First Men. And Gardeners at first didn’t rule all the Reach as it is now - Garth’s other children were royals too, you know? Even Brandon the Builder descent from one of them.

“The Builder? How?”

“Twice over, even- well… possibly. The son of Garth Greenhand who- well, sired the Builder is now known as Brandon of the Bloody Blade. Now, no legend says who mothered Brandon the Builder. But there is a lesser-known one that implies. According to that legend, Brandon of the Bloody Blade was bedding his half-sister, known as Rose of Red Lake, the legendary founder of House Crane. It doesn’t say whether they had an issue or not. But the Cranes’ official lore stipulates their founder’s daughter and direct heir became known as the Blue Queen… You see where the contradiction lies?”

What? Where would there be one? But Willas kept looking at her expectantly, with that glint in his eyes when he wanted her to solve a riddle, to test her. She made a haphazard and rather silly guess before thinking it through. “Colors?” He nodded. Huh. “Why would the Queen of Red Lake be monikered the Blue Queen?”

“A more fitting question would be why it was named Red Lake? I was there. The castle didn't have any red features. And the lake itself was almost crystal blue, a trait which maesters say is unique for lakes that are not in the mountains of the Westerlands, the Vale, or the North... And their banner-”

“Golden cranes on a field of blue,” she cut him, smiling. “Did they change it?”

“Not as far as I know, and we, Tyrells, know our vassals’ histories quite thoroughly… Why would a remarkably blue lake be named Red?”

“I- I… I don’t know.”

“Well, something to think about on the ship, then.”

“Don’t you know?”

“I might. And no, I don’t think I want to tell you. Something needs to entertain you on the ship and it can’t always be me or Garlan, or teasing poor Sam.”

“Neglecting me even before our marriage. Should I fear being set aside? I’m afraid it won’t be that easy, for you should’ve thought twice before tying yourself to the stubborn and hot-blooded Dornish, my lord.”

He laughed. “We’ll make a killer out of you yet, darling. And set aside… hmm, should I fear it, too, then? I heard that a certain bastard of Godsgrace is quite dashing and handsome, indeed," he said, deliberately licking his lips. He couldn’t possibly-

Arianne steeled herself, trying to lace her words with confidence. “Hmm, afraid of a little competition?” Willas chuckled at that as she continued, “I assume that my dream of stabbing my uncle in the crotch and feeding him his own bollocks might come true for this.”

He laughed yet again. “As much as I would love to see you do that to Oberyn, this one I know it myself, not of him. Why? Are you afraid, little princess?” He asked, voice dangerously low. “Don’t be. And as for your earlier question. Perhaps I do or perhaps I do not. Still, I’m most excited to see this Ser Daemon, though I dare not think your father will have him in Sunspear. That’s a pity, for I really do want to meet him as you already did with this… dashing knight.”

There was no heat in his words, only pure curiosity, and a hint of… desire. Surely… he can’t be implying that- Arianne got up as she walked to the edges of the balcony, putting her hands on its railings as she leaned down to stare at the city below and the shore afront, a thousand thoughts running through her mind. “I just know that one day that tongue of yours would get you into trouble. My mother told me that you think yourself twice too clever and that it would be your downfall, one day.”

To her surprise, Willas laughed at her words. “Ah, pleasant woman, your mother. Although, a bit biased for sure. But then again, I have found that some things are indeed meant to be left alone and not to be rectified. Fortunately for me, though, I will have you by my side to constantly humble me, no?”

She turned to look and saw her betrothed as he got up from the chair. Willas stood as confident as ever. It was a vexation, should she be honest. Can a man always be so sure? When Arianne remained silent, Willas asked, “Something on your mind, Princess?”

“Not much. Just how I’m going to be the wanton Dornish harlot that enthralls and steals away the darling heir of the Reach when we set foot on Westeros again.”

“Ah, but you do enthrall me, my dear, conqueror of my heart,” he said with a teasing smirk.

As the Tyrell stopped beside her, she turned, her hand along his chest until she settled on his jaw. She cupped his chin as she spoke, “Hmm, I can’t deny that the wealth of Highgarden and the power of being the Lady of the Reach is too tempting for me to pass over, love.”

She heard him playfully sigh at her words. “And here I thought what we have is unconditional love,” he said as he mockingly grabbed his chest in pain. “Either way, you need not worry about what they’ll think, rest assured, I have a plan to-”

“When do you ever not have a plan, hmm?”

“Hmm, I don’t know, how about when you deliberately sought me out on my first day in Sunspear? You lured me into a trap and ambushed me like a hunter would with their prey.”

“And yet you won that one, still. You convinced me to go with the betrothal.”

“I learned early, my lady. And what can I say? I do have my charms as I found out that day. I promise you,” he said as he leaned, bringing their mouths together. Arianne had only begun to melt into the kiss when the Tyrell withdrew himself. With ghosted breaths over her lip, he stood taller than her as he whispered so softly, “Everything will be alright.” Yet you can’t promise me that, can you? She thought- she wanted- she yearned to voice loudly.

But in the end, she didn’t.

Later that day, they bid farewell to the newly-wed Qhaedars when the sun was at its highest. Lady Lynesse’s brother, Ser Humfrey, would also be joining them in their ship to Westeros. Since as words have it, the young, comely son of Lord Hightower was to find himself betrothed soon. Or so Willas told her.

“Bid me a welcome for your betrothed, won’t you, brother?” She heard Lady Lynesse say as she shared a parting hug with her brother. They were close, as Willas had yet again told her, as they were both the youngest of Lord Leyton’s many… many children. She wondered if she would ever be that close to Trystane, a brother that she left in Norvos, who himself was due for a betrothal much like hers. To the daughter of the Archon of Tyrosh who was once supposed to foster me, she recalled the explanation of her uncle, of how Prince Doran had made an alliance with said Archon, and promises of fosterage, all derailed when her mother threatened to hurt herself should Arianne be sent away. And now, her father was reviving the alliance yet again, for the sake of her cousin, they told her, for the price of the Tyroshi Fleet and support.

Aegon… she thought to the dead boy that turned to not be. Fair and handsome and polite, she found herself agreeing to the words of her betrothed when he referred to her cousin as a “perfect prince.” Aegon… who was to be her cousin and good brother as he himself was betrothed to Willas’s sister, Margaery, who they called the Rose of Highgarden. A sister… I have mine already - Tyene, but still, Arianne wondered whether this Margaery would like her or not. Willas assured her that she was lovely and had a heart big enough to love everyone in the world, but Arianne wondered nonetheless. Close, the Tyrell siblings were - even if they were far away, they have swapped letters continuously. She felt a strange something whenever she thought of that… whenever she thought of her own siblings and then… compared.

Volantis was wistful that day. The sky was clouded and the breeze was easy. Arianne felt the wind against her hair, carrying specks of dirt and the sands of the shore. The waves rippled as their ship sailed away. From across the deck, Arianne caught the eyes of the younger Tyrell, standing with Sam, who was ever the diligent squire. She nodded at Garlan, with him immediately understanding Arianne’s wish to remain alone. But as she winked at Sam, the boy turned red and immediately averted his eyes. It was hard to believe, at times, that the sweet boy was Randyll Tarly’s son, but who was she to complain, not when teasing poor Sam had been so much fun along their trip.

She was surprised to not be saddened at the thought of leaving Volantis and Essos. She had thought she would dread her return to Westeros. But here and now, she could only ever be excited to see the unknown that she would need to brave upon her return. And for the promise she made herself. I will forge my own fate.

---

It took less than a sennight for her to see the splendor of Sunspear again, unchanging in her absence. A grand welcome greeted them, her father - Prince Doran leading it, standing seemingly more regal than she had ever recalled of him. But her eyes didn’t twitch twice upon seeing him, no it was the figure standing next to him. Square jaw, brown eyes, and stocky build. Black hair kept at a modest length. And a face resembling another that she knew all too well. Quentyn, he must be.

She walked to approach her beloved brother. She stood in front of him, Quentyn. He was taller than her, but not by much. Still, Arianne met his eyes. I must not falter. And yet when she saw her brother’s eyes. She saw none of what was in hers. Fear, uncertainty, anxiety, restlessness, and longing, she saw in her brother’s eyes.

“Little brother,” she regarded him. Arianne could sense the eyes drilled into the back of her neck at that. Her father’s. Her uncle’s. Her betrothed’s. “How nice of Lord Anders to let you out of… his home to greet your lovely sister.”

“Arianne,” he answered, voice close to falter. “It’s lovely to meet you again, sister.” Arianne smiled an amused smile inside. Still, she hugged him, as was only expected. She knew not what she anticipated, was it disappointment? But she felt sadness at the embrace, regret and tinge of familiar numbness, as she once again looked upon the face of fate that had torn them all asunder. After the welcome, she gave her father one last look before they were ushered into the castle.

The feathered pillow on the couch was a rather queer addition, she thought. But as she put in her lap, listening to the reports her uncle was giving her father, it was somewhat of a comfort for her. Willas was too busy watching the two Martell men like a hawk. Garlan, meanwhile, tried to be friendly with Quentyn, albeit the boy was too shy to properly reply to the now-famed knight. So my dearest little brother is shy, nervous in front of people, and has little gift for making friends. If she didn’t know better, she would say that the gods were smiling down at her at that very instance.

“Oh, Lys was lovely, father,” she jumped into the conversation. “Granted, we only stayed there for a night, but we were in such a rush after Volantis, though. The people there thrive. Such a strange little island. But I must say that I agree when they call it dragonlord’s paradise, albeit there are no dragonlords left now. What a shame.”

Her uncle gave her a sly smile at the not-so-subtle irony. “Dear niece, I would’ve thought that your highlight of our lively time in Lys to be the little dance that we had soon after we left it. If I had any doubt of your brilliance, Willas, I would have none of it, now. Your ship was a marvel when it comes to evading corsairs and alike.”

“The Goldenhand left them in the dust,” added Garlan, who was unusually enthusiastic about the subject. “All it took was a bolt of our scorpion and those pirates ran scurrying back like rats.”

“Corsairs? Pirates? What is this that you’re talking about, Oberyn?” her father asked her uncle. Willas remained silent, only offering a smile at Oberyn’s earlier words.

“Then again, it was to be expected, dear brother. They say that the Tyroshi keep their tongues forked like their beards, after all.”

“Someone snitched, I suppose,” offered her betrothed on the subject. “Archon is an enviable position, Prince Doran. Are any of us here surprised if the Archon has enemies as much as the Lyseni has whores?”

As expected, the red viper laughed at that. “I like him, indeed, brother. You picked nicely for Arianne.” Surprise came to her, for her uncle had just expressed his stance on the rather complex situation of the Martells to her father, quite clearly, at that. “It was half a day after we departed Lys. Black banners came trailing. It was near the Stepstones. Rather clever, that, for none is easier than blaming a sunken, missing ship on the treacherous water of the Stepstones.”

“I still say it was Myr, Oberyn,” interjected her betrothed. “The Lyseni are not so crass to hire pirates in daylight and send them after us directly after our departure. No, it was Myr. Should they succeed, they would rob Tyrosh of an ally and shift the blame to Lys, causing a war between the two, while Myr could wait and reap the benefits later on. Dorne must brave for yet another war between the daughters soon, it seems, Prince Doran. Though, I think it’s only normal for siblings to quarrel, no?”

“They war endlessly, the daughters. Every year or two, we must look carefully to the east as they warred over cheese and spice. But our alliance with Tyrosh is secured, yes, brother?”

Oberyn nodded at that. “The Archon is pleased with his daughter’s time under your guiding hands at the Water Garden. Worry not, our little package will have its delivery secured.” Everyone in the room- save for her brother, perhaps, understood the package immediately. My cousin Aegon and the promised Golden Company.

“Lord Willas, I don’t know if you have heard. But it seems that Lord Tywin Lannister has taken an… interest in our union. In the wake of the announcement of your betrothal, he apparently has secured the royal charter to build his own Bank of Lannisport.”

“So I’ve heard. Well, if Lord Tywin wishes to invite us into a cock-measuring contest, then we’ll show him our own, won’t we Oberyn?” her betrothed said as he sent her uncle a playful wink. “So long as Dorne stands with us, of course. Although, my Hightower kin won’t be overly concerned about that, as Uncle Humfrey told me. But I shall discuss it more when we reach Hightower on our journey home."

“Our alliance, sealed with the marriage to come between you and my daughter, is to be tested soon, Lord Willas. And House Martell will prove to remain faithful in that.”

Willas nodded at her father. “If you would excuse me, Prince Doran. I fear that my injury has been acting up after our lengthy trip. I hope you won’t take it as an affront on my part.”

“Certainly not, Lord Willas. And Caleotte will serve you as you need.”

He left, with Garlan following his steps as they exited the room, politely leaving the table all to their family. The squeeze his hand gave hers was a show of support. He cares. He must be… right? In his parting smile, there was encouragement. I must be brave. The glass ornament hung high on the ceiling, Arianne spied. She wondered what would happen if it fell.

“So, what is it that you wish to speak to me, father? For last you did so, you ended up telling me that you wished to sideline me as your heir and told me of a broken betrothal.”

Prince Doran let out a long sigh at that. Has your dear daughter upset you, father? Too bad, you’ve been upsetting me for years. “As you know, Arianne, our situation in Dorne is delicate. One misstep and we will see ruins come to our house, and our dreams dashed.”

“Yes, I wonder whose fault is that,” she said, words bitter as she stared at her uncle. Oberyn merely shrugged at that. She loved him but his nonchalance was truly infuriating when it came to serious matters.

“A letter comes from Lord Anders with your brother. Not even Quentyn knows what it reads. But he has offered… to tie our houses together, and betroth his daughter, Gwyneth, for Quentyn.”

Willas has told me this. And he told me that it would be suicide if father agreed to that. “You can't seriously consider it, father. Lest you must’ve been more senile than I ever thought before.”

“I understand your dislike of Lord Anders, Arianne…” he tried to placate. Meanwhile, Quentyn looked as if a frightened kitten, caught in between lions.

“If you wish to go on, then go on and let all Dorne know that Anders Yronwood rules Dorne. Not Doran Martell. He’s fostering your heir, already,” she said as she spat the word, giving a sideways glance to her brother, though not as heated as she planned beforehand. “On top of that, you wish to tie Quentyn to them? I’ll be generous and call it ten years before the Yronwoods unseat us. My, what a splendid day it would be for the Usurper.”

Rap-tap-tap went the knuckles of her uncle against the sturdy wooden table. “Your daughter has the right of it. Yronwood defied us, how many times? They follow a different law, Andal Law, a son before a daughter. What would your friend, Lady Toland, say when we’re giving them so much power, Doran? It’s fortunate Arianne would have the Reach, lest there will be much, much more grumbling from the Rhoynar houses."

"And don't forget whatever scheme Jon Arryn or Tywin Lannister will concoct out of your predicament, dear father," she added.

“What do you think of the girl, Quentyn?” her father asked her brother, seemingly ignoring the previous words spoken.

“I… Gwyneth is kind and fun, and… pretty, I guess. Cletus likes her. If you wish for me to marry her, father, then… then I will do my duty.” He’s frightened, she realized. He’s a child.

“I’m not going to deny Lord Anders.” Deny Yronwood and you’ll lose Quentyn’s biggest supporter and your strongest bannerman. “Nor will I accept it. Not yet, not now.” Accept Yronwood… and you turn many houses against you, father. “We will wait and see, and in the meantime, I shall invite him to discuss the matter with me using letters.” Whatever choice you make, I will reap from what you will sow.

“Have it your way, then, father. For I will be far away in the Reach when you shall confuse yourself with how to deal with this. You dug this hole yourself, I pray you won’t trip and fall into it, dragging my siblings and cousins in this mess.”

“And what would you do, then, niece? If you were in Doran’s place.”

Days and nights, she had consulted her Tyrell betrothed of their quandary with the succession of Dorne. Willas had made it clear he would give no direct support, no lethal push, and no swords to claim Sunspear for her. And yet… he left many leeways, many holes to probe and think about. “If I were my father, I would let Quentyn remain in Yronwood until he claims his spurs and knighthood. But then, I shall keep him away from it. The coastal houses of the Salty Dornish, as the Young Dragon named us, are to be the biggest problem with your exquisite inheritance choice, father. So I would marry Quentyn to one of them.”

Prince Doran studied her with careful eyes. He must be wondering how I can be so generous with my words. “That’s… not a half-bad plan, Arianne. You’re a good Princess of Dorne. And I will have no doubt you will do your duty well.”

Clap! came the sound as her uncle stood from where he sat. “I have had enough of your mind games and politics, my dear family. Now, if you would excuse me, oh my princely brother, I am sure Ellaria is waiting for me. She’s most likely waiting in my bed, naked and -”

“Yes, Oberyn, you may go,” her father said as Quentyn turned red as a boiled crab would from their uncle’s words.

“Lovely, so it’s just us and father, then, dear brother,” she said to which Quentyn sheepishly smiled. “Father,” she said as the word tasted strange in her tongue. Let this be done already. I want to see my sweet Tyene. Bid goodbye to Drey and Garin and kiss them one last time. I want Sylvia to brush my hair again. Hells, I want to see Daemon just once more. I want to get this on and then off, to welcome whatever may welcome me next. In Highgarden. “This may be my only chance. I want to ask you, why?”

She could hear the dust that fell moments after she uttered those words. Prince Doran laid back on his chair, while Quentyn was eyeing the door as if it was a piece of meat. “Why what, Arianne?”

“Oberyn told me it was your scheme that made Aunt Elia wed to Rhaegar Targaryen. We all know what happened, but why? You spend your life hellbent on your view of vengeance, and yet you are too blind to see that your family is falling apart because of it. Your own children, your blood! Not even when your wife left you. Why?”

“Arianne… a Prince’s duty is-”

“Don’t. Please don’t tell me to put our people above our heart and everything,” she replied, impassive. “My question is not an easy question and I do not deserve an easy answer. I wonder, father. Did you weep? When they came to tell you of Aunt Elia, did you weep?” Or is the human part of you always dead?

His eyes darkened. Arianne knew she overstepped. But she found that she didn’t care. “I told you once. Words are like arrows, once you have loosen them you can not draw them back. I’m a forgiving man, Arianne. But if one more time you dare to-”

“Dare to what, father? Do you expect me to bury it, leave and never look back? Your silence has already cost you your family,” she then reached for a small necklace she hid in her dress. “A recompense,” she had said and shoved it back into her mother’s hands that day in Norvos. “A promise,” her mother had replied instead. She tossed it over to her father, that orange necklace. “Return it to your father, so that he knows that I will come back for it, mother bade me to tell you.”

“Mellario…”

“She loves you still, she told me. She loves Doran Martell and believes that the person she fell in love with is still there, buried beneath the twisted, jaded version that vengeance has shaped you into. I would’ve called her a fool had I not seen her tears. She told me she knew not of your plot and scheme for me. Why, father, why?”

Prince Doran was gone. His eyes were glued to the pendant in his hands, traces of swollen gouts barely visible. Arianne didn’t feel sadness at the sight. It shimmered, albeit weakly. “She remembers…” she heard him say so feebly. And even now he ignores me.

“Quentyn was nine,” she said as her brother was startled at the mention of his name, “nine, father, nine! You wrote to him, and I was fourteen, flowered and grown! Why, I ask you, now, why? And you,” she now turned to Quentyn, “I wonder, brother. Did you ever ask? What happens to Arianne, father? Or were you so eager to claim Dorne for yourself?” It was rage that came over her.

“I- i… I didn’t- I don’t-”

“Because he didn’t know, Ari’,” came the voice of her father, sudden. “He never did. Because I never sent that letter. The next morning, it was but ashes on the fireplace.”

Arianne snorted at that, a laugh throttled. “Is that supposed to be a consolation?”

“I do not know what it is that you ask of me. And so I can’t give you whatever it is you need of me. I made mistakes, a lot of them. And so did you, mistakes that made me feel that you were not to know. But I swear this to you by the sun, that I am always, always trying to-”

“Were you ashamed? Is your daughter too much of a wanton, gossiping slut for you to tolerate? Seven hells, father, you never look. If only you would open your eyes and stop being blind, you would’ve seen yourself in me. In us. I do not have your face, I know. But how you kiss my hair, I see that in Trystane. Your face, I see it in Quentyn. Try looking at me. Try seeing me. I’m here, I was. I was waiting.”

“So be it, then. Lay all the blame on me," he said softly. Bellow and raise your voice! Let me know that you feel, let me know if you're hurting, father. "I’m old and half past my way to the grave, already. Your blame is a pressure I can bear. That’s the least I can do.”

“Least, least, least,” she repeated, bitter and condescending. “What’s the most, then, dear daddy? Or would you always give the least for your blood? To my shame, my eternal shame, I admit… that I would’ve crawled. Begging, kneeling, and scraping to prove myself to you in the past. If only you would’ve called me then.”

“But not now?” offered her father, almost silent. And so it was silence that he received. The Prince of Dorne looked at her as she tried to search for warmth behind those unflinching eyes. She failed.

“I never wanted any of it. Any of this,” came her brother’s voice, small and meek. “I… I only want… I only want to do my best for my family. Aria- sister,” he looked at her, “I swear if I could… I would, I really would. I do not want Dorne. But if it’s father’s decision, then… then… then I will try my best to live up to it. I don’t want to disappoint our house… that is all. That is all I ever wanted.”

It was quick in her realization that Quentyn was a mirror she never dared to look at before. And as the fourteen-year-old boy dragged his feet out of the room, Arianne saw him as the boy and the half-child that he still was. My brother. My plain-faced, unassuming, unambitious, shy, little brother. It’s not his fault, Willas had told her at times. It’s not his fault, she agreed to the thought, only now. My father’s fault. All of this… my father’s fault.

“Quentyn, wait,” her father called to halt the boy’s footsteps. Doran then turned to face her. “I’m sorry, Arianne.” Prince Doran’s voice was soft, the wind that would breeze through Dorne at the break of the dawn.

“All I want… All I want is to be loved.” There, I said it. Arianne didn’t know. She did not notice. But her cheeks were wet as tears marred them so. She looked around, finding her brother’s eyes. To which the surprise would be one she always remembers. Love. Affection. Warmth. She saw all of them in those brown-black eyes. He’s… he’s the same as me.

And as she stood up from the couch, Doran’s eyes followed her, but she knew they were lost, somewhere else. She stopped as she reached Quentyn, standing by his side as the door gave way for an escape. No, a departure. She looked at Quentyn and swallowed, before returning back to her father’s eyes. “All I want is to be loved,” she repeated yet again. “That’s all any of us have ever wanted from you.”

Notes:

And we're done! Also, I'd like to inform you that if everything goes by alright, we should conclude this first part of the story in just three chapters, before moving on to canon time. So, so, what do you think of Willas and Arianne? And thoughts of her closure with her family, and what possibly lies on her future?

Please do leave a review to let me know what you think.

Chapter 24: Garlan V

Notes:

This is a bit later than usual, but I've been giving myself a break from writing, a much-needed break, as well as to help me go back to focus on my study & college preparation for a while this month. Anyway, quick notes on Reach politics: the Florents are in canon the biggest active threat, and they are allied to the Cranes of Red Lake (double marriages, Alester to a Crane, and Alester's sister to Lord Crane). The Fossoways in canon (both branches) went to Stannis after Renly, despite the fact that Garlan & Janna Tyrell were married to Fossoways from both branches. So, I took the liberty to expand on some of the more intricate details of Reach politics in this chapter. Enjoy!

296 AC, five moons before the Tyrell-Martell wedding

---

GARLAN

The water trickled down the leaves, few and far between, a beat of drip and a longer one of silence. Drip! It went again as Garlan made his way through the gardens and the glasses of Highgarden, where once the Gardener Kings of old would do the same. Above the castle was a painting of bleak grey. The sky was metal, rapidly consumed by steel clouds. The sun was timorous, peeking but barely there, its rays yielding against the breaking rain.

Highgarden was slumbering today, Garlan thought, on a rainy day amidst a seemingly eternal summer. He took a moment to inhale the scent in the air, the musk of rain upon the earth. It never did smell so sweet. It never did taste closer to home.

Garlan’s destination was a door of green and gold. Floral patterns decorated it, to the surprise of no one who ever had stepped foot in Highgarden. Windswept hair and face flushed by the air, Garlan brushed his coat with a few simple strokes and considered himself presentable enough, however in disarray he might actually be. The door swung open, and Garlan entered, nodding a polite smile to the old guard ever vigilant at the side.

Willas always had a flair for drama, after all.

The first thing he took notice of was his brother, ever punctual in his desire to be the first. He stood there, straight as a ramrod, silent and still, immobile - that of a statue. He was facing out of the window, fingers resting on the end of its ledge. His brother painted a grand image, Garlan thought. A silhouette against a window, in the face of a drab and dreary sky. All this lacks is a flash of lightning and Willas would weep tears of joy.

“I see that your head is much occupied, dear brother,” Garlan said, finally breaking the stretching silence. “But then again, when has it ever not?”

Willas turned to face him, a smile immediately breaking on his now alit face. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

“You take everything as a compliment.”

Willas’ face was unimpressed. “Yes, I suppose. I do advise you to do the same, Garlan. It has saved me from many awkward situations.”

“I’ll mark that down,” Garlan said instead. "So we are the first, then?” He poured for himself a drink from the pitcher of wine resting on the table.

“It seems so. I am sure Grandmother is not far behind. Where’s Loras anyway, weren’t you two planning to spar today?”

He nodded. There were days in Highgarden when Garlan wouldn’t see his brother from daybreak to sunset. Such was a demonstration of how large Highgarden was. “Yes, we were. And we did,” he answered simply.

“Ah, brothers reunion, then? What a warm and rosy time! You two gallant fools poking at each other with wooden sticks-”

“Tourney swords,” he interrupted.

“Poking at each other with wooden sticks, drenched in sweat as the sun burns high in the sky! I hope you remember your promise to not go too hard on our dearest littlest brother.”

“What can I say?” Garlan shrugged, before continuing playfully, “A man’s got to defend his honor. To insinuate that I could rust, in front of our guests, no less. Care, I may not about my reputation, but to let him besmirch it?”

“How very ungallant of you, o’ Garlan the Gallant. And what happened to Loras, then? You didn’t ditch him, did you?”

“Old Lomys has him, last I know. Oh, don’t give me that look, Will. He’s young. Brash and brazen and bold. He needs to learn. And if the hard way is what it takes, then the hard way it will be.”

Willas muttered something he didn’t hear, sighing as he brought his hands to his face. “Our Loras is a dreamer. Always has been. Sometimes… I dread for him.”

“Dread?” Garlan asked, frowning. Is this about Prince Renly? Garlan himself knew not of what to make of what Willas had told him. “And what is it that has made the great mastermind of Highgarden quivering in fear?”

“The roles we’re assigned. We have only played in the dark ‘till now. Lurking, scurrying like rats. Feasting off carcasses like roaches. But now? Now the game enlarges and the stage expands. We danced with the dragon in his den and the snakes in their sand. In and out. We survived. Yet we will dance our dances blind from now on. New players enter. Those who ‘till now have only lingered in the shadows. For now, the game will be played in broad daylight. And our hands wouldn’t do to keep our cards hidden for long.”

He stopped in the middle of his speech. Willas’ face was carved from stone. And solemnity ruled his eyes. “I can only dread the roles we are assigned. I can only dread what reads the ink at the end of the story. For I know that should it be inked red in blood, then it is writ so because of my doings. Either this ends in exultation or a lamentation. Jubilation and celebration. Or ruination and desolation. I dread. I worry. For I do fear confusion and accidents.”

Heavy was his brother’s words. The beat of silence that followed a strenuous one, stretching seemingly forever. Lost at wits and yet head bursting with thoughts. Garlan could only look his brother in the eyes. “Step back, then. Take short steps and sure stride. If you are not certain- we can afford to wait, Willas. We understand how to build the things that last, as our forebears had withstood before us."

The creak was the pull of a door. And the thud was the sound of it swinging open. Olenna Tyrell came, sunken cheeks and wrinkled face, walking as if she was not a day older than thirty. “Ah, my dearest favorite grandson,” she said as she stopped in front of them. “Oh, and you Willas, too, of course.”

“Grandmother,” Willas said. The change in his brother was easily noticeable, him immediately snapping into his usual self, vulnerabilities vanishing in a snap. “To what do I owe this particular displeasure on such a lovely day?”

“When you convinced me to go with your mad plan in your quest over your fathead father, I had expected those wretched bards to begone from our halls. Not infesting them like beetles, crawling all over more so than they ever have before.”

“Ah, it’s one of those days, then? Truth to be told, it came as a surprise to me when I came home to the Citadel still standing. I had thought that it would’ve gone up in flames in my absence. Why, Grandmother, I never pegged you for one to miss an opportunity before.”

“Would that I could, my dear. But better your father leaves me alone rather than pestering me in my dusty tower.”

Not so subtly, Garlan put out a cough against his hand. “Well, Father actually insists on evading you when he can, Grandmother. It’s just you that can’t stand him being alone to do as we wish that he ends up ‘pestering’ you.”

It was rare to see Olenna Tyrell with no clever remarks coming from her mouth. And it was so that Willas immediately added, “And here I was, expecting you to have something witty that rhymes for us. Has your tongue softened, Grandmother?”

“Oh, but I have raised monsters indeed, it seems,” she said, her voice scandalized. But there was a smile on her face, a genuine one, reserved only for her blood.

“Does it bode as ill as you thought, Grandmother? The Oaks.”

“I’m sure of that, my dears. Handy work, that one. It’s only when the new Lord of Old Oak came to Highgarden to swear fealty and I saw Peake in his face did I finally connect the strings.”

“Lannister’s work, then,” Garlan concluded. “No doubt, they will try to use Starpike in projecting their power and influence here in the Reach and weaken our hold over our major bannermen. Peakes are already unreliable even before the current lord is married to a Lannister.”

“Quite. I never cease to marvel at the vanity of those Lannisters. They should’ve changed their sigil into a preening peacock well long ago if you asked me.”

Willas huffed a small laugh. “The Bank certainly is an extravagant affair. And a needless exaggeration of a move on Lord Tywin’s part. But I suppose, we can’t fault him, can we? A Lannister Queen and a half-Lannister Crown Prince. I, too, would’ve felt my position secure for another generation if I were him. Enough time to let such an investment grow. But too bad for him, what he doesn’t know will be his downfall.”

“Yes, yes. And speaking of that, do our Martell friends in the desert know?”

“Doran Martell keeps things so very close to his chest,” Willas said, sighing. “Arianne’s little help, and even if I could get Oberyn to see some of my suggestions, he’s unquestionably loyal to his brother at the end of the day.”

Has Willas told Arianne yet? He wondered whether his brother trusted his betrothed enough, with all the large shadows of the wedding looming over them. Then again, it wasn’t a matter of trust. It was a decision. Willas laid plans for his evening course. Plans for the path he took when traveling from one room to another in the castle. When does he plan to do so?

“And what of this Dornish Princess that you whisked off her feet and swindled all the way here to Highgarden? I’d like to see this yield of a harvest that you’re risking your cock getting bitten by a snake for, Willas.”

“Tut-tut, a lady shouldn't curse, Grandmother. And I did so only because I’m heir to the richest man in Westeros.”

“Richest?” Garlan asked. “I’m sure Tywin Lannister would have some words about that.”

“What use is gold?” Willas said. “The might of the west isn’t what the Lord of Casterly Rock imagines. For all their wealth, the Westerlands lacks a fleet to secure their coast, and their mountains yield them silver and gold, not wheat and barley. They will all be chewing away their gold when we deprive them of our harvests. Yes, yes, it’s still a relatively fertile land. But gold is not forever. Never is. And so are their provisions.”

“Worry not about Tywin, my dears. Our new friends are who I’m concerned with. I hope you do not mean to seat your betrothed on Sunspear, Willas. I know not what your father was telling you when I wasn’t around, but it’s a most-”

“Your lack of faith wounds me, Grandmother. Sunspear is a mere pipe dream. Albeit one Arianne still yearns and longs for. But, with her in tow, so would a score of Dornish houses. Whatever Doran does, Arianne still has sympathizers in Dorne. Whatever we do, we have ensured that our long-standing rival will be disturbed, disunited, and destabilized for at least a generation, rendering them incapable of posing a danger to us. Divide and conquer.”

“Pick them piece by piece and pit one against the other? Hah! Now this, I like, Willas.”

“Hmm, plottings, then? What fun!” Garlan bellowed sarcastically in a cheerful voice.

“You may keep the disinterested noble charade, dear brother. But I know deep down you’re as much as a Tyrell as we are.”

“Still,” he answered, shrugging and with a sigh. “You’re dismissing Doran Martell. The man is clever and able. And there’s a possibility of him snuffing out our real intention. And guess whose uncle he is?”

Willas nodded a disgruntled nod. “I agree. We need a guarantee. We need safety. And for that, we will need his trust. Time… time is what we need. Time to sway, to build bonds, and wither even rocks. We will dare not move so fast. And so, our littlest rose shall need to prove to be most eloquent. The question is - is she, Grandmother?”

Olenna Tyrell stared back at his brother, unflinching. Her gaze was sharp. And then she smiled. “You don’t think I’ll let the first Tyrell queen be an airheaded broodmare, do you?”

His and his brother’s smiles were what answered her words.

---

“So, Princess Arianne-”

“Oh, please, just call me Arianne, Lady Olenna. It would be an honor for you to call me that. And perhaps one day I can call you… Grandmother?” She wore a gown of pink chiffon, flowing freely as if dancing with the wind.

“We’ll see about that, dear,” the once-Redwyne said, sharp and curt. “Do you know that I was once to be a Princess myself? I was betrothed… to a Targaryen Princeling, as all the rage was back then. Oh, I can’t even remember his name anymore, though I do remember his twitchy little ferret-face. Ah, what a shame, no, dearie?”

“What’s a shame, Lady Olenna?”

“To be a mere lady and no longer a Princess. But I suppose only those vain harlots like the Lannisters would care about such things. Must not worry, my dear, it may seem like a stepdown, but-”

“Giving up my title? No,” Arianne said softly with the faintest shake of the head.

Olenna Tyrell’s eyes narrowed. Dangerously. And then Willas said, “Rather than for Arianne to surrender her claim and abdicate completely, she’d instead move down the succession line, behind her brothers. And so, she’ll continue to style herself as Princess Arianne of House Nymeros Martell of Dorne. To be added with the titles - Lady of Highgarden and Lady of the Reach when - if the Gods will it - the time comes.”

“A Princess of our very own, won’t that be interesting, Grandmother?” Margaery quipped from the side.

“Oh, very interesting indeed,” their grandmother answered.

"I hope you and your cousin are not facing any trouble settling in, Princess Arianne," their mother said. "Some boys could be rough, but I will talk with Captain Igon if-“

"You needn't worry about Tyene, Lady Alerie," Arianne said.

One of the Sand Snakes, Tyene Sand was a bastard of Oberyn Martell, sired on a septa from the Reach. Courteous, polite, and graceful. Quiet, shy, and withdrawn, even. But Garlan knew that the woman was as deadly as her sire. Something flashed in Alerie Hightower's eyes at that. A bastard as a Princess companion at Highgarden, hah… the Martells sure are bold. Although, Garlan figured that it was more on Arianne's insistence rather than some designated slight on Prince Doran's part. The topics quickly changed.

“A dozen cooks, only the best and the most lavish of Essos, I’m telling you. No worries, Father, we’ll recreate even Aunt Lynesse’s seventy-seven wedding courses with no problem.”

Mace Tyrell’s laugh was boisterous, eyes lighting up immediately as he sat there in green and blue regalia. Garlan found himself unable to blame his brother, for the wedding at Volantis was a festivity like he had never seen before.

“What does Lord Fossoway write, Mace?” their grandmother asked. Contrary to the many rumors swirling on and on about how the Queen of Thorns was the true head of House Tyrell, hers was no more but an advisor… albeit a strong one to the Lord of Highgarden.

“He wrote to inform us of joyous news. A betrothal between his daughter, Floris, and Ser Imry Florent, Lord Alester’s niece.”

Alerie Hightower added immediately, “Just last moon he announced a betrothal between his son, Ser Gilbert, the Heir to Cider Hall and Lord Crane’s daughter. Your handmaid, Merry, Margaery…” Merry was Meredyth Crane, the only daughter of Lord Rycherd Crane, whose wife was Rylene Florent, Lord Alester’s sister. And in turn, Lord Alester himself took Lord Rycherd’s sister, Lady Melara as his wife. The girl had been sent to Highgarden to be Margaery’s handmaiden and companion a year past, a move to check the Florent-Crane alliance, especially in the light of the former’s ties to the Crown.

“It seems that our Fossoway friends forget themselves,” came their grandmother’s voice.

“Madness! Who does he think he is?” was the angry remarks of his brother. Willas was smart. But control had been his brother’s for so long, for too long. And when that slipped away, the Wilted Rose turned the Jaded Rose.

“Lord Medwick is playing a dangerous… dangerous game. Does he not know not to prick the thorns?”

The room descended into incoherent mumblings and arguments, each pitching their own voices. And by each, Garlan meant Willas, Margaery, and their grandmother. For the others only watched, Including the Lord of Highgarden himself, who remained silent but whose face was oddly thoughtful.

After a while, Willas snorted. And laughed, he did. “Thrice-damned Florents. Lord Alester forgets himself. Tyrells have braved Florents’ mewlings times and times before. Now that his niece is married to some dour prince, it seems that the man has been emboldened.”

“And your Dornish betrothal,” came the Queen of Thorns’ voice. “Any noble who learns at the feet of their maesters would know that some houses in the Reach wield an enmity against Dorne, some more so than the other. No more than the Oakhearts. And now Old Oak is slipping away from our hands.”

“Why tell me this?” his brother said, displeased.

“Because I missed out on the pleasure of saying I told you so,” she replied.

Garlan eyed his brother’s betrothed, seemingly lost, as if lambs set loose upon a pack of starving lions. Silently, Garlan watched in amusement, seeing the ever-perfect Willas trying his hands on dealing with a spiraling wheel. But of course, he would never voice it.

“Peake and Oakheart are Tywin’s pawns. Lannisters. Not Baratheons. Cersei Lannister inspires no love for the lions in the court, am I right, sister?” Garlan said.

“Oh but it was too easy, brother,” Margaery answered, demure and voice innocent as a maid, for all that she was not inside. The stink of King’s Landing hadn’t wilted the Rose of Highgarden. Instead, it had only made her deadlier. Honed. "So does Stannis, and more so Lady Selyse. No love comes from them. But then again, King’s Landing is… not very pleasant.”

“Did you play the demure, gentle-hearted, pious maid, sister?”

“You underestimate me, brother,” she said instead. “If I want to be trouble, I can be trouble, you know?” You promised me a prince from Essos or a dragon of Old Valyria, dear brother. Yet I see none of them with you right now, she had said upon their welcome, smirk palpable of the unspoken secret that hung heavy in the air. At least Prince Aegon seemed like a good enough lad. Else he’d need to fear the wrath of the Tyrells.

“As I can only expect, of course,” Willas answered with the same smirk.

“Merry also tells me that her father once briefly considered Samwell Tarly. But we have Cousin Desmera for him.”

“We spurned him,” Garlan said. “A Redwyne, Heir to the Arbor, for his daughter when they asked for a Tyrell. We have met Lord Medwick. Jovial man, the forgive-and-forget type. However, Lord Medwick has his sister married to tie both branches of House Fossoways together. To Lord Edmund Fossoway of the New Barrel, whose brother himself was our aunt’s late husband. Ser Jon Fossoway. Now red and green band together, and they remain the strongest power in the Mander save for ourselves.”

As he finished his words, he surveyed the room. Alerie Hightower’s face was unreadable as always. Olenna Tyrell had her chin resting atop her knuckles, eyes sharp as her mind worked. Loras sat the furthest from the center of the room, lazily palming a pomegranate from the Summer Isles. Arianne… though, Arianne was no Tyrell. She still wears her heart on her sleeve. She sat there, her uncomfortableness clearly visible, plain for all naked eyes to see. A serpent in the garden.

“Sit tight,” his brother suddenly said. He rambled on, a plan clearly devised already in his mind. “We wait. We watch. This is but a childish tantrum from the Fossoways. If they think the heir to the Arbor is not worth their standing, then I will be too happy to fix their problem for them when the time comes. Heir betrothed to a Crane and a daughter to Stannis Baratheon’s good brother. This is not a betrayal. This is a negotiation. The carrot and the stick.”

“So we’ll fear,” Margaery added. “So we’ll be willing to have them at the price they want.”

“Indeed. Tread carefully, we must. But in our wait, we must not do nothing. Elinor is to be Lady Ambrose one day. A junior Tyrell branch, descended from the brother of our grandfather. Her brother is a boy, six, I think? Let him squire for Lord Medwick. Throw a promise between the boy and one of his daughters, too. A worthless sacrifice on our part, but enough to buy the time until all the pieces are ready. We wait. Until the wedding. Let them see the might of Highgarden. Let them see our ties. Tully, Mallister, Arryn, Waynwood, Royce. We have five moons to make sure those houses attend.”

“Cousin Alla,” Willas continued. “One of Margaery’s companions. I’ve seen her. She has potential, don’t you think?”

“I… she’s lovely, if that’s what you asked, brother,” Margaery answered, caught unready. “She’ll have no problem turning boys’ heads light, but she hasn’t… I don’t know-”

“Well, we can always remedy that. With a nice dowry? I’m sure she’ll do oh so very nicely,” Willas said. “Send a raven to Lord Lannister. I have a mind to offer her to one of his nephews. As a truce or a peace offering, if you will. Grandmother, you’re best at handling the man, nudge him, write to him, probe some openings. And make sure to make it seem as if you’re doing it on your own, undermining father’s authority.”

“Hmm, Leo’s get?” she mused. “Yes, yes… she’ll do very nicely indeed. I shall try to extend Tywin the bait, my dears, and let’s see whether he bites or not.”

“Good,” Willas nodded. Was it plain to see? Or did he get tangled in too many plots already not to see it? But either way, Willas was gambling on a future Lord Lannister with a loyal wife… Tyrell wife. “And if he doesn’t bite, well… you’re well acquainted with the Waynwood heirs, are you not, Garlan?”

“Donnel? Yes. Morton, not so much.” Donnel was the second son and Morton was the heir. Sons of the solemn and courteous old Lady Waynwood. “Why?”

“Lady Anya Waynwood has a ward. A ward… second in line to the Lordship of the Eyrie. Lord Jon’s great-nephew. Harrold Hardyng, his name is.”

“You… you can’t mean to-”

“I don’t mean anything. But Robert Arryn is famously sickly, prone to shaking fits. I wouldn’t bet much on him surviving to his adulthood.”

“And the Arryns are dying like flies,” their grandmother said. “I pity Jon Arryn. Between that dreadful wife of his, and his sickly heir, and being Hand of the King to Robert Baratheon?”

“And Lysa Arryn still… breastfeeds the boy, even in Court,” added Margaery. “She’s… she’s a terrified woman. She sees things that aren’t there. And the Master of Coins is feeding her spooks.”

“Baelish,” Loras said, the first word he said in a while, with a sneer. “Renly told me of the man. A fraud of a worm. Full of deceits.” Has he now, Loras?

“Write to Lady Waynwood if our gambit with the Lannisters doesn’t work. A girl from a mere branch, far away from the main Tyrells, for a son of a sixth or a seventh daughter, married to some landed knight. Ironoaks is not rich. But we are. And the Waynwoods have debts. What goes in the Riverlands, brother? Has Edmure Tully ever written to you?”

He nodded. “Yes." It felt strange to discuss such contents of a letter meant to be private. But Garlan quenched those twisting feelings inside him with the thought of his family. For my family. “He does write… of Freys infestation in Riverrun.”

“Oh?” inquired Willas, clearly interested.

“Yes, it seems that after the succession crisis, many… many Freys have been sent to their relatives, or to serve as wards and hostages for good behavior in some castles in the Riverlands. Riverrun is one such castle. Although, he did… write of a Frey girl that I think he fancies. One of the Rosby Freys, I think. Rosa? I forgot the name. There’s like a hundred of them, no?”

“Really?” Willas smiled, smirking. “Really?”

“Yes, what of it?”

“Nothing. It’s just… it’s lovely,” he said, shrugging but still smiling.

“Oh, and that reminds me,” their mother said. “Your Uncle wrote to me that his wife had finally gone into labor a fortnight past. It’s a girl. Healthy and hale. Elenei, they named her.”

“After the daughter of the sea god and the wind goddess that fell in love with Durran Godsgrief?” Garlan asked. How… interesting, to name her after the ancestor of House Durrandon, and through the female line… House Baratheon.

“Baelor always has been fascinated by grand, mythical tales of gods,” Alerie Hightower answered, voice seemingly smiling.

“Are we due for a visit to Hightower, then? How exciting!” Margaery chirped.

“Perhaps,” their mother said. “I have longed to see Hightower again. It’s been quite some time.”

“It’s a splendid idea,” Willas said. “And it will remind our bannermen of the ties we possess with our strongest bannermen. Mother, you should go. Take father and mayhaps Margaery with you. Oldtown is truly lovely. And it’s so different from the last you went there. Yi Tish riches and eastern luxuries, I just know that Father is going to love it."

“Yes, well…” Mace Tyrell mused. “Some time off Highgarden will be great, don’t you think, my love? And some time off Mother, too,” he said, voice elated but quieting at the last part.

“I am not yet deaf, Mace. But I suppose it will be good, indeed. Let the Lord and Lady Tyrell be seen by their subjects. And you, Willas, will go to Goldengrove. Old Oak. Red Lake. We have renewed ties with the Rowans with your brother's betrothal to Mathis' daughter, Alerie. But Lord Rowan remains a very cautious man. You would need to charm him, Willas."

"I shall accompany him," Garlan said. "I know Lord Rowan already. Still, I have the utmost confidence in Willas' skill. My brother does have witchcraft on his lips, after all."

"You flatter me," Willas said, half-hearted. "Arianne, would you like to go?"

All eyes were on the Dornish Princess. She had not spoken much all the way through their meeting. Barely a word or two, out of courtesy and nothing more. She's being tested… he realized. Will she break?

"I would love to, Willas," she answered. Out of place.

"Lovely, then. Loras, on your next trip to the Capital, go visit Tumbleton. Bitterbridge. Roxton’s Ring. Grassy Vale. Our northern lords. Margaery, Leonette Fossoway is to come to Highgarden before the formalization of her betrothal to cousin Horas. You know what to do. And Garlan… we will be sure to invite Ser Gilbert Fossoway along. I had heard he likes his spars, and no spar will ever be sweeter than one against the squire of the Blackfish. I also have an idea about the foxes. Alekyne Florent remains unwed, past thirty, and our cousin…"

 

Notes:

Fun times ahead with the wedding and stuff. Please do leave a review to let me know what you think of the chapter!

Chapter 25: The Lovelorn Heir - A Dream of Summer pt. 1

Notes:

Been quite some time, eh? Anyway, since waiting to complete the whole wedding will take an even longer wait, I figure I'd split it into the two intended POVs that I initially wanted to use. Here's Edmure, and to complement it, the next will be Jon Arryn. Enjoy!

THE LOVELORN HEIR

 

The morning was always deceitful for the heir to Riverrun. He rose with the first call of the rooster’s song, before the day itself was anew. The sun was in slumber still, and yet the moon was gone in the sight. For at the breaking hour, there was no ruler of the day, seizable for any who dared strive.

 

When Edmure returned to his bed, he noticed the sheet - untangled and loose. Sightless and bed empty. There she sat, upon the wardrobe, facing the Myrish mirror - one of the gifts that Garlan’s Tyrell family had sent his own over the years.

 

“My lord,” she said to him, demure. She was clad in nothing but the silk of her nightwear, face as delicate as he remembered when he first laid gaze upon it. “I should go.”

 

“Don’t. Stay here… for a while, will you?”

 

“I would’ve stayed a thousand years if I could, my lord. But to do so is to harm you. And that’s the least I have ever wished for.” She had a talent for words, Roslin. Shy and quiet and petite. She was a most delicate flower, that to even touch it the slightest - you would even fear to crumple the leaves. But beneath all that, was someone bright. Pretty and bright.

 

“The nightingale has had its hours,” he said to her, as he took a seat next to her.  He put on his most serious face - the most that he could muster in such a condition. “I fear that dawn will be upon us soon. Cruel is how the fate parts us-”

 

They soon broke into giggles. Hushed laughs and smiles of mirth. “You couldn’t play a poet even if your life depended on it, Ed.”

 

He quirked an eyebrow at that. “Ed?” That’s new.

 

“I like how it sounds. Why? Does that not please my lord?” She looked at him with wide doe eyes. And yet, there was a fragility to it. One which Edmure couldn’t help but fall into. Times and times. He remembered when she first arrived at Riverrun, one of the score of Freys sent there as part of the agreement with the new Lord of the Crossing.

 

“It pleases me if it pleases you, my lady,” he said.

 

“Then it will please me if my lord lets me go.”

 

The words were heavy on his ears. And heavier inside him. He tried to find something to say. But it was to no avail. What was there even to say? What use was there to even utter things in words? Not when the silence was proving to be just as meaningful.

 

She rose. “The servant will soon be checking on the rooms, Ed. And my own is corridors away from yours. Don’t you have to go before noon, today? I’ll still be here when you return.”

 

He huffed a small laugh. “I know.” He took her hand into his. “Are we mad, here? Sometimes I feel like we are… madder than anyone has ever been before. Yet sometimes it feels to me - like it’s only just right. It’s right. It feels right… isn’t it?” he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

 

“It is. It does,” she assured him, hand grazing his cheek. She turned it as for their eyes to meet. Blue against brown. “But right doesn’t make that it should. Your lord father will be most displeased if he finds out. And my house… Edmure… If he finds out that I’m your mistress-”

 

“I’ll make you my wife, then. I’ll talk to him. You’re a noble lady of noble birth. With a noble house for a mother and a noble name. Unwed and a maid… well, to the world, maybe,” he said, smiling. She gave no such smile in return. “He’ll listen. I know he can. He will… I’m his son and heir. His only heir. I’m the future of his house. We can be free, Roslin. Truly free. If I ask only this one thing of his-”

 

“Edmure,” she said, deep and bold, so unfit for her look. “You have to let it go. These dreams… you are chasing grumpkins and snarks. You have to let it go. Do it for me. Black Walder taught me that the songs aren’t real. And I know you’ve learned it, too.”

 

Anger flashed through him at the mention of the name. “I know I should. But to just let go like that, it's just - well, I couldn’t, could I?”

 

“You have to try. This is no fairy tale, Ed,” she said, cupping his cheeks and bringing their mouths together. She was sweet and airy and tasted of an embrace that he couldn’t quite remember. “We don’t always get our happily ever after.”

 

He sighed. And when he turned around, she was gone. As if she was never there.

 

The yard was his comfort in the period between the daybreak and noon. And so, he dedicated blood and sweat under Ser Desmond Grell. The Twins had taught him of his blindness. And of his unwillingness to see. Not enough… All this, and I am still not enough. In the yard, he saw Rogar Ryger, the young brother to Ser Robin, the captain of the Tully household guards. Rogar stood there, eyeless and lifeless. Now forever nine and ten. Now forever away from his brother, whose face Edmure must stare on every day passing, the guilt looming like an executioner’s blade waiting upon his head. The training yard was full of ghosts. His ghosts. Those that had pledged their words and their swords. Those that hadn’t come back. All because of him. And no one else to blame. He gritted his teeth. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

 

Then Utherydes Wayn’s hand was upon his shoulder. His father’s steward. “Edmure?” he called, asking and worried.

 

“Yes…” he voiced weakly, shaking his head, and the yard turned empty once more, filled scarcely only by knights and squires.

 

“Welcome to the land of the living, lad. I've tried calling you many times," he said, gruff and gaunt. Utherydes was an old man, way past his fifty already. Brown beard now turning into stark grey. And the once-proud face turning grave. One thing that remained, though, was that the man remained ever sour. “Your father is asking for your presence immediately. The horses have already been prepared. And the guards have been readied. He wishes for you to leave before midday, my lord.”

 

“Father sure is eager to send me off. Should I be pleased, Utherydes?”

 

“Save your wits for your own, boy. You are to join the group from Pinkmaiden. And from then on, trek north. To Seagard. The Mallister’s ships will take you across the Sunset Sea and into the Mander-”

 

“Yes, I know. You've told me this a hundred times. Do you take me for a child, Wayn?” Edmure was not too enthused for the journey ahead. But he supposed seeing Garlan again would be great. Perhaps when we cross our steel it will be different, this time.

 

“Could’ve fooled me, my lord,” the Steward of Riverrun answered, still as brash as ever. But there was a hint of amusement in it.

 

"Very well," he answered, sighing. "Take me to my father, then."

 

Through spiral stairways, the walk it took was not long, for Riverrun was never a castle renowned for its size. The solar of the Lord of Riverrun was shaped in a triangle, much like the castle and the keep itself. Hoster Tully sat behind the desk, leaping trouts carved behind him in the walls.

 

“Edmure,” he spoke. His voice was weary. Utherydes excused himself nearly right away, paying a tight-lipped but courteous courtesy to his liege lord.

 

“Father,” he said, still standing. Then Hoster Tully rose. Portly and stout, traces of the once tall and strong and broad man was clearly visible. But the changes were exigent, in how heavy he seemingly carried himself. And the spasms in his face as he took his steps.

 

“Come with me, Edmure,” his father bid him. Through marble and glass decorations, sunlight welcomed them to their destination. A triangular stone balcony, jutting proudly as it overlooked the Red Fork below. Unlike the swift Tumblestone or the thunderous Green Fork, the Red Fork with its muddy red water was slow, its pacing ever gentle.

 

“Your Uncle will join you at Highgarden.”

 

“Uncle Brynden?” he asked, surprised.

 

“The Tyrell boy wrote to him. Inviting him personally. He told me that a Blackfish, he might be, but a Tully he still is. And that he can’t refuse such an invitation from a Great House. But I digress, Edmure. He likes the boy, your uncle.”

 

“I suppose, yes.” Who wouldn’t be proud of having a squire rising in fame so quickly? Heh, Garlan the Gallant… Bitterness was inside him, Edmure knew. But he refused to let it win over him. “He didn’t ask to join me from Riverrun, then?”

 

“He’d be a fool to do so,” his father said. “For better or worse, your uncle has estranged himself from Riverrun, Edmure. He’ll go. Not as Brynden Tully. But as the Knight of the Gate. To represent Lysa. To represent the Vale of Arryn.”

 

“Lysa’s not coming? I had thought that her husband-”

 

“Jon Arryn? He does… he does… he wrote to me, asked for my suggestions on the matter.” Hoster Tully spoke the words with pride and visible elation. “The King, Edmure. The King is going, too. But your sister- I had written, but your sister-”

 

“I know, father,” he said, assuring him as he gripped on his arm. “You have to understand that Lysa is frightened, father. She has lost babes. And she wouldn’t risk your grandson to travel such a long distance, and by foot, too.”

 

“Yes, yes… my grandson. The future Lord Arryn. Robert, they named him. After the King. Just like your other nephew… Cat’s boy.”

 

“Robb,” he said.

 

“Yes, Robb. Robb… after the King. My grandsons… the future Warden of the North and the East, Edmure. Tully blood ruling the North, the Trident, and the Vale. In tandem. No Tully lord has ever done so before, Edmure. Not until me. Not until Hoster Tully. How splendid, don’t you think, Edmure?”

 

“It is, father. So very splendid,” he told the man, not thinking his words much.

 

“No one, I tell you. No one will ever dare to underestimate us ever again. It was good, good… to deny Lord Tywin’s offer. We have allies to the north and east. If- if anything happens, we will appeal to the King. House Tully is a friend- staunch friend of House Baratheon. No need for us to get dragged into the mess in the south, Edmure.”

 

“The mess, father?”

 

“The Tyrells and the Martells, boy!” he said, suddenly loud, almost bellowing. “Haven’t you learned, Edmure? But no, I said to Tywin. Doran Martell is a… strange… strange man. Do you know that you could’ve been marrying his daughter instead of Mace Tyrell’s crippled son? I wrote to him. Prince Doran. To bind the realm together, I wrote to him. Offered the Princess a chance to visit Riverrun. No, he wrote me. Walder Frey, Estermont, Beesbury instead, I heard he offered his girl. Madness, it was. Madness!”

 

“Perhaps Prince Doran was looking for an alliance closer to his home. To secure his borders, father? Much like you did with the Starks and Arryns.”

 

“No, Edmure. There’s something… deeper at play, here. I’m old. Too old to play again. Sick and dying. I can feel it. The worms, they came for me. In my bones and under my skin. No. You must go, Edmure. In my stead. You must be my eyes and ears.”

 

“You mustn’t speak so, father. Will you not tell me what worries you so much?”

 

“The Martells resent the Lannisters. Especially Lord Tywin and his blood. It was a botched plot with the babes, I told the Old Lion as much. And the Princess, too. A blunder! But no, he won’t hear any of it. Such… such a nasty mess, and now the blood won’t wash away. Even in our hands, Edmure. If- if the south rises… then war it is that we must brave yet again.”

 

Hoster Tully seldom spoke of the days of the Rebellion. Nothing more than scarce few passings of politics and strategies that he regretted, or what he felt Edmure must emulate. “War, father? Surely, it can’t be. An alliance between two great houses-”

 

“Arryn wrote to me. Said the Tyrells are courting for a royal marriage. The girl… I forgot her name. She had gone to King’s Landing a few moons past-”

 

“Margaery, her name is. Garlan’s little sister.”

 

“Yes, her. To Prince Joffrey. Jon- oh, Jon endorses it. Even Tywin supports it, Jon told me. He asked… about Cat. Cat’s girl. Her eldest, Sansa.” He remembered the girl. She was Cat reborn. A pretty little thing with hair as fiery as only a Tully’s. They had come to Riverrun soon after the Freys debacle had ended. Apparently, her sister was worried about him, and for two moons they stayed at Riverrun. “Robert- King Robert, he’ll want to marry his son to the girl. My granddaughter. A queen, can you imagine, Edmure? Your niece, a queen.”

 

“How grand, it will be. But you disagree, father?” he asked, surprised. To waste such an opportunity…

 

“I don’t know, Edmure. The Tyrell girl will bring the realm much-needed stability. Especially after Balon Greyjoy’s folly. But my blood. My granddaughter… I told Arryn to make the decision he felt was his best. They confuse me, the Tyrells. They courted us, why else would they foster their son with us for years. And now they’re bedding the snakes, instead. It must be the woman, Edmure.” Edmure pursed his lips at that. Woman? “Olenna Tyrell. She desires power. Even when her husband was alive. The late Lord Luthor. It must be her doing. But whatever it is, you will go there. As my eyes and ears.”

 

“I will, father. I promise… I won’t disappoint you.”

 

“Good, good. I know you won’t. When you ride off for that fool Frey… I was so scared, Edmure. I promised her. Your mother. I promised Minisa I would see all her children happy, and that they’ll have grandchildren of their own. I tried, Edmure, to find you a bride. Tyrell and Martell. But they spurned us. But not Lannisters… never Lannisters. Even here! One of Bracken’s many girls, but then I’d never hear the end of Blackwood’s mewlings. And Walder Frey, curse his name, sent never-ending letters, petitioning to betroth one of her girls to you. Hah, petitioned, who does he think he is, I ask you. But he’s dead now. The late Lord Walder Frey. Truly late…” With his words, Hoster Tully was smiling. And laugh he did, especially when he talked of Walder Frey. “I promised Minisa I‘d be a good father. And I know that I haven’t been. Not to you, at least. My son and my heir. I never told you how proud I was when I heard that you had seized The Twins. I scolded you, instead. But inside I was proud, Edmure. You have to know that. And to Lysa. Arryn said she’s not coming but if she does… If you see her, Edmure, tell her… tell her that I… that I regret it.” Regret?

 

He nodded. Wordless. For the first time in his life, his father believed in him. For all that Edmure told himself that he didn’t need the man, the spoken words did wonders that Edmure never thought was possible. Hoster Tully continued yet again, “You must be careful there. The face of the Riverlands goes with you. And my voice speaks with yours. Do not get tangled in webs, Edmure. You must be cautious. Be alert. Lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms will be there. Probe… search for an opportunity. For a bride. A nice girl from an old and noble house. Even court the Tyrell girl, if you could. But whatever you do, you do so with my faith and the fate of our people. You will do well to remember that.”

 

 

 

---

 

 

It took near three weeks for Edmure and his companies to reach Highgarden. The seat of House Tyrell was exactly as he had imagined it. Out of story and out of songs. Flowery and grand and beautiful to behold. Grand marbles and soaring gardens. Glass houses and trickling fountains. It was bursting with people, above all.

 

The Tyrells had spared no expense, it seemed, emphasizing heavily in showing their might and power. As well as wealth, of course. Rumors had it that Lord Tywin Lannister was to formally open the Bank of Lannisport soon. He scoffed at that. Can a man ever be so vain? Once, perhaps, Edmure would’ve shaken the Old Lion’s hands eagerly and accepted the betrothal offered by the man for his niece. But now, having known how treacherous one’s own bannerman could be, Edmure could certainly see why his father was against getting into bed with Tywin Lannister. Certainly not when Highgarden and Sunspear had united their power down here south. What use are oaths and alliances? He thought, bitter. At the end of the day, betrayal was as easy as drawing a breath.

 

When he looked around, he saw banners of green and gold. Golden roses sewn onto the doublet of every servant passing through. And golden roses stamped on every plate and every littlest cutleries served. The Tyrells are certainly trying to remind everyone that this is a Tyrell wedding. And not a Martell… He could understand the need. The Reach and Dorne were bitter enemies for thousands of years, and some of the Tyrell bannermen still held grudges- overwhelming ones over the Dornish. And no house could sympathize about unruly bannermen more than House Tully.

 

“I hope the festivity is not too much for you to bear, Edmure.”

 

He turned around and saw Garlan, handsomely dressed in green silk and draped in golden liveries. “What? Drinking? Is that supposed to be a challenge, Garlan?” He answered the Tyrell, gulping down the chalice he had in one hand. It was Arbor Ruby.

 

Garlan gently patted him on the shoulder. He did like to make small physical gestures, now that Edmure remembered it. “I’d like to keep my wits with me, today. So, no, sadly the answer’s no.”

 

He replied with a smile, pouring himself yet another drink. “Heh, what about a challenge in the yard, then? Does that sound more agreeable to you?”

 

“Are you sure about that? Wouldn’t like for the Heir to Riverrun to come limping back to his home after this,” Garlan said, grinning roguishly. Edmure had always envied him for being able to do that.

 

Smug bastard. “Oh, I’m sure. I have learned some new moves, you know.”

 

Garlan faintly shook his head. “Edmure, how many times do I have to tell you?” Huh? “The details of what you do in your bed are of no interest to me.”

 

“Very funny,” he laughed dryly at the jape.

 

“Where are the others?”

 

“Marq is off romancing a poor wench, last I know. As for Patrek, well… he struck up with the lanky sod with the apple sigil. I wanna say…. Fossoway, I think? They’re all big boys anyway, no need for me to play the concerned parent in this.”

 

“Ah, so you decide to play the wistful loner, instead, then.”

 

His eyes twitched. “Again, very funny.” The note in the background struck a deep, harrowing sound that sent chills down his bones. A queer instrument, one Edmure had never seen before. An Essosi wonder, apparently. It was strange, in the sense that it was played by drawing and swiping a slender bow across its simple four strings, unlike the harp. ”The music is rather macabre, don’t you think?”

 

Garlan seemed to think of his answer for a while. “Hmm, rather fitting for a storm’s a-comin', I think.”

 

“Storm? You do know that people say that there’s no festivity like weddings, right? Petty lords have emptied their treasury for the sake of throwing a grand and lavish wedding in the past, just so they can preen their arses off to their neighbors in the reception. Loans and debts be forgotten.”

 

“I’ll elaborate later.” Garlan had changed, he thought. He had been a polite boy, incapable of the thought of displeasing someone back then in the Riverrun. None would dare call him timid, but he never did once try to project any kind of superiority into others.

 

“Still, those instruments… I guess, Essosi? Then again, I don’t exactly mix well with music, if you remember.”

 

“Heh, of course… of course. Those are my brother’s pets. He has somehow put it in our father’s mind that Highgarden is to be the front and foremost paragon of culture. And now bards are flooding Highgarden more than ever before, especially those Essosis that my brother keeps bringing over. Let alone the strange instruments that they bring.”

 

Edmure squinted his eyes. “Ah, part of his conquest to woo the Dornish Princess, then?”

 

Then suddenly Garlan laughed. Not the elegant, formal, and polite laugh. But boisterous. “You really don’t know Princess Arianne to say such a thing.” The Dornish Princess was a sight of obvious beauty, he thought. Olive and buxom and sharp. In another life, I might’ve been betrothed to her. But of course, not as pretty as… well, his Roslin, he supposed. A blush crept up his face, saved by Garlan’s continuation. “You don’t woo the Dornish, Edmure. If you had dared say that to her face, well… I wouldn’t rule out a light dose of poison smuggled into your wine cup later on.”

 

Something rose inside him, maybe the gallant fool inside him that frothed at the insinuation of him and miserable attempt on a girl. “Why, you sound as if you admire her, Garlan.” He tried to discern it but failed to find the answer to exactly what was going through his friend’s head. So, he chose to change the topic. “Anyhow… have you seen my Uncle Brynden?”

 

“Ser Brynden? Last I saw him he was… I think he was talking with Lord Swann’s son. Ser… Balon, I think. And with the Waynwoods, too.”

 

“I see.” Edmure had seen his dearly beloved uncle but twice ever since he set foot on Highgarden, the Blackfish arriving only two days later. How foolish of me to ever have hoped… Cursed himself, he did. Cursed the starstruck kid inside him with the childish longing of any semblance of familial affection. He only just realized that his inner ramblings had allowed the situation to stretch into an awkward silence. Then, he cursed himself yet again. “Ah, well, I’m sure your family will be needing you somewhere else, Garlan.”

 

What a pathetic flimsy excuse, he told himself, mentally shaking his head. Garlan, unsurprisingly, was not deceived. “Walk with me,” the Tyrell said, narrowing. And he did, strolling across the balconies with draping vines and hanging gardens on it. On the outside, the crisp cool air of nighttime was refreshing. “You don’t think now that we’re in Highgarden that I’m too flowery, now, do you?”

 

“Oh?” he said, returning the banter. “You clearly seem to be more polished in the tongue than in the sword. I’d never thought of Garlan the Gallant to turn down a challenge, for once.”

 

A grin broke across the Tyrell’s face. And somehow, Edmure felt… relieved? “Well, you can’t really blame me for that one. No matter how much spunk is instilled inside me by those brawly fellows in the Vale or suffering your bawdy indecent behavior in Riverrun, it does seem like I can’t escape my Tyrell blood. You can blame my brother for that. He insisted that I polish my ‘tongue skill’ else I’d be denounced a Tyrell, he said.”

 

“A charming fellow, your brother is.” Edmure had talked with the groom-to-be only thrice. First, during his arrival. Second, in the private dinner, he shared with the Tyrells. And third, where he wandered into Highgarden’s library. Soon, he found out that Willas Tyrell, despite how genial and courteous he might seem, was tight-lipped and no less deadly than his knightly brother. At least with words. But that was only to be expected from the grandson of the Queen of Thorns. Speaking of which, she was a very nasty crone with wits way too clever for her own good.

 

“He’ll be glad to know that. He thought you were very interesting, you know?”

 

“Were?”

 

“My brother has his ways. Strange they might all be,” Garlan said, curt and short, with the clear implication that that was enough for an answer. “What do you think of my other siblings?”

 

“Eh, your brother seems like your own little mini-me replica. Very defensive, too.” True, Loras Tyrell was clearly charming when he wanted to be, but Edmure couldn’t help catching off a hint of a sense of superiority radiated by the so-called Knight of the Flowers. “As for your sister, ah, well…”

 

Garlan chuckled at that. “You do know you’ll answer to me if it comes to my sister, don’t you, Edmure?”

 

Margaery Tyrell was a girl of… five and ten? Or was she four and ten? Beautiful with chestnut-brown hair, pretty laughs, and a clever mind to top it all. She was very charming, Edmure had to admit. He had asked her the honor of escorting her through the gardens once, if not out of curiosity then out of his father’s order.  The girl had been amused, that much was clear as he escorted her. Then when all was said and done, she simply turned around, sashaying past him and dusting Edmure alone amidst the briars of Highgarden. Clearly, that one time was enough of an attempt for him.

 

“It’ll be a lucky, lucky man that your family deems worthy enough to have her hands in marriage, that much I can say.”

 

“Indeed,” Garlan answered, smiling wistfully to himself. Strange.

 

He moved away from the topic. “I’m surprised that there aren’t any brawls yet in the hall with all the Dornishmen and Reachmen mingling in the same room.” It wasn’t subtle, but Edmure was trying to fulfill his father’s task in assessing the situation, and what the Tyrell-Martell alliance could mean for House Tully. “Especially with someone like the Red Viper.” Oberyn Martell was every bit of his reputation that preceded him. Granted, Edmure did only talk to the infamous man just once, but he felt that it was enough of a conversation for a lifetime.

 

Again, Garlan was not deceived. Dammit! Those Tyrells are way too clever for their own good. “Hmm, Prince Oberyn is a complex man. I wouldn’t claim to know what goes in his head, so I can’t answer you for that.”

 

So defensive… always deflecting. “Is the purpose of you luring me out here just to pique my curiosity and then leave me hanging on high and dry? You got a spell in those drinks or what?“

 

“Spell? Nothing as extravagant as that. Worry not, your virtue and chastity are safely assured, my friend,” Garlan said, gently giving him a mock pat in the back. “But if you must know, you’d be surprised at what wonders a good meal could do for one’s mood. We have the best cooks, even from Essos and their lavish, strange-looking but oddly enough, good-tasting dishes. Best wines from the Arbor, of course, nothing too strong, getting them too drunk would be against the point, after all. I’m sure you’d know that, Edmure.” His eyes twitched at the not-so-subtle mockery. “And lastly, friends are made in the queerest of places. A little this here and a little that there, keep Lord Fowler away from Lord Yronwood, and Lord Tarly away from any Marcher lords, you’d be surprised how effective the result is.”

 

Dirts. So the Tyrells knew their guests, what they dislike, who they feud with, and which they could suit best. In a friendly manner, Garlan had just told him that the Tyrells knew things about their lordly guests. It was no coincidence that his Uncle, the larger-than-life knight was genially talking with Stormlords and Valelords alike, bonding over the Rebellion and their martial inclinings. “I see. A neat little trick,” he said to Garlan. Still, it was too calm. The kind of calm that preceded a heavy storm. The same one he felt when he trotted the damp roads of the Riverlands, intent on claiming his glorious destiny with the Freys back a year ago. And then, he remembered. “What you said about a storm, what do you mean by that?”

 

“Well, yes… storm. As it happens I’ve found that the water does not suit me. Too many ripples. Ever-swaying. This wedding is one like it. My house may get a Princely bride for its heir, but the price? Eyes are lurking in the corners. Like hawks. Ready to strike. And I don’t take a liking to people who would see my house fall. Just like you with yours. The Hand of the King and the King himself are here. Honor, some would say. Trouble, I say instead. My family’s gift to navigate politics does not manifest much in me, it seems. You know, second son and all.” Garlan finished his words as he emptied his cup in a single gulp. Were I a second son, I would’ve been free… but he stopped his thoughts. He would find a way for him and Roslin, but it was not to be now.

 

The King was not the grand image that Edmure had in his mind. Still, the large, boisterous man was kind enough to him, muttering something about “Ned’s good brother.” The Hand of the King, meanwhile, was a completely different sort. Jon Arryn was past eighty years, but still hale and very well composed in his appearance. How he carried himself unsettled Edmure. A kind and genuine smile, but his words held sharp questions when they landed on Edmure. And I’m sure I haven’t had the last of it yet.

 

“My father told me about it, you know? Gave me a big speech before I departed Riverrun. How your brother’s wedding has upset the balance, he said. I suppose it is like a rock thrown into calm water. Likes ones we used to throw into the Red Fork, you remember?”

 

A wistful smile descended upon Garlan’s face. “Yeah, you’ve never been able to get yours further than mine.”

 

“That makes me a rather poor trout, don’t you think?”

 

“I don’t know about that, I had heard songs that say Tully men have trout between their legs instead of-

 

He elbowed the Tyrell, rather strongly but still playful. Suddenly he was reminded again of why he and music didn’t mix. And may that dratted, Others-may-take, foul-begotten Tom-o-something be condemned to eternal damnation in the lowest pit of all the seven hells. “There’s only one song.”

 

“Harming your host under guest rights is not lordly, no? You’ll have all the time in the world for that in the five days of festivity after the wedding. Archery is out, I guess, so we’ll have the melee and the joust for that. Although you might want to reserve your stamina for those. After all, skimp what’s few, no?”

 

He decided to elegantly ignore that last bit. This new Garlan was all too happy in exchanging banters. Is this what a Tyrell is supposed to be? If so, then what’s a true Tully supposed to be? He asked himself. “Still, this is all very lavish, I must say. I can only imagine what the wedding feast would be like tomorrow. All in all, this is a very far cry from my most memorable feast staying inside The Twins with the Black Walder.”

 

Something flashed in Garlan’s eyes. “Edmure…” His voice turned soft, but only a moment, not enough for Edmure to began to loathe the inevitable concern and pity. “That night… you told me what you would do. And I… regret not doing anything about it. If only I-”

 

“What?” he interrupted, voice rising. “Confront me? Go along with me? Sold me out to my father? I’m glad… I’m glad you didn’t do anything. You let me wander on my own path, and I finally found myself on that road, no matter how cruel. If you had done those things, you’d only embittered me.”

 

“Em…embittered?”

 

“Yes,” he sighed, feeling dread and shame. “You were so… so… perfect, you know? The knights sing their praises, and you had my father’s acknowledgement. You were a shadow, Garlan. A tall, looming, haunting shadow. Bright but terrible. I lived in the darkness of that, always spiteful, always bitter, always seeking to prove myself against you. You want to know why I did? Because I asked myself… What would a gallant knight do in that situation? Ride to justice, of course, I told myself. How foolish. But I do not regret it in the end.”

 

“Edmure, I… I apologize. I didn’t know you feel that way.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” he mumbled as he gulped down the chalice of drink in his hand. “I think… I think I was jealous, you know? I have a famous Uncle, one who has exiled himself from my family. Then you squired for him and became this huge famous knight. You’re my age. No, you’re younger. That makes it even worse. But it’s not your fault. It’s messed up. But it’s not your mess.” It’s my family’s, went the unspoken part. Then there was silence. Until Edmure broke it. “Ah, I’m out of drink. What do you say, go back inside and drink ourselves silly?”

 

A smile returned his words. “I don’t see why not to. Also, someone needs to keep an eye on Marq. It’d really really displease my brother if one of the servants ends up bearing a Piper bastard after you all packed up and left.”

 

He shouldered the Tyrell, walking in tandem back to the festivity inside. Storm’s a-comin'… but here's to living, at least, he told himself, smiling.

Notes:

A lot of things are hidden in this chapter; clues, parallels, and foreshadowings. And of course, there's the obvious bombshell, too. Even so, there are still many details waiting to be unveiled, secret players and shadowed angles waiting to be uncovered. It's not ASOIAF if it is what you expected, no? And so, I dearly hope that you will stay for the rest of the journey, and keep this story alive with your support. I can't promise weekly updates as I used to at least until I'm done with all the shitshows of applying into college, which should be around May, so wish me luck! Please do tell me what you think of the chapter in a review below

Chapter 26: The Falling Falcon - A Dream of Summer pt. 2

Summary:

The Falcon goes flying on hostile territory.

Notes:

Been more than three months, eh? Well, in my defense, I was caught in all things bothersome regarding college applications. Did get accepted already, tho, around early April, but I spent one and a half months stewing around doing nothing, and nope, not sorry for that :p

In another good news, I have also finished a rough plotline summarizing the coming war in all its glorious mess. The tough thing is, of course, to properly outline them, assign POVs and stuff, and make sure they are coherent (since we are moving on multiple different fronts in the war). Anyway, here's Jon Arryn's part of the Wedding Chapter. If the Gods are good, I should have the energy to finish a Cersei's epilogue or coda-of-the-sort to properly bring the first part of this story to an end, before we begin again in snowy Winterfell for the second part. I would like to implore you to re-read the Jon Arryn's interlude chapter if you want to get some sense of groundwork for his characterization in this story since I very much believe that he's wayyyy more than just "honor gud".

Enjoy! By the way, the schemes are kicking in full-blown here.

THE FALLING FALCON

“Today is the day most righteous of the Gods,” came the voice of the silver-clothed man donning a crystal coronet. From the Starry Sept of Oldtown itself, Septon Merrylon, was his name. An Oldflower bastard, they said. A bastard of a bastard line by itself. Supposedly was a man who was once offered the position of the High Septon no less, but refused the great honor citing his lack of faith in the current place of the Faith in King’s Landing and treading on centuries-old conventions on the most dominant religion of Westeros. By several accounts, he is among the leaders of a faction within the wider Faith, one that encourages greater autonomy for local septs, or so the Spider reports it to him. And to that end, he was wasted away, now heading the still influential but undeniably demoted seat of the Starry Sept, and the good thing it was.

But of course, as any high-standing Reachman’s words, his were soaked in honey, they bloomed easily and spread widely in the sept of Highgarden. As did the smoke of the burning incense, alluring with its fragrance but being easily swept away and turned as the wind from the open windows would.

“Today, Willas of House Tyrell and Arianne of House Nymeros Martell come forward, brought forth under the light of the Seven Who Are One. Untainted, untouched, and unbesmirched. Innocent as the day they were born. To be joined in a most sacred union, bound by the Gods themselves.”

A most damning union, Jon Arryn would say, and the fruitful source of his never-ending stream of headaches. The serpent and the rose, as Varys was prone to call it.

Jon Arryn himself was no stranger to weddings. Thrice he had done so. A cousin, a bannerman, and a great lord’s daughter. Out of love, out of duty, and out of desperation. Lysa… he thought back to his wife, screaming, refusing to go along to Highgarden. And his heir remained with her. The boy was turning four, and still as sickly as a newborn babe in its first sennight. That was to be his legacy. The honourable Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, and the Hand of the King. A sickly son to inherit it all. A child still on his mother’s teats to rule over a kingdom won by might. He’s but a child. He’s young. He’ll grow. He’ll change. Lysa will see…

But at least his young wife had been better ever since he indulged her in inviting that boy Baelish to King’s Landing. Good, good, a presence of a friend will do her wonders. The queen was no friend of Lysa, after all. And with Cersei Lannister, went along most of the noble ladies at the Court. And it didn’t hurt that the Baelish boy was a wonder with his gold-seeking hands and head for all sorts of arrangements involving coins.

Should he be honest, Jon pitied his wife as much as he cursed her. How close to tears she was when they laid at night, man and wife bound by marriage vows. For my duty. For an heir, he told himself. Surely… surely, she can see that. But then again, Jon Arryn didn’t outlive five kings and survived to seat sixth one atop the Iron Throne by being honest his entire life. Nay, honour, he held. But even honour could be found in the most twisted of lies. And there’s no web of lies as twisted as the one played in the heart of the Reach.

“Oh, buggering hells, would they just get on with the bloody wedding,” he heard Robert mutter under his breath. But the King was not one for subtlety, so Jon moved to chide the man he held as his own son but found that Prince Renly had already beaten him to it.

Great with words and easy with a smile, Renly was. Fit to charm nobles alike, in the softer and less brutish way than Robert had done in the past. But certainly not the all hard and edge that Stannis possessed. Gods willing, Renly’s bond with the young Loras could be the key to their problems along with additional agreements that can be reached.

Is that what you wanted, a leverage to haggle for royal favors,… Lord Tyrell? He didn’t strike Jon as a very cunning man, however. So Lord Willas then? He certainly had the raw intelligence for it or more like fruitful imagination, what with the new ideas tracing back to the Darling of the Reach, but he wasn’t reputed as a schemer nor had he anywhere near enough experience. So was this Olenna’s design? It stank of her, in any case. But what is the angle of Sunspear in all of this? So many questions and so few answers. However, the Lord of the Eyrie knew how to wait for the right moment. And his power block was stronger than ever, more than capable to face and defeat whatever sinister treachery there might be. Or not. Surely, the Tyrells aren’t so foolish. But it didn't dispute the indisputable truth... that the dagger was wielded in their hands.

Then the bells chimed. Clang. Clang. Clang. Little bells. And the great bell whose rang was deep like a night sky torn asunder by sunrise. And when the chimes died down, the great oaken door of the Sept of Highgarden opened. With that, the bride came striding in, hand in hand with the bride’s father. For years, rumors had swirled around Prince Doran Martell. Hidden away in his tower at Sunspear, never at sight. Some whispered that the man was ill, terribly so. Some more wanton had even suggested that the Martell Prince had passed away, yet kept hidden by his family out of fear of what Dorne might face. Spindly, gout-ridden, dim-eyed, crippled, they called him. And yet the Prince of Dorne walked, in rich layered samite, escorting his daughter. Bright as the sun, towering tall as the spear his house took their sigil from.

They each wore orange. A rare contrast, or was it a statement? For usually, the bride would traditionally wear the colors of her groom’s house, with tints and hints of her birth house. And yet, this Princess Arianne boldly took her steps in garments of orange. Princess of Dorne and nothing less, as if refusing to shed it behind. Hers was the deepest shade of orange that Jon had ever seen, reminding him of thirteen years ago when he gazed upon the sunset sky of Dorne and saw the sun - distant in the dunes. It was a magnificent dress, and yet at the same time plain. It ran delicate, ending beneath her shoulders, made of what must’ve been the richest silk of the east. Made for the taste of the Gods-on-Earth that ruled in Yi Ti. Over her arms, her shoulder, her face, and her head, the Princess had golden jewelry of extreme finesse draping over her olive skin, further topped by a thin veil no doubt produced in Myr or maybe even Yi Ti.

The rest of the ceremony went fleeting by. Under great pillars and crystal domes Jon’s eyes were set, not on the happy union above the altar, but at the front row seats. Where the Red Viper sat in stark yellow and Lady Mellario draped in a forest green shawl. The Martells are stirring, he thought, glancing at the dark-haired boy standing next to Prince Doran, visibly fidgeting. Prince Quentyn, his mind supplanted, the next heir to Dorne and a potential match for little Princess Myrcella… if the Old Lion should ever agree to relinquish his granddaughter into the serpent's pit. Worse still, Tywin had been pushing him to send assassins over the last Targaryens across the Narrow Sea. The King would be eager for the idea, he was sure. But Jon wouldn’t- he couldn’t. Not until he was done with the options he was exploring right now. And knowing Tywin, there’s a chance he would do exactly that behind our backs. The Warden of the West, after all, was intent on preserving his legacy more so than anything else. And the dragons were the catalyst for that.

As seven vows were being made, he turned his attention back to the groom. Lord Willas wore a peculiar piece of dress, a coat-like thing that Prince Renly had told Jon to be a jacket, whatever it was. Such thing was above him, for he was a relic of the past, uncarried in this new stream of changing time. His was emerald green and high-collared, decorated with golden floral patterns, running in the middle, parting the set of twin golden buttons that spanned diagonally from the Tyrell’s shoulder to his waist. Golden chains linked them up. And Jon thought that the Heir to Highgarden looked the very piece of the princes from the songs. If not for the cane his hand rested atop.

“With this kiss,” the newlyweds spoke loud and in unison, holding each other’s hands. “I pledge my love.”

“Let it be known,” the Septon was finally finishing, now that Willas Tyrell had cloaked his bride in green. “That Arianne of House Nymeros Martell and Willas of House Tyrell are now one heart, one flesh, and one soul.”

And with the proclamation, the already enliven room burst into thunderous applause. The room was all smiles, and there was none but sweet singing and grand music to usher it. Even Robert clapped, unsmiling and yet polite. Prince Renly was more thunderous in his response, a wide grin plastered on his face. And yet, something gnawed inside him. Something that he can’t simply put away, always seemingly lurking in the back of his mind.

Slowly, he joined the waves of clapping that embraced the groom and the bride. He turned his head and watched as the nobility of the Reach and Dorne stood from where they sat, all applauding, all thundering. Mathis Rowan and Randyll Tarly, each hard and pragmatic man, even had smiles on their faces. Bright and bubbly new Lord Oakheart and old but graceful Lord Hightower. Regal and tall Lord Yronwood and old yet ever-sharp Lord Fowler. His eyes looked and looked, finding Hoster’s brother and son, smiling warmly, good lad that Edmure. And then he found the Mallister heir, Lord Swann and his strong sons, and even his own bannermen of the Vale. Fossoway and Mullendore and Beesbury. Dondarrion and even Dayne.

A grand victory, he checked in his head, for both House Tyrell and Martell, the former more so, if his suspicions proved correct. This is not simply the union of two Great Houses, he realized. If they were truly harboring desires to seat a Targaryen on the throne… blood would spill. Innocent blood. And it would be a mercy to agree to Tywin’s urgings for assassinations. What is the worth of two exiles… over the blood of the people of Westeros? He then thought back to the words the Spider uttered in his chamber. The day he brought him the news of Willas Tyrell and Arianne Martell. “For the sake of the realm, my lord. For the children.” But no matter, Jon pushed aside the thoughts. There would be time for all that. And now, he must play the courteous Hand, weary and tired in his old age.

---

They rode atop their horses from the sept, through briars and vines of the mazes of Highgarden. “These damned gardens are never-ending,” Robert grumbled from his side.

“Well, I think it’s lovely, brother. A nice change from the stink of King’s Landing, no?” came Prince Renly’s reply. “And that reminds me, how fares the city, Lord Jon? Any word from our dearest dour brother? Might be that he just outlawed whores and chase them all away while you’re gone, Robert. Well, not that Littlefinger would-”

Robert’s response what to gulp down what little drink was left in his flask. “Then I’ll just send your little head off to bring them back, won’t I? Stannis is a stiff prick, that might be, but he knows his commands. He won’t dare overstep his brother like that.” And when he finished, he threw away his flask. Jon frowned as he saw the poor new squire scrambling around to fetch it, with the Lannisters out of the wedding and all. A Selmy, the boy was. “Gods!” he yelled, momentarily jerking his own horse, who he reigned in but a short time. “I’ll start burning these pretty-for-nothing damned gardens if I have to-”

“It’s not all for beauty, Your Grace,” Jon interrupted, worried about the litany of insults that could follow. “These briars are full of thorns. You will find an armored knight unable to run past and just through it easily. It’s especially large now that Highgarden has never seen war brought to its doorsteps. At the Gardeners’ time, they would often burn their-”
“Alright, that’s enough, Jon. I get it,” Robert cut him. He nodded, now returning to silence. It was not long until they reached the festivity.

The wine smelled strong in the air. And then the Lord of Highgarden raised his glass and called his toast. “To my son and my new good daughter! The future Lord and Lady of Highgarden!”

Jon winced at the voice but raised his own glass nonetheless. Instead of the indoor festivities they had held on the previous nights, it seemed that the Tyrells chose to prove faithful to their sigil by arranging the wedding reception sprawled around the mighty gardens of their castle. He tasted the Arbor Ruby on his lips, eyes trailing around, finding that Robert had been swindled into the gathering Stormlords, all chattering on regarding the upcoming jousts. Jon didn’t join them for that, no, those days of his were long gone.

From the corner of his vision, he spied Lady Olenna making her way to him. He swallowed a groan at that and emptied away his cup of Arbor Ruby before setting it away on the garden table nearby. For dealing with the crone was a luxury he’d gladly give up, and his poor health surely wouldn’t appreciate the fast-approaching burden.

Still, he took a deep breath, in and out, and turned with a smile as he faced the Queen of Thorns herself. “Ah, Lady Olenna, as radiant and breathtaking as ever as I first saw you. What was it? Forty, fifty years ago?”

The Dowager Lady of Highgarden laughed at that. “The first great beauty undone by the cruel lord of time, I am not. So none of the pleasantries for me, I’m sure you’d be better off saving them all for your pretty little wife, my Lord Hand.”

“I must say, my lady. What a splendid festivity your son has thrown. If my days at King’ Landing have ever taught me anything, I’d say that it is to savor the smell of the gardens when you’re still able to.”

She clunked her cane as she walked to stand closer to him, prompting Jon to sway around himself. “A fool’s errand, I am sure, whatever it is that you’re doing at that gods-forsaken city.”

Jon chuckled at her wit. Time wasted away them all, but in Lady Olenna's case, it only seemed to have emboldened her. "The Hand of the King is a most prestigious position, some would say. Even the second most powerful man in the realm, others would claim. Men have died for this gold pin, my lady."

"Foolish men, all of them, then."

He stifled a smile. "Is there a purpose in your endeavour save for practicing your insults at me, Lady Olenna?"

"Such a bore you are, like my late husband himself. Luthor, bless his soul, you know him, I believe?" she questioned.

He considered his answer first. "A most valiant soul, he was. I remembered knowing him personally. Quick with a jape and generous for a laugh. The realm hurt at his loss, my lady, but the Gods are good, for Lord Mace seems to be more than able to continue his service."

In truth, Luthor Tyrell was an amicable and jovial man. A smile for everyone but not thoughtless inside. He, too, had seen the signs written in the sky during the last days of the Targaryens. But with Luthor Tyrell, came Olenna Redwyne. And the Queen of Thorns was dearly unhappy with her husband dallying in what were potentially treasonous talks. And kept him away, she did. And Jon Arryn was forced to look North and South to compensate for the loss of the breadbasket of the realm.

She chuckled yet again at his words. "Most valiant, indeed. To go out with hawks and horses. Men…," she sighed. "Such a disappointment. But rest assured, I do have something in mind for you."

"Oh?" he inquired.

"Tell me about the Old Lion. I dearly hope we haven't chewed on his tail too much. But for a man who claims to be so above the rest, surely he can see the necessity behind it. We're dancing with vipers, after all."

Sweats ran down his temple, amidst the breezy wind of a summery Highgarden. "The Crown does appreciate House Tyrell’s effort in re-binding this realm of ours, once torn asunder by the dragons years ago. Your house’s amicability and willingness to open Highgarden’s doors to peace and unity has been a boon that we all treasure, especially we of the Small Council at King’s Landing. Ser Loras has been a welcome and frequent addition to the capital. And Lord Hoster has nothing but praise for Ser Garlan, my lady. And I have followed it up by asking Ser Edmure myself. And his words gave me great hope for the future of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“My, my, how splendid it all is, then,” she said. “But of course, the greatest of them all, my grandson’s marriage to Prince Doran Martell’s daughter. A most important piece in bringing Dorne back into the fold, don’t you think?”

“Indeed,” he assured her. “The wounds of the Rebellion have been sealed shut. And there’s nothing better than love than the one your grandson shares with Princess Arianne to heal it through.”

“Ah, young love,” she said, sarcastic. “I won’t pretend that my heart fully goes with my foolish little grandson’s choice. But at the end of the day, who am I but an old woman nattering her way to an overdue grave?”

He let small laughs drip down from his lips at that. “If you truly do feel that way, my lady, King’s Landing will always welcome your natter with warm smiles.”

She nodded, and for a second passing, Jon Arryn felt that he had dodged the fiery breath of the dragon. “And still this all leaves my granddaughter. Flowered with a beauty graced by the Maiden herself. It rather breaks her poor little heart with the hook you dangled in front of us. I take it, King Robert is not warm to the idea?”

His words were picked carefully. “The King is most insistent that Prince Joffrey shall marry a girl of his own choosing. And from a house with his blessing. The Queen… has endorsed her husband’s decision in this matter. Furthermore, King Robert has also asked his servants of the Small Council to bar any talk and discussion regarding the Prince’s future betrothal, citing that in his tender age, the Prince’s future is too early to be determined.”

The woman laughed at his words. “And how many times do you recite those words and practice it in front of the mirror before you go to bed, Lord Arryn? Is it Varys who wrote it? Or is it that boy, Baelish? Small man, that one. But he has a talent with words.” He made a move to answer, but she cut him. “No, no, spare me the holy sermon, my lord. I also take it that this new Bank of Lannisport is also part of the plot? And here I thought we’re all friends who peck each other on the lips.”

“The endeavor had been Lord Tywin’s idea for a long time. We simply felt that with the current economic boost that Westeros is enjoying, in no small part thanks to The Reach and House Tyrell, establishing such an institution would be beneficial for the prosperity of the realm. And of course, the success of the Bank of Oldtown built in the days of the old Targaryen Kings has also brightened the prospect of such an idea.”

And then she stopped, at the roundabout of the garden where it bent to reveal a water fountain. “My grandson is bedding a serpent. He’s besotted. He’s been ensnared by serpents. And a serpent’s dance is charming, yes. Enchanting, one might even say. Yet the moment you look away, there you’ll see, its poisonous fangs sunken into your crotch. You may think me… some devious old woman scheming her way until the day this old crone would finally expire. Well, you see… I’m not much for trouble. Better away with those, I’ll say. And my house, Lord Arryn, this I promise. I would never see it come to ruins.”

Something shot inside him. There had been too much bad blood between the Reach and Dorne. Too many wars. Too many castles burned. And too many towns sacked. A single marriage wouldn’t be able to magically repair the long-standing feud between the troubled regions, he thought. And for all their smiles, the Reachmen were surely not eager to find themselves sharing a bed with the Dornish. Vain and proud, the lot of them were. And the Queen of Thorns was the vainest of them all. Yes, he could make do with this. He was no fool. Not deluded enough to ever dismiss the possibility of treason thanks to this union. He’d been there before. When Great Houses engaged in a series of betrothals. While there were a lot of reasons that made Tyrells and Martells rising for the Targaryens’ cause even riskier than their own Rebellion, he would be a dimwit not to see the similarities. I must do more to prepare

“Oh?” he cautioned, wearily. “I rather think that this union is a symbol of a new era of forgotten feuds, and for everlasting peace, my lady.”

“And that will remain the official truth. But there’s no such thing as real truth, I have found. Everyone… has their own truth, don’t they, my Lord Hand?”

“Indeed, my lady,” he said, smiling and chuckling, towering over the aging Dowager Lady of Highgarden.

She nodded. Once and twice. She spoke, voice low, dropping into whispers. “Good. Long as you know that this woman here still has it in her to dance her last dance. Be sure to tell the Old Lion as much. I dare hope we haven’t stepped on his tail too hard. I bid you farewell, Lord Hand.”

What an interesting turn of events, he thought. He made his separate ways from the Queen of Thorns. The thoughts didn’t die down easily in his mind, mixing and jumbling, each leading to a new one. Houses went in and out of his head, their names a litany of prayer and answer that he sorted through in mere seconds. If he dared, he might say that it was excitement rushing through his bones. The wind swept, his sable blue cloak fluttering in the air. And so Jon Arryn walked, to rejoin the reception party. In the distance, he could hear the falcon’s cries. The lords must be hawking. The Tyrells had, after all, promised seven days of melee and jousting and hawking to serenade their honored guests. The cries rang again. And in the sky-high blue, Jon Arryn finally saw his legacy.

---

The jubilations remained throughout the day. The sun had been dethroned from its peak, and the sky is gearing to welcome the evening. All sorts of queer instruments were played by the bards. And the verses were stranger still to Jon’s ears. Amidst a crowd of lords and ladies, Jon remained in the gardens. And he could see. Anders Yronwood was a sandy-haired great muscled man. And yet, he remained eloquent in his appearance, towering over most of the guests, with a haughty air of superiority to him. Fitting for a man who called himself Bloodroyal.

House Yronwood of the Boneway, he remembered. Supported the Black Dragon’s cause more than once. Was it twice? Or was it thrice? Even when the Blackfyres had been left friendless, the Yronwoods declared for them, no matter how pitiful their rebellions were. It is no secret that the Yronwoods desire Dorne. And their current tale was a… tumultuous one, to say the least. Truly, the extent of the Spider’s web of spies was terrifying at times. He told a tale of bad blood and the death of the previous Lord Yronwood. How the debt was then paid in Prince Quentyn being given for Lord Anders to ward. And how said Prince now became the heir to Sunspear.

“My Lord Hand.”

As it happened, it seemed that the Warden of the Stone Way had also intended to talk to him. “Lord Anders,” Jon answered, to the tune of the ever-gracious aging lord. “How fares Yronwood? I dare hope that all is at peace.”

“It fares splendidly, my lord. The Marches are quiet, and we all rejoice for it. I haven’t had to deal with any bandits or brigands in months. Bless the Seven, for indeed, we may be welcoming the dawn of a true peace,” he spoke in a deep, rich voice that belonged to the kings of the old.

“Joyful news, then.”

“Yes, the land has been at peace. The sea, not so much.”

He frowned. “The sea? Is there any surge of pirate raids in the Sea of Dorne?”

An affirmative nod was his answer. “It’s not just in Yronwood. Lady Toland has said the same of Ghost Hill. Quick, these new pirates are. They strike fast. And just as fast, they disappear. Into the treacherous water of Stepstones.”

“The Stepstones is an ever-troubled region. The Targaryens have tried to lay claim on it in the past. And it didn’t exactly go well. And be as it may, I have heard rumors that the Three Daughters are in quarrel yet again. Of course, not that we’d brush the issue aside. I’ll be sure to tell Lord Stannis to send more patrol to the area.”

“That would be much appreciated, Lord Hand,” the Yronwood said, his voice deep. “I don’t, however, think that these pirates have anything to do with the Daughters. There’s been another rumor. Of a man. A pirate king nestling in Torturer’s Deep. Words are saying that he styles himself as ‘Lord of the Waters.’ Rumors also have it that-”

“Rumours have poisoned men and women alike, Lord Anders. I wouldn’t put too much faith in baseless whisperings. Certainly not enough to blindly send the realm into a war.”

Jon kept his face resolute. Stone-hard. “Of course, Lord Hand.” But the Bloodroyal was not a man easily cowed, it seemed. “But still, rumors always possess a droplet of truth in them, no matter how small. And if they ring true, what seemed misleading could prove… revealing. They say that this pirate king has been capturing ships from the Reach. Agile and advanced as they are. But then again, sailors are often mad. I’m simply concerned… about how this could affect our realm. Considering how important the Stepstones are to the trade of the Seven Kingdoms. After all, one would only need to pick up a book to remember Racallio Ryndoon, who declared himself King of the Narrow Sea.”

“That is indeed worrying, my lord,” Jon settled to say. “Lord Varys will know better, I suppose. And I also remain confident that Lord Stannis will be able to smash them should it come to that.”

“The Spider’s reputation is known, even in Dorne. And the Master of Ships has proven his prowess during Balon Greyjoy's folly years ago.”

He nearly winced at the reminder of that defiance of Robert’s rule but it was a simple compliment so he refused to delve into the memories any more. It was now his chance to pursue his own interest. Prince Doran had turned the offer to betroth Prince Quentyn to Lord Anders’ daughter, the Spider had said. And there was not a more opportune moment than now to court the Yronwoods to their cause. “If you would indulge me, my lord. Since you’re fostering Prince Quentyn, what do you think of him?” Prince Doran was old. Sickly, others would add. He might not be long for the world. As I do. So it was paramount to determine and properly assess his successor to fully take things into consideration.

“The Prince?” The Dornishman was smiling, he could see. “Good lad, he is. Quiet, yes. But dutiful. He’ll do what’s right by his people. And he listens to the advice of those around him. Surrounded by the right men, Dorne will be most fortunate to have him in the future. You will most likely find a better answer from my son, Lord Hand, if what you seek truly is his personality. Inseparable, those boys, Cletus and the Prince. Like brothers. And I’ve begun to see him as my own son.” And you wish him to truly be through marriage.

He settled for a light cough, before returning to a friendly smile. “The bond forged in youth, trivial as it may, can be tremendous for the future. I believe that I… have observed it better than most.”

“Very wisely said, Lord Hand.” Then one of the servants came upon them, offering glasses of wine. Jon graciously accepted, but the Bloodroyal declined it with a gesture of his hand.

“Not much for Arbor Ruby, are you, Lord Anders?”

The man replied with chuckles. “Red Water, you mean? I’m afraid I am not. After all, we, or at least we Stony Dornish, as the Young Dragon named us, know only one true wine. And that is Dornish Red. If I may be honest, Lord Hand, regarding my son and heir. Prince Quentyn’s time at Yronwood is swiftly coming to an end. And I fear that my son losing the company of a sane voice, Prince Quentyn that is, will not be kind to my house’s legacy.” A request. And an opening for Jon.

“Well, we could always arrange something at King’s Landing. Few would deserve the honor of hosting the heir to a house boasting the same proud lineage as Yronwood, after all. Six and ten, is he? I expect that soon he’ll wed, then.”
“Turned six and ten just last moon, yes. And wed? There are indeed some proposals. Lord Tarly’s daughter, among them. As a matter of fact, I had just talked to Lord Tarly before. There’s nothing confirmed, but then again, few houses boast lineage like House Tarly. So I thought, why not indulge him,” Anders Yronwood calmly replied. Too calmly. Jon’s eyebrows shot up at the mention of the name. Tarly… a powerful Marcher house by its own history. More so with the prestige Lord Randyll had built. The Yronwood in front of him was dancing a dangerous dance. “But I’m not that cruel a father, Lord Hand. We live in a time of peace. And I dare not rob my son of his chance of glorious, youthful pursuit. And of course, it’s a tremendous honor to even be considered for an invitation to the Court of King’s Landing. I have full confidence that should he be granted the honor, my son will uphold our family’s name proudly. We, Yronwoods, after all, are ever-loyal servants to our King.”

An interesting choice of word. Our King. “That is great to hear, my lord.”

“I’m glad you think so, Lord Arryn. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I fear that I have been taking too much of your valuable time.” He nodded, acknowledging the man’s farewell bid. “By your leave, Lord Hand.”

He stood there, carefully considering the words of the Dornishman. Then he was approached, and he saw Prince Renly, still dressed sharply as ever, moving and making his way through the crowd of lords, muttering excuses along his way. “Lord Jon,” Renly greeted him. “Enjoying the festivities?”

“Quite, Prince Renly. Is His Grace with you? It happens that I have something in mind to-”

“My brother? I fear that they have managed to swindle Robert away into the training yard. You can blame Lord Swann’s sons for that. Stormlords through and through, they are. In fact, I was just about to go after them. Loras has stars in his eyes for the thought of testing his steel against my fabled brother. I haven’t had the heart to break it to him. Poor lad,” he said while sipping a glass of wine, laughing with his mouth and eyes.

“I see,” he answered curtly. He turned around, finding his squire not far behind. “Hugh,” he called out. “Would you mind sending the King a message from me? Tell him that I wish to see him in his chamber. I intend to retire early and write to King’s Landing. And I need to consult with him before I write to his brother.”

“At once, my lord,” his squire bowed. It wouldn’t do if Robert’s reputation as a warrior king suddenly crumble away. The Crown had too much to deal with already. Especially from the Queen’s seemingly innate talent for alienating lords and ladies alike.

“He’ll be pissed, you know,” Renly said to him.

He found himself huffing a small laugh, recalling easier days. “Heh, If I can handle Robert crying and throwing a fit, then I’m sure I can handle him being pissed, My Prince.”

“Robert? Crying, really?” he asked with visible eagerness.

“Oh, yes. Your brother is not always who he is right now.” And yet I do not know who he is any longer. “He was a loud kid. Boisterous. I’ve never seen the like before. Eight and already this great mass of flesh and bones. Always demanding, always shouting. The other one was always accepting, always silent. North and South, Ned and Robert were. When your brother first arrived at the Eyrie, he cried before the moon is over. Said his parents had forgotten him. I simply told him that ravens could get lost. As we often do, humans. I watched him grow. As he found steel and warhammer. And as he discovered drink and women. And that little boy… began to fade over the years.” And long gone by now.

“My brother is many things,” he heard the Prince say. “But I never imagine him as someone with a heart. Never even in my wildest dreams.”

He remembered the cursed wedding-to-be at Riverrun. And the words telling of Lyanna Stark’s capture. “He’d like to think that he lost his heart, somewhere during the Rebellion, your brother. But that’s not the truth. Blackened and poisoned it might be, I believe that he simply refused to hear it any longer.”

Renly, it seemed, had no words to answer his. And Gods know, the Master of Laws was rarely ever tongue-tied. “What do you think of the Tyrells, Lord Hand?” He finally broke the silence.

“Well, they are an interesting family, I suppose.”

A little, short, bark-like laugh was his answer. “That’s certainly a thought. But I suppose they are indeed a family. Such strange concept to me, it was. At least, at first. I grew up surrounded by maesters and tutors. In a castle my older brother feels he was robbed of. Anyway, I suppose that matters little today. Have you heard of Lord Beric?” At his confused look, Renly added with a hushed voice, “Dondarrion. Of Blackhaven. Well, I am happy to inform you that it’s a success with Daynes. Officially betrothed and all that. To the Lady Regent of Starfall, no less.”

“Thank you, Prince Renly. It’s a little relief for this old man amidst today’s heavy concerns, I must admit.”

“Self-awareness suits you well, my lord. I can’t imagine it, though, being Robert’s Hand for this long. If I were you I’d have gone prematurely bald by now. I guess… I must relish in the mercy given to me as Master of Laws, I suppose. I do hope I can do more, though," Renly said, stroking his trimmed beard. "A chance to serve my brother. Prove myself to him. I thought I had it with my position. But it's practically useless, don't you think? Robert gave it to me just for fancy's sake."

The Master of Laws was good. He knocked the arrows swiftly and aimed them properly. But Jon Arryn was years ahead of him to fall victim to the easy mummery. "Well, Prince Renly. I dare say that it is a test."

"A test?" the other man mumbled, curiosity palpable in his voice.

"Yes. A test. To see what you're cut from. The Master of Laws is an honorable position. Do well… and you'll do for the rest. Of that, I am sure."

He smiled and rose to his feet. "Well, then, Lord Hand. I shall strive to prove my best."

"Good. Now if you would, I fear that I am not yet as acquainted as I would like with our newfound friends in the desert. Care to accompany me, Prince Renly?"

Renly took the offer. Swiftly and easily. He was young, there was no doubt. But so was I. And so was Robert. Jon Arryn didn't much believe in second chances. He believed in reassessment. Perhaps, the young stag could prove to be suitable as the next guiding hand in steering the realm. He knew that it sure would be a rough sea. Braving lions and the growing gardens of the roses. To the east, the dragon's cause might still prove to be not as dead as they would like. Merely dormant, perhaps.

It was yet another burden that he must bear. The executioner's blade rested heavy in his hands. As was the Stranger's scythe looming over his nape. The girl could be… a choice for young Prince Joffrey. The boy, the older one… the Black might prove suitable for him. But the stains of blood could not be erased. It would forever be engraved on the walls of the Red Keep. Of Maegor's Holdfast. Blood of Princess Elia and her children. Jon Arryn cursed Tywin Lannister for that. That day the Old Lion put him in the most difficult situation he had ever faced. To let his honor besmirched and speed along the consolidation of Robert's reign… or to be unyielding, the steel of a ramrod, and risk testing their mettle against the fresh and full might of the West.

"What do you think of the dragons, Prince Renly?" He asked as they made their way across the gardens. Atop the hills of which Highgarden stood, Jon Arryn could see the Mander in all its glory. The orange hues blended perfectly with the fairs along its banks. Sails were in the view as lords and ladies and smallfolk, even, fell in love with the pleasure barges of the Tyrells.

"I think they were an interesting beast. A relic of the past, now. Buried, long-forgotten. Or so my brother would hope. Not everyone is cut to ride a dragon, I'm sure. Let alone tame them."

"The Targaryens, I meant," he clarified.

"Oh, I know that. Viserys and… Daenys? Daenerys, is it? I heard about Lord Tywin." At Jon's raised eyebrows, he added, "Varys and I share a great taste in the newfound wonders of the tea that our Reach friends have discovered. We get together on some evenings. And you know what they say. Gossip is the vice of a eunuch."

He noted the revelation carefully. "Well? What do you think we ought to do, then? Be sure to remember, that these two houses joined here today, were dragon's men." Jon would easily admit that he was terribly curious at Renly’s answer. After all, he had never seen the youngest Baratheon as more than a mere appeaser. Men might see him as a follower absent-mindedly following the words of his kingly brother. But Jon knew better. Renly appeased. He settled himself into the good graces of the others. Even the elusive Spider, too, if the additional information was one to believe.

"The war was a thing of the past, Lord Hand. I say… let the blood remain to be in the past. Tywin Lannister had graciously sullied his hands and shouldered most of the blame for us. Why should we forgo his sacrifice? I do not know what Prince Doran thinks. Or what his daughter or his son thinks. But the Tyrells… I know. Mace Tyrell is a man with a terribly big heart. Forgive and forget, he would say. His heir… Willas, is more cautious, to say the least. He, too, would say forgive and forget. But so long as we water his gardens. They’re not going to start a war for two children with a lost cause. But why risk it? The Reach upholds chivalry above all. And a King who ordered the death of two children would not fit proper in their code of honor.”

Jon Arryn offered a smile. “Excellent points, Lord Renly. But I’m afraid that you haven’t answered my question yet.”

“I had hoped you wouldn’t notice,” replied the younger man, offering a bright grin. “Forgive, I say. But not forget. We do not know the length of which the Free Cities are willing to grant them. Many would like to see Westeros shaken. Send men after them. But do not kill. Let the realm know the magnanimity of House Baratheon. Dorne begrudges us for Princess Elia. But that is Lord Tywin’s debt. Not ours. Do with the girl what you think you should do. Cersei would raise all the seven levels of hell if we try to betroth her to her beloved cub, no matter how correct it would be. Eh, it’s not as if Robert would even hear more than two words spoken about it. Some landless knight maybe. Or hells,” Renly cursed, shaking his head, smiling, and snorting. “For the sake of this… this farce of a mummery, I’d even take the girl to wife. That is if Robert shall command me. But the boy… well, to imitate Bloodraven and Aenys Blackfyre wouldn’t do us any favor, I’d say. So the Black and the freezing North it is for the Beggar King. Strong. Merciless. But all nicely fit inside a velvet glove.”

He nodded, deigning the need to show approval. “Well said, I must say. And more or less along the lines of what I’m thinking. I believe… your voice will carry a great weight in our future Small Council meeting, My Prince.”

“Your faith gratitudes me, Lord Jon. And ah… well, it seems that we have arrived,” Renly said, stretching his fingers to point in the northeast direction. There stood, the dark-haired great beauty that was Allyria Dayne, judging by the colors of her dress. So reminiscent and yet so very different from her late sister, Ashara. Her eyes, for instance, were violet, yet bore a different shade to her late sister. A woman whose shadow lurked heavy in the haunted days of the Rebellion. And then lingered ever since, likely in a form of natural son of his another foster son. And to the Dayne’s side was Willas Tyrell. The groom of the day. “I suppose this rather put us in a pickle. We’d need to dance this one carefully, Lord Hand. Else we risk overplaying our hands,” Renly added in low murmurs.

And so Jon went. And greetings were exchanged. All the pleasantries and mummeries. “And to what do we owe the pleasure? A Prince of the Realm and the Hand of the King. I was just congratulating Lady Dayne here on her betrothal.” It did come as a surprise to Jon. Willas Tyrell was smart. And a Stormlord marrying a Regent of an important house in Dorne would only be open to so much interpretation. The game they were playing was a naked one. But it was one of the precautions that they agreed upon on that Small Council meeting with Robert.

“There’s nothing owed, my lord. And once again, congratulations on the wedding. I hope that your union will be a most fruitful and blessed one.” The children that Willas Tyrell and Arianne Martell would have, after all, would be claimants to both the throne of Highgarden and possibly even Sunspear.

“Thank you, Lord Arryn.”

It was now time to creep into the danger zone, he knew. House Dayne of Starfall had been largely exempt from any political wave ever since the Rebellion, with its lord preferring to keep them isolated. But said lord had just died. And a boy now ruled Starfall, if only in name for now. “How’s your nephew, if you don’t mind me asking, Lady Allyria? We all are praying for your brother’s soul, of course.”

“Ned- Edric, that is- is doing fine. He wanted to come, truth to be told. But the Maester forbid him from making such a long journey. Especially after he had just come down with a fever the week before.”

“Such a pity, it was,” Lord Willas cut in. “I had hoped that a future Sword of the Morning would grace my own wedding.” But he quickly added while clanking his cane on the stone floor, “If that’s the gods’ will, of course, my lady. I wish you will find your little brother in perfect health upon your reunion.”

“Thank you for kind words, my lord, I pray he becomes worthy of wielding Dawn in time.”

“Pale like milk and sharp as a Valryian Steel,” Jon offered his reminiscing to cut in the conversation again. “I have had the fortune of witnessing your late brother’s glory with the sword before, my lady.”

“An honor not many of us shared here today,” Renly added from his side.

“The war did take too many kind souls from us,” was Lady Allyria’s answer. It was a bold one. Without finesse, steering the ship directly into the murky waters. But it worked justly as it unsettled Jon immediately. She continued, “But I suppose Arthur was indeed one of a kind, yes. It’s quite amusing: he was my brother, yet I never really knew him. I was but a child when the Rebellion happened. As was Lord Willas here. And Lord Renly. I can’t imagine, though. It’s terrible enough for me. Let alone how it was for Lord Renly.” Lord, she called him twice. Indicating that it was not a slip of the tongue. And Jon took note of that. Bold, the lady was. By bringing up the topic of the Rebellion, she had unsettled both him and Renly. And yet, she had also broached the mention of the Siege of Storm’s End. One could call it brazen. But Jon welcomed it as a sign that House Dayne remained firmly unattached. At least for now.

Renly gave an awkward cough into his fist. “Thank you, my lady. But I’d rather we steer away from all the talk of doom and gloom. Wouldn’t want the groom here to be tenser than he already is, would he?” The jape worked, with Allyria smiling, accepting the change of topic.

Willas Tyrell offered a small grin, tinted with a hint of a grimace. He had had the chance to pick the Tyrell’s brain beforehand, finding him a well-read man, well-versed in the matters of lordship. His mind wanted to wander into thinking how much a cripple can be competent in matters warfa-

“Speaking of weddings. Mayhaps our Lord Hand here would have a suggestion or two to share with our young groom today?” offered Lady Dayne. She was brave, he must admit. Outspoken and sharp.

Still, he barked up a laugh at that. After all, courtesy was to be his weapon now in his old age. “Hmm, what can I say? Marriage… marriage is a wheel, perhaps. For it to work, it needs to rotate, high and low and high and low. Else it’d clog. And a broken wheel it would be.”

Willas Tyrell offered a smile at that. “How wise of you, Lord Hand. I shall take that under heavy consideration. So should Lady Allyria here. And you, too, Renly. Dread it. Run from it. That day comes for all of us, my friend.”

The hand placed on Prince Renly’s shoulder was a heavy gesture. But the words did send Jon’s mind to wander, unraveling thoughts and possibilities. A Tyrell and a Martell… how might that work? Love, the bards would say. Duty, the nobles would answer. He would’ve snorted at such an answer, more so the latter. Three great weddings he had witnessed other than his own. Royal Weddings at the Great Sept of Baelor. The Mad King and his sister. Was a wedding ever so joyless? He remembered the sullen smiles of Aerys, still but a prince. Rhaella Targaryen wore a veil of white. But hers was a face of mourning as if cloaked in the black veil of a funeral. They were such children once. Done wrong by their parents. He wondered what could’ve been had King Jaehaerys not forced his children to marry each other. How many thousands of lives might’ve been spared…

The second royal wedding he remembered was that of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia. The realm stood still as the seemingly perfect prince cloaked his bride in black and red. And the lovely Elia Martell had won the hearts of everyone in attendance. Everyone but the people who mattered. Theirs soon turned into spites and insults. A king and his hand who both resented the bride, for different reasons yet stemming from their hate over each other. Did he, though? Did the Mad King ever truly hate his ‘dutiful servant’? Or was he prey to his own fears and delusions? It mattered not. Now the realm remembered only two butchered children and a slain Princess out of the wedding. And the debt was Jon Arryn’s to pay.

The third royal wedding was yellow and gold and red and black. The bride proved true to her moniker of the Light of the West. And Robert was clad in Baratheon colors, looking as mighty as any of his forebears had ever been. The Conqueror comes again… I had hoped. Yet that hope was fading fast. Quicker with every cup of wine that was downed by the King. Faster with every whore he shared his bed with, yet not the Queen. Which had only weighed his duty here and now the heavier. The balance of the realm is not yet secure. And an old falcon might be long past his time to keep the scale tipped.

“Arryn… Lord Arryn?” He was soon returned from his wanderings by Prince Renly’s calls.

“Oh yes, do forgive me. I fear that today has been quite a lot for me.” Convincing Lady Allyria of betrothing her nephew to someone from the Crown’s choosing would be difficult, he knew. But if the said choice was Ned Stark’s child… he wondered about the possibility of it happening. A Stark in the south would increase their alliance with the North. And a second tie to Starfall could be the door to establish the Crown’s influence in Dorne.

“It is understandable, my lord,” the groom answered. “Having you here has been such an honor.” But if he could indeed pull it off, it would be a tremendous boon to counter the Tyrell-Martell union. And yet, judging by Lord Willas’ presence here, he seemed to have realized it, too. But he was the Hand of the King. And the Heir to Highgarden was no equal for a man in his office.

“Actually, Lord Willas. If it is not a bother, I think I’d like to talk privately with Lady Allyria. Just for a few moments, and if the Lady doesn’t mind, of course.”

Renly took his cue with ease. “Yes, and I’ve been meaning to talk to you, too, Willas. From our last discussion, I’m interested to find the details of how we could bring some of these… theaters of yours to the capital. King’s Landing can surely use the prestige. Seven knows that the city has had enough whores already.”

The Tyrell and the Dayne both nodded. “It seems that we are parted, for now, Lord Willas.”

“It seems that we are indeed, my lady.” A smile formed upon the Tyrell’s face. Kind and genuine and polite. No one would ever doubt that it was carefully crafted. But Jon Arryn had learned not to trust smiles easily. “Very well, then,” the Tyrell said, lightly kissing the Dornishwoman’s hand, “I’d let you steal away such a lovely maid, Lord Arryn. But only if you don’t tell my wife I said that.”

Jon Arryn swore, it was as if the world was frozen for a split of a second. And just as quickly, it melted. And Lord Willas opened his mouth as he laughed in amusement of his own jape, soon joined by Renly’s boisterous laughs. And the Lord of the Eyrie found himself laughing alongside them, if only for the sake of politeness. But in Willas Tyrell’s laughing eyes, bright as they be, Jon could see, the shades of amusement peeling off to hide another depth within them.

Notes:

So there it is. Jon Arryn in all his twisted webs of facades and lies and honors. I gotta say that I really enjoy writing the schemes of the four people presented here. First is Olenna, who will have her own things in the future. The Tyrell's gardens will not be sunny all day long in the future, after all. Second is Anders Yronwood, now spurned for a betrothal between his daughter and Quentyn. Third is Renly, poking around and testing waters all around. He has a lot of leverage with him holding Storm's End. And as canon tells us, he doesn't lack the ability to properly rouse them. Fourth is Allyria Dayne. A blank slate of a character. But this I promise, the Daynes of Starfall will play a pivotal role in the future of the story. And as always, foreshadows all around the corners. Though it may not be as much of a foreshadowing as an insight into the mind of our potential players in the future.

So, what do you think of the chapter? Please leave a review below. Suggestions and criticisms are welcomed, and questions as well

Chapter 27: The Last Dragon - Epilogue of Part 1

THE LAST DRAGON

It was silver that he was staring at. Silver. Silver. Silver the color of his hair. Silver the color of Targaryens. A true Targaryen, chanted his father’s words in his mind. Unlike that sullied little spawn that Rhaegar’s Dornish wench has whelped. Silver bore the marking of the dragons. Emblem of the dragonlords of the old, ruling in their sky-high towers. But it was the silver of Myr that was in front of him. And staring back from the gleam, was a set of pale eyes, the shade of lilac. Purple as The Conqueror’s own. They were the eyes of the beast. Not man. But dragon’s. Ferocious and fierce. Sharp and ruthless, glinting with the cruel malice of a dragon’s wrath. Yes. Viserys smiled. Then he peered. Closer and far through the argent reflection. And there he saw. The making of a king. Of a great king, even.

Long live the true King of Westeros, he remembered, the parting words of Ser Willem. Valiant man, he was. Run. Hide. Yet he too was weak. Weak-willed in their defiance. Darry taught them to run and hide. His life with him was spent scurrying like rats, fleeing in the pursuit of the Usurper’s knives. But Ser Willem was a devoted servant of House Targaryen. A title only few could ever proudly boast. And yet his legacy was to lose us everything in Braavos. Viserys cursed, his heart racing at the grimdark thoughts. Was it fear that was gripping him? Nay, that was impossible. Dragons do not fear. Dragons only have wrath.

Footsteps neared him, he realized in the distant awareness. He paid them no heed. The face in the mirror remained. Gaunt cheeks and heavy eyes. Not fit for a King, Illyrio would say. But the fat magister was a fool. A fool and a greedy porker who gobbled up riches like a food-starved slave. But the man had his uses, he must admit. Nor was he lacking in brains. Men like Illyrio… know where to look for power. And I am the King. No matter, he told himself, when the Usurper’s corpse rotted, he would have the time to deal with the upjump. After all, he was a just and generous king. And sooner or later, his worth would be proven, and all will bend for the dragon in his triumph.

Heavy knockings came upon the door. He turned, snapping his head in the direction of the sound. It swung open with drumming creaks. And a woman in a maid’s clothes came upon it. He squinted, paying the bint a fleeting look, hurryingly deciding the lack of worth in her face. Scorn came upon him, almost unconsciously as his lips twisted. And it was a terribly great thing when he could see the flinch in the woman’s face. Fear. Yes, yes, tremble in the face of the dragon's might. He cursed those lowly cretins—worthless infestations like vermin and mice. A dragon needed no such companions. "M-m-m'lord," came the timid voice of the maid, now standing beside him.

Purple eyes narrowed rapidly. His hand flew before his mind registered. And the resulting smack echoing in the chamber was a pleasant sound. A better company than that of the drab silence. "You dare, wench!” he growled at the girl. "Your Grace. You will address me as Your Grace."

“Y-yes, y-y-your grace.”

Pathetic, he thought as he observed the tears running down the woman’s face. “Fetch me, Illyrio,” he then commanded, his voice deep as Illyrio would call his ‘kingly voice.’

“I-Illyrio, Your Grace?”

He stopped, now looking at the wench from the bottom to the top of her head. “Are you an idiot, girl? Is that why you’re just a lowly servant? Or are you one of the worthless whores sent he sent me? If so, then tell him that I have had enough of his games. Mopatis promised me answers. And I will have it. Now.” It was a tiring thing, standing far above the idiocy of most people. But what was a King? If not someone to rule those much lower than him. And so for the sake of it, he must bear the irritation.

She opened and closed her mouth repeatedly, gaping like an idiot worse than the Sealord’s fool. He could also see that she was shaking her head. “Y-your Grace… y-you are in t-the Red Keep. A-at King’s Landing. T-the t-the Lord Hand has instructed m-me to prepare you for your meeting with him tonight, Y-Your Grace.”

The Lord Hand.

“L-lord Arryn, I mean… Y-Your Grace. Jon Arryn.”

Rebel scum. Traitor of the lowest of the low. Viserys snarled. He leaped, hands outstretched, the force knocking the stool he was sitting in. His hands came upon the woman’s bare throat. The thought made him feel powerful. Like a dragon. Like a beast. Far from the pathetic and weakling men that he was destined to be above. And most of all, it made him feel far away from the mockery of being called the Beggar King.

“You still think this a funny jape, now? I command you to explain yourself, wench!”

“G-g-guards!” She shouted, receiving nothing but silence. “P-please, Y-your Grace, I-i-i.” He noted the woman’s hands around his own, flailing and trying. They were pale and lithe and frail. Weak, he scorned in his mind. “Y-y-you’ve been brought h-here f-from P-p-,” she stuttered, pushing Viserys to tighten his grip. Her back was now against the walls, dimly lit by the flickering flames. “F-from P-Pentos, o-or s-s-so t-they, u- ss-aid.”

Pentos, his mind registered. Salt in the wind and cheese a-plenty. He remembered Illyrio Mopatis. And of his little sister. Viserys had long given up on the thoughts of time. Those were the thoughts of mortal men. As such, it was a jumbled mess in his mind to inquire about his stay in the city. A year. Half a year. It was tedious, that much he knew. He remembered fat Unsullieds in the magister’s manse. They were half men. Undeserving of life if not for their servitude. The many tutors that Illyrio had forced upon him. Swords, he remembered more vividly than the others. A King has his servants to fight for him, he had shouted in the end, concluding one of the many annoyances the magister had inflicted upon him. Of which, he had barely tolerated for the sake of the man’s grand promises. After all, Illyrio always spoke of a grand conspiracy. A plan woven so intricately, spanning continents, involving lords and ladies of the realm, united for the return of a Targaryen King.

Something snapped within him.

The tide came like darkness swallowing the day. They were the thoughts of bladed assassins in the night and rocking boats on wistful seas, telling the tale of humiliation. At long last, the word escaped Viserys’ throat. “No.”

“No.”

“N-n-n-no.”

He retreated his hands from the woman’s throat, faintly noticing the servant’s tumble into the ground. “No,” he whispered yet again. And it was a light step backward that he took with each broken whisper.

The scuffing sounds of his steps were faint upon his ears. And it was the Myrish mirror that he was facing yet again. Gaunt eyes and sunken cheeks. Not fit for a king. Tousled hair, dirty grey sullying the silver purity. You’re no king, a voice whispered. You never were. Feeble. Weak. A far cry from Rhaegar. Perfect Rhaegar. Unworthy of the dragon. The boy that lost his mother’s- no. No. Not that. Anything but that. His teeth ground against each other, the squeak of it filling the somber room. He could see the vision. Of a burning Essos. Those who had spit at him drowning in the blood of their family. He’d have it back. One day. He’d have it back. Even if he must raze all the nine of the Free Cities to the ground.

The stink of the iron hung heavy in the room. And only then did Viserys notice the grisly streak of red running down his arm. It stings, was his first thought of the pain. Now shattered, the mirror was laid broken upon the floor, its shards spread across the room, and some were lodged in his hand. It was a fascinating thing, the red. The color crimson of the dragon of Targaryen. It burns, too, his mind supplied. A true flame. Unlike the insult of an imitation that his father’s conjurers created. His rage thundered in his heart. Would it be that he could, the Red Keep would’ve been bathed in his wrath. And from the ashes of the desolate past, the dynasty of the dragons would be born anew.

His back met the stone-hard wall. And the Last Dragon fell against it. Is this what it feels like… despair? House Targaryen would end here, in some dreary vault, as a prisoner of the Usurper that butchered his family. Locked up and kept away. Disgraced, shamed, and humiliated. He failed. So in the end, he really was a failure.

“My, what a glorious ruckus, this all is,” came the smooth, faint sound from the doorway. Vision dimming, Viserys cracked open an eye, taking in the view of a plump woman, clearly older than the wench before. Round pin moon of a face and dark curls that had begun greying. She smelled of lavender, that much he knew, for the scent was strong. Terribly so, even more than the copper of the blood. She was holding a flagon in her left hand, and a cup in the other.

She neared him, taking cautionary steps, paying but a fleeting second to the passed-out body laying on the floor. And then she spoke, “Drink, Your Grace.”

Viserys was far from broken. But he did, nonetheless. It was sweet, pouring into his tongue like honeyed gold. “W-who sent you?” he managed to ask, cringing through the pricking pains from his hand.

More so than anything else, the woman seemed to be amused by the question. She wore heavy powder on her wide face. “Sent me? Why, the realm, of course, Your Grace.” And then she continued, “Do you not remember me, my little Prince? We shared such short time in the past, I know. But I would’ve thought that the little prince that often sneaks to his father’s small council chamber would at least remember the sweets I gave him.”

The memories of the Red Keep were distant to him. Shades of his father and smaller ones of his mother. But the answer came to Viserys like an unbidden guest. Hidden smiles that lurked behind the shadows. “Varys?” he asked.

“Well, who else could it be, Your Grace?”

His nails dug into the cold floor, finding a particularly large shard of the broken mirror. “Traitor!” he yelled, yanking his uninjured hand against the eunuch.

Chuckles answered him. “It is a bad mummer whose strings are seen, Your Grace. Do you think that Willem Darry had what it takes to evade the Usurper’s knives? One after another after another and so on. Nay,” he said, lips pursing and shaking his head, “Darry was a kind-hearted fool who deluded himself into a mystified hero of the songs. But it was me that was behind every knife. I carefully arranged them. The feeblest hires and the flimsiest excuses. I made sure that those knives stay one step behind. A most tiring thing, it was. The lying, not so much. But the strings? I must be oh so very careful, of course, lest I’d get them tangled with another’s. For there are many behind the curtains of this here play of ours.”

He steeled his eyes, unflinching in his defiance against the Master of Whispers. “You bent to Robert Baratheon. You’re a traitor and no more than that.”

Varys sighed. His hands went to the top of his head, peeling the hair off. A pale, violet robe protruded from beneath the servant’s clothes. “A necessary sacrifice. I took it upon myself to bear the heavy burden. Serve the pretender. And from the shadows, my plans stretch long for the survival of House Targaryen. It was me that guided you to Pentos, you see. For Illyrio and I are dear friends, climbing out of the slums of Pentos together. Those who grow in the vile darkness know not to be nameless. Nameless will make you another face in the brothel, another cattle to be sold. We promise that we’d mark the world with our name. Even if we have to carve it in blood. And then it came. An invitation from the King of Westeros. All my life I spend to hear and hear and hear. And then I was heard. I owe my gratitude to your father, little prince. I warned him when your brother was beginning to be swallowed by the praises and panderings of the wicked lords. And it was me that urged him to send you and your mother to Dragonstone.”

He had curses on his tongue. Questions and insults. “Y-you-”

“But the time was no more for us to linger in the shadows. I curse the Old Lion for this. I was careless, you see. Perhaps I overestimated Lord Arryn’s supposed honor. How he ever agreed to this Lannister plot, I wonder. But alas, I was outmaneuvered this time. Worry not, it won’t repeat. House Tyrell and House Martell have been joined in marriage. And I have secured their loyalties for your cause, Your Grace. We are waiting for you, you see. The lords of the Reach and Dorne toast to your return. It is hastened now, I must admit, with this… unforeseen circumstances.”

He tried to rise, swallowing groans that threatened to escape him. His body seemed to have its weight doubled, and was now devoid of vigor. “M-my sister?”

“Safe and secure,” came the simple answer. “If you worry that Illyrio has sold her to a Dothraki horselord, then be assuaged, Your Grace.”

His fist swung almost instantly. But the eunuch evaded it surprisingly with ease. “A jape, Your Grace, a jape. It was but a mummer’s little attempt at delight, Your Grace.” And Viserys could see that he was smiling. “Together, we shall bring down the pretender with ink and paper. Don’t you know, Your Grace? I learned it a long time ago. Letters carry weight heavier than gold. Heavier than steel and sword.”

He nodded, keeping his wrath sealed tight. A wave of drowsiness washed over him as a feeling of squeezing tightness thundered on his head. “I won’t beg. The lords will answer to my command.”

“Of course, Your Grace. The realm cries for its rightful king. And they are willing to bleed for him, too.” Varys drew a parchment, somehow hidden in his robe. The ink came, too. And last, he went for his sleeve. Viserys’ heart raced, reeling from the chaos that the day had been. He tried to calm himself, recalling Darry’s words. A dragon rules his own wrath. He inhaled a deep breath, uncaring for the stench. And yet it was a sudden thing when the cold went into his chest.

A sigh escaped him. A dreadful, terrible, harrowing sigh. There was no need to formulate words. All Viserys could do was stare.

“And you, Your Grace,” said in an undeniable mockery, “you shall bleed for him, too. The realm has forgotten. It forsook the dragons. But you, My King, you will make them remember.”

It was something heavy that pooled in his chest. A lot of it. Is it water? For he felt that he was drowning. Blood, he realized. The blood gathered. And when he looked down, his shirt was wet with red. The dagger was unseen. In its place, there was now wound. There was now the end of him. “I-i…” The King tried to speak, but it was swallowed in his chest before it was on his tongue. His hand came for his chest, working what meager attempt it could do in stopping the blood. “Y-you won’t g-get-”

Viserys had always thought of the half-man lowly. But at his ticking end, he could not remember a thing more sinister than the eunuch’s unbroken laugh. He was holding the wench’s body. “She was unafraid as she took the dagger. And as The Dragon King sneered at her in his conceit, she plunged her anguish into his heart. She wept. Her mother’s soul now avenged. And yet it was also the end of her. For the path she took went only one way. She counted her blessings. And then, dripping red, the dagger was at her throat.”

The body fell, limp and lifeless, throat open. The eunuch continued, “Come the morning, they shall find a false bottom upon her drawer, and made the discovery of a golden coin minted in the days of Loren the Last. The other servants know her story. Of her mother’s execution by wildfire. A disgraced wench, avenging her family’s honor. A grand spectacle fit for the taste of the bards. A servant who slew The Last Dragon. Heh, of course, it would’ve never really happened. She was meek. Just another one of the many too weak to learn to take.”

Pins and needles pricked on his entire body. Each struggling breath came shorter than the last. Everything was at his ears and the next nothing was. “I… am the d-dragon. V-Viserys t-the Third of H-His Name.”

Varys sighed softly. “I suppose I must thank Littlefinger for this. It does, after all, seem to pay to let him think that we are equals in this game," he said, pausing as he chuckled in twisted mirth. "Drugs and insanity make such fine pair, I see. To claim your family’s history of madness would be easy. Too easy. Despicable method for a despicable man. Fret not, Your Grace, for I am a benevolent judge.” The candles had been snuffed out. And in the dim room lit by the peering sunlight, Varys’ eyes seemed to glow with violet. “Well, time to make an end to it, I think.”

“BURN!!!” he yelled, hands still red as he tried to maim the eunuch with what shards he could find. “You’ll burn you fucking traitor!” They all will. Traitors to House Targaryen. They will all fucking burn. The thoughts were a short-lived ascendancy, filling him with maddening glee.

The voice that came after was cold as ice. “Still your father’s son until the end, I see. I commend you for that, Your Grace. And yet, it is precisely why you must die today. I wish you to rest easy. And rest assured, Aegon shall claim vengeance in your name.” Aegon?

And then the jeers came to him. Spits, spites, and insults. Slamming doors and sneering smiles. They mocked him with praise. They laughed at him. His father’s dismay and his brother’s derision joined them. And amidst that, Viserys felt like he was the small child clutching his mother’s crown with barely big enough hands, standing at the grim end of a ship with Ser Willem’s hand upon his shoulder. Like a dragon whose wings were wrung with fear. Then his vision faded. And his hearing next. But he registered the heavy blood, swallowing him whole from the inside. Then, the light.

Mother, I-

END OF PART 1

Chapter 28: The Kraken in the Snow - Prologue of Part 2

Summary:

Two years after the Tyrell–Martell wedding, and the subsequent death of Viserys Targaryen during his captivity at the Red Keep, Jon Arryn died, and King Robert rode north to name Eddard Stark his new Hand. Despite the urgings of his small council, he was intent on betrothing Joffrey to Sansa Stark instead of Margaery Tyrell.

After one moon, the royal party rode back south, this time leaving with nearly the entire Stark household, including Jon Snow. Only Lady Catelyn, Robb, and Rickon remained. As per canon, Tyrion Lannister decided to hang back, intent on visiting the Wall first.

In the quiet aftermath of the royal ruckus, Theon had a "gift" for Robb before his future wedding to Alys Karstark.

Notes:

This is a short summary of each chapter:

Chapters 1–2: Willas discusses the Frey civil war and unveils his Targaryen restoration plan to Olenna, Mace, and Alerie.

Chapter 3: Garlan at Riverrun—he was once a squire to Ser Brynden and now fostered with Hoster Tully.

Chapter 4: Arbor Interlude — introduces new ship designs.

Chapters 5–6: Marriage discussions begin. Settle on Arianne, whose betrothal to Viserys was already broken by Doran.

Chapter 7: Edmure, held captive at the Twins, kills Black Walder.

Chapters 8–12: Willas and Garlan's voyage begins (Reach portion). Glass candles and mysteries at the Hightower. Political dealings with the Qartheen at the Arbor.

Chapter 13: Omake (bonus/interlude content).

Chapters 14–15: In Sunspear, Willas meet Arianne and formalize the betrothal with Doran.

Chapter 16: Interlude — Jon Arryn discusses the betrothal news with Varys.

Chapters 17–21: Essos portion of the voyage. Negotiations in Tyrosh, confrontation with Illyrio Mopatis, meeting Young Griff, Mellario, and rising tensions with Jon Connington.

Chapters 22–24: Pre-wedding developments. Olenna is in King’s Landing; Lady Oakheart dies under suspicious circumstances (suspected Lannister involvement). Arianne and Quentyn confront Doran. Further scheming concerning the Reach.

Chapters 25–26: The marriage takes place. Edmure is revealed to be having an affair with Roslin. Jon Arryn reflects on the Crown’s maneuvers and, after speaking with Renly, agrees to consider Tywin’s urging to take action regarding Viserys and Daenerys.

Chapter 27: Viserys, alone and imprisoned in the Red Keep, is killed by Varys to sow chaos.

-PART II-
A Field of Flowers

THE KRAKEN IN THE SNOW

 

The Sixth Moon of 298 AC.

The ale tasted like horse piss in his mouth and the women paraded in front of them so far had all smelled like smoke. No matter, he thought, Theon Greyjoy had convinced himself that he liked women way worse than them. The bell rang yet again, signalling a new person entering, and his companion instantly sunk deeper into the chair he had been sitting on, if such a thing was possible. This place was officially known as a tavern, but the only thing anyone ever came for was tits. Which explains the bad ale, he thought. Theon had been coming here since he was old enough to lie about it.

He had lost count, it was probably his sixth, or is it seventh? cup of the night. The fire had died low, the burning wood only a kindling, humming low in the background. Theon began to feel nauseous from the perfumes, paired with the gaudy velvet curtains all around. In normal circumstances, he would never bother to waste his time just sitting around with drinks. He had established, after all, that this place was a shitty brothel and an even shittier tavern. But it had its charm–particularly its anonymity, considering so few would frequent here. Another girl came to serve them, and the candlelight made everything shimmer. Theon observed with his gaze, the swaying of the girl’s hips, the curves of her thigh as she leaned in to refill their cups, and at the forefront of it all, the hot sweats dripping down Robb Stark’s neck as he muttered a hushed ‘thank you’ for the girl.

“Seven hells, you’re fucking flushed, Robb,” Theon said, reaching for his, sloshing wine onto his wrist. He didn’t bother wiping it off. He grinned instead. “You’re as red as a septa at a Lyseni brothel. You’ve only had what – three cups? Man up, Robb!”

“I’ve had enough,” Robb grumbled.

“You haven’t had shit,” he shot back. He raised his right hand into the air, gesturing for the standing brunette to approach them, then pointing to Robb’s. “You twitched every time any of the girls breathed near you.”

The brunette approached, parting her legs as she perched herself in Robb’s lap, almost like a hesitant prayer. “They’re not going to stab you, you know. It’s kind of the other way around,” he said. Then again, Robb looked like he’d rather she did. Theon sighed. He had laughed when it happened a few times before, but it was getting irritating.

So, he adjusted his seat, and leaned to Robb, elbows on his knees. “You’ll be married soon! Probably not even gonna be a full turn of the year! Do you really want your wedding night to be your first?”

“She’s a maiden,” came the quick answer. Sweats dripped down from Robb’s temple into his brows. In the dim candlelight, it only made his skin glistened even more, almost like he was burning from the inside. Theon suppressed a smile, his friend looked like he was seconds away from soiling his breeches.

“A’ight, Merry,” he called the woman. “Seems like my friend here can’t appreciate a good woman like yourself. Why don’t you leave us and I’ll come to you later, love?”

Theon had had her for a couple of times. Too tall and her face too plain. But her ample bosom and her vicious mouth had been enough compensation. Too bad that Robb wouldn’t enjoy her tonight. It was a good thing, he supposed. She’s too wild for a boy like Robb. He’d spurt before she could do anything worth his money. But then again, Merry liked to do all the work, he thought, remembering how well she had ridden him. It would be a good thing for Robb to have a girl willing to do all the work, considering how frightened and inexperienced the boy was. He mused, and thought of the other girls he recalled from this place. He couldn’t pick someone too wild, else Robb would be more likely to run away in the middle of the deed. He finally settled on a name. Lysara, he recalled. With raven hair and a pretty little face. He had deemed her demure enough not to frighten Robb, he thought. But she was also not a dead fish, just lying cold in bed with empty stares. Tina, he grimaced at the reminder, perhaps one of the worst girls he took to bed here at Wintertown. So he got up, spoke to the madam, and arranged for the girl to wait upstairs.

He returned, only to see a wench finished refilling Robb’s cup. “You’ll get so drunk you wouldn’t be able to fuck a sheep without falling over if you continue that.”

Robb exhaled through his nose – amused, embarrassed. “You’ve said that five times now,” Robb muttered. His hair was wild and messy. Absent-mindendly, Theon wondered how messier it would be after the deed was done later.

“Well, I do know you the best. You never were one for the drinks, Robb. It’s just an ale – not liquid courage, you know.”

“You’ve said that five times too, now.”

Theon cocked an eyebrow. “Because you still haven’t gone upstairs, and it’s been fucking hours.” He tipped his mug toward the staircase, where the girl he had hand picked earlier was now waiting, her gaze lingering on Robb’s. “She’s waiting.”

Robb groaned. “I’m betrothed.”

“That’s the whole fucking point!” he exclaimed, nearly shouting. “You’re betrothed to a Karstark who’s–” “Quiet down your voice! We could be heard,” Robb interrupted. “Oh, will you just fucking grow up. Alys has probably never seen a cock in her life. Well, a man’s cock, that is. Probably has only seen goat’s and horse’s and those stuff. You would be doing her a favor. Practice!” he said, too loud, too cheerful.

“She’s a maid! Why shouldn’t I also be a–”

“And you’ll fuck like fools in the dark? Sweating and fumbling and hoping not to disgrace yourself? Gods, at least tell me you know which hole you will stick it in.”

Robb didn’t answer.

So, Theon laughed, and drained another cup, finding the taste of each cup to be more bitter than the previous. “This is for your own good, you know. This is a gift! Yep,” he said, standing, making a grand gesture. “This is my gift, to you,” he emphasised each word, pointing to himself and to Robb, back and forth. “Think of it as a… tactical training. You wouldn’t send a boy off to war without giving him practice with the sword a few times first, no?”

“I don’t want—”

“You don’t know what you want, and that’s the whole fucking problem.” Theon rose, slow and graceful despite the countless drinks inside him, and sauntered over to sit down next to Robb. He sat down beside him, thigh to thigh, warm and close.

“You think these northern lords didn’t send their sons to a brothel to keep them from shaming themselves at their wedding? Do you think they are all chaste, pious boys on their wedding nights? Hells, even your father, the Hand of the King–”

“Don’t talk about my father like that!” the other boy shouted. Theon acquiesced. After all, it was always a touchy subject. Ned Stark’s folly.

“Well, I get it with the honor thing, loyal to your wife and all. But it only makes this even more important! Do you really want to spend your life only knowing the taste of one woman? Stuck with the same lips every night for the rest of your life. It’s not like she will know. And even if she does, it’s not as if she would hate you for it! This has got nothing to do with your future marriage and your love and whatever!”

Robb glared at him. “And what would you know about love?”

“Not much,” he said easily. “But I do know lots about cunts, and that’s way more useful to me right now. And it should be too, to you!”

Robb said nothing. So, he leaned in further more, his shoulder brushing Robb’s. He could almost taste the fear and insecurity radiating from the other boy. Theon thought that it was funny. The mighty and charming heir to Winterfell, quaking in fear of bedding a woman. “Hells, I’d even pay for it. Like I said, this is my gift. Your first. From me.”

The auburn-haired boy looked at him – really looked. His eyes were glassy, probably half-drunk already, but his mouth remained a stubborn line.

“Why?” he simply asked.

Theon gave him the smile he would give to girls in silk dresses and to the smallfolks with empty purses every time they ride in. “Because I’m your friend.”

The answer clearly didn’t impress Robb. So, he doubled down. “Alright, because I don’t know what will happen next. Everybody is gone. Your father is the new Hand, and all your siblings go with him. Even Snow! And no, I’m not counting Rickon, he’s still a fucking child, so I don’t consider him as a living being yet. Soon, you’ll get married, and Alys will move here to Winterfell. And I… I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I might return to Pyke. Or King Robet could order me to go someplace else. After all, it was your father that I was entrusted to, and now only your mother remains here. It makes me wonder–”

“I get it. I get it,” Robb said. “Look, I don’t really want to talk about those things right now. Everything is changing so fucking fast. Sansa is now betrothed to the Crown Prince, Bran is squiring for Ser Barristan, and even little Arya… I don’t know what goes on in my father's head. She’s still so young. And to the Daynes of Dorne, no less. They’re so far away.”

“I suppose that things have been moving very fast,” he said. It was scarce more than a year ago when Robb said to him that his parents were choosing a bride for him. He said that it had begun when Tywin Lannister offered his niece’s hand-in-marriage for Robb, and his parents had frantically tried to find an excuse to deny the old lion without insulting him. Hence, the sudden betrothal. “At least Arya will be with Snow. I have my differences with him. And tell you now, I never do like him. But I know that he will keep her safe.”

Robb merely hummed. He looked to be deep in thoughts, fingers swirling around the cup’s edges. “Do you think… that the rumors might be true?”

“What rumors?” he asked.

“That Jon was the son of… the son of…” he looked around, seemingly trying to make sure that they’re alone. Theon moved closer, their faces almost touching. “The son of Ashara Dayne?” whispered Robb.

“Hmm,” he mused. “It would explain quite a few things. Like your father agreeing with Old Arryn’s suggestion to… what was it that you said? To strengthen? No… oh, to repair the relationship between the North and Dorne.” Theon always thought that to be weird. Why would the Hand of the King dictate the betrothal of a great lord’s daughter? Then, the Old Hand had got himself killed and all these problems arrived at Winterfell. In particular, Theon didn’t enjoy meeting the cruelly pathetic Joffrey. “Also… you do know that they said Lady Ashara was so heartbroken in the end, that she threw herself off her tower?”

Robb closed his eyes, and sunk even lower to his seat, his buttocks barely touching the seat. “It’s so fucked up,” he said. “And how about my mother?”

“Probably explains why she’s always so tough on Snow. They did say that your father really did fall in love with Ashara Dayne during the Tourney in Harrenhal.”

“Gods, how I wish the King never came here,” he said. “And poor mother, too. All these have driven her fears to another level. It’s even worse with her always writing to her sister. Both of them are just as paranoid.”

“Your aunt Lysa Arryn? What about her?”

Robb gave him a weak glare. “I don’t know much of it, but every time her letter arrives, mother always immediately goes to father, and they’ll fight about the south, the king, the Lannisters, and all that” He reached for his cup yet again. “You know, it seems only yesterday that my father brought you home from his campaign. And we were glaring at each other, then we were laughing, and you always bullied me after archery practices…”

He laughed, only a little this time. “But then you’d always trash me afterwards, when we spar.”

“That’s right, I do,” he said, smiling.

Theon clapped his hands. “A’ight so let’s end all this somber and sad business. Else people think that we are beginning to turn into Snow.”

A low chuckle rumbled in Robb's throat, and Theon smiled at the sound. It felt good to hear his laughter again, even if it was laced with the melancholy that had blanketed them both for weeks now. The tavern felt warmer for it, as if even the flickering fire was leaning in to listen.

“Alright,” Theon said, shifting to press a cup into Robb’s hand. “One more drink. Just one. For old time’s sake. Then, off you go, lad!”

Robb took the cup reluctantly, their fingers brushing in the exchange. “To old times,” Robb muttered, raising the cup. Their eyes locked for a moment. They drank.

Theon watched the other boy carefully. He could tell Robb was teetering on the edge, half tempted, half terrified. All it would take was a nudge. Theon had always known how to push people—push buttons, push limits. Push boundaries.

He leaned back, stretching lazily, one arm thrown over the back of the bench behind Robb. “You know,” he said, his tone light but laced with challenge, “if you don’t go up there, she’ll think you don’t fancy women at all.”

Robb shot him a glare, but it lacked real heat.

“Not that it should… dissuade you,” Theon continued, smirking. “Plenty of boys in the Watch don’t. Maybe you’d be happier up there, taking Snow’s place.”

“Don’t be a prick,” Robb said. There was some heat to his voice, but there was also a flush rising on his cheeks again, and it wasn’t just the ale.

“I’m just saying,” Theon grinned. “If I had your looks, I’d be buried in cunts from here to Dorne. Instead you’re down here with me, drinking swill and sulking.”

Robb didn’t reply. He was staring into his cup like it held answers.

Theon nudged him with a knee. “So, you ever kissed a girl, Stark?”

Robb looked up, frowning. “Of course I have.” The answer came fast. A little too fast,  Theon would say.

“Anyone besides your sisters’ dolls?”

That got a snort. “Fuck off.”

“That’s not a no,” Theon teased. Robb gave him a hard shove on the shoulder, and Theon let himself be pushed, laughing.

“Come on,” Theon said, sitting up straighter. “Take the girl. Just for a bit. You don’t have to finish if you don’t want to. She’ll teach you. She’s soft. Kind. And she’ll keep it quiet. Trust my judgement, will you? When have I ever let you down?”

Robb hesitated, eyes darting toward the stair. Lysara was no longer waiting, no longer perched on the lowest step. She had probably gone into the supposed room, lying in bed, half-naked, eyes clouded with desire. Oh, how Theon would love to be in that room instead.

“It’s not like it means anything,” Theon added. “It's not love. It’s a fuck, and it’s better to get it out of the way now than disgrace yourself on your wedding night. It’s either you let me mock you for the rest of your life. Or this.”

“What was your first time like?” he suddenly asked.

Theon blinked. Of all the questions he expected, this wasn’t one of them.

“Hells,” he muttered, swirling his cup. “It was Barth the Brewer’s wife. We did it in the Godswood. She smelled like barley and yeast, and laughed the whole time. Said I looked like a cat chasing a shadow.”

Robb raised an eyebrow, silently beckoning him to continue.

“She wasn’t wrong,” Theon grinned. “But after that, I knew what I was doing. That first time—that’s the hump. After that, it’s all rhythm and confidence. It’s all in your head, you know? As long as you’re confident here, ” he said, his finger touching Robb’s temple, “You’ll be confident here, ” this time, he motioned his hand as if to grab Robb’s groin, teasing him. His friend immediately shot his hand up to block him, a surprised look on his face. Theon laughed. “Relax, I was only teasing you.”

Robb seemed to chew on that, once again lost in thoughts.

“Gods, you are overthinking this. Just go upstairs, enter the room, and do the deed! If it helps you, then I suggest you just lie down and think of The North the whole time. Heh, soon enough, it’s not only winter that is coming, ” he finished with a light slap on Robb’s back.

“You’re a jackass, you know that,” he said to him. Theon took that as a compliment. Then, slowly, painfully, Robb rose to his feet, and began walking. He looked back once at Theon, who raised his cup in salute.

“Good lad,” Theon said. “Make the North proud.”

Robb shook his head, but there was a small smile on his lips as he disappeared into the stairs.

Theon leaned back in his seat, arms stretched behind his head, and let out a long, satisfied breath. Mission accomplished.

A girl sauntered over. Another cup was placed in front of him. He hadn’t seen who brought it. The girl who sat beside him now was a new one—he didn’t know her name. She had thick, dark lashes and hair like spilt ink, and her gown clung to her curves like candlewax. She smelled like orange peel and cloves. Theon raised an interested eyebrow and silently patted his thigh. She slid into his lap with fluid ease, straddling his thighs as if they belonged to her.

“My friend is upstairs,” he said lazily.

“And you?” she purred, voice like silk,  fingers trailing the edge of his collar.. “You look like you’ve done something worth celebrating.”

“Depends who you ask. I just sent a boy off to lose his maidenhead,” he said, grinning wide. “Thought it was only right to reward myself, don’t you think?”

Her hands slipped down his chest, fingers brushing each rib, then settling just above his belt. She had the confidence of someone who knew exactly how to unmake a man with the lightest of touches.

“And what kind of reward do you like best, m’lord?”

“Right now?” He gave her a lazy, suggestive grin. “One with curves and a good mouth. But I’m a generous man, my dear…,” he purposely trailed off.

“Betty, m’lord,” she answered.

“I’m a generous man, my dear Betty. And I don’t lack for gold. So, let me see who else is about.”

A pair of breasts blocked his view, so he turned slightly, catching sight of Merry swaying between tables, laughing too loudly at an older man’s joke. He lifted two fingers and beckoned her over like a nobleman summoning a squire.

She saw him, smirked, and strolled over, hips swaying with the kind of confidence only well-paid whores or well-fed queens possessed. Merry had returned, her ample curves swaying as she leaned over, pretending to wipe the table. Her dress was tighter than he remembered, cleavage nearly spilling out with every step. The candlelight caught the curve of her breast and the sheen of sweat on her collarbone.

He stared at her, unimpressed with the half-hearted attempt at seduction, and motioned for her to immediately join them. At her arrival, the wench Betty adjusted her position, sitting only on his left thigh. 

“Haven’t changed your mind, have you?” Merry said, settling on his other thigh, sandwiching him now between two women.

“Decided the night deserved to end with a little more ceremony,” Theon said, slipping an arm around both waists.

Betty leaned in and nipped his earlobe. Merry's fingers walked up his thigh. Theon’s breeches were already tight, but he shifted to accommodate the growing pressure. The scent of sweat, rose oil, and lust curled around them like incense. Betty’s kisses were slow and deliberate, lips soft, warm. Merry leaned in from the other side, licking a trail down his neck to his collarbone.

“Look at me now,” he murmured, head tilted back. “Drowned god bless, I should've sent Robb up there sooner.”

The new girl moved in closer, hair falling like a veil over his shoulder. He reached between them both, one hand on each of their backsides. Flesh under silk. 

“If I die tonight,” Theon said, slurring a little, “it’ll be the best way a man can go.” 

She laughed at that, low and husky, leaning in so her breasts were pressed into his face. “Now, shall we move upstairs m’lord?”

He was still nestled between them, half-hidden beneath Betty’s bosom, when he saw a small figure in a fine cloak duck past the firelight. The movement caught his eye. Theon blinked, shifting and squinting past the curtain of dark hair and soft tits. His eyes tracked the new arrival—short, confident steps, golden-blond hair. The tilt of his head. The speed of his gait.

Tyrion Lannister.

He moved quickly—too quickly for a man meant to be on royal leisure. Another man followed close behind, taller, cloaked, his face shadowed.

Theon squinted, his brain not believing his eyes. The man wasn’t stopping for a drink or a girl. He was leaving. In his mind, he wondered how the dwarf knew about this place. After all, there were more famous brothels in Wintertown, and this one wasn’t even officially a brothel. He shrugged, uncaring. The dwarf had indeed stayed behind while the rest of the King’s party travelled back south. He had insisted on visiting The Wall first, escorted by Benjen Stark, Lord Stark’s younger brother. Now it seems that he has returned, though.

The whores followed his eyes. “That one,” Theon said, tilting his chin. “You know him?”

The new girl looked, her hand still inside his breeches. “Small man with the big name. Been upstairs for half an hour, I think. He was waiting for someone. Drinks hard, tips soft. M’lord knows of him?”

“That’s a Lannister. Tyrion Lannister. The Queen’s dwarf brother. Came with the royal company, but stayed behind to visit The Wall. He’s supposed to have gone south again by now. Didn’t mention any plans on visiting Winterfell again.” Theon leaned forward, trying to catch another glimpse. “So, who is the poor soul that he fucked?”

“Didn’t touch a soul,” Merry said, licking wine from his jaw. “Didn’t even stay long.”

“Interesting,” Theon muttered, his brows creased. That wasn’t like the littlest lion at all. They’d shared drinks back in Winterfell, and he’d gone on for an hour about tits, tongues, and Dornish girls. Something’s off, he thought.

He pushed both girls gently off, to groaning protest.

“Where are you going?” Merigold asked, pulling her bodice back up.

“Just want to see where the little lion slinks off to.”

He tossed them some coins and stood. His limbs were loose from the drink, but his mind had sobered fast. The buzz of pleasure was already cooling.

“Tell the girl upstairs I left,” he said. “If my friend asks.”

Betty gave a breathy pout, cupping his nether. “We were just getting started.”

“Next time, love. I promise you,” he said, his hand touching the girl’s hand on his body, “ this is going nowhere.”

He kissed her cheek, smacked Merry’s arse for good measure, and turned toward the back of the brothel. There was a narrow corridor behind the curtain, a half-lit service hall that led to the cook’s yard and then looped toward the stables. If the dwarf wasn’t exiting the main entrance, this was the way. He slipped past the curtain, the music and laughter from the common room fading behind him. Only the soft creak of wood and the moan of cold wind followed. The corridor was empty but for a maid asleep in the laundry nook and the faint scent of boiled onions from the kitchen beyond.

Theon's boots clicked against the warped wooden planks, the sound swallowed quickly by the hush of the back corridor. It smelled different back here — no perfume, no sweat, just old damp stone and the faint scent of smoke and roasting fat from the kitchen far off to his left. His stomach turned a little, still tingling with the memory of two sets of lips, and he steadied himself against the wall with one hand, his fingers brushing flaking plaster.

As he rounded the bend, he caught the faint creak of hinges. A door eased open ahead, no louder than a breath. Not the back alley exit, as he'd expected, but the narrow one — the private stair that led from the upper rooms down to the servant's hall. A shortcut for girls too tired to walk the long way, or for men who didn’t want to be seen leaving.

From the darkness, a figure emerged. Not the dwarf.

Taller. Hooded. Wrapped in wool dark as sea-soaked stone. He didn’t move with the clumsiness of a drunk or the halting footfalls of a man unsure of his way — no, he glided forward, each step unhurried and impossibly quiet, like he floated over the floorboards.

Theon blinked, confused. He opened his mouth to speak.

“Oi—” he began, tone sharp, not quite threatening, not quite friendly. A warning, or an instinct.

He never got to finish it.

“I am so sorry.”

There was only the sound of wool brushing wool, and the whisper of something long and silver. And then, pain bloomed in his side.

Not the kind that tore — not at first. No, this was a sliding thing, a perfect curve of metal parting flesh like warm butter. The blade slipped beneath his ribs with the elegant, practiced ease of a lover unlacing a bodice.

Theon gasped — and staggered back. His heel caught on a loose board and he spun slightly, catching himself against the wall. Heat spilled beneath his tunic — fast, thick, and wet. He looked down and saw dark blood spreading across his stomach like ink in water.

Then he saw the dagger.

The hilt glinted — red enamel, silver edges, a lion’s head molded at the pommel, its mane curled and regal. He blinked. Confused. No time to understand. Theon’s body slid down the wall. His knees hit the wood floor hard, then his shoulder. The pain was a distant echo now, dwarfed by the cold blooming in his gut.

The hooded man crouched beside him. He wasn’t masked. He didn’t look cruel. Rather, he looked sorry.

“It is mercy,” the man whispered, in a soft, foreign accent. Not Lyseni. Not Braavosi. Somewhere he couldn’t quite place. “Be proud, Theon Greyjoy. This gift proves that you mattered.”

Theon’s vision blurred. He tasted copper. His mouth opened, trying to form a name — Tyrion — but the sound wouldn’t come. When he turned, the hooded man had vanished.

A laugh echoed faintly from above — one of the girls, maybe Merry, maybe Betty, drunken and oblivious. A man’s moan and a woman’s cry. It could even be Robb’s and the girl’s he had picked for him. The world around him felt impossibly far away. Like a ship leaving harbor. He was still on the dock, watching himself disappear.

His vision swam. Blood pooled beneath his ribs, soaking into the wood. His cheek hit the floor. The cold bit at him, even through the sweat and the wine and the blood. It was so cold. Theon tried to lift his hand, but it felt like lifting iron. 

Theon thought of the waves crashing against the rocks. Of Lordsport. Of the swaying bridges of Pyke. Of his mother’s smile, and of his brothers’ cruel japes. He thought of Betty’s kisses. Of her breasts in his face. Of Merry’s mouth, open and laughing. Of the candlelight flickering on Robb’s jaw, and the way he looked when he blushed.

He didn’t even think about the blades. At the end, he only thought of the fire.

How warm it had been.

Notes:

So.......... three years is a long, LONG, loooOOooNgGG time, huh.

So, what do you think of the chapter? Please leave a review below. Suggestions and criticisms are welcomed, and questions as well!

Chapter 29: Arianne IV

Summary:

The story picks up again at Highgarden, two years after the Tyrell-Martell wedding.

Notes:

Just destroyed my final exams and project this past month! Awaiting a 2-weeks fieldwork soon, then I'll be free to focus on this fic again completely!

ARIANNE

She was lost in strange wonderings while the festivities raged in the great hall of Highgarden. She saw her reflection in the nearby glass. Green shawl draped over the exquisite blood-like orange. A locked contrast as if the imagery of war. The verdant soil and the dried-out death of the desert. She wondered if Larra Rogare once thought the same thoughts that she had. Before she fled Westeros. Before she abandoned her husband. And returned to die in the homeland that denied her. And left her children motherless. It was a story that had haunted her. And her mother before her. For she, too, was an Essosi. Larra Rogare and Mellario of Norvos had each come from a Free City that breathed culture so different from Westeros with each a Prince that ‘stole’ them, albeit it could be said that the Rogares were the one to steal the groom, long before he would wind up a Targaryen King. But Larra Rogare’s life was a true tragedy, filled with her house’s fall from grace, and the same and doom that followed afterwards. Mellario of Norvos shared it to a lesser extent, without the horrors, but her story was still a tragedy on its own, nonetheless.

Arianne’s would be different. Her story would not end with tragedy. Rather, it only just began after the tragedy of her youth.

Honesty is a terrible affection, she mused, thoughts tinkering on how her son almost had none of her in him. Laid in a wooden cot, Eden Tyrell was born with features like all Tyrell that came before him. Brown hair that already began to curl at his tender age of one and a half. His face was Willas’s, and so were his chin, jaw, and nose. With eyes that glinted almost like liquid gold. His smile was Willas’s. His skin was Willas’s, pale, tinted only barely with the olive tan of the Dornish. And even his name was Willas’s. First sons do not belong to their mothers. They belonged to their fathers, for they would be heirs. They would inherit his castle. And his gold. And his land. Sons belonged to their house. For they would carry its name. Its honor. And its legacy.

And yet, it was her that had bore him for nine moons, and carried him to the world after a full day of grueling labor. She took him to her breasts, nursed him by herself for the better part of his first year as she refused to surrender him to the milkmaids.

The babe in front of her was asleep, safe and sound in his own private nursery, close to her and Willas’s apartments in the Highgarden. She could’ve left. And she should’ve. The feast must’ve been already in full swing by now. What even are they celebrating for this time? In Highgarden- no, in the Reach, there was always a feast thrown every other day. Her hand slipped into her stomach, caressing the slight bump along it. This would be hers, she vowed. Boy or girl, uncaring for a cock. This one would be hers. A child for a mother. And all of the future that she could have ever been and had. 

Then a gentle hand nudged upon her shoulder. She was not startled, nor was she surprised. She turned, with grace and charm and smile. Green and gold was always her husband’s color. And clad in a regalia like this, she could see the Lord of Highgarden that he was destined to be, and more. Much, much more.

“Hard to turn away from him, is it?”

She nodded, smiling. “Yes. It’s a wonder how we would carry when the next one comes along in time,” she said, hand rubbing on the gentle bump of her stomach. She was three moons along, Maester Lomys had said.

Willas’s hand joined her own on her stomach. “I am sure we’ll do wonders, my dear. My faith in you is everlasting.”

“Sweet words, that is. I am late, aren’t I?”

Willas raised a lone eyebrow. “Well… it isn’t as if anyone would dare to criminate the pregnant princess for being late to the hundredth feast thrown just in this month.”

“Is that so?” she asked. “And you haven’t even complimented me yet, dear husband. Is my tardiness too big of a flaw for you to ignore?”

Her husband mocked a panic on his face. “Can I say that you simply look… stunning? Or is it that such a simple world would be inefficient for the Princess?”

She laughed, even if just a small laugh. “It’s disappointing, for sure. But there’s always ways to remedy that later. Or… now, ” she said, teasing him.

Now it was Willas’s turn to laugh. “You look positively radiant, my dear. Were we free tonight, I’d… ravish you.”

“I don’t think that’ll do the babe much good. He’s gonna be a strong babe, this little one,” she said, in fond exasperation.

“Really, you have divined our baby, then?”

She rolled her eyes as she got up from the chair she was sitting in. “Let’s call it a mother’s instinct, my lord husband. Now, I must wonder… would you be so wroth at me should I miss the feast for, hmm, the entirety of it?”

It was a flickering thing, the change. The turn from Willas’s carefully constructed expression, that seemingly always of serene and calmness and regality, into a fleeting worry. “Should I ask for Lomys? Is there anything that you-”

“It’s nothing,” she cut him off before he would descend into a half-sensible rambling of madness. “It’s nothing, Willas. I simply came here after getting dressed to take a look at him. And before I know it, I’m staring at his face for hours already.” 

Willas smiled. “He’s gonna be a charmer, our son. No surprise there considering who his father is.” His eyes flickered just a bit, his expression changing. “All these aside, I really do need you to at least make an appearance and come down for a while. After all, I need to parade it to everyone that I have a princess for a wife.”

“Ah, isn’t it just every girl’s dream?” she said. Then, she continued with a wink. “Well, are you not going to ask for the honor of escorting me, my lord?”

He winked the same as her, taking her hand in his, gently bringing it upward. And as he supplanted a kiss upon it, he murmured, “My Princess.”

“Very well, now you may escort me into this boredom of a feast.”

“It won’t be that boring, I hope. The Florents are always a rambunctious bunch. There’s Randyll Tarly, of course, who would wish to question, sorry, interrogate my dear brother about his son. And of course, there’s old Lady Ashford and the headache and a half that is her succession issue.”

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. “Sounds interesting enough. But do remember, that I will still haveretribution,” she said, adding a wink at the end.

The little game was between them. And she had never been tired of it. He flashed her his most dazzling smile, or at least an attempt of. Willas was blessed with a charming smile, but the kind that only worked when it came naturally, else it’d be a slightly slanted line of pursed lips that would be just a little bit disturbing. Through the corridors and down the stairways, they finally reached the hall where the feast was thrown.

---

“Princess, it is such an honor to be among the first to congratulate you on your second pregnancy. And Lord Willas, of course. We pray-“

“That it would be a strong and healthy son, my lord.” Melessa Florent shot an annoyed look at her husband’s face upon the interruption, but Arianne’s time in the Reach meant that she had learned to ignore such happenings.

And so, she settled for a smile, letting her lord husband answer for her. “It is a most joyous news, indeed. We truly are blessed by the Seven. We thank you, Lord Randyll, Lady Melessa.” The Lord of Horn Hill nodded gruffly at that. Is there such a man ever so depressing?

“Indeed, my lord. Now, if you would allow me, I’d like to discuss something in private with you, my lord,” Randyll Tarly replied, sending a dismissing glance for his wife to excuse himself. Arianne had long decided that she hated the man. And Willas confessed that so did he. But had enough respect for the Marcher lord for his supposed martial prowess.

Willas nodded. “I’d rather keep my wife with me, my lord. She offers me quite the revelations sometimes.”

Tarly was clearly displeased, but whatever remarks he had conjured in his mind, he wisely chose to keep it inside. Four years ago, you came to me with a request that I still can’t quite believe passed your lips,” Randyll said, wine barely touched, voice low and hard-edged. “You, heir of Highgarden, asked that I receive a shipment of elephants from across the Jade Sea. Elephants from the Shan who ruled the Isle near Marahai. That I stable them in the Marches. That I keep them quiet.”

“That is correct, my lord,” her husband said.

“It is no light thing, Lord Willas, for an heir to overstep the bounds of his duty. And I let it happen. I let it happen for your sake, and for the sake of the great future you hope to lead Reach into.”

“Why, those are such kind words, Randyll,” Willas said, amused.

The old lord made a sound akin to a grunt. “And now the years have passed. True that they can be considered exotic beasts, and it would be another boost to one’s own house to own such animals. But you do not wish to flaunt them in public. But kept grazing in the grassland of the Marches. Beasts of war, they also can be, as the Golden Company has shown.”

“Indeed,” Willas said. “Which is why I sent you all those men, my lord. Former sellswords who had fought against the Golden Company and lived to tell the tales. You have known be to curious, and I ask your forgiveness for that, I simply had to try to see if we can do similar things here in the Reach.”

Tarly was not convinced. “Yes.  Those elephants are notorious for their ability to break the discipline of a cavalry charge. And yet, the dangerous borders of the Marches are fought against Dornish raiders, known for their use of deception and concealment, preferring quick raids before melting back into the shadows of the Red Mountains. And His Grace, the King, has kept the Stormlands in discipline for years, now. And even if you are concerned about the Dornishmen, surely, your marriage with Princess Arianne should render the problem irrelevant by now.”

“And even more so now that your house is to be joined with the Yronwoods,” Arianne said, finally breaking her silence. “Much congratulations to your daughter, Talla. I had heard wondrous tales about Cletus from my brother.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he regarded her, only briefly,  before turning yet again to focus on her husband. “You gamble in secrets, Lord Willas.”

Willas seemed sullen for once. That was, until he spoke, smiling. “You do not ask a question, Lord Randyll.”

“That depends, my lord,” and for the shortest of time, a ghost of a smile formed upon Tarly's lips. And the chilling sight disturbed Arianne, she must admit. “Whether you have an answer to give or not.”

“And what kind of answer do you need, my lord?” her husband said.

“One that will justify all this madness. These beasts, exotic as they are, are fed on half a harvest itself. I’d be content to let them do nothing but roam the grasslands of the Marches, growing fat. Yet you don’t want them untested. But as to what? Eludes me still. You’re treating them as if they’re silly playthings, my lord. Like ornaments and decorations.”

Arianne moved to speak, “Is it somewhat like buying a dress while expecting an invitation to a feast?”

“A dress?” Randyll said, his voice full of confusion.

She smiled mildly. “Yes, a dress, Lord Randyll. An extravagant one. Costly, sure. Lavish, so very lavish. Perhaps sewn with silk from as far away as Yi Ti. Not for your monthly feast, but commissioned specifically for something oh so very grand.”

The Lord of Horn Hill remained quiet. So, she continued. “Is it not better to have your best dress prepared for a probable feast that you may or may not attend? At best, you’ll be such a head-turner, and everyone lavishes you with verses of praise. At worst, you must shelf it back into your wardrobe until there comes such a time for you to finally use it, even if it should be excruciatingly boring for you, no?”

Tarly frowned, before curling his lips, almost like a sneer. “This is absolutely not like going to a feast! These are elephants we are speaking of. Beasts of war bred half a world away, Not brocades.”

Arianne made a move to reply, indignant. But Willas gently raised a hand, cutting her. “No, I think it is exactly like going to feast, Lord Randyll,” he said, measured but firm. “A feast that one may or may not be invited to. If you’re invited, you will wear your best so you don’t feel small compared to the others, and your worth is clearly displayed. And even if you’re not invited, well…”

“You will still go,” she said. “You’ll arrive at the feast all the same, dressed to kill, and steal all the attention from those attending. Why, wearing the best of dress might have just given you the attention of the prized bachelor there.”

“That is… one way to paint the problem, I supposed,” said Randyll Tarly, scrunching his face. “But shouldn’t one consider the… cost that it would take to maintain this… this… dress, let alone the cost that might’ve come should it need a… a…”

“A tailor or a dressmaker, perhaps,” her husband moved to continue the Marcher lord’s words.

“Or even guards to watch over it,” Arianne added, “lest someone tries to steal it for themselves.”

“Or a proper wardrobe to store it in. And mayhaps a proper hall to unveil it later on,” Willas added, more quietly. “Until such a time there’s a feast worth wearing it to.”

Tarly seemed to be deep in his thoughts. “And what if the feast never comes?” he asked.

“Then the dress stays waiting,” Arianne said. “It remains clean, remains beautiful. So when an invitation finally arrives, one day, you won’t have to rush the seamstress.”

That silenced him. A beat passed. “Still, the cost. Isn’t all the uncertainty not worth the extravagance?”

She smiled, her hand moving to the piece of jewelry adorning her neck. “Not if one has the gold for it, my lord.”

Willas gave a quick, terse laugh at that, his hand moving to loop around her back. “My lady wife does speak truly, Lord Randyll. Let’s have no more of this tonight. For it is supposed to be a night of festivity. The matter shall be settled with the Lord Seneschal of Highgarden. And I’ll be sure that my Great Uncle shall pay Horn Hill a visit too before the fortnight is over."

Tarly gave a nod. A begrudged one, but a nod nonetheless, which counted as victory, for them. And so, that was enough cue for them to move on.

“Thank you,” Willas whispered, his hand once again linking with hers.

“You’re slipping, my lord husband,” she replied, teasing him.

Willas quirked an eyebrow. “Well, I do have to throw you a win every now and then, you know?”

Arianne had a witty reply on her tongue when they bumped into others. During such a feast like this, the great hall of Highgarden was turned into a sprawling mess of wine-sipping fools, preening flatterers, and stuck—up, stiff, greying lords.

“Lord Medwick!” exclaimed Willas. “I see you have brought the full package tonight.”

“Of course, my lord. We wouldn’t dare to miss the honor.” Medwick Fossoway was the Lord of Cider Hall, or the Green-Apple Fossoways. A tall, broad-shouldered man, but one who had been visibly eroded by the flow of time.

Arianne paid them all a fleeting exchange, still with smiles and sweet words. Ser Edmund was the heir, twenty-one years of age, and so terribly easy on the eyes. A man that supposedly resembled the very image of his father in his youth. But it was quite the task for Arianne’s mind to conjure the portrait of dull, old Lord Fossoway as a strapping man like his son was now. Alas, but he was so dull if the rumors were to be believed. A goody-two-shoes­ as her husband would refer to him as. Pious, knightly, and dutiful. Which all added to the very definition of boredom. Still, it was interesting when his father made a power move , or an attempt of one according to Willas, when he betrothed him to Meredyth Crane, a small, nice, mousy little girl in her good sister, Margaery’s service. Except, the interesting bit was that the girl was Lord Florent’s niece, notorious for his boasts of his house’s royal match.

They traded flowery words for a while, until a servant, dressed plainly, came to them. It had been around two years since she settled in Highgarden, and Arianne had begun to learn about the running of the castle under Lady Alerie’s tutelage. She had begun to know its corridors, and to know its servants. Yet, this one was a stranger to her.

The servant, a man who looked to be no more than forty, whispered to her husband. Whatever it was, it must’ve been something important. Since Willas’s reaction to it was peculiar enough.

She noticed that, and gently made an excuse to Lord Fossoway. “We are terribly sorry, but will you excuse us, Lord Medwick? I fear that I’ve begun to feel uneasy,” she said, rubbing her stomach. “I would like for my husband to escort me back to my room, just for a bit,” she added the sweetest smile she can muster at her last words.

“O-of course,” said the old lord immediately. “By your love, my lord,” he said, nodding his head to Willas, then to her, “Princess.”

Willas looked at her with something in his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“That made it twice tonight alone. You owe me, dear husband,” she simply said. “So, what is it?”

“Not here,” he said. “Gently made your way to the solar by the Three Singers, I’ll send Lucas to fetch the others.”

Arianne would question him further, but chose not to. “Very well, then,” she said. And so, she walked away, looking at Willas motioning for Lucas to get to him. Lucas Tyrell was Willas’s cupbearer, a boy of ten, and a son of a cousin hailing from one of the lesser branches of House Tyrell. He stood straight and eager, and already he moved quickly through the crowd with Willas’s instructions in his ear.

Arianne left the feast quietly, with no fanfare. The music chased her down the corridor like a half-heard memory. Laughter echoed behind the tapestries, the scent of honeyed wine still clinging to her sleeves. She passed the Fountain Hall, then slipped through the cloister behind the modest inner Sept of Highgarden. Few guests ventured this far after dark. The path curved gently west, until the windows turned away from the rose gardens and instead gave view to a stranger grove.

There they stood — three pale ghosts amidst the Reach's bounty.

Three weirwood trees, gnarled and bone-white, their red leaves whispering in the soft breeze. Some said they were planted in defiance, a gesture from the old House Gardener to honor the Old Gods,kept even after they bent the knee to the Seven. Others claimed it was the First Men themselves who had left them behind.

Willas said that they were called the Three Singers. The solar that overlooked them had long been reserved for private, quiet counsel. Or for matters that needed to be kept beneath the leaves and out of courtly ears.

She stepped inside.

The room was cold despite the brazier, and quiet as bone. The weirwoods loomed beyond the latticework, their pale bark catching the moonlight. She took a seat, one hand resting lightly on the slight rise of her belly, and waited.

One by one, they came.

Baelor Hightower arrived first, as ever, composed and proper. Then Paxter Redwyne, smelling faintly of Arbor gold and sweet oranges. Willas’s uncles, both of them. Arianne was mildly surprised by their inclusion — she had thought this to be one of those Tyrells-only councils. But then again, things had changed. Willas had grown quieter with power.

Still, she found it interesting. Hightower and Redwyne, the two southernmost lords of the Reach. Ships and spice. Harbors and ports. The Reach’s fingers on the sea. She filed that detail away.

Garlan followed, leaving his knight’s smile at the door. His face looked grim. But despite that, he still looked the perfect picture of the chivalry of the Reach. Arianne had grown to find Willas’s brother as the kind of brother she never had. Trusted, steady. The qualities she had never found in Quentyn.

And lastly, Olenna, the dreaded Queen of Thorns, her cane tapping, her eyes knowing. She did not speak yet. Not yet. Arianne had once feared her. But over time, she’d learned that Olenna only struck at fools. And I’m no fool .

Only when Willas entered, the door quietly shut behind him, did the air shift.

Baelor Hightower was the first to break the silence. “Not your lord father? Or my sister?”

Willas shook his head. “No. Nothing must look amiss. Let the feast rage on.”

Arianne’s gaze flicked toward him. It was always like this with Willas — calm as still water, until something stirred. And now something had.

“Well, then, what is it, boy?” Olenna asked, her voice cutting.

“I’ve just received quite the most interesting news from the east,” Willas said.

The Lord of the Arbor was also impatient. “Your spies, no doubt,” Paxter murmured, not bothering to frame it as a question.

“Indeed,” Willas simply asked. “I asked you to gather here – my own wife, my brother, my dearest grandmother. And of course – Lord Baelor, Lord Paxter,” he said, regarding them with nods, “Your perspectives are invaluable. Especially in matters such as this.”

Ships or trades, then, she said in her mind.

“Out with it, then, Will,” Garlan said, his voice light. “This must be quick if nothing is to look suspicious. After all, the lords of the Reach are always on the prowl during these feasts.”

“Very well,” her husband said. “It appears that Myr has fallen.”

Arianne blinked. Myr? The Free Cities were always in conflict, that was true. But for Myr to fall, truly fall? It must mean something catastrophic.

“How?” Her voice nearly overlapped with Baelor’s.

“The Tyroshi, no doubt,” Paxter said. “After all, they were already on the brink of war. And the Tyroshi had contracted the Golden Company to fight for them.”

“As we agreed,” Garlan added. “One favor for the Archon, before the Company sails west in Tyroshi ships. . Perhaps Strickland was overeager, no doubt wanting to bloody his men before the coming campaign. Mayhaps it was the Griffin himself.”

“Not them, I fear.” Willas shook his head. “Our friends of the Golden Company hadn’t even had a chance to brandish their steel yet. Last I know, they were only just getting deployed in the Disputed Lands. After all, the target was never the city itself.”

“Then who?” This time it was Olenna, strangely patient.

“The Dothraki.”

Arianne’s lips parted slightly. The horselords. Her father had always said they were queer and strange. Barbarians. But no threat to Dorne, for they feared water, feared ships.

“Those barbarians?” Baelor asked. “They didn’t even know the art of war. And their Khals were easily turned away with bribes and slaves, I heard.”

“Not this particular Khal. His name is Khal Drogo. Said to be commanding the current largest khalasar among the Dothraki. Forty thousand riders, I heard.”

The number thudded in Arianne’s chest. Nearly m ore than every spear in Dorne.

“Is the city taken?” asked Garlan.

“Of course not. Not held, at least. The Dothraki have no interest in ruling. They simply left ash and blood in their wake, as Dothraki always do. All the grains and golds of Myr go with them.”

“Soon he’ll come knocking on the other free cities, I’m sure,” the Queen of Thorns spoke. “The magisters of Pentos must be soiling their breeches right now. Lucky that Tyrosh and Lys are both islands. What do the Dothraki call the sea again?”

“I believe they call it ‘poison water’,” said Garlan. “No doubt this horselord will leave even more trails of ash and blood in the future.”

“Has he turned westward then, to the hills around Pentos?”

“Strangely no,” Willas answered. “He has gone east.”

“But there are no notable cities there. Not unless he would ride far to Norvos,” Arianne finally spoke. She dreaded the possibility. Mother .

“That is a possibility we can not rule out yet. But my sources tell me that he goes east not to seek cities. But the other khalasars.”

“He means to unite the Dothraki, then?” Olenna said. “This upjumped horselord thought himself the second coming of, who was it again? Khal… Mango? Mengo? I forgot.”

“Mengo,” corrected Garlan. “He was the one to destroy the Kingdom of Sarnor. And terrorize the other free cities during the Century of Blood.”

“There’s also been whispers of a prophecy. The Stallion Who Mounts the World,” Willas added. “This Drogo thought himself to be the titular stallion, and has now seek to fuck every free cities in Essos in their bums.”

Arianne said nothing. But her fingers curled on her lap. She sent a silent prayer. Please let Mother remain safe.

“Terrible as it is,” Redwyne cut, “I’m still not sure why it warrants such necessity to summon us all here immediately.”

“Well, the Golden Company is still under the Tyroshi contract. And my men have also made contacts with those at the company,” Willas said. “They said that the Archon now plans to use them as means to occupy the fallen Myr.”

“Another Essosi war, then,” Baelor said. “Tyrosh will pounce on Myr. Which in turn, will enrage Lys. The conflicts in the Disputed Lands will begin anew. And I suppose you ask me to be here to contact my sister in Volantis. To get an idea of what the Triarchs will do.”

“Indeed,” Willas confirmed. “I’d greatly appreciate it if you would reach out to Aunt Lynesse, Uncle.”

“If those Lyseni stir away from their brothels to take the fight to Tyrosh, they will be fools. In doing so, they will bare their ample behind, which will entice the ever-craving Volantene,” said Olenna.

“Not to mention how this all would affect the Stepstones,” Paxter said. “But it’s an opportunity, I suppose. A Narrow Sea touched by war is no lane for trading ships, which will make them turn westward, to our ports, from Sunspear to Lannisport.”

“Yes,” Willas confirmed. “And with our ties to both Volantis,” he glanced at Baelor, “and Tyrosh,” now at her. Trystane’s betrothal with the Archon’s daughter. “Then I’m sure we can turn this to our benefit somehow.”

“Can this… delay the Golden Company?” Garlan asked. “With Stark as the new Hand, I’m sure it won’t be long until the bad egg finally hatches.”

“That’s what I’m concerned about,” Willas said. “Although our ‘Egg’ is safe, away from all these. I believe it will soon reach Sunspear.”

Her breath caught. Sunspear. Home. The thought warmed her, for half a moment. And here I sit among roses. Still Dornish, yet no longer of Dorne. “Should we go there, then?” Arianne asked, excited about the prospect of seeing Sunspear yet again.

“All in due time, my love,” Willas answered her, reaching for her hand.

Olenna huffed. “Any word from our dear friends at the Capital?”

“The Spider remains as elusive as ever, and Renly knows nothing beyond what we whisper in his ear,” Willas said. “Loras, too.”

“I still mislike Loras being in the middle of it all,” Garlan said. “He’s loyal. But not subtle, our brother is. Shouldn’t we ask Loras to return here? It’s much safer. And we can’t afford any mistakes in the Capital.”

“And Loras must play his part precisely because of that.”

Olenna was also unconvinced. “I’m still not sure about this… perfumed stag. Renly knows how to dress and put on a smile. That does not make him clever.”

“We can’t afford to miss out on our biggest chance to wipe the board clean, grandmother,” Willas answered. “It is the cleanest and quickest way possible.”

“I suppose you would want to send more ships to the Stepstones, then?” Paxter said, changing the topic.

“That would be the best course, I think,” her husband answered.

“Your bastard pirate in the Stepstones?” Olenna asked.

“You made it sound so terrible, grandmother,” Garlan said. “Ser Aurane is a most charming man. I quite like him, truth to be told.”

“Even Aerys was described as ‘charming’ once,” Olenna said. “That does not make him better. Still, all this news excites my bones yet again.”

“Don’t be so crass, grandmother,” Garlan said. “We are talking about a war. Ser Brynden always said that in war, the ugliness numbers all the supposed honor and glory ten-to-one.”

The Queen of Thorns remained silent at that. Arianne could feel it, the wind shifting before the storm. The Essosi fires would only seem like little sparks compared to the true blaze that would ravage Westeros. And so, her voice was velvet when she said, “So, the feast begins then?”

The others were confused. But Willas smiled. That quiet smile of his, the one that never reached his eyes. “Yes. And so, the feast begins. And we’ll arrive not only in our best dresses… but with the guest of honor on our side.”

Notes:

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