Chapter Text
I settled into my chair with all the grace of a man who'd been standing too long—which was true enough, as Emmon Cuy had a way of making even simple water rights feel attempting to negotiate for the surrender of Storm's End all over again.
"Well, Ser Emmon," I said, letting my voice carry that particular jovial boom I'd perfected over the years, "it seems we've diverted more streams today than the Mander itself! Your brother should be pleased—or at least, no more displeased than usual, eh?" I gave a hearty laugh, slapping my knee.
Emmon's smile flickered like a candle in wind. Annoyance crossed his features, swift as a shadow, before he schooled himself back to courtesy. The Cuys were proud, Sunflower Hall an old seat, and Emmon had ever been quick to take offense.
"Indeed, my lord," he said, voice smooth as Arbor gold but with a bite beneath. "Though I confess, I wonder if perhaps the fish in those streams might find the arrangement more pleasing than my lord brother will. After all, they'll have twice the water to swim in whilst we make do with less than we sought."
The jest was aimed at me, clear as day—a barb wrapped in silk, implying I'd been outmaneuvered by fish. He expected it to sail clean over my head, like so many before it.
I let my expression go slack, blinking as if working through the words. Then I laughed again, louder this time. "Fish! By the Seven, Ser Emmon, you've a wit sharper than most! I must remember that one for the next feast. The fish will be pleased! Ha!"
Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. Another lord who thought himself cleverer than the oaf of Highgarden.
I leaned forward, letting my voice drop to something more businesslike, though still genial. "The matter is settled then. You may tell Lord Branston that the water rights will be extended as we've discussed. Not everything he wanted, perhaps, but the Tyrells are not without generosity."
Emmon inclined his head, a trace of reluctance in the gesture. "It is not all my brother hoped for, my lord, but it should satisfy him. House Cuy thanks you for your... fairness in this matter."
"Fairness is all any man can ask," I replied, rising to clasp his shoulder in what I hoped looked like bluff camaraderie. "Give your brother my regards. And do bring your family to the next tourney—my son Loras would be pleased to test his lance against Sunflower Hall's finest."
That brought a flicker of genuine interest to his face. The Knight of Flowers drew crowds like honey drew flies, and the Cuys were ever hungry for glory. "We would be honored, my lord."
He took his leave with the proper courtesies, and I watched him go with the same benign smile I'd worn throughout. Only when the door closed did I let my shoulders ease.
Rash, but useful, I thought. The Cuys had been restless of late, testing boundaries like hounds against a fence. Better to give them something to gnaw on than let them bite elsewhere. And Emmon would carry word back to Sunflower Hall that Lord Tyrell was as dull and easily pleased as ever.
The game never ended, not truly. But by the Seven, I was pleased to have this particular piece moved off the board for now.
My family—all of them—were home in Highgarden. Together. It had been too long. Only six moons since Garlan's wedding, aye, but it felt longer. The absence of any one of them left a hollow in these halls that all the flowers in the Reach couldn't fill.
I found a servant lurking near the corridor and beckoned him over. "The family will be taking a private dinner tonight in the small chamber. See that we're not disturbed, and that the wine is the good vintage—none of that Dornish piss some merchant tried to pass off last fortnight."
"As you say, my lord." The boy scurried off.
Finally. A chance to shed the mask, to let my face rest from holding the practiced expressions of affability and foolishness. Seven know I should have been a mummer. I gave daily performances that would make the minstrels weep with envy.
The private dining chamber was warm when I entered, lit by beeswax candles that cast everything in gold. Tapestries covered the walls—old ones, from before the Conquest, showing roses and thorns intertwined. My family was already assembled.
Here, we could be ourselves. Not the caricatures we played for the realm, but the true faces beneath. Mother still had her sharp tongue, of course—nothing would ever dull that—but it turned more playful in private, less viper and more clever cat.
Willas looked up from the letter he'd been frowning at, quill still in hand. "Father. Good. I need your thoughts on this. Oberyn's latest correspondence was... colorful."
If there was anything I considered myself a true oaf for, it was that damned tourney. The thought still sat bitter in my chest, even now. I'd been so certain—so certain—that pitting Willas against a rider as skilled as Oberyn Martell would end in swift, harmless defeat. My boy would gain the renown of having competed young, face a celebrated opponent, and walk away with pride intact.
Instead, his foot had caught in the stirrup. The horse had fallen. And Willas had been crushed beneath.
Perhaps a more experienced rider could have avoided it. But Willas had been so young. The memory still twisted in my gut like a knife. I'd played at being angry with Oberyn for appearances, leveraged it with Doran for political gain. But in truth? I was far angrier with myself.
Yet Willas had impressed me. He'd turned catastrophe into advantage, forged a friendship with the Red Viper that few men could claim. Letters flew between Highgarden and Dorne now, full of talk of hawks and horses and the stars.
I'd carefully hinted to Prince Doran that wounds could be mended. A betrothal between Willas and Arianne Martell, perhaps. Dorne allowed women to inherit, after all—wedding the heir of Sunspear to my heir would be quite the coup.
But Doran had been reluctant. Surprisingly so.
Curious, that. Especially since I'd heard Arianne herself was interested the match. So much so that she and her cousin had slipped away, heading for the Reach, only to be brought back by Oberyn.
"Show me," I said, moving to Willas's side. He passed me the parchment, and I scanned Oberyn's flowing hand. Flowery language about hunting, a lewd joke about a Lysene courtesan, and veiled questions about our harvest yields.
"He's fishing," I said. "Wants to know if we're still flush enough to be worth courting. Write back with your usual pleasantries—mention that hawk you've been training, the one with the silver jesses. He'll like that. And make a jest about his latest paramour, but keep it light. He respects boldness, not toadying."
Willas nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "The one from Vaith, or the one from the summer isles?"
"The summer isles. The other one's already moved on, if court gossip is to be believed."
"Father knows his gossip," Willas murmured, dipping his quill.
I ruffled his hair—something I couldn't do in public anymore, not with him one and twenty—and moved on.
Garlan rose from his seat near the hearth, Leonette at his side. My second son, broad-shouldered and steady, had the look of a man who'd earned every inch of his reputation. Garlan the Gallant, they called him, and by the Seven, he'd earned it.
"Father." He clasped my hand firmly, then gestured to his wife. "Leonette was just telling me about her cousin's wedding. Apparently the bride tripped on her gown and knocked over the septon's wine."
I laughed. "A good omen, surely. Spilled wine at a wedding? The gods smile on chaos."
Leonette managed a smile, though a nervous air still clung to her like morning mist. She'd married into House Tyrell six moons past, but she was still learning how we did things. How we truly did things, behind closed doors.
Some might have thought the match beneath Garlan. The Green-Apple Fossoways of New Barrel were only a knightly house, and a relatively new one at that—less than a hundred years old. But Garlan had been smitten, and I'd seen the strategic value immediately.
With my other children still unmarried, and my second son wed to a relatively minor house, every family in the Reach was eager to earn my favor. They all hoped for a match with Margaery, or Loras, or even another tie to Garlan's line. It kept them dancing, kept them loyal.
And Garlan himself? He was fashioning himself into Willas's right hand. Where his elder brother couldn't take the field—couldn't ride or fight due to his crippled leg—Garlan had become a sword. He trained relentlessly, often against three or four men at once, to better simulate the chaos of true battle.
He'd earned his title. The Gallant. Not through flowery words or tourneys, but through iron.
"How does the training go?" I asked him.
Garlan's eyes lit. "Well enough. Ser Bayard and I have been working through new drills—he's quick for a man his age. And I've been teaching Leonette the lay of the castle. She's a quick study."
Leonette flushed faintly. "Garlan is kind to say so, my lord. There is still much I don't know."
"Then you'll learn," I said warmly. "And you've married the best teacher in the Reach. My son has patience to match his blade."
She ducked her head, pleased.
Across the room, Mother held court with Margaery and Loras. The Queen of Thorns, they called her, and in public she often derided me. My oaf of a son, she'd say, loud enough for half the hall to hear. And people believed it.
It was astonishing, really, how simply saying something without contradiction made it truth in others' minds. Did they truly believe my mother would have let me grow into a true oaf, raised at her knee as I was? The very thought was absurd.
I'd be the first to admit I didn't have her razor wit, nor her cunning in full measure. But even a portion of her gifts was more than most men possessed. And I'd learned the value of not being the sharpest blade in the room—so long as I knew how to wield the ones that were.
Margaery, now three and ten, sat beside her grandmother like a mirror image. She drank in every word, her dark eyes sharp and bright. My daughter was Mother's protégé, her mind a match for Willas's and already sharper than my own, I suspected. Bards composed songs of her beauty—The Rose of Highgarden—and I didn't even need to pay them. Though I did anyway. Reputation was currency, and I spent it wisely.
Not a fortnight passed without a dozen proposals for her hand. Lords great and small, knights with more ambition than sense. I'd turned them all aside. Margaery's match would be a matter of kingdoms, not mere alliances.
Loras listened to Mother as well, though with less intensity. My third son had returned from squiring with Renly Baratheon only a moon past, and already he itched to prove himself further. He'd be knighted soon—likely before year's end—and he was already competing in tourneys. The Knight of Flowers, they called him. Crowds adored him.
In public, I made a show of favoring him above the others. Let the realm think Mace Tyrell doted on his pretty, showy son. Here, in private? I loved Loras dearly. His showmanship had its uses, and his bond with Renly Baratheon—Lord of Storm's End, brother to the king—was worth its weight in gold.
But Loras lacked subtlety. He wore his heart too plainly, let his emotions rule him at times. And his... preferences... well. That would make finding him a match tricky, when the time came. Still, Renly favored him greatly, and that was no small thing.
"Father!" Loras called, waving me over. "Grandmother was just telling us about Lord Florent's ridiculous petition. Did he truly suggest we grant him a larger seat at the high table because his house is 'anciently descended'?"
I snorted. "He did. I told him the Florents could have the high table if they could carry it themselves. Oddly, he declined."
Mother's lips twitched. "You should have made him try. I would have paid good coin to see Alester Florent struggle with an oaken table."
Margaery laughed, bright and clear. "Grandmother, you're terrible."
"And you love me for it, darling child."
I moved past them to where Alerie sat, her hands folded in her lap. My wife. The match had been arranged, of course—Mother had brokered it, binding the Hightowers of Oldtown to us—but we'd grown into it. More than that. We fit.
I loved her. And she loved me.
Alerie looked up as I approached, her expression softening. "Long day?"
"Longer than it needed to be." I sank into the chair beside her, and she laced her fingers through mine, leaning her head against my shoulder.
For a moment, I simply breathed. Let the warmth of her presence settle the day's tension.
Around us, my family filled the chamber with low conversation and laughter. Willas scratched at his letter. Garlan murmured something to Leonette that made her smile. Mother gestured sharply at Margaery, making some point about courtly maneuvering, while Loras rolled his eyes in mock exasperation.
Looking over them—all of them—my chest swelled with something too large for words.
Pride. Love. Gratitude.
Truly, I was blessed by the Seven.
"Father." Willas's voice cut through my thoughts. He was watching me now, quill set aside. "You look pleased."
"I am," I said simply. "We're all here. Together. That's no small thing."
Mother sniffed. "Sentiment, Mace? Careful. People might think you've grown soft."
I grinned at her. "Only around you, Mother."
"Flatterer."
Alerie squeezed my hand. Margaery met my eyes across the table and smiled—not the practiced, courtly smile she gave lords and ladies, but something real. Loras raised his cup in silent toast.
And for one perfect, stolen moment, the game stopped.
We were not the Lord of Highgarden and his court. Not the Queen of Thorns and her pieces.
We were just a family.
And that was enough.
The servants brought the midday meal, roasted quail with blackberry sauce, fresh bread still steaming, and a salad of greens and nuts. Simple fare, by courtly standards, but we preferred it that way when dining in private. Less pomp. More ease.
As we ate, Willas cleared his throat. "Shall we play?"
"Oh, yes!" Margaery clapped her hands together. "Its so much more fun when we are all here."
I smiled. Our family's favorite game. I had fond memories of playing it with my sisters, back when they were still in Highgarden. We'd spin wild theories about the realm's lords and ladies, then tear them apart piece by piece. The goal wasn't to be right—it was to think from every angle, to keep the mind flexible. To see the board from all sides.
"Very well," Alerie said, dabbing her lips with a napkin. "What should be today's speculation?"
Willas leaned back in his chair. "We've been hosting knights of the Vale these past few days. So I thought we'd focus there."
Loras groaned. "The Vale? Boring. Everyone knows they're all stiff-necked and honorable."
"And yet they scheme as much as anyone," Garlan countered. "They just pretend not to."
"Exactly," Willas said. "So here's the question: Waymar Royce is being sent to the Wall."
I blinked. "Is he?"
"Word reached me this morning," Willas confirmed. "Lord Yohn's third son. Six and ten, I believe. He's to join the Night's Watch within the moon."
Alerie hummed thoughtfully. "Curious. The Royces are an old house. They can trace their descent back to the First Men. A third son, true, but hardly without prospects."
"Precisely," Willas said. "So the question is: why?"
Margaery leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "A punishment, surely. What else would it be?"
"What did he do?" Loras asked.
"That's what we're here to determine," Willas replied. "Or at least, to speculate."
Alerie smiled. "I'll wager he bedded the wrong girl."
"Ooh," Loras said. "Good start. Whose daughter?"
"Redfort's maybe," Garlan suggested. "Or perhaps one of the Waynwoods. They're prickly about their honor."
I shook my head. "If he'd bedded Redfort's daughter, he'd be married to her, not sent to the Wall. Lord Horton doesn't throw away potential alliances over a tumble in the sheets."
"Unless the girl refused him," Margaery said.
"Possible," Willas allowed. "But unlikely. A Royce is still a Royce. Bronze or no, the name carries weight."
I tapped my fingers on the table. "Let's dismiss the bedding theory for now. What else?"
"Debt," Leonette said quietly.
We all turned to look at her. She flushed slightly but didn't look away.
"Debt?" Garlan prompted gently.
"Perhaps he gambled poorly," she said. "Or borrowed from the wrong men. Sending him to the Wall would wipe the slate clean. No creditors can touch a man of the Night's Watch."
"Clever," Alerie said approvingly. "Though I doubt Lord Yohn Royce would allow his son to accumulate debts so severe. The man's a tournament knight of some renown. He'd have thrashed the boy and paid the debts himself."
"Unless he didn't know," I said, giving Garlan a pointed look. "Boys hide things from their fathers."
Garlan shifted in his seat, his ears turning pink. I could see the memory flash across his face—the summer he'd tried to keep that mangey hound puppy hidden in the stables for nearly a fortnight. We'd only discovered it when the kennelmaster complained about missing scraps.
"Fair," Willas conceded, mercifully not commenting on his brother's discomfort. "But then why the Wall? Why not simply force the boy to take vows as a septon or send him to squire somewhere distant?"
"Because the Wall is final," Loras said darkly. "Once you take the black, there's no coming back."
Margaery tilted her head. "What if it wasn't punishment at all? What if Waymar chose it?"
Garlan laughed, recovering his composure. "Chose the Wall? What sort of fool—"
"No, wait," Willas interrupted. "Margaery may be onto something. Third sons don't inherit. They don't rule. If Waymar has no taste for tourneys or the Faith, what's left? A life as a household knight? A minor lordship through marriage?"
"Some men would call that a fine life," Garlan said.
"Some men aren't Royces," Alerie replied. "Pride runs deep in that house. Perhaps the boy wanted purpose. The Wall offers that."
"Or glory," Willas added. "If he fancies himself a hero, what better place than the edge of the world?"
Loras scoffed. "There's no glory at the Wall. Just freezing and dying."
"Tell that to the songs," I said. "The Night's Watch has legends. The Last Hero. The Sword of the Morning—no, wait, that's the Daynes. Still. There's romance in it, if you squint."
Alerie shook her head. "Romance or no, I don't believe a boy of six and ten chooses the Wall. Not truly."
"Then we're back to punishment," Garlan said.
"Or family politics," Willas suggested. "Perhaps his older brothers wanted him gone. Competition for their father's favor. Or a betrothal gone wrong—Waymar was promised to some girl, and she chose another."
"Thin," Alerie said. "But not impossible."
I sipped my wine. "What if it's simpler than we think? Lord Yohn has three sons. The eldest inherits. The second might win a lordship through marriage or service. The third? He's excess. A mouth to feed. Perhaps Yohn simply decided to... trim the tree."
The table went quiet.
"That's cold," Loras said.
"It's practical," I replied. "Not kind, but practical. The Royces aren't wealthy. Bronze armor and ancient blood won't fill a granary. One less son to provide for means more resources for the others."
Margaery frowned. "Would a father truly do that?"
Alerie met my eyes. "Some would."
"In this case though, I would say it unlikely," I said, setting down my cup. "The Royces aren't wealthy as some, true, but neither are they scrambling for coin. Bronze Yohn's no beggar. If they needed gold, they'd seek a match for Waymar—some merchant's daughter with a fat dowry, or a minor house looking to buy prestige with their coin."
"The Waynwoods have three daughters," Garlan offered. "All of age."
"Precisely," I said. "The Vale's full of such opportunities. No, if Waymar's bound for the Wall, it's not poverty that sends him."
Willas nodded slowly. "Then we circle back. Punishment, choice, or politics."
"My coin's still on bedding the wrong girl," Alerie said with a small smile.
"Mine as well," Margaery agreed.
Loras shrugged. "Does it matter? He's going to freeze his balls off either way."
"It matters for the lesson," I said. "We don't play this game to be right. We play to think. To see all the angles."
"And what angle do you see, husband?" Alerie asked.
I considered. "I see a boy whose father wanted him gone. The reason? That, we may never know."
We sat with that for a moment. Then Willas sighed. "We don't have enough information. We're guessing in the dark."
"True," I agreed. "But it's still a good exercise."
"Did we decide on an answer?" Loras asked.
"No," Garlan said. "And that's fine. The point isn't to be right. It's to think."
Leonette smiled shyly. "I enjoyed it."
Garlan squeezed her hand. "You did well."
Alerie nodded approvingly. "You're learning, girl. Keep at it."
I raised my cup. "To Waymar Royce, wherever he is. May the Wall treat him kindly."
"To Waymar," the others echoed.
We drank.
And the game, for now, was done.
The evening feast commenced as dusk crept over the hills like a thief. Mace had dressed himself in gold and green, every inch the lord paramount, though he'd left off the more ostentatious pieces his mother often chided him for wearing. The knights of the Vale sat along the high table—three of them, greyed and weathered, their glory days long behind them but their tongues still sharp enough. Ser Denys Corbray led their number, a man of five and fifty whose mustache drooped like a wilted flower, Uncle to the current Lord Corbray. Beside him sat Ser Morton Waynwood, broader through the chest but equally stooped by age, and Ser Harlan Sunderland, who bore the salt-stained look of the Three Sisters about him.
"Lord Tyrell," Ser Denys began, raising his cup of arbor gold, "you do your house great honor in the hospitality you've shown us. Would that all the great lords of the realm held to the old courtesies as you do."
Mace beamed, allowing the corners of his mouth to lift in that particular way he'd perfected—pleased but not quite understanding the full weight of the compliment. "You are too kind, Ser Denys. My mother always says a host's duty is to his guests, and I should hate to disappoint her." He chuckled, the sound warm and guileless.
From further down the table, Olenna's voice cut through like a knife through butter. "A pity duty and sense don't always walk hand in hand, wouldn't you say, Ser Denys? If they did, we might look to Winterfell for lessons in hospitality rather than Highgarden."
The knights shifted, glancing toward the dowager with the wariness of men who'd heard tales of the Queen of Thorns. Ser Denys recovered first, inclining his head toward her with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Lady Olenna speaks wisely, as ever. Lord Stark is a man of great honor, to be sure. Some might say the most honorable in the realm."
"Honor." Olenna sniffed, plucking a grape from the platter before her. "A fine cloak to wear in the winter, but it keeps no one warm."
Mace laughed again, louder this time, and gestured for the servants to refill the knights' cups. "My lady mother has strong opinions on most matters, as you've no doubt noticed. But surely honor has its place, does it not?"
Ser Morton leaned forward, his thick fingers drumming against the table. "Honor, aye. Though even the most honorable men stumble now and then. Take Lord Stark himself—raised alongside Robert like a brother, fought a war beside him, and came home from that war with a bastard boy in tow. Jon Snow, they call him."
Ser Harlan grunted his agreement, lifting his cup. "Aye, that surprised many of us. Lord Eddard was so stiff-backed during his time at the Eyrie, you'd think he'd been carved from stone. Robert, now—Robert was the one chasing every skirt within a league of the Gates of the Moon. But Ned?" He shook his head. "Never saw him so much as look twice at a serving girl."
"Yet bastards don't make themselves," Ser Morton said with a smirk. "The boy's at Winterfell, raised alongside the trueborn children. Takes some brass to do that, with your lady wife watching."
Mace kept his expression open, curious but not too clever. "A bastard son, you say? I confess, I'd heard the tale but thought little of it. Lord Stark struck me as a man of… well, steadfast character."
"Steadfast, aye," Ser Denys agreed. "But the war changes men. Perhaps some camp follower caught his eye, or some fisherman's daughter in the riverlands. Who can say? The lad's mother was never named, and Lord Stark won't speak of it."
Olenna's eyes glittered in the torchlight. "How very honorable. To sire a bastard and then parade him before gods and men without so much as a word of explanation. Robert must have taught him something useful after all."
The knights laughed, though the sound carried an edge of discomfort. Mace joined in, his own laughter booming across the hall, but his mind had already begun to turn. A bastard boy, raised in the heart of Winterfell. A secret kept, even from a wife. Lord Eddard Stark, the man whose reputation for honor was matched only by his reputation for silence.
Curious.
"Well," Mace said, waving a hand as though to dismiss the matter, "we all have our burdens to bear, do we not? I'm sure Lord Stark does what he believes is right."
"Right or not," Ser Harlan muttered into his cup, "it's a strange thing. I still half don't believe it. Ned Stark, of all men."
The conversation drifted then, turning to talk of the Vale and the Eyrie, of Lady Lysa's sickly boy and the challenges of ruling from such a height. Mace played his part, nodding along and asking the sorts of questions that made men feel important without revealing much. But even as he smiled and jested, a thread of thought had begun to unspool in the back of his mind.
A bastard boy. Raised as though he were trueborn. A mother never named.
He glanced down the table toward Willas, who caught his eye and offered the faintest of nods. His eldest had heard it too. They would speak of it later, when the hall was empty and the candles burned low.
For now, Mace raised his cup and toasted the knights of the Vale, his smile as wide and warm as summer sun.