While Paxter held reigns for the new ships, he was finally cowed down by his wife to let Orion visit Highgarden.
The great river galley, Arbor's Pride, carved smoothly through the placid, shimmering waters of the Mander. Standing at the prow, ten-year-old Orion Redwyne watched the sprawling, tiered walls of Highgarden slowly rise over the horizon, a breathtaking monument to wealth and summer blooming amidst a sea of green fields.
The journey had not been easily won. Right up until the moment the gangplank was raised at the Arbor, Paxter had paced the docks like a caged bear.
"A moon's turn, Mina, and not a day longer," his father had grumbled, wrapping a heavy Tyrell-green cloak around her shoulders. "And you tell Olenna that if she tries to keep him there as a crutch for Mace's blunders, I will sail the entire fleet up the Mander and drag him back by his ear. I won't have my heir playing the puppet master to her political bullshit."
Mina had merely smiled her placid, elegant smile, kissing her husband's cheek and promising to return their prodigy intact.
Now, as the ship docked at the river-gates of the Tyrell seat, the air grew thick with the scent of crushed petals, ripening peaches, and the sweet perfume of the Reach. Orion's Absolute Mind drank in the architecture, instantly calculating the defensive flaws of the sprawling hedge mazes and the structural integrity of the pale stone towers, while outward, he simply projected the image of a young boy awed by a fairy-tale castle.
The welcoming party waiting in the sun-drenched courtyard was a vibrant display of Highgarden's opulence, the entire Tyrell brood assembled in a sea of green and gold.
Lord Mace Tyrell stood at the center, a large, booming man with curling brown hair and a face prone to easy, hearty smiles. He looked exactly as Orion's mind had profiled him from afar: a man who mistook his mother's cunning for his own brilliance, yet undeniably warm and devoted to his blood.
"Mina!" Mace roared, throwing his thick arms open as Orion and his mother approached. He caught his sister in a crushing embrace. "Look at you, still the jewel of the Arbor! And this must be the little ledger-keeper who has half the realm whispering in their cups!"
Mace clapped a heavy, affectionate hand on Orion's shoulder, chuckling loudly.
"It is an honor to finally see Highgarden, Uncle," Orion replied flawlessly, bowing with the exact, measured depth required for a liege lord who was also family. His golden tongue laced the words with bright, boyish respect. "Father sends his deepest regards, and a hundred casks of our newest fortified vintage."
"Ah, Paxter knows the way to my heart!" Mace beamed.
Beside Mace stood his wife, Lady Alerie of House Hightower. She was a tall, dignified woman with a regal posture and a long, thick braid of silver hair that caught the sunlight. She offered Mina a warm, sisterly kiss on the cheek and smiled gracefully at Orion.
"Welcome, nephew," Alerie said, her voice soft but carrying a subtle, assessing weight. "Your mother's letters have spoken of little else. You are growing into a fine young lord."
Behind the Lord and Lady of Highgarden stood their four children, a perfectly staggered staircase of Tyrell legacy.
The eldest, Willas, leaned heavily on a polished wooden cane. Though only in his mid-teens, Willas possessed a quiet, studious demeanor that starkly contrasted his father's boisterous nature. Orion's eyes flicked to the cane. His mind instantly mapped the biomechanics of Willas's crushed leg—a fresh injury from the Red Viper of Dorne—identifying the shattered bone fragments and severed tendons, conceptualizing three different modern surgical procedures that could have fully restored it in another world. But here, Willas would limp for the rest of his life.
"Cousin," Willas said, offering a warm, highly intelligent smile that lacked any trace of the bitterness one might expect from a crippled heir. "I have heard you have a fondness for maps and numbers. I have some Valyrian scrolls in the library you might find... illuminating."
"I would like that very much, Willas," Orion answered genuinely. Of all the Tyrells, Willas was the one whose natural intellect Orion actually respected.
Beside Willas stood Garlan, a sturdy boy just a year or two older than Orion, already possessing the broad shoulders and thick chest of a seasoned knight in training. Garlan offered a friendly, open smile, devoid of any arrogance.
"I hear you dismantled a squire twice your size in the yard at the Arbor," Garlan said, his eyes bright with genuine curiosity. "Perhaps you'll show me that trick with the pommel while you're here."
"If you promise not to hit me too hard in return, Cousin," Orion joked easily, instantly categorizing Garlan as solid, dependable, and highly formidable.
Six-year-old Loras was a completely different story. The younger boy stood slightly ahead of his siblings with his chin tilted up, a beautifully featured child fiercely proud of the small, finely carved wooden tourney sword resting on his shoulder. Loras looked at Orion with the sharp, competitive spark of a boy who was used to being the most talented, most adored child in the room.
"I have a real pony," Loras declared suddenly, puffing out his chest. "Can you joust yet?"
Orion suppressed a smile, his mind easily reading the young knight's immense, fragile ego. "Not yet, Loras. I am sure I will have to watch you to learn how it is truly done."
Loras seemed incredibly satisfied with that answer, lowering his wooden sword with a proud nod.
Finally, a small tug on his velvet sleeve drew Orion's attention down to the youngest of the brood.
Five-year-old Margaery Tyrell possessed tumbling brown curls and wide, incredibly observant doe-eyes. She was just a child, yet as she peered up at him, Orion could already see the early, terrifyingly sharp awareness of a future queen taking root in her gaze. She wasn't just looking at him; she was studying him.
"Are you really the smartest boy in the world?" Margaery asked, her voice a sweet, chiming treble. "Grandmother says you have an old man sitting inside your head."
Mace laughed uproariously, while Alerie lightly touched her daughter's shoulder in gentle reprimand. "Margaery, mind your manners."
Orion smiled, crouching down slightly to be at eye level with his young cousin. He accessed his terrifying charisma, softening it into an aura of absolute, endearing warmth.
"I think your Grandmother just likes to tell stories, little rose," Orion whispered conspiratorially, producing a small, perfectly polished glass marble from his pocket—a flawless leftover from his Arbor glassworks—and pressing it into her tiny palm. "But if I were the smartest boy in the world, the first thing I would learn is how to stay out of her way."
Margaery giggled, her fingers closing tightly around the glass treasure, instantly charmed by the older boy.
Mina laughed, placing a hand on Orion's back. "He is right to be cautious. Speaking of my grandmother, where is the Queen of Thorns?"
Mace sighed, a sound caught between deep affection and mild exhaustion. "In her private gardens, Mina. She left strict instructions. She wants the boy sent to her pavilion the moment he has washed the river dust from his boots. No guards, no parents." Mace looked down at Orion with a slightly sympathetic wince. "Brace yourself, lad. She has been waiting for this."