The pale, sun-bleached limestone of Highgarden was a stark contrast to the heavy, salt-weathered granite of the Arbor. As Mace led Orion and Mina through the castle, the ten-year-old's mind mapped the sprawling fortress. It was built not just for defense, but for breathtaking beauty—a cascade of ascending courtyards, arched colonnades, and terraced gardens overflowing with golden roses and climbing vines. The warm Mediterranean breeze of the Reach swept through the open, airy corridors, carrying the scent of jasmine and the distant sound of lutes.
They reached the uppermost levels, stopping before a pair of heavy doors intricately carved with winding briars.
Mace cleared his throat, his boisterous demeanor dimming into something resembling nervous caution. He patted Orion's shoulder. "Right then. In you go, lad. She left strict orders. Just you."
Mina gave Orion's hand a reassuring squeeze before stepping back beside her brother. Orion smoothed the front of his doublet, modulated his breathing to a state of absolute, unbreakable calm, and pushed the heavy doors open.
The chamber beyond was a wide, sunlit solar that opened onto a private balcony overlooking the vast, golden plains of the Mander. The air was cool in the shade. Seated at a small table near the arched balcony, peeling a fig with a small silver knife, was Olenna Tyrell.
The Queen of Thorns did not look like a monster, though half the lords in Westeros feared her like one. She was a frail, diminutive woman wrapped in a wimple and dark fabrics, her face a map of deep lines and sharp angles. But her eyes—shrewd, glittering, and ruthlessly intelligent—missed absolutely nothing.
Orion approached, closing the door quietly behind him. He offered a perfect, abbreviated bow. "Great-grandmother."
"Sit," Olenna commanded, not looking up from her fig.
Orion pulled out a wrought-iron chair and sat, keeping his posture relaxed but attentive. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the scrape of her silver knife against the fruit's skin. Olenna was deliberately letting the silence stretch, a classic interrogation tactic meant to make a child squirm, babble, or show fear.
Orion did none of those things. His Absolute Mind processed the slow shifting of the shadows from the balcony sundial, the slight tremor in Olenna's left hand, and the precise, calculated angle of her gaze. He simply sat, completely at ease, waiting her out.
Finally, Olenna set the knife down and looked up. A tiny, almost imperceptible flicker of surprise crossed her weathered face. He hadn't broken.
"Your mother tells me Paxter is finally losing what little hair he had left," Olenna said, her voice a dry, rasping drawl. "I suppose ruling an island of drunkards is stressful work. Tell me, does she still let him believe he is the one making the decisions at the Arbor?"
"Father commands the fleet and the trade, Great-grandmother," Orion answered politely, his golden tongue finding the perfect balance between familial respect and political deflection. "Mother commands everything else. They seem to find a harmony in it."
Olenna snorted. "Harmony. A polite word for a woman knowing when to let a man shout until he tires himself out." She leaned forward, resting her chin on her clasped hands, her sharp eyes boring into him. "You don't fidget, boy. Children your age usually shake like leaves when they are brought to my solar. Are you too stupid to be frightened, or too arrogant?"
"Neither," Orion said, offering a soft, disarming smile. "I am simply happy to finally meet the woman who truly rules the Reach."
Olenna's eyes narrowed. For a split second, the veil dropped, and Orion saw the sheer, predatory intellect that had kept House Tyrell in power for decades. She wasn't just studying a prodigy; she was inspecting a weapon.
"Let us dispense with the pleasantries, Orion," Olenna said sharply. "I have read Mina's letters. For years, she wrote of a sweet boy who liked to play in the mud. Then, suddenly, my grandson is 'inventing' dual-ledgers that expose embezzlers. He is trapping wine in dark glass to swindle the nobles of the North, and boiling down dregs to sell fortified nectar to the magisters of Qarth. You have doubled the Arbor's wealth in three years."
She pointed a gnarled finger at him. "Mace believes Paxter is experiencing a late-in-life awakening of genius. I know Paxter. If he were a horse, he'd be a sturdy plow-puller, not a courser. This is your doing."
Orion didn't deny it. To deny it to Olenna Tyrell would be an insult to her intelligence. "House Redwyne required a more efficient system, Great-grandmother. I merely pointed out the gaps in the hull."
"Gaps," she echoed, a dry chuckle escaping her throat. "And now you are building ships. Real ships, not those fat wooden tubs Paxter used to sail. The entire continent is whispering about this Arbor's Pride. Half the lords in King's Landing are convinced the Redwynes forged a pact with a sea demon, but I know a Tyrell descendant when I see one. You built a vessel that sails against the wind. Tell me how."
Here, Orion had to be incredibly careful. He could not speak of fluid dynamics, aerodynamic lift, or the Bernoulli principle. He had to translate the absolute physics of his mind into the language of Westeros.
"It is about the shape of the sails, and what lies beneath the water," Orion explained, leaning forward slightly to engage her, his terrifying charisma weaving the complex ideas into something simple and undeniable. "Our older ships use square sails. They are like catching a falling rock with a blanket—they only work if the wind is pushing from directly behind. If the wind blows against them, the ship is pushed backward."
Olenna nodded slowly. "As every sailor knows."
"But I cut the canvas into a triangle," Orion said, tracing the shape on the wooden table with his finger, "and angled it. You are no longer trying to catch the wind. You let the wind slide across the fabric, like a bird angling its wing. The pressure pulls the ship forward, even if the breeze is hitting from the side."
Olenna's brows crept upward. "If the wind hits the side of a ship, it capsizes."
"Not if you change the keel," Orion countered smoothly. "Merchant cogs are built like bowls. They sit on top of the water. My design dropped a massive, heavy spine of ironwood deep beneath the hull. It bites into the ocean like a sword. The wind can push the sails as hard as it likes; the keel anchors the ship in the water, turning the force of the wind into pure, forward speed rather than a rollover."
Olenna stared at him in utter silence. Her mind, arguably the sharpest political instrument in the Seven Kingdoms, was racing to catch up with the ten-year-old sitting across from her. She saw the immediate, terrifying implications of what he had already unleashed upon the world. A fleet that didn't need to wait for favorable winds. Warships that could effortlessly outmaneuver the Iron Fleet. Merchant vessels that were currently making the trip to Essos in half the time.
She slowly leaned back in her chair, the hard, assessing glint in her eyes softening into something resembling profound, almost greedy awe.
"You are a terrifying little creature, Orion Redwyne," Olenna whispered, a genuine, delighted smile finally cracking through her wrinkles. "Mace thinks you are a ledger-boy. But you... you are going to change the shape of the world, aren't you?"