Orion offered a soft, unassuming smile that did not quite reach the ancient depths of his eyes. "Maybe."
Olenna Tyrell let out a sharp, barking laugh, slapping her small hand against the armrest of her chair. "Maybe! The boy has the audacity of a Lannister and the caution of a Stark. Very well, little shipwright. Let us see if your mind is as sharp for statecraft as it is for wood and canvas."
She leaned back, abandoning her fig entirely, her dark eyes locking onto his. The Queen of Thorns was done treating him like a precocious great-grandson. She was shifting into the ruthless political matriarch who steered the most fertile kingdom in Westeros.
"The Reach is rich, Orion, but richness breeds envy," Olenna began, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Lord Stannis Baratheon still grinds his teeth at the memory of Mace feasting outside Storm's End while he starved. The King gives his favor to the Lannisters, and the Florents of Brightwater Keep continue to whisper in the dark that their blood is closer to Garth Greenhand than ours. They think they should sit in Mace's chair."
She tilted her head, watching him like a hawk. "How do you silence a powerful vassal who believes he is your better, without drawing swords and giving the King a reason to intervene?"
In Orion's mind, the sociopolitical web of the Reach unfurled in perfect clarity. He didn't need to consult a history book or ponder military strategy; he simply applied the ruthless corporate tactics of his past life to a feudal system.
"You don't cut out their tongues, Great-grandmother," Orion answered effortlessly, his voice smooth and calm. "You empty their pockets."
Olenna raised a skeptical eyebrow. "The Florents are wealthy, boy. You cannot simply tax them into submission."
"Not directly," Orion agreed. "But wealth in the Reach relies on land and the smallfolk who work it. You squeeze them from the edges. Highgarden controls the rivers. We introduce a new 'toll' for dredging and maintaining the Mander, but—out of the goodness of Uncle Mace's heart—we exempt houses that have contributed heavily to the Tyrell granaries. The Florents, who keep their grain, pay the toll. Then, the Arbor offers massive discounts on wine and timber to the Florents' lesser bannermen, but not to Brightwater Keep itself."
He laced his small fingers together on his lap. "You don't attack the lord. You make it financially ruinous to be his friend. When their own sworn knights start complaining that loyalty to House Florent is bankrupting them, the whispers of rebellion will turn into pleas for Tyrell favor. When a house cannot afford to be proud, they remember how to kneel."
Olenna stared at him, the skeptical arch of her brow slowly smoothing out into a look of profound, silent shock. It was a suffocating, bloodless siege. It was utterly devastating, completely legal, and terrifyingly brilliant.
"Gods," she whispered. "Mace would have suggested a tourney to remind them of our strength. You suggest starving them with ink."
"A sword cuts once," Orion said lightly. "Debt cuts every day."
Olenna's eyes gleamed with a sudden, ravenous hunger. She threw another problem at him. "The Crown. Robert Baratheon sits on a throne of swords, but he bleeds gold. Jon Arryn runs the kingdom, but Tywin Lannister is quietly buying the Crown's debts. If the lions own the King, how does the rose survive?"
"Let the lion feed him," Orion replied without a second of hesitation. "Owning a king's debt is a trap, Great-grandmother. Tywin Lannister believes gold is power. But a king with an army can erase a debt with a single stroke of his pen, or a single swing of an executioner's sword. We do not buy the Crown's debt. We buy the Crown's stomach."
He leaned forward, dropping the facade of the sweet ten-year-old entirely. For a fleeting moment, Olenna saw the absolute, commanding weight of a being who understood the very mechanics of civilization.
"Lords cannot eat gold," Orion stated. "King's Landing is a bloated city of half a million souls. The Crownlands cannot feed them all. The Lannisters have mines, but the Reach has the harvest. If we consolidate the grain shipments, if the Arbor controls the merchant cogs that deliver the food to the capital, we hold the true power. If the King angers Tywin, Tywin cuts off the coin. Robert will just borrow from the Iron Bank. But if the King angers Highgarden... the capital starves in a week. Bread is a far stronger chain than gold."
The chamber fell dead silent. The rhythmic ticking of the Myrish clock in the corner seemed deafening.
Olenna Tyrell sat perfectly still, her sharp eyes mapping the contours of the young boy's face. She had spent her entire life surrounded by men she had to manipulate, coddle, or outsmart. She had spent decades carrying the intellectual burden of her house alone, playing the game of thrones while her son played at being a lord.
But as she looked at Orion, the sheer, crushing weight of that isolation lifted. She wasn't looking at a useful pawn. She wasn't even looking at a protégé.
She was looking at an equal.
Olenna slowly reached across the small table, her gnarled, ringed hand grasping Orion's wrist with a surprising, fierce strength.
"Paxter is a fool if he thinks he can keep you hidden on that island," she breathed, her voice trembling slightly with a mixture of reverence and terrifying ambition. "You and I, Orion. We are going to ensure that when the winter finally comes, it is the Reach that decides who freezes and who burns."
Orion's smile finally reached his eyes, losing its calculating edge to become something genuinely warm. The Arbor would always be his true sanctuary—the salt air, the shipyards, the quiet loyalty of his parents and siblings—but the Tyrells were his blood. And to an Absolute Mind that constantly weighed the brutal probabilities of Westerosi warfare, having the wealthiest kingdom on the continent securely united with his own family was simply good business.
"The Arbor is my home, Great-grandmother," Orion said gently, the terrifying aura of the mastermind retreating entirely behind the earnest face of a ten-year-old boy. "But the roots of the vine and the rose share the same earth. If Highgarden prospers, the Arbor thrives."
Olenna's sharp, bird-like features softened in a way very few people in Westeros ever got to witness. The fierce, unrelenting tension in her shoulders relaxed. For decades, she had been the solitary architect of Tyrell supremacy, dragging her family to greatness despite their own blunders. Now, looking at this boy, she knew the future of their bloodline was not just secure; it was destined for absolute dominion. With her connections and his unfathomable intellect, the realm was theirs to shape.
"Go and eat, child," Olenna said, waving her silver knife toward the heavy oak doors, her tone carrying a rare, profound fondness. "We will have plenty of time to discuss the fate of the realm after you have rested. Building empires is hungry work."
Orion stood, offering a deep, respectful bow before turning on his heel. He pushed the heavy, briar-carved doors open and stepped back out into the sunlit corridor.
The hallway was thick with nervous anticipation. Lord Mace Tyrell was pacing the flagstones, his heavy boots echoing off the walls, while Mina stood calmly by the arched window, trusting her son's capabilities. A few paces away, Willas leaned against the wall, his weight resting on his polished cane, watching the door with keen interest.
Before Mace could even open his mouth to ask how the grueling interrogation had gone, Olenna's sharp, rasping voice echoed loudly from inside the solar.
"Mace!" she barked, the sudden command making the Lord of Highgarden jump in his velvet doublet. "The boy is famished! Get him something excellent to eat, and do try not to bore him with your tourney stories while he chews!"
Mace blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a landed trout. He stared at the open doorway, then down at his ten-year-old nephew, completely stumped. Usually, seasoned lords and hardened knights emerged from Olenna's solar sweating, stammering, or looking as though they had just survived a mauling from a shadowcat. Orion simply looked perfectly content, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve as if he had just finished a pleasant stroll through the gardens.
"I..." Mace stammered, looking helplessly at Mina, who was pressing her lips together to hide a deeply amused smile. "Right. Of course, Mother. The kitchens. We shall have a proper feast laid out at once!"
Willas, however, did not look confused. The young heir of Highgarden shifted his weight on his cane, his highly observant eyes darting from the dark threshold of his grandmother's solar to the unassuming boy standing in the hall. Willas knew Olenna Tyrell better than anyone alive. She did not coddle children, she did not hand out unearned praise, and she certainly didn't order the Lord of the Reach to play servant unless the person in question had just proven themselves to be the most valuable piece on her cyvasse board.
A slow, knowing smile spread across Willas's face. He recognized the monumental shift in the family hierarchy that had just occurred behind those closed doors. He met Orion's gaze and bowed his head, just a fraction of an inch deeper than a cousin strictly needed to.
"It seems you have an impressive appetite, cousin," Willas said quietly, his voice laced with profound respect. "Come. Let us see what Highgarden can offer the Queen's new favorite."
[Note:The twelfth Name day is mistake on my part, MC is Ten Years old, he was born in AC 276 and it's now AC 286. So stop the comments.]