Chapter 174 — Nightsong Falls
Along the banks of the Mander River in winter, the lush abundance and summer heat had long faded.
Cold winds swept across the open plains of the Reach, fine snowflakes drifting down to kiss its shining jewel — Highgarden.
Legend said that the eldest son of the "Greenhand," Garth Greenhand, Garth Gardener I, laid the first stone atop the hill overlooking the great river. As ages passed, white marble gleamed beneath the sun, and the castle came to be regarded across Westeros as the most beautiful of them all.
The warm and noble House Tyrell, like the unfading golden rose upon their sigil, often held tourneys here.
Knights shed sweat in contests of arms, virtue, poetry, and devotion, all in pursuit of the love of fair noble ladies.
A place born for romance — and sustained by romance.
In the gardens, roses once brilliant as gold had vanished, now buried beneath frost and snow.
Yet winter's chill could not freeze the spirit of Highgarden. In the vast hall, fireplaces blazed fiercely. Costly pine logs crackled, sending forest-scented warmth into every corner.
Musicians' fingers danced across harps and flutes. The air drifted with the scent of mead, baked apple pies, and noble perfumes.
While most common folk huddled indoors simply trying to survive winter, the nobles burned rare timber and reveled without restraint.
Which, from another angle, proved that the wealth of House Tyrell rivaled even that of their neighbors, House Lannister.
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"Is everything prepared?"
At the center of the hall stood the high seat carved with twisting vines and golden roses, inlaid with emeralds — the seat that should have belonged to the lord of the Reach.
Instead, it was occupied by a thin old woman.
She turned her head toward the man beside her and spoke directly, without pleasantries.
"Yes, Mother."
At once, Mace Tyrell lowered his head reflexively, answering with humble obedience.
Broad-shouldered and clad in a new robe of green brocade, he looked every inch the powerful lord he was — Warden of the South and supreme ruler of the Reach.
And yet, before her, he appeared meek.
Her thinning hair, half turned white, was combed with meticulous care. Bony fingers stroked the seven gemstone rings on her hand — each a different color, each worth a fortune. Her gaze appeared kindly… but carried crushing pressure.
This was the "Queen of Thorns," Olenna Tyrell — the true power of Highgarden.
"Let me see," she said coolly, "what gifts my 'brilliant' son has prepared for the royal court."
"Rest assured, Mother," said Mace Tyrell at once, lowering his head. "I reviewed the list personally. Only the finest items — more than enough to show our respect."
"And their value?"
Her eyes sharpened. "Everything in this world has a price. Tell me the number."
Under her stare, Mace's palm tightened unconsciously against his thigh.
"Th–three… to four hundred gold dragons… perhaps."
"Ha."
Olenna let out a soft, cutting laugh. The warmth vanished from her face.
"Three hundred gold dragons. A delightful sum. Nearly enough to buy a decent horse."
After a pause, she spoke again, voice tinged with almost mournful disappointment.
"You've never had much talent, Mace. Not your fault — the moment your father planted the seed, fate had already decreed you wouldn't be bright."
"To be honest, I regret not cracking your skull with a wooden spoon when you were small, just to stuff a bit of sharp thinking inside."
Mace froze, face draining pale with embarrassment.
He had always thought himself diligent, prudent, a stable ruler who kept the Reach prosperous and Highgarden flourishing…
Yet he had never earned a word of praise from her.
"Do you even know how much wealth House Tyrell commands?"
Her voice rose slightly. Nearby nobles stopped whispering, glancing over.
Publicly dressing down her son was nothing new for Olenna.
"Frugality is a virtue, Mace," she said slowly. "But when facing matters of true importance, frugality is not virtue — it is stupidity. Miserliness. Shortsighted self-sabotage."
"A new king crowned. A Regent appointed. Dragons returned to the world. Each of these will shape the future of every house in the Seven Kingdoms — and you bring… a few hundred gold dragons' worth of trinkets?"
She even snorted. "A petty vassal hoping to curry favor would bring finer gifts than the Lord of Highgarden."
Mace burned with shame — but dared not argue. Awe of his mother was carved into his bones.
"Gold sitting in a vault does not breed," Olenna continued flatly. "Send word to your cousin on the Arbor. Buy twenty casks of the oldest, finest vintage."
"Tw–twenty?!"
Even Mace gasped. "That's over a hundred gold dragons per cask! Twenty means at least three thousand!"
Murmurs rippled among the nobles.
Olenna looked at him with open disdain.
"We must display Tyrell wealth and loyalty to House Targaryen. What is this sum?"
She gazed toward distant King's Landing.
"Dragons must eat. Add five thousand sheep and two thousand cattle."
"And gifts for the King, the Regent, and the Queen — bring the total to thirty thousand gold dragons."
Silence fell.
Thirty thousand.
"Mother… isn't this—"
"Silence, Mace!"
Her patience snapped.
"The king is four. Your daughter Margaery is newly born."
"If we secure a marriage in the future, I would gladly give a dowry of a hundred thousand — two hundred thousand — gold dragons!"
"Seven save us…"
Mace nearly blacked out.
"I disagree! That's far too much!"
"And what about...Summerhall."
Her voice turned ice-cold.
"You planned to keep that from me too?"
The word hit like freezing water.
"That's Stormlands territory!" Mace stammered. "They wrote asking for aid and slandering Baratheon, but we have no lawful reason to march!"
Olenna sighed sharply.
"Your vision is that of a sewer rat, Mace. Narrow enough to see only Highgarden's walls."
"Where is Summerhall?"
She didn't wait for an answer.
"It sits at the throat between the Stormlands, Dorne, and the Reach — a narrow gate!"
"Do you think those fools seized it for a pretty grave marker? Even a woman who knows nothing of war sees the truth: whoever holds it can strike deep into the Stormlands — and the reverse is also true!"
"Three Stormlords invited us in — and you did nothing?"
Mace clenched his fists, speechless.
"Do we truly fight Baratheon?" he asked weakly.
"We don't need it," Olenna said wearily. "But the Iron Throne does. The Targaryens do. The Regent does."
"Wait until war begins, and it will be too late."
Mace straightened suddenly. "Give me ten days! I'll retake Summerhall myself! I can crush that Baratheon boy!"
Olenna nearly slapped him — if her legs allowed it.
"No need."
The doors of hall burst open.
A knight strode in, armor gray-green, sword black-bladed, a hunter-with-bow sigil stitched at the pommel.
Snow dusted his helm and pauldrons. Dark circles ringed his eyes — but his steel-gray gaze burned with confidence and battle-hardened resolve.
He ignored the nobles' stares, walked straight forward, and knelt.
"Randyll Tarly," Mace began—
The knight spoke to Olenna.
"As you commanded, my lady."
"Nightsong… is ours."