ARC II: THE ERA OF EXPANSION AND THE ANNIHILATION OF THE GREYJOYS
Chapter 9: Seeds in the Reach
POV: Olenna Tyrell (287 AC)
Leaning firmly on my rosewood cane, I watched through the arched window of my solar the courtyard of white stones below in Highgarden. Down there, the spectacle was the same as always, tedious and predictable: knights covered in polished, pompous armor training their young squires, delivering clumsy blows with wooden swords while sweating under the afternoon sun. All of them desperately tried to look like heroes straight out of some romantic song invented by idle bards. Poor fools in gleaming armor. They held not the slightest importance to the true direction of the world—a world that, to the misfortune of the idiots who clung to the old rules, was undergoing a tectonic and irreversible transformation.
I have lived long enough to understand how the gears of history turn. When Aegon the Conqueror crossed the Narrow Sea with his sisters and his three monumental dragons, the very foundation of Westeros shuddered. The power of those fire-breathing beasts was something against which ordinary men, with all their bravery and forged steel, could do nothing. Within months, thousand-year-old dynasties that had ruled since the Age of Heroes simply vanished into smoke, turning into ash and legend. It was thanks to this devastation that House Tyrell, to which I now belong by marriage, ascended. They went from mere hereditary stewards of the Gardeners to Lord Supremes of the Reach.
However, the foundations of Highgarden had always been made of fertile soil but shallow authority. The Tyrells were never kings in their own right. They did not carry the ancient royal blood of the Starks or the Lannisters, whose lineages had ruled their respective lands for millennia before the first dragons were even born in Valyria. Because of this, the proud lords of the Reach—the Florents, the Redwynes, the Hightowers—secretly turned up their noses at us, treating us like smallfolk who had put on clothes far too fine. Fortunately, with a sharp wit, strategic marriages, and quiet agreements woven in the shadows, I managed to transform this house of stewards into one of the wealthiest and most feared powers in the realm.
But now, the wind has changed direction again, bringing the scent of winter and of ancient things. We are witnessing another great turn on the board. Powers that the maesters of the Citadel, in their academic hubris, swore were dead and buried thousands of years ago have awakened from their icy slumber. And worst of all: this time, the threat was not a visible dragon ripping through the open sky. Losing to a dragon is acceptable, after all; it is a force of nature born for mass destruction, and there is no shame in bowing before the fire of the gods. But the frustration and humiliation of watching the South be subjugated, manipulated, and commercially outmatched by the intellect and hidden magic of ordinary men—of Northerners we once considered mere turnip-eating savages—was something that corroded my very entrails.
The North's trade was exploding inexplicably. White Harbor was flooding the markets of Essos and Westeros with precious goods, runically tempered glass, and a wealth that defied the very logic of their climate. But House Tyrell grew strong until now by knowing how to adapt to storms, and we would not wither away now.
I heard the quick, light, and rhythmic steps approaching along the outer corridor. A walk that could only belong to a child full of life. I turned toward the door and saw my most beautiful flower approaching. My late husband, Luthor, was indisputably the greatest idiot to ever wear a silk cloak in the history of Westeros, and my son Mace, with his inflated arrogance and empty mind, followed exactly in his father's footsteps. Fortunately, the gods had mercy on me and ensured that my grandchildren did not inherit that lineage of foolish men. Willas had a brilliant mind for finances and the land; Garlan and Loras were turning out to be formidable and honorable knights; and then there was my sweet little rose.
Margaery of House Tyrell. She was only four years old, but I could already see the spark of cunning, perception, and a sharp intelligence dancing in her brown pupils. Even at such a young age, she entered my solar carrying a heavy tome, bound in old, weathered leather, which nearly made her topple forward from the weight.
— Grandmother, grandmother! Look what I found in the library! — she exclaimed, approaching my chair and enthusiastically opening the book to the center pages, pointing her little finger at a detailed illustration of an immense creature, covered in fur and mounted on a mammoth. — Do you think there are still real giants living in the North?
I let out a nasal laugh, adjusting my headscarf.
— Perhaps they do exist, my dear. The news crossing the Neck these days is scarce and fragmented. Young King Arawyn has closed the borders to southern spies in a terrifying manner; only a few select merchants bring back reports, and most of them like to exaggerate their tales to sell their goods at higher prices.
My rational and slightly skeptical response was not well received by the little girl in front of me. Margaery crossed her little arms over the book and pouted, stomping her little foot on the ground with a determination that made me smile inwardly.
— Of course they exist for real, grandmother! — she protested, her eyes wide open. — The bards who passed along the roads said that Princess Rhaenys and Little Aegon were saved from a monster in King's Landing by a gentle giant sent by the North! Everyone in Willow Wood is talking about it.
I leaned closer to her, caressing her soft cheeks with my fingers, which were calloused by time.
— I apologize, my little rose. Your grandmother sometimes forgets that the world has become a much stranger place lately. Show me what else is in that book of yours.
With a renewed smile, Margaery began to leaf through the tome eagerly, showing me detailed illustrations of other mythological beings: the Children of the Forest with their cat-like eyes, the Green Men who guarded the Isle of Faces, and the direwolves. Well, those last ones we knew to be real; after all, the Northern king himself walked accompanied by one of those grey beasts that looked more like demons spawned from men's nightmares.
As I listened to her speak with such enchantment, I realized that this precocious and genuine admiration for the North was not merely a childhood fantasy; it was a golden political opportunity that destiny was placing right into my hands. The Northerners are a proud, stubborn people, deeply devoted to their own culture and traditions. They despise the sycophancy and falsehoods of the southern court. King Arawyn Stark, when he reached his majority, would need a queen who was his equal. A woman who would not only rule by his side but who understood the soul of his people. And who in the entire world would be better for that role than the future most beautiful, cunning, and charming rose of Highgarden?
— Come with me, Margaery — I said, rising with the aid of my cane and extending my hand to her. — I want to show you something.
We left the solar and descended the stone staircases to the lowest levels of the castle, walking toward the godswood of Highgarden. It was a silent, damp place, rarely visited by the members of the court, who preferred the sunlight and the scent of the rose gardens. In the center of the wood rose an ancient Heart Tree, whose greyish trunk bore a melancholy and deep face carved into its bark. I never quite understood why the Gardener kings or the previous Tyrells had not cut down that ancient tree to make room for more decorative flowerbeds; but at least now, that past negligence would serve a grand purpose.
I led Margaery to the front of the trunk, where the leaves, red as blood, contrasted with the vivid green of our vegetation. The girl looked at the carved features with a mixture of curiosity and instinctive respect, devoid of the fear that southern children usually displayed before the Old Gods.
— Look closely at this face, Margaery — I instructed, my voice dropping to a low, solemn, and serious tone. — From this day forward, you will spend more time in this wood. You will learn to respect the silence of these trees and the customs of those who live beyond the Neck. The South is bound to kings who drown themselves in wine and in debt to the Lannisters, but the true power... the power that will shape the future of Westeros, is growing beneath the snow.
I looked at the grim face of the tree and smiled with bitterness and ambition. House Tyrell always had its own peculiar and subtle way of acting in the shadows, contenting itself with taking a generous slice of every political pie baked in King's Landing through secondary marriages or the supply of provisions. But times have changed. We no longer want just a slice. Now, we want the whole pie.
I would dedicate every remaining day of my life to shaping that child. I would ensure that my beautiful rose became the Queen of the North, sitting upon the Throne of Winter beside the young wolf-sorcerer. And with that, we would continue to expand and truly prosper.
— Growing Strong... — I muttered to myself, clicking my tongue as I watched Margaery gently touch the bark of the Heart Tree. — Heavens, what a ridiculous and passive motto. No wonder this house was taken seriously by no one before me. We are not just going to grow, my dear... we are going to dominate.