ARC II: THE ERA OF EXPANSION AND THE ANNIHILATION OF THE GREYJOYS
Chapter 11: The Eyes of the Thorns
POV: Willas Tyrell (288 AC)
The afternoon in Highgarden brought with it the sweet scent of blooming rosebushes and the gentle whisper of the wind blowing up from the Mander River. Sitting in a comfortable rocking chair upholstered in green velvet and gold thread, I carefully stretched my left leg, suppressing a low groan as a familiar twinge of pain throbbed in my thigh. The accident in the tourney against Oberyn Martell had permanently destroyed my cartilage and, along with it, all my youthful dreams of donning gleaming armor, conquering the stands, and becoming a knight worthy of the bards' songs.
In the beginning, bitterness had been a constant companion. But time and isolation forced me to understand a fundamental truth that most lords of Westeros ignored in their eternal obsession with swords and glory: steel can bend, rust, or break, but a sharp and well-cultivated mind remains implacable until its last breath. If my body had been severely limited by the fatality of the jousting lanes, my intelligence, my perception, and my ability to read the kingdom's political chessboard had become my true shield and spear. While my younger brothers channeled their energy into physical prowess, I dedicated myself to books of finance, breeding the best falcons and hunting hounds in the Seven Kingdoms, and, above all, the silent observation of my own family.
And what a fascinating, boisterous family we were.
The thunderous and dramatically affected voice of my father, Mace Tyrell, cut through the silence of the solar like a thunderclap on a sunny day, abruptly snapping me out of my daydreams.
— But, Mother, this is complete and utter insanity! — the Lord of Highgarden exclaimed, pacing back and forth while waving his fat arms, causing the Dornish wine in his silver chalice to slosh dangerously. — How can I even consider the idea of handing over my only and precious little girl to those brutal savages of the North? Those men are made of ice, stone, and barbarity! Do you not remember what they tried to do to me during our last major strategic meeting? Even after I demonstrated all my magnanimity and liege-lord courtesy, their insolence was unacceptable!
My mother, Alerie Hightower, watched the scene with her usual elegance, patiently embroidering a silk handkerchief, though a slight sigh of contained exhaustion lingered on her lips. My brothers, Garlan and little Loras, sat near the unlit hearth, watching the drama with the silent amusement of those who already knew our father's temperament by heart.
Grandmother Olenna, seated in her high-backed chair as if on a throne sculpted from thorns, didn't even look up from her dried fruits. She let out an audible click of her tongue, a sharp sound that made my father freeze his steps instantly.
— Oh, shut your mouth, you complete and pompous idiot — the Queen of Thorns snapped, her voice dripping with a poison so pure and refined it would make a Dornish viper weep with envy. — You keep repeating this ridiculous story as if you were the victim of a wartime outrage, when, in truth, the only thing wounded that day was your monumentally stupid pride.
— Mother! — Mace protested, his face turning a vivid shade of red that matched the velvet of his sleeves. — They mocked my authority!
— They did not mock your authority, Mace. They merely witnessed your impressive inability to see what was right under your puffing nose — Grandmother Olenna finally looked at him, adjusting her headscarf with a sharp gesture. — There was a lad there, sporting a crown made of pure magical ice and ancient runes that made the very air freeze around him, emanating a power that left half the lords of the South trembling with dread. And what did my magnificent and perceptive son do? You simply failed to recognize him! You mistook the bearer of the Winter Crown for a mere vassal of House Reed, and the boy literally had a magical crown of ice on his head.
I couldn't help it. A genuine, nasal chuckle escaped my lips, echoing through the solar. Garlan hid his face behind his hand to muffle his own laughter, while Loras gave a shrill giggle that earned a warning look from our mother. My father's political blunders and colossal misconceptions were legendary, but mistaking the legendary and mystical King Arawyn Stark for a swampland peasant of Howland Reed was a feat only Mace Tyrell could achieve.
Realizing the atmosphere was about to turn sour and that Grandmother Olenna was already tightening her fingers around the handle of her rosewood cane—a clear sign she was seriously inclined to deal a physical blow to her own son—I decided to intervene before Tyrell blood was spilled on the Myrish rug.
— Father, please, calm your heart — I said, softening my tone and offering a diplomatic smile. — There is no reason for unnecessary fear or worry. The wolves of the North are widely known in all chronicles for fiercely guarding their own pack. And if there is one thing no one in all of Westeros can dare question, it is the unshakeable honor of House Stark. Our dear Margaery would never be mistreated or disrespected in those cold lands. Furthermore, we are getting ahead of ourselves. At the moment, there is no sealed agreement or formalized promise; Margaery is merely writing a letter of cultural courtesy to Winterfell. King Stark himself is an immensely busy young man with the restructuring and expansion of his territories; there is a very real chance he won't even find the time to reply to the words of a child from the South.
Before my father could sigh in relief at my logical arguments, a sweet, high, and surprisingly firm little voice rose from the corner of the room.
— Of course he's going to answer, you idiot!
I turned my eyes to the low table near the window and saw my little sister, Margaery, who had recently turned five years old. She was sitting on her legs to reach the height of the table, holding a goose quill that seemed far too large for her delicate little hands. Her brown curls framed a face that blended the angelic innocence of a child with a glint of determination and shrewdness that I knew was a direct reflection of our grandmother's secret teachings.
Margaery looked straight at me and, with the audacity only youngest sisters possess, stuck her tongue out in my direction before returning her focus to her parchment.
The solar filled with a wave of laughter. Even my mother set her embroidery aside to smile at the girl's petulance, while Mace shook his head, torn between indignation and fatherly pride at his daughter's liveliness.
I took advantage of the lighthearted moment to glance toward Grandmother Olenna. Our eyes met for a brief, silent second, and a mutual understanding passed between us. I knew the old woman perfectly well. I knew that seemingly innocent and childish letter Margaery was drafting—full of curious questions about Northern legends, giants, and winter roses—would not travel to the Neck alone. Hidden under the same seal or sent by an extremely trustworthy messenger, Grandmother Olenna would send a far more serious, dense, and politically calculated missive. A letter meant to test the waters and begin, in an extremely subtle and secretive manner, weaving the first diplomatic stitches for a future betrothal between the Rose of Highgarden and the Wolf of Winter.
To my absolute and genuine surprise, the gears of fate moved with impressive speed. Less than a fortnight after our missives were sent, the sentries on Highgarden's towers spotted an emissary wearing the grey and white colors of the North crossing the castle gates. King Arawyn Stark had not only received the letters but had also made it a point to send an official reply.
When the family gathered once again in the private solar, the atmosphere was one of pure anticipation. Margaery bounced with joy, clapping her hands as Grandmother Olenna broke the grey wax seal with a silver knife.
Along with the royal parchment, the Northern emissary had delivered a heavy package wrapped in fine fabrics that exhaled a subtle scent of pine and fresh snow. Upon unwrapping the object, my eyes widened at what was revealed: a monumental book, bound in a dark, unknown leather, its edges protected by strands of a frosty, silvery metal that glowed softly with a faint bluish light.
— A gift from Winterfell for the little rose of the Reach — Grandmother Olenna read, her voice maintaining a calculated neutrality, though her eyes examined every detail with predatory intensity.
Margaery practically tore the tome from her grandmother's hands, opening it on the rug with eyes shining with pure enchantment. It was an illustrated bestiary—a detailed, living compendium of the creatures, legends, and landscapes of the lands beyond the Neck. But these were no ordinary paintings made by southern artists who merely imagined the North. The images within had been forged by King Stark himself through his mysterious and incomprehensible runic magic.
When Margaery touched the page depicting a direwolf, the creature's grey fur seemed to move slightly under the light, and the beast's eyes gleamed with a terrifying intelligence. On the next page, the illustration of a giant riding a mammoth displayed such precise, anatomical, and three-dimensional detail that it looked as if the creature would leap off the paper at any moment. It was a work of art that transcended material value; it was an ostentatious demonstration of mystical power, a silent and beautiful reminder that the North commanded forces the rest of the world could barely comprehend.
The news of the runic book's arrival spread quickly through the castle towers, and it wasn't long before the maesters of Highgarden, led by the elderly Maester Lomys, entered the solar under the pretext of offering academic counsel.
The expression on the faces of those men of the Citadel was something I would keep in my memory for the rest of my days. Their grey eyes shone with an unmistakable mix of covetousness, intellectual greed, and deep dread. They stared at the magical pages like starving men eyeing a royal feast, their trembling hands instinctively reaching toward the tome, eager to carry it away to their dark towers, dissect it, and try to understand the secrets of the runic script that the Winter Throne had been using to revolutionize the world.
— An unprecedented academic anomaly! — Lomys murmured, his voice shaking with excitement. — My lady, the Citadel would need to analyze the composition of this ink and the runic metallic alloy protecting the edges to ensure there are no... malignant influences or dangerous sorceries targeting young Margaery...
— Oh, spare me your hypocritical cant, Lomys — Grandmother Olenna cut the old maester off instantly, her cane slamming firmly against the stone floor, producing a sharp crack that made the men of the chain take two full steps back. — You look at this book like cellar rats scenting a fat piece of cheese. This is a personal and diplomatic gift from the King of the North to my granddaughter. It will remain exactly where it is, under my strict protection. If the Citadel desires to study runic magic so badly, I suggest you pack up your grey robes and march to Winterfell to ask permission directly from the wolf. I am certain King Stark would love to turn your metal chains into decorative ornaments for his subterranean forges. Now, get out of here. All of you. You are foul-smelling my solar with the scent of mold and old age.
Without another word, the maesters bowed hastily, swallowing their pride, and retreated from the chamber with swift, humiliated steps.
I observed my grandmother's posture after the maesters left. There was an unusual lightness to her shoulders and a dark satisfaction etched into the corner of her thin lips. Throughout that entire morning, my father had already made two absurd diplomatic blunders and uttered three idiotic comments about the economy of the Reach, and Grandmother had simply let them slide without a single insult or sharp mockery. For a woman whose favorite sport was shredding Mace Tyrell's self-esteem every five minutes, that unusual clemency was the definitive indicator that her own secret letter—the one carrying the real political proposals and the veiled terms of a marriage alliance—had been immensely well-received by the young King of the North.
That marriage, if it were to materialize in the coming years, would change absolutely everything on the chessboard of the Seven Kingdoms. It would elevate House Tyrell to a level of power and influence never before seen in the history of Westeros. We would no longer be just the suppliers of grain and wealth to a decadent and bankrupt throne in King's Landing—a throne drowning in debt to the Lannisters and wine of dubious quality. We would be umbilical connected to the rising power of the North, to the empire that held control of runic steel, tempered glass, and an ancient magic that was making the foundations of the world tremble. While the Lannisters clung to the gold of their mines that would one day run dry and the Baratheons drowned in their own military hubris, the Tyrells and the Starks would reap the fruits of a new era.
The sudden, sharp sound of a violent blow cut through my strategic thoughts, followed by a high-pitched cry of pain.
— Ow! By the Seven Gods, Mother! Why did you do that?! — my father wailed, bringing both his massive hands to his head as he massaged the top of his skull with an expression of pure agony and confusion.
Grandmother Olenna stood before him, holding her rosewood cane with both hands, having just delivered a well-aimed and merciless whack right to the center of the Lord of Highgarden's head. The Queen of Thorns' patience for her son's constant daydreams and grumblings had officially come to an end.
— I did it to see if the impact can rearrange what few brains are left inside that hollow head of yours, Mace! — the old woman scolded, sitting down once more with the elegance of a victorious predator. — You spent the last hour whimpering like a frightened washerwoman about the 'dangers of the North,' completely failing to notice that your five-year-old daughter has more political vision and courage in her pinky finger than you do in your entire plump body! King Stark has shown more courtesy, power, and respect for our house with this gift than any of those drunks in King's Landing ever have in your entire life. If I hear one more complaint from you about the Northerners, the next whack will be right across your nose!
Mace Tyrell, the proud and imposing Lord Paramount of the Reach, the man who commanded the largest feudal army in Westeros, simply shrugged his shoulders and hid his face in my mother Alerie's lap, whimpering softly like a little boy caught stealing pies from the kitchen. My mother sighed, caressing my father's hair with an expression of resignation that showed she was well accustomed to this peculiar family dynamic.
I looked to the side and saw Garlan and Loras bursting into stifled laughter, trying in vain to cover their mouths so as not to draw the fury of Grandmother's cane to themselves. I couldn't help myself either and joined my brothers, letting a loud, relaxed laugh fill my chest.
Margaery, oblivious to the comical violence that had just occurred, remained lying on her stomach on the rug, carefully turning the pages of the Northern runic book. Her tiny fingers traced the glowing lines of the illustrations with an affection and a fixation that told me that, deep within that precocious, childlike mind, the seeds of winter had already found perfectly fertile soil to grow. The roses of Highgarden were about to learn how to bloom in the snow, and the entire world would soon have to learn how to deal with our thorns.