Olenna Tyrell
"Growing Strong" is not the most warlike of mottos. Truth be told, it is an outright weak one—something tied to flowers, and therefore ill-suited for a truly great and ambitious house.
That was what Lady Olenna had thought long ago, back when she still bore the name Redwyne and was preparing to marry Luthor Tyrell.
With the years came wisdom. She came to understand that she was now a Tyrell—and to realize how foolish people were when they saw only the superficial, the outward trappings.
She began to interpret her new house's motto differently. "Growing" meant that any goal must be pursued steadily, patiently, without haste—building a long-term strategy step by step. "Strong" meant that, sooner or later, a patient person would always succeed and achieve what they desired.
Since then, those thoughts had become her guiding star.
She remembered the day Petyr Baelish—then still Master of Coin—had come to her with a plan to eliminate King Joffrey.
By that time, they had learned a great deal about him, mostly thanks to Sansa Stark and Littlefinger himself, and what they heard had not pleased the Tyrells. Lady Olenna understood that she did not want such a fate for her granddaughter—to be wed to a sadist and a madman.
She accepted Littlefinger's plan.
More than ten months had passed since then, and whenever she recalled that day, she never tired of thanking Crone for granting her wisdom and foresight.
Back then, it had been Margaery's shining eyes that stopped her. All day, she had watched Joffrey and her granddaughter, wavering—abandoning her idea, then resolving once more to carry it out. The sudden appearance of a royal cupbearer had not frightened her much; she had already devised a way around him.
And when, at the evening feast, she saw them—so beautiful, so full of laughter—she decided to remember the Tyrell motto and not rush into killing the king.
Life proved she had done the right thing. Lady Olenna realized she had nearly fallen into a trap set by Littlefinger. And Sansa, with her feigned grief, turned out not to be the naive little fool she wanted to appear to be. They had nearly outplayed her…
Joffrey, of course, had his share of unsavory deeds—but who did not? Moreover, the marriage had affected him greatly, and he had unexpectedly come to his senses. More than that, he had begun to show remarkable abilities and interests. However, from Olenna's perspective, there was nothing surprising about it—he had inherited all that from his grandfather Tywin, one of the few men the Queen of Thorns herself respected.
After the wedding, she had remained in the capital for some time, then returned to Highgarden. Her granddaughter wrote to her often, and those letters pleased her. The only thing that dissatisfied her was that Margaery did not display the initiative and persistence Olenna had expected from her. She had counted on her granddaughter to take a more decisive role.
"Grandmother, you sent for me?"
A tall, handsome young man entered the stone gazebo entwined with flowers, where she was having breakfast that morning. The gazebo stood on a small terrace overlooking the majestic Mander—the river carried its waters unhurriedly toward the sea, dotted with boats filled with pleasure-seekers, as well as merchants hawking all manner of wares from their light skiffs as they darted between them.
"Yes, I wished to speak with you," she said, looking at her grandson, who had paused beside a stone statue. He was so well-formed, strong, charismatic. A pity her own son had lacked sense and patience. Mace had paraded Willas in various tournaments as if he were not a future great lord, but a purebred racehorse. He had hoped his eldest son would bring glory to House Tyrell. Glory indeed… The first serious adversary—who turned out to be Oberyn Martell—threw a wrench in all his plans and ruined the boy's life in the process.
Leaning on an elegant cane and favoring his right leg, Willas made his way to the table and sat beside her in a wicker chair cushioned with soft velvet.
"You're still reading?" Olenna noted the book in his hand.
"Yes."
"What is it this time?"
"Celestial Mechanics."
"That's not bad," she said thoughtfully, unhurriedly taking a plump grape from the bowl, turning it in her fingers, and popping it into her mouth. "Read—but remember, it is not the stars that will win you men's hearts."
"The same old song," Willas observed. "I know all your arguments, Grandmother. But don't I get along with the lords? Don't they respect me?"
"They do," she nodded. "But don't show them too often how much smarter you are. Speak to them about what they understand and know about—drink, feasts, campaigns, women, and horses."
"That's exactly what I do," her grandson laughed, carefully stretching out his injured leg. He glanced at it to check its position, then looked back at Olenna. "You know, I don't think you called me here for no reason. Admit it, Grandmother—you were bored and decided to stir up a little intrigue. I suspect you're planning to return to the capital."
"If you weren't my grandson, your insight would frighten me," she said, patting his hand with satisfaction. Willas was intelligent, observant, and patient. A wonderful grandson—and in time, he would become a truly great lord. Yes, every day, every conversation with Willas reaffirmed that Highgarden's fate was in good hands. "Now tell me about Joffrey. What have you been writing to each other lately? What does he ask about? What interests him?"
(End of Chapter)
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