296 AC Highgarden, The Reach
Several months had passed since Garlan the Gallant returned from Harrenhal. Just as the people of Highgarden began to believe the Riverlands upstart had been dealt with, the Queen of Thorns summoned the inner circle of House Tyrell.
The immediate Tyrell family gathered in Lady Olenna's sunlit solar, unaware of the gravity of the meeting.
Lady Olenna Redwyne glanced at her buffoonish son and her capable grandchildren. She gestured for her master of whispers to report on Roman Rivers's activities since Garlan's departure.
When the servant mentioned that Roman was funding and carving a massive paved highway through the bogs of Crackclaw Point, Lord Mace Tyrell scoffed, his face flushing with amusement.
"Building a macadam road through those rotting pine forests?" Mace laughed, taking a large bite of peach. "Is that Whent bastard's head stuffed with flour? Why would he waste good gold on an infrastructure project with no immediate return?"
Olenna glared at her son with open disgust. She regretted not beating more sense into him as a child.
Garlan noticed his grandmother's rising anger and smoothly changed the subject before she could unleash a tirade.
"Grandmother," Garlan leaned forward, expression serious. "Are you referring to the fact that House Whent has quietly gathered the old Targaryen Royalists under one economic banner?"
Olenna calmed slightly at her grandson's political awareness. She stroked the Harrenhal bone china teacup in her hands and nodded.
"Precisely, Garlan. You are far smarter than your father. That is the nightmare I wish to highlight. Harrenhal—or rather, this Roman Rivers—has already built a solid hegemony across the eastern Riverlands and northern Crownlands."
She set the teacup down with a sharp clink. "Hoster Tully can no longer control his vassals, and the Iron Throne may have lost the leverage to dictate terms to Crackclaw Point."
Willas Tyrell, seated with his crippled leg propped on a velvet stool, raised a cautious point. "Even so, Grandmother, Roman's actions remain within the King's Peace. His cooperation with those Royalist houses is limited to infrastructure and trade. It may be premature to assume treason."
Olenna ignored Willas's optimism and turned to Garlan. "Do you agree with your brother?"
Garlan thought for a moment, recalling the brief duel in Harrenhal's training yard, then shook his head.
"I do not. Lord Roman projects a strange, contradictory aura. He appears humble and polite, and he avoids petty aristocratic squabbles. Aside from his blood-feud with the Dreadfort, he has almost no political enemies."
Garlan's voice dropped. "Yet it is exactly that saintly facade that makes me doubt him. If he truly has no treasonous ambition and is loyal to the Iron Throne… then why has he spent the last two years militarizing his population and expanding his supply lines at such a frantic pace?"
Olenna, Willas, and Garlan could all see the map clearly. Roman's sphere of influence now stretched from the western shores of the Gods Eye, through the port of Maidenpool, and deep into the Targaryen-loyalist bogs of Crackclaw Point.
He claims he only wants to bake bread and blow glass? Olenna thought cynically. Who would believe that?
There was an old Essosi proverb: a common man is innocent until he possesses a kingdom-shattering treasure. Roman Rivers was no common man.
The Queen of Thorns pointed a gnarled finger at the map. "If Harrenhal continues on this trajectory, their military and economic power will surpass Riverrun within the year. When a vassal grows stronger than its liege, the hierarchy breaks and war becomes inevitable."
"The key question," Olenna said grimly, "is whether House Whent will face a coalition strike from the Iron Throne and Riverrun to crush their rise—like the Gardeners once suppressed House Manderly."
She fixed her gaze on Garlan. "You stood inside his fortress and faced him in the yard. You saw Harrenhal's war machine. If King Robert and Lord Hoster march on the Gods Eye… can Roman repel them?"
At the mention of continental war, Lord Mace perked up and puffed out his chest, eager to discuss troop numbers.
Garlan answered without hesitation, meeting his grandmother's eyes.
"House Tully alone has no chance against the Whent Vanguard. If the Iron Throne wants to dismantle Harrenhal, they will need the Westerlands and the Riverlords—and they will pay a horrific price in blood."
"During my visit, Roman showed me the interconnected strongpoints across his lands," Garlan continued, voice laced with respect. "His obsession with fortification borders on paranoia. He hasn't just walled the main towns—every farming village, granary, and river ford is built like a self-sustaining bunker."
"Harrenhal's military doctrine is completely alien to Westerosi norms. Roman does not rely on peasant levies. He can deploy thousands of heavily armored, disciplined heavy cavalry for a devastating counter-attack and then retreat behind his walls using those paved highways."
Garlan's clearest memory of Harrenhal was not the castle itself, but the silent, mechanized standing army. He still remembered the psychological weight of watching a thousand Whent cavalrymen stand in perfect formation.
Lord Mace waved a dismissive hand. "Bah! What legendary troops can an untested bastard possibly command? It's all mummer's farce. The boy hides behind shiny steel and fake humility. If he were a real warlord, he wouldn't act so submissive toward his betters!"
That was the final straw.
Olenna snatched her heavy wooden cane and cracked it across the back of Mace's balding head.
THWACK.
"You dare call another man a greenhorn?!" she shrieked. "How many stupid, cowardly things did you commit while sitting outside Storm's End for a year, starving while better men fought the war?"
Mace rubbed the swelling lump on his head and sulked in silence. He was the Lord Paramount of the Mander and Warden of the South in name, but he lacked the courage to defy his mother.
With order restored, Olenna produced a perfumed parchment sealed with the Baratheon stag.
"We have the Iron Throne's official position," she announced. "King Robert has been pressing Roman Rivers to host a grand tournament, citing an old promise made in King's Landing. Harrenhal has begun preparations for the largest tourney since the Year of the False Spring and has sent VIP invitations to every Great House."
Olenna looked at her three grandchildren.
"Whether Harrenhal is a rising power we should befriend or a doomed rebellion we should avoid will be decided at this banquet. Willas, your leg prevents you from riding in the lists, so Garlan and Loras will escort Margaery to Harrenhal. And for the love of the Gods, do nothing that makes the King suspicious of our intentions."
Mace's paternal instincts flared at once. "Margaery?! No, Mother! You cannot send her to a muddy Riverlands tourney run by a bastard. She is destined to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!"
Willas and Garlan exchanged an exhausted glance. They were not sending her to secure a betrothal—they were sending her to gather intelligence. Their father still clung blindly to his dream of marrying Margaery to Joffrey.
Olenna waved a dismissive hand, long past trying to educate her son.
"Garlan, Loras—your only priority is to protect your sister. Roman's security is excellent, so remain vigilant. Do not let him draw her into any political entanglement before I give my blessing."
"As for you, my inflatable son," Olenna sneered at Mace, "the Warden of the South will stay here and 'manage' the Reach while the intelligent children handle the real diplomacy."
The Queen of Thorns' word was final. The family dispersed, each carrying their own ambitious thoughts about the rising power of the White Flame.
After the men left, Olenna called Margaery back.
The girl knelt gracefully beside her grandmother's chair. Olenna reached out with ringed hands and stroked her soft brown curls.
"My beautiful darling," she whispered, "the sole purpose of your trip is to observe Roman's true character, his vices, and his political conduct. Make no promises and offer nothing more than a polite smile."
Though only thirteen, Margaery already displayed the sharp political mind of House Tyrell. Her ruthless intelligence rivaled her beauty. Servants whispered that she would one day become the second Queen of Thorns.
"Grandmother," Margaery asked, doe-like eyes looking up innocently, "should I try to seduce or test Lord Rivers to find his weaknesses?"
"Absolutely not, darling," Olenna smiled sharply. "The boy is surrounded by spies and assassins. He will smell a honey-trap from a mile away. Simply play the role of an innocent, sheltered Southern maiden and interact with him normally. Your brothers' swords will handle any physical testing."
Olenna's expression grew earnest. "Listen closely, Margaery. Harrenhal has already forged strong ties with the Starks and the Baratheons. Roman Rivers is an unprecedented anomaly. If House Tyrell does not insert ourselves into this new power structure, we will remain isolated in the Reach. This tourney is our chance to plant the golden rose at the center of his board."
House Tyrell had been politically sidelined in the South for too long.
They had no royal blood or ancient claim to the Reach. They began as mere stewards of Highgarden. When Aegon's dragons burned the Gardeners at the Field of Fire, Harlen Tyrell surrendered the castle and was rewarded with the title of Lord Paramount. Because of that opportunistic history, the older and prouder houses—Florent, Hightower, Tarly—secretly viewed the Tyrells as upjumped stewards.
The Tyrells' power rested on their proximity to the Iron Throne, not on ancient blood or magic. Olenna knew they had to find a way to influence Roman Rivers if they wished to return to the heart of power.
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