281 AC
Stannis POV
The tourney at Highgarden would be remembered as the grandest spectacle in the history of Westeros. From the icy mountains of the North to the golden shores of the Reach, every noble house had sent their finest lords, ladies, and knights to attend. It was a gathering unlike any in living memory.
Outside the castle walls, the fields were alive with color, countless banners flapped in the summer breeze, each bearing the sigil of a great house, the direwolf of Stark, the lion of Lannister, the trout of Tully, the falcon of Arryn, and a dozen more. The roads leading into Highgarden were choked with carriages, riders, and throngs of spectators, all eager to witness the union that had stirred the realm: the marriage of Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Janna Tyrell.
Within the honey-hued stone halls of Highgarden, the crush of nobility was near suffocating. Lords and ladies clad in their finest silks and velvets filled the corridors and chambers, their voices rising in a din of laughter, gossip, and political murmurs. The air was rich with the scent of roses and roasted meats, perfumed oils and expensive wines.
The tourney itself was to last seven days and seven nights, a full week of celebration. There would be jousts at dawn, melees at midday, feasts at dusk, and music and merriment long into the night. At the heart of it all, like a flame drawing moths, stood the impending marriage, a union between fire and flower, Targaryen and Tyrell. It was more than a match of love or alliance; it was a statement to the realm. And when the final lance was broken, and the last goblet raised, the tourney would end with the wedding of Prince Daemon and Lady Janna.
Every great house of Westeros was present. From House Stark came Brandon Stark, heir to the North, accompanied by his younger brothers, Eddard and Benjen Stark. Alongside them rode Lady Lyanna Stark, betrothed to my brother Robert.
It was all unfolding exactly as Prince Daemon had predicted, and now the truth lay in plain sight for any with eyes to see. An alliance had formed, one aimed at toppling House Targaryen, and my own brother was a willing participant in its treachery.
I still remember the moment, a year past, when Daemon laid it bare before us. He had spoken then of rebellion, of whispers in the dark and swords soon to be unsheathed. And now those whispers had taken form.
From House Tully came Lord Hoster himself, bringing both his daughters. Catelyn Tully, the elder, had been betrothed to the heir of the North, Brandon Stark. The younger, Lysa, was promised to Lord Jon Arryn's nephew and heir, Elbert Arryn of the Vale. It was all too neat, too convenient. A web of marriages spun not for love, but for power.
The signs were unmistakable, even to those who preferred not to see. The Blackfish, Ser Brynden Tully, had also arrived, his silent presence no less weighty. And with him came the boy Edmure, Lord Hoster's only living son and heir to the Riverlands, still too young to understand the storm gathering around him.
What had once been rumour had become reality. The lines had been drawn.
From the Vale came Lord Jon Arryn, solemn and dignified, with his young nephew and heir, Elbert Arryn, at his side.
The Lannisters, too, had arrived, despite the lingering animosity between House Targaryen and Casterly Rock. Though Lord Tywin's only daughter had been wed to the crown prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, the old lion had never hidden his disdain for the Iron Throne or its current rule. Yet here he was, present nonetheless, with his wife and his two sons.
Ser Jaime Lannister, his golden heir, had come with his wife, Princess Elia Martell of Dorne, her belly already round with their second child. They made a striking pair, and tongues wagged at the thought of Lannister and Martell blood mingling under Targaryen banners.
And then there was Lord Tywin's second son, his greatest shame. The dwarf. He had come too, uninvited in spirit if not in fact, drawing sideward glances and muttered jests wherever he passed.
From the Iron Islands came the Greyjoys. Lord Quellon Greyjoy had made the long journey from Pyke, bringing with him several of his sons,hard-faced, salt-soaked men who looked more like raiders than nobles amidst the splendor of Highgarden.
And from the south, the Martells had also answered the call. Prince Doran Martell, composed and observant, sat quietly among the guests, his slow movements betraying the stiffness of his joints. His younger brother and my fellow small council member, Prince Oberyn Martell, however, was a contrast in every way, fiery-eyed, quick-tongued, and restless.
The great houses had gathered in full. And from House Targaryen came the royal family itself. The King and the Queen were present. With them were their younger sons, Prince Daeron, composed and quiet, and little Prince Viserys, clinging to his mother's skirts with wide-eyed wonder.
Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was present as well, ever the picture of somber grace, silver hair gleaming beneath the sunlight. Yet his wife, Princess Cersei, remained at Dragonstone. The matter had been discussed at the small council weeks prior, where it was revealed she was once again with child. The maesters had advised strongly against such long and strenuous travel in her condition.
Thus, the Princess did not accompany her husband to Highgarden, and her absence, though understood, did not go unnoticed.
The path to Lord Arryn's camp was well-trodden by the time I reached it, for half the nobility of Westeros seemed to think themselves welcome under his banners. Rows of neat pavilions, all pale blue and white, fluttered in the soft Reach wind, their falcons stitched in gold thread. It was an ordered, respectable camp, in truth, but I felt little warmth for it. Jon Arryn was an honorable lord by reputation, a man spoken of as just and steady, yet I had no illusions about why so many had gathered here, or what words were whispered beneath those silk awnings.
An alliance was forming. Stark, Tully, Arryn… and my own brother, damn him, smiling and laughing among them as though it were all a jape at supper. They would call it friendship, call it kinship, betrothals binding one house to another. But I knew better. It was power they sought, woven together by marriage contracts and toasts, and all of it aimed like a dagger at the Iron Throne.
And Robert, fool that he was, seemed blind to it. Or worse he saw and did not care.
I entered the great pavilion set aside for luncheon and felt the weight of eyes turn my way. It was not court at King's Landing, yet it may as well have been. Nobles filled the benches, silk and mail side by side, with heraldry so crowded it near hurt the eye. The smell of roasted meats clung to the air, and servants hurried about with trenchers, flagons, and steaming platters.
At once, Robert rose from his seat, booming laughter on his lips. "Ah, the Master of Laws finally makes his presence known!" he called, loud enough for the whole tent to hear.
A few chuckles stirred from the benches, though most looked down at their cups. Robert ever loved to make a spectacle. I did not.
I gave him no smile, only a hard look. He answered with a short, barking laugh and strode to me, slapping me on the back so hard my shoulder jarred. "Come now, grump. Smile a little," he said. "We are in Highgarden, not a dungeon."
"Robert. Good to see you," I said, though the words rang hollow even to me. In truth, it was not good at all. He stank of wine already, though the sun stood high, and there was a wild brightness to him that set my teeth on edge.
I moved past him, surveying the assembly. The Starks were there: Brandon at the head of their table, bold and broad-shouldered, his smile as careless as Robert's but colder at the edges; beside him the quiet one, Eddard, who spoke little and watched much; Lyanna, willful, sharp of eye, her wolf's blood plain as day; and the youngest, Benjen, not long from boyhood, eager in every glance.
The Tullys sat opposite. Lord Hoster presided, ruddy of face, smiling when it suited him, frowning when it did not. At his side the Blackfish, Ser Brynden, who looked at no one with kindness, though I thought him the most honest of them. Lady Catelyn sat close beside Brandon Stark, her betrothed, the pair a picture of what these lords would call strength. Next to them, Lysa Tully simpered near young Elbert Arryn, heir to the Vale, their closeness another thread in this web they wove.
And at the head, Lord Jon Arryn himself, white-haired and grave, speaking low to his nephew before noting my approach.
I greeted them, stiff and proper, as courtesy demanded. Words of formality passed, hollow things, before I took my seat near the lower end of the table. At once the courses began to arrive, platters of capon glazed with honey, trenchers piled with venison, bowls of fruit steeped in wine. The servants hurried, and conversation swelled like a tide about me.
Robert sat near Lyanna Stark, as I had expected. She looked as though she would bolt from the bench if she could, her eyes wandering everywhere but to him, while Robert regaled her, no, the whole tent, with tales of his battles against the mountain clans of the Vale. He spoke with grand gestures, his voice booming as though he had slain a hundred foes single-handed.
"Aye, they thought to take me in the pass, but I showed them Baratheon fury!" he roared, thumping the table for good measure. Some laughed, though Lyanna Stark did not. She stared at her plate as though the food upon it might rescue her.
I ground my teeth. My brother, the fool. Could he not see? Or did he care nothing for the mockery of it, to chase a girl who wished him elsewhere, while these lords bound themselves tighter with every passing hour?
The wolf heir, Brandon, leaned toward his youngest brother with a grin. "Ask him directly, Benjen. He will not bite."
The boy, slight and eager, looked down the table toward me. "Lord Stannis," he called, his voice carrying more than he knew. "I had a question about the dragons."
At once the table stilled.
I looked at him, long and hard. Few in this company spoke the word openly, though all thought of it. Dragons. The very word was power.
"What of them?" I asked, voice low but clear.
"Did Prince Daemon bring them?" Benjen asked, his eyes wide as a child's.
My gaze swept the table, measuring their faces. Jon Arryn watched me with calm intent, Lord Hoster with poorly hidden distaste. Some of the ladies leaned closer, curious, while others frowned as though the very notion of dragons soured the air.
"No," I said at last. "The prince deemed it suitable that they remain at Dragonstone until they are grown enough to guard their own security."
I turned my eyes upon Jon Arryn as I said it. He did not flinch, but I thought I saw his jaw tighten.
Benjen Stark looked disappointed, though not disheartened. Before he could press further, it was Lyanna Stark who spoke, sharp and sudden.
"Are they growing fast?" she asked. For the first time since I had entered, she looked at me directly, her grey eyes bright with something more than idle curiosity.
At that, Lord Hoster frowned openly, and Jon Arryn's mouth drew thin.
"Aye, they are, my lady," I said, keeping my face stone-hard though inside I felt a strange flicker of pride. "Prince Daemon says they are quite the gluttons. Meat, fire, and air, that is all they crave."
A ripple of laughter passed down the table. It eased the moment, but not the truth beneath it. They were afraid. Afraid of what was stirring on Dragonstone. Afraid of Daemon Targaryen, and of the dragons that grew by his will.
As they laughed, I did not. I thought of Dragonstone's black halls, of the sound of wings on the wind, of Prince Daemon standing tall before the firelight, his eyes fierce and unyielding. He was the one man I had met in these days who seemed carved of iron, unbent by courtly whispers or easy pleasures. He would not bow to these schemes. Nor would I.
I looked again at the tables, the smiles, the whispers, the hands clasped beneath the board. Stark and Tully, bound by betrothal. Tully and Arryn, joined by Lysa and Elbert's closeness. My own brother Robert, seated beside Lyanna Stark like a dog begging scraps. A neat little circle, tight as a noose.
But not upon my neck.
They thought themselves subtle. They thought a wedding bed was stronger than dragonfire. Fools, the lot of them.
Robert laughed again, some bawdy jest spilling from his lips, and I felt my hands clench against the wood of the bench. He was my brother, my blood, yet he let himself be drawn into this farce, blind to the danger it meant for all of us.
Olenna Pov
The Tyrells had served the Gardeners for centuries, patiently, loyally, as stewards ought. And when the last of the Gardeners burned upon the Field of Fire, when dragonflame turned a thousand years of rule into ash, what did that loyalty earn us? Not a crown, no. A set of keys. Stewardship made lordship, as though Aegon the Conqueror had plucked a gardener's boy from his spade and told him to mind the roses while true kings rode dragons.
For two hundred and eighty years, we bent our knee, gave our swords, our coin, our grain, our daughters. We filled Targaryen tables, fattened Targaryen purses, and never once were we given the honor of a prince's hand. Not once.
And now, after centuries of patience, of smiling servility, at last a Targaryen comes to Highgarden to pluck one of our roses. My youngest daughter, Janna, will be his bride.
It was no gift. It was history-bending at last toward justice.
I sat in my solar, light spilling through the tall windows. My fingers drummed against the oaken table. My thoughts wandered, as they too often did, to my late husband. Gods forgive me, I wondered what the fool would make of this match. He would have laughed too loudly, drunk too deeply, turned red as summer wine, and said something spectacularly stupid. An oaf, yes, but my oaf. He had been mine to scold and to soften, and love him I did. Love, like wine, is sweet in the mouth and bitter in the stomach.
The door creaked. My children entered.
Mina first,my eldest, sharp-eyed, with my wit and her father's stubborn chin. At her side, Paxter Redwyne, my nephew and her husband, who looked eternally half-drunk on amusement. Behind them came Mace, my only son, my cross to bear. Gods grant me patience. He blustered even in silence, puffed up, scowling at his sister like a bull too stupid to find the gate.
And last, Janna. Pale. Stiff. Defiant. Foolish girl.
"Mina, my dear and Paxter come sit," I said. Mina obeyed gracefully, skirts settling neatly. Mace and Janna followed, dragging their moods like chains.
"I do not recall telling either of you to sit," I said sharply.
Mace flushed. Janna smirked. Mina smirked more.
"You are no children," I went on. "Yet you insist upon acting as such. Why?"
"It is Janna's fault, Mother," Mace thundered, tripping over the words in his eagerness.
Janna rounded on him at once. "That is a lie, you pompous.."
"Silence!" My voice cut through the chamber. They fell quiet, Mina only half-hiding her grin. She would watch them destroy themselves and take notes.
"All of Westeros has descended upon Highgarden for your wedding, Janna," I said, turning to my youngest. "Every eye is upon you. Every lord whispers your name. And here you sit, sulking like a dairymaid told to churn her butter."
"I do not want to marry him," Janna burst out, her voice trembling.
Mace swelled like a frog. "You dolt, do you even understa…"
"Shut your mouth, boy," I snapped. "The gods gave you a tongue, and every time you wag it you prove they made a mistake."
Mina snorted softly. Mace looked wounded, like a fat child denied a cake.
"Why, Janna?" I pressed.
"I do not love him."
For a heartbeat, I stared. Then I laughed. A sharp, cutting laugh, as brittle as glass. Mina joined me, smooth and mocking.
"Love," I said, dabbing at the corner of my eye. "Listen to her, Mina. Your sister thinks marriage is about love."
Mina leaned forward, squeezing Janna's hand with mock pity. "I did not love Paxter when I wed him. Nor did Mace love Alerie when he wed. Though I suspect," she smirked, "he fancied her breasts well enough."
Mace spluttered like a pot left too long on the fire. "I….how dare…"
"Oh, sit down," I told him. "You look like a goose that's been stuffed too tightly."
He sat, purple-faced.
"You loved him in time, Mina," I said.
She inclined her head. "Perhaps. Love grows, like weeds. But it was never the point."
"Exactly." I turned to Janna. "Love is a luxury, child. And luxuries are for fools and corpses. Queens and princesses wed for power, not for love. Do you think the Tullys, the Arryns, the Lannisters waste their daughters on passion? They wed them where advantage lies. And advantage now lies with House Targaryen."
"But Daemon was different once," Janna whispered. "He was kind. Gentle."
"Kindness?" I arched a brow. "Gentleness? What nonsense. Kings are not kind. Princes are not gentle. And if they are, they die quickly. Look at the fools of history, girl. Maegor killed the kind. Aegon burned the stubborn. You think a gentle man rules dragons?"
Mace, eager to be useful, boomed, "The prince is a good man, Janna! He donates to the poor, supports the High Septon, and he is pious."
"Pious?" Janna barked a bitter laugh. "He owns half the brothels in King's Landing! He beds whores by the dozen! And that Dornish harlot, too!"
Mace slammed his fist on the table. "How dare you insult the prince"
"Oh, stuff it, Mace," I snapped. "Every word out of your mouth makes me regret not drowning you at birth."
Mina's laughter rang, bright and cruel.
"I do not care how many women he fucks," I told Janna flatly. "What matters is that he will marry you. And through that, our house will rise higher than ever before. Higher than when the Gardeners ruled. Higher than any Tyrell has dared dream."
Janna's tears welled. "What of me? What of what I want?"
"What you want?" I leaned forward. "What you want does not matter. What matters is power. Do you know how many women in the Seven Kingdoms would slit their throats for the chance you sneer at? To bear the name Targaryen? To birth princes and princesses of the realm? Not bastards. Not whoresons. Trueborn heirs of fire and blood."
Janna shook her head, eyes wet.
"House Targaryen grows strong again," I pressed. "Dragons hatch. Already their power swells, shadows stretching back to the Conquest. Your children, my grandchildren, may bond with dragons. Do you not see? This is destiny. For you. For us. For House Tyrell."
She wept. I reached across, cupping her cheek. "I do not care if you love him. You will marry him. And in time, you will thank me. I raised you to be better than this. Better than childish dreams. You will lead House Tyrell higher than ever before."
I sat back, gaze sweeping over all three of them. Mace, puffed and purple, ready to burst. Mina, smirking, clever but calculating. Janna, pale and trembling, her tears glistening like dew on a thorn.
"Remember this, all of you," I said, voice hard as stone. "House Tyrell has waited centuries for this moment. We are no longer stewards. No longer gardeners. We are roses. And roses bloom brightest when they have thorns."
I sat alone, stewing in my thoughts, the chamber quiet save for the faint rustle of the garden beyond my window. Highgarden always seemed too silent at night. A place like this ought to hum with intrigue, yet most of my kin were asleep, dreaming of honey and roses. I, however, had long since outgrown the habit of easy sleep. My mind was sharper in the dark, where masks slipped and truths crept in unbidden.
A knock broke the silence.
I did not call for anyone, and few dared trouble me at this hour. So when I bade them enter, and the door opened to reveal the man who would soon wed my daughter, I was less surprised than I might have pretended. The Hand of the King. The Prince of Duskendale. The man who had brought dragons back into the world.
Prince Daemon Targaryen.
He stepped inside with a grin, those mismatched eyes catching the lamplight in an unsettling shimmer. Gold and silver hair tumbled in deliberate disarray, a rogue's vanity.
"Should I start calling you goodmother?" he asked, voice rich with amusement, grin sharp as a cat who'd just cornered a sparrow.
I leaned back in my chair, taking him in with cool disdain. A man who fancied himself dangerous should never be flattered by his own reflection in other people's fear.
"You may do that at your peril," I said dryly, letting my gaze rest on him without blinking, "because I will start treating you like my own son."
His grin widened, wicked as wildfire catching dry straw. "Try not to be as harsh, goodmother. Your thorns may pierce my heart." He clutched his chest in mock agony, as if struck by an arrow.
I sniffed. "If you had a heart, I might be concerned."
His laugh rang out, soft but sincere. "Sharp as they say. Good. I do like sharp company. Too many at court dress themselves in silk but speak in wool."
"Then you'll be delighted with me," I replied, folding my hands. "But tell me, goodson, what warranted this late-night intrusion? You do not look like a man wandering sleepless halls by chance."
"I just wanted to meet my goodmother." He settled himself into the chair opposite mine with the confidence of one who never asks permission. "We ought to know each other better, don't you think?"
"Better?" I arched a brow. "I already know enough to keep my daughter awake at night with warnings. But very well. Talk, then. What is it that the golden prince wants?"
"There have been some changes," he said smoothly, leaning back like a man at ease in hostile territory. "As you know, I plan to visit the Free Cities for my honeymoon with Janna."
I inclined my head. "So I heard. Most men take their new bride to a bedchamber, not across the Narrow Sea. But then, you are not most men."
He smiled, as though I'd paid him a compliment. "I will need the Redwyne fleet."
I barked a short laugh. "Do you plan on sacking a Free City, then? That seems a heavy dowry to demand of your bride."
"Something along those lines." His grin carried no shame.
I pursed my lips. "My nephew Paxter would loath to part with his fleet. He prizes his ships as though they were his children."
"Lord Paxter will be rewarded suitably," Daemon said, his tone almost bored, as if compensation were a trifle already settled.
"Rewarded," I repeated, savoring the word. "Men often mistake your kind of reward for a knife in the back after the deed is done."
He chuckled. "Knives are rewards in their own right. They solve more problems than they cause."
I tilted my head. "If you want Paxter's fleet, you will need more than promises. You will need leverage."
Daemon's mismatched eyes glinted. "I have leverage enough. Dragons, goodmother."
"Dragons," I echoed, dry as dust. "You Targaryens always wave that word like a tavern girl flaunting her charms. Impressive at first sight, but it grows old quickly once the mystery wears off."
He smirked. "And yet men tremble when they hear it. Armies kneel. Ships sail at my command. I brought dragons back into the world, goodmother. That is more than a word."
"And yet," I said, "dragons alone cannot steer ships, negotiate contracts, or keep your bride from growing seasick on your honeymoon. You'll need men. Ships. Gold. Boring things, I know, but without them, your dragons will sit on the shore like children's toys."
His eyes gleamed with amusement. "Which is why I came to you."
I waved a hand. "Oh, spare me the flattery. You came because you know Paxter answers to me more than to the King. Say it plain."
"Very well." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, grin narrowing into something more intimate, more dangerous. "I came because you are clever, goodmother. And because you understand that when the tide turns, it is better to have a dragon at your back than a fleet at your front."
"Or," I countered, "better to have a fleet between oneself and a dragon."
He laughed again, low and easy. "You could rule a kingdom without a sword, only your tongue — and leave corpses behind all the same."
I tapped the table with one finger. "You will take my grandson, Willas, as your squire once he comes of age. The heir of the Reach will not be left idle while dragons fly overhead."
Daemon inclined his head, a sly smile tugging his lips. "I will, goodmother. After all, he is part of my family now as well."
"Good. Then we are clear. My ships, my grandson. I keep my blood close to power, where it belongs."
He studied me for a long moment, eyes glinting in the candlelight. "You are not half as selfish as you pretend. You speak of blood, but you think of legacy. You want your line tied to mine, so that when people speak of dragons, they must also whisper of roses."
"Whisper?" I scoffed. "I intend for them to shout it from Oldtown to the Wall."
Daemon grinned. "Then we understand each other perfectly."
Silence stretched, thick as wine, until I broke it. "So. Why do you truly need the Redwyne fleet? Speak plainly, my prince. I tire of riddles."
His smile sharpened into something predatory. "Have you heard of the Unsullied?"
I froze, just slightly, but I did not let it show. "Eunuchs," I said after a beat. "Slaves bred for war in Astapor. A pitiful sight, so I'm told. Why would you want them?"
"Because pitiful or not, they obey without question. Eight thousand spears that will never waver, never betray, never break. They are flesh forged into steel."
I narrowed my eyes. "And you mean to buy them."
"Not buy," he corrected, grin widening. "Claim."
"Ah," I said, my voice dripping with scorn. "So you mean to play conqueror on your honeymoon. How romantic. Most men bring back perfumes and silks. You'll bring back an army of gelded boys."
"They will serve," he said simply.
"And what will they cost you? Blood? Gold? Your bride's patience?" I leaned forward, voice sharp. "Do you imagine my dear daughter Janna will smile sweetly while you march her through slave pits and battlefields?"
He smirked. "Your daughter will be quite occupied as she will be riding a dragon, or more specifically, me."
I allowed myself a thin smile. "Then let us hope she does not faint during the wedding night when she sees how small the dragon she would be riding is."
His laughter spilled out again, loud enough to rattle the glass.
"Goodmother, I begin to suspect you like me."
"I like no one," I said. "But I respect sharpness where I find it. And you, Daemon, are a very sharp blade indeed. Too sharp, perhaps, for your own good."
He inclined his head, acknowledging the barb with amusement.
I let the silence settle again, heavy and deliberate. Then, softly, I added: "But remember this, blades can cut the hand that wields them. And roses, though soft, endure longer than steel."
He leaned back, grin undimmed. "We shall see."