The council chamber felt like Beyond the Wall to many, the air thick with unspoken fear with what many have seen and felt today. Lord Tywin Lannister, in his dark crimson and gold, sat like a King himself, his presence dwarfing the others.
"Did you know of it, Lord Varys?"
His gaze cold as always, tunneling deep into the eunuch across the painted table. Varys, ever the placid man he is, folded his soft hands into the sleeves of his arms over his silk belly and gave a barely perceptible bow of the head.
"I did not, Lord Hand."
Tywin's jaw tightened, the muscle twitching beneath his white beard. "A dragon lands in King's Landing… in my city… and you had no whisper of where the beast or its rider came from? For what purpose do we feed you and your little birds, Lord Varys?"
The Master of Whisperers offers only a delicate shrug of apology. He had not known. But behind those placid and empty eyes, wheels were already spinning. A dragon is a force of nature and its falling onto some usurper hands will be undoing of all his careful plans. The young Aegon, whom he had so patiently groomed, might now find himself contending with a rival with one older, fiercer, and far bigger dragon.
A soft, disdainful snort cut across the rising tension. Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, leaned forward from her seat, her small face sharp with impatience. "Does it matter now where the creature crawled from? We should concern ourselves with who that white-haired whelp is… and how to deal with both him and his lizard."
Tywin inclines his head with minimal respect understanding the point, and did not dwell on the words. His mind already moved on contingency plan, cold and calculating as he always is. He turns to Grand Maester Pycelle, the old man sat shaking as if was the dragon itself setting its sight on him.
"Write a raven to Riverrun and Winterfell," Tywin commanded, his voice an absolute command. "Tell them the Targaryens have returned and seek vengeance upon the houses who rose in rebellion against them. King Joffrey Baratheon calls for alliance against the greater threat, offering amnesty and pardon once the foe is dealt with."
Olenna's sharp eyes with equal sharp mind flickered to him. "You expect the Starks and Riverlords to join you after you imprisoned their lord and spilled his men's blood in the streets? Have you misplaced your wits, Lord Hand, or merely your memory?"
Tywin looks at her as though she is forgetting whom they are to fight against. "They will have to because the alternative is far worse. If they refuse, dragons will burn their fields and take their keeps. A man may despise his jailer, but he will surely stand beside him if given choice between that and fire. Fear has ever been the surest envoy."
He paused only for a moment, before turning to the gold cloaks posted silently at the door, "Bring me Renly Baratheon. It is time we offer him something of worth.", a plan forming in his head.
Varys's head tilted understanding Tywin's plan, and asked a question. "You would raise Renly instead of Stannis?"
"I trust a peacock who chases cocks far more than a zealot who chases righteousness," Tywin says flatly, his judgement of understanding that man's nature far more high. "A man who chases pleasure is easily controlled, a man who chases duty is not."
Olenna's mouth curved in a thin, dry smile. "Renly is young, pretty, and certainly more pliable. We'll need such a puppet Lord now that Dorne is likely to throw in with the dragons after what your dogs did to Elia and her babes."
Tywin did not rise to the barb. Such old grievances were a cost of playing the game of thrones, and the throne is now the survival. He continued with Pycelle again. "Send word to the Citadel. I require every plan, drawing, and account they hold on the Scorpions built in the First Dornish war, reign of Maegor and afterward. I want detailed book of every measure taken against the dragons of old."
His attention slid back to Olenna, knowing the importance of Reach in crown's hand. "Dispatch a raven to Highgarden. Inform Lord Willas to gather men and ready them should Dornish hosts cross from the Red Mountains."
Olenna Tyrell gave a single curt nod understanding his words, though they left her unsettled. She rose without ceremony and left the council chamber silently. Tywin Lannister watched her go, then looked around the brooding table though none met his eye.
The corridors of the Red Keep felt as if they whispered of Kings and Queens of rightful blood to her though she moved through them with a regal indifference, the small gold cloaks posted at distance standing a little straighter as she passed. She reached the archway that opened onto the small, sun-dappled courtyard of the Tyrell quarters. Loras was sparring with one of their knights, the clash of blunt steel rang across the empty courtyard. Sweat shone on the Knight of Flowers' brow. His movements were quick but not with confidence, as though his inner thoughts weighed more than the sword in his hands, throwing him off balance.
"Enough," Olenna finally broke the spar and the guard stepped back bowing and leaves them alone without argument.
Loras pulls off his helm and his handsome curls sticks against his forehead as he scrubs away the grime and moisture. He runs a gloved hand across his face trying to ease his rough breathing.
Olenna studies him for a silent heartbeat before speaking. "What troubles you, dear? You've worn that stormy face since coming out of those dungeons. You fight as if you're a wee-lad holding sword for the first time."
Loras hesitates, a rare thing for him to do, who was usually brimming with reckless confidence. "It was… different Grandmother, what happened today in the dungeon corridor."
Olenna looks into his eyes which were filled with a strange mix of awe and anger in his own, then he went on, his voice low. "The Targaryen intruder we met in there, he fought four of us in that narrow corridor. I had thought he'd be another mad pretender or some inflated knight thinking himself to be Sword of the Morning from across the sea. But the way he moved, Seven save us, he wasn't fighting, he was merely toying with us. He held us back just so his men could free the Dornish prisoners."
He swallows recalling the memory of intruder's fake sword bait and his turn of sword to Ser Meryn, half in disbelief and half in wounded pride. "Meryn Trant didn't even realize his neck had been opened. The boy slipped steel through his gorget and flesh before the pig could blink. And Arys… Ser Arys Oakheart was still on his knees when his head left his shoulders. It was... clean."
A shadow crossed the archway as Ser Garlan and Margaery came to stand silently by her side, listening to his words.
Loras let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, though it lacked any mirth. "The strangest part? He was younger than all of us. A boy, and he made the Kingsguard look like mummers with wooden swords."
Olenna's eyes hardened her expression betraying nothing, though her mind churned with calculation inside. "Go and rest, Loras. Tomorrow Joffrey will name you brother of Kingsguard. Wear the white cloak, smile for the realm and hold your tongue of anything that happened down there."
Loras nodded, his shoulders rigid with a shame that was not his own, and left.
Olenna turns to Garlan as they walk together toward her solar, her steps quick in hurry. "You will send one of our truest man to Highgarden with message to inform Willas to ready the men and watch the Red Mountains closely. Not just for the Martells, but for every lesser lord and petty men who might follow them."
Garlan blinks, the good-natured look on his face momentarily lost to confusion and disbelief. "You believe Tarly might turn his cloak? Go against the Reach and his oath… for a dragon he has never seen?"
Olenna stopped at the narrow window that looked out toward the distant Blackwater harbour. Her voice soft but clear with memory, and the weight of actions showed by the intruder against people who sit in his rightful place.
"Loyalty to House Targaryen runs deeper in some than we would like to remember, dear Garlan. Oaths to some have deeper importance."
She did not add the rest, the thought that coiled like a snake in her mind: And we may have backed the wrong king too soon.