Chương 31: Interlude - The Ladies of the Reach II

Margaery Tyrell The streets of Lannisport were not like the wide, garden-lined avenues outside of Highgarden. They were narrow, paved in cobblestones that felt hard beneath her slippers, and smelled of salt, fried fish, and the expensive perfumes of the merchants. But Margaery didn't mind. She felt like a general leading a glorious campaign, marching toward the city gates with her prize in tow. Willas walked a little behind them, looking like a scholar ready to take notes from an elder.

"Five thousand dragons is more than most knights see in a decade," Willas was saying.

"You could buy a small tower-house for that."

"Or a very large quantity of arrows," Galad replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Margaery squeezed his hand.

"No arrows! You need a doublet. A silk one! Grandmother says a man is judged by his coat before he ever opens his mouth."

"Then I fear the judgment will be harsh, my lady," Galad said, looking down at his worn leathers.

"Not if I have my way," Lynesse said, her voice like a silver bell. She was walking on Galad's other side, her silken skirts brushing against his leg. Every time a passerby looked at them, she stood a little taller, clearly enjoying being seen with a tourney champion.

"I know a tailor in the city. He did work for my father once before he moved from Oldtown. He has a touch for velvet that is unmatched in the West." They found the shop tucked between a jeweler and a spice merchant. It was quiet inside, draped in bolts of fabric so colorful they reminded Margaery of the wildflower meadows back home.

"The lady is correct," the tailor said, a small man with a tape measure around his neck, as he looked Galad up and down.

"A powerful frame. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. You are a dream for a cutter, Ser." Margaery sat on a velvet stool, swinging her legs, while Lynesse and the tailor began pulling out rolls of fabric.

"Not green," Lynesse said, holding a swatch of forest-colored wool against Galad's chest.

"It makes his eyes look too dark. Perhaps a deep plum? Or a midnight blue?"

"He is a knight of Highgarden," Willas reminded them from a nearby chair.

"He could wear our colors for now before he chooses his own."

"A pale grey," Margaery chimed in, remembering her plan.

"Like the color of a star before it falls!" She saw Lynesse's eyes flash with a secret smile.

"Grey it is. With silver embroidery, I think. Something subtle, yet unmistakable." As the tailor began to measure Galad—arms, chest, the length of his legs—Margaery watched her aunt. Lynesse was being very helpful, stepping in to adjust the collar of a sample tunic, her fingers lingering just a second too long on the silk. Ser Galad remained polite and calm, answering questions about sleeve lengths and buttons, but Margaery noticed he watched Lynesse with a quiet, thoughtful expression. It's working!

Margaery thought, hiding a giggle behind her hand.

"And a sigil, Ser?" the tailor asked, quill poised over a bit of parchment.

"A knight of your standing needs a device for the feast." The room went quiet. Even Willas leaned forward. Garlan bounced on his feet to the side. This was the moment Margaery had been waiting for. A knight's sigil told the world who he was and where he came from. Galad looked at the blank parchment, then at the three Tyrell children.

"I am a man of the woods," he said slowly.

"It should be something that honors that."

"A huntsman?" Garlan suggested.

"If he wants issues with Lord Randyll," Willas said.

"A bow and a rose, mayhaps?"

"Too simple," Lynesse said softly.

"It should be something... singular." Galad closed his eyes for a heartbeat. When he opened them, the violet was deep and clear.

"A single tree," he said.

"Spreading on a field of charcoal grey. And above the branches… a golden sunburst." Willas let out a breathy whistle.

"An ancient look. Very noble." Margaery clapped her hands.

"It's perfect! It looks just like the woods by your cabin." The tailor bowed low.

"It shall be ready by the morrow, Ser Galad. The finest silver-thread for the star, I promise you." As they left the shop and headed back toward the tournament grounds, the sun was climbing up to its highest point, turning the stone of Lannisport into bright gold. Margaery walked between Galad and Lynesse, holding a hand of each. She felt very grown-up and very clever. She had helped Ser Galad get his victory, helped him find his colors, and now she was helping him find a wife.

"Oh, I had nearly forgotten," Lynesse said, stopping in the middle of the street.

"I did not see you yesterday at the trials, ser, so I could not award you the melee wreath Margaery prepared for you. All the other Reach knights already have theirs, so I'll make sure to have it sent to your rooms when we are back in Casterly Rock."

"Is that so?" Galad asked, looking down at her. Margaery bobbed her head up and down.

"I will wear it proudly when the time comes, then."

"That reminds me," Lynesse continued, "what of the jousting tomorrow, ser?" She batted her dark eyelashes at him.

"Do you already have a favor to wear?" Margaery had to stop herself from grinning. Beside her, Ser Galad paused.

"No, I have not." Lynesse smiled.

"Then it is only fair you wear my favor as well, if you're wearing Margaery's in the grand melee, don't you think?" A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. Ser Galad blinked, but he was quick to recover.

"It would be my honor, Lady Lynesse." Her auntie blushed prettily, and Margaery beamed. The stories were right—knights and ladies always found each other. Especially when they had someone as smart as her to help them along. xxx Olenna Tyrell Leyton Hightower had gotten old. Olenna supposed she should not be surprised. They all had, herself included, but it struck her nonetheless to see how much white had crept into his hair since she had last sat beside him. Almost fully white now, though still thick enough.

His face had grown more lined, the skin looser around his jaw. He did not come down from his tower often these days, preferring to sequester himself in the Hightower with his books and his young wife and whatever other matters occupied a man who had stepped back from the world. Still, his eyes remained sharp as they watched the archery champions leave the grounds below, surrounded by an entourage of Tyrells and one determined Hightower girl.

"Are you sure you will be letting this boy go?" Leyton asked, his voice still carrying that measured quality she remembered from when they were both young and thought themselves clever. Olenna shifted in her seat, her bones complaining at the movement.

"What can I say? The boy's a fool who wants to go gallivanting around the world like some common minstrel. Mace has all but offered Highgarden itself to tempt him. It seems the boy is immune to the usual greeds." She gave Leyton a sideways glance.

"Do you have something better than a castle like Dunstonbury to offer?" Leyton leaned back, his gaze turning distant as he watched his daughter, Lynesse, walk at the knight's side.

"I have daughters," he murmured. Olenna turned her head slowly, fixing him with a look that would have withered a summer plum.

"You'd let her marry a bastard, Leyton? Truly? I knew you turned eccentric, but I didn't think you'd gone soft in the head." He shrugged with the ease of a man who had long since stopped caring about such niceties.

"Bastards turn into lords all the time."

"Not if said bastard, unlike any other bastard who has ever come screaming out of their mother, refuses to accept lordship," Olenna countered.

"He's as stubborn as a mule and twice as prickly about his 'independence.'""Bah! He is young still. What do the young know?" Leyton waved a dismissive, liver-spotted hand.

"What do the young know? A year or two on the road, sleeping in ditches and eating squirrel, and he'll be wishing for some walls around him and a good woman to warm his bed. And if he doesn't want Dunstonbury, another castle could be arranged, on my own lands, even. Or, perhaps, something closer to his… origins." Olenna narrowed her eyes.

"House Dayne already has a lord, if my memory does not fail me." Leyton smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes.

"I do not think your memory has ever failed you, dear. A young lord still in the cradle, yes. How many little lords have perished before their time? The heat of Dorne can be quite unkind to infants, I've heard."

"Do not try to impress me, Leyton." Olenna's voice took on an edge.

"You have never been that kind of man, and you won't become it now in your old age. You're too fond of your books to bother with real blood." Leyton raised both hands in surrender, though the gesture held more amusement than apology.

"If not Starfall itself, then perhaps the sword, at least. The legend says Dawn rests above the mantle in the castle's great hall until a worthy knight comes to claim it. The boy certainly seems worthy, and if he has Dayne blood in those veins..."

"And how do you know the sword does not have a wielder now?" Olenna gave him a meaningful look, letting the question settle between them. Leyton frowned, sitting back as if her words had physically pushed him. Understanding dawned slowly across his face.

"You have been sequestered up in your tower for a long time, Leyton, but I am sure even you have heard of the Targaryen ships by now." Olenna leaned closer, lowering her voice though there was no one near enough to overhear.

"And after I found the boy's connections to Starfall, I sent my men looking east. Further than I had cared to look before. Want to know what I found?" She paused to let him suffer for a bit. Then she smiled.

"An old man making inquiries in Astapor. An old man who looks a lot like you. Remind you of anyone?" Leyton's expression hardened, the affable mask slipping.

"House Hightower no longer involves itself with crown matters, Olenna. What Gerold does, if he even still lives, is none of my concern. The White Bull was a brother of the Kingsguard. His loyalties were his own." Olenna snorted, the sound unladylike and entirely deliberate.

"An amusing fiction. As much theater as what the Targaryens pulled in King's Landing. Sailing by in full sail just for show?" She scoffed.

"If they had the strength for it now, they could have taken a city without its king and half-empty of its knights. No, that was a warning. A warning to Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn and Tywin Lannister, and a call to arms to whoever still holds true to the dragons." Shifting in her seat again, she continued, "All while they gather their strength in the east. Armies can be hired there. Even bought.

Perhaps the Targaryens have seen the error in adopting Andal ways and will take a more Valyrian approach to their conquest this time. Can you imagine?" Her eyes glinted with dark amusement.

"An army of slave soldiers streaming through the gates of King's Landing. Jon Arryn would have a conniption." She cackled at the thought. Leyton chewed on his lips for a moment, thinking.

"If this is true... they could not have chosen a worse time to try, no? Our king just won a great victory against the ironborn. He has showed the world he has the Seven Kingdoms firmly in his grip."

"Ah yes, a great show of unity." Olenna's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Stamping out a rebellion against one kingdom and without the participation of another. Doran is as closed a book as The Seven-Pointed Star in a whorehouse. And all without Eddard Stark showing his face. Curious, is it not? The king's supposed best friend sending that great lumbering beast of an Umber in his place?"

"The North is as large as all the kingdoms combined," Leyton argued weakly.

"Perhaps young Ned Stark had other duties to attend to. Winterfell is a long way from the sea." Olenna snorted again.

"Oh, but you have become such a bore now, Leyton. The Targaryens are waking from their slumber, make no mistake about it. Should they return, every house will have to make a decision, will they not? There will be no hiding in your tower then." She turned to look at him fully, her gaze sharp as broken glass.

"And I cannot help but wonder if, when the time comes, House Hightower will do its duty to its liege lord without making a fuss, eh?" Leyton met her eyes, his expression unreadable.

"Which duty would that be, Olenna? To our Baratheon king, or our old loyalties?" Wetting her lips, Olenna gave him her sweetest, most grandmotherly smile—the one that had unsettled sharper men than Leyton Hightower.

"Whichever allows the flower to grow strong, Leyton. Whichever one of them." The words hung in the air between them, heavy with all they did not say. Below and beyond the tourney grounds, in the streets of Lannisport, a woodsman knight walked with Tyrell children and a Hightower girl, oblivious to the games being played in viewing boxes and tower rooms across the realm. Olenna settled back in her seat, watching the crowds begin to disperse now that the archery had concluded.

The jousting would draw them back tomorrow, of course. Always did. People loved their spectacles, their bright banners and brave knights. But the real battles, she knew, were never fought in tourney grounds. They were fought in conversations like this one, in letters sent and alliances forged, in marriages arranged and loyalties tested. The Targaryens were coming back. Anyone with eyes could see it. The question was not if, but when.

And when they did, houses would fall and rise based on the choices made now, in moments like these. Olenna was determined that House Tyrell would be among those who rose.