BIW - Chapter 5 (Patreon)

I'll try to get Chapter 6 out on Saturday.

Chapter 5

Lady Olenna Tyrell

They knew the sortie succeeded because the noise changed. The fighting had rung through the inn for what felt like hours, every impact reverberating through the stone and wood until her head throbbed in time with it.

If the Ironborn did not kill her with sword or axe, they would do it with noise. 

Then the cheers burst out from the men, rolling through the common room like a physical thing, setting cups rattling and making several of the servants gasp as if struck. Olenna winced and brought a hand to her temple.

More shouting followed the cheers, only this time it was not the incoherent warcries boys like to scream out when they were poking each other with sharp sticks until one burst like a wineskin.  

It was men calling orders, others crying out as they fled or fell or thanked the gods. It was all very dramatic. And over it all, unmistakable as a storm breaking, Mace’s thunderous voice.

Of course he was shouting.

Inside, the hens dissolved into tears and laughter in equal measure. One of the cooks seized a servant girl by the shoulders and kissed her with such fervor that the girl nearly folded in half, knocking over a stool in the process. 

Someone clapped. Someone prayed aloud. Someone else laughed hysterically.

Olenna watched it all with a faint curl to her lip. They cheered as though they had swung the swords, she thought, as though their little prayers and songs could be heard outside while men bled and died and shat themselves. 

When Alerie moved to embrace her, eyes bright and wet, Olenna waved her away without looking. “Enough flapping,” she muttered.

A few minutes later, the door at the back of the kitchen opened, and Mace Tyrell strode into the common room as if making an entrance at a feast. 

He was smiling broadly, chest puffed, hair only slightly mussed. Sweat darkened his doublet beneath the arms and along the breast, but otherwise his clothes were pristine.

So he had not fought. Good. Even in armor, he would have been more obstruction than advantage. Though, Olenna supposed, he might have managed to fill the narrow gate all by himself if the Ironborn had tried to squeeze past him. There were uses for such a prodigious bulk.

What caught her attention was that he was not alone. Behind him came Lorne, the guard who was meant to be with the children. And beside Lorne, a young man Olenna did not recognize. 

One glance told her that he had seen real fighting. Blood streaked his face and neck, dried dark against his skin, and his clothes bore the same marks, though they were torn nowhere. His sword, interestingly enough, was clean.

Very interesting.

He was handsome, too, strikingly so. Tall, dark-haired, built like a knight despite his obvious youth, face all sharp angles as if carved from a block of pale marble. Olenna had seen beautiful men in her time. Her own Targaryen betrothed, Daeron, had been easy on the eyes, if lacking in every quality that made a man worth keeping. But this one…

This one had the eyes of the Targaryens, a dashing purple, with nothing of that Valyrian foppishness she had come to despise. 

In her youth, Olenna reflected dryly, she would not have minded being seized and folded over with a kiss by such a young man. When Mace and Alerie finally disentangled themselves, she spoke.

“Very well, Mace,” she said. “Enough of that now. Is it done?”

Mace beamed as if she had asked him whether the sun had risen. “Yes, mother! The battle is over. We have come out victorious against fearful odds. The Battle of the Flower Hearth—yes, I can already hear the songs.”

Olenna suppressed a groan.

“And it would not have been possible without our hero here,” Mace continued, gesturing grandly at the young man.

“Truly?” Alerie asked in that thin, fluttering voice of hers. Olenna rolled her eyes. Gods, but the woman could be dull at times. Which was most of them, unfortunately. 

“Yes, my love, truly,” Mace said. “This young man fought like the legends of old. I saw him cut down five men in seconds before he took on the Ironborn captain, and what a duel that was.”

“Yes, yes, marvelous,” Olenna cut in, annoyed. “But where is Willas?” 

The room stilled again.  

“And Garlan,” she went on, eyes narrowing, “and Loras and Margaery. Were they not supposed to be with you, man?” Her gaze snapped to Lorne, who stiffened as if bracing for a blow. “Well? Out with it,” she demanded.

What followed was, Olenna decided, a fantastical tale, even by Reachman standards, despite how taciturn the teller sounded. Lorne spoke of meeting this young man in the forest, a simple woodsman by his account, of a sudden Ironborn attack at the man’s home, of a desperate flight toward the village. 

He told of Galad the woodsman convincing Willas to take the children and flee toward Highgarden. Of the fight outside the inn, of charges and countercharges, of Ironborn falling like wheat before a scythe.

By the time he finished, the small crowd had gathered closer, whispering and gasping, eyes fixed on Galad as though he might sprout wings at any moment. Alerie and the hens descended upon him with thanks and praise, one bold girl even pressing a kiss to each of his cheeks.

The young man himself accepted it all without flinching or blushing. That, Olenna noted, was the strangest thing of all. 

No nervous fidgeting. No false modesty. He stood there in bloodied silence, face composed as a lacquered mask. Battle shock, perhaps. Some men went oddly still after fighting, as though their souls had not yet caught up with their bodies.

Mace spoke again. “I have already sent men up the road for the children,” he said. “Another thing we must thank you for, young man. Truly, your deeds are worthy of song.”

Olenna felt a familiar tightening behind her eyes.

“Not song,” Mace corrected himself, warming to the sound of his own voice. “Knighthood. Lordship, in fact.”

There it was. His eyes gleamed with a light Olenna did not like at all. 

“Dustonbury stands empty,” he went on. “A castle in need of a noble lord. And after today, I would be hard-pressed to name a more noble man than you, young Galad. Kneel, swear me your oaths, and I will make you Lord of Dustonbury here and—”

“Mace.”

Her voice cut through the room without her needing to raise it. Her son froze as if she had struck him, and Olenna fixed him with a glare he had known since childhood, one that promised consequences. 

“We will speak of rewards later,” she said coldly. “I am sure the young man is terribly weary after such an ordeal. Are you not, boy?”

She said it to test him, to needle him. Galad the woodsman merely inclined his head, neither eager nor offended.

“See?” Olenna continued. “He can barely speak. We can discuss awarding him knighthood—” she put sharp emphasis on the word, “—when we are safely behind the walls of Highgarden.”

Her word was final. Mace blustered and puffed, but she had already dismissed him. Her attention remained on the young man standing quietly in the dim light of the common room.

Hero or not, Olenna Tyrell thought, she would not be handing out lordships to the first woodsman who proved adept with a sharp stick. 

But she would very much like to know where he had learned to wield it.

xxx

Galad

He would have returned to his cabin if the children had not begged him to come with them to Highgarden. That was the simple truth of it, though not the whole. 

Once the riders brought them back, they clung to his sleeves and spoke over one another, voices still bright with relief and awe, calling him ser already, as if the word itself might keep him close.

Lord Willas had almost cried at seeing him alive. He thanked him thrice over, for fighting for them at the house, for convincing him of his foolishness, and for saving his family against all odds in the inn. Galad thought him a sensible young man who would make for a good lord once his father vacated the post.

The middle boy, Garlan, had begged him to teach him the sword, while little Loras and Margaery insisted to their parents they would have no sworn shield other than Galad.

Even then, he might have refused, might have bowed and taken his leave once the Tyrells departed. But then he had seen the village after the fighting was done and the real damage was accounted for.

There were far more bodies than he had noticed when he first came in from the trees with bow in hand. Every alley and doorway was splattered with blood, every half-burned home held a body or two of those who thought themselves safe behind their own walls. Many of them he knew by name. Faces that had once nodded to him in passing, hands that had taken coin from him at market.

Bryen the smith lay beneath the walls of the sept, his broad body twisted awkwardly. He was stabbed in the chest while defending his neighbors and family, his hammer still looped through his belt. The man had never held a sword in his life yet he had died by one.

That was not the worst. Late in the day, after most of the wounded had been tended and the dead laid out, they found five women inside a house at the edge of the village. Two of them girls still.

When he saw them, Galad had turned away and walked until the sounds of the village faded, until he was alone beneath the trees, and there he had sought the Oneness with a desperation he had not felt since he heard what had been done to the woman who he thought of as a mother a lifetime ago.

What had been done in that house looked like the work of Trollocs. He had not seen such creatures in this life, but the memory of their cruelty lived like a badly healed scar inside of him. Trolloc or not, he well knew the truth of the world, though. Some men chose to be monsters even when they were not born as one. 

That was when Galad had decided what he would do.

The next day, Lord Mace Tyrell received him in what remained of the inn, still flushed with victory and already speaking of banners and retaliation. As his boon, Galad asked only for the means to fight the Ironborn. 

The lord blinked as though he had misheard. “You ask too little,” Mace said. “After what you did? You should name gold, lands, honors. Highgarden will sing of this day.”

Galad had met his gaze evenly. Blood was what he wanted then. Not for himself, but for Bryen, for the baker’s boy, and for the women whose names would never be sung. Justice, such as this world allowed.

Lady Olenna, as he was starting to expect, had been sharper. She had wanted him close, bound by oath as a sworn sword to her family. To look after the children, she said, as if that alone would move him.

Galad had refused that as well, as gently as he could. He would not tie himself to any man or house beyond the war itself. In the end, it was Olenna who named the compromise, and Mace, after much blustering, had agreed.

Before they left, Galad would be knighted quietly, as he asked. And once his affairs in the village were settled, he would go to Highgarden where he would be given arms and armor, quarters within the castle, and a place in the Tyrell household while the banners of the Reach assembled. 

He would serve under them until the Ironborn rebellion was broken. After that, he would be free to go. 

“To seek your fortunes wherever you may wish,” Lady Olenna had said, her eyes watching him like a hawk’s.

Galad had inclined his head and let the words lie. He had no great wishes for fortune, no dreams of lands or halls. Truth be told, he did not know what he wished at all. He had hidden himself in a quiet corner of the world for seventeen years, content with hunting and seeing to his vegetables. 

Foolishly, he had believed that if he did not seek conflict, it might pass him by. Instead, war had found him on its own.

He remained in the village for two more weeks. There were graves to dig, walls to repair, roofs to patch before the spring rains came. He worked alongside the others until his hands blistered and his back ached. Each morning he took whatever task was left undone. Each night he slept poorly.

The people treated him differently now. They thanked him too much. They watched him as if he might refuse them. When he reached for a shovel, someone else would hurry to take it from him. He had to insist, more than once, before they would let him work.

That was when he understood that he could not stay, even if he had wanted to. The life he had lived there was gone. Even if the Ironborn never returned, it would not be simple again.

Two weeks after the attack, Galad rode toward the gates of Highgarden.

Despite living within a few hours’ ride of the great castle all his life, he had never seen it before. Never felt the need. Now it rose before him atop a verdant hill, white walls gleaming in the sun, three great tiers climbing toward the heart of the keep. 

Between the outer and middle walls sprawled the briar labyrinth, green and cunningly shaped, its paths hidden beneath flowering hedges. Beneath it all, the Mander wound through the land like a silver ribbon, a small town sitting against its banks. 

He took it in without awe. Palaces and royal halls had filled his past life; stone and splendor had long since lost their power to move him.

At the gatehouse, his name set a chain of motion into place. A guardsman called for his superior, who called for a captain, who finally nodded and waved him through. Inside, a steward met him, a harried man with ink-stained fingers who barely spared Galad a glance as he led him through corridors already echoing with voices and bootsteps.

He was shown his quarters, modest but clean, and told he would be fitted for armor on the morrow. The steward rattled off directions to the kitchens, the sept, the godswood, places to eat, to pray, to escape the growing press of lords and knights arriving from every corner of the Reach. And there would be a feast that night, he added, as Lords Rowan, Tarly, and Fossoway of Cider Hall were expected before sunset.

Before the man could leave, Galad asked only one thing. The steward blinked, then pointed him the way.

Soon the practice yard lay open before him, wide enough to hold a small town. He watched as hundreds of men trained beneath the open sky. Steel rang against steel. Shouts carried over packed earth and cobblestones. And even here, the divisions were clear.

Guards and men-at-arms drilled on one side, their gear serviceable and worn. On the other, knights and lords sparred in finer armor, their movements watched by squires who hovered with towels and waterskins.

He scanned the nearer group and spotted a familiar mustache before he recognized the man beneath it.

Lorne stood by one of the fountains, arms folded as two younger men sparred in front of him. He did not fight, but he did not stand idle either. Every few moments he barked a correction or a warning, tapping a boot against the stone when one of the men overextended or let his guard drift.

He would not call the man a friend, but at least he knew him. After gathering a dull sword from the rack, he crossed the yard in his direction, and Lorne noticed him when he was only a few steps away. 

His eyes widened, just slightly, before he straightened and gave a deep nod. “Ser Galad,” he said. “Just arrived?”

Galad returned the nod. “Today.”

“Welcome to Highgarden.”

One of the younger men glanced over, breathing hard. “That’s the one they knighted with you?”

Lorne did not answer beyond a grunt.

“Can’t believe we missed the action,” the man went on, rolling his shoulders.

“Aye,” the other added, lowering his practice sword. “I’d have been knighted too if I’d been there. If the old man and the pretty boy were…”

Galad did not look at him. He rested his hand on the pommel of his blunted sword and waited. If he were bothered by every man who spoke to him in jealousy, he’d have fought more honor duels than battles by now.

Lorne stepped forward and scuffed the speaker on the side of the head with two fingers. He yelped

“It’d take three of you to do half of what I could, boy,” Lorne said. “And there ain’t enough men in this yard to do what Ser Galad here done.”

The young man scoffed. “Enough of that. Ain’t no one believe you and him fought off a whole Ironborn crew on your own. Leave the songs to the kitchen maids.”

“It’s Ser Lorne now,” Lorne replied evenly, “and ain’t no one said it was the whole crew. Half of it, more like. Lord Mace himself saw it. You calling him a liar?”

The young man stiffened. “I weren’t calling the lord a liar.” He turned to the other boy. “Were you?”

A head shook. “I weren’t neither.”

“Good,” Lorne said. “Now get back to it, or I won’t help you no more.”

The two guards resumed sparring, their movements a touch more careful than before.

Galad watched them without comment. Their footwork was sloppy. Both lifted their swords too high on the swing. One favored his left side and left it open every time he pressed. He saw it all after a quick glance and said nothing.

Once, he would have corrected them without thinking. He would have spoken plainly and sharply, and wondered afterward why no one wished to speak with him again.

“I fought with his father in the Stormlands,” Lorne said, nodding at one of the sparring men. “Good fellow. This one’s not half the man he was.”

“I heard that,” the young man said.

“I know,” Lorne replied.

Galad turned to him. “I was not aware you had been knighted as well. You have my congratulations.”

Lorne waved it off. “And you my thanks. But you should know, now that you’re a knight, you can train over there.” He jerked his chin toward the highborn side of the yard.

Galad raised an eyebrow and looked at him. “And you cannot?”

“I could,” Lorne said. “But then I’d have to deal with them.” A brief smile tugged at his mouth.

“Is it always like this?” Galad asked.

“Worse now,” Lorne said. “With all the lords arriving.”

Galad nodded. “When do we march?”

Lorne shrugged. “When Lord Mace decides. Last I heard, Prince Stannis is still halfway across the Dornish coast with the royal fleet. Best break the Ironborn at sea before we go throwing men onto transport ships.”

It made sense. Galad accepted it without comment. With the other kingdoms also joining the fight, he did not expect the Reach to send more than twenty thousand men once the banners finished gathering. They could raise far more, but excess numbers would only slow a campaign like this.

“Shall we?” he asked.

With a grunt, Lorne reached for his practice sword. “Why not.”

They squared off near the fountain. Galad moved lightly, testing rather than pressing. He did not force the pace or strike with full strength. Instead, he let Lorne come to him, watching how the man shifted his weight, how his guard rose and fell. When an opening appeared, Galad touched it and withdrew, again and again, never the same place twice.

Lorne adjusted slowly. The man was no blademaster, but soon enough his guard tightened. He started covering one weakness, then another. Galad eased the pressure just enough to let the lesson settle before offering the next.

After several minutes, Lorne stepped back, breathing hard, sweat running down his temples.

“Seven hells,” he muttered, wiping his brow. “Who did you say trained you?”

Names rose unbidden in his mind. Gareth Bryne. Hammar Gaidin. Henre Haslin. His brother Gawyn, always beside him in the yard. Matrim Cauthon, grinning as he knocked them both flat with a quarterstaff. Sometimes a man learned more from his peers and opponents than his mentors.

In the end, he settled on the only name that meant anything in this world. “Ser Garin Sand,” he said.

Lorne blinked. “Never heard of him.”

“Nor me,” someone said.

Galad lowered his sword as footsteps approached. He turned and saw a tall man coming toward them. He was well-built and plainly noble, young still, perhaps entering his third decade, but already going bald at the temples.  

The three guards stopped as the man approached. Each straightened and dipped his head. Not deeply, but enough to mark respect.

“Ser Owen,” they said.

The man did not slow his stride. He gave them a brief nod, eyes already past them. “On you go, fellows.”

The men hesitated. Lorne scowled, but none of them argued. One by one, they stepped away, leaving Galad alone with the newcomer.

“Might I help you, ser?” he asked. 

This Ser Owen had dismissed the others deliberately. That much was obvious. He smiled widely now, a practiced thing. The sort of smile meant to put others at ease. Galad had seen plenty of those. 

“Ser Owen Inchfield,” he said for an introduction. “I was training nearby and could not help overhearing that you are the new knight. Ser Galad.”

Galad glanced around the yard quickly. Knights of birth and standing trained on the far side, nearer the shade. A man with a noble last name would not be training nearby the guards and men-at-arms. 

Still, he understood courtesies had to be observed. “Honored to make your acquaintance, Ser Owen.” He offered a small bow.

“The honor is mine,” Owen Inchfield replied, though his tone suggested otherwise. He was not as good an actor as he thought himself to be. “ We all heard so much of your battle from Lord Mace. I thought I might test my swordarm against a man of your…  reputation.” 

Nodding slowly, Galad gave himself a moment to study the man. Owen was broad and moved with confidence, though his stance betrayed impatience rather than discipline. His hand seemed to itch on his practice sword. He had not come for instruction or fellowship or curiosity, that much was certain. It was a challenge, and not the friendly kind.

A younger Galad would have answered it without hesitation. He would have ended the spar quickly, publicly, and without apology. Not even as a statement. Simply because it was the thing to do. That instinct stirred now, but he pushed it aside.

“As you wish,” Galad said, inclining his head.

They took their places, and Ser Owen attacked the moment Galad raised his sword, swinging hard and fast. The knight treated the blunted blade as if it were sharpened steel and he meant to cut Galad in twine.

Overhead, side swing, a thrust to the throat. Using his size, each strike was meant to overwhelm rather than probe. Galad stepped back, letting the blows glance off his guard, turning his wrists just enough to redirect force without meeting it directly.

Owen pressed harder. His boots slapped against damp earth as he advanced, hacking downward, then across, then back again. Galad gave ground steadily, eyes tracking Owen’s shoulders, his hips, the way his weight shifted before each strike.

“Fight back, ser,” Ser Owen grunted. “Are you not the hero of Dustonbury?”

Galad saw no need to answer. Dull steel rang as they traded blows. He spotted openings in every move. Owen’s right side dipped when he swung high. His balance faltered after wide cuts. 

His instincts screamed at him to follow through on the parry, step inside the knight’s guard and slice at the shoulder line. He could almost hear Gareth Bryne’s voice telling him to end it quickly.

Galad ignored them all, letting the spar stretch on. He kept his movements tight, shifting slightly on the balls of his feet. Meanwhile, Ser Owen’s breathing grew louder, harsher. Frustration crept into his movements until his blows lost precision, though not strength. 

With a discontented growl, Owen lashed out with his foot, aiming for Galad’s knee. A foul strike that might cripple him if it connected. He shifted aside quick as a cat, the movement almost automatic. 

Owen’s boot slid instead of planting. The puddle by the fountain caught him at the worst possible moment and his weight kept going forward. His legs shot apart and he went down hard, yelping as both hands flew to his groin.

Galad stared awkwardly, his sword going down to his side.  

“Are you well, ser?” he asked.

The reply came as a string of curses, some of them slurred by pain. Laughter broke out around the yard. Several men turned away, shoulders shaking. Others covered their mouths, failing to hide their amusement. The word maester carried clearly through the noise.

Two guards hurried forward to help him up. Owen clung to them, face flushed, still swearing. Galad stepped back another pace and lowered his sword fully. Looking around, he noticed eyes were on him now. More than he liked. Some whispering, others pointing. 

He had heard of House Inchfield before, though he did not have the education to know how high in the hierarchy a knight of such a house ranked in the social ladder. He did not need people thinking he had just injured a high noble during a spar. 

He sighed. So much for a relaxing hour at the yard. Galad had no wish to explain himself, so he nodded once to Lorne, then turned and left the yard without another word.

With murmurs rising at his back, he followed the steward’s directions away from the noise, moving through covered walkways and into the godswood that rose nearby. The sounds of steel and shouted commands faded behind him as the path narrowed and trees closed in.

Highgarden’s godswood was thick with greenery, carefully tended but allowed to grow dense. Moss clung to stones. Small ponds appeared from the earth like sapphires, the water gleaming in the sun. The air was cooler here, the shade a nice reprieve from the sun.

He found the great weirwoods at the center. Not one tree, as he heard was usual for such a place, but three, their pale trunks rising close together. Their branches intertwined overhead, leaves thick and red, forming a canopy broad enough to dim the light below. The bark was smooth and white, marked with dark knots and shallow cuts left by time.

Aside from the carved faces, that is, staring back at him with red sap streaming from dark eyes like tears of blood. Galad paused a few paces away, as if stopped by their glance. A knowing glance. 

He had heard of the weirwoods, of course, of the old gods. They were not well liked in the Reach where the Faith of the Seven reigned supreme, but they still had adherents in the North. But whether north or south, Westeros or Essos. No one knew of the Creator here. Of the Light. Was this another world entirely, or simply another turning of the Wheel? Perhaps the first turning, before creation even knew about creator.

He shook his head. He did not wish to lose himself to philosophies and religious thoughts. Should the Dark One ever appear, Galad would fight him either way. No need to tie himself into knots about it.

“The Three Singers,” a voice said behind him.

He turned to see a young woman standing at the edge of the clearing. She was close to his age, with brown hair pulled back loosely and eyes the color of honey. Her cheeks were flushed red.

“Forgive me, ser,” she said, smiling. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“No forgiveness is needed,” Galad replied, inclining his head. “I was only admiring the trees. This place feels old.”

She walked closer. “As old as the castle itself. They say Garth Greenhand planted these weirwoods with his own hands.”

Galad did not answer. Garth Greenhand was as famous a name in the Reach as the king in the Iron Throne. He turned back to the trunks. The sensation had not left, like someone standing just over your shoulder. A subtle thing, faint, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood on edge. 

He reached for the Oneness with a conscious thought, slowing his breathing, letting all his emotions fade into the void. Birds chirped overhead. He saw a beetle crawling across a leaf ten yards away. A butterfly took off from a flowerhead to the side, and he thought he could hear the batting of its wings if he focused.

“I do not know you, ser,” the woman said after a moment. “Are you new to Highgarden?”

He nodded absently, but his thoughts were not on her. In the Oneness, the feeling had only sharpened. He was one with the butterfly in flight. One with the crawling beetle. One with the godswood and the weirwoods. 

He felt full, as if something pressed around the void, a slow, patient force squeezing around him. Galad frowned. His gaze traced the pale bark, the carved faces staring blindly outward. Were they blind? 

No, something here noticed him.

A throat cleared. Reluctantly, he tore his eyes away from the weirwoods. The young woman was still there, closer this time, clearly expecting more.

He turned fully to her. “Yes, my lady,” he said. “I arrived earlier today. Forgive me. I was distracted.”

She studied him openly, head tilting. “Purple eyes,” she said. “Black hair. Are you Ser Galad of Dustonbury?”

He nodded, and her face lit at once. She stepped closer and caught his arm. “The hero of the Flower Hearth,” she said, voice sweet as a peach. “My name is Victaria Tyrell, ser. You saved my family. You must know how grateful I am.”

Her hand slid higher, fingers curling around his shoulder. She leaned in, close enough that he could smell her perfume. And the wine on her breath.

“Anything, ser,” she murmured.

She was a beautiful woman, but in the void, such distractions meant nothing. He could think about his and other’s actions rationally, and her behavior clearly seemed strange. A lady of her standing throwing herself on a lowborn man, even if a knight, raised his hackles. 

His voice was cold when he spoke. “If you could tell me where I might find the castle’s library, I would be grateful.” Then he gently removed her arms from his shoulders. “That would be more than enough.”

For a moment she only stared at him, clearly uncertain how to respond. Then she nodded, flustered, and pointed down a winding path. Galad thanked her and took his leave, the sense of being watched lingering behind him as he walked away. A few books on weirwood and the old gods would not be amiss while he waited to march out.

xxx

Lady Olenna Tyrell

The late afternoon light fell across the stone floor in uneven bands, filtered by the half-drawn shutters. Olenna Tyrell sat across from Victaria at a small table near one of the open windows.

She stirred a mug of mint tea with slow irritation, the spoon tapping faintly against the sides. The maesters swore it was good for her teeth. She snorted softly at the thought. She had fewer teeth now than she had cups of the stuff in a week.

Victaria shifted under her gaze. The girl tried to sit still after telling her part, hands folded in her lap, posture careful, but her fingers kept twitching. Olenna let the silence stretch. People talked more freely when they were uncomfortable.

“And he did not seem interested?” Olenna asked at last.

Victaria straightened. “No, my lady. Quite the opposite, in truth. He seemed… bothered by me.”

Olenna paused her stirring. “Oh?” She raised her eyes. “A sword swallower, perhaps?”

Victaria shook her head. “I do not think so. I watched him in the yard before I approached him. His gaze did not linger on anyone. Not even those training without shirts.”

“Unlike yours?” Olenna raised a painted eyebrow.

Victaria smiled, just a little. “Admiring the baker is not the same as eating the cake, my lady.”

Olenna allowed herself a brief smirk. The girl had a quick tongue when she wished to use it. A shame she had been born a rose too far down the bush. Like Mace, her own daughters had all taken after her dear Luthor, sweet, dull, and loud. Strong seed, that man had. Strong and thick in the head.

Still, Victaria might yet prove useful. With her name, looks, and Olenna’s backing, a high marriage within the Reach was not off the table for her.

“And what did he do after?” Olenna asked.

“He went to the library,” Victaria said. “I spoke with the attendant afterward. He asked for books. Histories. Treatises on the old gods. Garth Greenhand. The weirwood trees.”

Olenna stopped stirring altogether. She lifted the mug and took a careful sip, then set it down again. 

“A woodsman who prefers books to pretty flowers.” She sucked a breath through her few teeth left. She did not like it. She did not like it at all. “What was the name of the man who raised him again?” she asked.

“Ser Garin Sand,” Victaria replied.

Sand. A Dornish bastard, then.

Olenna leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing slightly as she considered it. Purple eyes did not always mean Valyrian blood. The Dornish had their share of oddities. And Dorne had been quiet. Too quiet, if you asked her.

Too many whispers had reached her ears of late. Too many oddities in the known stories. Targaryen sails sighted beyond the Narrow Sea. Three Kingsguard who had vanished into the desert and never returned. Stark finding his dead sister by her lonesome on a random tower in Dorne. Royal bodies never recovered. 

Robert Baratheon wore the crown, but not with the ease Jon Arryn liked to pretend.

Still, it did not quite fit. Why send a Dornish bastard to raise a child in the Reach? Why hide him in plain sight, in a village tied so closely to Highgarden itself? And to what end?

Could Doran Martell truly be so patient as all that? To place a man near them, wait years, then arrange for the Ironborn to strike, only for his own creature to save the Tyrells and earn their gratitude?

Olenna felt her jaw tighten. Nonsense. She was tying herself in knots, seeing patterns where there were none. Age did that to a woman. Made her suspicious of every shadow.

Besides, Mace had decided on that river outing the very same morning. No scheme spun in Sunspear could account for her son’s talent for poor timing.

She exhaled slowly and turned her attention back to Victaria.

“And that knight you spoke of,” Olenna said. “I hope you did not give him any false hopes, dear. It will be a cold day at the Wall before a Tyrell flower marries an Inchfield… dung beetle.”

Victaria colored slightly. “Nothing of the sort, my lady. I merely praised Ser Galad’s valor within earshot of Ser Owen. That was quite enough. He has been pining for my attention as of late.”

Olenna’s lips twitched. “Ah. Owen.” It was no wonder Mace was so fond of him. They shared half a brain between the two of them.

“Indeed,” Victoria said. “He then saw fit to embarrass himself in front of half the yard. He was quite wroth with Ser Galad last I heard.”

“And the boy?”

Victaria drew a breath. “Leo believes Ser Galad is one of the finest swordsmen he has ever seen,” she said. “Despite his many shortcomings, my brother says Ser Owen is a fearsome warrior, and yet he is certain our newest knight was holding back throughout the spar.”

Olenna mulled that. “Another fine display of both blade and humility, then,” she murmured, more to herself than the girl.

She lifted the mug again and took another sip. The tea had gone cold. Beyond the window, Highgarden carried on as it always had. Servants moved along the walkways. Knights crossed the yard. Banners were being unpacked and aired, their colors bright against the white stone. Lords were arriving from every corner of the Reach.

Peace had lasted a long time. Too long. The Greyjoy rebellion was only the beginning. Olenna felt that much in her bones, the way she felt rain before it came. Something was stirring. Alliances would shift. Old grudges would resurface. Men would grow ambitious.

And into the middle of it all had walked a quiet young knight, as beautiful as a prince from song and legend, with strange eyes and a talent for killing. She did not like pieces she could not place.

“If the gods are kind,” Olenna said at last, “the boy will find an honorable end for himself in the war to come.”

Startled, Victaria looked at her with wide eyes.

“Do not look so stricken, child. Honor is the best thing a man like that can hope for.” Olenna waved a hand. “I will not have him killed, if that is your worry.”

Not yet, at least. She pushed the mug aside and pointed to the door. 

“You have done well,” she said. “Keep your eyes open, Victaria. Listen more than you speak. I will call for you again soon.”

Victaria nodded and rose. “Yes, my lady.”

Olenna turned to the window as the girl left, her mind already moving on to the next problem. For the woman who truly ruled the Reach, Galad of Dustonbury was just a tiny drop in a sea of issues.

AN: Safe to say the first Olenna POV in this chapter fits way better in Chapter 4. I couldn’t finish it on time to post it there though, but I’ll probably move the section to Chapter 4 later.