A Dragon Kissed by Sun

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Chapter 71 (Glass and Sand), Chapter 72 (Wisdom in Wine), Chapter 73 (Forgiving A Brother), Chapter 74 (Wings Over Highgarden), Chapter 75 (The Fall of Casterly Rock), Chapter 76 (A Sister's Madness), Chapter 77 (Pride Before Fire), Chapter 78 (Daenerys, The Dragon Queen), and Chapter 79 (Wine, Fire and Madness) are already available for Patrons.

In Renly's solar, the rich scent of beeswax candles mingled with the faint aroma of sea salt carried in from the open balcony doors. The evening light cast a warm glow through the stained glass windows, each pane a mosaic of color that painted the room in hues of ruby, sapphire, and jade. This kaleidoscope of colors made the Golden Company captain's armor shimmer like molten gold.

Ser Harry Strickland stood with perfect posture. Flanking him were his two companions. To his right stood a red-haired man with a weathered face. His eyes were a piercing green. To Harry's left was a younger figure cloaked in a hooded mantle of midnight blue. Strands of blue hair peeked out.

"Welcome to Storm's End, Ser Harry," Renly said, lounging in his high-backed chair with practiced ease. Dressed in a tunic of deep forest green trimmed with gold thread. A stag-shaped brooch clasped his cloak, and a simple golden circlet rested upon his brow. "I must admit, I'm intrigued. The Golden Company rarely ventures west of the Narrow Sea. Wine?" He gestured gracefully to a servant who stood by with a silver tray bearing a decanter of Arbor Red and polished goblets.

"Thank you, Lord Renly," Harry accepted the offered cup with a nod of appreciation. He took a moment to inhale the wine's rich aroma before taking a sip. "We find ourselves in... unusual times."

"Don't we all?" Renly's smile was easy, almost disarming, as he swirled the wine in his goblet. "Though I'm curious what brings the most famous sellsword company in the world to my humble castle."

Harry took a measured sip, his gaze steady over the rim of his cup. "News travels fast, even across the Narrow Sea. We've heard whispers of a young dragon stirring in Dorne. A boy who wants to claim the Iron Throne and speaks of fire and blood."

At these words, Ser Loras Tyrell, standing a few paces behind Renly, tensed visibly.

Renly noticed and waved him off with a lazy gesture, fingers adorned with rings set with sapphires and onyx. "Ah, yes. The infamous dragon boy," he chuckled, the sound filling the spacious room. "Tell me, Ser Harry, do you know what I see when I hear these rumors? I see a desperate child, hiding behind Dornish spears and empty threats."

The blue-haired youth shifted slightly, his boots making the faintest scuff against the polished stone floor, but he remained silent.

"You seem... unconcerned," Harry observed carefully, his expression unreadable.

"Should I be?" Renly's smile took on a sharper edge, almost predatory now. "What does this boy have? Dorne? The weakest of the Seven Kingdoms, who hide behind their mountains and deserts because they can't face real warfare. Meanwhile, the entirety of Westeros stands against him." He leaned back, drumming his fingers on the armrest carved with the likeness of leaping stags.

"Some say he has dragons," the red-haired man spoke up, his voice rough like gravel but carrying a weight of experience.

Renly laughed outright, a clear, ringing sound. "Dragons? Next you'll tell me he has grumpkins and snarks as well. No, my friends, dragons are gone from this world. Extinct for over a century. That's why I haven't bothered sending my full strength to aid my brother Robert. By now, the boy's probably dead in some Dornish ditch, his dreams of conquest as dried up as their rivers."

"You seem very confident, Lord Renly," Harry said diplomatically, his gaze flicking briefly to his companions before returning to Renly.

"I'm realistic, Ser Harry. This isn't the age of Aegon the Conqueror. The realm is united, strong. One boy with delusions of grandeur doesn't concern me." Renly leaned forward, his eyes meeting Harry's with a piercing gaze. "But you haven't answered my question. Why are you here?"

"Perhaps we share your... assessment of the situation," Harry said carefully, choosing his words with the precision of a man used to negotiate. "Perhaps we see opportunity in these changing times."

"The Golden Company, breaking with their Blackfyre traditions?" Renly raised an eyebrow, genuine curiosity coloring his tone. "How fascinating."

"Traditions change," the red-haired man grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement caused the chainmail under his cloak to jingle softly. "Gold doesn't."

"Ah, now we come to it," Renly smiled, a knowing look in his eyes. "And what would this opportunity cost me?" He gestured casually, and the servant refilled their cups without a word.

Before Harry could answer, the blue-haired youth spoke. "Less than you might think, Lord Renly. Sometimes the wisest investments are in the future, not the present."

Loras frowned, his handsome features hardening as he took a step forward. His cloak, embroidered with golden roses, swirled around him. "Mind your tone, boy. You speak to—"

"Peace, Loras," Renly interrupted, raising a hand to calm his companion. His gaze remained fixed on the hooded figure, a spark of intrigue igniting in his eyes. "Let our young friend speak. He seems to have put thought into this."

"The Golden Company has twenty thousand men," Harry stated, his voice steady. "Well-trained, well-equipped, and experienced in warfare from the Disputed Lands to the Slaver's Bay. We also have war elephants."

"Elephants?" Renly repeated, his eyebrows lifting in genuine surprise. "Now that would be a sight on a Westerosi battlefield. Towering beasts amidst knights and footmen... But surely you're not offering all this out of the goodness of your hearts?"

"We seek... stability," Harry said carefully, each word measured. "And we believe you might be instrumental in providing it."

"Me?" Renly's eyes glittered with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. "Not my brother Robert? Or perhaps you've heard rumors about my other brother, Stannis?" He tilted his head slightly, observing their reactions.

"We've heard many rumors, Lord Renly," the blue-haired youth said softly, his face still partially hidden. "About many things."

The tension in the room thickened like a palpable fog. Loras's hand hadn't left his sword hilt, his knuckles whitening as he gripped it tightly.

"Interesting," Renly mused, tapping a finger against his chin. "And what exactly have you heard?"

"Enough to make us choose Storm's End as our first stop in Westeros," Harry replied diplomatically, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Renly stood, the movement drawing all eyes to him. He walked leisurely to the window, the soft soles of his boots barely making a sound on the polished floor. "You know, Ser Harry," he began, his tone contemplative, "I've always believed that timing is everything in politics. Too early, and you're a traitor. Too late, and you're irrelevant." He turned back to his guests. "So tell me, what makes you think this is the right time?"

The blue-haired youth stepped forward slightly, his cloak shifting to reveal a glimpse of a silver chain around his neck. "Because, Lord Renly, sometimes the best way to face a storm is to ride its winds rather than hide from them."

Renly's eyes narrowed at the youth's words, a spark of recognition flickering across his features. "Poetic. Tell me, young man, do you often speak in riddles?"

"Only when direct speech might be... unwise," came the measured reply, the slightest hint of a challenge in his tone.

"I believe," Harry interrupted smoothly, sensing the growing tension, "that we have much to discuss, Lord Renly. Perhaps in more... detail?"

"Yes," Renly agreed, his eyes still fixed on the hooded youth as if trying to peel back the layers of mystery.

Renly settled back in his chair, the leather upholstery sighing softly beneath him.

"So, let's cut to the heart of the matter," Renly began, his tone casual yet edged with curiosity. "What's your stake in all this? The Iron Throne is a long way from Essos, and suddenly the Golden Company is interested in Westerosi politics?" His eyes flickered with intrigue.

The blue-haired youth stepped forward. Lowering his hood slightly, he revealed more of his face—a visage marked by sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and eyes that seemed to shift between shades of blue and violet in the candlelight. Strands of blue hair, tinged with silver, framed his face.

"You misunderstand our position, Lord Renly," he said. "The Golden Company has always been invested in Westerosi politics. We were born from it, forged in the blood of broken promises and shattered dreams."

Renly raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. "Ah yes, the Blackfyres," he nodded thoughtfully. "Your famous cause." He took a leisurely sip of his wine, eyes never leaving the youth's face.

"House Blackfyre is gone," the youth replied. His voice carried a hint of bitterness. "But our hatred for House Targaryen remains. They destroyed us, branded us traitors, drove us into exile. The debt must be paid." His hands clenched subtly at his sides.

Renly's eyes lit up with understanding, a sly smile spreading across his face. "So that's it," he mused, leaning forward. "You heard about this dragon boy in Dorne and thought, 'What better way to settle old scores than to help crush the last Targaryen?'" He chuckled softly. "Though I'm afraid you're too late. My brother Robert has likely already decorated the Red Keep with the boy's head."

The red-haired man cleared his throat, drawing attention. "That's where you're wrong, my lord," he interjected, his voice gravelly yet measured. "Our latest reports suggest quite the opposite. House Stark has declared for the Targaryen boy."

"What?" Loras exclaimed, his voice breaking the tension like a snap. "Impossible," Renly scoffed, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed his features. "Ned Stark would never—"

"The Starks march south," the red-haired man continued, unflinching. "Along with the full might of the Riverlands. They're heading for Harrenhal, where Tywin Lannister garrisons his army." He unfolded a piece of parchment from within his cloak—a map marked with troop movements and sigils.

Renly's confident smile faltered slightly, his fingers tightening around the stem of his goblet. "And you know this how?" he demanded, skepticism lacing his tone.

"We have friends in many ports," Harry Strickland said smoothly. "Friends who hear many things. The North and the Riverlands have united under the dragon banner."

"If that's true..." Loras began, his brow furrowing.

"If," Renly emphasized, raising a hand to forestall further comment. "That's a rather large if, my friends. Ned Stark helped Robert win his crown. He lost family to the Targaryens. Why would he suddenly support this boy?" He rose from his chair, pacing slowly across the room.

The blue-haired youth's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Perhaps Lord Stark knows something you don't," he suggested, his tone almost teasing.

"Or perhaps you're selling me pretty lies," Renly countered sharply. "The Lannisters can burn for all I care, but you're suggesting that two Great Houses have turned against the crown. That's not something that happens without proof." He stopped pacing, turning to fix the youth with a penetrating stare.

"Where's your proof about the Starks and Tullys?" Loras demanded, stepping forward. "Why would Lord Stark suddenly turn against his oldest friend?"

"Because Lord Stark fights for his own blood now. His nephew." His gaze was steady, meeting Loras's challenge without flinching.

"Nephew?" Loras's brow furrowed deeply, confusion clouding his features. "What nephew?"

Renly sighed heavily, setting down his wine on a nearby table adorned with an intricate map of Westeros. "I should have told you sooner, Loras," he admitted, rubbing his temples. "A messenger arrived at Storm's End weeks ago. The boy in Dorne... he claims to be Jaehaerys Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark."

"What?" Loras's face drained of color, his usual composure slipping. "By the Seven, Renly! Why didn't you tell me? My grandmother needs to know this! House Tyrell can't just—" He ran his hands through his tousled curls, frustration evident in every gesture. "I should have written to her immediately, not just accepted your dismissals about some 'dragon boy' in Dorne!"

"Calm yourself, Loras," Renly said soothingly, though his eyes betrayed his own concern. He placed a reassuring hand on Loras's shoulder. "I didn't want to alarm you without confirmation. Rumors can be dangerous, and I'm sure your grandmother already knows this. This letter was most likely sent to all important Houses of Westeros."

The blue-haired youth stepped forward, his eyes meeting Renly's unflinchingly. "Blood is thicker than friendship, Lord Renly," he remarked pointedly. "Yes, Lord Stark and Robert Baratheon were as close as brothers once. But Jaehaerys is his sister's son. His true-born nephew."

"But after what the Mad King did..." Loras protested weakly, his gaze shifting between Renly and the youth. "How can they trust another Targaryen?"

"The grandfather's sins need not be visited upon the grandson," the youth replied firmly. "Especially when that grandson was raised in Dorne."

Renly's eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into his gaze. "You seem very well-informed about this boy's history," he observed, his tone cautious.

The red-haired man cleared his throat. "We intercepted another message," he explained, producing a sealed scroll bearing the sigil of House Tully—a leaping trout on a field of blue and red. "House Tully has officially declared for Jaehaerys Targaryen. They've sent word to the Red Keep itself."

"Have they now?" Renly mused, his mind visibly racing. He began pacing again. "And where does House Tyrell stand in all this?" He cast a sidelong glance at Loras.

"The Reach hasn't declared yet," Harry said carefully. "Though with these developments..."

"Knowing my grandmother as well as I do, I think she will wait and see first before making a decision. Robert and his Lannister army must have already fought against the Targaryen boy near the snake passage, if things have gone well, the boy must be dead by now."

Renly suddenly thought of Robert's chances of survival. He was nowhere near the warrior that he used to be. "If Robert is dead..." Renly began quietly, almost to himself.

"My lord?" Loras looked up sharply, concern evident in his voice.

"Think about it," Renly continued, his eyes gleaming with newfound ambition. "If Robert has fallen, and given what we know about his supposed children..." He paused, a dark smile tugging at his lips. "The throne would rightfully pass to me." His gaze swept over the room, gauging reactions.

The blue-haired youth tilted his head, a hint of skepticism in his eyes. "Wouldn't it pass to Lord Stannis first?" he asked innocently.

"Stannis?" Renly laughed, a short, dismissive sound. "My dear brother who's so busy burning people on Dragonstone he can't be bothered to attend court? The realm needs someone who can unite people, not divide them. Someone who understands power isn't just about right of birth, but about making the right alliances."

"And you believe you're that someone?" the youth queried, one eyebrow arched.

"I know I am," Renly declared, straightening to his full height. "The Starks and Tullys support this boy because of blood. The Lannisters will fight for their own survival. But what about those who haven't chosen sides yet? The Reach, the Vale, the Stormlands..." He spread his hands wide, as if encompassing all of Westeros.

"You're talking about civil war," Loras said quietly, the weight of the words sinking in.

"I'm talking about opportunity," Renly corrected sharply. "If Robert is dead, and his children are bastards, then I am the rightful king. And if this Targaryen boy wants to press his claim..." He turned his gaze back to the Golden Company representatives, a calculating look in his eyes. "Well, that's why you're here, isn't it?"

Harry Strickland nodded slowly, a subtle smile playing on his lips. "Twenty thousand men, ready to serve the rightful king," he affirmed. "Men seasoned in battle, loyal and disciplined."

"And what of my family?" Loras interjected, his voice steadying. "The Reach could field sixty thousand men." He met Renly's gaze, a silent understanding passing between them.

"Then perhaps," Renly said, placing a hand on Loras's armored shoulder, "it's time you wrote that letter to your grandmother after all. Tell her everything—about the dragon boy, about Robert's children, about the Golden Company's offer. Let her decide where House Tyrell's true interests lie." His tone was persuasive, almost conspiratorial.

The blue-haired youth watched this exchange with keen interest. "And if the boy proves to be what he claims? If he truly is Rhaegar's son?" he pressed gently.

"Then he's still just a boy," Renly declared dismissively. "A boy with a few Dornish spears and some northern allies. I am a man grown, with the might of the Stormlands behind me, and perhaps soon, the Reach as well." He lifted his goblet in a toast, the ruby wine sloshing slightly. "To new alliances, my friends. And to opportunities seized."

Renly set down his goblet, his eyes meeting those of the blue-haired youth once more. "It seems we all have much to consider," he said thoughtfully. "The days ahead will be... interesting."

"Indeed," the youth replied softly, a mysterious smile playing on his lips. "May we all choose wisely."

Harry Strickland and his companions exchanged glances before the commander spoke. "We will take our leave, Lord Renly. There are preparations to be made, and we await your decision."

Renly nodded. "You shall have it soon. In the meantime, make yourselves comfortable within my walls. You are my honored guests."

As the Golden Company representatives turned to depart, Loras touched Renly's arm lightly. "Are you certain about this?" he whispered, concern etching lines across his youthful face.

Renly gave a faint smile. "Certain of what, Loras? That the realm is on the brink of upheaval? That we stand at the precipice of a new era?" He glanced toward the closed doors where their guests had just exited. "Opportunities like this come but once in a lifetime. We must be bold."

Loras hesitated before nodding slowly. "Then I will write to my grandmother at once."

"Good," Renly replied, clapping him on the shoulder. "Together, we shall shape the future of Westeros."

Highgarden

The late afternoon sun filtered through the stained glass windows of Olenna Tyrell's solar, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the polished oak desk where the Queen of Thorns sat, straight-backed and imperious. Each pane depicted intricate scenes of blooming roses entwined with golden vines, the pride of House Tyrell. The scent of roses wafted in from the sprawling gardens below, mingling with the subtle fragrance of the lemoncakes laid out on a silver tray.

Margaery stood by the arched window, her silk dress rustling softly as she shifted. The gown was of emerald green, embroidered with gold thread in the shape of creeping vines and tiny blossoms. Her chestnut hair cascaded over her shoulders in loose curls, adorned with a simple golden tiara shaped like a wreath of roses. 

Willas leaned on his ornate cane near the fireplace, the carved ivory handle depicting a rampant rose.

Left and Right, the twin behemoths who served as Olenna's personal guards, sealed the chamber with a resonant thud of the heavy oak door reinforced with iron bands. Clad in matching suits of plate armor etched with the Tyrell sigil, their faces were hidden behind visored helmets. They stood like statues flanking the entrance, their massive hands resting on the pommels of their greatswords as Lord Tyrell entered.

"Well?" Olenna's voice cut through the silence like a blade. Her piercing eyes settled on Randyll Tarly, taking in every detail from his worn leather jerkin to the hard lines etched into his face. "I assume you haven't come all this way to admire my tapestries, Lord Tarly. What do you want?"

Randyll Tarly stood rigid in his leather jerkin, the insignia of House Tarly—a striding huntsman—embroidered over his heart. "Lady Olenna, I come with an offer that will determine whether House Tyrell flourishes or burns."

"How dramatic," Olenna drawled, reaching for her goblet of Arbor Gold, the finest vintage from the Reach. "Do you practice these speeches in front of a mirror, Lord Tarly? Next you'll tell us winter is coming, like those dreary Starks." A faint smirk played on her lips as she took a measured sip.

"Speaking of Starks," Randyll's voice hardened, his gaze unwavering, "this concerns their kin. The Targaryen boy."

"Ah," Olenna's eyes glittered with keen interest. "I wondered when we'd get to that. House Tarly's famous loyalty to the dragons. Tell me, do you still dream of the days when your ancestors knelt to Aegon the Conqueror?"

"The boy is Jaehaerys Targaryen," Randyll declared, his voice steady as stone, "trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark."

Margaery turned from the window, her voice honey-sweet but her eyes as sharp as a dagger's edge. "Yes, we gathered as much from his letter, Lord Tarly. Though you seem to have more to say on the matter." She moved to stand beside her grandmother.

"He will not show mercy to those who oppose him," Randyll's gaze locked with Olenna's, a silent challenge. "The time for choosing sides is now, Lady Olenna. Before it's too late."

"Is that a threat, Lord Tarly?" Olenna's voice dropped dangerously low. "You come to my home to threaten me with a boy hiding in Dorne?" Her fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet, knuckles whitening.

"He's not hiding anymore," Randyll said, his expression unflinching. "And he's not alone."

"Yes, yes, he has the Dornish spears, the Stark wolves, and the Tully fish," Olenna waved her hand dismissively, her rings—a collection of emeralds and sapphires—catching the light. "Impressive, but—"

"He has a dragon."

The words fell like stones in still water. Olenna's hand froze halfway to her goblet, her face draining of color. Willas straightened, his cane forgotten as he took a step forward, eyes wide with disbelief. Margaery's perfect composure cracked for just a moment, her lips parting in silent astonishment.

"You're lying," Olenna whispered, but there was a tremor in her voice that her grandchildren had never heard before.

"I've seen it with my own eyes," Randyll said quietly, each word deliberate and unassailable. "His scales are red like blood, with black markings along its wings. The last time I saw it was last year, and it was already too big. I don't think I want to know how big that dragon is now.

Silence filled the solar, broken only by the distant call of birds in the garden below and the soft ticking of the ornate clock on the mantelpiece.

"You... you've seen it?" Olenna's legendary wit seemed to have deserted her. She searched Randyll's face for any hint of deceit but found none.

"Personally?" Willas echoed his scholarly mind racing. "A dragon of that size... It's unprecedented in our lifetime."

"I watched it circle above my own home. Trust me that thing is massive, and it's fire is way too real," Randyll confirmed, his gaze distant for a moment. "I heard its roar shake the very stones beneath my feet. This is no mummer's trick, my lady. The dragons have returned."

Willas limped forward, his curiosity overcoming his shock. "How does it compare to historical accounts? Balerion the Black Dread was said to—"

"This isn't the time for your histories, grandson," Olenna snapped, regaining some of her composure. She shot him a pointed look before turning back to Randyll. "Why are you really here, Lord Tarly? To gloat? To threaten? Or perhaps to suggest that House Tarly might speak for House Tyrell when the dragon comes?"

"I'm here because, despite our differences, I don't wish to see Highgarden become a second Harrenhal," Randyll replied evenly. "The boy already has the North, the Riverlands, and Dorne. I don't know what the Vale will do but if Lady Lysa Arryn is half as smart as an inbecile, she will surrender, otherwise Eyrie will become a burning mountain." He paused, allowing the three of them to understand what was happening.

Margaery moved to stand behind her grandmother's chair, placing a hand on Olenna's shoulder. "And what of the Stormlands? What of King Robert?" she asked softly, her eyes never leaving Randyll's face.

"King Robert will be dead soon. He and his Lannister army are marching to the Snake's pass, but my King will burn their armies to the ground. Tywin Lannister will be forced to retreat to Harrenhal with whatever army he has left and try to install one of the bastards of Cersei Lannister as King of Westeros, and hope he can gather enough support against a dragon. Stannis Baratheon is isolated on Dragonstone, and Renly..." He let the name hang in the air before continuing. "Well, I hear he's been entertaining interesting visitors lately."

"The Golden Company," Margaery said softly. "Loras's letter mentioned them."

Olenna drummed her fingers on the desk, the rhythmic tapping echoing like a distant drumbeat. Her mind was a whirlwind of calculations and strategies. "So. A Targaryen boy with a genuine claim, a dragon, half the realm's support, and the Lannisters scrambling to hold power with false heirs." She fixed Randyll with a penetrating stare. "And you've already pledged Horn Hill to his cause, haven't you?"

"I have," Randyll admitted without hesitation. "And I'm not alone. Houses Florent, Hightower, Redwyne, and others are ready to declare for him. The question is, Lady Olenna, will House Tyrell lead the Reach in supporting the true king, or will you stand alone against a dragon?"

"The true king," Olenna mused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Tell me, Lord Tarly, what is he like, this dragon prince?"

"He is as handsome as Rhaegar but with dark hair and purple eyes," Randyll replied, his voice softening slightly. "He killed the Mountain, that alone makes him one of the best swordsman in the Realm. A true Targaryen. But the North's steel runs in his veins. He's well-educated, skilled with a sword, and..." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "He has a sense of justice that reminds me of his father."

Margaery remembered the days when she knew him only as Jon Sand. She remembered the way he killed the Mountain, and now that same boy has a dragon. She wondered if he was married to anyone, of course, she remembered the way Princess Arianne Martell was looking at him, and she wondered if the two were already betrothed.

"And is he unmarried?" Margaery added quietly, a subtle smile playing on her lips.

"Prince Jaehaerys is betrothed to Princess Arianne Martell of Dorne," he replied. "The marriage alliance was one of the first acts that sealed Dorne's support. A union of fire and sand."

Margaery's smile didn't waver, though something flickered in her eyes—a brief shadow of disappointment perhaps. Olenna watched her granddaughter carefully, noting the slight tension in her shoulders and the way her fingers tightened ever so slightly around the fabric of her gown.

"A wise match," Olenna commented dryly, tapping a finger against the armrest of her chair. "Though I imagine Princess Arianne had to work quite hard to secure it. The Dornish aren't known for their subtlety, nor their patience." She arched an eyebrow, her gaze sharp as a hawk's.

"You need to decide soon, Lady Olenna," Randyll pressed, his tone brooking no nonsense. "Renly Baratheon gathers swords, thinking he can challenge a dragon with steel and pride." His gaze shifted meaningfully to Margaery before returning to Olenna. "It might be time to recall your grandson Loras from Storm's End, unless you wish to see him become ash alongside his... friend."

The emphasis he placed on the last word made his meaning clear. Olenna's eyes narrowed dangerously. Left and Right exchanged subtle glances but remained motionless.

"How kind of you to show such concern for my grandson's welfare, Lord Tarly," she said acidly, her voice like the crack of a whip. "Though I suspect your warning comes from a place of political expedience rather than genuine care."

"Call it what you will," Randyll replied evenly, meeting her gaze without flinching. "The fact remains that dragon fire burns all the same, whether it falls on friend or foe. I would hate to see promising young men perish due to misplaced loyalties."

Olenna drummed her fingers on the desk for a moment. "Very well," she said finally, her tone measured. "House Tyrell will support Prince Jaehaerys's claim."

"A wise choice," Randyll nodded, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "Now, if I might have a private word with you, Lady Olenna?"

"Grandmother—" Willas began as he took a step forward, his cane tapping lightly on the marble floor.

But Olenna raised her hand, silencing him. "Leave us," she commanded, her gaze not leaving Randyll's face. "Both of you."

Margaery and Willas exchanged glances before offering respectful bows. "As you wish," Margaery said softly. They departed the room, the heavy door closing behind them with a resonant thud that echoed in the stillness. Left and Right remained at their posts, as immobile as statues.

"Speak," Olenna said curtly, folding her hands in her lap.

"I want a betrothal between your granddaughter Margaery and my son Dickon," Randyll stated bluntly, his eyes cold and calculating.

Olenna's eyes flashed dangerously. "You dare—"

"I dare because I could have marched here with my army," Randyll cut in, his voice hard as iron. "I could have let you learn about the dragon when it appeared in your skies. Instead, I came to warn you, to give House Tyrell a chance to choose the right side before it's too late."

"How generous of you," Olenna's voice dripped with sarcasm, her lips curling into a mirthless smile. "And in return, you want my granddaughter for your son? A bold move, Lord Tarly. Bold, but not unexpected."

"More than that," Randyll leaned forward, resting his hands on the back of a chair. "I want an alliance between our houses sealed in blood. A child of Margaery and Dickon will be betrothed to a future child of King Jaehaerys and Princess Arianne."

"You presume much," Olenna said coldly, her gaze piercing. "What makes you think the king would agree to such an arrangement?"

"Because I've already discussed it with him," Randyll smiled thinly, a predator sensing victory. "He understands the importance of binding the realm together through marriage. The Dornish princess gives him the south, the Stark blood gives him the north, and this arrangement would secure the Reach for generations to come."

Olenna was silent for a long moment, studying Randyll's face as if searching for cracks in his armor. "You've thought this through carefully, haven't you?" she said finally. "Playing both sides—appearing merciful by warning us while holding your army as a threat. Did you learn such tactics from us, the Tyrells, Lord Tarly?"

"I learned from watching you, my lady," Randyll replied bluntly. "You taught the Reach that power comes not just from swords, but from alliances and marriages. I'm merely following your example."

"And if I refuse?" Olenna's voice was quiet but laced with steel.

"Then I ride back to Horn Hill, gather my banners, and return with less peaceful intentions," he stated flatly, straightening to his full height. "The choice is yours, Lady Olenna. A marriage alliance that strengthens both our houses, or..."

"Or fire and blood," Olenna finished, her expression unreadable. She reached for her wine, taking a long sip before speaking again.

"Dickon is your heir now, isn't he?" she asked, setting down her goblet with a soft clink. "Since you sent poor Samwell to the Wall?"

"My son is a worthy match for your granddaughter," Randyll said stiffly, a flicker of defensiveness in his eyes. "Strong, skilled in arms, and educated in the ways of leadership."

"Unlike your firstborn?" Olenna's smile was sharp as a dagger. "Tell me, Lord Tarly, will you send my great-grandchildren to the Wall if they prefer books to swords?"

"My lady—"

"No, no, don't answer that," Olenna waved her hand dismissively, a hint of mockery in her tone. "I'll consider your proposal, but I have conditions of my own."

"Name them," Randyll said, his jaw tightening.

"First, Margaery must meet Dickon and approve of him herself. I'll not have her married to someone she despises, dragon or no dragon," she declared firmly.

Randyll nodded reluctantly. "Agreed."

"Second, the betrothal agreement will include provisions for any children to be fostered at Highgarden," she continued. "They will know their Tyrell heritage as well as their Tarly blood."

"That's acceptable," he conceded.

"And third," Olenna's eyes glittered with unmistakable intent, "you will support Willas as Lord Paramount of the Reach when the time comes. No machinations, no attempts to usurp his position through this marriage alliance."

"You have my word," Randyll said solemnly, placing a hand over his heart.

"Your word?" Olenna laughed lightly, though her eyes remained cold. "Oh, my dear Lord Tarly, I'll have it in writing, signed and sealed before the Seven. I may be old, but I'm not foolish enough to trust in words alone."

Randyll's jaw tightened further, but he nodded. "Very well. Shall we draw up the agreements?"

"Not today," Olenna said, rising gracefully from her chair. She moved toward a nearby table where a vase of freshly cut roses stood. "Send Dickon to Highgarden first. Let the children meet. Then we'll discuss the details of this... arrangement."

"As you wish," Randyll replied, inclining his head.

As he turned to leave, Olenna called after him, her voice carrying a razor's edge. "One more thing, Lord Tarly. The next time you try to threaten me in my own solar, remember that roses have thorns, and they can draw blood just as surely as swords."

Randyll paused at the door, his hand resting on the ornate handle. A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "And remember, my lady, that even the sweetest roses can burn," he retorted before exiting, the door closing behind him with a decisive click.

Left and Right shifted subtly, their gazes following Randyll until he was out of sight.

She moved back to her desk, her fingers brushing over the intricate carvings of entwined roses and thorns. The weight of decisions pressed upon her, heavy as a millstone.

"Grandmother?" Margaery's soft voice interrupted her thoughts as she stepped back into the room, concern etched on her face.

"Enter, child," Olenna beckoned, her gaze softening ever so slightly.

"Are you all right?" Margaery asked, moving to her side. "What did Lord Tarly want?"

"Much and more," Olenna sighed, placing a gentle hand on her granddaughter's cheek. "But nothing we can't handle."

"He wishes for me to marry his son," Margaery stated rather than asked, her eyes searching Olenna's.

"Perceptive as always," Olenna nodded. "How do you feel about that?"

"I've heard Dickon is brave and honorable," Margaery replied thoughtfully. "But I know little else of him."

"Then we shall arrange for you to meet," Olenna said. "But remember, marriage is a tool, my dear—a means to an end. In these times, we must use every advantage at our disposal."

Margaery nodded slowly. "And what of Loras?"

Olenna's expression grew serious. "We must recall him from Storm's End. The winds are changing, and I will not have him caught in a storm not of his making."

"I will write to him at once," Margaery offered.

"Good," Olenna agreed. "And send word to your father. We have much to prepare for."

The Eyrie

Lysa Arryn paced the High Hall of the Eyrie, her skirts swishing against the blue-veined marble floor. The morning light streaming through the narrow windows cast long shadows across the hall, making the throne seem even more imposing than usual. Her sweet Robin sat upon it, absently picking at the carved birds on the armrest.

"Mother," he whined, "I want to see someone fly!"

"Not now, sweetling," Lysa muttered, her eyes fixed on the sealed letter in her hands – another demand from Bronze Yohn Royce. The seal mocked her, bronze wax stamped with the runes of House Royce.

The doors burst open, and Ser Vance Corbray strode in, his face thunderous. "My lady, the lords of the Vale demand an audience. Again."

"Tell them I'm indisposed," Lysa snapped, crumpling the letter in her fist.

"They won't accept that answer anymore," Vance replied firmly. "Lord Royce, Lady Waynwood, and Lord Redfort are in the Crescent Chamber. They insist on speaking with you now."

Lysa's face flushed red. "How dare they! I am the Lady of the Vale! They can't demand—"

"They can when a dragon flies over the Bloody Gate!"

The words hung in the air like a death knell. Lysa's hands began to shake.

"W-what did you say?"

"A dragon, my lady. Black as night, bigger than any beast I've ever seen. The garrison at the Bloody Gate sent ravens. It circled three times before flying back east."

"No, no, no," Lysa muttered, wringing her hands. "Petyr said to wait. He said—"

"Lady Arryn," Vance's voice was hard now. "The lords are coming up. They'll break down the doors if they must."

As if on cue, heavy footsteps echoed from the corridor. Robin began to rock back and forth on the throne.

"Mother, I'm scared," he whimpered.

"Shh, sweetling, everything will be fine," Lysa rushed to his side, but her own voice quavered.

Bronze Yohn Royce's massive frame filled the doorway, with Lady Anya Waynwood and Lord Horton Redfort close behind. Their faces were set in stone.

"Enough of this madness, Lysa," Bronze Yohn's voice boomed across the hall. "While you hide in your tower, waiting for ravens from that serpent Baelish, our enemies gather at our gates."

"Petyr is not a serpent!" Lysa shrieked. "He's protecting us! He said—"

"He's protecting himself," Lady Waynwood cut in, her elegant features twisted in disgust. "While you follow his whispers like a lovesick girl, the Targaryen prince gains more allies each day. The North, Dorne, and now the Riverlands have declared for him."

"The Riverlands?" Lysa's voice was barely a whisper.

"Even your sick father knows when to bend the knee to a dragon," Lord Redfort said grimly. "Are we to be the only kingdom that stands apart? And for what? The schemes of a brothelkeeper?"

"Get out!" Lysa screamed, her face purpling. "Get out! I am the Lady of the Vale! I am—"

"You are a fool," Bronze Yohn stepped forward. "And we will not let you doom us all. The Vale's neutrality ends today."

"Guards!" Lysa called, but no one moved. Even Ser Vance looked away.

"Mother?" Robin's voice trembled. "I want to go back to bed."

"Your son needs help, Lysa," Lady Waynwood's voice softened slightly. "Let us send him to foster with my house. We can—"

"No one is taking my son!" Lysa grabbed Robin, pulling him close. "No one!"

"Then you leave us no choice," Bronze Yohn drew a scroll from his cloak. "By the authority of the Lords Declarant of the Vale, we hereby—"

A shadow passed over the windows, darkening the entire hall. A sound like thunder shook the very foundations of the Eyrie, and Robin began to scream.

"Dragon!" someone shouted from outside. "Dragon over the Vale!"

Lysa stumbled to the window, still clutching her son. There, against the bright morning sky, a massive black shape wheeled and turned, its wings spreading darkness across the valley below.

"Still want to wait for Littlefinger's instructions?" Bronze Yohn asked quietly.

Lysa sank to her knees, tears streaming down her face. All her plans, all her schemes with Petyr, crumbling like the mountains beneath the dragon's shadow. She thought of Jon Arryn, of the Tears of Lys, of all the whispered promises her love had made to her.

"What..." she swallowed hard, her voice barely audible. "What does the dragon prince want?"

"Fealty," Lady Waynwood answered. "And justice for all those who have wronged the realm."

Justice. The word echoed in Lysa's mind as the dragon's roar shook the Eyrie once more. She thought of Petyr's last letter, hidden in her bodice, and wondered how she can fix this, her Petyr needed her to stay strong, and she would do that no matter what, even if it means facing a dragon.

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