"Willas," you say as you walk up to the Tyrell heir, in the midst of small talk with one of his cousins as he is "You said you wanted to see the dragon up close?"
"Yes," said the Reachman noble with a growing smile "I would. Alinor, if you could forgive me..."
"No, of course," said the noblewoman with a simpering smile "Anything for you, Willas."
"My thanks," he said with a polite smile, as he leaned forward to kiss her on her cheeks "Now then, Lord Stormcrown... you spoke of your dragon?"
"His name is Valonqar," you explained "Quite young, as I imagine you already know. Black colouring with hints of red, and quite the temper."
"I'd imagine so," he says nonchalantly "Considering Loras told me said you'd attested to having to physically beat him into submission. Quite a feat, that. Especially for one without any Valyrian heritage, as is the common wisdom."
"Common wisdom holds many things to be true. I'd have thought a learned man might be more open to other possibilities."
"Well, when one has only a small number of proofs, one does what one can."
"Consider this a lesson in dragons, then."
By this time you had made your way to your dragon and guards, who stiffen up slightly upon seeing your arrival.
Well, the guards do. Valonqar is busy chewing on a truly massive hind leg, something resembling a cow. He looks up to see you near him, before ducking his head down to keep eating.
Gluttonous little shit.
"Valonqar, Willas. Willas, Valonqar."
"The scales are quite flexible," notes Willas as he nears the young dragon, bending over to examine Valonqar's back "Some are thicker than others I see, and the coloration is quite uneven. How long are his claws?"
"Long enough."
"I suppose, though I'm more curious as to the exact measurements. It's been "common wisdom" that a dragons' developmental cycle is dependent on their feeding grounds and living environs. The dragons of old Valyria were said to have been as large or larger than the Black Dread Balerion, a feat never replicated in Westeros. Some argued it was due to their being birthed and kept in the Dragonpit at King's Landing, but that could never be argued conclusively..."
"I let him sleep atop my tower. I had to chain him at first, but after a while he understood I'd be quite disappointed if he just flew off and burned down a farmstead."
"Funny how you talk about it," said Willas absently as he looks over its wings "Almost like it's a person."
"I'm quite fond of the uncommon wisdom," you say dryly "That anything that can kill you deserves the same amount of respect you would want from it."
"Considering you're reputed to be one of the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms, that doesn't leave many people for you to actually respect. Of course, deserving respect and receiving respect isn't the same thing, which in turn implies that you respect people who don't deserve it."
"You should have been a maester."
"My father suggested it," he says with a slight frown "On more than one occasion. He has certain thoughts as to what a lord should be and how a lord should act. I learned too late that his thoughts weren't to be held sacrosanct."
"Oh?"
"Let's just say, I'd not be using a cane today if I'd been a braver soul around your age. But the past is the past, as my mother often says."
"Speaking of members of your family," you offer bluntly "Who else need I fear, besides your grandmother and father?"
"Bold," he says as if to chide, though the smile on his face negates any such thoughts "But not many, my lord. My brothers are eager to meet you with crossed swords, and my sister and her handmaiden have been fed nothing but stories of your feted deeds, if little of your actual character. My cousins are a mixed bunch, and of course my mother is most grateful for whatever assistance you've supposedly rendered my aunts and uncles."
"So not all that bad, then?"
"My cousins follow my grandmother and father's thoughts in most things, seeing as they share the reigns of power in our family. Meaning any fortunate marriage beyond their station would need be arranged by them."
"Does your own hand count?" you quizzically offer "I saw how your cousin acted."
"They're all like that," he says dismissively "Thinking that just because I'm crippled I've suddenly become a hermit desperate for companionship. Doesn't hurt I'm heir to Highgarden of course, but my lord father wavers on that point every day. They'd love to be lady of Highgarden, of course. But they'll hedge their bets until the day my father dies. Or my grandmother, to be honest. She's done as much to keep me in place as heir as my father's thought of naming my brothers."
"I imagine he was most disappointed when Loras took up the white cloak, then? And you most gleeful."
"In part, though he was also gleeful that he could name a member of our family to be so distinguished. As for me... it was a relief, certainly. I love my brothers, my lord, and I know they would not seek to usurp me of their own will. But I know very well that Loras did not make his decision in concern of my prospects. He is his own man, as is Garlan."
"Ser Garlan the Gallant, for all that name is little-spoken outside the Reach."
"Were my father to hear that, he'd take it as insult and worse. But it is true, my brother cares little for battle-glory. You could offer him the Iron Throne and he'd not want it. No, my brother is a man at peace, for all that he prepares for war. He'd love nothing more than to retire to a manse with Leonette, and live out his days in peace until he died a greybeard in bed, surrounded by loved ones."
"A wise man, a peacemaker and king's man. No father could be prouder."
"A cripple, a homebody and a strutting peacock. No father could be less satisfied."
--
After that, you reluctantly depart from Willas's side, warning Valonqar to remain friendly and polite in your absence.
Now on his third leg of lamb, he doesn't even raise his head to acknowledge your departure.
Gluttonous little shit.
With Willas behind you however, it only proved respectful that you attend once more on Lord Mace Tyrell and his lady wife. Alerie Hightower had proven kinder to you than her lord husband, and perhaps that would continue to be the case upon your second meeting...
"My lady," you say in way of greeting as you bow your head in respect "I had not thought to give you my condolences beforehand. I beg your forgiveness, and say them now. Your lord father and lady sister are with the Seven, I hope."
"That I could not say," she says with candour "For my father and Malora were into the most dubious of matters."
You hesitate at her words, holding your tongue in awkwardness before she blesses you with a forgiving smile.
"I have fond childhood memories of Malora, Lord Stormcrown. Of playing with my sister when we were little, of toys and games and other such things children did. But I also have fouler memories, of my sister's madness overtaking her, of times when she'd hurt me, unthinking or otherwise. Of my father, retreating into himself, of sorcerers and mystics from across half the known world, of books of magic and demons and all sorts of fell lore.... I knew my family well, as did all my siblings. We grieve, but we rest as well. Their suffering is at an end."
"I can be glad of that, at least. Your brother Baelor is to be lord now, yes?"
"He has already been recognized by our family, yes. A good man, and one who has ruled Oldtown for many years already in my father's name."
"A fine example then, to his children."
"Of that I'm afraid, he has none. His wife Rhonda was proven to be barren many years prior, making younger brother Garth heir to Hightower. And he has never cared for the sanctity of marriage, so I suspect it will be Gunthor who will bring forth Hightower grandsons to continue the name."
"There's ten of you in all, isn't there? I counted myself blessed to have four."
"Ten in all, yes. Baelor, Garth, Gunthor and Humfrey are the sons. Malora was the eldest of the daughters, and I the second after her. Then came Denyse, then Leyla, then Alysanne and finally Lynesse. Ten of us through four mothers, enough mothers that Mace's still hasn't broken me of calling her that by default."
"The Lady Olenna... Willas said she cared little for me?"
"I wouldn't take it personally, my dear. She cares little for Mace, and he's her own son. Not that he doesn't justify it in his more stubborn moments, but my husband is a good man at heart. Just a little... proud and thin-skinned at the same time."
"A man with much to be proud of," you offer in compromise "A prospering family, rich lands, talented and beautiful children..."
"Am I to take that as anything other than hint towards my daughter, Lord Stormcrown?"
"And here I thought I was being clever, Lady Alerie."
"I've been beating off would-be suitors off my daughter since she was born, dearie. Both subtle and otherwise, so I'm afraid you should have come more prepared."
"I'm sorry then, I didn't mean to offend-"
"Oh shush," she says with a wag of her finger "Any more of your earnestness and I'll feel like I'm starving a kitten. Come, I'll introduce you to my Margaery. She's having Sera ward off any unwanted company today, so it's good you asked like a proper gentlemen."
--
"Mother," said a young noblewoman as she strode past you, greeting Alerie Hightower with a close hug "I'd thought you'd be at father's side for the rest of the day."
"Your father is happily reminiscing his victory over the king at Ashford," said the Hightower-born matriarch with a polite smile "Long enough to introduce you to a recent friend to House Hightower."
"Any friend to House Hightower is a friend to House Tyrell," said Margaery to you politely, extending her hand to you in courtesy "Though I do not believe we've met, Ser..."
"Lord," you say as you lean to kiss her offered hand "Lord Jon Stormcrown, my lady. Of the Riverlands."
"Of Harrenhal," she says in correction "Though perhaps the Riverlands would suit you better, considering your home's undesirable reputation. Tell me my lord, just what exactly did you do for House Hightower. I've not seen much of any of my uncles so far since our coming to Oldtown, and my mother has been ever so secretive."
"A secret not my place to tell, then. I can hardly slight your mother's wishes, after all."
"Oh, I can tell you're going to be difficult," she says in consideration "But that can wait a moment. My lord, if I could present to you my handmaiden, Lady Sera Durwell."
"My lady," you say in greeting as you kiss the handmaiden's own offered hand "A pleasure."
"I'm sure," she responds, with lesser warmth than Margaery "You're the new lord of Harrenhal, then? The one from all the stories?"
"Stories?" you say in faux confusion "If you're talking about the incident at the Whispers, I was not naked, no matter what any Westerlander dwarf tells you."
"No, I- wait, naked?"
"Yes," you patiently explain as Alerie and Margaery look on in amusement "There was only one ship, not a dozen. And I was still wearing my breeches and undershirt when I boarded, and I'll challenge any dwarf who says otherwise to a trial by combat."
"I... you're having me on, aren't you?"
"I could be," you say with a smile son returned "It's just stories... they've got this way of sounding quite ridiculous."
"We'll have to start chronologically then," intervened Margaery as her mother left you to your conversation "The sword of kings. Blackfyre. Loras had received word from Lord Renly that you'd bought it from a pittance from the Master of Coin. A Valyrian steel sword, for a pittance."
"I was lucky," you explain with an abashed smile "Incredibly, incredibly lucky. I'd only just come to Gulltown to take up pagehood under Ser Brynden, and Lord Baelish had been raised as a ward of his brother, Lord Hoster Tully. He'd graciously offered to see to my safe-keeping until Ser Brynden arrived, him and some guardsmen from House Stark. While I waited, we went into the city, to see what adventures could be had. I must have been no more than six or seven at the time. Lord Baelish at the time operated a warehouse selling goods recovered from sunk ships and impoverished debtors, and I'd gone in to have a look around. In one corner of the warehouse, there were the scraps. Ruined swords, waterlogged books, spoiled silk, that sort of thing. I'd only just seen the hilt of the sword, it's scabbard burnt and rusted from hilt to tip, so bad that they'd have to melt down the whole thing to get at it, and only if they knew what it held."
"So you seized opportunity, and bought it? I can't imagine the Master of Coin outright filching a seven year-old of hard-earned coin."
"It was only a small allowance to tide me over until Ser Brynden took charge of me. And he did offer to pay me back half the money I'd spent, or return it all if I'd changed my mind regarding it's purchase."
"Why didn't you?"
"I'd paid for it already," you said with a shrug "I could hardly be so niggardly when it had come at so cheap a price. So I took it, and then I spent months afterwards trying to figure out a way to melt everything off the hilt. Wound up setting up a big bonfire in one of the Sky Cells when the gaoler was sleeping off his drinking."
"A more honest man might have told him the truth," opined Sera, her eyes flitting to Margaery for support "Instead of robbing a man of a priceless weapon. There were some in the Reach who did not care for it, who called it a bastard's mark to steal so boldly."
"An honest man might have done as you said," you reply with a shrug "And he'd be poorer by a sword for it. As for the rest of it... I'm bastard born, ennobled or not. I won't ever care to pretend otherwise, or try to hide it. Men can call me bastard behind my back all they like, for I know they'll not say it to my face."
"A man who welcomes many enemies, then."
"A man with few left standing," you say with a shrug, as you turn your eyes to her mistress "Do you usually use your handmaiden as mouthpiece, my lady? I mean, she's quite good at it, to be fair. But it is getting rather tedious."
"Sera has been a close friend and companion for many years, my lord. I've learned to trust her judgement and her protectiveness."
"I can respect that, but it's still very annoying to have to speak through a middleman, or middle-woman, as it were. It hardly speaks to good will and good intentions."
"Am I take offense at that, or merely be apologetic and flustered?"
"Take it however you like, my lady. I'm only responsible for giving it to you."
From the mouth of babes...
Arlan?
"... You're certainly a curiosity, Jon Stormcrown. A blunter sword than I'd hoped, but not so blunt as to be dulled."
"Dulled, or dulling?"
"I suppose I've enough time to tell the difference. You are staying for the duration of the celebrations, are you not?"
"You'll have to suffer me for weeks more, yes. I've quite a while to go until I win the tourney, after all."
"You think you'll win?"
"I know I'll win."
"Hm. It is tradition to name a maiden Queen of Love and Beauty. I'm told that you named Princess Myrcella thus at your last."
"I did."
"But the princess isn't here for the celebrations."
"She isn't."
"So... who do you intend to name, if you're so expectant of victory. I'm told you've a few prospects, my cousin Desmera amongst them. Shall I be calling you cousin a year hence?"
"Who can say," you say with a shrug "I must confess I've thought little of the garland crown, or it's bearer."
"Not a romantic, then?"
"I'm too abashed and clumsy, I'm afraid."
"Still, I would hope for an answer, my lord. Any answer."
"An answer for an answer, then. Who bears your favour in the tourney?"
"Loras of course," she responded without hesitation "Who else but a maiden's brother to bear it?"
"I could think of a few who would dare hope."
"And hope they shall, for my brother shall bring me both crown and title of queen. Now, your answer my lord. To whom shall your crown go?"
[] Cerenna Lannister - "A daughter of the west, a cousin toe the royal children. Her uncle hopes to persuade me with a bountiful dowry."
[] Desmera Redwyne - "A cousin of yours, I believe. One whose brothers I am honoured to call friends."
[] Margaery Tyrell - "Why you, of course."
[] Mya Stone - "A dear friend, perhaps. One never forgotten."
[] Myranda Royce - "A friend from the Vale, my lady. Though I imagine her betrothed would be most aggrieved."
[] Play it Safe -"A surprise is a surprise, even to myself."
[] Sera Durwell - "Perhaps Lady Sera would be so honoured. She's certainly both of beauty and wit to deserve it."
[] Silent Sisters - "To brides of the Stranger, perhaps. They venerable carers of the dead."
(Note: This is not a lock-in. It's a statement of fact at this current juncture, one with implications down the line.)
--
After a few more minutes of polite conversation, the two had begged off, looking to join Lord Renly and Ser Loras at one of the balconies within the manse. As you looked around, the lady Alerie was deep in discussion with her lord husband, while the Tyrell maidens flitted about from group to group, acting as hostess and introducing themselves to unwitting guests. Willas had disappeared as well, and last you could tell had left Valonqar's side to see to something in the manse.
So it was then, that you girded your loins, and made way for your final battle of the evening. Striding up to an isolated pavilion guarded by two Tyrell household knights, you stopped before them with respect.
"Would the Lady Olenna permit me a moment?"
The two knights stood still and motionless, as if unwilling to respond. You sighed, before mimicking their stance.
"Look at us," you say without reservation "Three idiots standing with sticks up their arses."
That gets you a frown and a glare, with one of the knights dropping his hand to his sword...
"Try it," you say with a slight cheeriness "And I'll take you over my knee and spank you with it."
"Let him in," said an elderly voice from within the pavilion "For goodness sake, just let him in."
"My lady-"
"Do it, before he gives half our guests a show."
Frowning, the guards do so, stepping aside to permit you entry. With a small smile and a wave, you enter...
Only to seat yourself on a rather nice couch, right before the matriarch of House Tyrell.
"Lady Olenna," you say with pleasantness "A pleasure."
"Lord Stormcrown," says the dowager with a nod of her head "You made quite an entrance this fine day. Quite a sight you made, swooping in on your overgrown lizard. One might think you were trying to make a statement."
"I was," you say calmly enough "the statement is: I have a dragon. I'm sorry to hear you didn't quite catch it, but I suppose it was very subtle."
"How droll."
"Well," you say with some ease as you relax in your seat "I could say a bunch of flattering and simpering things, but I have it on very good word that you don't appreciate that kind of thing. I also have it on very good word that you don't care for me greatly."
"I don't. I find you to be an arrogant reckless fool of a boy, who is far luckier and braver than the Gods should have made him. I find you to be a danger to everyone around you, an errant child-knight with less sense in his head than what the heavens bestowed on a goat. That a boy-lord such as you is currently the master of one of four surviving dragons is a matter of great concern. That you are Lord of Harrenhal less so, but it is known that none who share the fortunes of that land to have ever truly prospered from it. House Tyrell is known for growing strong, not withering in the wastes."
"An opinion I suspect you share with your son?"
"Oh no, Mace's reasoning is far less nuanced. Quite simply put he dislikes you for who you are, rather than how you are. A northern-born bastard, raised in the Vale and lorded in the Riverlands. The bastard son of Ned Stark, the man who forced him to dip his banners at Storm's End? A bastard who bought the sword of kings for a pittance, who claimed what is said to be amongst the most fearsome fortresses in the Seven Kingdoms, who slew the Mountain that Rides, who is so highly placed in the king's counsel that he was entrusted with the avenging of his brother's deceased heirs and no doubt a multitude of other honours?"
"He thinks me up-jumped?"
"Yes, he does. For all that House Stark is older than House Tyrell, Mace so loves to boast of our marriages into House Gardener, of how that makes us as old as any living bloodlines in Westeros. As if we earned that claim through blood and sweat. We were stewards and castellans for hundreds of years before Aegon Targaryen ever deigned to uplift us into lords in our own right. And we have spent the last three hundred years trying to hold onto that gifted power, trying to pretend we're everything others say we're not, trying to gain every advantage, every connection we can to make that a reality."
"I can't speak to any degree regarding House Tyrell," you offer quietly "But I can defend myself, can I not?"
"Oh, please do. I have such a fondness for boy-lords trying to explain their own foolishness. I saw my own son and nephew turn it into art-form on more than one occasion."
[] Write In (Own up to deeds, be witty, smack down fucking rumours, and make effort to have a proper conversation)
