Chapter 16 - Interlude - The Ladies of the Reach

Margaery Tyrell

The viewing stands were not as packed as they would be tomorrow for the jousting, but there were still plenty of people watching the archery. Margaery loved it all—the bright banners snapping in the wind, the way the sun made everything seem to glow, the excited buzz of voices around her. This was her favorite part of tournaments, even more than the fighting itself. All the colors and the pageantry and the way everyone dressed in their finest clothes.

From her seat in the Tyrell viewing box, she could see banners from houses all across the Reach. She knew all of those by heart. Grandmother had made sure of it. The red and green apples of the Fossoways. The golden tree of House Rowan. The three beehives of House Beesbury, which was a favorite of hers after she saw three hives perched up on an old stables’ rafters in Highgarden. The kitty and jug of the Lyberrs.

But there were banners from all over Westeros too, and some of those she did not know as well. A giant in broken chains—that was House Umber from the North, she was almost certain. The pretty dancing lady which could only be House Piper of Pinkmaiden. A bronze disc with runes and dots that Willas had told her was House Royce from the Vale. The twin towers of House Frey. Others she could not place at all: a green hood, red lions, purple unicorns.

Across from the noble stands, crowds of smallfolk packed the hillocks like ants on a disturbed anthill, using the slopes as improvised seats. They were louder than the nobles, cheering and shouting whenever an archer hit the target.

Margaery leaned forward in her seat, gripping the wooden railing in front of her. Down on the archery range, Ser Galad stood with his bow, looking as calm as if he were in a garden instead of competing in front of hundreds of people. Two other archers stood with him, Lord Tytos Blackwood with his raven-black hair, and a young knight from the Westerlands that someone had said was Ser Addam Marbrand.

Holding her breath, Margaery watched as Ser Galad drew his bow, aimed high, and loosed all in one smooth movement. It looked so easy when he did it, like breathing.

The other two archers took three times as long to shoot. Lord Tytos had managed a bullseye too, the arrow striking right in the center of the target. But Ser Addam's arrow hit near the edge.

Margaery waited, her hands squeezing the rail so tight her knuckles turned white. Across the range, a flag-boy waved his arms, then raised a red flag high.

She exploded in cheers. "Yes! Yes!"

Beside her, Loras grabbed her in a hug and they jumped together, bouncing on the wooden bench until Mother gave them a look that said to settle down. But even Mother was smiling.

"Another bullseye," Willas said from her other side, shaking his head in amazement. "Unbelievable."

"He is going to win, is he not?" Aunt Lynesse leaned forward, looking down at Ser Galad with the same dreamy eyes that Mother got when she looked at Father. Margaery recognized it because her grandmother had pointed it out once, calling it 'that silly look.'

"I would be surprised if he did not," Uncle Baelor said. "Truly impressive. Three in a row now. Never seen such fine shooting."

"He told us he's been hunting his whole life," Willas said, his voice carrying that proud tone he got when talking about things he knew. "Said he was grateful to Father for allowing the smallfolk to hunt game in the woods around Dunstonbury."

Father sat up straighter in his seat, preening like one of the peacocks that wandered the gardens at Highgarden. Margaery loved making Father happy by saying nice things about him. It always worked.

"Come now, Willas," Father said, waving a hand modestly. "It would be presumptuous of me to take credit for his skills. I am, however, glad my foresight has allowed the Reach to produce such a fine knight."

Grandmother snorted at that, covering her mouth with her hand. She always found Father incredibly funny, though Margaery did not always understand why. Sometimes Grandmother laughed at things that did not seem like jokes at all.

"What do you think, Father?" Uncle Baelor asked.

Grandfather Leyton hummed, staring quietly at the archers below. He was Mother's father, which made him her grandfather too, even though her mother called Lady Olenna 'Mother' and sometimes got confused about it all. "What is there to say? The boy is the finest archer since Ser Brynden Rivers, and that's no weirwood bow there. And if the stories are true, a master swordsman as well."

"And?" Uncle Baelor pressed.

Grandfather Leyton shrugged. "Curious, for a woodsman trained only by a common knight. What did you say the man's name was?"

"Ser Garin Sand, grandfather," Willas answered.

Leyton raised an eyebrow. "Ah yes, a Dornish bastard. Curious indeed." He turned to look at Grandmother Olenna.

She looked back at him, one eyebrow raised in the same way she always did. Margaery had been practicing that look in her mirror, but she could not get it quite right yet.

Grandfather gave her a small smile. "What did you find out, my lady? Sate this old man's curiosity."

Grandmother gave him what she called her 'gummy smile,' the one that made her look sweet even when Margaery knew she was being clever. "Only because we share aching knees and failing eyes, Leyton. And because you asked so dearly." She shifted in her seat. "He was a knight of no great renown, it seems. Fought in the Stepstones under the Targaryens, then had a minor post at the City Watch in King's Landing. As uninteresting as most men obsessed with their pointy sticks tend to be."

"Come now, dear. I have known the Queen of Thorns since before I knew my first wife. You would not have even bothered speaking up if that was all there was to it."

Grandmother's smile grew wider. "Sharp men are worse than blood hounds. Your poor wife.” Lady Rhea, her grandfather’s fourth wife and younger than him by half, looked down to her lap with flushed cheeks. Olenna snorted. “Well, Leyton, it came to my ears that a Garin Sand was born to a Blackmont daughter many years ago. The mother died in the birthing bed, and the girl's father could not stand to see his daughter's sin so openly in his castle. The boy was sent to live somewhere else, then. Far enough not to be a nuisance. Close enough his grandfather could keep an eye on him." She paused. "I imagine you can guess where."

Grandfather Leyton grunted in agreement, turning to look down at Ser Galad on the field. "Starfall."

Willas gasped then. "House Dayne." His eyes went wide as he looked toward the archery range. "Does that mean...?" He trailed off.

Everyone in the viewing box went quiet for a moment. Even Father stopped smiling. Margaery scrunched up her face, trying to understand what they were saying. Grandmother had been teaching her about noble houses and their histories since she first started to walk, making her memorize sigils and seats and all sorts of things that seemed boring until suddenly they became important.

Then it clicked, like a door opening in her mind, and her heartbeat got faster.

Loras nudged her with his elbow. "What are they saying?" he whispered.

Margaery turned to him, leaning close so the adults would not hear. "That Ser Galad might have come from a fallen star."

Loras' eyes went wide as saucers. "Truly?"

Margaery nodded sagely, the way Grandmother did when she knew something important. She had always known Ser Galad was special, from the very first day in his cabin when he had saved them all. But now Grandmother had all but confirmed it!

Down below, the archery competition continued. The targets were moved farther and farther away until they looked tiny from where Margaery sat. She watched every shot Ser Galad took, holding her breath each time. It took fifteen more minutes of shooting before the final round.

One hundred paces. The distance seemed impossible, but Ser Galad drew his bow and shot three times in quick succession. Margaery could barely see the arrows fly, but she saw the flag-boys wave their red flags.

Three bullseyes.

She cheered so loudly that Mother had to put a hand on her shoulder, but Margaery did not care. When the master of games announced Ser Galad's victory and a purse of five thousand gold dragons, she clapped until her hands hurt.

A nudge on her shoulder made her turn. Aunt Lynesse was giving her a look: eyes bright, a little smile that meant they shared a secret.

Caught up in the excitement, Margaery had almost forgotten their plan! She gave her aunt a firm nod and dashed across the viewing box toward Mother. Standing on her toes, she whispered her request in Lady Alerie's ear.

Mother smiled down at her. "Very well, my sweet. But take Willas and some guards along with you."

Margaery hurried back to her seat and confirmed with Lynesse that they had permission. Lynesse's face brightened up like a candle being lit.

Before Margaery could go tell Willas, Loras appeared beside her.

"Where are you going?" he asked, frowning.

"To the shops in Lannisport," Lynesse answered for her.

"And you're not invited," Margaery added, sticking her tongue out at him.

Loras shrugged, sniffing. "As if I wanted to go anyway."

Grinning at her little deception, which Grandmother told her to practice sometimes, Margaery was quick to convince Willas to accompany them when she mentioned Ser Galad would be there. Her oldest brother always wanted to spend time with Ser Galad, asking him questions about swordwork and hunting and everything else.

Of course, if she’d told Loras that Ser Galad would be going too, then he would’ve agreed in an instant. But Margaery had plans of her own, and a little child like Loras would only get in her way. He was only a year younger than her, it was true, but she was basically grown already compared to him. He could be very silly sometimes. 

The two of them, along with Lynesse and four guardsmen in Tyrell livery, made their way down from the stands. The wooden steps creaked under their feet, and Margaery had to hold up her skirts so she would not trip. They eventually found Ser Galad speaking in hushed tones with the master of games near the archery range. Garlan stood nearby, grinning like he had just won a prize himself, carefully holding his knight's bow.

Garlan made a confused face when he saw them approaching. "What are you all doing here?"

Margaery broke into a wide grin. "We're taking Ser Galad to the shops for new clothes!"

Garlan turned to Willas, tilting his head in confusion.

Willas sighed and shrugged. "They have a point. He will sit at the high table along with the other champions at the final feast. He will need finer clothing than he has gotten so far, and a proper sigil besides."

Garlan made an 'O' with his mouth, nodding.

Finished with the master of games, Ser Galad turned to face them as if he had known they were there all along. He gave them a soft smile, which Margaery thought made him look like the knights in her storybooks, kind and noble and handsome.

"Ser Galad! I knew you would win!" Margaery ran forward, almost tripping over her skirts in her excitement.

Ser Galad bowed to her, a proper bow like she was a great lady. "I would have never managed without your trust in me, my lady."

Margaery beamed at him, her cheeks hurting from smiling so wide.

"You have my congratulations on your victory, ser." Willas gave Galad a deeper bow than was proper for a lord's son to give a landless knight. "If you will have me, I would be much obliged for some lessons in marksmanship."

"Thank you, my lord. And of course, you are more than welcome to join me and your brother for practice one of these days."

"I suppose I would not mind that," Garlan said, giving Willas a cheeky smile.

Then Aunt Lynesse stepped forward. She had been standing to the side, watching them interact, and now her smile grew sharper, the kind of smile Mother got when she was planning something.

"Ser Galad, that was the most magnificent shooting I have ever witnessed," Lynesse said, her voice going all soft and musical. "You made it look as easy as if you were guiding the arrow with but a thought. I cannot imagine the years of dedication it must have taken to achieve such mastery."

She stepped closer to him, and Margaery noticed how pretty her aunt looked today in her pale blue gown that matched her eyes. "Oh, how forgetful of me. I am Lynesse Hightower, ser, daughter to Lord Leyton Hightower of Oldtown." She offered him her hand, palm down.

Ser Galad kept the same gentle smile on his face. Taking her much smaller hand in his, he brushed his lips against the back of it. "Thank you, my lady. I passed through Oldtown on my way to the Iron Islands. Only such a beautiful city could produce a lady like you."

Margaery saw how Lynesse's cheeks turned pink, then red. She smiled too. She knew that Ser Galad would have to marry someone one day. He was a great knight, and great knights always had the best wives in the stories. So it was obvious that if he should marry anyone, it should be her nice Aunt Lynesse. She was beautiful and kind, and she had already told Margaery she thought Ser Galad was quite dashing. It was perfect!

"Now come, ser!" Margaery said, running up to him and taking his hand. His hand was warm and rough with calluses, so different from Father's soft hands. "We have much to do today. Auntie Lynesse has been to Lannisport before and she knows all the best shops!"

"Shops?" Galad asked, though he allowed himself to be pulled along.

"Young auntie!" Lynesse said quickly, a hint of embarrassment in her voice. "I am only ten and seven, dear Marge."

Margaery nodded enthusiastically. "I know, auntie." As if she did not know! Grandmother always said she was the smartest of the bunch. She knew the ages of all her family members, even her aunties and uncles and cousins twice removed.

As they walked toward the city gates, Margaery swung Ser Galad's hand happily, already planning in her head which shops they would visit first. Lynesse walked on his other side, talking about silks and tailors, and Margaery thought they already looked like they belonged together.

It was going to be a perfect day.

xxx

The streets of Lannisport were not like the wide, garden-lined avenues outside of Highgarden. They were narrow, paved in cobblestones that felt hard beneath her slippers, and smelled of salt, fried fish, and the expensive perfumes of the merchants. But Margaery didn't mind. She felt like a general leading a glorious campaign, marching toward the city gates with her prize in tow.

Willas walked a little behind them, looking like a scholar ready to take notes from an elder. "Five thousand dragons is more than most knights see in a decade,” Willas was saying. “You could buy a small tower-house for that."

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

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

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

"Not if I have my way," Lynesse said, her voice like a silver bell. She was walking on Galad’s other side, her silken skirts brushing against his leg. Every time a passerby looked at them, she stood a little taller, clearly enjoying being seen with a tourney champion. "I know a tailor in the city. He did work for my father once before he moved from Oldtown. He has a touch for velvet that is unmatched in the West."

They found the shop tucked between a jeweler and a spice merchant. It was quiet inside, draped in bolts of fabric so colorful they reminded Margaery of the wildflower meadows back home.

"The lady is correct," the tailor said, a small man with a tape measure around his neck, as he looked Galad up and down. "A powerful frame. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. You are a dream for a cutter, Ser."

Margaery sat on a velvet stool, swinging her legs, while Lynesse and the tailor began pulling out rolls of fabric.

"Not green," Lynesse said, holding a swatch of forest-colored wool against Galad’s chest. "It makes his eyes look too dark. Perhaps a deep plum? Or a midnight blue?"

"He is a knight of Highgarden," Willas reminded them from a nearby chair. "He could wear our colors for now before he chooses his own."

"A pale grey," Margaery chimed in, remembering her plan. "Like the color of a star before it falls!"

She saw Lynesse’s eyes flash with a secret smile. "Grey it is. With silver embroidery, I think. Something subtle, yet unmistakable."

As the tailor began to measure Galad—arms, chest, the length of his legs—Margaery watched her aunt. Lynesse was being very helpful, stepping in to adjust the collar of a sample tunic, her fingers lingering just a second too long on the silk. Ser Galad remained polite and calm, answering questions about sleeve lengths and buttons, but Margaery noticed he watched Lynesse with a quiet, thoughtful expression.

It’s working! Margaery thought, hiding a giggle behind her hand.

"And a sigil, Ser?" the tailor asked, quill poised over a bit of parchment. "A knight of your standing needs a device for the feast."

The room went quiet. Even Willas leaned forward. Garlan bounced on his feet to the side. This was the moment Margaery had been waiting for. A knight’s sigil told the world who he was and where he came from.

Galad looked at the blank parchment, then at the three Tyrell children. "I am a man of the woods," he said slowly. "It should be something that honors that."

"A huntsman?" Garlan suggested.

“If he wants issues with Lord Randyll,” Willas said. “A bow and a rose, mayhaps?”

"Too simple," Lynesse said softly. "It should be something... singular."

Galad closed his eyes for a heartbeat. When he opened them, the violet was deep and clear. "A single tree," he said. "Spreading on a field of charcoal grey. And above the branches… a golden sunburst."

Willas let out a breathy whistle. "An ancient look. Very noble."

Margaery clapped her hands. "It’s perfect! It looks just like the woods by your cabin."

The tailor bowed low. "It shall be ready by the morrow, Ser Galad. The finest silver-thread for the star, I promise you."

As they left the shop and headed back toward the tournament grounds, the sun was climbing up to its highest point, turning the stone of Lannisport into bright gold. Margaery walked between Galad and Lynesse, holding a hand of each. She felt very grown-up and very clever. She had helped Ser Galad get his victory, helped him find his colors, and now she was helping him find a wife.

“Oh, I had nearly forgotten,” Lynesse said, stopping in the middle of the street. “I did not see you yesterday at the trials, ser, so I could not award you the melee wreath Margaery prepared for you. All the other Reach knights already have theirs, so I’ll make sure to have it sent to your rooms when we are back in Casterly Rock.”

“Is that so?” Galad asked, looking down at her. Margaery bobbed her head up and down. “I will wear it proudly when the time comes, then.” 

“That reminds me,” Lynesse continued, “what of the jousting tomorrow, ser?” She batted her dark eyelashes at him. “Do you already have a favor to wear?”

Margaery had to stop herself from grinning. Beside her, Ser Galad paused. 

“No, I have not.”

Lynesse smiled. “Then it is only fair you wear my favor as well, if you’re wearing Margaery’s in the grand melee, don’t you think?”

Ser Galad blinked, but he was quick to recover. "It would be my honor, Lady Lynesse."

Her auntie blushed prettily, and Margaery beamed. The stories were right—knights and ladies always found each other. Especially when they had someone as smart as her to help them along.

xxx

Olenna Tyrell

Leyton Hightower had gotten old. Olenna supposed she should not be surprised. They all had, herself included, but it struck her nonetheless to see how much white had crept into his hair since she had last sat beside him. Almost fully white now, though still thick enough. His face had grown more lined, the skin looser around his jaw. He did not come down from his tower often these days, preferring to sequester himself in the Hightower with his books and his young wife and whatever other matters occupied a man who had stepped back from the world.

Still, his eyes remained sharp as they watched the archery champions leave the grounds below, surrounded by an entourage of Tyrells and one determined Hightower girl.

"Are you sure you will be letting this boy go?" Leyton asked, his voice still carrying that measured quality she remembered from when they were both young and thought themselves clever.

Olenna shifted in her seat, her bones complaining at the movement. "What can I say? The boy's a fool who wants to go gallivanting around the world like some common minstrel. Mace has all but offered Highgarden itself to tempt him. It seems the boy is immune to the usual greeds." She gave Leyton a sideways glance. "Do you have something better than a castle like Dunstonbury to offer?"

Leyton leaned back, his gaze turning distant as he watched his daughter, Lynesse, walk at the knight’s side. "I have daughters," he murmured.

Olenna turned her head slowly, fixing him with a look that would have withered a summer plum. "You’d let her marry a bastard, Leyton? Truly? I knew you turned eccentric, but I didn't think you'd gone soft in the head."

He shrugged with the ease of a man who had long since stopped caring about such niceties. "Bastards turn into lords all the time."

"Not if said bastard, unlike any other bastard who has ever come screaming out of their mother, refuses to accept lordship," Olenna countered. "He’s as stubborn as a mule and twice as prickly about his 'independence.'"

"Bah! He is young still. What do the young know?" Leyton waved a dismissive, liver-spotted hand. "What do the young know? A year or two on the road, sleeping in ditches and eating squirrel, and he’ll be wishing for some walls around him and a good woman to warm his bed. And if he doesn’t want Dunstonbury, another castle could be arranged, on my own lands, even. Or, perhaps, something closer to his… origins."

Olenna narrowed her eyes. "House Dayne already has a lord, if my memory does not fail me."

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

"Do not try to impress me, Leyton." Olenna's voice took on an edge. "You have never been that kind of man, and you won’t become it now in your old age. You’re too fond of your books to bother with real blood."

Leyton raised both hands in surrender, though the gesture held more amusement than apology. "If not Starfall itself, then perhaps the sword, at least. The legend says Dawn rests above the mantle in the castle’s great hall until a worthy knight comes to claim it. The boy certainly seems worthy, and if he has Dayne blood in those veins..."

"And how do you know the sword does not have a wielder now?" Olenna gave him a meaningful look, letting the question settle between them.

Leyton frowned, sitting back as if her words had physically pushed him. Understanding dawned slowly across his face.

"You have been sequestered up in your tower for a long time, Leyton, but I am sure even you have heard of the Targaryen ships by now." Olenna leaned closer, lowering her voice though there was no one near enough to overhear. "And after I found the boy's connections to Starfall, I sent my men looking east. Further than I had cared to look before. Want to know what I found?" She paused to let him suffer for a bit. Then she smiled. "An old man making inquiries in Astapor. An old man who looks a lot like you. Remind you of anyone?"

Leyton's expression hardened, the affable mask slipping. "House Hightower no longer involves itself with crown matters, Olenna. What Gerold does, if he even still lives, is none of my concern. The White Bull was a brother of the Kingsguard. His loyalties were his own."

Olenna snorted, the sound unladylike and entirely deliberate. "An amusing fiction. As much theater as what the Targaryens pulled in King's Landing. Sailing by in full sail just for show?" She scoffed. "If they had the strength for it now, they could have taken a city without its king and half-empty of its knights. No, that was a warning. A warning to Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn and Tywin Lannister, and a call to arms to whoever still holds true to the dragons."

Shifting in her seat again, she continued, "All while they gather their strength in the east. Armies can be hired there. Even bought. Perhaps the Targaryens have seen the error in adopting Andal ways and will take a more Valyrian approach to their conquest this time. Can you imagine?" Her eyes glinted with dark amusement. "An army of slave soldiers streaming through the gates of King's Landing. Jon Arryn would have a conniption." She cackled at the thought.

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

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

"The North is as large as all the kingdoms combined," Leyton argued weakly. "Perhaps young Ned Stark had other duties to attend to. Winterfell is a long way from the sea."

Olenna snorted again. "Oh, but you have become such a bore now, Leyton. The Targaryens are waking from their slumber, make no mistake about it. Should they return, every house will have to make a decision, will they not? There will be no hiding in your tower then." She turned to look at him fully, her gaze sharp as broken glass. "And I cannot help but wonder if, when the time comes, House Hightower will do its duty to its liege lord without making a fuss, eh?"

Leyton met her eyes, his expression unreadable. "Which duty would that be, Olenna? To our Baratheon king, or our old loyalties?"

Wetting her lips, Olenna gave him her sweetest, most grandmotherly smile—the one that had unsettled sharper men than Leyton Hightower. "Whichever allows the flower to grow strong, Leyton. Whichever one of them."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with all they did not say. Below and beyond the tourney grounds, in the streets of Lannisport, a woodsman knight walked with Tyrell children and a Hightower girl, oblivious to the games being played in viewing boxes and tower rooms across the realm.

Olenna settled back in her seat, watching the crowds begin to disperse now that the archery had concluded. The jousting would draw them back tomorrow, of course. Always did. People loved their spectacles, their bright banners and brave knights.

But the real battles, she knew, were never fought in tourney grounds. They were fought in conversations like this one, in letters sent and alliances forged, in marriages arranged and loyalties tested.

The Targaryens were coming back. Anyone with eyes could see it. The question was not if, but when. And when they did, houses would fall and rise based on the choices made now, in moments like these.

Olenna was determined that House Tyrell would be among those who rose.

xxx

AN: A more playful chapter after so many action-focused ones. Reminder that Margaery is a little child and her POV reflects that.