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x The next morning, outside the gates of Highgarden, Lord Randyll reined in his horse.
“Father.
Dickon.” Samwell bowed.
“Safe travels.” Dickon dismounted long enough to throw his arms around his elder brother.
“Come back to Horn Hill often,” the boy said.
Samwell thought of Lord Randyll’s promise to cut off his head if he came begging at the gates.
“I will try,” he said.
Lord Randyll ordered the guards and Dickon ahead.
When they were out of earshot, he looked down at his eldest son.
“Beware the women of House Tyrell.” Samwell raised his head.
His father’s face was as stern as ever.
“They are clever,” Lord Randyll said.
“Too clever at times.
And they often forget the place the gods gave them.” With that, he spurred his horse after the others.
Samwell watched him ride away.
In the memories of his previous life, Lord Randyll had never seemed important beyond the battlefield: a hard man, a good commander, a loyal blade in Tyrell hands.
Standing before him now, Samwell found that too simple.
Randyll Tarly did not intrigue like a courtier, but he was no fool.
A man did not survive the marches, command respect in the Reach, and later find a place among the realm’s highest officers by being only a sword arm.
The warning had been aimed at Lady Olenna.
Lord Randyll had cast away his son.
That did not mean he wanted the women of Highgarden using the boy as a tool.
Samwell turned back toward the castle.
The men of House Tyrell were not the dangerous ones.
Olenna and Margaery were another matter.
They understood the struggle for power, and both kept knives hidden beneath roses.
That did not frighten him as much as it should have.
They knew only the old Samwell: fat, timid, unwanted.
He knew more about what was to come than any living lord in Westeros.
That difference was his opening.
A maid led him through Highgarden’s gardens, where the scent of roses hung thick in the warm air.
Lady Olenna waited in a shaded courtyard.
Margaery stood nearby among the flowers, arranging a basket of fresh-cut roses with careful hands.
She looked up when Samwell entered.
“Ser Samwell.” “Lady Margaery.” She lifted the basket a little.
“What do you think?” The roses were red, white, and gold, their stems woven with green ribbon.
Samwell bowed his head.
“As beautiful as the lady who arranged them.” Margaery laughed softly and held the basket out.
“Then they are for you, my knight.” “You are too generous.” He accepted the basket and carefully avoided meeting her eyes for too long.
Lady Olenna clicked her tongue.
“Come, come.
If you two mean to drown one another in courtesy, do it after I am dead.” Samwell followed her into a small pavilion.
Honeyed flower tea had already been prepared.
Olenna sat, gestured for him to do the same, and went straight to the matter.
“Have you chosen where to settle?” “Not yet, my lady.” “Then look here.” She unfolded a map across the table and tapped a spot near the southern edge of the Reach, where the western foothills of the Red Mountains sloped toward the Summer Sea.
“Near the mouth of the Torrentine,” she said.
“Close enough to the coast for trade.
Close enough to the mountains for defense.” Samwell studied the map.
“The mountains are poor land.” “Casterly Rock is a mountain,” Olenna said.
“The Eyrie is a mountain.
Stone does not make a place worthless.
Weak men do.” He kept his expression uncertain.
“There are mountain clans there.
Men who do not take kindly to lords.” “Then make them take kindly to you.” Samwell looked at her.
Olenna smiled as if she had suggested nothing more difficult than planting roses.
He knew the people she meant.
The wild mountain folk of the Red Mountains were descendants of old bloodlines, fugitives, broken men, and tribes that had never fully bowed to castle walls.
They hunted, raided, vanished into stone, and hated the Reach with the patience of generations.
They were a problem no lord had solved.
They were also people.
A settlement needed people.
Samwell lowered his voice.
“My lady, I fear they would tear me apart before I built so much as a shed.” “Nonsense.” Olenna sipped her tea.
“House Tarly breeds soldiers.
Even if Horn Hill has forgotten it in your case, the blood remains.” She set the cup down.
“The Tyrells also have an interest in seeing those mountains made quieter.
If you accept my suggestion, I will have Ser Todd Flowers take one hundred of our household soldiers with you.” Samwell let his eyes brighten.
One hundred trained men.
For a chartered knight with no land and no retinue, that was not support.
It was a spine.
“My lady is generous,” he said.
Then, carefully, “Would one hundred be enough?” Olenna’s eyes sharpened.
“Garth Greenhand did not have one hundred men when he first walked the Reach.” Samwell bowed his head at once.
“Forgive me.
I spoke from fear, not ingratitude.” Margaery, who had been silent until then, drew a dark green purse from her sleeve and placed it on the table.
“Then let this ease your fear.” Samwell looked at the purse, then at her.
“My lady?” “My own savings,” she said.
“For your settlement.” He rose and bowed deeply, letting his voice tremble with proper feeling.
“I will not disappoint you.” Olenna watched him with satisfaction.
“See that you do not.
And before you leave, have the steward pack you five gold-tailed shrimp.
You seemed fond of them.” “I am grateful, my lady.” When Samwell had gone, Margaery turned to her grandmother.
“Why him?” Olenna stirred her tea.
“You gave him your purse without knowing?” “I trusted you.” “A dangerous habit.” Margaery smiled.
“Is it for Dorne?” Olenna’s wrinkled mouth curved.
“You are a clever girl.” “Then why Samwell?
Why not send a brave knight?” “Because brave knights are tidy tools, and this is not tidy work.” Olenna looked toward the roses beyond the pavilion.
“The place is poor, dangerous, and near Dorne.
Ordinary methods will not take it.
A discarded Tarly boy may do things an honored knight could not.” “You are using his name.” “I am giving him men, coin, and a chance no one else would offer.” Olenna’s voice stayed mild.
“Support is never free.
That is the price.” Margaery said nothing.
The old woman sighed.
“The most beautiful roses need the sharpest thorns.
CREATORS’ THOUGHTS TheDevotedReader I hope you enjoyed this chapter.