Once lunch had ended and Tytos explained the true reason for his visit, laying out what help he hoped for, Ken sat with it a long moment, considering.
“This isn’t simple, Tytos,” he said, sipping his wine.
“I hold to Highgarden’s service and I’m not looking to break faith with them.
But the Tyrells themselves may take this poorly.
A messenger from the Riverlands, slipping past the Lannisters entirely.
That calls for real care.” “That’s exactly why I’ve come to you.
Well?
Will you help?” “Of course I will.
Truth be told, I’d nearly forgotten the gardens and taverns of Highgarden myself.
Might as well revisit old memories.” And so it happened that, a day later, a modest procession rode out from Crimson Lake beneath Lord Crane’s own banner, five golden cranes in flight against a pale blue field.
Word spread that the castle’s lord was traveling to Highgarden on private business, accompanied by a small retinue that happened to include five men from the Riverlands.
The two lords and their small company crossed rich, sprawling farmland.
Applecross, Two Maidens, Hollow Dell, Millbrook, one prosperous village after another slid past.
War hadn’t so much as touched this ground.
Lord Blackwood took it all in with a certain bitterness, picturing his own lands around Raventree Hall, scorched and broken by comparison.
At last Highgarden itself came into view, a grand, sprawling castle, more a city really, rising on a hill and ringed by three tiers of white stone battlements.
Green covered the place from top to bottom, gardens spilling over every wall, the great river Mander flowing past its foot toward the sea beyond, with the Ocean Road and the Rose Road crossing nearby.
The Tyrells’ wealth had become a byword across the realm.
No other house in Westeros could field an army to match theirs.
“Straight to the castle, then,” Lord Crane said, no small amount of pride in his voice.
“My cousin Vortimer will see us settled properly.
They remember me well enough there too.” “Don’t forget, Ken, I need to meet with the heir.” “We’ll arrange it, we’ll arrange it, don’t fret.
Willas is easy tempered enough, though he turns most people away.
Mind you, the boy’s sharp, and getting anything useful out of him isn’t as simple as it looks.” Tytos had visited Highgarden before, and it no longer struck him quite the way it had the first time.
Hoster, though, stood utterly transfixed, mouth half open, eyes everywhere at once as their horses’ hooves clattered over the cobbled streets, the sound echoing back off every wall.
The Tyrells’ wealth announced itself from every corner: workshops, inns, stables, shops, forges, fine houses, a bustling market, a square with its own statue.
People moved everywhere, busy with their own business, more of them than the eye could easily follow.
Now and then a string of richly dressed lords or knights, trailing their own retinues, cut straight through the crowd.
Highgarden fell well short of King’s Landing or Oldtown in scale, of course, but it felt cleaner, friendlier by far.
Smiles showed on more faces here, and the breeze off the Mander carried a cool, fresh scent of fruit and garden blooms.
The gate guards recognized Lord Crane at once.
An officer kindly sent an escort to lead them past the third ring of walls, where they waited a while in a courtyard enclosed on every side by buildings and battlements.
Off to one side, a grand sept rose above the yard, its stained glass and gilded windows catching the sun.
“Cousin!” Ser Vortimer strode out to meet them, plainly Ken’s kin, though taller, better muscled, younger, somewhere near thirty five by the look of him.
Dressed in polished steel, he cut an imposing, warlike figure.
“Good to see you too.” “By the Seven, what a surprise!
How was the road?” “About what you’d expect.
What trouble could possibly find us in the peaceful Reach?” Lord Crane said, grinning.
Ser Vortimer led them straight into one of the towers, known as the Guest House, where visiting lords of standing were housed during their stays at Highgarden.
There, Crane made the proper introductions between Blackwood and his cousin.
The two had met once before, but that had been well over fifteen years past, and neither man recognized the other at first glance.
“Lord Tytos!” Ser Vortimer looked him over, head to foot.
“A very unexpected meeting indeed.
Are you here on business of your own, or do you speak for the Riverlands?” “I’m here at Lord Tully’s word.” “That’s not something people should know about, Vortimer,” Ken added.
“Understood?” “Perfectly.
Well, get yourselves settled and rest a while.
I’ll let Ser Willas know you’ve arrived tonight.
He’ll receive you, though perhaps not right away.
Tomorrow, the day after, possibly later still.” “We’d rather not waste too much time here,” Blackwood said, careful but firm.
“The heir doesn’t much care for being rushed either.
It isn’t his way,” Ser Vortimer said.
So they waited.
The first day passed.
Then the second.
Only on the third did Ser Willas finally agree to receive them.
Highgarden proved larger on the inside than it had even seemed from without.
Ser Vortimer led Blackwood through a long maze of inner passages, sunlight spilling through windows here and there, torchlight lighting the way elsewhere.
They climbed two flights of stairs, descended one, and finally passed through an unremarkable door into a small, richly furnished chamber.
Its windows looked out over the Mander and were fitted with beautifully worked iron bars.
Carpets covered the floor, fine furniture filled the room, and a cold hearth sat unlit in the warm weather.
“Well met, Lord Tytos,” a tall, broad shouldered young man said, rising from his chair with a faint, wistful smile.
He leaned on a cane, one leg dragging slightly as he moved.
Still, he’d risen to greet them, and Tytos took that small courtesy as a good sign.
“Well met indeed, Lord Tyrell,” Blackwood said, allowing himself a rare smile of his own.
“I’m no lord, and you needn’t call me one.” Willas studied him with a sharp, appraising eye.
Fine embroidery in a floral pattern caught the light faintly on his coat.
“Truth be told, I never even earned my spurs.
At the tournament where everyone expected I would, Prince Oberyn of Dorne and my own horse had other plans.
I came away with a shattered knee and a limp instead of knighthood.
No need to dwell on it now, though.
Something has to do for a title, so I let people call me ser.
Heir sounds far too grand, and far too dull.
You understand?” “Perfectly.” “Then sit, and let’s talk.
Ser Vortimer!” The master at arms caught his gesture and crossed to fill two glasses with wine himself.
Serving at table wasn’t fitting work for a man of his rank, even for an heir, but no servants stood ready, and someone had to pour.
That, in itself, told Tytos plenty: Tyrell wanted as few witnesses to this conversation as possible.
“Fine wine,” Tytos said, taking a sip.
“Indeed.
Now, I’m listening.” Willas leaned back, folded his hands together, and closed his eyes, looking for all the world half asleep.
“Lord Tully has sent me to you on a delicate matter,” Blackwood said, drawing a slow breath, his eyes flicking briefly to Tyrell’s cane.
He’d spent the whole journey turning over how best to carry out his lord’s instructions.
Where to begin.
What to emphasize, and what to leave unsaid.
“As you know, the Riverlands are ablaze with war.
We’ve paid dearly for it, though we’re prepared to keep paying as long as it takes.
But Lord Tully believes this war has run its course.
What’s left to gain by continuing it?” “Is that so?” “It is.
Lord Tywin is squeezing everything he can from the Trident as we speak.
It will leave our lands empty, and cost the lives of a great many fine knights, men you likely know yourself.” Blackwood hadn’t chosen that last detail by accident.
The Tyrells prided themselves on nobility, on patronage; they’d taken it upon themselves, officially, to preserve the old traditions of chivalry, gathering singers and minstrels, hosting tournaments, welcoming fighters of every reputation.
Under their rule, knighthood flourished across the Reach, much like the rose on their banner.
“I understand you, Lord Tytos.
A noble man, if he must die, ought to die with glory, not for nothing.
He should fall fighting for something worth the cost.
Do you believe that cause has already run out?” “In the Riverlands, yes.” “Strange, then, that you’ve come to me at all.
My lord father, Mace Tyrell, sits in King’s Landing.
So does my grandmother, Lady Olenna.
Questions like this belong with them first.
I have little real say in such matters, truthfully.” “I think you’re being modest, Ser Willas,” Blackwood said, genuinely surprised.
Young men of Tyrell’s standing tended toward the opposite fault, inflating their own importance rather than downplaying it.
What lay behind this instead?
Genuine modesty?
Or something more calculated?
The conversation that followed carried on in an easy, friendly spirit, thick with hints, gentle probing, and careful implication.
Blackwood did most of the probing, if he was honest with himself.
Willas seemed to need none of it.
He simply seemed to enjoy the exchange for its own sake.
That first meeting settled nothing of substance.
Hoster’s presence, too, hadn’t carried quite the weight Lord Tully had hoped for; in this, Edmure had misjudged things slightly, since there’d been no real chance yet to properly introduce the boy to Highgarden’s heir.
But the rest went well enough.
They met again the next day, and this time Tytos spoke more openly, more directly.
“Lord Tully wants this war ended, and he wants House Tyrell as the bridge to peace.
We need friends.
And friendship with us costs Highgarden nothing, not with the army and standing you already command.” “Interesting.
Has Lord Tully made no peace offer to Lord Tywin directly?
As Hand of the King, such matters fall well within his authority.” Willas Tyrell was more than simply polite and gracious.
He was careful, guarded, and it showed.
He never once let slip that any real friction existed between the Lannisters and the Tyrells.
To hear him tell it, their alliance left everyone perfectly content.
Blackwood was almost ready to believe him; everything he said sounded reasonable enough, logical, even convincing.
Had it not been for Lord Tully’s own firm insistence that real trouble simmered beneath the surface there, he might well have taken Tyrell at his word.
“We have, of course.
We’ve sent several ravens.
None of them brought back a reply.” “Matters like this shouldn’t be trusted to wings and wind alone.” “Quite true.
So Lord Tully means to send someone to King’s Landing directly.” “When?” “Once he learns what we’ve settled between us here.
Or failed to settle, Ser Willas.” Blackwood pressed the idea further.
The Tullys were searching for new friends, new support.
Whatever help they received, they meant to repay in kind, to whoever offered it first.
Simple enough.
If the Tyrells felt no interest in such an arrangement, if they were entirely satisfied with how things stood under Lannister strength, and had no wish to change any of it, then Lord Tully would simply look elsewhere.
The Tyrells, for all their genuine nobility, weren’t without their vanities.
Blackwood, wisely, left that particular observation, and what followed from it, unspoken.
The Tyrells had secured Margaery’s crown.
Willas’s younger brother, Ser Loras, now served in the Kingsguard itself.
Their middle brother, Garlan, now held Brightwater Keep, a castle that had once belonged to the Florents.
And yet their ambitions clearly reached further still.
In this alliance with the Lannisters, the Tyrells played the lesser role, and that arrangement plainly didn’t sit easily with them.
The Tullys stood ready to help them change that, to offer something the Lannisters simply couldn’t.
Edmure had told him to frame it exactly this way, and Blackwood delivered it faithfully, word for word as instructed.
His delivery sounded restrained, careful, yet unmistakably weighty.
And Tyrell took the bait.
A man in his position, heir to one of the great houses, spent his days breeding horses and hunting birds, watching the stars, reading his books, and surely felt the absence of the life a healthier, more active man might have led.
He lacked excitement, risk, real passion, real danger.
And Edmure Tully had just shown him exactly where he might find some.
“An interesting proposal, Lord Blackwood,” Tyrell said.
He kept his composure, but his eyes had brightened, and a faint flush colored his cheeks.
“Very interesting indeed.” “What do you say, Ser Willas?” “It isn’t mine to decide.
You understand that, surely?
But I see real potential in it.
Genuine potential, and it appeals to me.” “Then what should I write to Lord Riverrun?” “Tell him Highgarden is interested.
But the final word will come from King’s Landing.
Lord Tully’s man will need to speak directly with my grandmother, Lady Olenna.
For my part, I’ll make sure she knows what’s passed between us here, everything we’ve discussed.” “That will suit us well.” “And us.
But hear this.
My grandmother already thinks I trust too easily.
I’d call it something else myself, honor, and simple decency.
If word ever gets out that you’ve struck some bargain with her, before the right moment, the Tyrells will walk away from all of it.
This friendship must stay quiet, at least for now.
We can’t afford open trouble with the Lannisters, not with my sister Margaery’s wedding to King Joffrey only days away.” “So it will be, Ser Willas.
We’re prepared to wait.
Though not forever.” “Understood.
I’ll have my maester see that you get your bird.” That very evening, a strong young raven took flight toward Riverrun, a short letter bound to its leg.
The talks have gone well.
A preliminary understanding has been reached.
Everything final will be settled in the capital, through the person you already know.
Blackwood, as always, kept his words brief; Lord Tully had insisted on exactly that.
They’d stepped into a genuinely dangerous game now.
Only a fool tugs at a lion’s mane and boasts of his own daring afterward.
Lord Tytos felt unusually alive that evening, full of purpose and ambition.
An intrigue like this one was enough to take the breath clean out of a man.
com/Hezzario