Chapter Seven
"More tea, my lord?" Tyman Flowers inquired softly.
The honey-haired lord soundlessly held out his cup, allowing it to be filled to the brim with his preferred rose petal blend. He brought it to his lips, a touch of satisfaction found in the rich, sweet taste, before returning his attention to his book.
Notable Names of Westerosi Nobility was one of the rarest and most expensive tomes in the Citadel's catalog. This was not due to any great work of scholarship- Willas found it rather trite himself- but because there existed a mere dozen copies in the entire Seven Realms. The reason for that was due to the painstaking, full-body, inked profiles of every famous or infamous individual mentioned. The Heir to Highgarden was currently engrossed in the Northern section of the book, particularly the heavy brows, hawkish nose and flint grey eyes of Cregan Stark.
At least half of his attention was on the book. The remainder was devoted to an enchanting young woman who appeared conflicted by his presence. Lady Lyarra turned to find his eyes fastened on her once more. Willas offered his most genial smile and she returned it with an icy, blank stare.
'Ice glitters in the sunlight, my lady and your tempest draws a gaze more bewitched than you think.'
There was a want of understanding for her regression into spite, having elected to change her reaction so suddenly but Willas preferred that to a spooked wolf. Anger he could work with. Anger brightened the eyes and quickened the pulse, made Lyarra Snow even more pleasing to the eye. Anger cast away the title of bastard and drew out the predator to challenge him. It was futile, for the wolf was skittish for a fight that Willas would never offer but it served a purpose in waylaying reason. It kept her near him until the heady scent of roses brought the she-wolf closer and had her lay willingly by him.
Dragons conquered, lions mauled, wolves tore but roses? Roses seduced.
"I would remind my lord that my capabilities as a guard are woefully inadequate."
Willas flickered tawny eyes to his most capable manservant. "The Lady Lyarra is too self-controlled to attack an Heir to a Great House."
"As you say, my Lord." Tyman inclined his head. "Biscuit?"
He shook his head and returned to the training session before him. A visual aide was necessary in the course of his investigation but even without, he would have found an excuse to be present. Willas was a lover of horseflesh; he had spent countless hours breeding and raising the finest horses and falcons in the Reach. It was a pleasure to see someone utilize the fruits of his labor to its fullest extent.
Apple Cider broke into a gallop then, the pace and force pulling yet another curl from the Northerner's braid. It glimmered in the sunlight, copper as with most darkened hair but interspersed with curious strands of silver. Lord Stark's hadn't done anything of the like.
'She shares such few features with him...' In the course of his study, Willas had found remarkably few 'Stark' features. He had used a liberal definition for them, accepting any such details that were shared with at least two other Starks, one of whom could be her father. Yet despite the Stark features holding prevalent throughout the book and with Lord Eddard, there were few of them to be found on Lady Lyarra's face. When one disregarded her coloring, those dark curls painted silver in the light and her pale skin fairer still then her Lord Father's, than she didn't look much like a Stark at all.
So the penultimate question remained: who did Lyarra Snow look like?
Obviously not Eddard Stark, to his dismay. Willas' plan had been to take this oft-vaunted 'Northern' beauty and, through his study of the Starks, isolate those features uncommon to her Father's House. The presupposition had been that any features withstanding the blood of the First Men had to be hallmarks of whatever other blood she carried. That plan was shot to hell since the only message that Lady Lyarra's features communicated was that they weren't Stark ones.
Those violet eyes had been uncommon but they could belong to any Crownlands House or to House Dayne. A willful jut to her chin and the curve of her nose had the touch of House Blackwood. The skin darkened as easily as any Dornishman while the curve of her body was as slender as the Rhoynish. It narrowed her claim to three Realms but damn if he couldn't narrow down which!
'Not to mention that the names prick at something in my memory.' Willas was a student of history and as such, he supposed that there to be at least one House where those bloodlines mixed. He could not recall the name of which but it must have crossed his lessons at one point in time.
Before he could get worked up about his failure, the Tyrell lordling held out his cup again. Dutifully, Tyman filled it up and he turned his attention to Lady Lyarra. Oh dear, Loras had brought his cloak.
Willas had personally found his baby brother's jeweled rose armor to be ostentatious, imprudent and morbidly dazzling. He had paid for it regardless since it was an ultimately harmless (if expensive) desire but had warned that his cloak of bluebells was foolish and would be endlessly mocked. Loras had argued that women would find it charming rather and he had been right- at least, until Lyarra Snow took a glance at it.
He could almost see her innate kindness and polite manners war with her Northern sensibilities. Eventually even Lyarra Snow succumbed.
"Your cloak is exquisite, Ser Loras. Are… are those roses fresh?" Loras nodded proudly, making the dark-haired girl look faintly horrified by the sheer expense of it all. Of course, all of her winter roses would be grown in glasshouses and sold for goodly sums. "Truly the Reach is a realm unto its own."
His younger brother stopped puffing out his chest at her next, amazed words. "To think the land so fertile that men may devote themselves to twining roses for such a fragile cloak."
Loras' eyelid twitched. "It is the responsibility of my squire, good Lady."
"Is it?" Lyarra suddenly turned and bowed deeply to an amused Garlan. "Thank you, Ser Garlan."
"I knew you would come to appreciate being my squire." The brunette knight waved his lance in the air. "Now let's run some practice drills!"
Lady Lyarra paled as she was dragged away while Samwell looked downright vindicated. Loras stomped over to where he was sitting, receiving an unimpressed raise of a single eyebrow from Willas.
"Northerners don't have any taste," his brother said sulkily.
"They do not," Willas soothed. Each of his siblings had their own way to be calmed. Margaery wanted someone to listen to her ranting, Garlan, physical exertion to exhaust him and Loras, to be distracted. "Do you remember any Houses with these uncommon features?"
The golden-haired Tyrell quickly flitted through the notes he made, occasionally turning to study Lady Lyarra. His brother moved through it more quickly than he would have, likely because he hadn't paused every now and then to admire the features he was studying. At the end, Loras looked puzzled.
"She has Renly's nose," his brother finally said. "Same straight slope with a protrusion at the nostrils and faint lines extending downwards to the mouth."
The merest sign of Willas' surprise was his tightened grip on his tea. Stormlands blood? He hadn't even considered the possibility nor seen any indication. He knew better than to challenge Loras on the veracity of those words though. If anyone knew every aspect of Renly Baratheon's body in full detail, it would be his baby brother.
'Why would Ned Stark hide Stormlands blood in his bastard though?'
"I see," Willas said softly. He closed the book and handed it over to Tyman. "Thank you for your assistance, Loras. I must return to my study."
Grasping his cane tightly, the Heir to Highgarden pulled himself to his feet. He had a starting point. Now he needed to find merely an ancestor that gifted both Renly Baratheon and Lyarra Snow with such a notable feature and the entire mystery would unravel.
Then afterward he could address the issue of his inexplicable attraction to the bastard Stark.
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"Brother, you are being a bore."
"Sister, you are being an annoyance."
Margaery pursed her lips for a moment and then reached over to snatch his book away. "How much time have you spent with this book?"
"Far less than you think," Willas stated. "Can I have it back?"
"Not until Loras' joust is over," the brunette noblewoman snapped. "You're neglecting your duties to the family, Willas!"
"I am not. I put a wager of fifty dragons on him earlier in the day."
"Making money off of your brother's accomplishments does not count as supporting him." Margaery looked exasperated. "I don't care if these are the preliminary matches. They're important to Loras!"
"He doesn't look particularly devoted to them." Willas nodded towards the knight stands where his brother was receiving last minute 'advice' from Lord Renly while his opponent glared at him. Loras' penchant for indifference to opponents he did not personally respect tended to rile them up easily.
Before his sister could throw his new, expensive book at him, Willas demurred. "I'll place it under my chair if you would like."
"I would," Margaery sniffed. It wasn't too great a loss. The preliminary matches for the joust would be over soon and after that, the informal grudge matches between squires. Lady Lyarra would be performing in two of them today, not that Willas intended to be present. He hadn't ever attended one before and wouldn't raise eyebrows by attending one today.
In truth, the Tyrell Heir found himself regretting the success of that particular bit of mischief. It had done its part by emboldening the she-wolf but the risks severely outweighed the reward. The potential marring of Lady Lyarra's reputation was not negligible and her actions today were likely to be singular. He couldn't see himself or any other lord for that matter allowing a wife such freedoms later.
Loras won his joust, not unexpectedly and Lyarra, her two matches afterward. Tyman reported that her shield had been cloaked in a gelatinous substance, forcing the opposition lances to slide across, and her armor meticulously polished to blindness. She had gone further in disguising herself than he expected by adding padding underneath her chainmail and a rapid dye to her hair to lighten the curls. Loras was confident that the Squire of Quills remained a mystery.
Willas meanwhile put aside the gold he made from their victories and studied the book across his desk. It took several goblets of wine to calm his racing heart and a second text on royalty to confirm his suspicions but there was no doubt about it. Renly Baratheon had inherited his grandmother's nose.
And if Lyarra Snow had the same nose as Princess Rhaelle Targaryen, as Prince Rhaegar and King Aerys and Queen Rhaella, then of course Lord Stark had lied. Eddard Stark, one of the most honorable men in the Seven Realms, the Lord of a House infamous for its lack of guile, the oldest and dearest friend of the King, was the greatest liar in Westeros. He had orchestrated such a masterful mummer's show that the sole living child of the Silver Prince grew up safe and happy in a rebel kingdom. His willing acceptance of a dishonor never committed blinded men to the truth. Even the Tyrells hadn't suspected, wouldn't have stumbled across his secret hadn't Willas been fascinated by a bastard.
The last thought made him pause and reflect on the consequences of this truth for himself. It was a remarkable if unintentional coup for House Tyrell, true but for Willas personally... He had accepted his desire to tease her, to ensnare her, to seduce and bed her but to keep her was a dream. A fancy that whispered of incomes in his grasp, of castles that could be purchased, dishonor washed away by time and gold. Mother and Father would be mortified, Grandmother furious but familial love would have won his forgiveness eventually. As long as Willas had the sense to keep his bastard wife away from House Tyrell until a child was in her belly anyway. Even Grandmother wouldn't orchestrate one of her little disappearing acts after winter roses were planted in the garden.
Willas Tyrell wouldn't have gone through with it. He was sensible, far too sensible to even consider it. And even had his otherwise clever head been spun to dizziness by a Northern bastard, inspiring such insipidity as undermining trade talks, surely he wouldn't have dared to…
A moot point. For pride's sake, the Heir to Highgarden would refuse to admit any such sentimentality. He wasn't Duncan the Small, for the Crone's sake.
There was a legitimate reason to keep a dragon now, even should her scales be black and the throne in the lion's claws. Lyarra Snow, if that was indeed her true name, had the blood of two royal lines in her veins. The Tyrells had none, having been elevated to the nobility from a mere stewardship and hadn't yet acquired any such relations yet. Father would be exulted at a grandchild with dragon's blood, even if he could only publicly claim ties to the ancient Kings of Winter. If they acquired proof of her heritage, than there may arise an opportunity, if not in his lifetime than perhaps his children's or grandchildren's, to make a claim for the throne.
If Renly's descriptions of his nephew were in any way accurate, than Willas might even sire a King.
He needed to send out men to find midwives and embalmers near the Tower of Joy. He needed others to scrounge the Citadel's records and interview priests in Dorne. He needed to sneak spies into Winterfell to sniff out any other truths they may be hiding. He needed to gather proof to confirm a suspicion he already knew true.
'It would help if she were legitimized but giving her the Stark name would leave her open to claims of forsaking the Targaryen one. After marriage then, since it would merely recognize her as a Tyrell.'
Willas also needed to convince a bastard to marry him but that was more of a pleasure than a task.
'The game just changed,' the Tyrell thought giddily. He thought back to the dark hair burnished silverlight and the violet eyes of Old Valyria and felt fit to burst. 'I have the sole living child of Rhaegar Targaryen in my hands. A rabble meant to be a dragon and with the potential to be a king.'
When Lyarra returned to the cyvasse game later, the white dragon had been moved three paces forward.
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