Book II – Chapter 10: The Jewel of the Reach

Silence

Davos stood at the bow of Salladhor Saan's lead ship, watching as Highgarden grew closer and closer.

The past week or so, sailing up the Mander and helping with the rigging and the bilges… it had taken him back to his smuggling days, and he'd enjoyed it with relish. King Stannis was keeping to the hold – he really didn't like allying with Salladhor and his pirates. But they didn't really have much of a choice. While the Royal Fleet had been enough to smash through the blockade of the Stepstones, the ships were far too wide on the draft to sail upriver, so Stannis had ordered the captains to sail for Lannisport. Not to occupy the city but to bombard it from the sea and be seen doing it. A message, not only for the Lannisters but to the Ironborn as well. A brilliant plan, in Davos opinion. What was the easiest way to win a war? Be where the enemy isn't. Jon Arryn and the Knights of the Vale would keep the Lannisters busy in the Riverlands, while Stannis would leave his traitor brother to the mercy of the Tyrells.

Meanwhile, they would take Highgarden and assault Lannisport – cutting the two most powerful enemy families off from their seats of power and their wealth. They would have no choice but to surrender, and King Stannis could end the war before it got out of control. Then they could start worrying about real problems, like rebuilding Kings Landing and addressing the unsettling rumour about Robert's children that Stannis had confided in Davos before they left Dragonstone. Information only Jon Arryn, Stannis himself, and now Davos knew.

At least Stannis had sent the Red Woman with the Mooton, Crownlands and Dragonstone men to close the Red Fork. Davos didn't think she'd had enough time to get into the King's head before they left Dragonstone, and no word had been spoken about her during the trip. But even Davos could admit her prophecy of Stannis becoming King had come true. Which was why he was even more worried about something going wrong here.

"Be safe on your journey, my King," the witch had said on the docks as they went their separate ways. "I have seen a vision in the flames. Of thorns in the shadows, barbs embedded in a sheet of paper. I do not understand them, but it is my duty to warn you all the same."

Davos certainly didn't believe in her ruthless red god or burning people alive – something Stannis had very clearly and very loudly forbidden her from doing, thank the gods – but those words sent bitter shivers down his spine at every opportunity.

"So it begins."

Davos spun around, straightening his old bones as the King himself finally emerged from the cabin and strode to stand beside Davos. Salladhor appeared beside them a second later, an eyeglass in hand.

"My men should be lighting the fires any time now," he said, grinning viciously at the thought of all the plunder within the city beyond.

"Remember my orders, pirate," the King stated, eyes locked on the magnificent castle growing larger by the second. "Keep the killing to a minimum, and no raping. But any treasure you find is yours, and I will consider our agreement fulfilled."

Behind the King's back, Salladhor rolled his eyes, and Davos elbowed him in the ribs.

"Of course, of course. Your terms are generous, and the treasure means little compared to the praise I will earn. Salladhor Saan, the man who sacked Highgarden. I like the sound of that. A bit mouthy, though."

"I'm sure you'll come up with something more eloquent," Stannis retorted. And as Salladhor had promised, a few minutes later, a thick ploom of smoke was rising into the air from the northern side of the city. By the time the six ships reached the docks, the smoke had nearly veiled the entire castle. A perfect diversion and excellent cover.

"Ho there, men!" A dock-man called out, approaching with a rope to tie off the lead ship. "Poor winds or slack armed rowers? You were supposed to be here days ago!"

Well, the Hightower ships actually had been on time. Salladhor and Davos had seized the vessels near the mouth of the Mander, then held them in a cove near the river mouth and dumped the masonry. By the time Stannis had arrived – forced to sail around the Arbor to avoid detection by the Redwyne Fleet or the Hightower of Oldtown – they'd lost two days and spent another one outfitting Salladhor's galleys with Hightower regalia to avoid suspicion.

Now, the death began.

"I'm sorry, my friend!" Salladhor called out as the gangway lowered. "We were most unfortunately delayed, but don't worry, we have quite the compensation for you!"

The dock-man frowned, no doubt taking in Salladhor's silks and finally putting together that something was very wrong.

An arrow lodged itself in the man's throat a second later, and he collapsed to the deck with a soft thunk.

Stannis, armoured in carefully crafted mail beneath a black gambeson – unadorned – removed the Crown of Swords from a loop on his belt and placed it atop his head, tiny barbs prickling at the flesh. A good crown, for a good king. He advanced towards the gangway and drew his sword, hard eyes still locked on the castle ahead, now shrouded in smoke and ash.

And then, something in Davos' heart broke just a little.

For the sword was Lightbringer, the cherry red blade the witch had given him on Dragonstone, and even as Davos watched, the square-shaped ruby set in the hilt seemed to glow an angry red.

The hatches in the deck burst open, and a host of Stormlanders poured forth and started rushing down the gangway and onto the docks. Stannis raised Lightbringer over his head with one hand, gesturing for silence with the other, then began the charge up the short hill and towards the main gates as more and more men disembarked from the other ships, securing the docks then following behind.

And Highgarden's gates were wide open.

Last Hours

Many men were faced with the question of how they would spend their final hours. Some made peace with their families and friends. Others sought some final glory. A precious small number performed that which they had never dared to during life – kissing that girl they fancied, hunting down their greatest foe, or apologising for wrongs committed.

Finally, there were the finite few who thought ahead instead of lamenting their past. It was to this category that Olenna Tyrell belonged. She did not regret the things she had done or people she'd ordered killed, the lives she'd changed forever. Thanks to her, House Tyrell was on the eve of its greatest triumph. When she died, the ghosts of Tyrells past would welcome Olenna into the seven heavens with trumpets and fanfare and the beat of a thousand drums.

There better be bloody trumpets! It's the least I deserve for all the time I've spent putting up with my lackwit son.

That, or she would sink into blackness and simply cease to be.

Either way, she would die proud and sure in her decisions. Secure in the knowledge that her future was safe.

The old adage proclaims, 'in that moment before death, life flashes before your eyes, another soul lost to time.' But if a woman like Olenna indeed had no regrets or fear of death, what did she do with those last hours?

Tricked by Stannis fucking Baratheon. It shouldn't be possible. Highgarden was supposed to be safe, protected. The fighting was entire kingdoms away, and Highgarden's garrison consisted of barely a thousand men left behind. A stupid mistake.

If they dwell not on the past, there is only one place for that finite few to look.

The future.

Anyone on a fast-approaching deadline can attest to just how conducive the threat of imminent evisceration is to quick-paced work.

While everyone else in Highgarden's keep rushed towards the gates or the walls, Olenna was to be found in the War Room scribbling frantically on several pieces of parchment, heart hammering in her chest.

She hadn't felt this alive in years.

"Grandmother!" Margaery's voice screamed from somewhere down the hall. Olenna didn't stop. Didn't have time.

'… carry out the task we discussed. The boy must die – I care not how it looks.'

"The other way, you fools!" Margaery's voice howled again, closer now. "It's a trap! It's a fucking trap! Get every soldier to the gates and set the maze on fire! Yes, I'm a woman, now shut up and do what I fucking tell you!"

'Paxtor,

Highgarden is lost. The rest of the Redwyne fleet must barricade Oldtown. That is where Baratheon will strike next. Highgarden can be retaken; if Oldtown falls, the Reach falls with her.

Do not strike back against Highgarden directly. Baratheon will expect it.

Olenna Tyrell.'

"Grandmother!" Margaery exclaimed, bursting through the doors, face flush and hoarse breathing. The Lannister bastard, Joy Hill, was helping her walk. Olenna might have suspected she had a hand in this had her face not been one of abject terror.

"Stannis! He's here! He's marching up the causeway with some two-thousand men – somebody held the gates open for him."

A few hands greased in just the right way to keep the gates open long enough for Baratheon to get inside and take control of the winches. At least, that's what she would have done.

'Willas;

Highgarden is fallen. We fell into a trap. Suspect everyone.

I wish you a fond and final farewell.

With love, your Grandmother.'

Olenna grabbed her scrolls and tucked them hurriedly into a satchel hanging off the chair beside her. She rose to her feet and grabbed her cane, then took a final long look at the War Room and its shelves stacked high with maps, notebooks, genealogies, and tactical guides. A veritable buffet of information to use against the Reach on its own; even worse should Stannis discern how to decode the most sensitive works.

Olenna would not ever risk such a thing.

Margaery and Olenna came face to face, and Olenna looked into her granddaughter's panicked brown eyes, red face and trembling lips.

"This room is thick with rock on all sides," Olenna said sharply. "Pull all the books and scrolls from the shelves, pile them in the centre and drop a torch in their heart."

Margaery stumbled backwards as if struck, the very idea anathema to her.

Olenna grabbed her shoulders, staring deep into Margaery's face, seeing the traces of her younger self there, of Olenna's son there. Then she glanced down at Margaery's swollen belly.

"You must burn it all, sweet child. Spare nothing. If Stannis finds this place gutted, he will be less likely to look elsewhere for our secrets."

"Where are you going?!"

Olenna glanced towards the satchel, then pulled it over her shoulder.

"The future. Be strong now, Margaery. This will be your greatest test. Be courageous, be ruthless, be unstoppable. That babe deserves nothing less. Grief is useless. Anger is useless. It is the cunning of the snake and the bite of the thorn you must trust now. Only that."

Olenna let go and started marching towards the door, leaving Margaery behind her.

"Grandmother… please…"

She paused before the great oaken doors, carved with roses, and turned back – against her better judgement.

Margaery stood in the centre of the War Room, dwarfed by its enormity, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I won't apologise for building you into the woman you are. Never will I regret the choices that led to you and him. I'm sorry only that I didn't tell you sooner. Kiss your child for me, will you?"

Olenna turned away once more.

"I love you, grandmother. Always and forever."

Olenna didn't turn back again. She started away from the war room as Margaery beckoned Joy to help her gather the pages.

The echo of Olenna's cane cracking against stone quickly became the only sound, silence overtaking all else. Olenna climbed the stairs to the rookery alone, breathing heavily, sweat beading across her brow. One foot after the other, Olenna. Keep going.

If these were Olenna's last hours, she would not spend them cowering. Humbling herself before a man invading her home. She would not be thrown in her own prison cells with no hope of rescue or escape. Stannis was no fool, and he would allow no one with even a hint of suspected loyalty anywhere near her. In fact, she would not be surprised if he delivered any meals to her himself alone. But the noble and honourable Stannis would not kill her. He would keep her alive, waiting patiently until Olenna's age caught up with her. Her body and mind would wither far faster in prison than a man in his prime's would.

There were things Olenna knew that Stannis would need if he claimed to be a King. Knowledge of her plans and plots were valuable, but they were secondary to the real prize.

Highgarden's treasury.

Where was all that gold hidden away, where no thieves could find it? With Willas, Garlan, Loras and Alerie away, only two people currently in the castle knew. Olenna and Margaery. Of the two of them, Olenna was the weak link. She was less valuable but more dangerous, and Margaery would certainly yield if forced to give the information in exchange for Olenna's life.

If Olenna was dead, Stannis' options became far more limited, and Margaery's value soared. So Olenna would do her granddaughter one final service and make sure she couldn't be forced to make a horrible choice.

She climbed, higher and higher, and as she went, the distant ring of steel on steel and the screams of the dying began to penetrate the walls.

When Olenna reached the top of Highgarden's rookery, disturbing the ravens asleep in their nests and rupturing the silence utterly, she couldn't resist glancing out the window.

Soldiers bearing the Baratheon colours were indeed rushing up the causeway, and the gates to the keep had been forced open. A desperate last stand of Tyrell men was ongoing in the courtyard, but their numbers were dwindling fast. She had maybe a few minutes before soldiers breached the castle doors. She could see a ram being brought through the thong of people.

And through it all, the Warrens were still alight, shrieks of terror mixing with the distinct scent of ash, mud, and burning bone.

Olenna drew the letters from her satchel one by one, fastening them to the ankles of the ravens destined to carry the words far away. In the back of her mind, Olenna wondered where that fool Maester was – he should already be here sending messages of distress. But she didn't have time to worry; she just grabbed bird after bird and cast them through the window and watched as they caught wing and flew away from the tower with all haste.

And, it seemed that Olenna had been wrong those years ago. The gods had blessed her with one last miracle. For the ash cloud now smothering the city shielded the ravens' departure, and not one creature released was shot down before they fled the city.

Willas letter was last, set to wing as the tell-tale song of death started echoing up the tower. So Olenna reached into her satchel and withdrew a small vial of clear liquid.

Sweetsleep. Three drops and that was the end.

Good luck, Jaehaerys Targaryen. Good luck, sweet Margaery. Prove me wrong in the end. Make your dream a reality. Be everything I raised you both to be.

Long live House Tyrell; long live House Targaryen; long live the King, and long live his Queen.

Olenna Tyrell took four drops of Sweetsleep and sat on the floor amongst the ravens. Funny. This was where she'd been all those years ago when she'd received that letter from Gerold Hightower. She wondered for a moment if he would be proud of all she had done to protect his King. Well, she supposed she was about to find out. One final deep breath and Olenna felt herself begin to drift away, just as the doors to the rookery burst open. But before she closed her eyes, she could have sworn, just for a moment, that one of the ravens had three eyes. What nonsense.

Blackness took her, and Olenna stared towards the Stranger… In robes of black, face obscured by a deep hood, Death sat astride a white horse. He nodded once, in respect, then took Olenna's hand and guided her forward to what comes next.

Daughter of Thorns and Fire

In the end, House Baratheon conquered the Jewel of the Reach in a matter of hours. What remained of the garrison lay down their arms by the time Davos and the King passed through the maze. A formidable defence – one Davos had no idea how he would have countered if circumstances had been different. Fortunately, surprise, a lack of coordination, and few defenders on duty let the King's men bypass the obstacle entirely.

The second they reached the broken doors of the keep, King Stannis ordered the men parading up the city behind them to begin searching the city for holdouts, off duty guardsmen who thought to be noble, or any rioting. He wanted it stamped out and warned them all what fate awaited them should the King hear of raping. Highgarden was to be occupied, not sacked.

Davos doubted they would listen, even with the King's threats. Such was the way of war.

"What about the fires in the lower half of the city?" Davos asked the King as they ascended the grand staircase at the castle's heart, surrounded by flower tapestries and effigies of House Tyrell's ancestors. Even as they walked, cackling and victory drunk soldiers took to pulling them down, shouting in triumph as the cloth hit the floors. Banners displaying Stannis chosen sigil rose in their place, a golden stag on a black field, crowned by seven white stars, antlers wreathed in crimson flame.

"What of them?" Stannis asked.

"They've spread into the city proper – the poorer districts near the outer walls."

Stannis didn't answer for a moment, and Davos unease was punctuated by the thud and clank of the boots and mail of the guards surrounding them on all sides.

"Send some water crews to douse the flames," Stannis declared eventually, as they approached the heart of the castle, the distinct aroma of burning lacquer, parchment and resin becoming more noticeable with each step. "But not enough that we weaken our position. I want as many men as possible on the walls and manning the gates. It will take a few days for the rest of our troops to travel upriver, and one of the nearby houses could attack before reinforcements arrive. And if even a single raven escapes this city before we have the treasury in hand, Davos, I will hold you responsible."

Davos swallowed softly before turning to the general behind him and nodded. The general – a Celtagar – bowed then turned and left, barking orders.

"What about the people in the Warrens?" Davos asked.

The King didn't answer. Instead, he raised a hand, bidding the entourage to stop. The corridor ahead was choked with smoke, the floor littered with corpses. The bodies of a dozen Tyrell Knights, hacked to pieces, but still lying in a shield formation against what might have been sixty or seventy Baratheon soldiers. A group of servants, scarves wrapped around their faces, were in the process of clearing them away.

Davos had to swallow the reflux that rose in his throat at the sight of it.

Conquest is messy, Davos. You know that; it's what you signed up for.

That didn't mean he had to like what followed.

Two ragged-looking knights from Stannis personal household stood on the other side of the carnage, an elderly Maester clasped in irons behind them.

"What happened here? Where is this smoke coming from?" Stannis demanded. Maester Lomys would not look up from the floor.

"I did as you asked, your Grace. Made sure the gates were open. It's not the natural order of things, the fervour that's gripping this place. The unorthodox practices she keeps following. Why just a few weeks passed, she all but told the High Septon to…

"Where are the Queen of Thorns and her granddaughter?" Stannis snapped, cutting the grovelling man off.

"The… the Lady Margaery, your Grace. She has… well, she set the Tyrell library on fire. These were half the knights left in the castle when you arrived. They should have been on the walls, but she ordered them…."

Lomys continued stuttering about the Lady Margaery, so Stannis turned to the knight leaning against the wall beside him. He removed his helmet, revealing the sharp face and pointed beard of Ser Andrew Estermont, Stannis former squire.

"Olenna Tyrell is dead. We found her in the rookery. Looks like she poisoned herself. We don't know if she got any messages out or not, but several ravens are missing, so I'd wager she did."

Stannis face tensed slightly, though he made no outward sound.

"We have the girl, though. She was setting fire to the books and scrolls in the library – has a bad burn up her left hand for her trouble. And, well, there's a complication."

"Take me to her."

Andrew pushed himself off the wall and led the King and Davos down the hallway – all of them carefully avoiding the deceased and the pools of blood scattered around them. Yes, this was undoubtedly going to be joining Davos' collection of recurring nightmares.

The Baratheon men had put out most of the fires in the enormous War Room, but they'd arrived far too late. Most of the bookshelves had collapsed to the ground, burning embers of wood and crisp parchment all that remained of them, and the chandelier hanging overhead had been brought down into what had been a towering pile of manuscripts. The now exhausted candles now lay sprawled across the room, and the mangled and twisted fixture sat atop a pile of ash and burned papers. The carpet dominating the floor – presumably also adorned with a rose of some type – had been turned to pitch black, three blotched marks of red embers still glowing along the surface. The only thing that appeared to have survived the destruction was an enormous tapestry hanging on the farthest wall. Harlen Tyrell standing before Highgarden, its gates thrown wide open to Aegon Targaryen and his sisters, three dragons circling in the sky above, golden roses stitched around the border.

Margaery Tyrell, a young woman with golden-brown hair flared around her shoulders, a round face and a fire in her eyes to match the destruction she'd wrought, stood before the tapestry – wrists locked in irons behind her back. She wore no finery, just a simple grey dress and a necklace of what might have been obsidian, shaped like a wolf's snarling jaws. Her left arm was indeed burned, and though water had clearly been applied to it, blotchy red marks marred her forearm, the sleeve of her dress scorched away. If it pained her, she gave no outward sign of it.

And she was heavily pregnant, belly and breasts both swelled beneath her soot-stained silk gown.

That was a bit more than a 'complication' in Davos book.

"The false King, I presume?" the Tyrell girl asked. She did not curtsey or bow. Merely stared at the crown of swords atop Stannis' head as if it were the gravest insult she could imagine.

This was the 'Golden Rose' of Highgarden? A woman considered to be the most eligible and most beautiful lady in the country?

"Lady Tyrell," Stannis said, stepping forward and ignoring the insult. Another young woman, with the look of a Lannister, was being held to the side by two men at arms. Several others were carefully going through the stacks of smouldering papers, buckets of water and sand now discarded on the floor.

"Yield the castle to me, write to your brother and tell him to bend the knee. If he does, I will let you keep your titles and lands. Be grateful I do not hold you to blame for the actions of your father."

The siege of Storm's End. Stannis rarely spoke of it, but Davos knew it haunted him still. Yet, he didn't seek vengeance when he could take it with ease. That was just one of the many reasons Davos followed the King. He was always just, always fair, and always honest.

Stannis was perhaps a head taller than the Tyrell girl – gods, she really was just a girl. And pregnant? But she wasn't married. At least, Davos hadn't thought she was. King Stannis commanded so much presence, power and authority in the way he stood and the clothes he wore. Red mantle set over his boiled and studded black leather jerkin, crown on his head, and belt studded with rubies and topaz. This dirty and unadorned girl, faced with the fate of her entire house, should rightfully cower, or at the very least seem small and insignificant before a man like Stannis.

And yet, she seemed nothing of the sort.

The way she held herself – chin tilted up, shoulders back, chest pushed out, hips slightly to the side, right knee slightly bent while her left leg was straight – combined with that expression of righteous fury…

Maybe Davos had been too quick to judge her a girl, youth or not.

"I will not yield – regardless of the price. That is my oath, and let all here witness it in sight of the old gods and the new. Do what you will, Stannis Baratheon, for I am like the fires of Balerion of old. Untameable, untouchable, unfathomable. Come too close, and I will burn you to ash."

The silence that followed was so total and terrifying, the entire castle might have crumbled at her words, and none in that room would have noticed.

Davos honestly had no idea how long it lasted, but the person who broke it was the last he expected.

"Please forgive her, your Grace," Maester Lomys simpered, having apparently followed behind them, "she knows not what she's saying. The Lady Margaery has always been prone to outbursts of insanity and uncouth thoughts…."

"Oh, be silent, you miserable traitor," Margaery snapped, simply speaking over the grovelling Maester. "I should have disposed of you years ago. You are simply lucky Jon convinced me otherwise. Imagine what he will do to you when he learns what his kindness reaped in return."

Lomys started blustering and stuttering, face now deathly pale. This 'Jon' had quite the effect, it seemed. Who was he?

The King ignored the display; instead, he raised a hand and pointed to Margaery's middle.

"To stand fast is honourable, but you will not yield, even for the safety of your child? You are not married. The child you carry is a bastard. Bend the knee, my lady, and I will legitimise them."

Margaery laughed. A full-bodied explosion of mirth so sudden and powerful that Davos actually stepped backwards slightly.

"You find my offer amusing?"

"I do," Margaery declared, "I have no need of a false king's decree to determine the value my child will have. The gods will decide his path, not you."

Stannis clenched his jaw, nothing else.

He was furious.

"Ser Andrew, have the lady taken to her chambers and barred inside. A watch is to be placed on her at all times, and meals served equal only to that of the lowest soldier in the army. Remove all garments from the room, save sleepwear and underclothes. She is to speak to no one."

"Of course, your Grace," Ser Andrew said, approaching Margaery.

She spat in his face.

"Lay a single hand on me, Ser, and I will remove it myself."

Then she strode towards the doors, leaving Andrew – face flushed as bright as the Red Woman's fires – to chase after her.

Authors Notes:

Killing people is a lot easier than I thought it would be when I started this story. It's like a there's a story-spren made of narrativium just sitting on my desk, whispering all the best ways to MURDER the characters you hold dear. MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! ACK, AK, blurgh, ack… *continues coughing for a good minute…

I need a lozenge; that whole evil laughing business is a killer on the throat.