A bit later than usual, but I've been giving myself a break from writing, a much-needed break, as well as to help me go back to focus on my study & college preparation for a while this month. Anyway, quick notes on Reach politics: the Florents are in canon the biggest active threat, and they are allied to the Cranes of Red Lake (double marriages, Alester to a Crane, and Alester's sister to Lord Crane). The Fossoways in canon (both branches) went to Stannis after Renly, despite the fact that Garlan & Janna Tyrell were married to Fossoways from both branches. So, I took the liberty to expand on some of the more intricate details of Reach politics in this chapter. Enjoy!

296 AC, five moons before the Tyrell-Martell wedding

GARLAN

The water trickled down the leaves, few and far between, a beat of drip and a longer one of silence. Drip! It went again as Garlan made his way through the gardens and the glasses of Highgarden, where once the Gardener Kings of old would do the same. Above the castle was a painting of bleak grey. The sky was metal, rapidly consumed by steel clouds. The sun was timorous, peeking but barely there, its rays yielding against the breaking rain.

Highgarden was slumbering today, Garlan thought, on a rainy day amidst a seemingly eternal summer. He took a moment to inhale the scent in the air, the musk of rain upon the earth. It never did smell so sweet. It never did taste closer to home.

Garlan's destination was a door of green and gold. Floral patterns decorated it, to the surprise of no one who ever had stepped foot in Highgarden. Windswept hair and face flushed by the air, Garlan brushed his coat with a few simple strokes and considered himself presentable enough, however in disarray he might actually be. The door swung open, and Garlan entered, nodding a polite smile to the old guard ever vigilant at the side.

Willas always had a flair for drama, after all.

The first thing he took notice of was his brother, ever punctual in his desire to be the first. He stood there, straight as a ramrod, silent and still, immobile - that of a statue. He was facing out of the window, fingers resting on the end of its ledge. His brother painted a grand image, Garlan thought. A silhouette against a window, in the face of a drab and dreary sky. All this lacks is a flash of lightning and Willas would weep tears of joy.

"I see that your head is much occupied, dear brother," Garlan said, finally breaking the stretching silence. "But then again, when has it ever not?"

Willas turned to face him, a smile immediately breaking on his now alit face. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"You take everything as a compliment."

Willas' face was unimpressed. "Yes, I suppose. I do advise you to do the same, Garlan. It has saved me from many awkward situations."

"I'll mark that down," Garlan said instead. "So we are the first, then?" He poured for himself a drink from the pitcher of wine resting on the table.

"It seems so. I am sure Grandmother is not far behind. Where's Loras anyway, weren't you two planning to spar today?"

He nodded. There were days in Highgarden when Garlan wouldn't see his brother from daybreak to sunset. Such was a demonstration of how large Highgarden was. "Yes, we were. And we did," he answered simply.

"Ah, brothers reunion, then? What a warm and rosy time! You two gallant fools poking at each other with wooden sticks-"

"Tourney swords," he interrupted.

"Poking at each other with wooden sticks, drenched in sweat as the sun burns high in the sky! I hope you remember your promise to not go too hard on our dearest littlest brother."

"What can I say?" Garlan shrugged, before continuing playfully, "A man's got to defend his honor. To insinuate that I could rust, in front of our guests, no less. Care, I may not about my reputation, but to let him besmirch it?"

"How very ungallant of you, o' Garlan the Gallant. And what happened to Loras, then? You didn't ditch him, did you?"

"Old Lomys has him, last I know. Oh, don't give me that look, Will. He's young. Brash and brazen and bold. He needs to learn. And if the hard way is what it takes, then the hard way it will be."

Willas muttered something he didn't hear, sighing as he brought his hands to his face. "Our Loras is a dreamer. Always has been. Sometimes… I dread for him."

"Dread?" Garlan asked, frowning. Is this about Prince Renly? Garlan himself knew not of what to make of what Willas had told him. "And what is it that has made the great mastermind of Highgarden quivering in fear?"

"The roles we're assigned. We have only played in the dark 'till now. Lurking, scurrying like rats. Feasting off carcasses like roaches. But now? Now the game enlarges and the stage expands. We danced with the dragon in his den and the snakes in their sand. In and out. We survived. Yet we will dance our dances blind from now on. New players enter. Those who 'till now have only lingered in the shadows. For now, the game will be played in broad daylight. And our hands wouldn't do to keep our cards hidden for long."

He stopped in the middle of his speech. Willas' face was carved from stone. And solemnity ruled his eyes. "I can only dread the roles we are assigned. I can only dread what reads the ink at the end of the story. For I know that should it be inked red in blood, then it is writ so because of my doings. Either this ends in exultation or a lamentation. Jubilation and celebration. Or ruination and desolation. I dread. I worry. For I do fear confusion and accidents."

Heavy was his brother's words. The beat of silence that followed a strenuous one, stretching seemingly forever. Lost at wits and yet head bursting with thoughts. Garlan could only look his brother in the eyes. "Step back, then. Take short steps and sure stride. If you are not certain- we can afford to wait, Willas. We understand how to build the things that last, as our forebears had withstood before us."

The creak was the pull of a door. And the thud was the sound of it swinging open. Olenna Tyrell came, sunken cheeks and wrinkled face, walking as if she was not a day older than thirty. "Ah, my dearest favorite grandson," she said as she stopped in front of them. "Oh, and you Willas, too, of course."

"Grandmother," Willas said. The change in his brother was easily noticeable, him immediately snapping into his usual self, vulnerabilities vanishing in a snap. "To what do I owe this particular displeasure on such a lovely day?"

"When you convinced me to go with your mad plan in your quest over your fathead father, I had expected those wretched bards to begone from our halls. Not infesting them like beetles, crawling all over more so than they ever have before."

"Ah, it's one of those days, then? Truth to be told, it came as a surprise to me when I came home to the Citadel still standing. I had thought that it would've gone up in flames in my absence. Why, Grandmother, I never pegged you for one to miss an opportunity before."

"Would that I could, my dear. But better your father leaves me alone rather than pestering me in my dusty tower."

Not so subtly, Garlan put out a cough against his hand. "Well, Father actually insists on evading you when he can, Grandmother. It's just you that can't stand him being alone to do as we wish that he ends up 'pestering' you."

It was rare to see Olenna Tyrell with no clever remarks coming from her mouth. And it was so that Willas immediately added, "And here I was, expecting you to have something witty that rhymes for us. Has your tongue softened, Grandmother?"

"Oh, but I have raised monsters indeed, it seems," she said, her voice scandalized. But there was a smile on her face, a genuine one, reserved only for her blood.

"Does it bode as ill as you thought, Grandmother? The Oaks."

"I'm sure of that, my dears. Handy work, that one. It's only when the new Lord of Old Oak came to Highgarden to swear fealty and I saw Peake in his face did I finally connect the strings."

"Lannister's work, then," Garlan concluded. "No doubt, they will try to use Starpike in projecting their power and influence here in the Reach and weaken our hold over our major bannermen. Peakes are already unreliable even before the current lord is married to a Lannister."

"Quite. I never cease to marvel at the vanity of those Lannisters. They should've changed their sigil into a preening peacock well long ago if you asked me."

Willas huffed a small laugh. "The Bank certainly is an extravagant affair. And a needless exaggeration of a move on Lord Tywin's part. But I suppose, we can't fault him, can we? A Lannister Queen and a half-Lannister Crown Prince. I, too, would've felt my position secure for another generation if I were him. Enough time to let such an investment grow. But too bad for him, what he doesn't know will be his downfall."

"Yes, yes. And speaking of that, do our Martell friends in the desert know?"

"Doran Martell keeps things so very close to his chest," Willas said, sighing. "Arianne's little help, and even if I could get Oberyn to see some of my suggestions, he's unquestionably loyal to his brother at the end of the day."

Has Willas told Arianne yet? He wondered whether his brother trusted his betrothed enough, with all the large shadows of the wedding looming over them. Then again, it wasn't a matter of trust. It was a decision. Willas laid plans for his evening course. Plans for the path he took when traveling from one room to another in the castle. When does he plan to do so?

"And what of this Dornish Princess that you whisked off her feet and swindled all the way here to Highgarden? I'd like to see this yield of a harvest that you're risking your cock getting bitten by a snake for, Willas."

"Tut-tut, a lady shouldn't curse, Grandmother. And I did so only because I'm heir to the richest man in Westeros."

"Richest?" Garlan asked. "I'm sure Tywin Lannister would have some words about that."

"What use is gold?" Willas said. "The might of the west isn't what the Lord of Casterly Rock imagines. For all their wealth, the Westerlands lacks a fleet to secure their coast, and their mountains yield them silver and gold, not wheat and barley. They will all be chewing away their gold when we deprive them of our harvests. Yes, yes, it's still a relatively fertile land. But gold is not forever. Never is. And so are their provisions."

"Worry not about Tywin, my dears. Our new friends are who I'm concerned with. I hope you do not mean to seat your betrothed on Sunspear, Willas. I know not what your father was telling you when I wasn't around, but it's a most-"

"Your lack of faith wounds me, Grandmother. Sunspear is a mere pipe dream. Albeit one Arianne still yearns and longs for. But, with her in tow, so would a score of Dornish houses. Whatever Doran does, Arianne still has sympathizers in Dorne. Whatever we do, we have ensured that our long-standing rival will be disturbed, disunited, and destabilized for at least a generation, rendering them incapable of posing a danger to us. Divide and conquer."

"Pick them piece by piece and pit one against the other? Hah! Now this, I like, Willas."

"Hmm, plottings, then? What fun!" Garlan bellowed sarcastically in a cheerful voice.

"You may keep the disinterested noble charade, dear brother. But I know deep down you're as much as a Tyrell as we are."

"Still," he answered, shrugging and with a sigh. "You're dismissing Doran Martell. The man is clever and able. And there's a possibility of him snuffing out our real intention. And guess whose uncle he is?"

Willas nodded a disgruntled nod. "I agree. We need a guarantee. We need safety. And for that, we will need his trust. Time… time is what we need. Time to sway, to build bonds, and wither even rocks. We will dare not move so fast. And so, our littlest rose shall need to prove to be most eloquent. The question is - is she, Grandmother?"

Olenna Tyrell stared back at his brother, unflinching. Her gaze was sharp. And then she smiled. "You don't think I'll let the first Tyrell queen be an airheaded broodmare, do you?"

His and his brother's smiles were what answered her words.

"So, Princess Arianne-"

"Oh, please, just call me Arianne, Lady Olenna. It would be an honor for you to call me that. And perhaps one day I can call you… Grandmother?" She wore a gown of pink chiffon, flowing freely as if dancing with the wind.

"We'll see about that, dear," the once-Redwyne said, sharp and curt. "Do you know that I was once to be a Princess myself? I was betrothed… to a Targaryen Princeling, as all the rage was back then. Oh, I can't even remember his name anymore, though I do remember his twitchy little ferret-face. Ah, what a shame, no, dearie?"

"What's a shame, Lady Olenna?"

"To be a mere lady and no longer a Princess. But I suppose only those vain harlots like the Lannisters would care about such things. Must not worry, my dear, it may seem like a stepdown, but-"

"Giving up my title? No," Arianne said softly with the faintest shake of the head.

Olenna Tyrell's eyes narrowed. Dangerously. And then Willas said, "Rather than for Arianne to surrender her claim and abdicate completely, she'd instead move down the succession line, behind her brothers. And so, she'll continue to style herself as Princess Arianne of House Nymeros Martell of Dorne. To be added with the titles - Lady of Highgarden and Lady of the Reach when - if the Gods will it - the time comes."

"A Princess of our very own, won't that be interesting, Grandmother?" Margaery quipped from the side.

"Oh, very interesting indeed," their grandmother answered.

"I hope you and your cousin are not facing any trouble settling in, Princess Arianne," their mother said. "Some boys could be rough, but I will talk with Captain Igon if-"

"You needn't worry about Tyene, Lady Alerie," Arianne said.

One of the Sand Snakes, Tyene Sand was a bastard of Oberyn Martell, sired on a septa from the Reach. Courteous, polite, and graceful. Quiet, shy, and withdrawn, even. But Garlan knew that the woman was as deadly as her sire. Something flashed in Alerie Hightower's eyes at that. A bastard as a Princess companion at Highgarden, hah… the Martells sure are bold. Although, Garlan figured that it was more on Arianne's insistence rather than some designated slight on Prince Doran's part. The topics quickly changed.

"A dozen cooks, only the best and the most lavish of Essos, I'm telling you. No worries, Father, we'll recreate even Aunt Lynesse's seventy-seven wedding courses with no problem."

Mace Tyrell's laugh was boisterous, eyes lighting up immediately as he sat there in green and blue regalia. Garlan found himself unable to blame his brother, for the wedding at Volantis was a festivity like he had never seen before.

"What does Lord Fossoway write, Mace?" their grandmother asked. Contrary to the many rumors swirling on and on about how the Queen of Thorns was the true head of House Tyrell, hers was no more but an advisor… albeit a strong one to the Lord of Highgarden.

"He wrote to inform us of joyous news. A betrothal between his daughter, Floris, and Ser Imry Florent, Lord Alester's niece."

Alerie Hightower added immediately, "Just last moon he announced a betrothal between his son, Ser Gilbert, the Heir to Cider Hall and Lord Crane's daughter. Your handmaid, Merry, Margaery…" Merry was Meredyth Crane, the only daughter of Lord Rycherd Crane, whose wife was Rylene Florent, Lord Alester's sister. And in turn, Lord Alester himself took Lord Rycherd's sister, Lady Melara as his wife. The girl had been sent to Highgarden to be Margaery's handmaiden and companion a year past, a move to check the Florent-Crane alliance, especially in the light of the former's ties to the Crown.

"It seems that our Fossoway friends forget themselves," came their grandmother's voice.

"Madness! Who does he think he is?" was the angry remarks of his brother. Willas was smart. But control had been his brother's for so long, for too long. And when that slipped away, the Wilted Rose turned the Jaded Rose.

"Lord Medwick is playing a dangerous… dangerous game. Does he not know not to prick the thorns?"

The room descended into incoherent mumblings and arguments, each pitching their own voices. And by each, Garlan meant Willas, Margaery, and their grandmother. For the others only watched, Including the Lord of Highgarden himself, who remained silent but whose face was oddly thoughtful.

After a while, Willas snorted. And laughed, he did. "Thrice-damned Florents. Lord Alester forgets himself. Tyrells have braved Florents' mewlings times and times before. Now that his niece is married to some dour prince, it seems that the man has been emboldened."

"And your Dornish betrothal," came the Queen of Thorns' voice. "Any noble who learns at the feet of their maesters would know that some houses in the Reach wield an enmity against Dorne, some more so than the other. No more than the Oakhearts. And now Old Oak is slipping away from our hands."

"Why tell me this?" his brother said, displeased.

"Because I missed out on the pleasure of saying I told you so," she replied.

Garlan eyed his brother's betrothed, seemingly lost, as if lambs set loose upon a pack of starving lions. Silently, Garlan watched in amusement, seeing the ever-perfect Willas trying his hands on dealing with a spiraling wheel. But of course, he would never voice it.

"Peake and Oakheart are Tywin's pawns. Lannisters. Not Baratheons. Cersei Lannister inspires no love for the lions in the court, am I right, sister?" Garlan said.

"Oh but it was too easy, brother," Margaery answered, demure and voice innocent as a maid, for all that she was not inside. The stink of King's Landing hadn't wilted the Rose of Highgarden. Instead, it had only made her deadlier. Honed. "So does Stannis, and more so Lady Selyse. No love comes from them. But then again, King's Landing is… not very pleasant."

"Did you play the demure, gentle-hearted, pious maid, sister?"

"You underestimate me, brother," she said instead. "If I want to be trouble, I can be trouble, you know?" You promised me a prince from Essos or a dragon of Old Valyria, dear brother. Yet I see none of them with you right now, she had said upon their welcome, smirk palpable of the unspoken secret that hung heavy in the air. At least Prince Aegon seemed like a good enough lad. Else he'd need to fear the wrath of the Tyrells.

"As I can only expect, of course," Willas answered with the same smirk.

"Merry also tells me that her father once briefly considered Samwell Tarly. But we have Cousin Desmera for him."

"We spurned him," Garlan said. "A Redwyne, Heir to the Arbor, for his daughter when they asked for a Tyrell. We have met Lord Medwick. Jovial man, the forgive-and-forget type. However, Lord Medwick has his sister married to tie both branches of House Fossoways together. To Lord Edmund Fossoway of the New Barrel, whose brother himself was our aunt's late husband. Ser Jon Fossoway. Now red and green band together, and they remain the strongest power in the Mander save for ourselves."

As he finished his words, he surveyed the room. Alerie Hightower's face was unreadable as always. Olenna Tyrell had her chin resting atop her knuckles, eyes sharp as her mind worked. Loras sat the furthest from the center of the room, lazily palming a pomegranate from the Summer Isles. Arianne… though, Arianne was no Tyrell. She still wears her heart on her sleeve. She sat there, her uncomfortableness clearly visible, plain for all naked eyes to see. A serpent in the garden.

"Sit tight," his brother suddenly said. He rambled on, a plan clearly devised already in his mind. "We wait. We watch. This is but a childish tantrum from the Fossoways. If they think the heir to the Arbor is not worth their standing, then I will be too happy to fix their problem for them when the time comes. Heir betrothed to a Crane and a daughter to Stannis Baratheon's good brother. This is not a betrayal. This is a negotiation. The carrot and the stick."

"So we'll fear," Margaery added. "So we'll be willing to have them at the price they want."

"Indeed. Tread carefully, we must. But in our wait, we must not do nothing. Elinor is to be Lady Ambrose one day. A junior Tyrell branch, descended from the brother of our grandfather. Her brother is a boy, six, I think? Let him squire for Lord Medwick. Throw a promise between the boy and one of his daughters, too. A worthless sacrifice on our part, but enough to buy the time until all the pieces are ready. We wait. Until the wedding. Let them see the might of Highgarden. Let them see our ties. Tully, Mallister, Arryn, Waynwood, Royce. We have five moons to make sure those houses attend."

"Cousin Alla," Willas continued. "One of Margaery's companions. I've seen her. She has potential, don't you think?"

"I… she's lovely, if that's what you asked, brother," Margaery answered, caught unready. "She'll have no problem turning boys' heads light, but she hasn't… I don't know-"

"Well, we can always remedy that. With a nice dowry? I'm sure she'll do oh so very nicely," Willas said. "Send a raven to Lord Lannister. I have a mind to offer her to one of his nephews. As a truce or a peace offering, if you will. Grandmother, you're best at handling the man, nudge him, write to him, probe some openings. And make sure to make it seem as if you're doing it on your own, undermining father's authority."

"Hmm, Leo's get?" she mused. "Yes, yes… she'll do very nicely indeed. I shall try to extend Tywin the bait, my dears, and let's see whether he bites or not."

"Good," Willas nodded. Was it plain to see? Or did he get tangled in too many plots already not to see it? But either way, Willas was gambling on a future Lord Lannister with a loyal wife… Tyrell wife. "And if he doesn't bite, well… you're well acquainted with the Waynwood heirs, are you not, Garlan?"

"Donnel? Yes. Morton, not so much." Donnel was the second son and Morton was the heir. Sons of the solemn and courteous old Lady Waynwood. "Why?"

"Lady Anya Waynwood has a ward. A ward… second in line to the Lordship of the Eyrie. Lord Jon's great-nephew. Harrold Hardyng, his name is."

"You… you can't mean to-"

"I don't mean anything. But Robert Arryn is famously sickly, prone to shaking fits. I wouldn't bet much on him surviving to his adulthood."

"And the Arryns are dying like flies," their grandmother said. "I pity Jon Arryn. Between that dreadful wife of his, and his sickly heir, and being Hand of the King to Robert Baratheon?"

"And Lysa Arryn still… breastfeeds the boy, even in Court," added Margaery. "She's… she's a terrified woman. She sees things that aren't there. And the Master of Coins is feeding her spooks."

"Baelish," Loras said, the first word he said in a while, with a sneer. "Renly told me of the man. A fraud of a worm. Full of deceits." Has he now, Loras?

"Write to Lady Waynwood if our gambit with the Lannisters doesn't work. A girl from a mere branch, far away from the main Tyrells, for a son of a sixth or a seventh daughter, married to some landed knight. Ironoaks is not rich. But we are. And the Waynwoods have debts. What goes in the Riverlands, brother? Has Edmure Tully ever written to you?"

He nodded. "Yes." It felt strange to discuss such contents of a letter meant to be private. But Garlan quenched those twisting feelings inside him with the thought of his family. For my family. "He does write… of Freys infestation in Riverrun."

"Oh?" inquired Willas, clearly interested.

"Yes, it seems that after the succession crisis, many… many Freys have been sent to their relatives, or to serve as wards and hostages for good behavior in some castles in the Riverlands. Riverrun is one such castle. Although, he did… write of a Frey girl that I think he fancies. One of the Rosby Freys, I think. Rosa? I forgot the name. There's like a hundred of them, no?"

"Really?" Willas smiled, smirking. "Really?"

"Yes, what of it?"

"Nothing. It's just… it's lovely," he said, shrugging but still smiling.

"Oh, and that reminds me," their mother said. "Your Uncle wrote to me that his wife had finally gone into labor a fortnight past. It's a girl. Healthy and hale. Elenei, they named her."

"After the daughter of the sea god and the wind goddess that fell in love with Durran Godsgrief?" Garlan asked. How… interesting, to name her after the ancestor of House Durrandon, and through the female line… House Baratheon.

"Baelor always has been fascinated by grand, mythical tales of gods," Alerie Hightower answered, voice seemingly smiling.

"Are we due for a visit to Hightower, then? How exciting!" Margaery chirped.

"Perhaps," their mother said. "I have longed to see Hightower again. It's been quite some time."

"It's a splendid idea," Willas said. "And it will remind our bannermen of the ties we possess with our strongest bannermen. Mother, you should go. Take father and mayhaps Margaery with you. Oldtown is truly lovely. And it's so different from the last you went there. Yi Tish riches and eastern luxuries, I just know that Father is going to love it."

"Yes, well…" Mace Tyrell mused. "Some time off Highgarden will be great, don't you think, my love? And some time off Mother, too," he said, voice elated but quieting at the last part.

"I am not yet deaf, Mace. But I suppose it will be good, indeed. Let the Lord and Lady Tyrell be seen by their subjects. And you, Willas, will go to Goldengrove. Old Oak. Red Lake. We have renewed ties with the Rowans with your brother's betrothal to Mathis' daughter, Alerie. But Lord Rowan remains a very cautious man. You would need to charm him, Willas."

"I shall accompany him," Garlan said. "I know Lord Rowan already. Still, I have the utmost confidence in Willas' skill. My brother does have witchcraft on his lips, after all."

"You flatter me," Willas said, half-hearted. "Arianne, would you like to go?"

All eyes were on the Dornish Princess. She had not spoken much all the way through their meeting. Barely a word or two, out of courtesy and nothing more. She's being tested… he realized. Will she break?

"I would love to, Willas," she answered. Out of place.

"Lovely, then. Loras, on your next trip to the Capital, go visit Tumbleton. Bitterbridge. Roxton's Ring. Grassy Vale. Our northern lords. Margaery, Leonette Fossoway is to come to Highgarden before the formalization of her betrothal to cousin Horas. You know what to do. And Garlan… we will be sure to invite Ser Gilbert Fossoway along. I had heard he likes his spars, and no spar will ever be sweeter than one against the squire of the Blackfish. I also have an idea about the foxes. Alekyne Florent remains unwed, past thirty, and our cousin…"

AN: Fun times ahead with the wedding and stuff. Please do leave a review to let me know what you think of the chapter!