The Roseroad

294 AC

Ting! Clang!

Jon Stark's arms were so sore that he could barely feel them over the terrible aching. His uncle had woken him up just before dawn, and right away they had begun sparring with live steel.

Jon had been excited to wield Wolf Queen again. He was completely fascinated by the gleaming white-tinted blade at the wolf heads on either side of the rain guard. It was his sword. Not anyone else's.

That being said, it was quite heavy for him. At least it was at the start. Now it still weighed much more than one of the arming swords the guards would use at Winterfell. That, and his hands were much smaller than the grip demanded, which was likely intentional on Tobho Mott's part. Jon supposed he was going to grow into the bastard sword.

The extra weight didn't help him. As such, for the last hour or so, he had wanted to stop to rest.

Then he usually remembered what Uncle Starag had done just a week earlier. How his uncle had taken on Barristen the Bold in the final tilt with a lame arm, and even when his uncle had fought off and outsmarted the Darkstar.

He could still remember the reverberating CRUNCH that had sounded throughout the arena when his uncle lifted up Darkstar like a backpack and brought him crashing down onto his knee. Jon had held a pale-looking Margaery until he noticed that his uncle had left the arena.

Jon held no warmth for his distant uncle Gerold Dayne. Neither Mother nor Uncle Arthur had said much about him. So the man remained a stranger.

Even though his sword arm had been injured badly, Uncle Starag still fought the Darkstar anyway… It puzzled Jon to no end, yet it also made sense in a way.

Whenever he had trained with Robb and Arthur, he could see the reserved glint in Uncle Arthur's purple eyes. He was holding back, Jon knew. Like he didn't want them to fully exert themselves, to give all of themselves to the training.

Uncle Starag, on the other hand… certainly held nothing back. Though Jon was glad to see his uncle's sword arm was healing quite well, it certainly made their morning sparring sessions much harder on his part.

When Uncle Starag fought left-handed, Jon had managed to give him the slip with an overhead strike aimed for his uncle's shoulder. It was parried, yet Jon had noticed the stark difference, the extra few seconds it had taken his uncle to react in time.

Travel on the Roseroad was far more to Jon's liking than the Kingsroad had been, especially the Neck in particular. He still shivered at the thought of that cold and craggy swamp filled with lizard-lions.

Thankfully, they weren't alone this time around. The Tyrells had invited them to come along with their caravan. Jon remembered how Uncle Starag had jumped at the chance, probably concerned for the vast amount of gold they now traveled with.

It was strange to Jon how he and his uncle had only set out with three horses and a purse of a couple of hundred gold dragons. Now, as they made their way to the final tourney in Highgarden, they had perhaps three carriages filled with all 103,744 in gold dragons following behind the Tyrell caravan. Jon wondered how they were going to get those heavy iron carriages across the Neck.

Margaery had told him all about the Reach and had been surprised when he had told her he'd never been to the Reach before.

"It's so beautiful in Highgarden! I know you'll absolutely love it, Jon!" She had said to him as they rode over the hillside together. She'd seemed to pick up riding quite fast, but Jon shrugged it off.

He'd never been to the Reach before. Jon had only read about it in the history books or heard vague descriptions of it from Maester Luwin. Sometimes Father or Uncle Arthur would satisfy his curiosity and tell him of the vast fields of green, red, and yellow. Flowers and fruit trees bloomed and melded into the beautiful countryside.

The Reach was by far one of the most beautiful places he'd ever seen. There was a light breeze when one trotted atop the flowing green and luscious hills. It was the sweet spot of Westeros' farming country.

His thoughts had been immediately shattered when Longclaw had down onto the flat of Wolf Queen's white blade. The sharp impact had shocked Jon's hand, and so he dropped his bastard sword onto the wet morning grass.

Jon shook his hand and gritted his teeth through the pain. He glanced up at the towering figure of his uncle with a mild glare. He was about to open his mouth, but he stopped himself from complaining. Uncle Starag didn't complain. Why should Jon?

"You've always got to be present in a fight, especially ones with swords like ours." Uncle Starag said sternly. There was a slight smile on his lips. "I was here, and that's why I disarmed you. You were somewhere else."

Jon knitted his eyebrows together. What was his uncle talking about? Being present? Was he not here as well? "What do you mean, uncle?" Jon said as he picked up his sword off the ground.

Uncle Starag had placed Longclaw between his feet. He looked like a statue in the crypts of Winterfell. "When we were sparring just now, what were you thinking about?" He asked plainly. "Were you thinking about how you'd disarm me? Or were you thinking about how pretty the Reach is and how dreadful it will be to pass the Neck once this is all over?"

"How did you-"

His uncle held up a hand, and Jon stopped himself. "Because I was thinking the exact same things last night." He answered. "Now focus."

Longclaw's edge had left the ground once more. Jon knew what was going to happen as his uncle took up his stance once again, holding his sword out with both hands.

"Again!"

Highgarden was a mystery to Starag Mormont.

He didn't know how these people found the time to tend to the vast and magnificent fields of blooming golden roses outside the white castle walls.

Once they had seen the glowing white citadel over the rise, Mormont felt the familiar comforting itch that he preferred to avoid. Though he was glad to be in the home of his extended good-family.

He thought it odd that Jorah had not used his lady wife's relations with Lady Alerie Tyrell to help move more resources into House Mormont's pocket. Starag doubted that any other northern house had been nearly as lucky as his own family in that regard.

Still, as he glanced back at the carriages rolling behind him, he grinned to himself. He'd done it. He just had to win the upcoming tourney at Highgarden, and then journey back to Winterfell, and then finally, to Bear Island.

He would definitely have to order his aunt to build a ship. He wasn't about to let the Glovers try to tax him out of his hard-won gold.

There was a sick sort of satisfaction that had spread through his mind. The overwhelming realization that he'd likely be the wealthiest lord in the entire North once this was all over. Just a bit more so than Wyman Manderly himself. The greed of incoming status and the future groveling of the northern lords was simply intoxicating to him.

But he'd have to get back home first. Right now, he was still on for the tourney in Highgarden, and he still hadn't even taken Dorne into account.

They rode through the first of the tall white stone walls, passing by the immense briar labyrinth within, and then passing by the second layer of white stone.

Up the hill of the paved brick road they went, and Mormont glanced around at the hilly interior between the second and the final layer of the castle's massive stone walls. There were trees dotted around great flowerbeds, all featuring starbursts of blue, gold, red, and white blooms.

Then came the final wall. The circular third bulwark had towered up high, perhaps sixty feet, and wrapped around Highgarden like a thick stone blanket.

Mormont could see the towers within. Next to the main keep, there were two square and squat towers which looked somewhat older than their long and slender counterparts. The square keeps had a sort of bland staining on the sides. Still, they were quite elegant. One might've called them pretty.

The large wooden portcullis had jutted open, making the usual deafening screech of metal and wood grinding against one another.

They rode through slowly and immediately entered into the sprawling open courtyard. There was a stone fountain in the middle of the courtyard, cold crystal water flowed into the circular pool. Standing in front of the main keep were the household staff, and Mormont's extended good-family.

Mormont waited for Mace's own carriage to halt before the assembled crowd. He slowly dismounted while the Lord of the Reach stepped out of his carriage and onto the stone brick ground.

Out behind him came Margaery. She gave him a small wave and smiled at Jon beside him. Mormont waved back and nearly laughed when he saw his nephew's blush.

Garlan had come up beside him and dismounted. "Good to be back." He commented as he glanced over at Mormont. "Come. I'll put in orders to make sure your gold is looked after during your stay."

Mormont glanced back at the heavy iron carriages containing his fortune as they rolled up the hill and into the courtyard with considerable ease. Then he looked down to his stomach and felt it gurgle and squeeze. He was quite hungry after a half day's travel.

Reluctantly, he nodded his head in agreement. "Alright. Have some food prepared while you're at it."

Garlan grinned a mouthful of full white teeth. "That's the spirit!"

All of his troubles and worries had been forgotten. He was overwhelmed with joy and amazement that he'd accepted Garlan's offer.

Mormont devoured the waiting plate full of freshly cooked chicken and rice, along with vegetables topped with salt and pepper. There were the faintest traces of olive oil and… hickory in the grilled peppers and onions.

It was by far a more respectable meal than the average venison stew on Bear Island, but Mormont didn't care. Food was food to him. That's all that mattered.

"I take it you still prefer honey in your coffee, Starag?" Alerie Tyrell had leaned slightly over the top of the great brown table as she looked at him with warm, motherly brown eyes. Her pale silver hair gleamed in the torchlight.

He nodded gruffly as he consumed his food like the barbarian he was. That, and he wouldn't dare speak with his mouth full. Those were not good table manners, after all.

Soon enough, a pot of coffee and a small jar of honey was delivered to him. He raised an eyebrow as he saw Willas reach over to the pot, pour himself a cup, and then take a large spoonful of honey.

The Tyrell heir quickly noticed Mormont's wary gaze and smirked underneath his dark brown mustache. "What? I thought I'd give it a try…"

Mormont finally gulped down his chicken. "Curiosity finally gotten to you, eh?" He smiled. "Better not tell Lomys, then. His heart will stop."

Willas chuckled heartily and began drinking his first cup of the sweetened black liquid. Once he took his first sip, his brown eyes widened and glanced again at Mormont. "Bloody hell, Starag. This is outstanding!"

Starag grinned wickedly in response and poured himself his own cup before the rest of the Tyrells had decided to get some coffee after Willas' outburst. He took his spoon and took a large scoop of golden brown honey and sunk it deep into the black liquid.

Jon, who had been sitting silently next to him, had taken his own cup of coffee and honey. And so did Margaery after him. Soon enough the pot was empty, and the servants were sent to fetch another.

"Is that slop all you live on, Ser Mormont?" Olenna Tyrell had asked curtly from across the table. The small and frail old woman stared expectantly at him with razor-sharp hazel eyes. "I'd rather not have my grandchildren take after a witless barbarian, thank you."

Mace Tyrell, at the head of the table, had spluttered his half-swallowed wine out of his mouth. "Mother!" Everyone else glanced back at the Old Flower in shock. She'd just insulted one of their esteemed guests.

Mormont for his part finished his plate of chicken and had called for more. Then he looked at the small old woman sitting across from him with patient deep blue eyes.

Despite her sharp, pointed words, her tone of voice sounded more like endearment to him. When he had first met her, he'd avoided the old woman for four days. He didn't want to pick her up and toss her out the window of the main keep.

But now, he was more than used to her barbs and thorns. He occasionally enjoyed the mental games she'd put him through. Just for the hell of it.

"But Olenna…" He started with a wicked smirk. "I'm just getting started… Next, we'll have a good old-fashioned raid. I'm sure Oldtown could do with some reaving and pillaging."

Oddly enough, it had only been the Queen of Thorns who snorted at his reply. She shook her head and smiled at him. Her small hazel eyes were approving of his reply. "And I'd be the first to join you. We'd give old Leyton a good knock off his tower, wouldn't we?"

The underlying tension at the dinner table had been sufficiently diffused. Mace and Alerie had resumed their pleasant chatter.

And as Mormont's second plate of delicious chicken and rice arrived, he dug right in.

By the time dinner was over, the sun was dipping below the thin white line of the horizon. It's last rays shined brightly through the square glass pane windows.

Jon and Margaery had gone off with Garlan to see the stables. Willas returned to the rookery to see his Falcons. Mormont himself was going to inspect his room once again when the Old Flower herself had approached him, her arm shaking slightly as she leaned on her cane.

Olenna Tyrell was perhaps just a bit taller than Jon, who was almost half of Mormont's actual height. She seemed so small and frail in comparison to him.

"I take it you have something for me?" She asked with a bored and somewhat tired voice.

How in the Seven hells had she known? He wondered. It didn't particularly matter, but it made him all the more curious to know. Starag doubted he'd get the truth, however.

Mormont had wanted to get settled in first before he divulged any information to the old woman. Might as well get it out of the way… He figured. The Queen of Thorns was not the most patient of women.

She read his reluctant expression and beckoned for him to follow. She looped her free arm around Mormont's wrist as she led him deeper into the magnificent white stone castle of Highgarden.

It was a slow walk to the private veranda. There was a small coffee table with a set of four rather comfortable wood chairs with green woolen cushions. Mormont took his seat opposite of the Old Flower and reached into his satchel.

He procured two of the four envelopes he'd been given by Ned way back at Winterfell. Gods, it felt as if it had been years since then. Mormont handed them wordlessly to Olenna, who looked at them with unimpressed hazel eyes.

"Who from?" She asked curtly. "Dayne? The Sword of the Morning is up to no good, hmmm?"

"And from Ned," Mormont added simply.

Olenna Tyrell's eyes had widened by precisely an inch. "Stark?" Now she was curious. Vastly intrigued by the mysterious contents of the letters in front of her. With surprising vigor and energy, the Old Flower had torn open the paper envelopes and read both letters.

Mormont had sat there for a few minutes, only watching as Olenna's hazel eyes scanned each letter again and again.

Abruptly, she set them down on the wood table. Olenna sat back in her seat leisurely. "I must say, I'm impressed at Eddard Stark's initiative. I didn't think he had the brains for this kind of work."

That hadn't been the first thing Mormont expected her to say. Then again, he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. He would've been angry for Ned's sake if he hadn't known that the old woman sitting across from him was the Queen of Thorns.

He calmed the patriotic side of himself. This woman was uninhibited as far as her opinions went. "And what do you think of it? Our plan?"

"Plan?" Olenna asked with curious hazel eyes. "As far as I'm concerned, there is no plan at all. As for this Targaryen bastard of yours-"

Mormont slammed his fist down hard on the coffee table. He would be patient with the old woman, but he drew the line when she insulted his nephew. "He's not a bastard. Rhaegar and Lyanna were wed in the eyes of the Seven and the Old Gods."

Olenna hadn't appeared to be impressed by his show of strength. She continued. "On the word of Arthur Dayne? A traitor and exile? And Eddard Stark? He betrayed his own friend and ally by pretending this boy- Jon or Jaehaerys, or whatever his name is- was his second-born son. Despite his sterling reputation, this plot of his only makes me distrust him more."

"What about my word, then?" Mormont asked her. He knew the Old Flower just wanted reassurance. Reassurance that this wasn't just some elaborate plot to destroy her family or the like.

The Tyrells had always been loyal to the Targaryens and were to them what the Manderlys were to the Starks. Both had been given their power by their liege lords and were fiercely loyal as a result.

Mormont knew that the Tyrells had not liked Robert's coronation, not one lick. Just like how the Manderlys would be rather be killed than accept the Boltons as liege lords of the North.

Olenna gazed at him with searching hazel eyes. Her wrinkled and wizened gaze in the fading sunlight had seemed to make her look younger, almost. He could see the faint traces of the beautiful woman she had once been. "You think I'm just a nervous and frail old woman, don't you? That I'm more interested in keeping my family alive and well, and far less interested in your words of honor and installing a new and just King to his rightful throne?"

Mormont simply nodded. He kept his cool mask. He wouldn't lie. "The thought had occurred to me." He said.

"Good." Olenna nodded firmly. She only took on a thin smile. "Because I think you're a sexist, misogynist, and craggy old bear. A relic of the rebellions that nearly destroyed my family in the past."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she continued. "How many women have you conquered on your journey here? How many promises did you make to them? Or did you simply break their hearts and leave them by the roadside? Letting them watch tearfully as you passed along to the next town and into the arms of the next woman?"

Mormont said nothing. Images of the brown-haired Bethanie had floated into his mind. She was just a passing fancy for him, but he saw the yearning look in her eyes. He couldn't give her the love she deserved or wanted.

He simply recalled the waiting and longing eyes of Alyss Blount as they said farewell to one another. He'd never see the ash-blonde young woman again. Yet he'd saddled her with a child. His child. How likely was it that he'd ever meet that child? Or that the boy would know who his true father was?

And then there was Ruby. Starag's heart had twisted and churned at the thought of the golden-blonde girl he held in his arms as she cried. I love you, Starag. Her words made him want to crawl inside and… and just go away for a little while.

All of them he likely wouldn't ever see again. All of them belonged to him forever. They loved him, yet he couldn't love them back. Not when he had a job to do. Not when he had his people to look after.

Mormont realized he'd been staring at the coffee table. He glanced at the beautifully fading sun on the horizon. The starburst of blushing purple, orange, and red colors was entrancing in the inky blue sky.

"Point taken." He said emotionlessly.

Without the Tyrells, Ned and Arthur would have quite a bit of trouble taking back the throne from the Baratheon-Lannister complex. Not to mention with Jon Arryn as Hand of the King, and his lady wife Catelyn Arryn was Hoster Tully's daughter.

The Stormlands, The Riverlands, The Westerlands, and The Vale. Four kingdoms against one. Shit.

"Not quite, Starag."

Mormont turned his head back to the Queen of Thorns. She was looking at him rather thoughtfully, and there was that familiar hint of motherly sternness. He realized that she'd used his first name.

"If you think I don't have the balls to call my banners and throw myself into another war for the 'good of the realm', then you're dead wrong. I believe you know me well enough to know that I'll gladly get my hands dirty." Olenna sat forward in her chair and folded her hands together. She spoke plainly. "But I won't do it just because a few letters demand that I do. Even with your precious word of honor and cavalier attitude towards life."

Starag supposed that this was going to come up. The Old Flower wanted something from him. A pact, a binding agreement. Something to make them allies until the very end.

"Then what is it that you want?" Mormont asked. Perhaps there was hope after all with this scheme.

Olenna Tyrell sat back and let her hands rest on her cane. "This boy… Jaehaerys… Is he a good lad? A kind lad?" She asked earnestly.

Mormont didn't know where to start. Jon had backed him up at every turn, even if he didn't like some of the things that Mormont had done just to win his gold. Jon's pale and ghostly face after he'd broken Gerold Dayne's body had come to mind.

Jon was a strong and stern lad. He believed that a man's word is sometimes all that he has in the world. Mormont was proud of him, and he was more than curious to see the kind of man that Jon would grow into.

"He is," Mormont answered finally with a warm smile. "You saw him at dinner with your granddaughter, did you not?"

"I did," Olenna answered plainly. "I'll admit… I was not overly excited to see that my beautiful granddaughter was smitten on the second son of a Lord who rules over a frozen wasteland…" She shook her head. "I thought she would be wasted on him in some cold ruin of a keep in the Wolfswood."

"However," She relented somewhat. "I do believe you when you say that he is trueborn. I'm sure Arthur Dayne was present during the whole ordeal? And that he has sufficient proof for when the time comes?"

Mormont nodded stolidly. "He was. And yes. We have the High Septon's diary. He recorded the whole ordeal."

"Excellent." Olenna's thin smile was strangely warm. "Besides. I've heard songs about that boy of Robert's. Not the kind of things children often do at such a young age."

Mormont had only gotten a few brief glances at Joffrey Baratheon. As soon as he saw the haughty sneer on the boy's Lannister face, he knew what kind of person the Prince would grow into. It was the kind of look he'd seen in Horace Blount and Gerold Dayne. Plain and pure cruelty.

He didn't care about the Baratheon Prince, however. He had his own King to look after. Mormont knew what the Old Flower had wanted. Why she had asked that simple question. "You want to marry your granddaughter to Jon. When they're both of age."

"Well, I'm certainly glad you caught on at last." Olenna quipped at his expense. She lay a small hand on the letters. "If your King will have my granddaughter as his Queen… Then I'll just be dragged along with her."

He smiled lightly. "He doesn't know he's a King."

"Yes, well… I'm sure that's something Lord Stark will have to handle, now won't he?" Olenna's thin eyebrows raised pointedly at him. "And I'm sure as shit not going to tell the boy myself."

Mormont knew in the back of his mind that telling Jon he wasn't actually Ned's son would be a terrible bandage to rip off. At least now… the boy wouldn't have some naive idea to go off to the Night's Watch.

He too would leave that in Ned's hands.

Starag nodded his head in agreement. "Your terms sound easy enough. I think Jon is rather smitten with Margaery himself."

"And he certainly does a piss poor job of hiding it, too." Olenna shook her head again in distaste. "I swear that boy needs one of those stern glares that the Starks usually come out of the womb with."

Mormont nearly doubled over in his seat from laughter. Fair enough.