Stormlands

"Is there anything more beautiful than an ancient forest in autumn?" the young Lord Renly muses, catching a falling leaf riding with the cool morning air. Their usual hunting paths are obscured by leaves of red and gold, but any Baratheon knows the way through Storm's End's hunting grounds. Their horses leave deep tracks in leaves, each step causing small bugs and critters to scamper away. Still so near the horizon, the rising sun dapples through the golden canopy and bathe them all in a lively glow. "If only someone could capture this beauty in silk and metal," he sighs, "don't you think so, Loras?"

"You shouldn't be here, my Lord," the flower knight grumbles, brushing off a stray piece of greenery on his armour. "We shouldn't risk your body for some broken men, especially after his Grace's little incident. My blade is more than enough," he pats his scabbard, a thing of onyx vines and gilded roses.

"I'm no Robert, Loras. I have the good sense to be sober while hunting," he smirks before tossing away the leaf. "And for you to say that of all things? Why, I remember a time when the flower knight was only a rosebud that couldn't wield a sword," he laughs, causing his lover to roll his eyes in annoyance. There's no danger to the young Lord here, not when wearing a fine steel plate armour and guarded by a dozen men. Though this one looks a bit shabby, Renly thinks as he flexes his steel gauntlets, grimy from the storage. It'll be hard to reach Tobho Mott in that viper's pit. Speaking of which- "Care to follow the Queen's invite, Loras?"

The young knight pulls a strange face before replying: "I sincerely hope that was a jape, my Lord."

"Half-and-half," he smiles back. "While the Queen's words are certainly of suspect, a duel between Kingsguards is the stuff of songs and dreams, Loras. Don't a young knight like you yearn to see such a bout?"

"It'll be a sore sight to miss," the flower knight sighs, "but I'd much prefer to keep my head AND yours, my Lord. If the words are true, then the Lannisters managed to rid themselves of Lord Stark," he whispers as if anyone here would be so loose-tongued. They kept their mouth shut on Loras and Renly's relationship, so why would they speak on this matter?

"A shame for that man. Robert always did say Eddard Stark was his best friend, and now both of them will meet again in their graves," he tuts. "As for Ser Barristan Selmy and his mistress, well, that's certainly new," he chuckles, wondering if that claim holds water or another one of the Queen's machinations. "That oathbreaking still pales in comparison to the Kingslayer's, though. But in terms of skill… Tell me, Loras, could you take on the Kingsguard?"

"Ser Balon, Ser Meryn, Ser Boros, Ser Arys, and Ser Mandon; all dead men against my sword," the young knight proclaims with such bright confidence that Renly almost believes him. Then again, at seventeen he's become quite renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms. His boast is not an empty one. "However," he frowns, "Ser Barristan and the Kingslayer would be a challenging fight. I heard they trained under much better steel, the White Bull."

"But five out of seven is not bad," Renly assures, admiring the flower knight who has long surpassed him. When I become King, you'll be the first of my Kingsguard. Wait- "House Selmy is under my rule," he realises, trotting ahead of the group. "If Barristan Selmy wins his duel, I shall bring him to Storm's End as my knight. What a wonderful idea! I'm sure you lot would appreciate his teachings." That earns some laughter from his men but not from the frowning Loras.

"Let's focus on finding these brigands first, my Lord. Didn't your men's reports say they'll be nearby?"

"Lest Ser Cortnay was blind. Ser Colen," Renly calls for the grizzled knight of Greenpools who's holding hound leashes, "found anything yet?"

"Seem the hounds sniffed something bad, my Lord," he replies, tugging on the whimpering dogs. "Perhaps a large animal was here. They say bears forage in autumn before a long sleep, after all."

"Or a boar," Loras jests before lowering his visor and drawing his blade. The golden roses at its guard gleam as bright as his eyes, fitting for a Tyrell. "Maybe these brigands are so foul-smelling that the dogs can't handle the stench. That's certainly a type of shield," he laughs.

"Yet I see no one. Ser Colen, do you think your hounds are too old for-"

*CLACK*

Something bounces off Renly's pauldron hard, leaving a dent in the fine steel. Closing his visor, he yells for his men to form up. A crossbow bolt flies from somewhere and strikes off Loras' armour gilding with a thud, earning the flower knight's wrath. "Reveal yourself, you bloody cravens!" he demands, pacing around like a hungry shadowcat. When another bolt strikes his helm, he turns to the source and charges through the bushes, cutting down a hidden man while scattering the others. As if on cue, the brigands erupt from their covers and attack with terrible shouts.

Unluckily for them, Renly's retinue is armed and ready.

Several men in mail are cut down by polearms while Ser Colen's hounds savage a brindled man in furs. The knight himself slays one with a quick stroke of his longsword; these broken men are unskilled, weak, or both. Not wanting to miss all the glory, the Lord rushes out and drives his lance through two men, leaving them a bloody mess against the red leaves. "FOR RENLY!" he hears Loras shout as the knight chases down a man in mail, leaving a flurry of leaves behind him. In that short distraction, someone tries to stab Renly's steed but a good jab with his lance ends them. No need for harm.

Before long, the dozen or so brigands are cut to two captives. One's a wrinkled old man in tattered maester robes named Qyburn while the other is a scarred-face Dothrakii who prefers spitting to talking. "That one didn't even try to fight and started kneeling," the flower knight reasons his sparing, "while I ran over that one and broke his arm. Not much of a horselord without horses, are you?" he taunts, earning a spit on his metal boot. For that the Dothrakii receives a hard kick to the groin, causing even Renly to wince.

"This one has no chains, my Lord," Ser Colen says, raising Qyburn's chin with his bloody sword. "Maybe he killed a maester for those robes. Shall I remove his head for you?"

"I'd like to know who they are before the block, Ser Colen. Well?" Renly looks down at the two. "Will you speak or should I have my knight here cut through your words?"

While the Dothrakii is too busy groaning in pain, the old man is more than eager to plead for mercy. "I am a maester, my Lord, in service to the Brave Companions and Vargo Hoat prior to the massacre at Harrenhal."

"More foolish than brave," the flower knight smirks as he wipes down his blade.

"Brave Companions, you say…" Where have I heard that name- Ah! "The sellsword company from Essos?" he asks, and Qyburn nods. There can only be one reason such an ill-omened company to be in the Riverlands and Renly fears the answer to that question. And so he won't ask it. Not here, at least. Maybe with a little push, they can tell me more about the goings-on further north… "Tie their arms," he commands. "Lead me to the rest of your group and I shall spare you for the black, understand?"

"Your mercy is beautiful, my Lord! You have my sincerest thanks," the old man bows again before his hands are tied up. "There were two dozen of us, my Lord. We took refuge in nearby cottages not far from here. It's to the-"

"I know where those are, scum," Ser Colen huffs before roughly pulling Qyburn to his feet. "And from you lot, I pity the poor hunters that live there. They have kids, my Lord," he says simply.

"Made deal," says the Dothrakii in broken Common Tongue, having recovered from Loras' assault. "Don't kill family for shelter. That was deal."

"But rape and steal you approve of," Loras scoffs. "Always knew your people were savages. Why else would the Targaryen girl wed your likes?"

"But Iggo is right, my Lord. We made a deal with that village's protector for not harming anyone," says the maester. And for such a ludicrous statement he receives the loud laughter from every man present. Both he and the Dothrakii are very confused at their reaction.

"Maybe back at your little corner in Essos, maester," Ser Colen grins, "but here in the Stormlands, there are no village protectors. Hells, that 'village' you claim to reside in is no more than a small collection of moss-roofed huts and cottages. Here's an advice for a man who lost touch: if you want to lie to a Lord's face at least make it believable," says the knight before smacking the two of them with his sword. "Walk."

As they march deeper into the woods, the leaves pile up to a knee's height. Every step they make is accompanied by loud crunching and stomping, slowing their rides' pace and alerting anyone within a mile away. Yet it's very quiet here, the only other sound being the jingling of bells in the Dothrakii's oily braid. "Aren't the hunters supposed to clean- Oh right, they have you with them," Renly sneers. "Tell me, self-proclaimed maester, where are your chains?"

"Must have lost it when he laid eyes on some young wench," Loras jests, earning a chuckle from the young Lord. Unlike Robert, he never understood the appeal of breasts nor whoring.

"Nay, my Lord and Ser. I lost my chains for daring to challenge the Citadel's understanding. Those grey sheep… Ebrose especially, they never understood the importance of my work. I could see beyond the books, beyond what we call life and death, yet they dare to call my research horrid and wasteful," the old man grumbles. "Stripped of my links, I wandered Oldtown 'til I met with Iggo here at a port and travelled to the Free Cities. The rest, my Lord, is history."

"A disgraced maester," Loras whistles. "Maester Barrow at Storm's End will have a grand time with you."

The Dothrakii grumbles something in his rough tongue before spitting into the leaves. "What's he saying?" Renly asks, suspecting an insult from the scarred man.

But that's not the case. "He doesn't like Westeros, my Lord, said it's too cold and wet," the maester translates as the horselord continues talking. "That and the forest is full of… Strange ghosts? He… Heard children laughing in the middle of the night and saw a strange woman painting leaves… W-Well, my Lord, a Dothrakii's culture is certainly a queer one to Westerosii ears. Full of superstitions and whatnot," Qyburn concludes, sweat rolling down his wrinkled chin.

"Maybe it's all the maidens and mothers you savaged haunting you," says Loras. "How many have you ruined, Dothrakii? A hundred? A thousand? A-"

"AAAAGH!"

A scream from the west cuts through the quiet, stopping their march mid-step. Not long after that, they hear the loud snapping of branches before a large crash, throwing leaves and shrieking birds into the air. Now curious, the retinue ready their weapons to investigate it. Ser Colen's hounds have a different idea, however, whimpering away from the sound and resisting the knight's commands. "Gods be damned, maybe I do need new hounds," he groans before tying the dogs up to a nearby tree.

The scene is not far from where they deviate, but what they see certainly baffles them. Lying broken in a crater of leaves and branches is a massive oak tree, felled near its base. Tracing his blade along the rings, Loras counts a few hundred years at least. "Doesn't look like an axe's handiwork," he mumbles. Renly sees no other souls around the area, but his men manage to pull out the mangled bodies beneath. Some look too gory for his stomach. "Yours, not-maester?"

"Yes, Ser, but may I?"

Loras looks at Renly. It doesn't take a maester to see that they're dead… "Allow him, Loras. Maybe one of them is his friend."

"Thank you, my Lord," the old man bows before looking closely at the corpses. Renly doesn't like the shine in Qyburn's eyes as the man sniffs and prods at them. "…A single cut through the plate? Who could have-" His curiosity turns to horror as the man leaps back, wide-eyed. "Oh… Oh Gods, did those bloody fools angered her!?"

Though Renly is confused by his words, the Dothrakii seems to understand it all too well. "Protector," he shivers. "Two blades maiden. Who break… Shagwell!"

"Of course it would be the motley fool," Qyburn shakes his head before kneeling for the young Lord. "I beseech you, my Lord, to stop this bloody battle. Westeros has seen too much bloodshed already, and this one is no exception."

As if you've any right to say that. "Alright, we'll save this 'protector' you speak of. And the fool? Shagwell, you say?"

"A motley dog with foaming teeth and hurtful japes, my Lord. You'll do a great service in ridding the world of him."

"Loras, Ser Stef, Ser Rob, ride with me. These brigands will hurt no more. Onwards!"

As they race past tall trees and golden leaves, a certain thrill beats through his heart. This is not just a mere skirmish or bloody fights, no. This is the dream of every young knights and squires: to ride into battle for a maiden's safety. Is this what Robert felt when he rode for the Trident? he wonders, the wind flowing through the visor's slits. A Lord and the flower knight riding into battle… A shame we brought no singers with us!

As the moss-roofed hovels come into view, a man in mail crosses their path. "Leave no survivors!" Renly shouts, prompting Loras to run over the man before ending him with a good slash. Several terrified commonfolk run past them, nearly getting trampled by their horses. "Out of the way!" they shout, searching for more of the sellswords and find this maiden in danger. But the scene they see is…

…

There are signs of a bloody battle here. Trotting around the stony houses, they find a few more bodies cut to pieces. Renly can't stand the smell of viscera and so stuffs a handkerchief down his helmet; it doesn't help much. He turns over one of the dead men, revealing a chestplate cut so cleanly as if it's made of paper. "I doubt Valyrian steel can do that," Loras comments, "at least that's what my brother told me."

Renly sees a few more dead bodies behind a drying rack, half-covered with leaves. A couple of people in mail bear the same bisecting cut, but one of them is different. It's a child, her clothes ripped open and a dagger… "Ser Stef, any signs of living brigands?" he asks through gritted teeth. "I'd like to try my lance on those savages."

The knight peers into the forest before pointing past some burning campfires. "I see deep footprints, Milord, going South. A good gallop should let us reach-"

"GET AWAY FROM ME!" A large man barrels through the bushes and back into the clearing, leaf-covered and a bloody axe in his arms. Taking the chance, Ser Rob draws his bow-

*SLASH*

-but a silver streak cuts through the air, creating a gust of wind and leaving the brigand in four bloody pieces. And behind the falling curtain of leaves, they see their dual-wielding assailant. "Well," Loras chuckles, "I think we found our maiden."

The silver-haired girl flicks her arakh-like blades, ridding it of dripping blood and viscera. Speckles of it remain on her green skirt. But upon laying eyes on Renly and his men, she turns her swords at them. "Who are you?" she yells, her voice sounding a bit younger than Loras'.

"I may ask you the same thing," Renly replies, lifting his visor for a clearer look. He wonders who she could be for he only knows of one sword-wielding maiden; this one is too short and fair to be her. And what in the Seven Hells is that floating thing!? he shivers as a wispy mass swirls around the girl, scabbards in its mist. Did House Tarth gained… No, that man has no wives. "I mean you no harm, little Lady. We're here to solve a… Bloody dispute, shall we say?"

"Solve?" That answer lowers her sword by a hand's breadth. She inquisitively tilts her head before asking: "You mean you're an incident solver?"

Incident solver? "Well, this battle is certainly an incident… And I'm here to end it," he replies with some wariness. What does she mean by that? The ruler of this land? A knight?

"Really!? Oh, thank the Yama! I thought I was the only one," the girl sighs before sheathing her smaller sword and walking towards them. His horse whines and trembles at her approach, so he descends much to the protest of Loras and the others. "Um, hello fellow incident solver," she bows to him. Up close, the girl's head barely reaches chin height; he tries his best to not look at the wispy thing to her right. "It's rare to see a male human take the mantle. May I ask your name?"

"I am Lord Renly Baratheon, Overlord of the Stormlands and Master of Justice of the Iron Throne." There's a shine in the girl's eyes as he mentions 'justice'. That's a good sign. "May I know yours, little Lady?"

"I am Youmu Konpaku, Miss Yuyuko's gardener!" she declares with pride; that white thing bobs up and down as if agreeing. His eyes twitch at the sight, but he has a more pressing point to address.

"Did you say 'gardener'?"

"Yup."

"Is…" He looks back at Loras who simply shrugs. "Is that someone who tends gardens and flowers, my Lady, or is it a title? For a… Warrior maiden like you?"

"Hmm? I'm Miss Yuyuko's gardener," she repeats, "I tend to her plants and trees."

He looks down at her armaments. "With SWORDS?"

She raises her large curving blade, its grey and black steel catching the morning sun's light. "I usually use this one for trimming hedges-"

What?

"-and cutting down branches from the cherry blossom tree."

WHAT?

"If I need to, I can shave a rock's profile so that-"

"Alright, alright… I've heard enough of this sword abuse," he pinches the bridge of his nose; no doubt Loras and the others feel the same about her statements. She's not as sharp as her weapons. Not as bad as Lolys Stokeworth, but still, a smile grows on his face, I can take advantage of this. "Lady Youmu, would you be interested to have the position of Storm's End gardener?"

"We don't ha-"

A raised hand stops Loras. "It's a formidable place, little Lady. Unlike here, there'll be no danger of brigands nor beasts, not that you're unable to protect yourself," he nods at the body.

That little act seems to have dislodged something in her mind. "I'm supposed to cut down Shagwell! That fiend killed Sasha!" the girl stomps her foot, prompting sharp movement in the wispy thing.

Is that thing a part of her? Magic? Renly shakes his head. Questions for later. "A terrible thing he did, I'm sure. And as Lord, knight, and incident solver," he quickly adds, "it's my duty see him met with justice. Ride with me, Lady Youmu, and peace shall prevail in Westeros."

"I… I don't know if I should ride with you," she fidgets. "Miss Yuyuko said I shouldn't join up with strangers I just met. And by doing that… Won't I be betraying her?"

Sounds more like a mother than a Lady. But bearing a last name and her clean appearance… She must be a noble-born from Essos. "Ah, but consider this! Lady Yuyuko wouldn't want her gardener to sleep in such poor conditions, right? Nor have her be hurt by unruly men?"

"No… I guess she wouldn't."

"Then come under my care, Lady Youmu. Your Lady will be happy to learn that her gardener was well taken care of. We shall both chase down this motley cur and bring peace into this forest, thus," he flourishes, "solve this incident once and for all."

As fast as falling leaves, her hesitation turns into a bright smile. "I see now, working with you will be a new experience! Lady Yuyuko always told me to reach that… I accept your offer, Lord Renly."

"Please, call me Renly, Lady Youmu," he offers his hand. "We're fellow incident solvers, after all." And with a shake of hands, their deal is sealed.

"Finally," Loras grumbles. "Not to interrupt you, Lord and Lady, but we have brigands to kill. That bloody fool must have run a mile by the end of your speech." Acknowledging the knight, Renly returns to his horse and lowers his visor. But before he could get going, he whispers to the Lord: "Are you sure about this, Renly? What if her Lady comes looking for her?"

"The kind of person who'd abandon a girl like her in the middle of my forest is the kind who won't return," he whispers back, watching the girl clean leaves off her skirt. "I'm doing her a kindness by bringing her to Storm's End. Besides, I'm not one to spare good swords. Lady or not, she'll make a fine addition to my strength."

"…Fine," Loras sighs.

"Why, jealous?" Renly chuckles. "I have many knights under my antlers, but there's only one flower knight, you know." He playfully taps Loras with his lance who's no doubt blushing underneath his helm. "Would you require a horse, Lady Youmu? I'm sure one of my knights can offer you a ride."

"No need, I can fly."

"Can't have you walk… Oh…" His jaw drops as the girl's feet leave the ground, now floating above him. "You… You can fly!?"

"Can you not?" she asks back and all shake their heads. "Oh, I thought all incident solvers can- No wait, there's some in the human village who can't…" she mumbles to herself, slowly drifting with the autumn wind.

"Regretting your decision now, Renly?"

"Absolutely not!" he laughs. This will be… Very exciting!

Highgarden

"Growing Strong," Willas Tyrell smirks at the head gardener Devan, a browning yellow rose in his hand. "Can you consider this to be growing, Devan? These wilted petals and drying leaves?" He takes a closer look at the flower; realising there's a fairy sleeping inside it, he places it back into the rose bush. "What of the canals?" his cane taps the dry waterways. "Was the connection between here and the Mander destroyed during the skirmish?"

"N-No, Milord. I was ordered to stop the flow of water by… Lord… Tyrell…" the older man shrinks back at the Tyrell's sharp gaze. "Apologies…"

"Apologies doesn't regrow leaves nor water plants, gardener," says the gap-toothed Lady Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns and Willas' grandmother. "Even Right and Left know that." The twin guards by her sides, Arryk and Erryk, nod their heads. "So, my puff fish of a son saw it fit to deprive this castle of its beauty?" she tuts like a mother towards a misbehaved child. "Such a shame… Tell me, gardener, what were his exact words?"

"I think father wanted to-"

"Hush, Willas. Are you the gardener? Do you have dirt and goat excrement underneath your nail? No? Then let the man speak for himself," she dismisses her grandson. "Oh, and do speak loudly. Age has eaten away at my hearing, it seems."

You can hear just fine, the Tyrell smiles as he watches the old man squirm at his grandma's questioning. "W-Well, Lord Tyrell ordered me to cut off the Mander's supply towards the gardens, Milady. He wanted to… Dry the plant woman up and be rid of these bug children."

"And I can see it worked," she says to the smiling gardener. "Why, I saw thirty fairies flying yesterday while today I only saw twenty-nine. A very noticeable difference," she clicks her tongue. "As if my oaf of a son knows anything about plants. Leave him in the woods for a fortnight and he'll gorge on every mushrooms and berries he comes across. But you," she taps her cane, "you understand plants. So tell me: with autumn rains and climes, do you expect all the plants to die any time soon?"

"…No, Milady."

"But will they die in the winter?"

"…Yes, Milady."

"And if all greenery perish from our castle, will this place still be called Highgarden?"

"…Yes?"

"NO. There'd be no Highgarden without golden roses and hedge mazes, gardener. Now, you've heard my son's reasoning. Foolish, wasn't it? Speak plainly."

Devan glances nervously at Willas. "His-Milord's order was… Certainly unique, Milady."

"Unique," she scoffs. "And so, if I want to enjoy a green expanse from my balcony, what should you do as a gardener?"

"But the or-"

"If he complains about the breaking of orders, tell Lord Puff Fish that his mother demands it," she huffs. "Maester Lomys has said it'll be a long winter, and perhaps my last. Would you want to deprive this old lady of her fruits and flowers? No? Then go. Don't forget to turn on all the canals," she adds as the gardener runs off. "He's so near my age, yet follows Mace's words rather than his own wisdom…"

"Father won't like that," Willas chuckles, leaning on his cane.

"Mace doesn't like a lot of things. For one, he doesn't like it when we wander in our grounds with anything less than a dozen guardsmen," she glares at the additional men around her, barely fitting in this hedge maze's path. "Why should a Tyrell be scared of their own home?"

"It's father's orders," says his brother Garlan, the scars on his face having slowly healed back. "I know what it was like, grandma. The sorcerer is a fierce thing with-"

"-thorns and fires at her command. I've heard it all before, young man," she taps his boots. "Yet with that ferocity and destruction, you still returned to the castle alive. Perhaps she's not as vicious as you say." Thirty-two men died, Willas wants to add, but his grandma already knows it. He saw her expressions when reports of Garlan's injuries came. "Besides, two weeks ago you went into the maze with spears and swords. Now… Well, you're still armed but it is for protection, not an attack. There are other ways to bend a sorcerer," she cackles before walking on with her twin guards.

"Will Margaery be like that when she's older, Willas?" Garlan whispers.

"By the Seven, I hope not." But grandma means well, the eldest brother thinks, remembering her many lessons in courtly politics and her push for House Tyrell's interests. She may be born on a grapevine, but she's a golden rose now.

Before they can turn a corner, Ser William Wyther blocks their path with a polearm. "A possible threat, my Lord. We'll take-"

"Would you look at that~" Lady Olenna shoulders past him with Arry and Erryk; Willas gives the squirrel knight a pitying look before walking on with his brother. "Aw, isn't that sweet?" she coos. "When can I expect great-grandchildren from you two?"

"When Willas finally decides to marry," Garlan chuckles as the Tyrells watch fairies playing in the pond. Some splash about trying to catch minnows while others swim through the water lilies like a frog, blowing bubbles underwater. The three laugh as an especially small fairy tries to use a sunflower as a bludgeon but falling over from its weight instead. "Gods, if children are always like this…"

The gardener must have let the Mander through as a fish-shaped fountain suddenly pours out water from its mouth. Spooked by the noise, the fairies scatter into the sky, leaving bits of leaves here and there. "They have mouths yet they can't talk. Are they mute?"

"I doubt it," their grandma walks on, going past the pond and into another set of hedge mazes. "A precocious one with butterfly wings came by my balcony last night, asking if I was a forest crone. I opened the window and shooed her away with my cane," she cackles, "and now that old thing smells of sour grapes. This is a new one," she taps the ground. "Why, I much prefer when they have half the brain of a crow's."

"The Maiden blessed us with children's innocence," Willas muses.

"And the Stranger his bride," she scowls, looking up at the now overgrown hedges. "Let us not forget why we're here."

"We never did," says Garlan, kicking aside a bloody gauntlet laying on the ground. There's bound to be more within these hedges but that's the gardener's problem, not theirs. The group passes by a tall tree trunk breaching the paved ground and Willas sees the shadow of a man above. Dead. While the twin guards keep their cool, the same can't be said for the others. "Come now, they're only plants," Garlan the Gallant assures them, but Willas can see his brother's twitchy fingers.

Finally, they reach the flower gate that marks the centre of the maze. But instead of brass, this one is wrought in wood and purple flowers. A fairy sleeps on a nearby stone bench, her butterfly wings tucked underneath some leaves. "Excuse me, little one," Willas wakes her, "is the one named Yuuka Kazami here?"

"Mmm? Oh, visitors…" she yawns and stretches her arms. "I'll go tell her," says the fairy as she lazily floats over the hedge and into the maze's centre, not even bothering to flap her wings.

…

"Do they even need wings?" Garlan wonders.

A soft breeze greets them as the flower vines pull apart like a curtain. The guardsmen ready their polearms, but hopefully they'll not need for it. Hopefully. And so, with confident strides the Tyrells enter the clearing.

"This is… Cleaner than when I was here," Garlan comments. Indeed, it's nowhere near as wild as the rest of the hedge maze. The sun shines bright on the grass, dappling the neatly growing vines and a wide array of flowers… There's even more of them than before, Willas notes the lilies growing below the fountains.

But what surprises them most is the sorcerer.

"How terrifying," their grandma makes a snide remark. "I'm trembling to my toes."

"That's…" Having heard Garlan's accounts and witnessing the horrific whirling pillars of lights during the night assault, Willas expects the sorcerer to be a terrifying thing of rose thorns and writhing vines, or perhaps a shade born from man's vile nature as told in books and prophecies. Never would he have expected a beautiful woman with rolled-up sleeves tending to a bed of flowers. The monster who brought death to thirty guards and knights… Is now planting some forget-me-nots!? "Are… Are you by any chance Lady Yuuka?"

The woman points at a set of chairs and says "Sit," before turning back to her plants.

…

There's a point to be made about her rudeness, but he stops the guardsmen from mentioning it. "We're in an antlion's pit, no need to wake it," Lady Olenna warns before taking a seat beside Willas. At least now they can rest their weary legs, but Garlan keeps a sharp eye on the sorcerer and a hand on his sword hilt. "Ahh," she picks up a teacup to ease the tension, "I remember this dainty little handle. Margaery's?"

"Her spare teaset," Willas confirms. "This table was a spare from a guest room, same with the chairs and that bed," he points to one at the corner of the area, its top covered with vines. "She also demanded gardening implements, as you can see."

"Sleeping under the night sky like a Dothrakii," his grandma whispers. "She's looking to stay-"

"That should be the last one," the sorcerer huffs before wiping away a speck of dirt from her green hair. For a moment her red eyes meet his; a terrible feeling crawls down his spine. Hatred, is all that he sees. The guards tense up as she walks… Past them. The confused Tyrells watch on as the sorcerer picks up some clothes from her bed and walks into the fountain before grabbing the hem of-

Garlan and Willas turn away, motioning the guards to do the same. Why in the Seven Hells is she doing this now!? Olenna continues to look on at the source of humming and splashing. "She looks like I did when I was your age," their grandma reminisces much to the brothers' horror. "Your grandpa Luthor liked it when I-"

"Sevens help us," Garlan whispers as he covers his ears as well.

After some time, Olenna's cane taps Willas' leg brace. They give sighs of relief upon seeing the sorcerer fully clothed in red plaid skirt and vest, a small smile on her lips. "How kind for you to hold a lady's honour," their grandma laughs. "Just like maidenboys."

"I have a wife," Garlan huffs, clearing the redness on his face. This time her approach is true and the brothers stand to greet her. "It's a pleasure to meet- Oompf!" The woman roughly pushes the Tyrell knight aside as she takes his seat, eyes on the tea rather than any of them.

"…It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Yuuka," Willas continues. "My name is Willas Tyrell, son of Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South. This kind Lady is my grandmother, Olenna Tyrell," she gives the woman a soft smile, "while this gallant knight is Ser Garlan-"

"Three chairs," the sorcerer interrupts whilst pouring herself a cup of tea. "Those flower-wearing men in tin only brought me three chairs. If the knight wants a seat, he may do so on the dirt," she smiles at them; he can't put an emotion in her expression. "Mind the flowers."

"A rose stands tall, my Lady, and so I shall remain." His solid façade can't hide the twitching in his eyes.

"I must apologise if water was an issue in the past few days, Lady Yuuka," Willas explains, "for there were miscommunication between the gardener and-"

"The Gods gave you tongues yet you humans can't use it properly," the sorcerer sips her tea. "And was it not your father's command to deprive this place of water?" So she knows… Did she overhear the gardener's conversation? Was it the fairies? Or can she listen through the flowers? He sincerely hopes for the former, but considering her magic-

"That oaf," his grandma groans before pouring herself and Willas some tea, "there's more air in that head of his than wisdom, I tell you. If I'd known he'll grow to be like his father, I would have caned his behind a hundred more times!" That little jab earns a larger smile from the sorcerer, a sure progress. Sorry, father. "I can complain all day about my dear son, but you know that's not why I'm here. For a courteous Lady such as yourself, I find your conduct to be quite lacking."

"I can say the same of your tin men," the sorcerer replies. "They've been trampling the beautiful flowers and bushes around here, quite disrespectful for humans bearing flowers as their image. All my actions were acts of retribution for those poor things."

Humans… "Though I regret the damage to the gardens, it was a necessary move, Lady Yuuka. Father feared for his family; there are many children in Highgarden, after all. Not just Tyrells but also our bannermen," Willas adds, hoping to gain sympathy as he sips on the… This is extremely sweet. "Roses are important to us Tyrells, yes, but so are our men. And while plants can grow back, the same can't be said of men's arms."

…

"Can't they, now~?" the sorcerer's smile turns sharp. He gulps upon realising the mistake. "Your left leg looks quite useless," she says, her words laced with thorns. Garlan draws his sword and the other guards prepare theirs, but how useful is it? "Care to try out your hypothesis, little flower bud?"

"There's no need," says Olenna, waving away the sorcerer's threat. "Unlike you and most of everyone here, I know my plants quite well. Let's see…" His grandma taps the rim of her cup, feigning deep thought. "It'll take a month or two for a cut stem to root, while a man's arm will rot in a few days. I'm quite surprised that you're not knowledgeable of this, Lady Yuuka, then again I am your elder," she smirks, earning a twitch from the sorcerer's eyes.

"I'm older than your castle's foundations, frail one," she seethes.

"Ah, apologies to my elder! I must say you don't look a day over twenty-five. Care to tell me your secret? Is it ignorance? Perhaps that egregious lack of knowledge is what preserves your youth? It would explain how all those halfwit fairies with frogs in their mouth remain as children. Or maybe your head is so full of rose petals and seeds that you're unable to express higher thoughts? That's what Maester Lomsy said of squirrels, at least." She ends the barrage of insults with a quick sip of tea. "Well? Care to explain to this frail old lady?"

…

Straight as a birch tree, the sorcerer stands with a bright smile on her lips, her shadow draping over the old Lady. Garlan ever so slightly moves closer while Willas' hand wanders to his dagger. "Tell me, frail one, what flowers would you like on your grave?"

"Hmm… Maybe the ones grown from the seeds in your-"

Her hand grips around Olenna's throat, fingers creaking like deadwood. Garlan strikes her neck but no blood flows as vines burst out of the cut. "WHAT!" is the only word out of his mouth as rose petals and thorns wrap around him with such strength it dents his steel. Grass blades cut through Willas' tunic and pull him to the ground; he can hear the guardsmen fall with the grinding of metal.

"Your flowers are fake," says the sorcerer, taking off the old Lady's cloth-of-gold hair net, "and so is your bravery. Yet here you are, smiling."

"Oh, the Stranger knocks on my door every night," Willas' grandma wheezes. For the life of him, he can't cut the grass blades to help her. "An old friend… But you have none in the Reach."

"There is no need when I have flowers, dear~!" she spins the old Lady among an audience of roses, lilies, and nightshades. He can hear a deep rumble as tree roots dig holes near the hedges; the grass now pulls him along the ground.

"When you bury us, it won't just be the Tyrells," Olenna warns as she's dragged towards a smaller hole. "Redwynes, Hightowers, Tarlys, the Reach, the Stormlands… Westeros will come down on Highgarden like flies to an overripe peach."

"A hundred, a thousand, a million… Let them come! I'll rid this beautiful land of pests!" she cheers as tree roots drag Willas down into the earth.

"But nothing survives a ten-year winter!" For a moment the plants stop their pull; the sorcerer pulls a terrifying face. "Ah… Thousands of years of knowledge and you don't know of Westeros' climate. Perhaps age does not equal wisdom," the old Lady laughs as the woman drops her to the ground.

"Speak."

"A cold so long and fierce it'll freeze your tears as you weep for the flowers. Highgarden will die without proper care, without us as stewards, and with the endless barrage of Westeros' might. This," she pats the earth, "will all be for nought."

Willas bites through the dirt and roots in his mouth before dragging himself out of the dirt, his tunic of golden roses torn to shreds. The sorcerer looks down on him with such malice that it hurts, but it all melts away into a kind smile. "Why didn't you say so in the beginning~?" she offers both of them a hand, but none take it.

"You… You tried to kill us!" Garlan growls as he cuts through the rose vines. "You-You-"

"Kill you? Oh, no no no," Lady Yuuka tuts. "I was testing you, knight of roses. What sort of person wears flowers on their chest? Now," she refills the cups of tea, "I think we can discuss the finer details. Come come, take a seat!"

Using a tree to stand up, Willas helps his grandma to her feet. "Thank you, dear," she pats his hand. His grandma, the Queen of Thorns who stared down a monstrous sorcerer, the one who saved them all…

Her hands are trembling.

Growing Strong are our words. A dozen roots are better than one.