The tension in the hall thickened as Jon Frost unleashed a storm of words upon Mace Tyrell, his sharp tongue proving as dangerous as any blade. The Northerners watched, enraptured, as Jon began to systematically dismantle the pride and reputation of the Lord of Highgarden.
"You called King Robert, an usurper," Jon said, his voice loud enough to carry through the hall, "but do you still count yourself a loyalist to the Targaryens?" The room fell into a stunned silence. Every Northern lord present stiffened at the implication. The word "usurper" was no minor slip of the tongue—it could be considered treasonous, a dangerous reminder of the bloody civil war they had all endured. And now, the Northerners watched Mace Tyrell with a newfound suspicion.
Mace, who had been caught off guard by Jon's earlier accusation, tried to speak, his face a mask of panic. But Jon gave him no chance to defend himself.
"Of course you're not loyal to the Targaryens," Jon continued, his voice filled with icy disdain. "You have no loyalty to anyone but yourself. That's why King Robert won the war—because you waited until it was convenient for you. You sat there, watching and waiting, camping and feasting infront of the walls of Storm's End, doing nothing while the fate of the realm was decided."
The Northerners and even some of the Reach lords began murmuring among themselves. Jon was saying aloud what many had never thought about it. The Tyrells had indeed been slow to act during Robert's Rebellion, content to sit behind their defenses, allowing others to fight while they calculated which way the winds would turn.
"You forget," Jon pressed on, "that your House wasn't always the Warden of the Reach. It was the Targaryens who made your family what it is today—mere stewards who became lords by the grace of dragons. And yet, when it mattered most, you betrayed them."
Jon's words cut deeper than any insult. They struck at the very core of House Tyrell's identity, reminding everyone in the room that the Tyrells were not the ancient, noble house they claimed to be, but had risen to power only because of the Targaryens. It was a truth that Mace Tyrell had tried to bury, but here, in the North, Jon Frost had laid it bare.
"You say you besieged Storm's End," Jon continued, "but while you ate and drank outside those walls, your true army never left the Reach. You kept half your forces back, terrified of an attack by Ironborn. And those who did march with you? They stood outside Storm's End for months, feasting, while Targaryen blood was spilled elsewhere. If you had sent even a fraction of those men to fight, perhaps history would be different. Perhaps the dragons would still sit the Iron Throne."
Mace Tyrell's face flushed with rage, but he was speechless. He could see the glances from the Reach lords—those who had once secretly supported the Targaryens. Jon had struck a nerve, forcing them to confront the uncomfortable truth that the Tyrells had stood idle while their king lost his crown.
"You didn't care about loyalty, or duty, or honor," Jon spat. "You cared about growing strong, just as your words say. But while you grew fat and content, the Targaryens fell. And your hesitation, your cowardice, cost them the throne."
The hall was thick with silence, broken only by the occasional murmur from the Reach lords, many of whom had fought for—or against—the Targaryens in Robert's Rebellion. And now, for the first time, they were beginning to see Mace Tyrell's true colors. Whispers spread like wildfire through the crowd, and the lords of the Reach began to exchange uneasy glances. Loyalty to House Tyrell had always been assumed, but Jon's words planted seeds of doubt that began to take root.
Even Olenna Tyrell, known as the Queen of Thorns, was caught off guard. Her sharp mind had always steered the family through politics with wit and guile, but Jon Frost had spoken the harsh, unvarnished truth. She knew, deep down, that their house had played the waiting game during the rebellion, hedging their bets until they were sure of the winning side. It had been her idea to wait, to choose the side of Robert Baratheon once his victory seemed inevitable. But hearing it said aloud by Jon Frost, in front of both Northern and Reach lords, stung.
Jon's final words hit the hardest. "You left the Targaryens to burn. And yet, you have the gall to stand here and question my honor?"
The hall erupted into murmurs, the Northerners nodding in agreement, while the Reach lords began to shift uncomfortably. Mace Tyrell had been utterly humiliated, his pride shattered in front of everyone. His attempts to insult Jon Frost had backfired spectacularly, and now the Warden of the Reach stood exposed as a man who had abandoned his king when it mattered most.
Olenna Tyrell, realizing the gravity of the situation, finally stepped forward. "Enough of this," she said sharply, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "We are guests in Winterfell, and we will not forget our manners."
Jon Frost looked at her, his expression unyielding, but he made no further move to escalate the situation. He had said what needed to be said. The damage was done.
Mace Tyrell stood there, red-faced and humiliated, his fists clenched in impotent rage. He wanted to lash out, to defend his honor, but there was no defense to be made. Jon Frost had laid bare his cowardice, and no amount of bluster could cover it up.
Olenna placed a hand on her son's arm, gently pulling him back. "Let us retire, Mace," she said softly, though her tone left no room for argument. She knew the longer they stayed, the worse it would be.
As the Tyrells made their retreat, the lords of the Reach exchanged knowing glances. Jon Frost had not only wounded Mace Tyrell's pride, but he had also sown seeds of doubt in the minds of the southern lords. For the rest of the festival, the tales of Jon Frost's victories would echo in the halls, while Mace Tyrell's hollow boasts would be remembered as the pathetic ramblings of a man who had been bested by a bastard with no title but the one he had earned through deeds.
On the fifth day of the Harvest Festival, the atmosphere at Winterfell was a mix of celebration and serious negotiation. Lords from all corners of the North and beyond gathered to discuss trade agreements, alliances, and the future of their lands. Marriage contracts were whispered about, and many sought to secure their houses' futures in the midst of good wine and hearty meals. Among these discussions, the tension from the previous encounter between Jon Frost and Mace Tyrell still lingered in the minds of many. Mace's loss of support among his fellow southern lords was palpable, and even Olenna Tyrell had been left nursing a simmering resentment toward the upstart bastard who had humiliated her family.
As the lords convened, the Tyrells once again found themselves in the Grand Hall, surrounded by other powerful houses. Olenna Tyrell, always sharp-tongued and unflinching, attempted to steer the conversation toward the issue of trade between the Reach and the North. The North had recently reduced its reliance on goods from the south, preferring to become more self-sufficient. This shift had been an ongoing concern for the Tyrells, who relied on exporting their excess harvests.
As Olenna spoke, Jon Frost listened, his face impassive. He had heard enough veiled insults and thinly veiled slights to know when someone was speaking down to him, and Olenna was making no effort to hide her disdain. The moment Jon attempted to interject, Olenna's patience snapped.
"Boy, I am speaking with Lord Stark," she said coldly, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. Her voice dripped with condescension, and several of the gathered lords exchanged uneasy glances. Olenna Tyrell, with her sharp tongue and quick wit, was rarely challenged in such settings.
But Jon Frost was not one to be intimidated, even by a woman as formidable as Olenna. He stood tall, his voice cutting through the air like the bite of winter. "Why is this old hag talking about trade agreements?" he asked, his tone sharp enough to turn heads. "I thought we were speaking with Lord Tyrell."
The words were like a hammer blow to the gathered lords. The room fell into a stunned silence, and Olenna Tyrell's eyes widened in shock. Jon had insulted her directly and publicly, something that no one, not even lords of great standing, had ever dared to do. She had always gotten away with her barbed remarks, her position as mother of the Warden of the Reach affording her a certain untouchable status. But Jon Frost, the bastard-made-lord, had just called her out in front of everyone.
Mace Tyrell's face reddened with fury, and the Tyrell family seemed on the verge of outrage. The other lords, both northern and southern, watched the unfolding scene with bated breath, not sure how this confrontation would end.
Jon's eyes swept the room, his posture unyielding. "You only get respect if you give it," he said firmly, his voice echoing through the hall. "I am Lord Frost. If you can call me boy, then I can just as easily call you an old hag."
His words hit their mark. Olenna Tyrell's sharp tongue, which had always put other lords in their place, had met its match. The lords gathered around the table sat in stunned silence, unsure how to respond. Jon had not only defended himself but had turned Olenna's insult back on her, and now the weight of his words hung in the air like a sword over the Tyrells' heads.
Olenna's face, usually so composed, twisted with a flash of anger, but she knew better than to escalate the situation further. The room had gone silent, all eyes on her, waiting to see how she would respond to the public challenge. To fight back now would only draw more attention to her loss of control, and the last thing Olenna Tyrell needed was to appear weak or rattled.
Mace Tyrell shifted uncomfortably in his seat, still stung from his earlier humiliation at Jon's hands. He clenched his jaw but held his tongue, knowing that Jon had outmaneuvered his mother just as he had him days before.
As the tension hung in the air, it was Lord Stark who finally spoke, his deep voice calm but commanding. "Enough," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We are here to discuss trade, not trade insults."
The gathered lords nodded in agreement, eager to diffuse the situation. The focus shifted back to the negotiations, but the mood in the hall had changed. Olenna Tyrell had been put in her place, and Jon Frost's reputation had only grown stronger among the northern lords. He had proven once again that, though he was a bastard, he was no lesser man for it.
The Tyrells, once the dominant presence in the room, now sat quietly, their influence diminished. And though Olenna Tyrell would not forget Jon's words, she knew better than to press the issue further—for now.
The North had always been a harsh land, and Jon Frost had just shown that he was as cold and unyielding as the winter itself.
After Jon Frost's sharp rebuke, Lord Stark allowed Lady Olenna to continue with her speech. Despite the blow to her pride, Olenna Tyrell was nothing if not resilient, and she quickly regained her composure, shifting the conversation in a direction that she hoped would appeal to the northern lords' sense of compassion and responsibility.
"Now, as I was saying," Olenna began, her tone more measured this time, "the North's recent refusal to trade grain with the Reach has had a devastating impact on our farmers. They depend on selling their surplus harvest to keep their lands prosperous, but now... well, many are falling into poverty. Families who have tilled the same land for generations are losing their homes, and all because we've lost one of our biggest markets."
Her voice, usually sharp with wit, softened as she painted a picture of hardship in the Reach. "I'm sure you understand, as men of the land yourselves, how devastating it can be when crops go unsold. Fields are left fallow, harvests wasted, and the workers who rely on those crops to feed their families are left with nothing."
Olenna let the weight of her words hang in the air, glancing around the hall to gauge the reactions of the northern lords. She could see a few furrowed brows, some nodding in agreement, as her argument began to gain traction. The North had a reputation for its harsh winters, and the lords understood the importance of a reliable harvest and the consequences of a failed one.
"The North has became self-reliant, and I respect that," Olenna continued, her tone now one of careful diplomacy. "But our regions have long been trading partners. The wealth of the Reach has often filled the coffers of northern lords, and our harvests have fed many a winter meal here in Winterfell. We need each other—just as you rely on our grain to endure the long winters, we rely on your trade to sustain our farmers."
She paused, allowing the emotional weight of her words to settle over the room. "If the Reach falls into hardship, the ripple effect will be felt across the entire realm. And I assure you, even the North will feel it."
As she finished her speech, the hall fell into a contemplative silence. The northern lords were not easily swayed by emotion, but they were men of honor and practicality. While they were proud of their self-sufficiency, they understood the interconnectedness of the realm's economies. Farmers falling into poverty in the Reach might seem distant, but it would eventually affect the balance of power, trade, and stability throughout Westeros.
It was now time for the northern lords to respond. Lord Stark, seated at the head of the table, turned to the gathered men and gestured for them to share their thoughts.
"I know what you are saying is true," Jon started, his voice steady. "But while we have bought grain from you, it's also true that you traded it for exorbitant prices. You feasted on our gold while we nearly starved. Most of our hard-earned coin went into buying your crops, and as a result, much of the North still looks worn and weathered, while the South flourishes with castles and wealth."
He paused, letting his words resonate. The northern lords, many of whom had felt the sting of poverty in their own lands, nodded in agreement.
"Now you come to us asking for sympathy for your farmers, who are facing hardship," Jon pressed on, his tone unwavering. "You are an old woman, but do you know that just a few years ago, we wouldn't see many families in the North with someone as old as you? Families were forced to make impossible choices, and when winter hit and our provisions ran low, our older members would venture into the woods—never to return. They didn't die from starvation alone, but from the desperation of it all."
The hall was silent, the weight of Jon's words settling over the gathered lords. Jon's fierce gaze bore into Olenna, who, despite her age and cunning, was now at a loss for a quick retort.
"Now you talk about how Northern trade is affecting your profits. You never cared about our people who suffered while your houses flourished. You expect us to buy food from you as if we are equals, but your past dealings have shown that we are not. You took advantage of our desperation, and now that the tides have turned, you want to play the victim?"
Jon's voice rose slightly, commanding attention. "Well, I refuse to be a pawn in your game any longer. I will not be forced to buy from the Reach at unfair prices, nor will I raise the prices of the provisions we sell. I will sell my goods at a price that reflects our struggle, not yours. If the rest of you choose to indulge in these negotiations, that is your decision, but I will not be part of it."
With that declaration, Jon Frost crossed his arms, standing firm against the collective gaze of the room. The tension was palpable, as some lords exchanged glances, weighing their options. Others leaned back in their chairs, shocked by Jon's defiance against House Tyrell.
Lady Olenna, never one to back down easily, narrowed her eyes at Jon. "And what do you propose, Lord Frost? A complete withdrawal from trade? You would watch your people suffer further in the name of pride?"
"Pride?" Jon scoffed. "No, Lady Olenna, this is not about pride. This is about dignity. We have endured too much for too long. It is time for the North to take a stand and to ensure our families can feed themselves without being beholden to your whims."
As Jon's speech concluded, the hall remained quiet, and the lords began to murmur among themselves.
Mace Tyrell, still simmering from Jon's earlier insults, finally found his voice. "You may be bold, Frost, but do you think your stubbornness will save the North? You risk our relationship with the Reach, and for what? Some misguided sense of honor?"
Jon met Mace's gaze head-on. "Misguided? Perhaps. But the honor of my house and my people comes before any alliance. I will not negotiate with those who seek to exploit us."
Author's Note:
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