Olenna Tyrell's weathered fingers traced the edge of a particularly interesting letter as the morning breeze carried the scent of roses through the garden terrace. The marble table groaned under platters of sizzling bacon, freshly baked bread still steaming from the ovens, and colorful fruits arranged in artistic patterns. But her attention remained fixed on the documents spread before her and Willas.

Her grandson leaned forward; his crippled leg stretched out beneath the table as he studied another missive with the same intensity she'd cultivated in him over the years. The rest of the family indulged in their breakfast with varying degrees of decorum.

Margaery sat beside her, occasionally glancing at the papers while delicately selecting grapes from a silver bowl. Mace dominated the head of the table, his rich doublet already showing signs of the honey he'd drizzled too liberally on his bread. Alerie maintained her usual grace beside him, cutting her food into precise portions.

Garlan and Loras provided a study in contrasts from opposite ends - Garlan eating with the hearty appetite of a man who'd already spent hours training, while Loras picked at his food, his mind clearly elsewhere.

Olenna lifted her glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, the tart liquid a welcome distraction from the mounting evidence before her. She'd barely taken a sip when Mace's booming voice shattered the relative peace.

"Mother, what has you so engrossed this morning? You've hardly touched your food."

Olenna's sharp eyes flicked up from the documents, taking in the various servants positioned around the terrace. With a mere arch of her eyebrow and slight tilt of her head, she sent them scurrying away. Years of service had taught them to recognize when the Queen of Thorns required privacy for family matters.

Only when the last servant disappeared through the archway did she speak. "I'm reading about the most fascinating developments in the North, my dear. It seems our friends above the Neck have been rather busy these past years and we haven't deigned to notice."

"The North?" Margaery's interest piqued immediately. "What could possibly be interesting about that frozen wasteland?"

"That 'frozen wasteland' has somehow managed to pay their taxes to the crown three times over this year alone," Willas replied, tapping one of the documents. "And that's just the beginning."

Olenna watched her son's face redden as he reached for another orange slice, his thick fingers fumbling with the delicate fruit. "The North has never been that important in the grand scheme of Westeros, Willas. They're too isolated, too proud, and too cold to matter much beyond their borders."

Her fingers drummed against the table's surface, a sharp staccato that matched her rising irritation. "If you weren't so busy stuffing your face with oranges, you might have noticed that every kingdom from here to Dorne is about to turn their eyes northward. The Crown certainly has."

Loras stopped pretending interest in his breakfast, while Margaery straightened in her chair. Even Garlan set down his fork, his usual easy smile replaced by focused attention.

"What do you mean, Mother?" Mace asked, juice dribbling down his chin.

Olenna's lips pressed into a thin line as she watched Alerie quietly pass her husband a napkin. "I mean, my dear son, that the North has just paid their taxes to the Crown - a sum so substantial it has cleared the entire royal debt to the Lannisters."

Mace choked on his orange. "Three million gold dragons? That's impossible!"

"Apparently not." Olenna's voice carried the weight of steel beneath its silk. "Our friends in King's Landing report that Petyr Baelish himself presented the news of the payment to the Small Council. The North, which could barely scrape together enough coin to pay its regular taxes in previous years, has somehow managed to clear a debt that has plagued the realm since Robert's Rebellion."

"But how?" Margaery leaned forward; her breakfast forgotten. "The North has never been wealthy."

"That," Olenna replied, "is precisely what makes this so interesting."

Olenna watched the impact of her words ripple across the faces gathered at the breakfast table. She'd orchestrated enough revelations in her time to appreciate the artistry of a well-timed disclosure.

"The news nearly cost us our Master of Coin," she said, selecting a perfectly ripe grape. "Robert's aim with a goblet has improved since his hunting days. From what i hear, poor Littlefinger barely ducked in time - though I daresay the loss wouldn't have been mourned by many."

The ghost of a smile played across her lips as she recalled the detailed account from her sources. "The Small Council chamber apparently descended into quite the spectacle during its next convening. Pycelle bellowing about 'Northern sorcery,' Jon Arryn attempting to restore order, and Varys sitting there with that insufferable knowing smile of his."

She paused, noting how Margaery's eyes had taken on that calculating gleam she'd worked so hard to cultivate in her granddaughter. The North had been quiet for so long - through Robert's Rebellion and even the Greyjoy's foolish attempt at independence. Now, after years of relative obscurity, they'd produced enough gold to clear the Crown's substantial debt to the Lannisters.

Olenna turned to her son, who was still struggling to process the implications. "Mace, dear, when was the last time you reviewed our financial reports? The taxes paid to House Tyrell over these past four years?"

Mace puffed up like a proud peacock, exactly as she'd expected. "Mother, I assure you our finances are more than stable. We still maintain fifteen million gold dragons, with six million safely deposited in the Iron Bank." He gestured expansively at their surroundings. "We are the breadbasket of Westeros. Our wealth is as certain as the sun rising in the east."

Olenna sighed, the sound carrying decades of practiced exasperation. She set down her goblet with deliberate care, the crystal making a soft clink against the marble tabletop.

"Yes, yes, you've seen the final figures in our coffers. But have you actually reviewed the tax collections from our bannermen? Gone through the reports from each village and holdfast?" Her keen eyes fixed on Mace, who suddenly found great interest in adjusting his napkin. "Have you noticed any differences in their contributions?"

Mace's silence stretched across the breakfast table like spilled honey, thick and telling. His fingers fumbled with the edge of the fine linen cloth, a nervous habit he'd never outgrown despite her best efforts.

"As I thought." Olenna's voice cracked like a whip. "You're being lazy again, Mace. The Lord of Highgarden should show more seriousness in these matters. The ledgers don't review themselves, and our steward shouldn't be the only one who knows the state of our vassals' finances."

Around the table, her grandchildren's faces lit with barely contained amusement. Loras didn't even try to hide his smirk, while Margaery covered her smile with a well-timed sip of juice. Even Garlan, usually the most diplomatic of the bunch, couldn't quite suppress his grin. Willas, bless him, at least attempted to maintain a neutral expression, though his eyes danced with mirth.

"Mother," Alerie's soft voice cut through the tension, "must you-"

Olenna's head snapped toward her gooddaughter. "Stop calling me mother. And must I what? Coddle him? Pretend his negligence is acceptable?" She waved off Alerie's protest with a flick of her wrist. "No, my dear. I won't have you defending his laziness. Someone must ensure House Tyrell's continued prosperity, and it clearly won't be your husband if he can't be bothered to read beyond the final sum in our treasury."

Olenna rapped her cane against one of the parchments, the sharp sound cutting through the lingering amusement at Mace's expense. Her weathered face had lost its earlier mirth, replaced by lines of genuine concern.

"This report arrived three days ago. While you've all been laughing at your father's inadequacies - justified though that may be - something far more troubling has been occurring under our very noses."

She smoothed the parchment with fingers that had lost none of their strength despite their age. "As of last month, fifteen small villages and six major ones throughout the Reach have been all but abandoned. Only five or six families remained in each, and even they moved on shortly after."

The silence that fell over the breakfast table was immediate and complete. Even the birds in the garden seemed to sense the shift in mood, their songs fading to distant echoes.

"Three of these villages lie within sight of Highgarden itself," Olenna continued, her voice hard as steel. "Our own backyard, and we didn't notice until they were empty."

Garlan leaned forward; his warrior's instincts evident in the tension of his shoulders. "Bandits? Have raiders grown bold enough to strike so close to our seat?"

"Disease perhaps?" Loras added, his hand unconsciously moving to the sword he wasn't wearing. "A plague could empty villages quickly."

Olenna shook her head at both suggestions. "No bodies, no signs of violence, no reports of illness. They simply... left." She looked around the table, her gaze sharp as a razor. "Tell me, what makes the Reach strong?"

"Our ability to produce food," Margaery offered immediately. "We feed half of Westeros."

"No." Olenna's response was swift and certain.

Mace straightened in his chair, clearly hoping to redeem himself from his earlier embarrassment. "Our gold, Mother. The wealth of Highgarden-"

"Wrong again." Olenna cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"Our armies," Garlan ventured. "We can field more men than any other kingdom."

Loras jumped in right after his brother. "And our knights. The finest cavalry in the Seven Kingdoms."

"No and no." Olenna's fingers drummed against her cane as she waited.

Willas, who had been quietly contemplating the question, finally spoke. "Our people. The population of the Reach is what gives us everything else - the farmers to grow the food, the soldiers to fill our armies, the craftsmen to create our wealth."

A proud smile spread across Olenna's face, the first genuine one since she'd brought up the troubling news. "Finally, someone in this family shows some sense. Yes, Willas. Our people are our true strength."

The pride in Willas's astute observation faded from Olenna's face as quickly as it had appeared however. She pulled another stack of documents from beneath the first, these ones older and worn at the edges.

"I've had to go back through our records." Her fingers traced the faded ink of dates from three years past. "What we're seeing now didn't just start with these recent abandonments. It began long before any of us noticed."

She spread the documents across the table, pushing aside half-empty plates and forgotten cups. "Three years ago, it started. One village, then another. Tax collectors would arrive to find only the village head waiting with the final month's collection. By the time they returned the following month, everyone had vanished."

Mace's face had lost its usual ruddy color. "But surely not many-"

"More each month," Olenna cut him off. "The pattern was clear, if anyone had bothered to look. Smallfolk packed up their belongings in the night, leaving nothing behind but empty homes. A family or two might linger briefly in each village before moving on to others, but eventually, they too disappeared."

Her sharp gaze fixed on her son. "This is why I asked if you'd reviewed the tax collections from our bannermen, Mace. Did you truly not notice the steady decline? The growing gaps in our income that should have raised alarm?"

The silence that followed was broken only by the distant sound of servants preparing the midday meal, unaware of the storm brewing at their lords' breakfast table.

Margaery set down her goblet, her brow furrowed in thought. "But why would they leave, Grandmother? The Reach has always provided well for its smallfolk."

Olenna smiled grimly, remembering the reports from her most trusted tax collectors. She'd made sure to place observant men in those positions - ones who knew the value of asking questions beyond mere coin counts.

"One of our more astute collectors thought to ask that very question to the remaining families before they too departed. After three or four such conversations, the pattern became quite clear." Olenna lifted her wine glass, abandoning her juice, taking a measured sip as she recalled the details.

"It seems our 'Reach-born' smallfolk aren't quite as Andal as we'd like to believe. Over generations, a significant number of our farming families have been descended from First Men who traveled south. They've intermarried with the local smallfolk, of course, but their bloodlines remain more Northern than we realized."

She watched understanding dawn on Margaery's face, while Mace still looked bewildered. Willas nodded slowly, his quick mind already connecting the pieces.

"These families," Olenna continued, setting her glass down with deliberate care, "have kept to the old gods, though quietly. They came south long ago, seeking better lives when the North could offer them little but harsh winters and poor soil. But now..." She spread her hands over the scattered reports. "Word has reached them of the North's rising prosperity. And like birds sensing the change of seasons, they're migrating back to their ancestral lands."

Olenna watched the impact of this revelation ripple across her family's faces. It wasn't the loss of a few thousand smallfolk that troubled her - the Reach could survive that. It was what their departure represented: a shift in the balance of power that had stood for centuries.

"Can they actually do that?" Loras asked, his handsome face scrunched in confusion. "Just... leave? Without permission from their lords?"

Willas let out an inelegant snort, turning to face his younger brother. "We're not slavers, Loras. There are no laws preventing smallfolk from moving to greener pastures whenever they feel like it, as long as they've paid their lords' taxes before departing." He paused, his expression growing thoughtful. "Besides, if they're more First Men than Andal in looks or religion, I doubt they've felt particularly welcome here, considering how our septons and septas treat those who still worship the old gods."

Olenna nodded, pleased at Willas's insight. Her eldest grandson had always shown the keenest mind among her son's children. "Precisely. And this should worry us all." She tapped her fingers against the scattered reports. "True, the majority of our Reachmen are still Andals and devoted followers of the Seven. Our harvests and food supplies to the other kingdoms won't be significantly affected by this exodus."

Her weathered face grew stern as she surveyed her family. "But it's the other implications of this migration that should concern us."

Olenna watched her son's face scrunch up in that familiar way that reminded her so much of when he was a confused child learning his letters. Some things, she mused, never changed.

"What exactly do you mean, Mother?" Mace asked, dabbing at his beard with a napkin. "Surely a few farmers-"

"A few farmers?" Olenna's voice cracked like a whip. "Oh, you fool. If only it were just farmers. These Northern smallfolk, these descendants of the First Men - they've been the backbone of our skilled labor force for generations. Every time they settled somewhere, they took up the harder trades."

She pushed herself up straighter in her chair, her fingers wrapping tightly around her cane. "Think, Mace. Think about the smiths in our villages. The carpenters who build our ships and homes. The craftsmen who work with wood and stone. The miners who dig our quarries. Even the washerwoman and kitchen maids who serve in noble houses - how many of them have that Northern look about them?"

Realization dawned slowly on her son's face as Olenna continued, "Yes, some of them farmed our lands, but that wasn't their primary contribution to the Reach. And now they're leaving, taking with them not just their skills, but the taxes, the businesses, the trade knowledge they've accumulated over centuries of living here. All of it returning to the North."

She paused, her keen eyes sweeping across the breakfast table before adding with deliberate emphasis, "And... beyond."

Garlan's head snapped up at that last word, his warrior's instincts catching the weight in his grandmother's tone. "Beyond?" he asked, alarm clear in his voice. "Grandmother, are you saying this isn't just happening in the Reach?"

Olenna nodded grimly, taking a slow sip of her wine before responding. "Reports have been trickling in from our friends in other kingdoms. The pattern is the same everywhere. Quiet departures in the night, empty villages, abandoned workshops. The North calls, and its scattered children answer."

Olenna rifled through the stack of letters, each bearing different seals and hands, but all telling variations of the same tale. Her weathered fingers traced the lines of text as she read aloud.

"From the Vale - three mining villages near the Gates of the Moon, completely abandoned. The miners simply walked away from their posts, leaving their tools behind." She selected another letter. "The Westerlands report similar occurrences. Lannisport's craftsmen quarter has lost a third of its skilled workers over the past 2 years alone."

She shuffled through more correspondence. "The Riverlands are experiencing the same exodus, particularly among their boat builders and fishermen. Even the Stormlands..." She paused, allowing herself a small, bitter laugh. "Well, it seems some of their most skilled smiths have suddenly remembered their First Men ancestry."

"Most surprising," she continued, holding up a letter bearing the sun-and-spear seal of House Martell, "even Dorne has not been spared. Small communities of First Men descendants, who've lived there since before the Rhoynar arrival, are quietly making their way north."

Garlan leaned forward; his brow furrowed in disbelief. "Surely this is impossible, Grandmother. The minor lords and bannermen of these kingdoms must have noticed their taxes dipping as their smallfolk departed. How could such a mass exodus go unreported?"

Olenna fixed her grandson with a knowing look. "They don't notice until it's too late, dear boy. The clever ones leave gradually, a family here, a craftsman there. Over three years, the decline appears natural enough - a death here, a marriage relocation there. By the time the pattern becomes clear..." She spread her hands. "What can they do? Force them to stay? That would make them slavers, and even Robert Baratheon, drunk and incompetent as he is, wouldn't stand for that."

Mace shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Surely not all lords have been blind to this, Mother. Some must have taken action."

"Oh, some have noticed," Olenna replied, her voice sharp with disdain. "And those who have? Well, they've provided us with perfect examples of what not to do." She selected another letter from her pile. "Lord Bracken attempted to prevent three families of smiths from leaving. The result? A riot that spread to three villages. He had to put it down by force, then explain away the deaths as the work of bandits."

She tapped the letter against the table for emphasis. "And what did that accomplish? He killed the very people he wanted to keep. The surviving families fled in the night, and now he has neither skilled workers nor an explanation for why his tax contributions have suddenly dropped."

"The fools," she continued, "think they can solve this with force, as if beating or killing smallfolk will somehow convince others to stay. Each time they do, they only hasten the exodus. Word spreads, and suddenly more families remember their Northern roots."

Mace stammered and was about to speak. "Mother if they all leave….."

Olenna waved her hand dismissively at Mace's concerns about the departing smallfolk. "Oh, do stop fretting about a few missing craftsmen. The Reach has always attracted ambitious souls from the Crownlands seeking better opportunities. Whatever gaps these northerners leave, others will eagerly fill."

She took another sip of her wine, her shrewd eyes scanning the faces around the table. "No, the true concern isn't who's making our tools or mending our clothes. It's what these migrations tell us about the North's changing fortunes - and more importantly, our own."

Margaery leaned forward, her perfectly arranged tresses catching the morning light. "What do you mean, Grandmother?"

"When was the last time you yourself looked at our trading ledgers, dear?" Olenna asked, pulling another document from her stack. "The North has completely ceased purchasing grain from us. No wheat, no vegetables, no fruit - nothing. Their usual orders over 4 years have simply... vanished."

Mace's face reddened. "But that's impossible! The North can't feed itself; everyone knows that. They've always depended on our harvests-"

"Half," Olenna interrupted sharply. "Half our profits came from feeding the North during their winters and lean times. Add that to the declining tax revenue from our departing craftsmen, and we're looking at a significant drop in House Tyrell's income."

She drummed her fingers against the table, her rings clicking against the polished wood. "If the North no longer needs our food, then the rumors must be true."

"What rumors, Grandmother?" Margaery asked, her voice carrying just the right note of innocent curiosity, though Olenna could see the sharp intelligence behind her granddaughter's eyes.

Olenna's weathered fingers traced the rim of her wine glass as she recalled her conversation with Jon Arryn during his last visit to Highgarden. The old falcon had aged considerably since she'd last seen him, but his mind remained sharp.

"Jon Arryn himself brought these matters to the Small Council," she said, her voice carrying across the morning-lit chamber. "Lord Baelish noticed the North's tax payments had not just met their usual obligations but exceeded them threefold as i said before, allowing them to pay off the Lannister debt. Naturally, this sparked interest."

She pulled out a detailed map of the North, spreading it across the breakfast table. "Roads have appeared across the North - appearing literally overnight, according to reports. Not dirt tracks or gravel paths, mind you, but proper roads made of some strange material harder than stone. Smooth as glass, yet providing perfect grip even in ice and snow."

Mace leaned forward; wine forgotten. "Overnight? That's impossible, Mother."

"Impossible?" Olenna's eyebrow arched. "Then explain the traders' reports of metal men patrolling these roads. Not men in armor, but beings of pure bronze and gold, moving with purpose and precision. Some describe them as tall as men, others speak of massive spiders of metal, clicking across the landscape." She paused, letting the image sink in. "And those are just the small ones."

Loras and Garlan exchanged skeptical glances, but Olenna continued, "Multiple reliable sources have reported seeing giants of metal in the distance - towering constructs that move like men but stand taller than the walls of Winterfell itself. They carry weapons of impossible size and breathe fire like the dragons of old apparently."

"The greenhouses are perhaps the most concerning development," she said, selecting another report. "Not the glass gardens we know - these are vast structures of crystal and metal, stretching for acres. They grow summer fruits in the depths of winter, producing harvests in weeks rather than months. Oranges and grapes in the North, can you imagine?"

Olenna tapped a specific location on the map - Sea Dragon Point. "And here's the crown jewel of their achievements. A castle rose here in the span of two weeks. Not a simple keep, but a fortress that rivals the greatest castles of Westeros. Traders speak of walls that gleam like polished bronze, towers that reach impossible heights, and defenses that make Storm's End look like a child's sandcastle."

She set down her wine glass with deliberate care. "But perhaps most telling are the ships. The North never had a proper fleet before, yet now their waters are patrolled by vessels unlike any seen in Westeros. Ships of metal and wood combined, moving faster than the fastest swan ships of the Summer Isles, carrying impossible loads. They've established direct trade routes with every Free City, bypassing the usual southern ports entirely."

"Jon Arryn's reports paint a picture of a North transformed," Olenna concluded, her keen eyes studying her family's reactions. "A North that no longer needs the South. A North that possesses knowledge and capabilities we can barely comprehend, let alone match."

"But Grandmother, surely these stories can't all be true?" Loras's handsome face bore the skepticism of youth. "Metal men building roads overnight? Giant metal constructs breathing fire? It sounds more like the tales used to tell children when speaking of the age of heroes."

Olenna allowed herself a small smile, pleased that at least one of her grandchildren had maintained a healthy sense of doubt. "You give me hope for our family's future, dear boy. Yes, we must consider these tales with a grain of salt." She reached for her wine glass, taking a thoughtful sip. "I suspect many of these accounts have grown in the telling, as stories often do when people witness things beyond their understanding."

She shuffled through her papers, selecting a particular report. "When a simple farmer sees a metal construct moving across the landscape at night, his mind might embellish the details. Perhaps it breathed steam, which in the cold northern air could appear as fire. Perhaps its height seemed greater in the darkness. Fear and wonder have a way of expanding tales with each retelling."

"The same goes for these supposedly overnight roads," she continued. "I doubt they truly appeared in a single night - more likely, the construction was so swift and efficient that it merely seemed that way to those who traveled through the area infrequently."

Willas nodded thoughtfully. "That would make more sense. But what of the ships, Grandmother? Surely those reports can't be exaggerated?"

"Ah, now there we have something more solid," Olenna replied, her voice taking on a sharper edge. "Our friends at Casterly Rock have provided most interesting accounts of conversations between Lord Tywin and his brother Kevan. The Lannisters are quite concerned about these new Northern vessels."

She produced another letter, this one bearing the broken seal of House Lannister. "According to our source, these ships have indeed been confirmed. They're making regular trips to Braavos, Pentos, and even as far as Volantis. The Lannisters' own accountants have verified that the North's trade profits have increased near hundredfold in the past year alone."

"The ships themselves are described as being partially metal-hulled, with some new form of propulsion that doesn't rely solely on wind. They're faster than anything in the Lannister fleet, and they can carry ten times the cargo of a traditional trading vessel." Olenna's mouth curved into a slight smile. "That part, at least, isn't exaggerated. The Lannisters are apparently quite irritated that these Northern ships are cutting into their own trading profits in Essos. Or just that the starks are making so much gold that irks them."

Willas, ever the thoughtful one, stroked his chin before voicing what they were all thinking.

"What do we do now, Grandmother? The North rises while we remain static. Their power grows daily, and soon they may outmatch all the southern kingdoms combined if they haven't already."

A thin smile crossed Olenna's face. "We do exactly what our words command us to do - we grow strong. If that means growing alongside the North rather than in opposition to it, then so be it. The Tyrells have always known when to plant new seeds in fertile soil."

She turned to Mace, who was still frowning at the reports scattered across the marble breakfast table. "You will draft a letter to Eddard Stark. Something friendly, diplomatic - nothing too obvious. Perhaps mention the coming winter and how we might strengthen our traditional trade relationships and make new ones now they don't need our food. Sound him out about a potential visit to Winterfell."

Mace opened his mouth to protest, but Olenna silenced him with a sharp look. "And do try to write it yourself, dear. Lord Stark is not a man impressed by flowery words from a maester's pen."

Her attention shifted to Margaery, who sat perfectly poised, already calculating the possibilities. "You, my dear, will begin studying. I want you to learn everything about Northern customs, their etiquette, their history. The Old Gods, the First Men, their traditions - everything. If we're to visit the North, you must be prepared to charm them on their own terms."

"Yes, Grandmother," Margaery replied, her mind clearly already working through the implications.

Olenna's gaze fell on Willas. "I need you to redirect our network of friends. Every spy, every informant, every merchant who owes us favors - I want their eyes turned North. We need to know everything: who visits Winterfell, who leaves it, what they're building, what they're trading."

She fixed her penetrating stare on Loras. "And you, my dear boy, will make yourself useful in King's Landing. That... friendship of yours with Renly Baratheon might finally prove worth something. Find out what the Crown knows, what they plan to do about this Northern situation. Robert Baratheon may trust Ned Stark, but others at court will not be so complacent."

Olenna's sharp gaze finally settled on Garlan, who had remained quiet throughout the task giving. "As for you, dear grandson, I have a particularly important task."

Garlan straightened in his seat; his attention focused entirely on his grandmother.

"You will represent our interests here in the Reach. I want you to personally visit every holding, every village, especially those abandoned by our departing smallfolk. Take five hundred of our best knights and men-at-arms with you." Olenna's voice carried the weight of command. "We cannot afford to have bandits or other... opportunistic elements taking advantage of these empty spaces."

Garlan nodded firmly. "I understand, Grandmother. I'll ensure our lands remain secure and prosperous."

"Good." Olenna's fingers drummed against the table as she surveyed her family. "Make no mistake, my dears. The North has had four years - four years to grow and develop while the rest of Westeros remained blind to their advancement. Four years of uninterrupted progress while we all dismissed them as the same frozen wasteland they've always been."

She took another sip of wine, her eyes sharp over the rim of her glass. "House Tyrell cannot afford to be left behind in this changing world. If that means we must personally travel to Winterfell to see these supposed wonders for myself, then so be it. We must understand what we're dealing with, and we must do it quickly."