As the Tyrells gathered their things, preparing to leave Winterfell without securing a trade deal, the tension in the hall still hung heavy. The Lords of the Reach, who had accompanied Mace Tyrell, exchanged wary glances. The Grand Hall of Winterfell, cold and imposing, felt even more inhospitable after the failed negotiations.

Margaery Tyrell, usually so confident in her charm and grace, approached Jon Frost one last time as he stood by the great hearth, his cold blue eyes reflecting the firelight.

"My lord," she said softly, her voice warm and melodic, "I hoped we could find some common ground. It would benefit both the North and the Reach if we stood together."

Jon turned his gaze to her, unreadable and calm. "The North stands by those who respect it, Lady Margaery," he replied. "Your father does not."

Margaery hesitated, her lips curving into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "My father can be… difficult at times, but surely we can look past a few harsh words for the greater good."

Jon's expression hardened. "The North has looked past too much for too long. We're done bending to the South for scraps. We're done paying inflated prices for your grain while our people starve in winters long and harsh."

Margaery's eyes flickered with frustration. She had always been able to bend men to her will, but Jon Frost was different—unyielding as the ice beyond the Wall. "I see," she said, her tone colder. "I misjudged you, Jon Frost. I thought you were more open-minded, more forward-thinking."

Jon's lip curled slightly, his patience wearing thin. "You thought wrong. The North won't be your pawn in your game of alliances. And I am not one of those Southron Lords who can be bought with honeyed words."

Margaery's face flushed, and she stepped back, glancing toward her grandmother, Lady Olenna Tyrell, who stood by the exit of the hall. The Queen of Thorns had remained quiet, observing the interaction with sharp eyes, but her disappointment was evident.

As Margaery retreated, Olenna approached Jon with a determined stride, her cane tapping against the stone floor. "You're a sharp-tongued one, aren't you, boy?" she said, not bothering with formalities.

Jon didn't flinch. "I speak plainly, Olenna. It's how we do things in the North."

Olenna's eyes narrowed. "I see. Plain speech, plain food, plain lives. No wonder your people were starving for so long."

Jon's jaw clenched. "Because your House sold us grain at triple the price when we needed it most. Now that our people can grow our own crops, you come begging for trade."

Olenna raised an eyebrow, unperturbed. "The Reach is the breadbasket of Westeros. We provide food for many regions, not just the North. You might think you can survive without us, but winters last long here, don't they? Do you really think your crops will last when the snow buries them?"

Jon stepped forward, towering over the old woman. His voice was low, dangerous. "The North has always survived. We don't need your grain, your gold, or your pity. If your farmers are struggling, that's your problem. Maybe they should learn to grow more than just roses."

Olenna smirked, though her eyes held a flash of irritation. "You may be Lord Frost now, but don't forget—you're still just a bastard. Not everyone in this hall respects you as much as you think."

Jon's eyes darkened. "I earn my respect, Olenna. Unlike some lords who inherit titles and lands they've done nothing to deserve."

Before Olenna could respond, Mace Tyrell, still nursing his wounded pride from the previous night, stormed forward, red-faced. "You think you can speak to my mother that way, you bastard?! You forget your place!"

Jon turned to face him fully, his voice calm but edged with steel. "My place is earned through the blood and sweat of my people. Your place, Lord Tyrell, was handed to you by kings who pitied your House of stewards."

Mace Tyrell, red-faced and seething, turned to Robb Stark, desperation creeping into his voice. "Lord Stark, surely you won't let this… this bastard speak for the North!"

Robb, who had been watching the exchange quietly, stood. His voice was calm but firm. "Jon Frost speaks for himself. And the North agrees with him."

With that, the matter was settled. The Tyrells had been humiliated. Margaery shot one last look at Jon before turning on her heel and leaving the hall with her family, their dignity in tatters.

As they departed, Jon turned to Robb, his face unreadable. "Do you think they'll come back?"

Robb smirked. "Not for a long while, I imagine. You've made sure of that."

Jon's expression softened slightly, though his eyes still burned with the fire of battle. "Good."

As the doors of the Great Hall of Winterfell closed behind the Tyrells, the Northern lords resumed their discussions. But the tone had shifted. Jon Frost had proven himself as a leader, not just through his strength but through his words. The North would stand tall, and no Southern lord would ever again exploit them so easily.

After the Tyrells left Winterfell in a tense silence, the journey back to their camp was filled with palpable frustration. Mace Tyrell stormed ahead, muttering to himself, while Lady Olenna rode beside him with a look of quiet contemplation. Margaery remained silent, though her eyes were sharp, observing the mood of their bannermen who trailed behind.

Among the Reach lords, the atmosphere was a mix of anger, frustration, and a growing sense of doubt. They had all expected Mace Tyrell to secure a deal with the North, but now it seemed that the Lord of Highgarden had made a crucial error—one that could cost them dearly.

As they reached the outskirts of Winterfell, Lord Tarly of Horn Hill finally spoke, breaking the silence that had hung over the group like a cloud. "You realize this could have been avoided, Mace," he said, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. "The North might be stubborn, but they are proud. You insulted Jon Frost and expected them to simply roll over."

Mace, still bristling from his defeat, snapped back, "He's a bastard! Are we to coddle every baseborn upstart now?"

Lord Tarly's eyes narrowed in disdain. "He may be a bastard, but he's also Robb Stark's right hand. The North respects him, and so should you have."

Several of the other Reach lords, who had been muttering amongst themselves, nodded in agreement. Lord Rowan of Goldengrove, always cautious, added, "We were told that the Northerners have long memories. And you not only insulted one of their own but tried to negotiate from a position of arrogance. It was never going to work."

A chorus of agreement followed, with more lords speaking up:

"The North is no longer desperate for our grain like they once were," Lord Fossoway remarked bitterly. "We needed this deal more than they did, and now we have nothing."

"How are we supposed to explain this to our farmers?" Lord Hightower asked, his voice low and troubled. "They are already suffering. Without Northern trade, they'll starve while their crops rot in the fields."

Mace's jaw tightened. "They'll find a way. We've survived worse."

Lady Olenna finally broke her silence, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Have we, though? Perhaps next time you'll remember that the North doesn't appreciate being insulted, especially not by a man who can't tell the difference between diplomacy and boasting."

Mace glared at his mother, but her pointed words silenced him. She wasn't wrong. He had dismissed Robb Stark's earlier warnings about Jon Frost, and now they were paying the price.

Lord Redwyne, who had been quiet until now, spoke up cautiously, "There's also the matter of Jon Frost's mother... You insulted a man whose lineage is still unknown. What if she's someone important, someone who could shift alliances even further?"

A few of the Reach lords exchanged uneasy glances at this suggestion. The mystery surrounding Jon Frost's parentage had long intrigued many, and the fact that it remained unresolved left them wary. If Jon's mother was indeed someone of significance, insulting him could have repercussions far beyond losing a trade deal.

Lord Tarly sighed heavily, the weight of the situation settling over him. "Mace, we'll be hard-pressed to keep this from affecting our position in the Reach. Some of your own bannermen are already questioning your judgment."

Mace shot him an incredulous look. "My bannermen? They wouldn't dare."

"They would," Lord Rowan replied. "Several of us warned you before this journey to tread carefully. The North may be cold and harsh, but they value honor and respect. You showed neither."

A moment of silence followed, the truth of Lord Rowan's words sinking in. Mace Tyrell's arrogance had alienated the North and potentially weakened his hold over his own supporters.

Mace said nothing, his face a mask of barely controlled anger. But inside, he knew his mother was right. He had underestimated the North, and now he would have to deal with the consequences—both at home and abroad.

As the Tyrell party rode further from Winterfell, the mutterings among their bannermen grew louder. The Lords of the Reach, once united in their confidence, now whispered of Mace Tyrell's failures. Some, those who had always been sympathetic to the Targaryens, quietly began to reconsider their loyalties. Perhaps it was time for a change in leadership, a new alliance that could strengthen the Reach and restore its dominance.

For now, the Tyrells were left to ponder their next move, their dreams of an easy alliance with the North shattered by arrogance and carelessness. And in the cold winds of the North, Jon Frost had proven that he was more than just a bastard—he was a force to be reckoned with.

As the Tyrells made their way toward White Harbor, Lady Olenna was deep in thought, piecing together a new strategy. She had no desire to trudge through the vast expanse of the North after the disaster at Winterfell, and it was clear that the Northern lords were no longer an option for securing a trade deal. Mace's failure had closed that door, but Olenna wasn't one to dwell on defeat. She always found a new path.

The idea of traveling by ship from White Harbor presented a unique opportunity. They could bypass the rest of the North, sail directly to the Reach, or even stop at King's Landing. And it was in the capital where Olenna saw the potential to turn things around.

As they rode toward the port city, Olenna leaned toward her son, Mace, who still simmered with frustration. "We're heading for White Harbor, then by ship to the capital," she stated, her tone brooking no argument.

Mace turned to her, his brow furrowing. "The capital? Why would we go there? Robert Baratheon has little interest in our affairs. He drinks more than he governs."

Olenna's sharp gaze silenced him. "Robert may be a fool, but he is still the king. And kings can be persuaded—especially when their coffers run low. Besides, I have a plan to undo the mess you've made."

Mace frowned, clearly not liking the reminder of his failure, but he knew better than to argue with his mother. "What plan?"

Olenna smiled, her mind already turning over the possibilities. "The North has turned its back on us, but the capital has other ears to listen. We will speak with the king about Northern trade—spin it in a way that benefits the crown. I'll make sure the king knows that the Northerners' refusal to buy from the Reach is not just an insult to us, but a slight to the throne. The more isolated the North becomes, the more of a threat they pose."

Margaery, who had been riding quietly beside them, finally spoke up, her voice soft but thoughtful. "If we can frame it as a matter of royal authority, King Robert may see it as an opportunity to weaken the North's independence. He might even issue decrees to force trade agreements in favor of the Reach."

Olenna smiled at her granddaughter. "Exactly. The North may be proud, but they're not untouchable. If we can sway the crown, we can turn this disaster to our advantage."

Lord Tarly, riding just behind them, overheard the conversation and gave a cautious nod. "And if the king refuses? He has not been known for his… keen sense of responsibility."

Olenna chuckled. "Oh, we'll make sure he sees the benefit. A few well-placed whispers in the capital can work wonders. If not the king, then perhaps the queen will take an interest in undermining the Starks."

Mace finally seemed to grasp where Olenna was headed. "You want to use the crown's authority to pressure the North into reopening trade?"

"Precisely," Olenna replied. "The North thinks they've won by rejecting us, but we'll show them that the game is far from over. The crown will remind them who holds real power in Westeros, and we'll be back in control of the trade routes."

As they neared White Harbor, the looming idea of traveling by sea suddenly seemed far more strategic. The Tyrells could sail straight to the capital, regroup, and return to the Reach stronger, with the power of the Iron Throne behind them.

By the time they reached the docks, Olenna's mind was already brimming with possibilities. A new plan had taken root, and as always, she was confident it would bear fruit.

As they prepared to board their ship, Margaery caught Olenna's eye. "And what of Jon Frost? He will surely hear of this."

Olenna's smile widened. "Let him. Winterfell may have bested us for now, but the North will learn soon enough—playing with fire always leads to getting burned. We'll have our revenge, in time."

Mace said nothing, but he seemed to relax slightly, as if comforted by the thought of the North being humbled by the Iron Throne. Lady Olenna, however, was already thinking ahead. It wasn't just about trade or pride. The Tyrells would make sure they were untouchable in the eyes of the realm—and if that meant a confrontation with the North, so be it.

As their ship set sail from White Harbor, Olenna Tyrell watched the distant coast of the North disappear over the horizon, a new plan already forming in her mind.

Author's Note:

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