"A dragon!"
The Reach nobles, seeing a true dragon for the first time, could not help but cheer. A few even shouted that they wanted to chase after it.
Lord Mace Tyrell, seeing one for the second time, was still mesmerized. He let out a heartfelt sigh. "Gods, but he's long and slender!"
The last time had been at the Tourney at Harrenhal. Even then he had been drawn to Prince Daeron and his dragon, but the excitement of the lists had left no room for conversation. By the time he remembered, the tourney was already over.
BOOM—
Caraxes beat his wings, whipping up a fierce gale, and landed almost vertically before the castle gates.
The young silver-haired, purple-eyed figure was revealed on the lowered dragon's back.
Lord Mace stepped forward with a broad smile. "Prince, on behalf of House Tyrell of Highgarden, I bid you the warmest welcome."
Unfortunately the distance was too great; his voice barely reached the dragon's back.
Daeron rested his elbows on the saddle, seated two-and-a-half stories high, and calmly surveyed the crowd of Reach lords below.
Many had come, but all were unfamiliar faces.
"Skreeeee—!"
Caraxes's molten-gold slit pupils blazed with warning. He roared at the humans who dared approach, the scorching breath hotter than the Reach's August sun.
Lord Mace's face went bone-white. He froze where he stood.
"Quiet, Caraxes!"
A clear young voice spoke in High Valyrian, instantly silencing the red dragon's threat.
Daeron switched smoothly to the Common Tongue and smiled. "My apologies. My dragon has a foul temper. I hope he did not frighten you."
The Reach nobles laughed awkwardly, caught between delight and terror.
"N-not at all," Lord Mace managed, pressing a hand to his wildly beating heart. He forced a smile. "Prince, please come with me. House Tyrell has prepared a welcoming feast in your honor."
Daeron slid down from the dragon's back and clasped the man's arm in a gesture of warmth. "My thanks, my lord."
He could see at a glance that Mace was exactly the "puff-fish" everyone described.
Yet he could also see that House Tyrell was genuinely loyal to the Iron Throne.
After several days of lavish hospitality at Highgarden the initial excitement finally cooled.
That afternoon Lord Mace appeared at his door. "Lady Olenna requests a private audience, Your Grace."
Daeron nodded. "Lady Olenna is getting on in years. I will go to her."
Highgarden was enormous. After winding through vine-draped marble corridors they reached a small, sunlit garden in the rear courtyard.
"My dear prince, how kind of you to come yourself," Lady Olenna greeted him warmly.
Without another word she took his face in both hands and kissed him soundly on both cheeks.
Daeron: ...
You old bat, there was really no need for that.
"Is this a Reach custom?" he asked, face perfectly blank, wiping his cheeks with his sleeve.
Truth be told, neither Shaena nor Ashara—nor even the very forward Cersei—had ever kissed him on the face.
He suspected this was Lady Olenna's petty revenge for Caraxes scaring her "sweet, simple" son.
The facts proved him right.
Olenna produced a handkerchief, dabbed her lips, and declared grandly, "The Reach has no such tradition of kissing cheeks. I am simply an old woman who could not restrain herself at the sight of so devastatingly handsome a young prince."
Pure spite.
Who asked you to ride that terrifying red dragon and frighten my foolish boy?
Daeron laughed despite himself. "You truly have an old body but a young heart."
"I was very young when I was young," Olenna shot back, striking a deliberately seductive pose.
Seven hells.
Daeron closed his eyes, refusing to witness the eye-searing sight.
Lord Mace stared, utterly lost.
"Right," Olenna said, satisfied with her small victory. "Now that that's done, let us have a pleasant conversation."
She turned first and led the way into the garden pavilion. The effortless authority in her step could only have been cultivated by decades of absolute power.
The three of them took their seats.
Daeron produced a single Gold Star Tulip and slid it across the table. "Although our first meeting was not entirely pleasant, I still prepared a gift for you."
The tulip was not foraged; it had been grown in his spring planting. He kept a small stock of every flower to raise favor with important people.
"Thank you. How thoughtful." Olenna accepted it graciously. As she lowered her head to inhale its scent, a flicker of curiosity flashed in her eyes.
Just as the rumors said—the Dragon Prince can always produce special crops. And of the highest quality.
Seeing the atmosphere ease, Lord Mace hurried to declare, "Prince, the usurper Robert has raised his banners. House Tyrell stands ready to fight for you."
Daeron blinked, then looked at the old woman opposite him with genuine surprise.
Is this truly your biological son?
Olenna slapped her forehead and quickly took a sip of wine, terrified she would develop chest-tightening palpitations.
If she could have denied it, she would have.
Still, Mace's single sentence had opened the real discussion.
Daeron explained his purpose. "Jon Arryn has raised the banner of rebellion. The rebel host will be formidable—preliminary reports suggest lords from the Vale, the North, the Stormlands, and parts of the Riverlands."
"My father's decree arrived without warning. I am to lead the Reach host north to crush them."
Lady Olenna nodded repeatedly. "House Tyrell has always been a model of loyalty to House Targaryen. We shall answer the royal summons and support you in defeating the rebels."
Everything seemed suspiciously smooth.
Daeron eyed her with open skepticism.
Olenna put on an innocent face and met his gaze with perfect expectancy.
Had the age gap between them not been so vast, Mace would have sworn his long-dead father was about to be cuckolded.
"You still have doubts?" Daeron asked politely.
"Oh, I thought you would bring it up," Olenna replied, feigning surprise. "House Tyrell summons its bannermen, spends blood and treasure to help the Iron Throne crush the rebels… and then what?"
They were providing men, prestige, and lives. They could not simply pat themselves on the back and ride home afterward.
Daeron finally understood why she was called the Queen of Thorns.
It was not clever scheming or raw martial power.
It was the fearless confidence of someone willing to burn every bridge.
Born a Redwyne, married to a Tyrell, mother of a Tyrell, and ruler of Highgarden and half the Reach for decades—she knew exactly what cards she held.
If anyone dared provoke her, she would stake the entire house in open war.
That iron will was the only reason the mediocre father-and-son Tyrells still stood.
Having taken her measure, Daeron wasted no more time. "What are your conditions?"
"Straight to business! I like that." Olenna praised him openly. "You are one of the Seven Kingdoms' most eligible bachelors—Dark Sister at your hip, the Blood Wyrm Caraxes beneath you, handsome, and in the prime of youth."
She paused for effect, then pushed two cups of fine wine across the table and tapped the wood. "Therefore, I want you to marry my daughter."
Marriage alliances again. Every great lord seemed to have the same idea.
"My apologies, my lady," Daeron declined politely. "My heart is already spoken for."
"May I be so bold as to ask which girl has captured it?"
Olenna's mouth said "bold"; her actions were bolder still. She dropped all pretense.
"Is it a Lannister?"
"Princess Shaena?"
"Since you do not follow the old Targaryen ways, perhaps a daughter of another noble house? Surely not someone inside Dorne?"
She had clearly done her research and rattled off every suspect in one breath.
Daeron shook his head lightly.
He would not tell her that children made choices. He wanted them all.
Olenna considered for a moment, then pointed at the two wine cups with perfect seriousness. "If it is the Lannister girl you value, I admit neither of my daughters can match her beauty."
"But I have two daughters!"
She stated it like she had just played an unbeatable trump card.
"As long as you are willing, I can decide here and now to marry both of them to you."
Daeron remained silent. Lord Mace panicked first. "Mother, Mina is betrothed!"
His wife had borne him two sisters: eighteen-year-old Mina Tyrell and fifteen-year-old Janna Tyrell. Mina was already promised to the Lord of the Arbor.
"I know, Mace!" Olenna waved a dismissive hand. "If the prince nods, I will dissolve the betrothal. I'm sure my nephew will not hold it against these old bones."
She was the Lord of the Arbor's blood aunt. She was ruthless enough to sell both her daughter and her nephew without blinking.
Even Daeron felt a flicker of temptation at the thought of marrying two at once.
The real value was not the girls themselves but Olenna's open attitude—extremely useful for restoring the old Targaryen custom of multiple wives.
"Prince, how will you choose?"
Olenna tapped the two cups, offering one at a time or both together.
Daeron was not that indiscriminate. He pointed to the cup on the left. "Let us change the candidate. I will have my younger brother Viserys betrothed to your younger daughter, Lady Janna."
The conditions House Tyrell offered were pushing their luck.
But he had no desire to waste time. Once the Usurper's War ended and the Crownlands were properly expanded, he would no longer need to rely on the Tyrells. How he shaped them afterward would depend entirely on his mood.
"No, that will not do!" Olenna was a master haggler. "If you are unsatisfied with my two daughters, I also have a newborn granddaughter."
"My lady… a newborn?"
"Yes!" Olenna felt no shame whatsoever. "You are only twelve yourself. When my husband and I married, he was far older than I."
Daeron was speechless. He countered by offering Viserys and Margaery.
He genuinely liked the "Little Rose" from the stories, but waiting until she reached marriageable age would take far too long.
The two went back and forth, neither willing to yield.
In the end the terms were set:
After victory, House Tyrell would receive a portion of the Riverlands and Stormlands.
In exchange, Daeron would take Lord Mace's eldest son, Willas Tyrell, as his squire.
Shaena would take the unmarried Janna Tyrell as her lady-in-waiting.
Once the bargain was sealed, Olenna drained both cups and said with genuine regret, "In truth, neither of my daughters is unattractive, and I wager my granddaughter Margaery will grow into quite the beauty."
"As long as you promise to marry at least one of them—or all of them—before the wedding you may sleep with whomever you wish."
"Even if you sire bastards, you may give them to me to raise. Not a whisper of scandal will ever leave my lips."
"After the marriage, however, you will of course sleep with them and let them bear one or two children of dragon blood."
Daeron could only shake his head in admiration.
Not for her generosity, but for the fierce, single-minded devotion she showed House Tyrell.
Lady Olenna cared nothing for what outsiders thought of her. Her eyes drifted pointedly downward and she asked with blunt curiosity, "Speaking of which… do you even know how to sleep with a girl?"
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