CHAPTER 184
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CHAPTER 184
293 AC
POV THIRD PERSON
Amidst the lush blossoms of Highgarden's gardens, Olenna Tyrell strolled with an unhurried grace. The soft, velvety petals brushed against her fingertips, releasing fragrant perfumes that hung on her fingertips, a testament to the bounteous beauty of her family's ancestral home.
The garden was a sanctuary, a place where the burdens of politics and power could be momentarily set aside. Here, the outside world of courtly machinations and noble rivalries faded into insignificance, allowing Olenna to relish a rare moment of tranquility. The warm embrace of the sun, the gentle rustling of leaves, and the harmonious symphony of birdsong created a sensory serenity that provided solace for her soul.
Even though the garden was peaceful and full of soft feelings, Olenna Tyrell remained an indomitable figure. Her years of maneuvering in the intricate court politics of Westeros had honed her intellect and her uncanny ability to see through the veils of deceit. As the matriarch of House Tyrell, she carried not only the weight of her family's legacy but also the power that came with it. Her silver hair, reminiscent of the petals that surrounded her, was a symbol of her wisdom and authority. Her piercing eyes, still as sharp as ever, held the knowledge of decades of secrets and plots.
The title of "Queen of Thorns" was not an empty moniker; it was a reflection of her formidable intellect and her fearlessness in challenging the patriarchy of a world dominated by men. From the shadows, she had orchestrated countless maneuvers, each designed to safeguard the interests of House Tyrell. Her strategic brilliance had cemented her place as a prominent player in the game of thrones, a position she held with pride and unapologetic ambition.
Despite the passage of years, Olenna Tyrell remained a formidable force, a living testament to the strength and resilience of House Tyrell. In the midst of the vibrant blossoms of Highgarden, she was a living embodiment of the beauty and power that her family represented, an indomitable rose amid the thorns of Westerosi politics.
Amidst the fragrant blooms that were the very emblem of House Tyrell, Olenna reclined gracefully on a stone bench, an epitome of the Tyrell essence. The vibrant petals surrounded her, and the velvety touch of the blossoms under her fingers contrasted with the weight of her concerns. Her spies' reports, a constant reminder of the ever-shifting political landscape, had monopolized her attention.
In the midst of her contemplation, a voice broke through her thoughts. Olenna turned her gaze to her grandson, Willas Tyrell, who approached with a demeanor that was a testament to his upbringing. He executed a respectful bow, embodying the legacy of House Tyrell with every inch of his presence. His eyes, a reflection of both deference and intelligence, showed that he was a worthy heir to the illustrious House.
Olenna graced Willas with a smile that seemed to curve her lips with a blend of warmth and shrewdness.
"Willas, my dear boy. Please, take a seat," she invited.
With a sense of curiosity, he settled beside her, his inquisitive expression not betraying his gentle nature. Despite the physical disability that had afflicted him, a leg injury that left him struggling to walk properly, he was renowned for his intelligence and compassionate character. In this, he was much like his father, but the similarities ended there. Willas was no gullible fool like his father. His mind was sharp, and he possessed a profound grasp of diplomacy and the intricate dance of politics. His grandmother rathered he didn't have compassion, but she liked his intellect.
He had a genuine thirst for knowledge, immersing himself in books and literature. Willas's disability had never impeded his contributions to his family's ambitions, and he frequently played a role in their political affairs. His wisdom and gentle demeanor earned him the respect and admiration of those around him.
"You've been deep in thought, Grandmother," Willas observed, his brows furrowing slightly in contemplation.
Olenna turned her gaze toward Willas, her eyes still fixed on the garden's beauty.
"Indeed, I have," she replied. "These reports... they speak of a power that is rising in the North, one that threatens to shift the balance of power. A Druid, they call him."
Willas nodded thoughtfully, considering the precarious situation.
"It is a precarious situation, to be sure."
Olenna continued to muse, her gaze shifting to the roses around her.
"Indeed, and it presents both opportunities and challenges. The Stark in Winterfell, he allows this power to flourish, even as it threatens to eclipse his own."
Willas met his grandmother's gaze, his understanding dawning.
"You believe this Druid to be a potential ally?"
A soft chuckle escaped Olenna's lips.
"I believe him to be a potential asset. One that we should not ignore."
Margaery Tyrell, a vision of grace and beauty, had joined her grandmother and brother in the garden. Her presence, like a breath of fresh air, brought a stark contrast to the heavy political intrigue that consumed their thoughts. Margaery possessed an exquisite and delicate beauty, with chestnut curls, captivating green eyes, and finely chiseled features. Her attire, always exquisite, accentuated her noble status and her captivating presence made her a central figure in any gathering.
"Grandmother, I hear you speak of the Druid. What is your plan?" Margaery inquired, her green eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity and intelligence.
Olenna's eyes gleamed with a combination of pride and shrewdness as she responded, "My dear, our plan is one of delicacy and subtlety. We shall maintain appearances, of course, for the eyes of the Reach are upon us. But behind the scenes, we shall foster a connection with this Druid."
Margaery's brow quirked inquisitively as she sought to understand further, "And what do we gain from this connection?"
Olenna leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Information, my sweet. Information is power; we already know his powers are real, and if this Druid indeed possesses the faith of the North in his hands as the reports suggest, we would be wise to have a finger on the pulse of his intentions."
While reading some reports, her eyes widened in amazement.
"Everyone was sleeping at the helm!" she exclaimed.
Willas and Margaery exchanged curious glances, prompting Olenna to clarify.
"Everyone was so focused on the Druid that they neglected the newly appointed Lord of Moat Cailin, who has numerous accomplishments despite his tender age of 18 name days."
Intrigued, Margaery probed, "What do you mean, grandmother?"
"He is the conqueror of Pyke Castle, the Sword of Winter, the Sword of Old Gods, and now the commander of the Templar Order. Most importantly, he single-handedly reformed the Northerners' understanding of agriculture, becoming an economic powerhouse in the North. Someone this smart and powerful should never be underestimated even if he is young."
Willas Tyrell, always measured and thoughtful, raised an eyebrow.
"His feats are certainly impressive, Grandmother, and we should not underestimate the support he might be gaining from the people, especially after the conquest of Pyke. The common folks have always loved a champion, and I have heard he is the champion of the Druid. If he is serving the Druid, he must be getting help from him, too."
Margaery Tyrell, her gaze contemplative, joined the conversation.
"You are right, Grandmother. His actions have garnered admiration from the smallfolk, and his economic reforms are bound to sway more hearts. Such power in the hands of one so young is indeed intriguing."
As the conversation unfolded, it was clear that the emergence of the Lord of Moat Cailin had piqued the curiosity of the Tyrell family. While they were accustomed to navigating the complex currents of power, the young lord's meteoric rise was a game-changer in the North that demanded their attention and strategic assessment.
...
The Faith of the Seven had always been a powerful institution, but the High Septon's fervent crusade had escalated tensions and drawn the attention of the realm. As reports of his sermons denouncing Druid Emrys reached Highgarden, Olenna's lips curled into a wry smile. She knew all too well the art of manipulation, and the Faith's involvement was just another thread she could weave into her intricate tapestry of influence. She was certain there was someone pulling the High Septon's strings, for he wouldn't have the guts to denounce someone claiming to be a priest of the Old Gods on his own.
A knock at her chamber door interrupted Olenna's thoughts, and she called for the visitor to enter. Her granddaughter Margaery appeared, her expression a mixture of curiosity and respect for the formidable woman who held her family's fate in her hands.
"Grandmother," Margaery greeted her with a respectful nod.
"Ah, my dear," Olenna said, patting the seat beside her. "Come, join me. We have much to discuss."
Margaery settled into the chair, her gaze fixed on Olenna with anticipation.
"What is on your mind, Grandmother?"
Olenna's eyes twinkled with mischief as she leaned in.
"The Faith, my dear. The High Septon's fervor is certainly making waves, is it not?"
Margaery nodded, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.
"Indeed. His sermons against the Druid have ignited a fire in the hearts of many."
Olenna's lips quirked into a sly smile.
"A fire that we can use to our advantage."
Margaery's brows furrowed in thought.
"How so, Grandmother?"
"Every storm has its own silver lining, my dear," Olenna replied. "The Faith's involvement in this matter gives us a unique opportunity to align our interests."
Margaery's eyes widened in realization.
"You believe we can use the Faith to undermine the Druid's influence?"
Olenna berated her with a frown.
"Don't be naive. Of course, we are not going to join them. Margaery, never forget this: we do not serve the Faith; the Faith serves us. Let the High Septon have his crusade; we will feign support while having our own plans. If they won, we supported them, but if they become liabilities, we need to be able to cut off that branch right away."
In the public eye, House Tyrell displayed a façade of support for the Faith's crusade. Donations were made to the Faith's coffers, and statements of allegiance were carefully worded to project an image of devoutness to "righteous cause." All the while, Olenna's manipulation continued behind the scenes, her cunning hand guiding the ebb and flow of the political tides in The Reach.