Charred Feathers

Alistair crept through the grass, late, very late, in the night. The blades were wet with dew, and the night dark but for the moonlight above. Well, perhaps saying that he crept was a bit of an overstatement, Alistair considered, given that he had a wagon pulled by two horses with him. But, then again, discovery this near Highgarden meant certain death, and he really was being quiet. He glanced at the pig's blader beside him, and at the long strings dangling from the top and sides, a bit nervous at the slight hints of moisture he could see coming from the small, but present openings around the ropes. He knew what could happen at the slightest misstep. And he was very thankful that no stray sparks had touched the bloated thing throughout his travels. 

The danger inherent in all aspects of the mission he and Robert had cooked up with his maester Cressan was largely why he had waited so long with suggesting it. He knew that the plan was less effective with every day that passed, but he also knew that he could not afford to do anything truly dangerous until he had confirmation that his notebooks had been copied and stored in safe locations. This war of theirs was important, true, but not moreso than the plethora of scientific advancements he held. But now that was done, and now he could afford more... experimental, tactics. Strategies which might truly test the limits of his wit, prowess, and charisma. 

Alistair smirked once more at how utterly uninterested Dorne was in the wellbeing of Aerys Targaryen, even after they declared for the madman. It wasn't exactly hard to guess, given how protective the Dornish were of their Martells, Elia in particular, it seemed. So given just how willing certain houses were to lend out their ravens to a group of bakers, so long as they asked nicely, it was rather clear that they were not very interested in the war. 

Even when those ravens were headed for Storm's End. 

He knew the letters were being read, of course, since they still would not allow meaningful military information to pass such that it would lead to Dornish blood soaking northern fields, but an innocuous message concerning some old ledgers that some grandfather was very protective of? Why, that was no cause for concern. 

As Alistair looked up at Highgarden above him, he thought that it was a shame what he would be doing. It really was a beautiful castle, and it might very well be marred forever by his actions. But, the Reach needed to stumble early on, lest they build such momentum that they could tear through their forces. And, the most effective way of accomplishing that, would be to hamper the expansive kingdom's coordination, and cause strife amongst the lords under the weak, positively arthritic thumb of the Tyrells. 

But, still, that did not mean he could not appreciate the beauty of Highgarden. Alistair gazed upon Highgarden under the full moon, the castle and its surroundings transformed into a scene of mystical allure. Bathed in the silvery glow, the gardens stretched out like an otherworldly paradise, flowers catching the moon's light, rendering them luminescent in the quiet night. The castle's tall spires reached up towards the heavens, their outlines sharp against the night sky. Within this tranquil scene, Alistair could almost swear that he distantly heard the soft murmur of fountains and the distant serenade of nocturnal songbirds. More likely, though, was that he heard nothing of the sort, and that it was simply the shape his twinge of guilt took. 

One tower in particular stood out. The one with the big windows, so that ravens might fly though them. 

Alistair shook his head and made his way towards the back of his covered wagon. Then, he removed the false back of the wagon, revealing the five ravens gathered within. Each wore a harness, cleverly designed to be tied to ropes. The idea came to him when he noticed that the Ravens of Westeros were somewhat bigger than those of earth, and cleverer again by half. Big enough, in fact, that they might together carry something small. And clever enough, in fact, that they might know to take into account what was tied to them. 

He took the cages to the front of the wagon and tied the many ropes of the blader to the harnesses of the ravens, soothing them with his voice and touch as he did so. It was easy, with his attributes. 

Tests had shown that their method was in no way viable for anything more that short flights. Alistair needed nothing more than that. 

Then, he took hold of the only string coming from the bottom of the thing. It was also the only one with two layers. An outer layer, to protect against the wind. And an inner string, treated with wax, and meant to burn. 

He lit the thing with a flame from his lantern, and hurriedly released the ravens, who quickly, if laboriously in the beginning, took off for the Highgarden rookery. 

Alistair knew he should prepare to flee, that he should release the horses from the wagons, grab his bag and sword, and that every second might soon count. He kept his watch. 

Soon enough, it came, just as he knew it would. From the very tower he had focused on just moments earlier. 

A roar of empty air sounded through the silent night, as green flame erupted from every window of the tower, bellowing trails of green tongues licking at the stones of the magnificent spire, as dark shapes sprang from the windows, before falling to the ground with trails of ash and smoke behind them. He even saw a glint of metal, as the thin plate hidden within the bladder was thrown from the tower by the force. 

Screaming caws were heard faintly, and then screams far more pure and human resounded as men, women and children awoke to see a part of their home, or of their lord's home, burn with those most terrible flames. Alistair wished dearly that no one was within the rookery at the time, and that no splatters of wildfire landed on innocents bellow. 

He had, after all, already seen what wildfire did to human flesh. 

Only then did Alistair turn with a sigh to do what he should have done before, and rode into the night. 

Willas winced as he once again caught sight of the still burning tower through the window. He was making his way quickly through the scenic halls and corridors of Highgarden, towards his father's solar. Normally he would have used the word serene, rather than scenic, but there was very little serenity, or even quiet, to be found within Highgarden that morning. He himself had not slept a wink since the hour of the owl that very morning, and he did not think he would do so before the hour of the owl came again. Until then, he, young may he be, and all his family would be mitigating the catastrophe that had taken place right under their nose. 

He winced, as he once again felt the thin steel plate within his hand. Grandmother would not have been pleased at how he let his emotions show in such a manner, but he almost doubted that even she would control herself perfectly once she heard of the slate. For it was not the plate's thin edge digging uncomfortably into his hand that drew his wince, but moreso what it was, and the memory of who had found it. For the thousandth time, he asked the gods why it could not have been their guard, or loyal knight who found the plate. Why must it have been a Florent? By now half the court must have heard it. 

He stopped before the great set of doors to his Father's solar, dark oak finely carved, and beautiful against the white stones of the castle he would one day rule, and waited for the tall men in plate and tabards to knock, and announce his presence. One had the steel shield with silver studs on a plane dotted with longship so iconically of house Grimm, while the other had a green hand on a golden shield on a green field, which seemed to be licked by red flames from all sides given the fire-like markings all along the border. House Chester, then. He thought for a moment as grandmother had taught him, and quickly realized that these two guards were specifically chosen because of their house's isolation, all the way on the shield islands, and as such their disconnection from the politics of the mainland. 

That, and to remind everyone that the Tyrells no ruled the Reach. After all, the crest of house Chester looked quite like the former kings of the Reach, house Gardener. It was quite the creative way of telling all who came to see lord Tyrell exactly who was Lord Paramount of the Reach. He judged that the idea to use isolated knights as guards was likely his father's, while the idea to use house Chester specifically was most certainly grandmother's. 

Eventually, the oaken doors swung open, and he entered the room. The room was spacious and beautiful, as well as comfortable by any measure with all the fine rugs, expansive couches, upholstered chairs and shelves upon which heaps of books rested in almost every corner. The great windows overlooking the keep let in rays of sunlight, that usually made the room warm as a summer day in the mornings. On that particular morning, however, it seemed more akin to the harsh glow of a building in flames. Willas was thankful that they, at least, could not see the rookery. 

There were four people within the room when he entered. There was maester Lomys, whom he quickly looked away from. He still remembered the tears streaming from the older man's eyes when he had seen the rookery burn. His gaze settled then on his mother, who looked haggard. He knew why, of course. None of them had slept that night, which was worrisome, given that they had all implored her to do so. She was, after all, heavily swollen with his sibling, and it was not right for her to go through such an ordeal at such a time. 

However, she had insisted that she was needed for any of them to speak with the ladies of the court, and gather more information that way, and they had eventually relented in the hurry of it all. A decision Willas now regretted as he looked at his pale, shaken mother. She smiled kindly and caringly at him, her pale hair making her skin seem even more pallid, and he turned quickly then, ashamed to have failed so utterly to one of the knightly duties when he was training to be exactly that. 

  He turned to his father next, who was sitting behind his desk, and tapping his fingers. What was strange however was the frown etched onto his face. He was usually very jovial, and kind to family especially. He rose from his chair, his tall, powerful frame coming into view as he walked to pat Willas' back and lead him to where his mother and grandmother sat more closely together than they normally would. 

It was only then that he really saw his grandmother, now in the light of day, sitting calm and still, and only not that he noticed how dearly his grandmother had been blindsided by the attack. It was not that she shook or quivered, no, she was far too resilient for such, but the pale cast of her skin, and the way her eyes traced everything with newfound vigour showed that she was more concerned than he had ever seen her. And it made sense, given the pride she took in being the Queen of Thorns. After all, she had already admitted to being utterly unaware of how it was managed, who it was done by, or even who orchestrated it. There were simply no clues. At least, there were none. 

"So, Willas, did you receive any knowledge we should know of when you checked in on the investigation beneath the rookery?" His father asked, voice tired and frustrated, clearly expecting no answer, but asking all the same to teach his son what it meant to be a lord. 

"I- Aye, Father. It seems that a slate of metal engraved with words were placed in the tower when the attack took place. I gather that it must have been blown through one of the many windows, and landed further than we expected to have to search" - Willas paused then, as he winced at the truly horrid part of his findings. - "It seems that a curious Florent found it first, and the poem engraved is nothing less than... mocking." 

Mace Tyrell's usually handsome face went taut and seemed almost stretched out as he grimaced. He, as they all did, knew that now when the dragons were being challenged, it was important that they shined and displayed no weakness to the sniffing dogs circling them. 

"Well, then, do read it aloud, boy. Do not doodle like a squire terrified of asking a maid to dance, when in both situations, speed behoves itself." Grandmother snapped, more irritably than was customary even for her. 

Then he read aloud the poem, wincing and halting every time 'he' described his father as incompetent, stupid, or foolish. The comments on scorched feathers and charred caws were also rather painful, as were the repeated remarks on how difficult logistics were going to be now that they had no ravens. And they couldn't even shift their mustering point, as there were still bannermen traveling to Highgarden. An administrative nightmare, really. 

All in all, it was a magnificent way of getting every arrogant lord to buck at their every command. And it seemed that the rest of the room knew it to be true as well, if their expressions were anything to go by. 

The perpetrator of their struggle was, days after the incident itself, calmly riding towards Ashford keep, through the charming town at it's feet. The whitewashed houses were charming with their thatched roofs, and the people also seemed to be the same, even as they stood and pointed at his passing, eyes following him. It was entirely understandable, of course, given that he was, at the risk of sounding conceited, incredibly handsome, and was riding through the occupied town with not a care in the world. 

He was, after all, a rather high-ranking warlord in the army currently besieging the very castle he rode for. 

He greeted his men as he rode, who he had requested be in charge of order within the town and nodded with accepting understanding at their fear and anger. 

It was, after all, simply a consequence of war, even if it was one he loathed.