280 AC, autumn, Highgarden
The banquet hall's crystal chandeliers refracted thousands of candle flames into hazy light that fell upon tapestries embroidered with golden roses.
The cloying scents of roast swan, honeyed roses, and costly spices drifted through the air, but stronger still were the whispers of power.
Leon sat midway down the long table, his pale violet eyes lowered.
He could feel those gazes-
From the nobles of the Reach's various houses, curious, appraising, jealous, calculating, like countless tiny needlepoints pricking his skin.
On the dais, Lord Mace Tyrell occupied the seat of honor, dressed in green velvet embroidered with gold thread, the jeweled golden rose brooch on his chest dazzling in the candlelight.
He kept looking toward Leon, his gaze so eager it bordered on rudeness.
To his right, the elderly lady in a deep purple gown embroidered with nearly black thorns quietly observed everything with a hawk's eyes.
Olenna Redwyne, the Queen of Thorns.
Her presence lent a cold undertone to the lavish banquet.
Halfway through the feast, the musicians began a soothing court melody from Oldtown.
During a pause in the flowing melody, Olenna set down her silver fork.
The crisp clink was not loud, yet strangely, conversation throughout the hall subsided within seconds.
"Lord Tywin has finally agreed to let his lion cubs out of their rocky den."
Olenna's voice was like aged silk sliding over a blade.
The entire table fell silent.
The nobles of the Reach set down their knives and forks, waiting for what came next.
Across from Leon, Gerion maintained his smile, but his fingers tightened slightly around his wine cup.
"Mother." Lord Mace adjusted his brooch uneasily. "Lord Gerion is here on behalf of Casterly Rock..."
"Oh, I know."
Olenna lightly prodded a cherry on her plate with her silver fork. "I was merely curious about the route. Sailing from Lannisport around the Sunset Strait, then east to Highgarden...
"That must take at least a fortnight longer than coming straight down the Goldroad. Do the lions of the Westerlands need seawater to wash the mine dust from their coats?"
Slightly restrained chuckles rose from several tables.
Gerion raised his cup, his smile impeccable. "Nothing cultivates patience like seawater, my lady. And a visit to Highgarden is worth any detour."
"Patience." Olenna repeated the word, suddenly turning toward Leon. "And you, child? Did you get seasick after so many days afloat? Those beautiful eyes of yours..."
She paused, letting the word "beautiful" hang in the air.
"...remind me of Prince Rhaegar. Word arrived from King's Landing just the day before yesterday. Poor fellow, marrying a princess of Dorne. How his heart must miss certain similar colors."
The first wave: an attack on his bloodline.
An oblique suggestion of a connection between Leon's bloodline and the Targaryens, while also mocking Tywin for having a wife the Mad King "admired" and a son with eyes of a "royal color."
Tywin is one thing... but she dares insult my mother... Leon raised his head.
His Eye of Insight caught the feigned regret in the 0.3-millimeter rise of Olenna's lips, the intent scrutiny in her slightly contracted pupils, and the pressure-setting rhythm of her right ring finger tapping the table's edge once.
"Thank you for your concern, old... my lady."
His clear voice carried through the music. "Time at sea gives one room to think. For instance... I often hear people say my eyes resemble my mother's."
Calm. Untroubled.
Replacing "like Prince Rhaegar" with "like Lady Joanna" sidestepped the sensitive insinuation about his ancestry while emphasizing his Lannister blood... his mother was also a Lannister.
Olenna's eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly.
"Joanna..." she said softly, as though chewing over the name. "Yes, she certainly had enchanting eyes. Such a pity..." She left it unfinished, but the implication of an untimely death lingered.
The second wave: death and curses.
"Such a pity that life is so unpredictable."
Leon picked up the thread, his voice steady. "Just like sailing at sea, there may be hidden currents beneath seemingly calm waters.
"That makes careful navigation and precise calculation all the more necessary. Much like Highgarden's waterwheel system.
"I saw it today. Twelve tiers of waterwheels draw water from the Mander River to every level of the castle, distributing every drop as precisely as the gears of a clock tower. That requires extraordinary planning and control."
He paused, his gaze sweeping the hall:
"What, then, of the Iron Throne?"
The musician's lute missed a note.
"Is the Iron Throne's 'nourishment' of the Seven Kingdoms calculated with the same precision?"
Leon looked straight at Olenna. "Or is it like the Mander River in the rainy season, sometimes flooding, sometimes drying up, all depending on... the will of heaven, or the king's 'mood'?"
A counterattack.
Taking Olenna's dagger and turning it into a spear aimed at the shadow hanging over everyone's heads.
Forcing every noble of the Reach to consider: however precisely we calculate, what good is it if the madman above us overturns the table?
Olenna's smile froze. Her wine cup stopped in midair.
Lord Mace suddenly burst into laughter.
"Well said! Precision! Exactly right!"
He slapped the table hard enough to make the golden rose spoon jump. "That is precisely the wisdom of House Tyrell! We do not rely on brute force like the northerners, or plunder like the Iron Islands. We rely on..."
He waved his arms. "Management! Planning! Making every inch of land and every drop of water create value!"
Leon's Eye of Insight switched modes, focusing deeply on Mace alone:
The breadth of his gestures correlated positively with his vocal volume.
At the mention of "value," his eyes flicked toward the newly painted fresco on the dome.
His positive response to words such as "wisdom" and "planning" was three times as strong as his response to "military strength" and "bloodline."
"His lordship is right."
Leon's voice took on just the right measure of admiration. "This afternoon, I passed through the Rose Market and saw merchants using scales marked down to half an ounce. The gate guards' armor was polished to a shine, but the wear on their scabbards showed they had not seen real combat in a long time.
"But that is not neglect. It is a choice to invest resources in prosperity rather than fear."
Lord Mace's eyes lit up.
Beside him, Tyrion could barely keep from laughing.
"And what surprised me most,"
Leon continued, lightly touching the white porcelain plate with its gold rim before him, "was this tableware."
Everyone looked at their plates.
"This is not from Oldtown."
Leon lifted the plate toward the candlelight. "Oldtown's clay has a high iron content, leaving a faint blue-gray hue beneath the glaze after firing. But this... is utterly pure. It was fired locally, in Highgarden. You have found a new clay deposit, or improved the formula."
He set down the plate, his conclusion as soft as a whisper:
"That means Highgarden is not merely exporting roses and wine, but establishing a manufacturing system entirely independent of Oldtown or King's Landing.
"This goes beyond what a lord needs to concern himself with. But it is... foresight. It is growth without end!"
Lord Mace's breathing rate changed, his forward lean increased by seven degrees, and the duration of his upturned lips had reached the threshold for "pleasure."
"Foresight!"
He repeated the word as though savoring fine wine. "That is precisely what I have always advocated! Mother always says I..."
Catching Olenna's look, he coughed. "In any case, this child understands!"
He raised his cup to the hall. "To foresight!"
"To foresight!" everyone echoed. The atmosphere shifted subtly.
Olenna said nothing more.
Willas had been right. She turned her eldest grandson's words over in her mind-
"Grandmother, that dwarf child is different. Spotting Ser Alyn's weakness at a glance in the training yard was no stroke of luck. You should meet him yourself."
She had scoffed at the time. How different could a seven-year-old dwarf be?
Now she stared at Leon, whose pale violet eyes were as still as deep pools in the candlelight.
What does he remind me of? Rhaegar? Joanna? No...
Myself.
The same refusal to yield. The same calculation. The same... quietly closing your hand around the key while everyone treats you as a collectible.
She raised her cup and took a sip.
The wine left a slightly bitter aftertaste as it slid down her throat.
Dangerous. This child is far too dangerous.
But dangerous things can also be weapons.
The banquet continued.
The order of wine service changed. Leon's cup was filled first, with an Arbor gold of a better vintage.
A servant also quietly asked whether he needed the nuts removed from his dishes, treatment reserved for the guest of honor.
When dessert arrived, Olenna spoke again.
This time she addressed Gerion without looking at Leon. "I hear your route will take you north to King's Landing next?"
"Yes, my lady." Gerion smiled. "His Majesty has taken some interest in the children of the Westerlands."
"Interest." Olenna sipped her wine. "His Majesty Aerys's interests are sometimes like wildfire. Once burning, they make no distinction between friend and foe."
She set down her cup, only then turning her gaze toward Leon. "Some beautiful things are best carefully nurtured in a garden. Move them beside a fire, and a moment's carelessness may reduce them to ashes."
The third wave. A direct threat.
Leon set down his silver fork, his pale violet eyes like two cold crystals:
"Thank you for the warning, my lady. But some risks are worth taking. Just as Highgarden once chose to submit to His Majesty Aegon... that gamble bought the Reach three hundred years of prosperity."
He paused. "And some investments may take a long time to yield returns, even generations. True wisdom lies in seeing what tree a seed will become, rather than staring only at the bustling soil."
Olenna stared at him for a long time.
He is gambling. Gambling that I can see that tree.
Willas was right...
He is worth it.
She smiled slowly, a genuine smile this time, the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth as deep as knife cuts.
"Mace."
"Mother?"
"In that newly renovated dockside warehouse district downstream on Oldtown's Honeywine, are there still two medium-sized warehouses and their adjoining berths standing idle?"
Mace looked startled. "Yes, but those were intended for the Arbor Chamber of Commerce..."
"Give them to this child."
Olenna gestured casually toward Leon. "Consider it a small investment by House Tyrell in a young man of foresight. Ten years' use of the warehouses and berths, with taxes and fees assessed at the preferential rates for internal trade within the Reach."
The hall erupted.
The Rose River was a major tributary of the Mander River, a waterway hub connecting Highgarden with Oldtown and King's Landing.
Warehouses and berths there were strategic resources that merchants across the Seven Kingdoms could not secure no matter how fiercely they competed.
Ten years' use at preferential rates...
This went far beyond money. It was a pass into the Reach's core trade network.
"But," Olenna changed tack, her gaze returning to Leon, "an investment must show returns. Within one year, I want those two warehouses' throughput doubled. Fail, and their usage rights will be revoked. It will not be too late to give them to the Arbor Chamber of Commerce then."
Mace opened his mouth, looked at his mother, then at Leon, and finally gritted his teeth and nodded. "As Mother says. Young Leon, I will have the steward bring you the documents after the banquet."
Leon rose and bowed slightly in accordance with etiquette:
"Thank you, my lord, and thank you, Lady Olenna, for your generosity. House Lannister will remember this friendship."
Not "I," but "House Lannister."
Elevating a personal gift into a political statement between houses.
Olenna nodded and looked away.
She picked up her silver fork again and cut a small piece of honeyed rose, as though she had merely tossed him a breadcrumb.
But everyone knew those two warehouses and berths were worth more than all the gold vessels at the banquet combined.
And the test of "doubling within a year" was more like a sword hanging overhead.
The banquet finally ended before midnight.
In the corridor, Willas Tyrell waited with his cane.
"Young Master Leon, might I have a word in private?"
Thea withdrew ten paces.
Willas led Leon onto a balcony.
Beyond the windows, night roses covered the hills, gleaming a shadowy purplish red beneath the moonlight.
"My grandmother rarely miscalculates."
Willas came straight to the point. "But tonight, you made her reassess three times."
"I merely spoke the truth."
"Between people, sincerity is often the most dangerous thing."
Willas smiled. "Those two warehouses are not merely a gift, but a touchstone. Grandmother wants to see what a seven-year-old child will do with resources like these...
"Sell them on for a profit? Hoard goods to drive up prices? Or pursue some deeper scheme? And that condition of 'doubling within a year' was something she added on the spot."
Leon raised his eyes to him.
"But I suspect you can do it."
Willas took a small golden rose seal from his sleeve. "This is my personal seal.
"With it, you may consult unrestricted books in any of Highgarden's maesters' towers, requisition three small riverboats, and contact me directly when necessary, without going through my father or grandmother."
Leon accepted the seal.
"Why?"
"Because I think we are alike."
Willas spoke softly. "Both limited by our bodies, yet unwilling to accept those limits. Besides...
"I recommended you to Grandmother. If I prove to have been wrong, I stand to lose more than you do."
Leon fell silent for a moment, tightening his grip on the seal. "I'll use it wisely."
Willas nodded and left, leaning on his cane.
In the guest room, Thea finished checking the doors and windows and hung up the hammock.
Leon sat on the edge of the bed, holding the golden rose seal. Warehouse berths. Trading privileges. Access to the maester's tower.
And that test of "doubling it in a year"...
The Queen of Thorns had given him an opportunity while shackling him, all in the sharpest way possible.
Outside the window, Highgarden's lights stretched through the night like a river of stars.
And in a secret chamber deep within the main keep, Olenna Tyrell sat before a silver mirror, slowly removing the crown of thorns from her head.
The old woman in the mirror had an icy gaze.
"That boy Willas... has a keener eye than his father."
She spoke to the empty room as though talking to herself. "That little lion will either become Highgarden's most precious ally, or he must be destroyed before he grows up."
She set the crown on the table.
"Send someone to King's Landing. Let our friends know that the little lion of the Westerlands is coming. They can get the 'welcoming ceremony' ready."
The golden roses on the crown glittered in the candlelight, like some ill omen.
Meanwhile, in the guest room, Leon was taking the sealed parchment tube out of his pack-
The record of Valyrian bloodlines Loomis had given him.
He ran his fingers over the tube.
For now, he had won the game at Highgarden.
But the board in King's Landing was covered in far more dangerous flames.
And there was still that test of "doubling it in a year"...
The Queen of Thorns had told him in the most elegant way: I'll give you a ladder, but if you can't climb it, don't blame me if you fall to your death.
Leon closed his eyes.
Outside the window, the roses rustled in the night breeze, like countless hands making calculations.