TBOV: Chapter Fourteen: The Price of Safety

Chapter Fourteen: The Price of Safety

“If truth be told, even our claim to Highgarden is a bit dodgy, just as those dreadful Florents are always whining.”

―Olenna Tyrell to Sansa Stark

…

She sat by the tall window in the morning light, with baby Lyonel stirring against her breast. Her son was just shy of two, yet he was already a Lord in name—a Lord Paramount of the Reach, if one could believe the titles that had passed so precariously into his hands. Outside, she could see the gardens of Highgarden begin to stir to life: roses in every shade of pink and gold, winding vines laden with dew, the orchard groves beyond. If only she felt so peaceful within.

Today, she felt the weight of the entire realm on her shoulders. The boy’s father had perished months ago from a sudden ague, leaving her both mother and regent to House Tyrell. And now, after the close of the great civil war, that position was more precarious than ever. A hush fell across the solar, broken only by the coo of young Lyonel.

The door creaked open. Their grey-bearded Maester, Morden, entered with a stack of parchments tucked beneath one arm. He bowed low to her, chain links clinking. She nodded for him to rise, gesturing for the wet nurse to come fetch the infant from her lap.

“My lady,” the Maester said, setting the scrolls on a polished table. “I bring word from King’s Landing. The tidings… are grave.”

She exhaled slowly. “Let us not mince words, Maester. How grave?”

He cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. “Lord Redwyne has aligned with Oldtown in petitioning the Crown to supplant House Tyrell as Lords Paramount. He cites your refusal to contribute meaningfully to the Greens’s cause during the war. He calls you—” He dipped his head, looking shamefaced, “‘a coward’ for failing to defend the realm at its hour of need. Or so the letter states.”

She clasped her hands together, stifling the emotion that came from hearing this. “And does the King entertain this… petition?”

Morden’s silence spoke volumes. After a tense moment, he unfolded another parchment. “There is more. Lord Redwyne has announced a betrothal between his daughter, Patricia, and young Ser Gwayne Hightower. It appears the Hightowers have found strong allies in the Arbor. They still haven’t dispatched the taxes for this month, possibly as a show of solidarity with Oldtown’s claim.”

Morden’s voice turned cautious. “There is talk that the Crown may request the custody of Lord Lyonel as a ‘ward’ to secure his good conduct. Should they do so, my lady… it is no simple courtesy—”

She shivered. “Otto Hightower remains Hand, and the Butcher stands behind him,” the lady murmured, after a brief pause. She was not quick to forget that House Tyrell’s claim to Highgarden was historically shaky—they were stewards elevated by Aegon the Conqueror after the Gardener kings burned at the Field of Fire. The Greens might exploit this, questioning their right to rule the Reach when they failed to prove their worth in the Dance. The Hightowers, with their ancient lineage and wartime loyalty, could then be positioned as a “truer” ruling house around which they might rally dissenters.

 That dread possibility swelled in her thoughts.

“Tell me,” she said softly, “how do we avert this? What recourse do we have?”

She saw the maester’s shoulders sag as he considered the question. “We must pivot entirely, my lady,” he said. “Show renewed loyalty. I just checked our ledgers and confirmed we have enough saved from the last three years. Perhaps it would be wise to lavish the Crown and Prince Aemond’s seat in the Eyrie with gifts: gold from our treasuries, barley and wheat from our storehouses, honeyed wines if we must. Whatever might please them—especially Aemond, for he is the one we must be most wary of.”

Hesitantly, Morden bowed his head as if apologising for the words he was about to speak. “Pardon my impudence, my Lady, but I would also advise a stronger bond with the Hightowers themselves… A marriage, perhaps.”

She stiffened. “A marriage,” she repeated. Her gaze went to the child in the nurse’s arms. Betrothal was always inevitable for a highborn lord’s heir, she knew. Yet hearing it still knotted her stomach. “Bethany Hightower is Ormund’s daughter, is she not?”

“She is,” Morden said. “A well-dowered lady, and cousin to the royal family through the Hightower line. A union between your son and Bethany would bind your houses, soften their hostility. Possibly give even the Crown pause before entertaining talks of unseating you.”

She pressed her lips into a hard line, loathing the necessity of even considering such an offer.

The silence stretched. Only the faint rustle of linen disturbed it, as the babe stirred in the nurse’s arms.

What an inheritance for so small a boy, she thought bitterly. Then she straightened, summoning the composure of a woman well-versed in the delicate dance of power.

“Begin the letters,” she said. Her voice was cool as riverstone. “Prepare the tribute for the king and his butcher. Write to Ormund—the bastard. Propose the match between Bethany and my son. Ask for his blessing, in terms that will flatter and invite him to Highgarden in the spring. We will arrange a feast to match any he’s ever seen in Oldtown.”

Morden bowed. “As you command, my lady.”

With that, the Maester scooped up his parchment roll and bowed out of her chamber, leaving her alone with her child and her dread. But the dread gave way, if only slightly, to a fragile sliver of resolve.

She rose and moved to the cradle, taking the boy from the nurse’s arms. Tiny Lyonel blinked up at her with wide green eyes, and she brushed a kiss against his forehead. A lull in the day’s storms, a moment of motherly solace.

“All will be well,” she whispered to him. Or so she prayed.