Chapter 242: Chapter 243: Growing Strong
Lady Arwyn Oakheart stormed down the Golden Rose Hallway in Highgarden.
"Where's Lady Olenna?"
"Lady Olenna has gone to Bitterbridge," the steward replied carefully, trying to maintain a pleasant tone as he observed the irate countess.
"Bitterbridge? Why would she go there?" Lady Arwyn demanded, still visibly fuming.
"Lady Margaery sent a letter from Bitterbridge while she was on her tour of the Reach. Lady Olenna left immediately after receiving it," the steward explained.
"What did the letter say?"
The steward shook his head, uncertain.
Arywn scoffed. "Is the bloated fish here? Take me to him!"
The steward, familiar with Lady Aylwin's insulting nickname for the lord of Highgarden, held back any objection. Since that unfortunate hunting feast, many nobles in the Reach had begun calling Mace Tyrell by the same unflattering nickname, even to his face.
"Please follow me, my lady."
Lady Arwyn was escorted into the banquet hall, where music filled the air and thinly dressed dancers twirled before the guests. Mace Tyrell's face was flushed with wine, his head swaying to the rhythm.
"Mace!" she called sharply.
At least she didn't call him "bloated fish" to his face, the steward thought, slipping to the side to avoid getting caught in the confrontation.
"Lady Arwyn," Mace greeted her with a wide grin. "Why didn't you send word you'd be coming to Highgarden? I would have arranged a proper welcome…"
"My son is dead!" she cut him off, her face pale with rage.
"Your son…?" Mace blinked, confused, thinking her younger son had already fallen at Skyreach. Why bring it up now?
Seeing Mace's puzzled look, her fury grew. "My eldest son, Omer! He died at Bronze Gate! When's the last time you looked at the letters from the front?"
Mace's face reddened in embarrassment. He remembered the maester had mentioned letters from the front a few days ago, but he'd left them on his bedside table and forgotten to read them.
"Omer fell…" Mace stammered, trying to recover, "Such a tragedy, may the Mother grant him peace…"
"Enough!" Lady Arywn interrupted again. "Do you think my son's death was an accident?"
Mace hesitated, realizing the implications, and gestured for the others to leave. The guests and dancers hurriedly retreated from the hall, sensing the tension.
"So you believe Lord Randyll and his son set up your son's death?" he asked cautiously.
"What else could it be?" she hissed. "Bronze Gate was a decisive victory with minimal losses. Why was it my son who died? The Tarlys are trying to wipe out House Oakheart!"
"Now, surely it wasn't deliberate… perhaps it was only an unfortunate accident…"
"An accident?" Lady Arwyn laughed bitterly. "Your son Garlan was at the front too, wasn't he? Are you planning to wait until he also has an 'accident' before you do something?"
"Of course not, of course not…" Mace muttered, waving his hands helplessly.
Lady Arwyn moved closer, her small frame somehow making Mace feel dwarfed and childish before her wrath.
"Have you forgotten the humiliation at the hunting feast?" she demanded. "Are you truly content to let Caesar rule Highgarden in your stead? Are you really willing to bow to him?"
"What am I supposed to do?" Mace mumbled, looking pained. "Mother refuses to support me, keeps telling me to lie low. What can I do?"
Her scorn deepened. "You are the Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South. Why not stand up to Caesar? He's merely a minor lord, a vassal of yours. If you took a stand, the Reach would follow. There are many who would rally to you."
Mace grumbled inwardly. When he'd been humiliated at the hunt, few had spoken in his defense.
"What can I do now?" Mace sighed. "My daughter is already betrothed to Caesar. I think it's best to leave things as they are and stay out of it."
He picked up his goblet, but Lady Arwyn slapped it out of his hand.
"You're just going to give up?" she demanded. "Are you really ready to become a useless fool?"
Finally, Mace snapped. He slammed his meaty hand onto the table with a loud thud. "Enough, Lady Oakheart! I'm willing to overlook your insolence out of respect for your loss, but don't push me further!"
"My sons are dead, Mace," she said coldly, meeting his eyes with an icy stare. "What have I got left to fear? So, let me ask you one last time—are you truly going to submit to Caesar?"
"What else can I do?" Mace muttered angrily. "Margaery's already carrying his child."
Lady Arwyn's gaze sharpened. "So Olenna rushed off to Bitterbridge for that?"
Mace didn't deny it.
"But they're not married yet, are they? That child will be a bastard," she noted. "Is Olenna planning to deal with it discreetly?"
"Not likely," Mace muttered. "Mother won't do that. She'll probably arrange an early wedding. So, best not to stir up trouble. Go back and adopt an heir, if it concerns you so much."
Lady Arwyn fixed him with a glacial stare. "I hear you're even renegotiating the trade duties with House Martell?"
"That's Caesar's idea, actually…"
"Caesar, Caesar, Caesar!" she shouted, her voice growing louder. "Who rules Highgarden, Mace? House Tyrell or Caesar?"
Mace waved a hand, dismissively. "Mother says Caesar might have a chance at the Iron Throne. So yes, the Reach will still belong to House Tyrell. Just bear with it for now."
"Some things you might tolerate, but I won't! Especially with Dorne! Have you forgotten our blood feud with them?"
"It's only a small adjustment to trade duties," Mace said, shaking his head.
"Just that?" she mocked. "I heard that Highgarden even plans to buy up grain to sell in bulk to Dorne."
Mace scratched his head, looking lost. "I don't remember Mother mentioning that…"
Lady Arywn fumed silently for a long moment. Then, with a voice full of iron resolve, she said:
"Lord Mace, House Tyrell might forget Dorne's crimes, but House Oakheart never will."
Mace knew he couldn't argue. House Oakheart had suffered deeply during the Dorne Wars. Their infamous "Blood Wedding Massacre" was seared into their memory—a wedding feast in Old Oak where Dornish invaders had murdered guests, mutilated the groom, and kidnapped the bride, sending her to Myr as a slave.
Mace had seen the grim murals at Old Oak, commemorating Oakhearts who had fallen to Dorne's cruelty.
He sighed. "I understand, Lady Arwyn, but Mother has decided on this, and I have no power to change it."
"House Oakheart will not forget its grudges. Not against Dorne, and not against Caesar." Her eyes held a deadly coldness as she looked at him.
Mace shifted uncomfortably under her glare. "Look, Lady Ayrywn, let's make a compromise. I can lift the taxes on Old Oak for a year… or even two. And if we gain more land in the Stormlands, I'll see that some of it goes to House Oakheart…"
"Do you really think they'll listen to you?" she interrupted with a sneer.
He deflated, but managed a weak cough. "I'll ask Mother to help… Lady Arwyn? Where are you going?"
But she was already striding from the hall.
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Bitterbridge, once named Stonebridge, was the key crossing point of the Mander River along the Rose Road. During the reign of King Maegor the Cruel, the Faith Militant led by "The Woodcutter" Walter had marched nine thousand strong from the Reach towards King's Landing, intending to overthrow the tyrant.
At Stonebridge, the King's forces slaughtered the Faith Militant, leaving the river clogged with bodies and stained red for miles downstream. Ever since, Stonebridge was known as Bitterbridge, and tales persisted of ghosts wailing upon it at night.
"Sister, it's too windy by the river. Let's go back," Ser Loras Tyrell urged.
"Come on, a little breeze won't hurt me!" Margaery replied, wrinkling her nose playfully.
Loras followed, still uneasy. "Grandmother should be here soon. Are you prepared to explain this to her?"
"What is there to explain?" Margaery laughed. "Do you think she'll actually make me drink moon tea?"
"But you're not married yet," Loras said. "Your child won't be…"
"Then we'll marry quickly!" Margaery chuckled. "Besides, wouldn't you like to see me in a wedding gown?"
Loras sighed, smiling faintly. "Of course I would. You'll be more radiant than the stars."
Margaery took his arm as they continued across the bridge. "And you, Loras? Have you thought about marriage?"
Loras didn't respond, his expression distant.
Seeing his sadness, Margaery wisely let the question drop.
The siblings crossed the bridge, their path lined through fields of tall, golden sunflowers stretching as far as they could see. Suddenly, Loras stepped in front of Margaery, raising his voice.
"Who's there?" he called, eyes scanning the field.
A dry, cracked voice answered from among the flowers. "Someone who should've died long ago but didn't."
A gust of wind parted the flowers, revealing an elderly woman hunched over a twisted black staff. Her skin was as pale as bone, her blood-red eyes glinting as she stared at them from under a veil of long, white hair that nearly swept the ground.
"Old mother," Margaery greeted her gently. "What are you doing out here all alone? Where's your family?"
"Dead. All dead," the old woman whispered, almost to herself. "Burned alive—all lost in the flames."
Margaery's heart went out to her. "Is there anyone to look after you?"
"The Old Gods watch over me," she murmured, her voice soft but sharp with a strange intensity. "They won't let me rest. They whisper in the night, filling my dreams…"
The siblings exchanged a wary look. Loras frowned and stepped forward. "Do you need anything, grandmother? Some food or wine?"
The old woman's eyes glimmered. "Wine… ah, how long it's been." She took the wineskin Loras offered and drank deeply, sighing with satisfaction. "You're kind children, so I'll share my dreams with you."
Loras barely concealed his impatience but stayed silent out of politeness.
"Did you dream of your family?" Margaery asked, smiling.
"No," the woman's voice darkened. "I dreamed of blood, of shadows and death."
Loras and Margaery stiffened, but before they could speak, she continued, her voice low and haunting, as if woven from the wind itself.
"I dreamed of lions slipping out from shadowed dens, sinking their fangs into those ensnared. I dreamed of wolves, wandering in the cold winds, forever lost. I dreamed of a faceless girl whose golden hair hides a serpent's deadly bite. I dreamed of an eagle swallowed by fire and ice, rising again as a dragon."
She fixed her blood-red eyes on Margaery, her words twisting into a cold promise. "And I dreamed of you, beautiful rose…"
"Me?" Margaery asked, intrigued. "What did you see?"
"A golden rose… so lovely, so delicate, but destined to fall from its branch and be swallowed by sorrow."
Loras scowled. "We gave you good wine, and you repay us with nightmares?"
But the old woman's eyes filled with tears, her voice breaking. "It's my curse. It's always been my curse… I am sorrow's messenger, bound to bring only misfortune…"
Her mournful words softened Loras's irritation. He sighed, and Margaery reached out to comfort her.
"Don't worry, old mother. Dreams are just dreams."
The woman gazed at Margaery, her red eyes kindling with admiration. "A heart as kind as it is beautiful…" She reached into her cloak, producing a garland of delicate white flowers. She placed it in Margaery's hands, her expression softening.
"Winter roses… how beautiful they are!" Margaery marveled, feeling the wreath's cool, calming touch.
"Don't be afraid, rose of Highgarden," the woman whispered, her gaze seeming to stretch beyond them, far into the distance. "Do not fear… life renews itself."
Margaery placed the winter rose crown upon her head, mirroring the old woman's words, and recited her house's words: "Growing Strong."
(End of Chapter)
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