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The gardens of Highgarden bloomed with a profusion that bordered on the obscene—roses in every shade imaginable, their perfume thick enough to make visitors lightheaded. Lady Olenna Tyrell sat among them like a queen on a throne of petals, her hands working embroidery with the same precision she applied to political maneuvering.
"The royal party departed King's Landing four days ago," she said without looking up from her needlework. "Aerys, his family, appropriate escort—all traveling to Dorne like lambs wandering into a pen they think is safe."
Her son Mace shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his bulk making the delicate garden furniture creak ominously. At twenty-four, he had the look of a man who enjoyed his food and wine perhaps too much, though his broad shoulders suggested he remained formidable when he chose to be. "The visit strengthens ties with Dorne, Mother. Surely that's a positive development?"
"Positive for whom?" Olenna's needle paused mid-stitch. "Dorne gains legitimacy, their princess gains visibility, and Prince Doran gains opportunities to whisper in the king's ear. Meanwhile, the Reach—the kingdom that actually feeds the realm—remains underrepresented on the Small Council and overlooked in matters of state."
"We have wealth," Mace protested. "The finest wines, the richest harvests—"
"And no political power to show for it." Olenna set aside her embroidery with deliberate precision. "Wealth without influence is merely gold waiting to be taxed away. The Lannisters understand this. The Martells understand this. Even the damned Boltons understand this. But my son, heir to the most prosperous kingdom in Westeros, seems content to count his grain stores while others make decisions that affect us all."
Mace's face flushed, but before he could respond, his mother continued.
"The North develops innovations that threaten our agricultural supremacy. White Harbor's preserved foods last longer than ours, making northern products more valuable for long-term storage and sea voyages. Their workshop methods produce tools that make farming more efficient, tools that our own farmers will eventually demand." She picked up her embroidery again, her needle moving with renewed vigor. "And what is the Reach's response? To sit in our gardens and admire our roses while market share erodes around us."
"What would you have me do?" Mace asked, genuine confusion mixing with defensiveness.
"What any ambitious lord should do when power shifts—position yourself to benefit from the changes rather than being crushed by them." Olenna's smile was sharp as the needle in her hands. "The royal progress to Dorne creates an opportunity. If Dorne gains influence through this visit, we must ensure we gain influence through other means."
"You're thinking of the Small Council positions," Mace said slowly, understanding beginning to dawn.
"I'm thinking that when Aerys returns from Dorne—if he returns, given his instability and the Ironborn raiders reportedly active in those waters—there will be reshuffling. Owen Merryweather cannot maintain his position as Hand indefinitely, not with a king whose mental state grows more questionable by the day." Olenna's expression turned calculating. "When that position opens, the Reach must be ready to claim it."
"Tywin Lannister will make a play for it," Mace observed. "He's been positioning himself since his dismissal, and he has the experience and capability the realm actually needs."
"Which is why we don't compete with him directly. We support his restoration as Hand in exchange for Reach representation in other council positions. Master of Coin, perhaps, or Master of Ships." Olenna's needle never stopped moving. "And we secure alliances that make opposing us politically costly."
"The Hightower proposal," Mace said, his expression shifting from understanding to wariness.
"Exactly." Olenna set aside her embroidery and fixed her son with a look that made him sit straighter despite himself. "Alerie Hightower is of appropriate age and breeding, her father controls Oldtown and influences the Citadel, and House Hightower has wealth that rivals our own. A marriage alliance creates a power bloc in the south that cannot be ignored."
"Lord Leyton has been... reclusive," Mace noted carefully. "Four years without leaving his tower. Some question his fitness to govern."
"Some also called me mad when I spoke uncomfortable truths," Olenna replied tartly. "Leyton Hightower is reclusive because he's calculating, not because he's unfit. He's watching the realm change and making decisions about how his house should respond. That kind of careful consideration is valuable, not weakness."
She leaned back in her chair, her sharp eyes fixed on her son. "I've been corresponding with Leyton through carefully worded letters for months. He understands what I'm proposing—a southern alliance strong enough to balance northern developments and Dornish ambitions. He knows I know he's too intelligent to be fooled by false flattery or empty promises. This is a transaction between equals, not a con game."
"And he's agreed to the marriage?" Mace asked.
"He's agreed to present the proposal to his daughter with genuine consideration, which is more than most lords would offer. Alerie will have a real choice, not a command dressed as consultation." Olenna's smile turned approving. "Which tells me Leyton has learned from past mistakes with Malora. A man who learns from errors is valuable, and a man who admits those errors is rare enough to be worth the alliance on that basis alone."
Mace was quiet for a long moment, processing what his mother was proposing. "You're building a coalition. Tyrell-Hightower as the foundation, with connections to whatever faction emerges dominant after Aerys's inevitable decline. Flexible enough to adapt to changing circumstances but strong enough to demand recognition regardless of who ultimately controls the throne."
Olenna's eyebrows rose slightly—genuine surprise crossing her features for perhaps the first time in months. "Well. Perhaps you've been paying more attention than I thought, Mace. Yes, exactly that. The realm is entering a period of instability—mad kings, northern innovations, Dornish ambitions, Ironborn aggression. Those who remain rigid will break. Those who adapt will prosper."
"But what about—" Mace began, then stopped himself.
"What about what?"
"What about what I want?" Mace asked, meeting his mother's gaze directly. "Am I to have any say in who I marry, or is this already decided?"
Olenna studied her son, seeing something in his expression that gave her pause. "You're the heir to Highgarden, Mace. Your marriage has always been political, whether you acknowledged it or not. But if you have genuine objections to the match, voice them now. I'm pragmatic, not tyrannical."
"I don't object," Mace said slowly. "From what I know of Lady Alerie, she seems... suitable. But Mother, I would prefer to meet her myself, to make my own evaluation before committing to this alliance. Not because I distrust your judgment, but because I need to know I'm choosing this, not simply accepting what's been decided for me."
"You want agency in your own marriage," Olenna said, her tone unreadable. "How novel."
"I want to be more than the affable fool who does as he's told," Mace replied, surprising himself with his own directness. "You're right that I'm not a skilled politician. You're right that the realm requires alliances I'm ill-equipped to negotiate alone. But I'm twenty-four years old, Mother. At some point, I need to start making my own decisions—even if they're the same ones you would have made for me."
Olenna was quiet for a moment, her needle still in her hands. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled—not the sharp, calculating smile she showed the world, but something warmer and more genuine. "Well. Perhaps there's hope for you yet, Mace. Very well. You'll travel to Oldtown, meet Lady Alerie, evaluate the match for yourself. If you find her unsuitable for reasons beyond mere nervousness or cold feet, we'll find another approach. But Mace—understand that this needs to be a real evaluation, not an excuse to avoid commitment. The Reach needs this alliance or something like it."
"I understand," Mace said. "And Mother... thank you. For trusting me with this."
"Don't make me regret it," Olenna replied, but there was no heat in the words.
---
Later that evening, after Mace had retreated to his chambers to contemplate the upcoming journey to Oldtown, Olenna sat alone in her solar, thinking about her son and the conversation they'd had.
She'd expected protest, perhaps, or anxious acceptance. What she hadn't expected was for Mace to assert himself, to demand agency in his own future while acknowledging the political necessities that constrained his choices. It was a maturity she hadn't been certain he possessed.
Perhaps I've underestimated him, she thought, not entirely pleased by the realization. It was easier to manage a son who required management, who deferred to her judgment without question. A son who thought for himself, who made his own evaluations and decisions—that was more complicated. More dangerous, potentially.
But also, perhaps, more valuable in the long term.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. "Enter," she called, and her daughter Mina appeared—Mace's younger sister, married to Paxter Redwyne these past three years and visiting Highgarden with her young sons.
"I heard you spoke with Mace about the Hightower match," Mina said, settling into a chair with the ease of someone who'd grown up in these rooms. At twenty-one, she had her mother's sharp mind wrapped in a more diplomatic package. "How did he take it?"
"Better than expected," Olenna admitted. "He wants to meet the girl himself before committing. Apparently, my son has developed opinions about agency and self-determination."
"Good for him," Mina said. "You've been managing him since Father died, Mother. At some point, he needs to learn to govern himself."
"He's not equipped for the sort of political maneuvering required to—"
"He's not equipped because you've never let him practice," Mina interrupted gently. "I love you, Mother. You've kept our house prosperous and secure through difficult years. But Mace is the heir to Highgarden. Eventually, he'll be Lord Tyrell, and you won't be here to make every decision for him. Better he learns now, while you're still alive to catch him if he falls, than after you're gone."
Olenna was quiet, considering her daughter's words. Mina had always been the most perceptive of her children—sharper than Mace, more politically astute than Janna. It was why she'd arranged the Redwyne match, securing an alliance while ensuring at least one of her children could navigate the treacherous waters of Reach politics.
"You think I coddle him," Olenna said finally.
"I think you protect him, which is different but has similar effects," Mina replied. "Mace is a good man, Mother. Kind, generous, honorable. Those are valuable qualities, especially in a lord. But he'll never develop the confidence to use those qualities effectively if he's always looking to you for permission before acting."
"And if he makes disastrous decisions? If his kindness and honor lead him to trust the wrong people, to make alliances that weaken us rather than strengthen us?"
"Then you guide him, advise him, help him see the consequences before they become catastrophic. But you let him make the decision." Mina leaned forward. "The Hightower match is sound. Even if Mace evaluates Lady Alerie himself, he'll likely reach the same conclusion you've already made. But it will be his conclusion, his choice. That matters more than you think."
After Mina left, Olenna sat alone with her thoughts and her embroidery. Her daughter was right, she realized, though it galled her to admit it. She'd been so focused on protecting Mace, on ensuring he didn't destroy what she'd built through incompetence or naivety, that she'd prevented him from developing the skills and confidence he'd need to lead effectively.
When did my son become a man I have to trust? she wondered. And when did I become the obstacle to his growth rather than the foundation supporting it?
She didn't have good answers to those questions. But perhaps that was the point—perhaps recognizing the questions was the first step toward finding better solutions.
---
In his chambers, Mace Tyrell sat with a cup of Arbor gold, thinking about his mother's unexpected acquiescence and what it meant for his future.
He'd stood up to her. Not with anger or rebellion, but with a simple, direct statement of what he needed. And she'd... listened. Agreed, even, though not without making clear her expectations.
Maybe this is what growing up actually means, he thought. Not fighting against the people who care about you, but finding ways to take responsibility for your own life while still respecting their wisdom and experience.
A marriage to Alerie Hightower. The idea was daunting—marrying someone he'd never met, starting a family, becoming not just heir to Highgarden but the foundation of the next generation of Tyrells. But it was also... exciting, in a way. The beginning of his own adult life, his own household, his own legacy beyond being Olenna Tyrell's managed son.
He would go to Oldtown. He would meet Lady Alerie with an open mind and an honest heart. He would evaluate whether they could build a genuine partnership—not just a political alliance, but a real marriage with affection and respect and perhaps, eventually, love.
And if she proved suitable, he would choose her. Not because his mother had arranged it, but because he had evaluated the situation and made his own decision.
This is what it means to be Lord Tyrell, he thought. Not to have all the answers, not to be the cleverest person in the room. But to take responsibility for the decisions that shape our house's future, to trust your own judgment while learning from those wiser than yourself.
Outside his window, Highgarden's gardens continued their eternal bloom, beautiful and carefully cultivated, protected by thorns that most people never saw but which were essential to the roses' survival. Perhaps that was how great houses endured—not through strength alone, but through the combination of beauty and sharp edges, generosity and calculation, good hearts protected by clever minds.
And perhaps, just perhaps, Mace Tyrell was finally ready to become the lord his house needed. Not his mother's puppet, not a political genius, but a good man who made his own choices and took responsibility for their consequences.
It wasn't glorious, but it was honest. And perhaps that was enough.