ARC II: THE AGE OF EXPANSION AND THE ANNIHILATION OF THE GREYJOYS
Chapter 25: The Court of Thorns in Winter
POV: Lady Olenna Tyrell (297 A.C.)
Aging brings few real advantages, but the absolute freedom to say exactly what one thinks without caring about the fragility of others is certainly the greatest of them. To be perfectly honest with myself, I never imagined I would spend my final years uttering praises to the end of the world, but the North has revealed itself to be simply magnificent. The young king has performed a monumental job since assuming power by right and innovation; in this, even a grumpy old woman like me must give credit where credit is due. My dear rose has finally become queen consort in her own right, albeit with a considerable delay that tested the limits of my already scarce patience.
Let it be perfectly clear: my irritation did not stem from the marathon of sheets itself. If I had crossed paths with a husband endowed with a physical stature as impressive and vigorous as that young wolf in my own youth, I too would have demanded an entire fortnight locked away in those bridal bed sessions. The true test for my nerves was having to endure the groans and foolishness of my silly son.
Mace spent the entire past week babbling through the granite corridors of Winterfell, whimpering that his only little girl was suffering and being tortured in the clutches of the northern monarch. A complete idiot. Where he drew the brilliant conclusion that moans of that magnitude, echoing through the stone walls with such intensity, were signs of pain or suffering, I will never know. I was forced to strike the legs of that pathetic fat man so frequently over the past seven days that my old wooden cane ended up snapping in half.
Fortunately, the King of Winter knew how to recognize the value of my silence and my physical restraint over the Lord of Highgarden, presenting me with a beautiful new tool of support. It is a splendid piece sculpted from genuine froststeel, richly adorned with active runic inscriptions that would likely be worth a man's weight in pure gold in the southern lands.
In the South, the possession of artifacts of a similar mystical caliber is a near-mythical rarity. As far as records reach, only the Old Lion of the West, Tywin Lannister, flaunted anything of an enchanted nature—a small runic dagger he received as a gift from his lioness daughter. Ordinary froststeel, on its own, is already a highly coveted alloy that falls slightly short of legendary Valyrian steel in terms of edge but carries unique thermal properties; however, truly enchanted pieces with permanent energy matrices are state secrets that the Starks never allow to cross the Neck into the common market. Since I intend to plant my roots permanently here in the North to guide Margaery's steps, the South will continue to house only a single mystical artifact. I will let Tywin amuse himself with his dagger while I enjoy my new cane to thrash the fools who cross my path.
My eldest grandson, Willas, has already proven himself mature, astute, and competent enough to take the reins of Highgarden and manage the decisions of the Reach, keeping his father's disastrous impulses thoroughly in check. My final years will be much better spent on this granite soil, ensuring that our lineage flourishes at the apex of the royal hierarchy.
The rest of our aristocratic retinue has already begun the long return journey to the warm lands of the South. Only my eldest grandson, the middle one, my son Mace, and his wife Alerie took the road back. Loras and his inseparable companion, Prince Renly Baratheon, resolved to considerably prolong their stay in the accommodations of Winterfell. A flagrantly irresponsible choice on Renly's part, considering the lad theoretically still holds the official position of Master of Laws on the Small Council in King's Landing. Robert Baratheon truly governs a realm surrounded by the blind and the idle.
The people of the North are exactly as I had projected in my studies: rustic creatures who look upon any foreigner with an almost palpable suspicion. They lack the hypocritical elegance and social varnish of the South, where a noble smiles warmly at you at a banquet while studying the best angle to drive a dagger into your back. Here, the dynamic is of a brutal honesty that almost pleases me. If the northerners do not like your presence or distrust your intentions, they are capable of spending the entire day glaring at you from afar with narrowed eyes, looking for the slightest slip in etiquette just to have the pleasure of speaking ill of you openly to anyone who will listen.
Upon entering my granddaughter's private chambers for our morning conversation, I came across a scene that exuded the new atmosphere of power in that court. Margaery was surrounded by a group of men and women wearing exotic garb that bore a unsettling resemblance to the robes of the maesters of the Citadel, yet entirely dyed a deep black and covered in glowing runic inscriptions scattered across the fabric and heavy hoods. One of them gesticulava over the pages of an immense tome, detailing what appeared to be an advanced catalog of ancestral runes. After all, what kind of Queen of the North would she be if she did not carry the marks of the kingdom engraved upon her very flesh?
Further back in the chamber, Arawyn himself supervised the preparations for the carving session alongside an enigmatic woman. From the murmurs I gathered among the servants, she holds the supreme leadership of this order of castle runeforgers. Her garments were notably distinct from those of her subordinates; she wore a fitted dark blue dress that accentuated each of her generous curves, contrasting bizarrely with a carved wooden mask that entirely covered her head and face, leaving not a single lock of hair to escape. Yet another silent, enigmatic piece on this board that will require my constant vigilance.
Witnessing the process of runological inscription on the skin is a fascinating experience. Quite different from the absurd legends that circulate through the taverns of King's Landing, the marks are not scars from branding irons, but are drawn onto the flesh with a special alchemical ink of ultra-secret composition. The nobles usually integrate the matrices of power into intricate, highly complex artistic and aesthetic designs—an aristocratic extravagance that demands time and patience, something the common servants and peasants cannot afford to waste, given that the castle maids display only minimalist, direct functional marks.
My granddaughter, as was to be expected from her upbringing, chose a pattern that evokes her origins, replete with intertwining vines and stylized flower buds. However, I have the full conviction that the aesthetic choice dialogues much more with the mystical symbology of her new white stone throne than with any real nostalgia for Highgarden. What genuinely surprised me was the fact that Margaery's body accepted the runic fixation without rejection. The Tyrells have always taken pride in their purely Andal lineage, but it seems that no matter how much our region has knelt before the Faith of the Seven for centuries, the ancestral blood of the First Men still runs thin, yet undeniable, through the veins of the Reach.
After the completion of the decorative markings, I watched the king begin the practical instructions on how to channel vital energy to activate the matrices. I decided to step out of the room to grant them a semblance of privacy. Not that they were truly isolated; alongside the king and queen, both his assistant, Ros, and his apprentice, Sansa, were present in the chamber. Sansa—the eldest daughter of Ned Stark and Cersei Lannister—is arguably the most coveted and feared young maiden in Westeros today. Any great southern lord would sacrifice half his wealth to secure such an heir for his sons, but the truth is that she is the only one of her generation capable of manipulating pure elemental abilities—a raw power that makes the old maesters of the Citadel tremble in their wheelchairs.
Recalling this terrifying demonstration of force made me reflect on my journey to the North. I made a point of ordering our fleet to sail close to the coast of Pyke so that I could assess the situation with my own eyes. Seeing the great fortress of the Greyjoys and the entirety of the island still completely trapped in a block of eternal, indestructible ice, even after so many years since the campaign of annihilation, is an absolutely terrifying sight. Fortunately for the survivors of those rocks, the new Lord of the Iron Islands possesses more neurons than his predecessors and prefers to focus his efforts on diplomacy and runic trade routes rather than stupid plundering against the continent.
In the afternoon, I was formally summoned to my first official council session—the other great reason why I decided to plant my feet in this frozen wilderness. The King of Winter may carry alarming character flaws and a carnal insatiability that borders on the absurd, but he is far from a foolish ruler. In the South, with all its gender restrictions and idiotic religious dogmas of the Faith, a woman of my age and intellect would never have a seat at a table of sovereign decisions. Here, however, logic and pragmatism dictate the rules. Knowing that I will be able to use my accumulated wisdom to guide the gears of the most powerful empire in the known world brings a strange warmth to my chest, and I confess it irritates me a little to realize how much this belated recognition feeds my own pride.
Upon entering the great chamber, I came across a massive round table of dark oak. Arawyn's governing structure operates under a logic far more efficient than that of King's Landing, dividing the members into Special Councilors—who function similarly to the southern Small Council, focused on technical and specific portfolios—and General Councilors, responsible for macro-governance, territorial diplomacy, and large-scale deliberations.
I took my place and began to analyze the pieces arranged around the wood. Lord Helman Tallhart, the Minister of Agriculture, remained deeply absorbed in his reports. His lands concentrate the heart of the realm's agricultural production. From what I understood of the commercial discussions, the Night's Watch displayed a typically northern stubbornness before accepting to return the lands of the Gift to the direct control of the crown. Arawyn bypassed the impasse through an aggressive agreement with the Lord Commander of the Wall, and today the empire boasts colossal plantations that blend runic fertilization across the lands of the Tallharts, the surroundings of Winterfell, and the reclaimed expanses of the Gift, where agricultural efforts are most heavily concentrated.
Lord Howland Reed, whom they call the Minister of Secrets, sat quietly and almost invisibly at the opposite end. I discovered that his mysterious house in the swamps of the Neck is the cradle from which emanates most of the active wargs and green seers of the realm, making him the perfect tool to coordinate the imperial network of information gathering and espionage.
Lord Eddard Stark, the Minister of War, and Sor William were also present. The Silent Wolf already occupied his rightful post, greeting me with a sober nod of his head before returning to his dialogue with Sor William the Just. The man is revered in the South as the pinnacle of knightly conduct, an amusing paradox considering the fellow was never even anointed as a true knight by the Faith of the Seven, nor does he make any effort to claim that he is.
Lord Wyman Manderly, as was to be expected, was the obvious Minister of the Navy and head of House Manderly, filling a generous portion of the room's space with his usual opulence and muffled chuckles.
Among the three General Councilors arranged at the table, the presence of Maester Luwin proved to be the greatest surprise to me. Although the king did not promote an open massacre against the order of the so-called "grey rats" immediately after his ascension to absolute power, he conducted a surgical, legalistic, and implacable hunt against the institution. Many maesters were banished from the fortresses or simply lost their heads after having their crimes and secret conspiracies exposed. After all, it is of no use to burn parchments and erase historical tracks when your sovereign possesses the transcendental ability to look into the past from any angle he desires.
Finding a survivor of the Citadel filling a chair on that council was something I definitely did not expect to witness. Completing the general trio were the formidable Maege Mormont, the Great She-Bear dressed in military uniform attire, and the silent, calculating, and frankly weird Roose Bolton, the Lord of the Dreadfort.
The final touch of eccentricity came from the council's cupbearer, as the men of this realm seem to be driven purely by wine and fortified mead during debates. The one in charge of pouring the cups was the young Domeric Bolton. If I did not know the local lineages inside out, I would never believe that the lad shares the same blood as Roose; the youth looked as though he had been ripped directly from the illustrated pages of a southern romance of chivalry, overflowing with a courtesy and a refined posture that contrasted bizarrely with the sinister and cold aura of his progenitor.
After a few minutes of anticipation, the heavy doors of the chamber opened for the entry of the king, accompanied by his radiant queen, his sharp-eyed assistant Ros, and his apprentice Sansa. The meeting began immediately. Arawyn introduced my name and my new function to the other lords at the table—a purely formal act, given that everyone there knew perfectly well who I was and what I represented—and immediately directed the agenda to the events unfolding Beyond the Wall. According to the initial reports presented by the monarch, the activities of the wildlings and even darker forces had escalated to a critical breaking point, requiring the direct military and runic intervention of the monarch himself in the very near future.
As the technical discussion and supply reports advanced through the following hours, I turned my eyes for a moment to Margaery, sitting with extreme haughtiness and security beside the Winter Throne. Seeing the glow of power, authority, and genuine contentment in my granddaughter's eyes, I felt a rare satisfaction invade my aging chest. Every backroom intrigue, every dynastic sacrifice, and every political move I had meticulously planned over decades had finally found its ultimate coronation under the gray sky of the North.