ASOIAF : Creed

Highgarden bloomed like a perfumed lie in the summer air. Too sweet. Too clean. Olenna Tyrell sat in the shade of a carved marble colonnade, a cup of chilled Arbor Gold at her elbow, and watched the gardeners meticulously prune a rose bush. They were trimming it not for health, but for shape, forcing the wild, living thing into a perfect, pleasing sphere. It was Highgarden in miniature. Nothing that pretty, she had long ago decided, had ever ruled a kingdom.

The air was thick with the scent of a thousand different flowers, a deliberate and overwhelming display of wealth. But through her long life, Olenna had learned to smell the rot beneath the roses. She saw it in the knights of the Reach, who spent more on the enamel of their armor than on the steel beneath it. She saw it in the merchants of Oldtown, who spoke of honor while counting their gold. And she saw it, most of all, in the letters that now sat on the small table beside her.

The first was from the Master of Coin in King's Landing, a man whose name she could never be bothered to remember. It was a masterpiece of groveling prose, full of flattery about the bounty of the Reach and the unwavering loyalty of House Tyrell, all of it a perfumed wrapping around a hard, ugly truth: the Crown's debt to them had grown to a staggering, almost insulting, sum. Robert Baratheon was drinking and whoring his way through her family's coffers, and his Lannister queen was spending the rest.

The second letter was different. It was a small, unsigned note, delivered by a merchant captain who owed her a favor. It had come from Pentos. The script was elegant, the message cryptic. The last dragons wander, but new wolves learn to swim. The sea grows crowded. It was from the spider, Varys. It was a piece of information being sold, a hint that new players were entering the game. Wolves that swim. A strange turn of phrase.

"Mother!"

Olenna sighed, the sound a quiet rustle of silk. The oaf had arrived. Her son, Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South, strode towards her, his chest puffed out like a pouting pigeon. He was a handsome man, she supposed, in a florid, overfed way, but all the strategic cunning in their bloodline seemed to have skipped a generation.

"I have had a marvelous idea," he boomed, settling into the chair opposite her. "A tourney! The grandest the Reach has ever seen. To celebrate the King's long reign. We will invite all the great houses. It will be a show of strength, a reminder that Highgarden is the true heart of chivalry in the Seven Kingdoms."

Olenna took a slow, deliberate sip of her wine. "And who will pay for this marvelous display of your ego, Mace? The King? I assure you, his credit is worthless. Or will you be using the gold we are not receiving from the Crown to fund a party for the very people who refuse to pay us?"

Mace's face fell. "It is a matter of pride, mother. Of showing our power."

"Power is not a tourney, you fool," she said, her voice sharp as a thorn. "Power is a granary full of wheat when your enemies are starving. Power is a vault full of gold when a king comes begging. We have the first. The second is being steadily drained by the drunken stag you wish to entertain." She tapped the letter from the Master of Coin. "This is a letter of weakness, Mace. Robert's. And the Lannisters'. They are overextended, arrogant, and broke. That is where true power lies—in the weaknesses of your rivals."

"Then what are we to do?" he asked, his bluster deflating.

"For now, you will do nothing," she said. "You will continue to be the loyal, slightly dim-witted Lord of Highgarden. You are a useful shield. No one suspects a man who thinks a tourney is a strategy." She waved a dismissive hand. "Go. See to your hawks. I have matters to attend to."

Mace, looking both wounded and relieved, lumbered away. Olenna watched him go, a familiar weariness settling over her. She was the power, he was the puffed-up distraction. It was a tiresome, but effective, arrangement.

A few moments later, a different figure approached, moving with a quiet, confident grace. It was her bastard niece, Elinor Flowers, a sharp, intelligent girl with the dark eyes of the Fossoways and the cunning of a Tyrell. Olenna had taken her in years ago, recognizing a mind that could be honed into a weapon.

"Grandmother," Elinor said, her voice a low murmur as she sat.

"The letters," Olenna said, gesturing to the table.

Elinor picked up the note from Pentos. "Wolves that swim," she mused. "The Starks are not a seafaring house. And the last dragons are a beggar king and his little sister. What could it mean?"

"It means the spider is nervous," Olenna said. "It means there are new pieces on the board they do not yet control. And what of your own little bees in the capital?"

Elinor's face was grim. "They sing a disturbing song. They say Jon Arryn has grown obsessed with the royal children. He spends his days reading the book of lineages and his nights asking questions about the king's bastards."

Olenna felt a flicker of interest. "And?"

"And he has noticed what the rest of the court is too afraid to say aloud," Elinor said, her voice barely a whisper. "All of Robert's bastards have his black hair. All of Cersei's children are golden-haired Lannisters."

Olenna was silent for a long moment, the implications of that simple fact settling over her. She had always suspected. The Lannister pride was a thing of legend. It was entirely plausible that Cersei would not allow her bed to be sullied by a Baratheon, even a royal one.

"So," Olenna said, a slow, predatory smile touching her lips. "The lioness has been breeding with her brother. How very Targaryen of her. And how very... useful."

"If Arryn proves it, it will mean war," Elinor said.

"It will mean opportunity," Olenna corrected her. She looked out at the gardens, at the beautiful, fragile roses. For years, she had been content to let them grow, to be the richest and most powerful house in the Seven Kingdoms. But wealth without a crown was just a prize for a stronger man to take. Robert was weak. His heirs were illegitimate. The time for quiet, patient gardening was over.

Her gaze drifted to the far side of the gardens, where her granddaughter, Margaery, was walking with her ladies-in-waiting. She was beautiful, yes, but more than that, she was intelligent, charming, and utterly beloved by the smallfolk. She was not just a girl. She was the most powerful weapon in their arsenal.

"Elinor," Olenna said, her voice a soft, dangerous purr. "Send a message to our friends in the Faith. Have them remind the High Septon of the Crown's… moral failings. And send another to the Iron Bank. A quiet inquiry. Let them know that House Tyrell is always interested in a stable and reliable investment."

She watched Margaery laugh, the sound like silver bells. She was not thinking of a marriage. She was thinking of a crown. The lions and the stags could tear each other apart. The wolves could learn to swim, and the dragons could wander. It did not matter. A Tyrell rose would still grow.