Lord Roboute Tyrell

- Highgarden - 

The parchment crackled in Olenna Tyrell's hands. The weight of the ink was heavy in her hands as she read the words. Fifty-eight different types of ships were captured. Tyrosh had been subdued and annexed, turned into a Tyrell colony. The Golden Company had been broken; Maelys Blackfyre had been killed in single combat by her son. No ransom had been demanded, no titles requested; he did it all with different thoughts and goals in mind. Why expect others to give you things when you could just take what you wanted?

Only one name filled every page: Roboute Tyrell, her son.

She sat alone in their solar, staring at the summary scroll sealed with the Omega. The personal accounts from Roboute's generals were neat, efficient, and brutal in their clarity, just as he had taught them, no doubt. Paxter Redwyne's letters verged on poetry, though. Roboute had told her all about those he chose to keep closest to him. Randyll Tarly's, on the other hand, read like battle hymns. Mathis Rowan had sent her a three-page treatise on flank collapse.

She had taught him well. But gods, what had she raised? Or had he raised himself? Reading this filled her mother's heart with immeasurable joy and pride. There was only one thing remaining in her mind now.

A soft knock broke her thoughts.

"Another letter, my lady," the steward said. "This one from Oldtown."

She took it with a quiet nod and opened it with her dagger. Other than what she read about her son, this one was different. Complaints, veiled in courtesy, but complaints nonetheless. The Hightowers were concerned about the "militarisation of trade," the "enclosure of open roads," and "young scribes displacing old blood."

"Haha."

Olenna laughed dryly.

"Of course they're scared," she said. 

Roboute had done the unthinkable: waged a perfect war, returned with more than he left, brought order to chaos, and gained more renown and fame than any other. And all that at his tender age. He didn't just conquer land; he transformed useless rocks into something useful.

Naturally, Olenna understood that Roboute's acquisition of an entire Free City and its transformation into a colony, as he called it, under Reach rule and protection, would undoubtedly breed jealousy and greed among the other kingdoms. However, that is not all; the other Free Cities would likely not approve of this and would surely have strong opinions about it. The only question was, what would they do and when would they decide to act. The balance of power had been disrupted, and that was something no one was interested in, starting with the Targaryens. 

Still, she was alert, but not afraid of what the future held. Right beside the letter she had received, lay another one, from Roboute himself, who told her about his plans and the things he had already set in motion. The transformation of the Reach had only just begun, and the biggest project Roboute presented to his mother had arrived. 

He called it centralisation of power. And it was ambitious. 

.

.

- King's Landing - 

There were too many victories and none of them were his, the King thought to himself. Jaehaerys stood at the window of the Tower of the Hand, fingers white around the parchment in his grip. The sunlight caught his reflection on the glass. He was thinner now, grey creeping at his temples, not from age, but anger and worry, still every inch a king. He reread the missives for the fourth time that morning. 

Fifty-eight different ship types were seized, Tyrosh annexed, Maelys the Monstrous Blackfyre was killed, the Band of Nine broken, and all without crown involvement. All without any formal request for payment or elevation. No demand, no claim... no arrogance.

Just... victories.

"He's dangerous," Jaehaerys muttered aloud.

The other kingdoms bled badly. The Westerlands lost Jason Lannister and thousands of knights. The Stormlands had sent sons that would never return. Even the Crownlands had suffered humiliating disorganisation and lost key naval vessels. His Hand had died early, and the other Kingdoms were content with coming home, at least those who could. 

The Reach?

Not only had they not bled, but they had also grown larger, wealthier, and more powerful. Their forces had multiplied. Their coffers had multiplied. Their influence... multiplied. Roboute Tyrell had even turned the very islands of the Stepstones into productive military outposts and trade lanes, all under the pretence of war. Even Braavos had signed quiet pacts with the Reach rather than protest. Myr, Volantis and Slaver's Bay were furious, and understandably so. 

Now that the war was officially over, would they move out?

Roboute had even paraded justice in front of the world, executing Alequo Adarys publicly—after holding a tribunal for the slaves and smallfolk to speak their truth. It was a disaster of unimaginable proportions. Politics was all about appearances and the image people had in others' minds. 

The Seven only knew what would come next.

Jaehaerys wanted to act. He wanted to punish the Reach, or at the very least demand gold, control, or territory. It was his war, his crown, his victory by right. He was the Targaryen, the dragon and his family deserved all of this. He hadn't even gotten their ancestral sword, Blackfyre, back from Maelys' corpse. Aerys had told him that he had been searching the battlefield, but hadn't found it. 

Jaehaerys wanted to act. And yet... he couldn't.

The Reach hadn't disobeyed, strictly speaking, so he had no legal right. Jaehaerys had signed the treaty. The King had agreed, under pressure from Tyrell's anger and the threat of Reach neutrality, to grant them:

- Five years of full tax exemption

- Five more years at reduced taxation

- The right to retain all spoils of war they could take for themselves.

Even if Jaehaerys wanted to break the agreement now, the Reach would revolt, and he would have a civil war. The other Lords and their knights and smallfolk were exhausted. The Stormlands, Westerlands, and the rest were still licking their wounds. The Westerlands were nursing resentment over Jason's death. The Martells had gained nothing while losing men and resources. The Arryns and Tullys had contributed men but not received glory. None at all. 

If he attacked the Reach now and didn't win quickly, the realm might fracture. And more than that... they knew. They all knew the Reach had emerged stronger from the war than any other kingdom.

Roboute hadn't proclaimed anything. He hadn't boasted. He hadn't asked anything. He hadn't demanded a seat on the Small Council. He had gone home, was apparently reorganising trade, building more roads, and doing what else he was doing. 

That made him terrifying. Jaehaerys exhaled and turned toward his Maester.

"Send word to the Free Cities. Volantis, Myr, Lys, especially those with grievances over Stepstone seizures."

The Maester blinked in confusion.

"Shall we offer Crown support?"

Jaehaerys shook his head.

"No. Not openly. Not yet. Let them act first. Let them challenge the Reach. I want every piece of intelligence from their war councils. If they strike, we will... consider lending them steel or coin."

"And if they don't?"

"Then we plan something more... internal."

He turned back to the window.

"I want eyes in Oldtown. I hear House Hightower is not content. I want to know why and about what. In Macragge. In Highgarden's ports and in the Citadel itself. Find me ambitious Lords. Scholars who weren't invited to teach. Angry septons. Displaced nobles. I want a ledger of every man and woman Roboute Tyrell has disfavoured. And I want it now!"

The Maester hesitated.

"My King... you risk turning one of the strongest kingdoms into an enemy."

"No," Jaehaerys said coldly. "He turned himself into a rival the moment he returned from war without paying respects and gold to the crown and to his king."

.

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- Braavos - 

The winter mists hung low across the canals, turning Braavos into a shroud of secrets. From the highest spire of the Sealord's Tower, the world looked like a map drawn in smoke. Below, the Black Pearl docked in her berth. To the west, the Titan watched the sea. And from the south, the whispers and news arrived. 

The Sealord of Braavos sipped his tea as he read through the notes and papers.

Roboute Tyrell's missive lay beside him. So did Volantis' complaint, their latest and most colourfully worded one. He chuckled to himself.

"The young lord has turned the Ninepenny Kings into nine penny corpses, and now rules over the ruins as if they were a throne." 

That was how the Myrish envoy had put it. And the Volantenes had used more ink than sense. The Sealord leaned forward, brushing aside a goblet bearing the symbol of the Iron Bank. A gift they had presented to him after ascending to the Sealord position. But what was all this anger about? 

Tyrosh had not been returned.

Alequo was dead, executed publicly by a foreigner as well. A new colonial structure had risen in its place, marked by law, order, agriculture... and the total abolition of slavery. The Sealord admired it, in a way. But, of course, the fact that a Westerosi had just arrived and taken what was supposed to be a 'free' city was reason for concern. 

"Send a raven to the Triarchs of Volantis," he told his advisor without turning. "Express concern. Vague concern."

"Yes, Sealord."

"Also inform the Red Temple that the young Tyrell boy does not worship R'hllor, but designs a future built on merit, not flame."

"Yes, Sealord."

"Then suggest the Iron Bank stop lending to Lys and Myr until they account for their debt figures this quarter. Their slavery investments are under siege anyway. No sense doubling down on failure."

The aide scribbled quickly. The Sealord finally turned, staring out toward the sea.

"He's dangerous, this Roboute Tyrell," he said. "But he's not wrong."

The aide hesitated.

"You... support him?"

"I support what lasts. Slave ships do not. I despise slavery as much as any other Braavosi. Pillared egos do not concern me. Petty treaties drawn in silk and wine do not either. This young man understands politics like few others. He has managed to take something, and no one dares to do anything about it. Not because they don't want to, but because of what it means for all others involved. Roboute Tyrell knows that this will weaken the slave trade from Slaver's Bay and Volantis. He knows we despise that, but can't do anything against them openly, since officially there is no slavery. So we would rather not attack."

The Sealord raised the Reach report again, with detailed breakdowns of productivity, free labour expansion, regional stability, and freedom for those who were willing to subdue their lifestyles to the new rules and regulations. Freedom... what a special word. It had such a large area of interpretation. 

"He fights like a conqueror," he muttered. "But governs like those of the Iron Bank. A curious man indeed."

He gave a wry smile.

"We'll watch. But we won't stop him. Not yet. He's useful after all."

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- Volantis - 

The Hall of Chains echoed with fury.

"He kept Tyrosh!" roared Maldrass Qhorin, slamming his hand against the council table.

Chains overhead rattled. The room smelled of spiced wine, damp parchment, sex, and the rising stench of a wounded empire.

"Not only did he kill Alequo Adarys," Maldrass hissed, "he installed his own vassal! A Reach colony! On Essosi soil! It was a Free City."

Silence fell over the other Triarchs. No one offered a retort.

"First, the trade lanes. Then the ships. Now the cities."

Volantis was losing ground in all areas: economic, cultural, and military. And what was worse, Braavos watched and did nothing. They pretended neutrality, but everyone knew they were pleased to see the slave economy crumble. It was an embarrassment to them and their power. 

Maldrass turned to his generals.

"We will not suffer this Reach arrogance. But we do not strike yet."

"Why not?" asked one of his younger captains. "Their outposts are still being constructed. Their holdings in the Stepstones are lightly garrisoned."

"And how long would we hold them before the Reach retaliates? Or Braavos interferes? They aren't as helpless as the reports claim."

The general fell silent. Maldrass leaned forward, eyes smouldering as he thought about the repercussions of attacking now. 

"We bring the others in. Slaver's Bay. Qarth, Lys, Myr, even Naath, if we must. Let the old powers rally. We remind the world that Essos is not a Westeris garden to be trimmed at a child's whim."

"And Braavos?"

"They will do nothing. They never do. They'll pretend to be above it all, while we do the necessary bleeding. They probably enjoy this more than anyone else. They will pay as well, in time."

He stood.

"When we strike, we will not stop until the Stepstones are clean. Until Tyrosh burns. Until Westeros learns that Essos is not theirs to rule. War if we must, but one we will win."