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Chapter Text

“Tell Cersei, I want her to know it was me…”

Jaime Lannister’s golden features twisted in anguish, but Lady Olenna Tyrell’s lips split wider as darkness encroached her vision.

The Stranger beckoned, fingers twisting seductively... and throwing back her shoulders, Olenna followed.

Throughout her years, Olenna Tyrell had ample time to contemplate the inevitable confrontation with her own mortality.

This… was not what she had imagined.

Her eyes fluttered open, greeted by nauseatingly pretty sunlight filtering through rose-patterned curtains. A wave of confusion washed over her, for this was not the world of the dead... she was clearly amidst the opulent splendor of Highgarden. Tapestries adorned with golden thread hung from the walls, and the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers wafted through the air.

Yet mere moments ago, she distinctly remembered being seated in a chair… the Lannister spawn putting liquid death into a goblet of red wine. She even recalled drinking it down to the last drop.

With a furrowed brow, Olenna raised a hand to her throbbing temples, heart stuttering when she noticed that her fingers were not those of an elderly woman, but smooth and dainty, albeit haphazardly bitten—a trait she had made certain to be rid of decades ago. 

Sheer panic surged through her veins, spots dancing across her vision from how quickly she sat up. Had her recent tribulations and loss finally driven her mad? Unlikely… But by all rights she should be with the Stranger now, and yet here she was—breathing, alive.

Olenna's heart raced as she tumbled out of bed in her urgency to reach the nearest looking glass. When her eyes met her reflection, she was met with a startling sight—her own face, yet transformed. Smooth, unlined skin replaced the weathered wrinkles she had grown accustomed to, and reddish-brown locks cascaded over vibrant, youthful eyes.

Amidst this bewildering revelation, the door creaked open and a maid entered the room. Her eyes widened in alarm as she beheld Olenna's frantic expression.

"Milady Lena, is everything alright?"

Olenna's patience, already worn thin by the unsettling turn of events, snapped like a frayed thread. "Where in the Seven hells am I?"

The maid barely flinched at Olenna's outburst, responding in a surprisingly sympathetic tone. "I did warn you against drinking so much last night, Milady. But I suppose it's understandable... seeing your former betrothed again..."

“What? My who–”

Olenna cut herself off, confusion only deepening as she watched the maid busying herself with two gowns—one in Redwyne purple, sleeves and collar high. The other was a deep blood red with elegant cuts on the side, and a neckline fit for a harlot.

"Milady, you'll be late for the feast if we don’t get you ready now."

She pushed Olenna down by the shoulders, painfully beginning to drag a comb through her knots and curls. As the girl continued to fuss over her appearance, horror slowly washed over Olenna like a cold wave. Her mind racing with a disconcerting realization—that this was not a dream… In the looking glass, it wasn't just her reflection—she had actually traveled back in time, thrust into the past with no warning or explanation.

But she was no longer the seasoned matriarch of House Tyrell. She remembered this young woman reflected back at her... far too much pride, and even more vanity, burdened with the childish weight of a shattered betrothal.

Oh dear... she was Olenna Redwyne once again.

Chapter Text

Year 250 After the Conquest, AC.

Olenna could hardly believe it.

Her gaze swept across the bustling feast hall, thoughts swirling as she observed her family members—alive and well, yet seemingly oblivious to the tumultuous future that lay ahead. There was her mother, predictably fussing over her brother, the family favorite. Her father stood at the other end of the hall, engaged in conversation with a thick-browed Baratheon bannerman. Her sister Viola was lingering in the shadows, her eyes drawn ever so often to a certain Tyrell standing nearby—the very man Olenna intended to seduce in a few years to come.

With a sharp movement, Olenna emptied her cup down her lips. “You there, am I meant to wait all day? Get over here and fill this up.” 

A boy no older than ten walked over, warily observing her white-knuckled grip as he filled her goblet to the brim. Not her brightest decision, but the mead was dulling the ache of uncertainty gnawing at her insides.

She tried to ignore the twinge of emotion coiling in her belly as she watched her sister's silent longing. How had she failed to notice Viola's feelings the first time around? Deep down, she couldn't shake the thought that perhaps Luthor would have been happier with her sister… what was she thinking, of course he would have been happier with Viola. Olenna’s marriage to him had been one born of convenience, for petty revenge rather than love.

Not that it mattered, she could not possibly think of sacrificing her own ambitions now, that would mean unraveling the carefully woven tapestry of fate. Olenna would not risk the lives and happiness of her descendants—Mace, Mina, Janna... Loras and Margaery, and all the others who had yet to be born.

But... what of the terrible fate that awaited them?

Suppose even with all her knowledge and prescience, Olenna was not able to change anything. She had been the last stubborn weed left standing in a field of withered roses. Olenna knew she would not bear to go through that all over again…

“More wine, my lady?” The boy was back, apparently sharp enough to notice whatever inner struggle she was going through. 

She hummed, a hollow sense of resignation settling over her. Perhaps it was already too late—after all, she had rather thoughtlessly altered the course of events already. Last time, Olenna had chosen to wear the scarlet dress, fluttering about like a foolish filly around the people surrounding her former betrothed. Today, she had opted for regal purple, positioning herself strategically at the farthest corner of the hall from Daeron Targaryen.

Perhaps a mere dress was inconsequential in the grand scheme of events yet to unfold, but what did Olenna know...

A chair dragged across the floor and someone took the seat beside her with a tinkle of chain. Olenna's attention snapped to the source of the noise, but she turned away just as quickly, barely managing to hide her distasteful expression. 

“Seven hells…”

A much younger Maester Pycelle raised his dark eyebrows, shooting her a disapproving glance. “What was that, young lady?”

“I said I cannot stand the smells, of this place.” Olenna amended, forcing her lips upwards into a smile. “Seven blessings, Maester Pycelle.”

Interesting... this conversation had definitely not transpired the last time.

“True enough, it does smell quite awful here…” The young Maester began to lament on the ostentatious nature of Highgarden, even as Olenna saw his greedy eyes rake over the silverware and jeweled goblets on the table. Olenna only grunted in vague agreement every time there was silence, keeping her attention fixed on the bustling crowd. She feared that if her focus slipped, she might give in to the impulse of springing from her chair and wringing the man's neck.

After Pycelle had enumerated a litany of wrongdoings attributed to House Tyrell, he shifted his focus to Olenna, his brow furrowing in disapproval when she refrained from participating in the condemnation.

"You are awfully silent tonight, Lady Redwyne." He remarked.

“I can hardly be expected to engage in this conversation without implicating myself Maester Pycelle, if you recall my sister is to be married to the heir of Highgarden.” Olenna was rather proud she had managed the entire sentence without baring her teeth.

Pycelle's fingers danced lightly over the finely crafted platters, laden with an array of cheeses and fruits. When he glanced back at her, his gaze held a hint of slyness that had not been there before.

"How delightful to see the enduring strength of your sisterly bonds, my lady." Pycelle remarked, his tone dripping with false politeness. His gaze ventured to the extreme opposite side of the hall where there was a distinct flash of platinum hair. “It has been quite a few years since your own betrothal was regrettably broken, has it not? Yet, forgive me if I am mistaken, I have not heard of any new offers made."

Olenna's grip tightened on the side of her chair, her jaw clenched with tension. "Just because my family has not accepted offers does not mean that none were made." She retorted sharply.

Pycelle smiled. "Ah, my apologies, my lady. Just that, you are already twenty–”

"I am ten-and-six." Olenna corrected him sharply.

"Is that so?" Pycelle's eyes lingered over her in a way that made Olenna suppress a shudder. "Forgive my oversight. Time seems to pass so quickly for us Maesters, constantly with our noses in the folds of books… But you are of age, and a woman grown, are you not?"

Olenna shot him a steely glare. 

"You have bled, have you not?" He pressed.

It took all of Olenna’s willpower to maintain her composure. "That does not change my age."

Pycelle dug in his filthy claws. “Indeed, my lady. However—and here you may allow me to offer my scholarly perspective—it is commonly understood that a woman's physical peak occurs around-" 

There was a gentle clink as her cup was knocked over, contents spilling over the table and making Pycelle jolt with an alarming squeal. The young cupbearer murmured an apology, replacing the goblet and filling it once again. Olenna could not be happier, using the distraction to quickly collect herself before adopting an air of indifference.

“Perhaps the Maester might offer my father some suggestions for suitable matches.” Olenna said coolly. “Though I rather doubt he would heed your counsel—given your station, however noble your intentions may be.”

Pycelle's smile vanished, replaced by a scowl directed at both Olenna and the young lad, though he curiously refrained from issuing the latter any reprimand. But this seemed to do little to deter his enthusiasm for indulging in idle gossip.

“Of course, it is no secret that seeking another match for you is the best course of action." Pycelle continued, his tone dripping with false concern. "The Starks or Baratheons have no lack of bold, capable men–"

Olenna scoffed at the notion before she could stop herself. “Brash and loud. Forgive me Master Pycelle, I believe my father would prefer if I were given to a man was capable of earning respect, not one who simply boasts about it by swinging his sword in the air." She retorted, her gaze shifting pointedly towards a dark-haired youth standing right next to Daeron Targaryen. “Besides, I have a fondness for the open sea. Perhaps I should express to my father a desire to marry Lewyn Martell."

It was a bold declaration that garnered yet another raised eyebrow from the Maester and elicited incredulous looks from nearby guests who overheard.

“He is Kingsguard, my lady, surely you are aware of his vows—”

"A shame." Olenna interjected dryly, she recalled Pycelle's disdain for those who had 'deviant afflictions' as he called it, her own grandson had been among those condemned. Lowering her voice, she leaned in slightly closer to the Maester. "I hear his sister, the princess-to-be, is just as captivating as he is."

Pycelle's eyes grew comically wide as he sputtered in shock, and Olenna concealed her amusement behind her cup. 

“I jest Maester, forgive me, I have had far more to drink than I am allowed.” 

Pycelle coughed, clearly flustered, before gathering himself. “Yes, well... I do hope that whomever you Lord Redwyne chooses for you, has the fortitude to endure such jests. There are many great men in the realm—but few so tolerant.”

There was a flutter of red, and Olenna’s eyes alighted on the bright cloak embroidered with a golden lion as Tytos Lannister passed by.

"I am sure they are many great men... just as long as I do not suffer a Lannister." She muttered the latter part under her breath, her thoughts drifting to Cersei and the deep-seated hatred she harbored.

The cupbearer beside her jerked at the mention of the Lannisters, prompting Olenna to turn her attention back to him.

"Stop fidgeting." She chided him sharply, although her tone was tinged with amusement. "Take a seat beside me, or leave the jug—I'll manage just fine on my own."

She turned back to Pycelle, just a heartbeat too late to catch the glint that flashed in his eye.

“But my lady.” He said, voice syrupy with false courtesy, “You have often spoken of your fondness for the sea. Given that, one wonders—why such aversion to House Lannister? Their lands lie squarely on the western coast.”

Before Olenna could reply, Pycelle leaned past her with an exaggerated air of concern, addressing the nearby cupbearer.

“I am certain she meant no offense, young Master Lannister.” He said with a patronizing smile. “Best not to dwell on such matters."

Olenna froze, the contents of her stomach lurching painfully.

"I take no offense, Maester Pycelle." The young lad responded graciously enough, but as Olenna turned to face him, she could detect a twinge of annoyance sitting in the furrow of his brow. “My lady is entitled to her… opinion.”

The realization struck her like a thunderbolt—those eyes, forest green with flecks of gold, were unmistakable. How had she not noticed before… she had seen them just before her demise, reflected in the angry gaze of the son he would one day have.

Ah... so this was how she met Tywin Lannister, this time around.

Chapter Text

This had not happened before. 

Olenna could still vividly recall her first ever meeting with Tywin Lannister. The man had been on the cusp of his twentieth year… and he had just orchestrated the massacre of two prominent houses, the Tarbecks and the Reynes, until none bearing those names remained.

His then-close friend, Prince Aerys, had thrown a grand banquet in this honor. As if such atrocities were cause for celebration—perhaps madness had already begun to taint Aerys then... Still, even Olenna could not deny that Tywin Lannister had accomplished in a few short months what his own father had failed to achieve for so many years; restoring glory and pride to the name Lannister.

Her encounter with the young lion had been brief, amidst the mingling Houses at that very banquet. Tywin had cut a formidable figure... tall and lean, with somewhat angry eyes. Olenna, heavily pregnant with her second child and preoccupied with Luthor's insatiable feasting, could still recall Tywin's smirk, his clipped greeting of 'my lady' before Aerys whisked him away to attend to other, more influential allies. At the time, Olenna had not paid much heed, mindful of the capricious nature of men's fortunes... But how wrong she had been. 

Just a year later, Aerys II Targaryen ascended to the throne, and his closest confidant Tywin had been appointed the youngest Hand of the King in history. The Golden Boy. The Great Lion…

Now, but a mere cub. Perhaps she should kill him while she had the chance—

Olenna hissed, her head was pounding with the dull ache that had plagued her since waking into this strange new life. Rubbing her temples, she wandered aimlessly until she found herself at a seemingly random corner of the labyrinthine rose gardens. There, much to her chagrin, stood bonny Prince Daeron Targaryen with a male squire.

In the past, Olenna would probably have turned tail and left with her nose in the air… but now she paused in her tracks, her eyes narrowing slightly as she observed the two figures before her. Something about this scene felt awfully familiar…

Daeron had reached out to grasp the squire's wrist, but the young man was trying to pull away. Yet Daeron persisted, murmuring soothing words as he gently brought the other's fingers to brush against his lips.

Ah… these young fools.

Olenna’s mind flashed back to the day she had come across her grandson Loras in a distinctly less innocent predicament somewhere in these very gardens. 

She quickly cleared her throat, and both men turned towards the sound, twin flushes of embarrassment coloring both their cheeks as they hastily let each other go. But Olenna only had eyes for her formerly betrothed.

She could not see his lavender eyes, for he was clearly avoiding her gaze, perhaps ashamed at being discovered under such circumstances by the girl he had spurned. 

He need not have worried, Olenna found her pride both stung and salved in equal measure. Wounded that her wits had failed to discern the Targaryen prince’s true nature in her previous life— but there was solace too, in finally understanding his decision behind breaking off their betrothal.

It was the other boy who finally broke the tense silence, his voice tinged with uncertainty. 

"My Lady Redwyne, I trust you are having a pleasant evening?" He was a handsome lad, Olenna was quick to notice a small Highgarden rose, in the color of Daeron’s eyes pinned above his breast.

“Jeremy…” Daeron interjected warningly.

"Forgive my intrusion, sers. I shall leave you both to your conversation." With a graceful curtsey, Olenna turned on her heel making her retreat. 

Daeron exhaled as Olenna backed away, swiftly turning back to the young squire and diving straight back into their conversation. Unfortunately, Olenna caught the tail end of their discussion.

"...too callous, just because they’re calling themselves rat, hawk, and pig…" 

Olenna froze, chills erupting over her skin as she swiveled around. She knew of this—The Rat, the Hawk, and the Pig, silly monikers picked up by some rebels for a bloody skirmish to come. During a ball many years ago, men with these same names had harassed one Aelora Targaryen, leading to her tragic demise… Daeron had taken it as a personal insult on his family and while he had succeeded in crushing the rebellion, it had also claimed his life.

And by the sounds of things... this event was to happen soon.

“You–” Olenna smacked her hand over her mouth, but the harm was done. The boys turned to her again.

"Yes, my lady?" Daeron's brow furrowed in impatience, his handsome features contorting slightly. "Are you in need of an escort to your chambers?"

Olenna's grip tightened on her skirts. "Apologies, my lord, you were discussing a battle, I could not help but overhear. Such matters intrigue me, given that I cannot ever witness them firsthand."

"Such conversations are not fitting for innocent ears." Daeron remarked with a hint of reproach. "I did not expect violence to hold appeal for delicate maidens."

"And I did not expect a mere rebel skirmish to garner the attention of a prince." Olenna retorted evenly.

A beat of silence followed. Olenna realised she may have been a bit too bold, too cutting for a girl of merely ten-and-six… especially when addressing a Targaryen. The squire, Jeremy, was shifting from one foot to the other, head swiveling between them as though looking at riders at a tourney.

Daeron's expression hardened, his eyes flashing. "This is a matter of honor, Lady Redwyne. I do not expect you to understand."

"Your devotion to your kin is admirable, Lord Daeron, but seeking vengeance will not bring back your aunt." Olenna found herself arguing.

Daeron stiffened. "How did you hear… how do you know–"

"Maesters in the Arbor are well-versed in history, my lord." Olenna replied smoothly, before urging. "What happened to your aunt was undeniably tragic, but it happened many decades ago. Most likely these miscreants adopted the names from hearsay in taverns, trying to incite your family's wrath... and they appear to be succeeding."

Daeron’s expression grew darker. “I have indulged your gossip long enough, Lady Redwyne. Do not overstep your bounds.”

"Don't speak to her like that…” Jeremy interjected, his brows knit in concern as he shot back glances at Olenna. "She speaks sense. We ought to approach this situation cautiously, not recklessly charge into it."

The prince’s expression now grew thunderous, his gaze flickered between them. “Well this is certainly an unlikely alliance… For both your sakes, I will pretend this insolence is an effect of tonight's revelries."

“But, my prince–”

Daeron raised a hand and silence fell. “I will not stand idly by while those who dishonored my kin live on. Even if they are not the culprits, in choosing those names they choose to insult the honor of House Targaryen..… and mark my words, I will not let this go unanswered."

Daeron swept past them, and by the time Olenna had risen from her curtsy, he was gone. 

She looked up just in time to catch the squire hastily wiping his eyes. Though he tried to conceal it, the redness in his gaze betrayed his emotions and she saw reflected in him the look of a man terrified of the future, of losing his loved one—and Olenna found she could empathize.

It was a sight she had grown far too accustomed to in her past.

Year 251 After the Conquest, AC. (one year later)

Olenna stood on the shores of Ryamsport, her toes sinking into the soft sand as the early morning sun painted the horizon with hues of red and gold.

In the months following her return to the Arbor, Olenna had thought long and hard about what had transpired at Highgarden. She concluded that it had been stupid of her to intervene that night, knowing what she did. 

What had she hoped to achieve—that Daeron Targaryen would survive the impending battle? 

By Olenna’s count the skirmish should have already taken place, though no news of Daeron’s demise had reached the Arbor yet. News had always been slow in arriving to their little corner of the world, granting a temporary bliss from the harsh realities.

Perhaps this would serve as a lesson, that history would not change, that her knowledge and foresight amounted to nothing in the face of fate's cruel hand.

Olenna tutted to herself again, it had been so unlike her, to act on impulse. Perhaps the youthful vigor of her current form was also dulling her intellect…

After lingering under the young sun a while longer, Olenna eventually made her way back to the castle. She was expecting to be greeted by the familiar bustle of servants waking the hearth, the smells of honey cakes and meat pies, hoping to steal a few slices of the giant peaches Arbor was famed for… but it was her sister Viola who intercepted her, voice brimming with excitement as she urged Olenna to join their father at once.

They made her way to the great hall where Lord Runceford Redwyne awaited. His countenance, usually stern and imposing, softened at the sight of his daughters. 

"Olenna..." Lord Redwyne's voice trailed off as his gaze fell upon the waterlogged hem of her dress tracking sand onto the pristine floors. "Where have you been?"

"By the shores." Olenna replied breezily. "To clear my mind."

Lord Redwyne regarded her with a knowing look before sighing heavily. "Aye, the shores have a way of doing that." He admitted, his gaze drifting to the window, lost in thought.

Olenna exchanged a quick grin with her sister, who was busy pouring them fermented milk and cutting pieces of honey cake. She had always suspected their father knew of what his daugters got up to. Olenna and her sister could hardly be the first girls guilty of sneaking down to the shores of Ryamsport, swimming naked and getting drunk with sailors at Starfish Harbor… 

Breaking the momentary silence, Runceford reached into the folds of his tunic and withdrew a parchment, its edges worn from handling. "We have received a summons from King's Landing." He announced, his voice grave.

Olenna's heart quickened, yet she inquired with a calm countenance. "Only a summons, no other message conveyed?"

Lord Redwyne raised an eyebrow. “Should we be expecting one?”

“I suppose not.” Olenna muttered, brow furrowing. “When do you depart, father?"

"The summons is for you, daughter." He revealed, watching his daughter carefully. "Only you. I shall accompany you, of course, but... this is certainly a curious happenstance, is it not Lena?"

His words trailed off as Olenna's mind raced. "From whom is it, father?" She pressed.

With a heavy sigh, Lord Redwyne handed her the parchment, which she quickly perused. 

But there was no signature, ending only with a three-headed dragon, stamped and sealed in crimson.

Later in the quiet confines of their chambers, Olenna and Viola observed the maids gathering Olenna's belongings for the journey. Viola's eyes sparkled with excitement as she ventured into speculation.

"Perhaps you'll become a lady at court." She mused. "Or even a lady-in-waiting to one of the princesses. Maybe Princess Shaera is with child? Or Princess Rhaella requires a tutor..."

Olenna's brow furrowed as she inspected her gowns, not really paying attention to her sister. She had not received this summons in her previous life. What could this new development bleading to?

“...are you listening, sister?” Viola softly inquired.

Olenna was immediately hit with a wave of guilt. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

Viola considered her thoughtfully, gently placing a hand on her forehead. “You seem very distracted of late, Lena. Are you feeling ill? You do not feel too warm.”

Olenna shrugged off her sister's touch, feeling even more awful now. In less than a year Olenna was supposed to seduce Luthor Tyrell, and set the course of her life in motion—and break her sister's heart.

In a world devoid of kindness and compassion, Viola was a beacon of light, a rare creature of pure goodness. In their youth, Olenna had harbored a bitter envy of her sister's superior beauty. Viola's freckled but flawless complexion and vibrant tawny hair had been one of the reasons Olenna had begun to conceal her own mousy-red locks beneath a headdress. But now Olenna could see how foolish she had been, to let vanity and resentment cloud her judgment and drive a wedge between them. 

In their later years, Olenna had only gone to visit her sister once—on her deathbed. Viola had become a slight, frail thing in her final years, a shriveled raisin of a human. Olenna had sat by her bedside, bracing herself for spiteful rebukes sure to come. 

But despite all the ways Olenna had wronged her over the years, Viola had welcomed her back with open arms, devoid of any resentment or anger. It was a gesture Olenna had never expected nor deserved. 

Perhaps, Olenna mused, she had been brought back to this time to atone for her past transgressions, perhaps she could start by making amends to her sister…

"I’ll miss you.” Viola continued, picking at a thread in her gown.

“I am not going away forever Viola.” Olenna tutted.

“I meant when I leave for Highgarden, come next year. I’ll miss our adventures down by the harbor.” She smiled despite the sadness in her eyes. “Our little games with the merchant boys down at port."

Olenna too had fond memories of their clandestine visits to the port—drinking spirits, stealing kisses from young pages, singing bawdy songs with the stableboys… Their Septa would have a fit if she ever found out what they had gotten up to.

But now, Olenna frowned. “Viola, you must learn to be more discreet about that." Olenna chastised. "Such talk must not reach the light of day while you are at Highgarden."

Viola's countenance wilted under her sister's stern gaze. 

Olenna sighed, softening her tone. “Do not fret, dear sister. I shall be back before you leave. Besides, I am certain Highgarden holds a myriad of diversions, beyond floral arrangements.”

“Oh, but I adore crafting adornments out of blooms.” Viola clapped her hands together. “I fell in love with that garden, was it not just beautiful?”

Of course Viola would like it.

Olenna had grown to despise every aspect of Highgarden over time, detesting the strolls, abhorring the fragrance of flowers. But it made sense that Viola—soft and sweet Viola—would thrive amidst its beauty. Olenna had always been the sour grape between the two of them.

"You must visit often, Lena. Promise?" Viola implored. 

"I promise." Olenna replied, though the mere thought of returning to Highgarden filled Olenna with a deep ache. In her mind's eye, she could see Margaery's dimples and Loras's tousled curls. Desmera’s bright laughter, Willas’s witty nature. Garlan, Horas, Hobber… But she knew all too well that at Highgarden, she would be haunted by the specters of their memories.

There was a knock at their door, and Viola was called away by another servant to assist their mother, leaving Olenna alone with the maid tasked with packing her dresses.

"Should I pack this emerald one as well, milady?" The maid inquired as she held up the garment for Olenna's inspection. "That would make six dresses for the journey."

Olenna paused, considering her response carefully. "Just one."

The maid looked perplexed. "Milady? Surely you require more than one dress for your stay in King's Landing."

"One will suffice." Olenna reiterated firmly. Kings Landing was a snare, a lurking beast slowly dragging in unsuspecting prey that fell into its web. "It will give me reason to return to the Arbor."

Chapter Text

They took the Roseroad to King's Landing.

Olenna hastily draped a scented cloth over her nose as soon as they reached the Kingswood, and held it there all the way till they arrived at the Red Keep. Lord Runceford Redwyne descended the carriage first, exchanging a nod with a steward stationed there before assisting his daughter. Olenna stepped out after taking a final inhale through her handkerchief. She glanced briefly at the great bronze doors of the Keep—a sight she had grown far too accustomed to in the past—before turning to her father for guidance.

“I see that young Lady Redwyne is not so easily impressed.” A wispy voice remarked.

Olenna turned, only to realize that the man who had greeted them wasn’t a steward at all. 

Prince Jaehaerys. 

His silver hair and sunken face made him look older beyond his years, yet his lilac eyes gleamed as sharp as Valyrian steel. This was the man who would one day become King Jaehaerys II Targaryen, his reign tragically short, but peaceful. Olenna curtsied politely.

Jahaerys inclined his head in greeting. “How fared the journey?”

“Well enough, no bandits on our road.” Runceford replied, frowning up at the Keep. “How have the small council meetings been of late?”

Jaehaerys shrugged. "The usual—Politics and taxes, tourneys and feasts… I have urged them once more to address the Blackfyre issue, but my counsel falls on deaf ears. Even after we received word of Maelys Blackfyre's recent ascension as captain-general of the Golden Company."

Olenna’s father stiffened. “You think he is raising an army.”

“Of course he is, he has been left completely unchecked.” Jahaerys sighed. “If we were to strike now, we could extinguish this spark before it kindles into a blaze. But the king will not listen to me.”

He was not wrong, Olenna knew her history well—Maelys Blackfyre would indeed spearhead the fifth Blackfyre rebellion in a few years to come. But Olenna was left dumbfounded with the notion that the council had possessed some inkling of this impending threat… that so much violence and despair could have been prevented. So why had no one done anything?

Her father presently echoed her thoughts. “Is that why we were summoned here, will my fleet be called upon once more?” The Redwyne fleet boasted over two hundred warships, currently the mightiest in all of Westeros. If war loomed in the strait, her father’s ships would be the ones to lead the charge.

“As Master of Ships, I do have a vested interest in your vessels, Lord Runceford. But alas, no pressing need for preparations, I do not think we will be at war so soon after this last one.” Jahaerys’s eyes swept curiously over Olenna again. "And I was not the one who summoned you here."

“May I ask who we should thank for this gracious invitation, my lord?” Runceford inquired.

“My page will escort the lady up to our stormcloud’s quarters.” Jahaerys offered a wane smile, gesturing over his shoulder and his young page nodded and scurried over. "I must wish you good luck my lady, for he has been in a grievous temperament... be gentle. In the meantime, I have urgent matters to discuss with your father. If you will, Lord Runceford..." 

He led Olenna’s father away with a remarkably steady hand, and Lord Runceford managed only a quick, sharp nod in her direction before disappearing from view. Olenna stood rooted to the spot, a tinge of mild panic coursing through her as she found herself unexpectedly alone until...

“My lady, if you would be so kind as to follow me.” The pageboy dropped into a low bow. His red tunic embroidered with a fine gold lion was unmistakable.

Olenna cursed the Seven, the Old Gods, the Lord of Light, the Children of the Forest, and all the weirwood trees across the continent.

“We meet again, little Lannister.” She greeted, curbing the desire to flick his golden head.

The boy rose, eyes widening briefly before he regained his composure. “A pleasure, my lady.”

He looked taller than the last time already, and grumpier too. Olenna felt a mad urge to pinch the little Lion’s cheeks—for when else would she get a chance like this again? But she reigned in some control and did not act on her errant thoughts.

“Right this way.” Tywin’s hand shot out with meticulous precision, waving Olenna towards the courtyard and up the serpentine steps of the Keep. 

Olenna, who had only moments before mentally going through a list of people who would have invited her to the keep, was suddenly distracted by the little cub who would one day grow to become a ruthless lion.

“What are you doing here?” She blurted.

Tywin fixed her with an odd stare. “I have been appointed as royal page to Prince Jaehaerys.” 

“Oh.” Olenna watched the way his chest puffed slightly—he was but a child. “That is good to hear…”

The boy remained silent as they continued up the steps. He led her past one flight, then another, and soon Olenna was left panting in her hurry to keep up with him. Just when Olenna was about to open her mouth to wonder aloud if he was planning to take her straight into the clouds, Tywin Lannister stopped.

“We have arrived.” He walked up to a heavy door, knocking on it a few times, giving a moment's pause and then pushing it open to reveal a dark bedchamber. “My lord, may I present Lady Olenna Redwyne.”

He moved out of the way, but Olenna did not move to enter, only peering into the darkness. Heavy curtains were drawn over the windows, buckets full of water lay untouched next to a large tub, tunics and gilded artifacts flung haphazardly around— altogether not a welcoming scene. 

And then Olenna heard it… a pained, miserable noise coming from somewhere in the room.

She felt her feet carrying her inside the room, blinking rapidly when the remaining light was snuffed out as Tywin Lannister closed the door behind her. She had to navigate very carefully, there were broken shards all over the floor, not to mention rank smells in the air. Olenna even spotted some dark splatters which she prayed was a wine spill—

“You came.”

Olenna froze. Despite its broken and ragged nature, she recognized the voice. “Prince Daeron?”

No—it was impossible. Olenna walked faster towards the large bed where the sound had emanated from, only to find a figure crouched on the floor, against the side of the bed. In the dim light, his hair looked knotted, his shirt was torn in places. But it was unmistakable… the prince who was supposed to have perished. Living and breathing. 

For a moment, Olenna could only stare. “You are alive…”

“You seem surprised.” Daeron let out a huff of laughter which soon devolved into choked sobs. “I know, by all rights I should be dead… I should be with… him.”

His shoulders started to shake as muffled shrieks left his mouth, and Olenna instinctively closed the distance, dropping an arm around his shoulder—easily falling back into the maternal role she had become used to, once upon a time.

“He is gone… Jeremy… He has left me, and I do not want for anything anymore. I despise… ” Daeron cried out suddenly, frantically. “He was right—you were right about the rebellion... Gods, I want to break this world!”

Olenna whispered calming words. Prince Daeron truly looked pitiful, he smelled of sick and blood. Her arm found its way on his shoulder, rubbing soothing circles. A heavy sensation was pressing in her chest, reminding her of time in her past life—Loras screaming into her arms, enraged at his failure of protecting Renly Baratheon, cursing the death of his lover… calling for the Stranger, wishing nothing more than to follow him into death—

“He spoke of you.” Daeron’s violet orbs looked near-crazed. “Right before—I should have listened...”

Once again, Olenna found herself wishing that she had simply kept her mouth shut in the gardens. It felt like hours before Daeron’s tears subsided again into shudders and hiccups. 

"What happened?" She asked softly.

“It was an ambush, Jeremy—he convinced me to stay back…” Daeron paused, unable to continue.

Olenna sighed. "This pain you are feeling… it shows that your love was real, my prince."

Daeron let out a shaky breath. "But I don't want to feel anymore. I want to disappear forever… I thought perhaps if I took the Black…”

“To what end?" Olenna questioned. "My Prince, try to think of what Jeremy would have wanted."

"Why?" He asked bitterly, a hollow look in eyes. "He is gone, and he has taken my heart, all the ardor from my body with him. I know deep in my heart that I will never love again. There is nothing left for me here."

Olenna remembered what Loras had once said, it seemed bizarrely fitting in this moment. "That is true... when the sun has set no candle can replace it." 

Violet eyes widened. “Yes, precisely.” 

"Then live for him." Olenna urged fiercely, her voice unwavering. "Take a vow of celibacy if you must, but live on. Keep him in your heart forever, bind him to your soul as a specter—if you do that, he will never leave you. Those who you love never truly leave you."

Olenna knew this firsthand, she too was no stranger to loss. Daeron searched her face, and she wondered if he saw the sadness of years past somehow reflected in her young eyes. 

Finally, it was dark beyond the curtains, and pitch black inside the room… Daeron spoke again.

"...Alright, I will try. For him." 

"I am told you are the reason my son finally came down to break his fast today." 

Queen Betha reminded Olenna of a bear, despite her slight build and shiny hair. Her presence commanded the room, like an animal staking territory. Her eyes, keen and penetrating, scrutinized Olenna with curious intensity.

"Your Grace." Olenna fell into a deferential curtsy. "This is truly an honor, I am-"

"You are Olenna Redwyne." The Queen stated, striding over to the balcony where Olenna had made perch since early morning. "I distinctly remember arranging your match with Daeron, only for him to vehemently reject it... yet here you are, the sole companion he deigns to suffer with his presence."

Olenna held her tongue, the weight of recent events pressing heavily upon her thoughts, leaving little room for contemplation. What would happen to the history she knew, now that Prince Daeron had survived the rebellion? More importantly, what would happen of her?  

"Speak, child." Queen Betha pressed impatiently. "Is he in love with you?"

"No.” Olenna answered truthfully. "He sought solace in me as a friend."

“But he must hold some affection for you, I did not manage to get through to him for days, yet you accomplished it in mere hours.” The Queen let out a frustrated sigh, her gaze drifting skyward. "You devote years trying to prepare a path for your children, hoping they will acquire some sense and stand strong when you are no longer there to guide them. All for what?"

"One can only hope, but truth be told, the young rarely heed the carefully laid schemes of their elders." A moment of silence lingered, before Olenna turned to find the Queen watching her intently, her expression bordering on scrutiny. Sensing the words may have sounded strange coming out the mouth of a girl at of ten-and-seven, she hastened to add. "I speak from experience—one who often disregards the wishes of my own lady mother and father."

“Are you referring to your lack of betrothal?” Queen Betha remarked. “You are a rarity, take pride in it. At least you are not like the other hens squawking about these halls, pecking at my feet.”

Olenna felt her cheeks warming at the unexpected compliment. Queen Betha gestured for her guards to leave them alone, then leaned in closer. 

"He has stopped speaking of the North." She remarked, clearly expecting Olenna to elaborate.

Olenna cleared her throat. “The prince agreed that… his friend would have wanted—

“Oh please, I know that Norridge boy was my son’s lover.” The Queen rested her frame against the balustrade, although her eyes remained fixed on Olenna. "I must confess, I was surprised to discover that you had long been privy to this knowledge, yet it had not become fodder for scandal..."

“I would never, your Grace.” Olenna replied fiercely.

The Queen assessed her with a measured gaze. “Do you perhaps prefer the companionship of women? Pycelle, my trusted Maester, suggested as much following a rather bold discourse from you at Highgarden..."

Ah, so Pycelle had already begun to dig his claws in…

“I do not share the prince’s proclivities.” Olenna said simply. “But I believe a bond can be forged between any two souls, regardless of whether they are man or woman.”

The Queen held her gaze, before murmuring thoughtfully. “True enough, you are rather bright for your age.”

This time, Olenna did not let herself be swayed by the compliment. "Your Grace, it was my pleasure to be of assistance to the prince. But I feel I should return home now, I fear my lady mother will begin to worry."

The Queen waved a dismissive hand. "I shall pen a letter to her myself. You are a guest here, and you will stay for as long as my son needs." 

Olenna’s heart stuttered with sudden panic. "But my father is due to return in two days time."

“I only need you here." The queen stated with a tinge of impatience. "Very few get the opportunity I am offering you now, Olenna Redwyne, yet you do not seem too happy at the prospect. I thought you were once besotted with my son?"

Perhaps once, a long time ago, Olenna had admired Prince Daeron—but now, he only reminded her of a young Loras.

"Your Grace, forgive my asking, what would my presence serve here at court?" Olenna asked adamantly.

"You will be appointed as my lady-in-waiting, bestowed with all the honor and privileges befitting such a station." Queen Betha proclaimed. "I want your continued presence here, as a companion to my son."

Olenna frowned, "I do not believe the prince feels—"

"Not like that, not as a mistress." The queen tutted. "You are to be his close friend. You seem to be capable of warding away his shadows, I trust your presence shall serve to better his health."

“Your Grace, without a betrothal, the court will surely talk." Olenna reasoned. "There will be whispers, questions about the nature of our relationship.”

"I will find an advantageous match for you. Pycelle told me... a prince of Dorne, was it?”  The Queen sent a knowing look her way. “As queen, I am certain that Lord Runceford and your lady mother would find any match I propose more than satisfactory.”

“I lied to Pycelle, I do not wish to marry.” Olenna blurted. 

Queen Betha’s eyes widened. 

But Olenna met her gaze steadily. In the past, she had been… fortunate. Luthor had passed a mere six years into their union, and Olenna had remained a widow, steadfast in her resolve to never wed again. In doing so, she had retained unbridled dominion over Highgarden... and her own destiny.

But whatever the Queen saw in her expression, made her throw her head back in laughter. “You remind me of someone, she was just as stubborn, just as special. Very well, you will have what you wish… in return, I ask only that you stay by Daeron’s side.”

“But your Grace.” Olenna attempted a final weak protest. “I brought only a single dress.”

The queen’s eyes shone victoriously. “Well, child, if that is your only complaint... by tomorrow eve, you will have more gowns to your name than any other woman in King's Landing.”

Chapter Text

Year 258 After the Conquest, AC. (seven years later)

“Ten raids upon our ships in a fortnight.” Daeron muttered as he approached, boots slick with mud. “Yet all the court would ask me is whether you are my Lady Misery—as Mysaria was to Prince Daemon.”

Olenna scoffed, turning to face him. Her auburn hair fell in a gleaming cascade over her shoulder, catching the morning light like flame. Prince Daeron’s lips curved into a semblance of a smile, but the purple rose fastened on his intricate kingsguard surcoat betrayed the sadness he still carried, even after all these years.

“And what answer did you give?” Olenna asked, stepping forward to unfasten the white cloak fluttering behind him, now stained and heavy with city muck.

“I told them you were far too merry to be mistaken for Lady Misery.” Daeron replied dryly.

Olenna arched a brow. Lady Misery. Of all the titles whispered behind fans and hands, she almost preferred the one bestowed by the maids—the Spinster of the Realm.

If only they knew...

Over the years, Olenna had conducted herself with the utmost discretion when it came to the company of men. She had learned to brew moon tea to perfection... though sometimes due to the lack of ingredients, visits from the scheming Pycelle were unavoidable. Only a select few were privy to her occasional ventures beyond the palace walls: Prince Daeron, who had shown her the castle’s hidden passages, and—she suspected—Queen Betha, who doubtless drew truths from Pycelle’s loose tongue.

Even now, she noticed Daeron’s gaze darting to her, uncertain.

“Prince Daeron.” She said, voice narrowing like a blade’s edge.

“They also asked.” He blurted, “If you were my paramour.”

She froze.

The King himself, at Queen Betha’s urging, had granted her the title Friend of the Realm—a public declaration meant to elevate her station above sordid whispers.

“That borders on treason.” She said sharply. “To question the vows sworn by a knight of the Kingsguard... who dares such insolence? We must bring this before the queen at once–”

“Gods no, it was only a jest.” Daeron walked over to splash his face at the water basin, sighing at Olenna’s expression over his shoulder in the looking glass. “It was Aerys, if you must know.”

Olenna’s frown deepened. “Your nephew?”

“Do you know of another Aerys?” Daeron responded.

“You would be surprised how many bear that name down in Flea Bottom, my prince.” Olenna informed him. 

It had taken Olenna years to come to peace with the fact that the young Aerys she knew now was not the mad tyrant she remembered from her past life—at least not yet. Daeron doted on his nephew, and so it had taken even longer for Olenna to realize the youth's relentless appetite for mischief.

Once he had washed away the dust and weariness of the day, Prince Daeron offered Olenna his arm and together they made their way to the courtyard—a familiar refuge where, amidst the din of steel, they exchanged confidences cloaked in the noise of clashing swords. But this day was different. Daeron’s gaze roved the grounds.

Olenna followed his line of sight.

Boys trained in earnest beneath the sun’s gaze—some wielding iron with youthful bravado, others still too green, clashing with padded wooden swords—all under the vigilant gaze of Ser Barristan Selmy.

“Are we here to jest about squires toppling one another with their sticks?” Olenna mused, turning away from the clash of swords.

But Daeron directed her attention forward once more. “Look there.”

A flash of platinum caught Olenna’s eye.

Prince Aerys—she had not laid eyes upon the young boy in years. As the war in the Stepstones loomed closer, Jahaerys Targaryen had strategically taken up residence further north in Dragonstone, limiting the reach of the Blackfyre forces. He had taken his entire retinue with him, along with his son. The Prince's long silver hair was pulled back in a ponytail much like his uncle Daeron’s. Flanking him on either side were two older squires in the livery of Lannister and Baratheon whom Olenna did not recognize— 

Ah, but she did…  

The broad-shouldered youth was Aerys’s cousin Steffon Baratheon. The flaxen hair from his youth had darkened, so now he looked truly more like his father Ormund than his Targaryen mother. 

And at Aerys's right hand was none other than Tywin Lannister, standing tall and still as a statue. He was wearing a smirk akin to the one Olenna had come to despise in later years, he was observing the younger boys fumbling with their swords.

“The three of them are still joined at the hip.” Olenna observed.

Daeron nodded. “Steffon has other friends, but Aerys and Tywin are like brothers.”

Olenna knew that a day would come when Tywin Lannister would betray his king Aerys Targaryen, and not without reason. Perhaps this safeguard was the only reason why she had allowed the young lion to thrive so long.

"What are you thinking about?" Daeron asked softly. "Sometimes a strange look passes your eyes."

Olenna shook her head. “It is nothing, I am merely wondering what they feed those boys up in the North, Lord Karstark's heir is wielding a sword twice his size."

A ripple of laughter floated through the air towards them. Prince Aerys was grinning as he bounded over, and leaned down jestingly.

"I thought that was obvious Lady Olenna…” He tipped an invisible cup to his lips, feigning a hearty draught. “Giant’s milk!”

His companions remained within earshot, and Steffon Baratheon hooted with laughter until Tywin elbowed his side.

Olenna tutted, but she was also smiling. "How was Dragonstone, Prince Aerys?

"Steff reveled in it, as expected. He has a fondness for the damp and tempestuous. But Ty and I found little joy." Aerys shrugged, before his smile laced with mischief again.“And how do you fare? Is my lady grandmother still valiantly defending you against would-be suitors?"

Olenna averted her gaze, feeling her neck heat. “There are few lords left in the Seven Kingdoms foolish enough to vie for the hand of the Realm’s Spinster.”

“Realm’s spinster? Truly?” Aerys said, glancing around the training yard with a wry smile. “Come now, my lady… despite your tireless efforts to drive them off, I daresay there are still a few fools who chase after your favor.”

“Indeed.” Daeron added. “Was Lord Stark not asking after you some weeks past?”

They all turned in time to see Steffon Baratheon flat on his back, cursing as Tywin Lannister loomed over him sword raised, panting slightly.

Aerys clicked his tongue in mock regret. “Perhaps I ought not to have brought up marriage. And we were enjoying such a tranquil moment…”

“Then let us speak no more of betrothals.” Daeron said immediately, even the doting uncle. “Aerys, why not tell Lady Olenna the true reason for your return?”

Olenna turned to him, intrigued. But Aerys merely sighed, the picture of princely discontent. “The upcoming tourney.”

In the courtyard, Ser Barristan's booming voice echoed, and a collective groan of relief rippled through the gathered knights and squires, signaling the end of their rigorous practice. Tywin and Steffon approached, sheathing their blades, the latter still muttering about slippery footing.

Olenna nudged the prince. "You do not seem too enthused for this tourney."

"Ah, the tourney... what pageantry!" Steffon spat, disdain dripping from his words. My sire calls it a farce. A distraction while war stirs in the Stepstones.”

At the word, Olenna’s heart tightened. “Blackfyre?”

“And his ilk of sellswords.” Steffon confirmed gravely before turning his attention back to Daeron. “We ought to be preparing for battle, uncle. Drive the usurper back into the sea before his rot spreads.”

Olenna's mind swirled with tales she had once heard from her father of the impending conflict... vicious mercenaries, pirate lords, and the ominous threat of Maelys Blackfyre.

“Perhaps such talk is ill-suited for present company." Tywin said quietly but firmly. His voice had changed—deeper now, commanding in a way that silenced the group without effort.

Olenna looked up, startled. Tywin’s gaze found her, cool and unreadable. He greeted her with a slight incline of the head—gone was the boy who once bowed deeply before her.

She forced a cordial smile. “Well met, Ser Lannister. It has been many years since our paths last crossed.”

He said nothing at first, and Aerys snorted behind a gloved hand, poorly masking a chuckle. Tywin sent him a sharp glance before returning his gaze to Olenna.

“I trust the capital has treated you well.”

“I cannot complain.” Olenna replied.

A hush stretched between them.

Aerys cleared his throat and turned to Daeron, clapping his uncle’s shoulder. “Will you ride in this tourney as well? It would liven the thing considerably for me and Steff…”

Their conversation drifted, yet Olenna’s attention remained fixed on Tywin—the rigidity of his shoulders, the strands of golden hair curled damp against his brow, the line of tension held just beneath his composure.

An inexplicable twinge of irritation coursed through her as she continued to observe him. 

“Is something the matter, my lady?” Tywin asked, catching her gaze.

She met his eyes, defiant. “Why did you steer us away from talk of the rebellion? Do you believe it unfit for my ears, because I am a woman?”

He remained unfazed. “Not at all. I am told women see more bloodshed than men.”

“Then is it the violence?” Olenna pressed. “I am not some child still wet behind the ears, Ser Lannister. Do you know that Prince Daeron often shares with me the matters discussed in the small council?”

Tywin’s gaze shifted subtly toward the Targaryen prince, his face unreadable. “So I have heard. It is said the prince holds your counsel in such esteem, he has been known to voice your thoughts at council as though they were his own.”

Olenna blinked. That she had not known. Her mouth parted, then closed again, before she found her voice. “And how, pray, did you come to learn of this?”

Tywin’s lips curved just slightly. “Prince Jaehaerys shares much with me… as Daeron does with you.” He paused, then added with pointed clarity. “When Steffon spoke of war, the distress on your face was plain. I merely sought to offer you some reprieve. My words were not meant to offend.”

At that, Olenna looked away, her gaze drifting to the edges of the courtyard where banners stirred in the breeze. The scent of steel and sweat hung thick in the air, yet her thoughts were far away.

“You are not wrong.” She said softly. “War sickens me. I would sooner never hear of it again, if the gods were kind. Prince Aerys speak of it as though it were a child’s game—playfighting in the yard with practice swords, laughing at bloodied lips and broken bones.” Her voice caught slightly, but she steadied it. “The knights all speak of glory. I think only of the stench, and the silence that follows after a field has gone quiet.”

Tywin’s expression shifted—just slightly, but enough for her to notice.

She turned her head. “What?”

He met her gaze, his tone even. “It’s true he has not yet seen true war… but Aerys is a prince. And yet, at times, you treat him as if he were still a child.”

Olenna’s eyes narrowed at the odd emphasis. “What do you mean by that?”

“Aerys is a Prince, yet you treat him as though he were a child.”

“Because he insists on behaving like one.” Olenna shot back. “But no, I do not see him as a child.”

“Then you place me, too, among men?” Tywin asked, straightening to his full height. Olenna was surprised to find herself eye-level with his shoulder. When had he grown so tall?

She lifted her chin. “Well… your stature certainly suggests so.”

His green eyes flared. “I have stood against foes twice my age and brought them low. I have dealt death.”

Olenna held his gaze, though her voice softened. “Taking a life does not make one a man, Lannister.”

“I am aware.” He asserted quietly. “A man is measured by what he holds dear. By the loyalty he shows to those he would protect.”

“On that,” Olenna said, inclining her head. “we are agreed. Does that mean I, too, am a man?”

There was an odd noise that sounded like a snort, prompting Olenna to glance up in surprise. In all her years, both past and present, she had never made Tywin Lannister chuckle. Yet there was definitely a faint smirk on his lips, lingering for a moment before vanishing away.

“I heard you’ve attracted another suitor.” He said abruptly.

Olenna felt her cheeks heat once more. “If you mean Lord Stark, he is hardly what I’d consider a match. Too solemn by half.”

Tywin said nothing, but when Olenna risked a glance at him, she found his mouth drawn into a thin, unreadable line.

“So you do mean to wed one day.” He murmured. “But you are… discerning.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a scoff.

“Oh, spare me.” Aerys interjected, throwing up his hands. “What is this endless prattle about suitors and betrothals? If it were up to me, I would have postponed marriage for another ten years.”

His voice darkened, and Olenna knew—then as now—that the prince bore no fondness for being wed to his sister.

“You would not say that, nephew, if you were in love.” Daeron said softly.

"Alas, I am not." Aerys snapped, before turning to Olenna. "Pay no heed to anyone else, my lady. You have no need to wed, you are a Friend of the Realm, of the crown…" 

He added a few words in flowing High Valyrian. Olenna didn’t catch their meaning, but she noticed Daeron’s silver brows arch high in surprise.

“What did he say?” She asked, brow furrowed.

“He said you ought not trouble yourself with the opinions of sheep.” Steffon answered before glancing at Aerys. “But you forget, cousin—Lady Redwyne is neither lion nor dragon.”

Aerys clicked his teeth. “But behold her red mane! Surely Lady Olenna has some fire in her blood… does she not, Ty?”

Olenna could feel Tywin's gaze settle on her—cool, like the still before a storm.

But Tywin only replied, “I would not dare presume…”

Chapter Text

Olenna always kept a leather-bound tome close to her heart, never allowing it to stray from her sight. Within its pages, she had meticulously chronicled every detail of her past, everything she could recall. She noticed that certain events seemed immutable, as if woven into the very fabric of time, much like the gossamer threads binding the pages of her little book together. But some events changed. Some had never happened.

For instance, her sister Viola was now happily wed to Luthor Tyrell, and their first child had been a daughter, not the plump little Mace that Olenna had once called son. And as time went on, Olenna observed with growing unease that some events were occurring in the wrong order.

It terrified her. 

In another short year, a horrible incident was supposed to happen—the Tragedy of Summerhall... many would lose their lives. Many whom she had now grown to love and care... Yet, for all her sleuthing and spying, Olenna had not even heard whispers.

Until one day.

Running late to a summons, she spotted Grandmaester Kaeth hurriedly leading a group of men in Essosi garb towards the Royal Sept—she followed without hesitation. 

The Sept was unnaturally empty of devout worshippers. Olenna slipped in as quiet as a mouse, crouching down quickly under the statue of the Crone. She peeked over it, under the shadow of the Warrior’s statue on the farthest side of the chamber stood King Aegon V himself. But alas, their conversation reached her only in broken murmurs.

Suddenly, there was a harsh noise. Olenna squinted to see, and there was a hidden door on the wall behind the Warrior’s statue, opening like a creature’s maw. The cloaked figures disappeared behind it one by one, the King himself picking up the rear. Once they had disappeared, Olenna walked over to the wall. But try as she might, scratching her nails and fingers raw trying to find grooves in the stone, Olenna unable to spot the mechanism that made the door open again. She huffed out an irate breath, sliding against the wall until she was sitting on the ground, cursing under her breath. She glanced up at the statue of the Crone, the wrinkled visage appearing to judge her as only those who possess ancient wisdom can. 

"What should I do?" She asked, knowing full well the stone face would offer no answer.

When suddenly an airy whisper broke the silence. 

“Perhaps sometimes… it is best to do nothing at all.”

Olenna let out an undignified squeak, turning to find a figure nestled in a dark corner under the statue of the Maiden, one leg drawn up languidly to her chin. This woman was the Lady Jenny… Jenny of Oldstones she would be called one day. Olenna was hoping to prevent the very tragedy that would leave her a widow.

"You look beautiful today, Lady Olenna." Jenny’s lips tilted up into a secretive smile. "A golden rose in bloom." 

“My lady is too kind.” Olenna answered, still grasping at her stuttering heart.

In her past life, Olenna had never truly crossed paths with Prince Duncan Targaryen’s peculiar lady wife. Lady Jenny had always been spoken of in whispers—simple, a bit strange, with a distant gaze lost to dreams. But now, standing before her, Olenna found that gaze anything but vacant. It was keen, and unsettlingly sharp.

"You remind me of an old friend." Jenny said. "A woods witch, she was. Are you a woods witch, Lady Olenna?"

Olenna felt the hairs on the back of her neck rising. Perhaps Jenny was right—maybe Olenna was a witch? It would certainly explain how Olenna had come to live her life twice over.

"I fear not." Olenna answered, before looking back to where the hidden door should be. "My lady, did you perhaps overhear our visitors?” 

"I did... they were talking of fire and magic." Jenny's gaze flickered, a smile playing on her lips. "But I did not listen, I lost interest.”

Olenna stared. What an utterly stupid girl. She barely managed a tight curtsy, muttering a curt goodbye as she turned to leave—

“Have you ever been to Dorne, my lady?”

The question halted her steps. Olenna turned back slowly, exhaling through her nose. “I beg your pardon?”

"The desert, have you ever been?" Jenny’s arms rose in a lazy spiral, as though tracing patterns only she could see. “The sands there are so beautiful, like a sea of shining crystals.”

“I’m afraid not, my lady. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“But there’s sand on your brow,” Jenny whispered, tilting her head. “And in your hair. Sand sliding through your fingers. The tighter you cling on to it, the quicker it slips away.”

Another chill ran up Olenna's spine, settling in the depths of her soul. 

Jenny’s hands fell suddenly to her lap. “Apologies, my lady... I was being silly again. I do that sometimes. I must go find my husband.” Jenny’s piercing gaze softened slightly as she got to her feet. “I have kept you long enough, I believe you are awaited in the throne room.”

Olenna felt a bit shaken by the strange conversation, but she a quickly put up a facade of calm before making her way towards the grandeur of the throne room. 

She did not appear to have arrived too late. At the center of the chamber stood bonny Prince Aerys, swamped by a crowd of vying lords and ladies. He was flanked by his usual companions. Tywin Lannister dutifully remained by his side, though Steffon Baratheon seemed irritated by all the attention.

Olenna let herself melt into the shadows of the people around her, until a hush fell over the crowd—Queen Betha appeared through the grand gates and made for the iron throne herself. 

Ascending the steps to the Iron Throne, she turned to face the assembly, her gaze sharp as the steel behind her. “Blessed morrow. His Grace the King tends to matters of grave importance. The burden of judgment falls to me this day.”

"The King is oft unseen these days." Came Steffon’s voice, low and gruff, as he moved to stand beside Olenna. His gaze, however, was trained on the knot of lords gathered fawningly around Prince Aerys and Tywin Lannister. “Look at them—simpering lickspittle lords, every last one. Gods, I’ve not the stomach for it. Tywin’s restraint is greater than mine.”

“Ser Steffon.” Olenna greeted with a curtsy, seizing the chance to shift his mood. “I fear I’ve yet to offer my congratulations on your betrothal to Lady Cassana Estermont.”

The hard lines on Steffon’s visage softened slightly. "Thank you, Lady Redwyne. Cassana speaks fondly of you."

"She was a delightful presence to me here in King's Landing" Olenna said with quiet sincerity. "I shall lament her departure." 

"You must attend the wedding." Steffon said graciously. "And you are always welcome at Storm's End to. She would be glad of your company."

Soon enough, the two other boys soon traced Steffon’s steps and joined Olenna. Prince Aerys gave his usual cheeky greeting. Tywin simply nodded, his gaze flickering towards her every now as then.

Not wishing to seem discourteous, Olenna turned to address the latter. “Lannister, how fare you?”

Tywin’s countenance remained inscrutable as he answered. “Well enough, my lady. Today, a member of my family is being presented to court.”

“Oh?” Olenna arched a brow. “And who might that be?”

Tywin turned his gaze toward the far edge of the hall. There, standing poised yet alone, was a girl of striking beauty. Hair like spun gold tumbled down her back, catching the torchlight, and the roaring lions on her gown shimmered with each breath she took. Olenna recognized her at once—Joanna Lannister, cousin to Tywin… and his future bride. The only woman he was said to have ever cared for his whole life.

The Queen’s voice rang out, drawing all attention back to the throne. “I am told a new bloom graces the court today.”

"Lady Joanna Lannister, my Queen." The Hand announced.

Even from a distance, Olenna saw the way Joanna Lannister’s leaf-green eyes widened when she heard her name. But ever a Lannister, the girl drew herself up with quiet composure and glided forward, dipping into a curtsey so graceful it might have been rehearsed a thousand times.

Tywin excused himself and strode to meet her, offering his hand. He guided her back toward their small gathering. As the girl approached, Prince Aerys’s dulcet tones slowly trailed away, following Joanna with rare, unblinking interest.

Yet Joanna’s eyes were on Olenna. She smiled—soft, tentative—and swept into a bow so low, so reverent, it nearly rivaled the one she had offered the Queen.

Olenna blinked, caught off guard.

From the corner of her vision, she caught Queen Betha’s sharp stare, watching the exchange with unmistakable intent.

Tywin leaned in, his whisper brushing Olenna's ear. "My cousin has come to serve as your lady-in-waiting."

Olenna carefully masked her surprise. True, the Queen had mentioned finding a replacement for Cassana Estermont, now that her betrothal would take her from court—but never had Olenna imagined she would be sent a Lannister. Nor that the girl would be presented so soon. In truth, Olenna had barely found occasion to speak to the Queen in the past months...

And from what she remembered of her past life, Joanna Lannister had once served Princess Rhaella, not her.

“But of course.” Olenna said smoothly, recovering. She offered Joanna a gracious smile and a formal nod. “Well met, Lady Joanna. Welcome to court.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Joanna dipped into another graceful curtsy, her gaze flicking briefly to Tywin before settling on Olenna once more. “It shall truly be my honor to serve you.”

Olenna's quest to uncover more information on the looming tragedy of Summerhall was hindered further, as she now found herself with a constant shadow. Joanna Lannister was ever at her side, at her every beck and call. When Olenna inquired of Princess Shaera why the Queen had chosen the Lannister girl, she had responded, "She is a sweet and diligent girl Lady Redwyne, and the Queen wished you to have a quick-witted companion.” 

The Queen had not erred. Though young, Joanna was both keen and observant. At times, Olenna found her assistance indispensable. For instance, on the rare occasion when Maester Pycelle himself had come bearing a few ingredients Olenna had requested, standing at the entrance to her chambers and chattering endlessly, Joanna had swiftly intervened. “My lady is pale and in need of her rest.” The girl had insisted, effectively shooing Pycelle away. Olenna had noticed the faint frown marring Joanna's face as she put away the new vials. Did Joanna perhaps recognized them as ingredients for moon tea? Whatever disapproval she felt, the girl remained discreet, making herself almost invisible when she so chose. 

At other times, Joanna's presence rendered Olenna into an afterthought. The young lioness turned heads wherever she went, and the Realm's Spinster was finally free of the relentless attention of men.

One evening, after several weeks in her company, Olenna finally said. "I must admit, the Queen has bestowed a favor upon me by allowing you by my side."

Joanna flushed pink. "You honor me, my lady. My family championed strongly for me to have this station."

"Oh? I was unaware that Lord Jason held such regard for me." Olenna arched an eyebrow. Joanna's father possessed more wit than his toothless brother Tytos, but as far as Olenna recalled, their interactions had been limited.

"Truth be told, my father wished for me to serve Princess Rhaella or Princess Shaera. Closer to the seat of power, he said. Yet, my cousin insisted that Lady Olenna held more sway at court than either princesses combined." Joanna's smile was earnest. "And Tywin is seldom mistaken."

Now, Olenna was really taken aback.

Joanna continued. "By and by, cousin Tywin mentioned he will be delivering some letters from my mother here from time to time, if that is agreeable to you?"

"Yes, yes, that is fine." Olenna muttered distractedly.

After all, she had more pressing matters to attend to. That evening, once Joanna had retired to her chambers, Olenna retrieved a worn cloak and dress hidden among the others and prepared herself to venture into Flea Bottom.

The Essosi men she had observed a fortnight earlier must have arrived by ship. And if there was one thing Olenna had learned back home in Starfish Harbor, was that sailors were notorious gossips.

Olenna waited until the hour of the owl, her vibrant locks concealed beneath a dark cloak. 

But just as she reached to push open the concealed door in her chambers, the stillness was shattered by frantic footsteps heralding Joanna’s abrupt reappearance.

The younger woman’s eyes were wide with distress.

"Lady Olenna, please, you must—" For a wild moment Joanna faltered, her gaze flickering over Olenna’s unusual attire, before urgency returned. "I was on the way to my chambers, and then... I could not find anyone! The castle is deserted..."

Olenna seized Joanna's trembling shoulders, steadying her. "What has happened, Joanna? Speak swiftly."

"It is Prince Aerys." Joanna's words tumbled in a torrent. "I discovered him in the hall below. He was speaking in tongues, behaving strangely… and then he collapsed. I called for help, but no one came—"

A wave of icy dread gripped Olenna’s heart. Mutterings and unconsciousness; this sounded more like to the ramblings of the future Mad King. Olenna directed Joanna to lead her to him. The castle was indeed eerily quiet, their footsteps echoed loudly in the darkness. Arriving at the corridor where Joanna had sighted the prince, they found it abandoned. But then, from behind a nearby tapestry, they heard a faint whimpering. Olenna hastened towards it, only to discover Prince Aerys sprawled on the balcony floor, his hands and knees bearing his unsteady weight.

He appeared gripped by some unseen terror, gasping as if unable to draw breath, muttering in Valyrian.

“What ails him?” Joanna whispered, voice fraught with fear.

“I do not know.” Olenna took a few steps forward. Aerys's whispers grew more urgent as she approached, his violet eyes clouded with confusion and fear.

“Fetch Prince Daeron.” Olenna commanded Joanna firmly. "He should have concluded his patrol by this hour... but speak to no one else. We must ensure Prince Aerys's safety."

Joanna nodded, hurrying off to carry out her task. Olenna turned her attention back to Aerys, who continued his quiet murmurs.

"My Prince." Olenna called softly, placing her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Aerys… look at me."

The young prince’s gaze shifted toward her, haunted and unseeing. He reached out to grasp at her, his fingers clamping vice-like around her wrist. 

“Aerys, you are safe.” She assured him. 

"Lady Redwyne?" Aerys's voice was hoarse, his nails digging into her soft flesh.

Olenna bit back a wince of pain. "Yes, it is I. My Prince, I must know the cause of your distress. Please tell me."

Aerys's mouth opened and closed, tears falling from reddened eyes as he fell sideways.

"My Prince!" Olenna caught him as he tilted.

"Fire." He whispered hoarsely. "Fire. Flames engulfing all. Dragons falling from skies... a stag's head on the seat of the throne... a Targaryen amid a storm of sand, a horde of horselords. Fire erupting from mountains, spewing from my very mouth…”

A sinking feeling settled in the pit of Olenna’s stomach. These did not appear to be the ramblings of some old fool. Aerys’s voice held an odd quality, but it was steady... this was no madness. Olenna had heard tales of Targaryen prophecies, of Dragon Dreams, yet to witness one unfolding before her eyes was a sobering revelation.

"What does it mean!" 

Aerys closed his eyes and more wetness leaked forth. He pitched sideways again, and Olenna steadied her hold, laying down his head upon her lap as she had once done for Prince Daeron, before that for her own children and grandchildren. When Aerys began to shiver, Olenna draped her tattered cloak around him.

After a long while, he croaked out. "I also saw a pair of pretty green eyes. Did they belong to Lady Lannister or did I conjure her up as well?"

"She was the one who found you." Olenna confirmed, glad to hear the prince's breathing slowly returning to normal.

"Of course... she had to see me in this accursed state." Aerys slowly sat up, his fingers plucking at the fabric of the cloak wrapped around him, sniffing it curiously before wrinkling his nose.

"Does anyone else know of this... affliction, my prince?" Olenna inquired carefully.

Aerys was silent for a long moment. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, and his eyes drifted, unfocused, toward the great windows above.

"I suppose," He said at last, almost to himself. "I have nothing more to hide from you." He exhaled, a long breath of quiet resignation. "Ty and Steffon know. They’re sworn to secrecy. My father too… though he speaks of it only in whispers, as if naming it might give it power."

Olenna watched him closely, her brows knitting with concern. "Do you see things burning often?" She asked gently.

Aerys didn’t answer at once. His lips parted, but no words came—not right away. His gaze, when it returned to her, was both wary and weary.

"Yes. But never so vividly." He swallowed hard. "It felt as though I was there, standing amidst it. I felt the heat, I could smell the smoke, screams from a burning horde of horselords. Then it was over, and King's Landing lay in ashes."

Olenna's heart thundered in her ears. "King's Landing? In ashes..."

"Yes, there was a woman in my visions... a girl really. She burned with such fury." Aerys marveled. "She lost so much, sacrificed everything... I could feel her pain... and then I heard her speak in High Valyrian to her dragon, 'burn them, burn them all.'"

Olenna dared not breathe, staring as Aerys spoke the futre Mad King's words into the chill night. Yet the prince had just revealed that these words were not his own, but another’s... a girl, a Targaryen—

With a horde of Dothraki horselords.

Olenna clenched her eyes shut. The young princess she had once met, Danaerys Stormborn... was she the one Prince Aerys had seen? She had seemed serene, regal, a queen fit for the Seven Kingdoms. Yet Olenna knew how swiftly madness could ensnare the mind. The world she had left behind... had it all ended in fire and blood? After all her toil, all her efforts, had it all been in vain?

"Lady Olenna, why do you resemble a wench from the Street of Silk?" Aerys suddenly asked. Olenna looked up to find that his violet eyes looked clearer now, despite the dark crescents beneath them.

"Since we are sharing secrets... at times, I seek solace in the revelry of the castle's underbelly." She revealed. “This is my disguise.”

"Ah, so you know of the tunnels. I myself have often traversed them. I find little solace in the company of my sis- I mean, my lady wife." Aerys's expression clouded again. 

For a while, they gazed out at the darkened city below, small squares and circles of windows flickered with candlelight.

Then Aerys took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Lady Olenna, I fear something terrible has happened." He confessed in a quick breath. Olenna turned to find him shivering in the breeze despite her cloak around him. "My grandmother the Queen has been so secretive of late, and Uncle Duncan oft tells me everything, but even he did not wish to reveal where they were headed…"

There was a pregnant pause. A moment of comprehension...

Olenna grabbed the prince by the shoulders, forgetting all pleasantries. "Aerys… what are you talking about, where have they gone?"

His eyes were wide. "I do not know! They departed for the Stormlands a few night back, there was talk of a castle upon the Marches..."

"No..." Olenna breathed, her blood running cold

A castle on the Dornish Marches, mages from Essos. No, it could not have come to pass already. A year earlier—

“My sis– Rhaella, she told me not to go. I only agreed because..." Prince Aerys trailed off, his voice trembling as he took in Olenna's stricken expression. “They have all gone. Uncle Duncan, Rhaella, my mother… My grandfather is consumed by obsession. He believes he has found a way to restore dragons, to reclaim the glory of House Targaryen—my lady!”

Olenna felt only despair as a scream ripped from her throat.

By the time Lady Joanna returned with Prince Daeron, Olenna was utterly inconsolable.

A raven arrived the next morning.

The herald rushed in, bowing before Prince Jaehaerys, addressing him as 'Your Grace'.

The message he read out was devastating: Several members of the royal family had perished in a great tragedy. King Aegon V Targaryen, his wife the good Queen Betha, Prince Duncan Targaryen, Ser Duncan the Tall, and several royal maesters and mages.

But what struck Olenna hardest was when the herald named two more fallen: Princess Shaera Targaryen and Princess Rhaella Targaryen. In her old life, they had survived this. In that world, they had lived. Now, her dearest companions were dead—all because she had not moved quickly enough, had not shouted loudly enough, had failed to outpace the very tragedy she had known would happen.

And Rhaella… Princess Rhaella had not been with child. She had never carried young Rhaegar. And now, she never would. Nor would she ever bear any of her other children. The dragons Olenna had seen near the end of her past life might never return to Westeros—whether to feel relief or deeper desolation, she knew not.

A shroud of black fell over the Red Keep. Whispers and sobs echoed through its halls, the weight of such loss pressing down heavy upon all.

Olenna retreated to her chambers, guilt striking her harder than expected. Joanna attempted to console her, but Olenna pushed her away, unable to bear any more kindness. 

For what had come to pass, Olenna had only herself to blame.

Chapter Text

Olenna did not sleep all night. Aerys's haunted words about fire and destruction kept echoing in her mind.

Jaeharys's coronation date was set. Although it was a hollow affair, lords from across the Seven Kingdoms came to pay their respects. Olenna recognized it for what it was: the hounds sniffing the air for a scent of blood, any signs of weakness. Jaehaerys II Targaryen was not as feared as many of his predecessors. He was known for his gentle spirit. Olenna had watched him weep after the herald had announced how his wife, Princess Shaera, had perished. She could not bear to watch the wolves nip at his wounds.

Olenna sought solace in the godswood. There, she found Lady Jenny, not wearing mourning colors but clad in a bright yellow frock. She sat at the roots of the tree, braiding a crown of flowers. Of all things...

Olenna’s temper flared at the sight. She approached Jenny, remembering their odd conversation the last time she had spoken to the girl. Jenny had known something would happen, she was sure of it. 

"You! You knew—yet you did nothing!" 

Jenny looked up, smiling sadly. “There was no way to stop it."

"Of course there was!" Olenna screamed. "We knew! We could have done something. Think of everyone that has died! Your own husband, you have lost him!"

Jenny's hands never stopped, threading one flower into the next. "You are mistaken Lady Redwyne, I have suffered no loss. My husband is still here with me.”

Her husband, Ser Duncan the Tall had perished in the fire. Olenna asked the gods for strength not to strangle the girl, and wondered if Jenny had finally gone raving—

"I am not mad." Jenny said softly, and it was her serene tone that finally pierced through Olenna’s anger. “Come, my lady, join me here.”

Olenna hesitated, but her curiosity got the better of her, and she did as Jenny asked. Perhaps this was a form of penance, standing outside in the cold of the evening, listening to the ravings of a madwoman. 

For a moment, she heard nothing but the rustle of leaves in the wind. The face under her palm looked so sad, she looked into its bone-white eyes… letting her fingers trace the crimson sap. 

“Ah, there… it is drawing you in. Stay… stay with it, and embrace all of it.” Jenny whispered, her voice drifting away. “You will find me again when you need me…” 

Olenna stood there for what felt like minutes, or perhaps hours—or was it days. She did not know. This was silly.

"Grandmother.” A voice whispered. "You look so sad, grandmother."

Olenna turned, and her breath hitched. A sob wracked her chest, as she began to cry in earnest, letting it all out: her pain, her sorrow, everything she had felt since coming into this new life, this new world.

For she now saw Margaery, her beautiful granddaughter Margaery, standing before her. 

Then another shadow approached—Loras.

"My, my, grandmother. We had no idea your hair was so fiery!" Loras chuckled. “We only ever saw it in the colors of wintry snow.”

"Do not tease, Loras." Margaery chided. "Stay strong, grandmother. We will see each other again one day. I give you my word."

“Yes, I terribly miss your cutting wit. Margaery here is a right bore.” Loras winced when Margaery elbowed him.

Their voices reached Olenna at an odd volume, a strange cadence. 

“You will find a way to move forward, grandmother. You always have. For the sake of those who still depend on you.” Margaery said, reaching out to wipe Olenna’s tears. "And for the realm."

Olenna's tears only flowed more freely and she leaned into the phantom touch, as though trying to grasp at the fleeting comfort.

Loras seemed to be looking around the area curiously. “We can only linger here a short while grandmother, through you. This world seems so foreign…"

"Because it is foreign." Margaery’s tone shifted too, becoming more serious. "You must keep that in mind too, grandmother. Enemies here might have different faces, and friendships might come from impossible places. Are you listening to me, grandmother?"

Loras suddenly held up a finger. “Wait Margaery... look at her eyes. Our grandmother does not believe this is real.”

Of course, this had to be a dream, Olenna wanted to say. But even as she tried to speak, no sound came out. 

Loras raised his index and middle fingers, leaned in and pinched Olenna’s cheek. She recoiled, stunned—she felt the dull jab of his touch.

“I have always wanted to do that, you did it to me so oft when I was younger.” Loras smiled with mischief.

“I am afraid we must leave now, grandmother.” Margaery said, her voice soft but firm. Then suddenly they were pulled away backwards, paces away. “Take care, take care!” 

Olenna tried to move, to run after them, but she was rooted in place... her hand was stuck to the sap of the tree no matter how desperately she pulled. Loras waved, his silhouette alongside his sister’s was now fading.

“Grandmother!” Loras called out, and Olenna looked up. He had a wry expression, one she could not recall ever having seen on his face. “Have a flagon of spiced wine on me, will you?”

No, Loras, wait! Margaery, don't leave me! Olenna wanted to scream, but her throat betrayed her, leaving her voice trapped, silent in her chest.

Olenna nearly twisted her arm in an effort to pull away from the tree now, but it hurt so much—were dreams not usually painless? Her beloved grandchildren disappeared, but before Olenna could so much as blink, another figure appeared—Queen Betha.

My Queen, I have failed you... Olenna felt her lips move, but again no sound came out. The queen held up a hand, she looked younger than Olenna had ever seen her.

“Olenna.” She said gently. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

The words struck Olenna like a blow, and her knees nearly buckled beneath her.

Betha continued, her gaze softening as she looked beyond Olenna—perhaps at the past, perhaps at something only she could see. “I made many mistakes in this life… more than I care to count. I thought I could shape kings with my hands alone. I thought we could temper fire.” Her voice faltered for the briefest moment. “But I see now, that path was not mine to take."

A pause. Then she stepped closer.

“Take care of my Daeron for me, will you?” She asked quietly, almost tenderly. “And my grandson too… He will need you more than he knows. There are greater shadows ahead than even I foresaw.”

Olenna wanted to speak, to cry out that she would do anything, that she would die a thousand times over to undo what had passed—but still, her voice would not come. All she could do was nod, her throat burning.

Queen Betha’s voice began to grow weaker. "You are fading, little one. I would bid you farewell. But, I daresay we shall meet agai—”

The words dissolved before they could finish.

Olenna jolted awake, her breath catching in her throat. The world rushed back all at once—the chill air, the scent of snow and earth, the rustling of leaves high in the godswood canopy. Her vision was blurred by the sting of unshed tears, but through it she saw the shadowed figure of a man looming over her.

Rickard Stark stood there, brow furrowed, his grey eyes solemn as the old gods themselves.

“My lady.” He said, voice low and steady. “What are you doing out here in the cold?”

Olenna blinked, sitting up slowly. Her limbs felt strangely light, her mind clearer than it had been in moons. The dream was already slipping from her grasp, fading like morning mist.

And yet, something of it lingered in her bones, as though she had shed a great weight in sleep.

She brushed the snow from her skirts and stood, her spine straightening. Perhaps for the first time since she had awoken in this strange second life, Olenna felt like she was was herself again—the woman who had shaped kingdoms with a whispered word, who had danced with fate and come out with daggers hidden in her smile. The woman who had orchestrated the downfall of the monster to save her granddaughter. The one who had once turned Luthor Tyrell’s head with nothing but a glance.

"I must have drifted off... Well met, Lord Stark."

"Well met." He replied, looking at the heart tree. "Were you dreaming? You were talking in your sleep."

"I haven't eaten or slept for nearly two days, so I daresay whatever I might have said were the ramblings of a tired woman."

He looked up at the tree she had been resting against. “In the North, we believe the old gods dwell in weirwood trees. Watch through their eyes... This one may be an oak, but it is still a sacred tree of the godswood.” He told her gruffly.

Olenna ignored the shiver that ran up her spine, the faces of her grandchildren and Queen Betha, freshly imprinted into her mind. "Lord Stark, you can hardly expect me to partake in the superstitions of the North?" Olenna rubbed her numb fingers together for warmth. “As you said, it is cold. I should head back to—”

“Have you thought on my offer?” He asked, cutting in.

Olenna put her weight on her heels, fixing him through her lashes. Despite her recent musings, Olenna was not prone to fallacious vanity. Rickard Stark was not besotted with her, he wanted a betrothal with a house strong enough to back his own position. 

"I believe I have already given you my answer, Lord Stark."

Rickard’s expression did not waver. “You might find the North less lonely than you think. The old queen is gone.” He did not flinch when Olenna winced. “There may be fewer who would uphold you here, at court.”

“And you would?” Her voice was sharp. “Is that a vow of protection, Lord Stark, or simply Northern hospitality at its finest?”

“I would not see a woman like you wasted here." He said plainly.

Olenna tilted her head, intrigued despite herself. “And what kind of woman is that?”

"A bold and clever one. Someone my people can grow to respect." Rickard admitted. "I will not pretend that my reasons are not selfish. You would make me a happy husband... and you would help fortify my house."

There it was.  

"Ah… trouble with other Northern houses?" She asked. 

Rickard's eyes grew hollow. "Aye my lady, the winds from the north grow icier, the fog thicker. The Night's Watch has become lax. We need houses strong enough to send men, steel and grain.

Olenna paused then, considering him. 

The Wall, that desolate icy place. She remembered some talk of this from her past life. The Others—hiding in the snow for centuries, growing bolder and stronger in the ice. Yet if she spoke of them now, Rickard would think her mad.

Instead, she smiled faintly. “And here I thought you’d fallen for my Southron charm.”

Rickard considered her for a moment, the tips of his ears grew ruddy. "You jest, my lady—but you are a beautiful woman.”

Olenna laughed softly. “Yet you presented me with neither flowers nor poetry. Are all the men of the North so grim in their courtship?”

"Only when they have families to protect.” He replied in his usual monotone. “Babes and mothers and graybeards."

A new voice rang out behind her—dry and sharp.

“Admirable sentiments, Lord Stark, but I believe the lady has already given you her answer.”

Rickard’s eyes lifted, narrowing toward the speaker just past Olenna’s shoulder. “Lannister.”

But when Olenna turned, she found Tywin’s gaze fixed solely on her, cool and unreadable. “The Crown Prince has summoned you.” He said evenly. “I shall escort you.”

He turned without waiting for a reply, but not before a shadow crossed his eyes—dark and fleeting, gone before it could be named.

Rickard watched the back of Tywin’s golden head with a faint scowl. “I stand corrected.” He said dryly. “I did not know House Redwyne held such… influence at court.”

"Well, we do supply the finest mead in the realm." Olenna jested, then she added more solemnly. "I must take my leave. ut I grant you leave to write to me Lord Stark, as friends. Though I fear we are not a match, if there is any way I might bring your concerns closer to the King’s ear, you have my word that I shall try.”

Rickard inclined his head, clearly surprised by her frankness. Olenna bit the inside of her cheek, thoughtful. There was something she needed to know—something about the Wall, and the Night’s Watch—but it would have to be asked carefully. Anything too strange, and he might think her mad.

“There is… one more request I would make of you.” She said at last.

Rickard blinked, then bowed his head once more. “Name it, my lady.”

She found Tywin at the entrance gates, face impassive. He seemed to have grown taller yet again, since the last time she saw him. Olenna had to quicken her pace to match his long strides, her breath forming pale puffs in the frigid air.

“You always lead me on quite the chase.” She said between breaths. “This reminds me of another time—not so long ago.”

Tywin halted abruptly and turned to face her. “If you are speaking of your first arrival at King’s Landing… that was nearly a decade past.”

Olenna looked away, abashed. Had it been so long ago already?

She heard Tywin sigh. "I remember it well."

Then, without a word, he unfastened the heavy cloak from his shoulders and swept it over hers. Warmth and the faint scent of summer grass wrapped around Olenna. She glanced back up at him, eyes wide.

"You are shivering, and your lips have become blue." He said simply and resumed his brisk pace.

Olenna tightened the cloak around her, secretly grateful. "I did not think you concerned yourself with my well-being, Lannister."

“I did not think you to be one wooed by pretty words and favors.” Tywin responded. “It seems we are both learning things.”

Olenna’s face flamed. “I was only jesting with Lord Stark.” 

"Nevertheless, he remains quite taken with you."

She exhaled slowly, gaze drifting to the snow-draped trees. “He is afraid—for his people. We cannot fault him for that… and he believes the North would be a welcome refuge for me. Perhaps he is right.” 

Tywin scoffed. “Did he speak of frigid winds and vanished cattle? Of children swallowed by snow? Stark would sooner call a split tree a message from the Children of the Forest than suspect treachery among his own lords. Honor often walks hand in hand with foolishness.” 

Olenna shot him a sidelong glance. “Well, I am no fool, Lannister. I do not believe every tale from beyond the Wall, but I am not blind either. Magic once ruled our skies. Dragons breathed fire, kings knelt—or burned.” She lowered her voice. “And once… there were even darker forces that walked our world.”

“The Others…” Tywin said immediately. “Have not been seen nor heard of in centuries, they are lost to snow and ice.”

“Dragons were made of fire.” Olenna replied, her tone grim. “And now that they are gone from the world… what is left, but snow and ice?” 

Tywin spared her a glance, but spoke no further. Perhaps he thought her foolish. But Olenna had seen it with her own eyes, had seen the dragons return from three petrified eggs. They had been the only hope against the dangerous forces creeping from the North. A final defense.

But now with Queen Rhaella gone, there would be no Daenerys Stormborn to bring forth dragons from stone.

Suddenly—Olenna stopped in her tracks.

The eggs.

They were out there, somewhere. Perhaps not just three. There could be more—hidden, lost to time. And there were still those with the blood of the dragon flowing through their veins. The power to awaken them still existed. Olenna drew a long breath, her mind spiraling faster than the winds of winter.

If fire had returned once… it could again.

Olenna simply needed to uncover how.

Chapter Text

Olenna and Tywin arrived back at the castle to find the coronation feast for King Jaehaerys in full swing. Olenna’s eyes strayed to the Iron Throne, where the newly crowned King Jahaerys II sat, dwarfed by the jagged, imposing chair. From where Olenna stood, Jaehaerys looked almost spectral—his face sunken, his form diminished.

She remembered Queen Betha’s effortless grace, how she had at times taken the daunting seat in her lord husband’s stead, her regal bearing a worthy match for the throne. The memory struck Olenna with a sharp pang of sorrow. Take care of my Daeron… and my grandson, Betha’s voice from the odd dream echoed in her mind.

“A moment, my lady.” Tywin murmured before disappearing into the crowd, presumably in search of the prince. 

Olenna dodged around the gathered lords and ladies, her mind wandering leagues away as she drifted toward an edge of the hall. Her thoughts were interrupted when Prince Daeron passed by, clad in the splendor of his Kingsguard armor, eyes red-rimmed. Olenna only offered him a weak smile, she knew better than to ask him how he was feeling.

“You’d best see to that.” Daeron muttered as greeting, nodding toward a cluster of nobles in the far corner of the hall. “I would have dealt with it myself, were I not needed elsewhere.”

“What is happening?” Olenna asked, her brow furrowing.

Before she could press for an explanation, a fellow Kingsguard called Daeron away. He left her with a meaningful glance, and Olenna quickly approached the gathered nobles. At their midst stood Prince Aerys, his countenance wrought with vexation, as though he would rather be anywhere than where he now stood. Olenna stepped in swiftly, offering a polite excuse about a summons from the Grand Maester before deftly steering Aerys aside. Once they were out of earshot, she turned to him.

“Thank the Seven you’re here.” Aerys muttered, slumping against the wall. “I sent Ty to find you hours ago.”

“I was in godswood.” Olenna replied softly. “Why did you summon me?”

He glanced at Olenna again, a flicker of gratitude breaking through his anguish. “I have been meaning to thank you properly my lady, for what you did that night.”

“I only did what anyone should have done.” Olenna said quietly, words tinged with regret. “I only wish I could have done more.”

Aerys's violet eyes narrowed with sudden intensity, his voice dropping into an urgent whisper. “You are like me, are you not? What I mean to say... you know things, perhaps see things.” Aerys pressed, his tone insistent. “When I told you they had gone to Summerhall, you cried out, you wept. You knew something had happened before the raven even arrived.”

Olenna stilled. "That was merely chance—”

“No, do not lie to me!” Aerys's face contorted with sudden rage as his hand lashed out to seize hers. But when Olenna flinched in pain, his fury dissolved swiftly. “Forgive me… I—sometimes it feels as though my thoughts are not my own. As though madness grips me."

Olenna felt her heart ache for the boy, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “You are not mad, my prince.”

Aerys drew a shaky breath, his voice trembling. “I need someone I can trust, people at court that my grandmother and mother trusted. Yet that number dwindles with each passing day. Right now, I have only you.”

His words hung heavy in the air, raw and vulnerable. Olenna exhaled softly, the weight of his confession settling upon her.

“Prince Aerys.” She said carefully, her tone gentle. “I shall stand by your side, but this is neither the hour nor the place for such matters. In privacy, we may speak further.” She paused, then added, her voice lowering. “You spoke the other night of the hidden passages beneath the castle… Perhaps we might walk there tonight, away from prying eyes and ears?”

Aerys nodded fervently, a flicker of relief crossing his face at the thought of escaping the castle’s stifling confines. Yet, as he released her wrist, his gaze fell upon the faint crescent marks left by his grip that fateful night, faint but still visible beneath the fading bruises of mottled blue.

A shadow of guilt darkened his features. “Did I do that?”

“You were not yourself.” Olenna said gently. “All is forgiven, my prince. I am glad I could be there to offer you some comfort.”

Before Aerys could respond, sharp footsteps heralded Tywin’s arrival. He was frowning, his eyes flicked to Olenna’s wrist, then to the prince.

“Ty!” Aerys called out as he released Olenna, stepping back hastily. “I was just telling Lady Redwyne that—ah, never mind that now! Come, let us find some wine and seek quieter company…”

Prince Aerys strode away, pausing only to cast a quick glance at Olenna—a look that Tywin Lannister did not miss. His sharp, calculating eyes flicked briefly to the faint discolorations on her wrist before she could tug the sleeve of her gown over them. For the briefest moment, something flashed in his gaze—suspicion, perhaps, or disapproval—but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Without a word, he turned and followed the prince out of the hall.

Olenna did not follow. Instead, she retreated into the shadows of the grand hall, her thoughts already turning to the solace she would find in the quiet embrace of a goblet of wine. The weight of the evening pressed upon her, but for now, the drink would offer its fleeting comfort.

At the hour of the wolf, when the night hung thick with shadows, Olenna made her way to Prince Aerys’s chambers. In her hand, she carried a vial of dark dye, its contents meant to transform his silver hair into a inky black—a disguise for the night ahead. Her own crimson locks had been similarly altered; they were too conspicuous in the murky alleys of Flea Bottom. 

Aerys greeted her with a swift nod, ushering her inside. He led her behind his bed, to a hidden entrance that opened into the secret tunnels beneath the Red Keep. Together, they ventured down the darkness, until they emerged in the muddied streets of Flea Bottom. Olenna looped her arm through the prince’s, causing him to startle at her sudden closeness. But the gesture allowed them to blend seamlessly into the bustling crowd in the chaotic maze of Flea Bottom’s streets.

Tonight, Olenna sought refuge in one of its more respectable haunts—the Weeping Wench. The poorly painted sign above the door depicted a buxom, sorrowful woman with teardrops falling into her mug. It was a haven for lesser nobles who frequented the lower districts. A sanctuary of sorts for men and women alike to seek comfort, and where—for a time—one could shed their burdens and pretend to be free of them. 

Inside, the air was thick with the stench of spiced wine and the murmur of hushed conversations. Olenna jovially greeted the serving woman, ordering two flagons of Arbor red, before leading the prince towards a burly guard standing at the base of the stairs. Olenna pressed two gold coins into his palm and the man gave a curt nod, stepping aside to let them ascend to the upper floor where there were fewer patrons. 

Once there, Aerys finally pulled back his hood, his regal bearing still evident despite the darkened hair. He accepted the flagon from Olenna, lifting it eagerly to his lips as his violet gaze swept warily over their surroundings.

“Prince Daeron brought me here years ago.” Olenna offered, easing into her seat. “They know us well—and are well compensated for their discretion.”

Her eyes caught, for the briefest moment, on a golden-haired man across the room. His bronzed skin and salt-worn bearing marked him as one of the sea. He met her gaze and raised his glass in silent greeting. Olenna returned it with a faint smile before turning back.

Aerys hadn’t missed the exchange.

He said nothing at first, only studied her with a faintly furrowed brow. There was no anger in his expression—only a subtle, simmering calculation. Olenna could almost feel the thoughts sifting behind his eyes. Before she could speak, he raised a hand to forestall her.

“You need not explain yourself to me.” Aerys said, his tone measured. “I am not your keeper, nor your judge. But if others at court were to witness such things…” Aerys looked as though he meant to say more, but then shook his head, his words trailing off into the tavern’s din.

Olenna sighed, leaning back in her chair. “My prince, if you are ill at ease then we may leave.”

“Believe me, I care not.” Aerys assured her swiftly. “Targaryens are no strangers to such... arrangements. You have fire in your veins. Enough to be counted as kin. My only concern is for—” He paused again, and Olenna sensed some purposeful omission. "I only meant… I doubt the bards would spin a sweet tune of a highborn lady and a sailor."

Olenna let out a soft, lilting laugh. “Then the bards are fools. They prefer their heroes shining and their ladies chaste.” She lifted her cup with mock solemnity. “What a dreadfully dull world they would write us into.”

That earned a blink from Aerys, followed by a sudden laugh—sharp and bright.

“You are so very odd, Olenna Redwyne.” He said almost fondly.

“So I’ve been told.” Olenna replied, with a wry smile. She raised her flagon in a toast. “To secrets—yours and mine.”

Aerys hesitated for a moment, then clinked his flagon against hers, and drank deep. Yet as the wine warmed his throat, his mirth faded, his gaze darkening as it lingered upon his cup. When he spoke again, his voice was low, almost fragile, as though he feared the weight of the words even as he gave them breath

“So, you have... dreams as well?” He spoke the words like a man reaching through fog, searching for someone—anyone—to share his burden.

Olenna paused, then answered with practiced calm. “Yes. Sometimes.” It was easier than untangling the truth, easier than explaining how it was not dreams at all, but memory.

Aerys drew in a sharp breath, as if her answer had lifted some invisible weight from his chest. “I knew it.” He whispered, more to himself than her. “I knew I was not the only one... What have you seen?”

“Many things.” Olenna murmured. “Wars. Kingdoms shattered. Families undone.” Her voice trailed off, watching him nod with solemn understanding, the look in his eyes echoing her own grief.

A serving girl arrived with another flagon of wine. Olenna took her cup with quiet gratitude, drinking more quickly than was wise. Across the room, the golden-haired sailor had risen. He moved with slow ease toward a side door, but paused at the threshold, turning his head. Their eyes met. He smiled.

Olenna did not look away.

Aerys's expression pinched as he caught the exchange. He muttered something under his breath—too low for her to catch. Olenna leaned forward, hoping to divert him.

“My prince.” She said, nodding toward the heart of the tavern. The lanterns had dimmed, and a hush rippeled across the gathering as a Lyseni dancer stepped into the firelight. She moved like water made flesh, every motion deliberate, sensual. “Meryl is an enchantress with her feet. Trust me—enjoy the wine and the dance.”

She drained her cup and rose with easy grace.

Aerys blinked up at her. “Where are you going?”

“I shall return before the performance ends.” She said, a faint smile curving her lips. “Enjoy yourself.”

Aerys watched incredulously as she slipped through the crowd, his eyes widening when she approached the golden-haired man, whose gaze clung to her with bold, unmistakable intent. For a moment, Aerys nearly rose—some protective instinct flaring—but then Olenna touched the man’s forearm, leaning close to speak. The sailor laughed, and the two of them disappeared behind a narrow door.

Aerys sank slowly back into his seat, stunned. Lady Olenna Redwyne was… something else entirely.

He turned his eyes to the stage, willing himself to focus on the Lyseni dancer. She moved like waves across a midnight sea, her silks unfurling like banners in a storm. Her smile—mysterious and deliberate—caught his eye, and something in it stirred unease deep within him.

For it reminded him of Lady Joanna.

His stomach twisted. He gripped his cup more tightly, the warmth of the wine suddenly cloying. Joanna was promised to Tywin—his oldest friend, his brother in all but name.

He should not have to remind himself of this quite so often.

And yet…

If Aerys were, in some moment of wine-drenched folly, to speak aloud the feelings stirring in him for Lady Joanna...

Would Tywin truly mind?

Aerys had known Tywin all his life—since they were boys sparring with wooden swords and dreaming of glory. He knew what Tywin tolerated, what he despised. Sometimes he felt he knew Tywin better than Tywin knew himself.

And he’d seen it—the way Tywin looked at Lady Olenna. Not with affection, not even with admiration, but with the same quiet intensity he reserved for a blade of Valyrian steel or a piece of armor too fine to be worn... with silent hunger.

Aerys cursed under his breath. Perhaps Tywin didn’t even realize it yet—but Aerys did. He saw it clearly. And if Tywin ever discovered where Aerys had gone tonight, and in whose company...

His eyes drifted once more to the door through which Olenna had vanished, a prickling unease rising beneath his skin. He exhaled slowly, the cup heavy in his hand.

“He will kill me if he ever learns of this.”

The next morning, at a most ungodly hour, the chains of Maester Pycelle rattled as he shuffled outside Olenna’s chambers. Olenna groaned, burying her face deeper into her silken pillows, but Joanna was already at her side shaking her gently. 

“It is nigh upon noon, my lady.” Joanna said, pulling back the curtains to let in the harsh light of day. “You must rise.”

Olenna muttered something uncharitable under her breath but allowed Joanna to help her dress. By the time Pycelle entered, she was seated by the window, her hair still disheveled, her eyes heavy with sleep. 

As he stepped forward, the maester made an attempt to wave Joanna away with a dismissive, “Begone, girl.”

Joanna’s glower was sharp as a honed blade, she would not move an inch.

“It is alright, Maester Pycelle. Joanna is my trusted lady.” Olenna said, her tone firm. She did not miss the way Joanna’s chest puffed out with pride at the words. 

Pycelle hesitated but at length nodded, setting a small cup upon the table beside her. “The moon tea you requested, my lady.” 

Joanna immediately stilled, her gaze flicking from the cup to Olenna as she picked up the cup and drank its contents in one swift motion, grimacing at the bitter taste.

“Fetch me some heating stones, Joanna.” She lamented, wondering if this agony was truly worth the brief pleasure with strangers whose faces she could barely recall. “This concoction ails me with terrible stomach pains for a day or two. And draw me a hot bath while you’re at it. Hot, not warm.”

“Certainly, my lady.” Joanna inclined her head, though there was a slight furrow of her brow as she glanced over at the maester.

Pycelle’s beady eyes were glinting with something unreadable. “Lady Redwyne is well acquainted with moon tea. Hardly requires me to tell her what to do anymore.” He paused, his gaze shifting to something serious. “And as always, I have kept your secret, my lady and shall continue to do so.”

Olenna sighed, leaning back in her chair. Perhaps she was trading in too many secrets these days. “Yes, thank you, Maester.” She said, her tone dismissive.

Pycelle lingered. “As you surely know, the ingredients are hard to come by, and very highly priced–”

“I will have a bag of gold sent to you, Maester Pycelle.” Olenna assured him.

Joanna’s lips thinned as she turned to Pycelle. “Lady Olenna has been complaining of a headache, and I need to prepare her for the bath. Would the maester like to remain while I disrobe her?”

Pycelle’s eyes widened, and for a moment, Olenna saw the ill-disguised desire flicker in his gaze before he masked it with feigned shock. He spluttered something incoherent, then bowed hastily and retreated from the room.

“Thank you, Joanna.” Olenna said once the door had closed behind him. “If you are to be my lady, you might as well know. I shall not need this tea too often… but sometimes…”

Joanna merely nodded, her expression unreadable. “I understand, my lady. You have my silence.”

Not long after, the bath was drawn. Olenna sank into the stone tub, relishing the scalding heat against her skin. Hot steam swirled around her, the contrast between the heat of the water and the cool air making her flesh prickle. Joanna dutifully set about washing the black ink out of her hair, adding fragrant oils that curled into the air in perfumed wisps, until the whole room smelled of roses. She then laid a cool cloth over Olenna’s brow to soothe the dull ache that had begun to bloom behind her temples.

"My lady, from henceforth, I can make moon tea for you." Joanna said carefully. "I am well versed in herbs and plants, and I keep a well stocked apothecary. You need not seek Maester Pycelle's aid again."

"Thank you, Joanna." Olenna sighed as she leaned back and closed her eyes, allowing the warmth to sink deep into her tired limbs.

“I also know how to make a concoction to soothe pains, my lady.” Joanna added softly. “Let me fetch the ingredients. It will be but a moment.”

Olenna groaned her assent, her stomach already twisting unpleasantly from the moon tea. As Joanna departed, Olenna let herself sink deeper into the water, her thoughts meandering.

Last night, after she had returned from her little dalliance with the faceless sailor—Prince Aerys, deep into his cups, had let his tongue loosen, speaking of Joanna—rambling about her pretty eyes and her gentle smile, confirming his infatuation for the young Lannister lady. And then, with a grimace towards Olenna, he had muttered that Tywin… Tywin would be furious. The words had hung around the prince like a foreboding storm cloud all evening, until she had dragged him back up to the castle.

There was a knock at the door, pulling Olenna from her thoughts. “Enter.” She called, assuming it was Joanna returning with the herbs.

The door swung open, and footsteps echoed in the room, followed by an abrupt silence. Olenna removed the cool cloth from her eyes, squinting through the steam. “Joanna, the pain has started. Did you get the—oh, Seven hells.”

For standing before her was Tywin Lannister, his face frozen in a rare display of discomposure, his pale skin blotching deeper crimson than his banner. Between them sat only the small table, upon which rested the incriminating cup of moon tea. Olenna could only hope he was not as well-versed as his cousin was in medicinal remedies.

“I came to… to say…” Tywin visibly swallowed, his eyes dipping down before rising to meet hers. He quickly brandished a stack of letters. “These are from my cousin's parents. I sometimes leave them here…”

“Yes, she mentioned.” Olenna said, finding her voice unnaturally high. She prayed the color from the rose-scented oils veiled the bathwater enough to spare her modesty. Why had Tywin not turned on his heel and fled?

“My lady, shall I—” Joanna’s voice cut through the tension as she stepped inside, clutching her herbs. She faltered mid-step, her eyes darting from her cousin to Olenna.

Tywin finally wrenched his gaze from Olenna at last, turning to Joanna, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His sharp eyes flicked to the bundle of herbs in her hands. “Those plants... Is Lady Redwyne unwell?”

“It is nothing, cousin.” Joanna said hastily, moving to obscure the telltale teacup. Yet her sudden movement only drew Tywin’s attention to it. In a single, fluid stride, he plucked the cup from the table and peered inside.

Olenna held her breath. She saw the moment understanding dawned. His shoulders stiffened. His jaw locked. Yet he did not speak. Instead, he set the cup down with careful precision. 

“I came only to deliver these letters from uncle Jason.” He finally muttered to Joanna, his voice dangerously low.

“Cousin—” Joanna began, but Tywin was already turning to leave.

“Ser Lannister.” Olenna called out, surprising even herself. She wasn’t sure why she stopped him—to ask him not to repeat this to anyone? To explain herself? To ask if he was well?

To her surprise, Tywin stopped. Olenna saw the muted rage in his emerald eyes, the tension in his posture. It was inexplicable, this anger. Did he truly find what she had done so heinous? Perhaps he thought Olenna to be a terrible presence by his cousin's side. Prince Aerys had not minded, but then again, the prince had a reputation with women... Tywin Lannister, on the other hand, had always been a man of rigid principles. Even in her past life, Olenna had never heard of any scandalous dalliances by the Lion of Casterly Rock—even after Joanna's death, Tywin had been loyal to his wife.

Of course he would find this distasteful.

“I bid you farewell, my lady.” Tywin said at last, each syllable clipped and precise. Then he swept out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall. Joanna lingered a moment before muttering a hasty excuse and following after him.

The next morning, Olenna learned that Tywin Lannister had departed from King’s Landing.

Chapter Text

Many moons had passed, and still no word had come from Tywin Lannister. Joanna endured her cousin’s silence with the quiet grace expected of her station, yet Olenna was not so easily fooled. She saw it—in the stiffness of Joanna’s smile, in the restless dance of her fingers. The burden of it settled upon Olenna's shoulders, for she knew in her heart: whatever rift had grown between them had taken root the day Tywin Lannister happened upon her.

Thus it was that she sought counsel from the one soul she dared entrust with such delicate matter—Prince Aerys.

Olenna lingered outside the council chambers as lords streamed past. King Jaehaerys II swept past without a glance, his frame gaunt and hollow, more specter than sovereign. Yet one lord, cloaked in emerald and bearing the sigil of Hightower, cast a glance in her direction—curious. Olenna stared back, she knew that face… Then Aerys emerged.

“Who is that man?” Olenna asked him, pointing out the retreating Hightower lord.

“Ser Gerold Hightower—he has just been appointed as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.”

So, this was the White Bull... Olenna had never seen him so young before. “I had expected Prince Daeron to take up the post.”

“You know my uncle.” Aerys said, waving a dismissive hand. “He flees station, like a hare from hounds. Besides, we have no use for his reluctance now. We need steel.”

Olenna studied him—the restless energy, the fever-bright glint in his violet eyes. “And what precisely demands such steel, my prince?”

“War.” The word hung between them. “The Band of Nine slithers through the Disputed Lands, and my father means to crush them before they grow bold enough to strike at us. A raven flies for the Arbor even now—your lord father is to muster the Redwyne fleet.”

“You will ride forth?” Olenna asked.

Aerys’s chin lifted, the dragon stirring within him. “Uncle Daeron will ride with me, and Steffon… and Ty.” His gaze flicked toward the White Bull’s distant silhouette. “A heavy charge lies upon Lord Hightower, and in his first year as Lord Commander no less."

Olenna stepped closer, her voice lowering. “No word has come from Tywin Lannister in months. Lady Joanna is troubled.”

Aerys's composure fractured for half a heartbeat, then quickly smoothed. "Lady Joanna has a gentle heart. I do not want her alarmed by the prospect of this war, but you may reveal to her that her cousin scouts ahead.”

“Scouting?” Olenna echoed. 

“He surveys the enemy's strength in the Disputed Lands.” Aerys added.

“I know what scouting means, my prince.” Olenna cut in. “But… he is alone?”

“He is able, and he must prove himself—now that he is the companion of the crown prince.” He studied Olenna’s face. “Why this sudden interest in Tywin's whereabouts, my lady?”

Olenna pressed her lips in a tight line. These days, her mind lingered elsewhere. Ever since that cursed day in her chambers...

“Let Lady Joanna know she need not worry.” Aerys assured her. “I shall see Ty soon, we ride out within the fortnight. This war will be no small affair—all the great houses are mustering their banners. Even House Martell, my father says, has agreed to send us arms.”

“As they must.” Olenna murmured. “So long as the Blackfyre pretender draws breath, there will always be an army to raise steel against the Seven Kingdoms.”

Aerys nodded grimly. “And yet Maelys is not the only serpent among them. Alequo Adarys—the one they call Silvertongue in the Free Cities—none know the Stepstones as he does. My father says this war shall not be ended whilst the bastard draws breath.” His voice dropped. “I would that my dreams revealed the end of this war… but all I see is fire. Lady Olenna, have you seen anything of this war?”

Olenna sifted through her memories. Her father's words echoed—poison in his mistress’s kiss—the Silvertongue’s end brought by a woman’s hand. The tale had lingered like a shadow in her thoughts. Long after, another boy-king had perished the same way… years later, when Joffrey Baratheon had met his fate.

“I have glimpsed little of this war, my prince.” Olenna said at length, fingers tracing the embroidery of her sleeve. “Yet men of power often surround themselves with women. And if the rumors hold truth, this Silvertongue treats his concubines with much cruelty, leaving scars deeper than flesh. Some wounds can fester until even the meekest hand might strike.”

“Strike how?” Aerys’s eyes gleamed with understanding. “You are suggesting poison."

Olenna met his gaze. "The Stranger wears many faces. A cupbearer one day, a grieving wife the next. In the narrow alleys of the Free Cities, I hear merchants sell pretty trinkets—glass baubles that hide death within their hollow cores."

Aerys was silent a moment, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. “Most lords would scorn such dishonorable means.”

“Then let them die their honorable deaths." Olenna retorted coolly. 

Aerys laughed. “Your words have given me much to think upon, Lady Olenna.”

Good, Olenna thought. Perhaps this war could be won with fewer swords drawn than the last time.

Year 259 After the Conquest, AC.

Tywin Lannister

The battlefield was a cacophony of steel and screams, the air thick with the stench of blood and sweat. Tywin Lannister moved through the chaos with a cold, calculated precision, his sword flashing like a silver streak as it fell man after man. The weight of the blade in his hand felt right, natural, as though it were an extension of his will. He relished the rhythm of it—the clash of metal, the cries of the fallen, the way his enemies crumpled before him. There was a darkness in him that thrived in this carnage, a part of him that felt more alive amidst the death and destruction than it ever did in the gilded halls of Casterly Rock.

A deafening warcry pierced the chaos of the battlefield. Tywin’s head snapped toward the familiar sound, his sharp eyes cutting through the fray. There, amidst the carnage, was Prince Aerys, his silver hair streaked with blood and dirt, his violet eyes glazed with a feral, unthinking rage. The prince had dismounted, his sword swinging in wild, uncontrolled arcs as he hacked through the enemy with reckless abandon. But consumed by his fury, the prince had not noticed the mercenary approaching from behind, blade raised and ready to strike.

Tywin’s jaw tightened. Without hesitation, he spurred his horse forward, cutting down anyone foolish enough to stand in his path. He reached Aerys just as the mercenary lunged, his blade slicing through the air. Tywin’s sword intercepted the strike with a deafening clang, the force of the blow reverberating through his arm. With a twist of his wrist, he disarmed the man and drove his blade through the mercenary’s throat, the life fading from his eyes as he crumpled to the ground. Blood splattered Tywin’s armor, darkening the bright crimson of his Lannister sigil. 

Yes, Tywin decided that he relished warfare.

Aerys turned, his chest heaving as realization dawned. “Ty.” He gasped, his voice hoarse. 

Tywin’s expression remained impassive, though his eyes gleamed with a flicker of satisfaction. “Stay close.”

Aerys nodded, his earlier bloodlust only slightly tempered. Together, they fought back-to-back, their movements synchronized. Tywin’s blade was a whirlwind of death, each strike precise and calculated. Aerys on the other hand fought with the raw, untamed ferocity of a dragon unleashed, his sword swinging with brutal lethality, each blow fueled by a fury that seemed to ignite the air around him.

The battlefield around them became a blur of steel and blood, their enemies falling like wheat before the scythe.

As the battle raged on, the field around them grew quieter, the cries of the dying fading into an eerie silence. When the sun rose, and the last enemy fell, Tywin and Aerys stood amidst the carnage, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Tywin wiped his blade clean on the cloak of a fallen foe, frowning when some dried blood lingered.

Aerys leaned heavily on his sword, his face pale but his eyes alight with gratitude. “You fight like a demon, Ty.” His gaze swept over the battlefield. “We won again today.”

Tywin sheathed his sword. “There is still tomorrow.”

Aerys straightened, disbelief evident in his gaze. “That is all you can say? I owe you my life.” He clapped Tywin’s shoulder, and said more quietly. “I shall not forget this.”

Tywin’s lips twitched. “See that you do not. Now, let’s get you back to camp before your father sends the entire Kingsguard after you.”

The war tent was thick with tension as Tywin and Aerys entered. King Jaehaerys II sat at the head of the table, his gaunt face etched with worry as he listened to Lord Gerold Hightower’s grim report. The losses had been heavy, and the mood was somber. Tywin’s gaze flicked to Steffon Baratheon, whose blue eyes were still red-rimmed. His father, Lord Ormund, had fallen only a few days prior, and the weight of grief hung heavy on the young lord. Tywin understood the pain all too well—his own uncle, Jason Lannister, had been slain in battle a fortnight ago.

“We cannot continue in this manner.” Lord Gerold was saying, his voice grave. “We need to send out ships, and muster more men.”

“The Golden Company has created a blockade.” Another lord interjected. “No ships can pass.”

A fiery-haired man—Lord Redwyne—slammed his fist on the table. “My men can take our ships around the Golden Company. The issue is that there are no men left to bring, from anywhere in Westeros.”

A heavy silence followed. Their numbers were dwindling, and the realm’s reserves of fighting men were nearly exhausted.

“Of course, this is to be expected.” Quellon Greyjoy sneered, his mocking gaze fixed on Tywin, who had just entered. “Especially when not all houses are equally present.”

“I surmise you are referring to House Martell, Lord Greyjoy.” Tywin replied coolly, his voice cutting like a blade. “Might I remind you that my father, Lord Tytos Lannister, has sent a thousand knights and ten thousand men-at-arms to this cause, more so than any other house.”

“Yes.” Quellon shot back, his tone dripping with disdain. “...and he sent a boy to lead them.”

"Ser Lannister has led the men ably thus far." King Jaehaerys said, his voice steady. "He shall retain command whilst we await the coming of our reinforcements." Then, turning to Tywin, he added. "Word has reached me that Ser Roger Reyne rides to join our host. Given his kinship with House Lannister, it was deemed fitting he lend his strength to your cause."

Tywin nodded to the king—but next to him Quellon Greyjoy snorted with glee. The Reynes, along with the Tarbecks, despised the Lannisters—a fact known to all. Tywin was certain that it would not be long before they formed an alliance and rose against Casterly Rock. Tywin had tried to warn his father, but the old fool paid him no heed.

The discussion moved on to the pressing matter of Maelys Blackfyre. Lord Gerold Hightower turned to Ser Barristan Selmy, who had taken temporary command following Lord Ormund’s death.

“My lords." Ser Barristan said. "I have spoken to several of the prisoners, and gleaned this much… that Maelys Blackfyre shall not reveal himself until all other recourse is spent. So long as the Golden Company and their sellswords harry our flanks, he has little cause to risk open battle. He shall bide his time—grinding us down, 'til the Seven Kingdoms are weary and ripe for his taking.”

“The Golden Company and the mercenaries must have been bought with coin from the Free Cities.” Lord Gerold remarked.

"The Silvertongue.” Lord Redwyne concluded with a heavy sigh.

The name hung in the air like a curse. Alequo Adarys, the Silvertongue, was the linchpin of their enemy’s strategy. From the corner of his eye, Tywin marked Prince Aerys shifting oddly at the utterance of the Silvertongue’s name.

“If we slay Alequo Adarys, his forces will scatter. Blackfyre will be forced to come out and rally his men.” King Jahaerys surmised. 

“Aye.” Ser Barristan replied. “But his fortress in the Free Cities is nigh impenetrable. It would take our full army to breach it.”

Quellon Greyjoy scoffed. "We cannot divert our army from here! What folly..."

Another dead end. Tywin frowned.

As the lords began to argue in circles, Tywin caught Aerys slipping out of the tent. After a moment’s hesitation, Tywin followed. He found the prince outside, pacing with restless energy.

“Out with it, Aerys.” Tywin said.

“I have a plan.” Aerys said, rummaging through the folds of his cloak. He drew forth a slender chain, from which hung a glass berry.

Tywin’s brows knit. He recalled the prince’s insistence on visiting the merchant’s quarter earlier, though Aerys had offered no explanation for the urgency—or what, exactly, had captured his interest.

“What is that?” Tywin asked, his voice low.

“The Silvertongue’s undoing.” Aerys whispered.

Tywin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gods, what scheme festers now in that fevered mind of yours?”

Aerys grinned. “A mad one! If we succeed, we could slay him without drawing a blade! Wash your face. Doff your armor. We ride for the city in disguise—I shall explain on the way.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed. “Aerys, if this be folly—”

“Do you wish to help or not?” Aerys cut in, searching Tywin's face. “Then trust me.”

Reluctantly, Tywin nodded. They shed their armor, donning plain clothing and concealing their weapons beneath heavy cloaks. As they slipped into the city, Aerys explained his plan in hushed tones—poison, hidden in the necklace and to be administered by a woman close to the Silvertongue—each word he said solidified Tywin’s quiet interest. He had half a mind to return to the marketplace himself, to see firsthand how the mercants crafted the poison trinkets.

Until they reached their destination. 

Tywin looked up at the dwelling before them—a brothel, its garish sign swinging in the morning breeze. He turned to Aerys, his expression dark. “I am not stepping a foot inside that vile establishment.”

Aerys snorted. “I thought you might say that. But alas, the Silvertongue’s weakness lies within. Fret not, at this hour, only sleepers dwell inside. Stand watch if you must. I only need to speak with the girls who are called to the Silvertongue's palace.”

Left alone to stand guard, Tywin cast his gaze over the dimly lit street. The early morning chill carried with it hushed murmurs and laughter, the muffled sighs of lovers still abed. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a woman perched indecently on atop another’s lap, he observed the interaction with a detached sort of interest.

Frivolity had never been in his nature. He was like Steffon in that regard—far too disciplined. But Aerys… Aerys was a Targaryen through and through, reveling in the pleasures of the flesh and the company of women.

Tywin’s thoughts drifted to the day he had left King’s Landing to scout ahead. He had visited Aerys’s chambers to bid him farewell, only to find the prince wine-addled and scarcely coherent. His boots and cloak, carelessly discarded upon the floor, had borne the telltale splashes of light clay mud—the characteristic filth of Flea Bottom’s streets. 

Imagine then, Tywin’s surprise when he saw those same splatters on the boots in Lady Olenna Redwyne’s chambers…

Tywin was no fool. 

He had harbored his suspicions about them since the king's coronation, when he had borne witness to that peculiar exchange between Aerys and Lady Redwyne—their words hushed, the prince’s fingers wrapped around the bruises marring the lady’s wrist. 

They had lain together.

If the mud had not been incriminating enough, the faint scent of moon tea clinging to her cup left little room for doubt—

A sudden surge coursed through Tywin's veins—anger, though he couldn’t say toward whom. Aerys? But the prince was no ravager of unwilling maidens. No, it was a willing match, he concluded. The prince had always been close her. Tywin, in his measured way, called her Lady Redwyne—but Aerys… Aerys had never shied from calling her Lady Olenna.

Was it their kinship that had led them to share a bed?

Tywin’s leather glove creaked at the seams as his fist clenched tight around the pommel of his sword. But then, the sound of hurried footsteps broke his reverie. Aerys bounded down the brothel steps, his face alight with mad glee.

“It is done—let us flee!” He exclaimed, his voice brimming with triumph.

Tywin’s gaze lingered on his friend for a moment. Aerys was his greatest ally, closer than a brother. His trust was something Tywin would never dare betray.

They returned back to camp without rousing suspicion.

Once back in Aerys’s tent, the prince stripped off his clothing as a pageboy delivered a pail of warm water for washing. Aerys instructed the boy to fetch a second pail for Tywin, waiting until it was brought before speaking again.

“We should know soon enough if this plot is successful.” Aerys said eagerly. “Mayhap within a few days, if the rumors of the Silvertongue’s appetite for women hold true. Then Maelys Blackfyre will be forced to show himself, and dispatching him should be a simpler task.”

“Indeed.” Tywin replied, swiftly removing the remnants of his bloodstained underclothes. He scrubbed the darkened blood from his skin, the water quickly growing murky with red. He stared into it for a moment, his brow furrowed. “Then we return home.”

“And then we return home.” Aerys echoed, wrinkling his nose as he glanced toward the tent flap. “I can smell the rot from here. Where are the roses the pageboy brought in?”

“I had them thrown away.” Tywin responded tersely.

Aerys cast him a look of bewilderment. “Whatever for?” 

Why indeed… the stench of roses stirred unwelcome memories.

Never had Tywin Lannister despised himself more than on that day in Olenna Redwyne’s chambers. He had always prided himself on his ability to rise above the base impulses that ensnared lesser men. He had seen the ruin his father’s weakness had brought upon House Lannister—the shame, the mockery. Tywin had vowed never to repeat such folly. And yet, in that moment—surrounded by the cloying perfume of roses—Tywin had come to a bitter realization. He was no better than any other man. Even now, memory lingered, burned into his mind with cruel clarity: the faint flush upon her freckled skin, the slow trickle of droplets down her throat…

It had been a test of will, one he had barely endured.

Once dressed, Tywin spoke again, seeking any diversion to rid himself of that accursed memory. “If this poison proves fatal, you will be praised for your cunning—and feared for it.”

“No.” Aerys replied sharply, spinning around to face him. “I will not have it known that we had a hand in this. Let them believe the deed was born of the Free Cities, let it seem a betrayal from his own—he shall be marked a tyrant in the eyes of his people. And as for praise... if any is owed, it belongs to Lady Olenna. She is the one who planted the thought in the first place.”

Tywin froze, wondering at first if he had misheard. “You consulted with Lady Redwyne on this matter?”

“She came to bid me farewell before we departed King’s Landing.” Aerys continued absently, busying himself with a jug of wine. “She spoke of your—ah, cousin, Lady Joanna Lannister, and her concern over your sudden departure.” Aerys’s eyes darted back to Tywin. “Have you… written to Lady Lannister about her father’s passing?”

“No.” Tywin said curtly. “I have not found the time.”

“Ah, a shame.” Aerys said, crossing the tent to hand Tywin a goblet brimming with wine. “With your leave, I could put quill to parchment and deliver the news myself—enclosed with my own letter to Lady Olenna.”

Tywin studied the prince. “You converse with Lady Redwyne... what do the two of you speak about?” 

Aerys’s brow lifted, surprise flitting across his features. His mouth parted, but no sound came at first. Then, drawing a slow breath, his manner sobered. “Tywin… there is something I must confess.”

Tywin’s face remained as unreadable as stone, though his mind churned. This was it, he thought. The prince would now confess to his dalliance with Lady Redwyne—he was certain of it.

"Lady Olenna knows of my night terrors." Aerys revealed, speaking very quicky. "I have confided in her; we speak of it in our letters, no more. She understands, because she too—" Aerys faltered, pausing as if reconsidering his words. "Well, she has a compassionate heart, as you well know... and—"

Aerys continued speaking, but Tywin did not hear. This was confirmation of sorts—for when else could Olenna Redwyne have come to learn of Aerys’s nightly afflictions unless they had shared a bed? His mind raced with thoughts of her cunning... how she had positioned herself so artfully in Aerys’s life, no doubt setting her sights on the throne. 

The throne would suit her, Tywin thought grudgingly. She had once declared she would never wed, but Tywin suspected she might reconsider for the right man. A king, perhaps… 

For some reason, the thought left an oddly bitter taste in his mouth.

“Ty? Are you listening?” Aerys’s voice pierced through his thoughts. The prince’s gaze was sharp, studying him with an intensity that sought to gauge Tywin’s thoughts.

“I am pleased to hear you have found a fair companion in Lady Redwyne.” Tywin said, his tone carefully neutral. “When we return, you will certainly be expected to wed. The realm will demand it.”

“What—” Aerys began, clearly bewildered.

Tywin pressed on. “Lady Redwyne would make a suitable match for you. A noble house, but not overly ambitious, unlike most others.”

Aerys stared at him, incredulous, before laughter spilled from his lips. “You jest! Lady Olenna is but a dear friend!”

Tywin’s lips thinned. “You speak of her with a fondness I have not heard you grant any other woman, in all our years.”

“I was merely attempting to…” Aerys’s voice faltered, irritation flashing across his face. “Lady Olenna is a formidable woman, but I would never pursue her… because…” He hesitated, his hands flailing vaguely in Tywin’s direction before falling to his sides. His gaze dropped, and when he spoke again, his usual mirth had vanished. “I simply would not do that."

Tywin studied him intently, searching for any trace of falsehood, but there was none. Aerys’s words were unforced, his tone steady. There was no longing in his voice, no concealed regret—only truth. And yet, a new tension coiled within Tywin—whatever foolish notion Lady Redwyne might have entertained about the prince’s affections, they were not returned. Aerys would never take her to wife. 

Tywin would have to tell her. It would be the right thing to do—as the prince’s closest ally, he had the duty to end this before it grew into something more.

"’Tis a curious thing, Ty." Aerys mused suddenly, swirling his wine with idle care. "For all your sharpness, you are curiously blind to matters most plain." 

Tywin shot Aerys a searching glance, but the prince’s expression was hidden behind the rim of his goblet.

After a while, the prince spoke again. “Once we return, will you ride for the Westerlands?” 

“I must." Tywin nodded, jaw set like stone. "The Reynes lick their fangs, while the Tarbecks sharpen their knives." 

Aerys downed his goblet, clapping Tywin on the shoulder. “When we return, I shall aid you. We shall crush any who stand in our way.”

There was a fire in his eyes, that same bloodlust that bound them as brothers. Yet, for some reason, Tywin found himself pulling away, unable to match the excitement in Aerys’s gaze.

“No need.” Tywin said, his voice low and resolute. “I will end them myself.”

Chapter Text

Year 260 After the Conquest, AC.

Olenna Redwyne

The victory march marking the end of the War of the Ninepenny Kings was a grim procession of glory, and grief. The smallfolk thronged the cobbled streets of King’s Landing, their cheers echoing off stone walls as the triumphant host wound its way toward the Red Keep.

At the head rode Ser Barristan Selmy, an undisputed hero of the war, his silvered armor aglow in the setting sun. Beside him, a bannerman bore the gruesome spoils of war—Maelys Blackfyre’s severed head, mounted high upon a pike. Olenna did not flinch, though her stomach turned. At her side, Joanna wept quietly for her slain father.

A cheer rose from the crowd as the young heroes of the war followed—Prince Aerys, Steffon Baratheon, and Tywin Lannister—riding behind King Jaehaerys II like the three heads of the dragon reborn, their names already bound for bardsong.

That very evening, within the torchlit hall of the Red Keep, Tywin Lannister was granted the singular honor of knighting Prince Aerys himself. Before the gathered court, under the watchful eyes of king and kin, he performed the rite with solemn grace. When Aerys rose, his violet eyes alive with triumph, he grinned as though he had conquered not just the battlefield, but the entire realm. 

Olenna watched from the shadows as the revels swelled—until the scent of clove and parchment announced the approach of Maester Pycelle.

“Lady Redwyne.” He intoned, bowing with oily courtesy. “Is it not a comfort, to see the realm at peace once more?”

“Maester Pycelle.” Olenna returned coolly. “Indeed… a fine peace we have purchased—paid in blood, and dearly.”

The maester pressed his lips into a line. “You would not understand, my lady. War is the crucible of men, the forge of kings. From its ashes, power rises anew—ready to be taken by those with the will to claim it.”

“Then tell me, good Maester.” Olenna asked sweetly. “Who do you think shall rise from this one? Who shall draw the court’s favour, and command its ear?”

At this, the maester bristled, drawing himself up like a hound offended. “I do not concern myself with favorites, my lady. I serve the realm, not its fleeting fancies.”

Olenna very nearly rolled her eyes. “Of course, Maester. Forgive me. I only meant that you of all men surely understand the inner workings of court better than most. It would be foolish not to seek your counsel.”

The flattery seemed to soothe him. He gave a slow nod, pleased. “Yes, I suppose you would ask such a question.”

She blinked, maintaining a mask of calm. “Whatever do you mean, Maester?”

He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Since Queen Betha’s passing, your place here has grown… uncertain. There are whispers, my lady. I do not speak them—I merely echo what is heard in the halls.”

Olenna’s expression hardened. 

Pycelle leaned in, his voice falling to a conspirator’s whisper. “My Lady Redwyne, believe me when I say—I stand on just as precarious a perch as you. Gracious though he is, King Jaehaerys is no longer the figure the court looks to for strength. That honour lies elsewhere… with those who rule in truth, the council… and the young lords who gather so proudly before us today.”

He gestured subtly toward the centre of the hall, where Prince Aerys, Steffon Baratheon, and Tywin Lannister held court, each surrounded by eager sycophants. 

“Mark my words—these are the men who will shape the realm.”

Olenna followed his gaze. She wondered whether her future now rested in the hands of these young lords — reckless, untested, and far too certain of their own wisdom. Seven save her, she thought grimly. She prayed it would not come to that.

“I shall remain at court until I am no longer needed.” She said evenly.

“Take care, my lady. That time may be drawing near.” Pycelle murmured, the last of his courtesy crumbling. “I have heard whispers… Prince Daeron is to accompany King Jaehaerys and the rest of the Kingsguard to Dragonstone. When he goes, so too will your last tether to influence. There will be no more place for someone like you in King’s Landing. Not as you are. The court has little patience for women who linger too long without name, title… or virtue. In time, even the noblest rose is mistaken for a common bloom—plucked and passed over.”

Olenna turned to him fully, her gaze steely. 

He raised his hands in swift apology. “Of course—your secret shall remain safe with me. But my lady, the walls here have ears… and a woman of your standing, unwed and unguarded, does not endure long at court.” His gaze slid down her form with brazen ease. “Were it in my power, I would take you to wife. Alas, I am wed to my faith. And as for the younger lords…” He smiled thinly. “They are proud. None will wish a woman already touched.”

Olenna held his gaze, unflinching. Then, in a voice soft as frost, “Excuse me, Master Pycelle. I am in need of more wine.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned and swept deliberately from the hall, though the tremor in hands betrayed her anger. She made her way toward the godswood, her unlikely sanctuary through the years. Beneath the whispering leaves, where the air was cool and pure, she often found solace—hoping, perhaps, to drift back into sleep and dream of her once family.

But tonight, as she neared the heart tree, she saw another lone figure standing beneath its boughs.

“Lord Stark.” Olenna called. “We meet again.”

“Lady Redwyne.” Rickard Stark greeted, bearing the solemn weariness of a man burdened by graver matters.

“Fleeing the revels?” Olenna asked, gesturing to the laughter echoing down from the halls above.

He inclined his head. “Yes. Forgive me, but I find the Old Gods better company, and far more honest than most within these walls.”

“I can only agree.” Olenna said, a small smile curling at her lips.

They stood in silence for a spell, the wind stirring the leaves above like whispered prayers. At length, Rickard spoke once more. “I owe you an apology, for failing to answer your last letter.”

“You were at war, my lord. I believe I can forgive the lapse.” Olenna said lightly.

His eyes lingered on her. “You wrote of the Wall. Why seek such a place?”

Olenna’s eyes flickered to the heart tree beside them, its crimson sap glistening like blood in the moonlight. "You spoke once of the unrest in the North. I wish to see it for myself.” She hesitated, then added, “And truth be told, I have always longed to look upon the edge of the world.”

Rickard nodded slowly. “Aye, many are drawn to it. But few are prepared. The road is long, and more dangerous now than ever. Wildlings grow bolder. The North is not kind to outsiders.”

That was why she had asked him. Rickard Stark was among the few men she would trust with such a journey—one that would require resilience, and a sure hand to guard her safety. But if he chose not to help her…

“I will go North, Lord Stark.” Olenna said, steady with resolve. “With or without your aid. I was simply calling upon the friendship we once extended to one another, right beneath this very tree."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “You have not changed, my lady. Still as fierce as a winter storm.” He considered her words a moment longer, the wind sighing through the branches overhead. “Very well. I shall take you north. When would you depart?”

“As soon as I may.” Olenna answered, her voice quick with relief.

“Then you may ride with me once the celebrations here are ended.” His tone shifted, heavier now. “I am to wed Lady Lyarra Stark. You would be welcome at the feast. Let that be your reason for travelling North.”

Olenna blinked, surprised. Then she smiled. “I had not heard. Congratulations, my lord. I wish you joy.”

For a moment, his grey eyes lingered on her, and she saw it — a flicker of something unspoken, some ghost of longing or regret.  She wondered, as she had before, how life might have been had she accepted his hand.

“We will journey to the Wall first.” Rickard continued, voice softer. “Then on our return, you may attend the wedding at Winterfell.”

“I thank you, Lord Stark. Truly.” Olenna extended her hand. He took it with the solemn reverence only a Northerner could give, his calloused fingers brushing hers before he pressed a chaste kiss to her ring.

For a time, Olenna remained alone in the godswood, the cool breath of the evening stirring the golden leaves around her. Only when the sky darkened further did she gather her thoughts and rise, making her way back towards the throne room. Laughter and music echoed through the stone halls, yet her feet carried her aimlessly. 

It was as she rounded a corner that she froze.

In a shadowed alcove stood Prince Aerys—far too close to Joanna Lannister. His fingers gently grazed her cheek, brushing away a tear before tucking a pale winter rose behind her ear. Joanna, still draped in mourning black, gazed up at him with a dangerous tenderness. And Aerys—seven help him—was smiling back with the soft carelessness of a lovestruck boy.

"Prince Aerys." Olenna announced herself with deliberate sharpness

Joanna startled like a frightened doe, flushing with shame, but Aerys turned with languid grace, his composure unshaken.

"Lady Olenna! At long last, you grace me with your company!"

Olenna’s gaze flicked back to Joanna, who was now studying the stone floor with burning cheeks. "It appears you are already well attended to, my prince."

Joanna murmured a hasty apology and fled, her footsteps retreating quickly down the corridor. Aerys only chuckled, his gaze lingering after her before turning back to Olenna. “I have decreed that all address me as Ser Aerys tonight... in light of my knighthood. Now, shall we return to the revels? The hour is still young—”

Olenna turned on him. “Suppose Tywin had stumbled upon this scene, what then?”

Aerys flinched, a crease forming between his brows. “Lady Joanna is grieving. I sought only to bring her comfort.”

Olenna’s scoff echoed in the corridor. "Oh please, do you expect me to believe your intentions toward my lady-in-waiting are entirely innocent?” 

Her mind wandered to the past, to what had driven the dragon and lion apart in her previous life. If the whispers were to be believed, it was Aerys’s infatuation with Joanna that had planted the first seeds of discord between him and Tywin.

Aerys studied her carefully, his gaze unreadable. “Why do you care what Tywin thinks?”

“I care for peace.” Olenna answered plainly. “She is promised to him. And should he learn you were alone with her—”

“Yes, yes.” Aerys muttered, waving his hand dismissively. “Enough talk of Tywin. Let us speak of you. It was your cleverness with the poison that spared the realm months of bloodshed… perhaps it is you who should have been knighted.”

Olenna narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. "Do not attempt to distract me with flattery, Prince Aerys."

“No flattery—only truth.” He said, his smile unusually earnest. “I am grateful for you, Olenna. No bard will sing of your cunning, but I shall remember it.”

She studied him for a long moment, her expression hard. Finally, she nodded. "Deeds such as this are not meant for song, only silence… yet another secret between us."

Aerys’s smile sharpened, his gaze shifting to something beyond her shoulder. “Believe me, secrets are all I seem to possess these days… Ah, Ty!”

Olenna froze, then turned slowly. Tywin Lannister strode towards her. His time spent in the war campaign under the Stepstones' sun had darkened his cheekbones, making his eyes gleam even brighter, more piercing than she remembered. Under his gaze, for some unfathomable reason, she felt as bare as the day they had last come face to face in her chambers.

"Lady Redwyne." 

She offered a quick curtsy. “Ser Lannister. My condolences on your uncle’s passing.”

“Thank you.” His gaze flicked toward the prince, then back to her. “I was hoping to speak with you. Alone.”

Without awaiting her answer, he turned and moved toward a darkened archway behind a tapestry. 

Beyond the tapestry a small balcony awaited, open to the night, the chill of the evening air a stark contrast to the heat within the hall. Above the stars stretched on in an endless expanse, cold and unchanging, bearing silent witness to the fleeting peace of the realm below.

Tywin took a deep breath, then broke the stillness. “I would begin with an apology.”

Olenna’s brow arched in surprise. Tywin Lannister, the proud and unyielding lion of the Rock, offering contrition?

“I should have taken more care, to not intrude upon you that day.” He said, each word carefully chosen.

Olenna forced a smile. “Ah, that day is long forgotten. All is forgiven.” She turned, her voice light. “If that is all, I suggest we return. I would not wish to mar your evening, freshly returned from war—”

“May I speak plainly?” He interrupted, his voice low and urgent.

Olenna stilled. “You may.”

“The prince… you mistake his favor for something it is not.” He said flatly. “I know you followed him to Flea Bottom.”

Her brow furrowed. “Yes, I did accompany him.”

“You do not even deny it.” His face hardened. “You think this dalliance will serve you? Unless... do you intend to become his mistress?”

“Dalliance?” Olenna blinked, realization dawning. Then laughed—a sharp, short bark. “Fear not, Ser Lannister. The prince’s virtue is intact. Well, I doubt it is intact… but I have had no hand in its undoing.”

He scoffed. “I saw the moon tea.”

“It was not for him.”

Tywin faltered, the tension in his shoulders tight. “Then… for whom?”

She said nothing.

“You have lain with others?” His voice dropped—quiet, but laced with something close to fury.

A chill slid down her spine, but she held her ground. “Is that truly so scandalous? Surely you yourself have–” Olenna paused, eyes narrowing. She remembered he had been somewhat of a prude in her previous life. “…Have you?”

His expression remained unchanged, but the truth was written plainly on his face. Olenna’s lips parted in surprise.

“You have not–”

“Never.” He said, the word as hard as iron.

“Truly? Not even once?”

“No.” 

She tilted her head, offering a wry smile. “Well, I suppose you disapprove of me then?”

Tywin said nothing. But his silence roared.

“The prince is well aware.” She added quietly. “And if you think my company unworthy of Lady Joanna, I will not take offense. She is a virtuous girl, blameless and pure. I assure you, any male company I keep—”

“Stop talking.” In a single step, he was before her, and she found herself backed against the cold stone wall. Her breath caught, her heart pounding. She cursed herself for mentioning Joanna, that had clearly struck a nerve. His presence loomed over her… broad, furious, unyielding. 

She recognized that unforgiving and icy look, she had seen it before—the day he had caught her bathing. Now, standing so close, she could feel the fury rolling off him, she saw everything: the rise and fall of his chest, the taut line of his jaw, the pale gold of his lashes catching moonlight. He was breathtaking and terrible all at once, and for one maddening, traitorous moment—

She felt it.

Desire. Treacherous and unwanted.

Her breath hitched, and the sound snapped him from whatever storm had taken him. He stepped back, teeth grinding so hard she could hear it.

In that moment, Olenna realized with a twinge of regret that she had never intended to make an enemy of Tywin. Not this time around... But now, it seemed she was only making everything much worse.

“Ser Lannister.” She began, her voice strained. “Your cousin–”

“There will be no need. I shall–” He suddenly cut himself off, and without another word, strode away.

The tapestry shifted as he threw it open. And there was Aerys, leaning by the wall as though he had been trying to listen. But Tywin swept past him without a glance.

Aerys watched him a while, before turning to Olenna, eyes wide. “By the gods, I have seldom seen him in such a black temper. What did you say to him?”

Olenna only shook her head, her pulse still thundering. But as her gaze drifted toward the place where Tywin had vanished, she felt it—s he had been on the precipice of something dangerous. Something unthinkable and impossible.

With Tywin Lannister of all people!

And gods, she direly needed another drink.

After several days of celebration, the court’s revelry had at last begun to ebb. As the morning sun crept over the ramparts of the courtyard, she felt its toll of the past days’ festivites behind her eyes—a dull, persistent ache born of too many toasts, too many cups, and too few hours of sleep.

There had been good reason for her indulgence.

A part of her still stewed over Tywin’s abrupt departure the other night—how he had turned on his heel and vanished after learning of her indiscretions, his silence more damning than any words. She had thought herself done with caring, yet here she was, irritated by just how much his cold retreat had managed to unsettle her. 

Another, much smaller, part of her reminded of how he had looked that night, hallowed in moonlight— 

No. She was not letting her thoughts rouse her down that path.

Prince Daeron stood beside her, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze turned not toward the swordplay below but to Olenna herself.

“So." Daeron said, breaking the quiet. "You are truly going north. To Winterfell, of all places."

Olenna gave a faint nod. "Rickard Stark has agreed to escort me. He is to be wed at Winterfell."

Daeron raised a brow. "I thought you held no great fondness for Rickard Stark."

"I seek the Wall, not the man." Olenna said lightly. "He is merely the means to that end. Besides, he is not terrible. An honorable man is rarer these days than winter snow in Dorne."

Daeron was silent for a time, watching the slow arc of a sword below. "Stark is one of the few men I would trust to travel with you. You will be safe with him."

Olenna offered a faint smile. "I know."

He turned back to look at her. "By the time you return, I shall likely be at Dragonstone with Jahaerys. I suppose I shall see you there."

She hesitated. Bit her lip.

“Olenna?” He asked quietly. "What troubles you?"

She stared down at her hands. “I find myself wondering… what do you truly think of me? You have known me long enough. You have taken me down to the taverns and gutters of Flea Bottom. Do you think me… wanton? Frivolous?” 

Daeron gave her an odd look. “What has brought this on?”

Unbidden, the memory of Tywin’s searing gaze flared behind her eyes like a brand. But Olenna only said, “Pycelle implied this city is no longer a welcome place for me.”

“If you must know…” He began, with a soft exhale. “I did think it strange, at first, when you insisted on following me down to Flea Bottom. No lady of station braves the reek of tanner’s alleys or lets muck stain her hem. I thought, perhaps it was curiosity that drove you—to see how the smalkfolk live.”

His voice turned contemplative.

"But then I watched you. And I saw how your smiles came easier among the fishwives and farriers than they ever did at court. How you pressed coins into that crippled boy’s hand without ceremony. How you brought sweet fruits for the ragged children—you cared for those gutter-born sprites who haunt the bakeries and alleyways. You remembered the names of the butcher’s daughters and the one-eyed smith who calls everyone ‘lass.’” 

Olenna looked up. Prince Daeron’s opinion of her did not sound damning at all.

He met her gaze steadily. "You never acted above them, despite your station. You were never scared of touching them. You treated them as people worth knowing. And I found that… quite stirring, to be honest."

“So you do not think me too frivolous? Even knowing of my… arrangements. The men I have—”

Daeron snorted. “Olenna, if ever there was a soul who ought not be changed, it is you. You are sharp, brave, troublesome as seven devils… and entirely yourself. Do not let that grasping lecher make you doubt that.”

She blinked, a laugh escaping her despite herself. "Grasping lecher?"

"Seven hells take Pycelle." Daeron said indignantly. "Who is he to judge you… Olenna, let me ask you—do you wish to come with me to Dragonstone. I am not asking if you feel bound by duty to follow me. I am asking if you want to go, for yourself.”

Her smile faltered. “I once promised the queen mother…”

She remembered Queen Betha’s words that had come to her in that dream— Take care of my Daeron… and my grandson… Truly, ever since her arrival at King’s Landing, the vow to remain by Prince Daeron's side had shaped her days. But now, she had come to believe she could protect the realm better by leaving. There were truths she needed to uncover—truths the Wall and Winterfell might reveal to her.

Daeron read the answer in her silence.

He stepped forward, then knelt at her feet.

“Olenna Redwyne.” He said solemnly, “You have been more to me than a companion. More than any courtier or kin. But you need not stay bound to me any longer. You have fulfilled your vow to my mother.”

A quiet fell between them. 

He took her hand in both of his and brought it to his brow.

“By the grace bestowed upon me by the Seven, as her son, I absolve you of it.”

Olenna’s eyes widened, she placed her palm gently over his chest—above the purple mark he still bore from Jeremy Norridge’s passing. “Thank you, Daeron. You are a fierce fighter, and a loyal Kingsguard… but more than that, you are a good man. Greater than this world deserves. And I will always think of you as my own kin.”

A tear slipped down his cheek. He turned his face away.

“Oh, stop that.” Olenna said with a wry smile. “The court has it backwards. I am not the one they should call after Mysaria. You, my prince, are the true Lord Misery.”

That drew a ragged laugh from him. “Can you blame me? After all we have endured... after all these years…”

“I am not dying." She said, almost amused. "Only leaving for a time."

She reached for his hand, squeezing it once—firm, grateful, as if sealing the bond they had shared for so long.

Daeron looked down at their hands, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “If you truly mean to leave, there is another who has grown rather attached and will miss you dearly.”

Olenna blinked, intrigued. “Who might that be?”

•─────⋅⋅─────•

In the crown prince’s solar, the fire crackled low upon the hearth, casting long, flickering shadows across the stone floor. Aerys stood with his back to her, his silver seal ring slipping restlessly between his fingers, catching the firelight.

"So this is how I learn of it?" He said at length, voice low and strained. "That you mean to leave—and mayhap never return?"

"That is true, I do not know where the wind may carry me. Only that I am leaving for Winterfell." Olenna said, not unkindly. "And for now, that must be enough."

He turned then, the fire painting half his face in gold and the other half swallowed in shadow. His gaze, when it met hers, was a strange mixture of pride and pain. 

A hush fell between them, broken only by the low crackle of the fire and the distant sigh of the wind against the stone walls. Olenna lingered a moment longer, then, seeing he gave no answer, turned as though the matter were settled.

She had taken but a few steps when his voice caught her in place.

"Lady Olenna." Aerys said, not with the command of a prince, but the uncertain plea of a boy. "May I write to you?"

Olenna paused. Slowly, she turned back to face him. He twisted the ring once more between his fingers, then stilled it.

"Please." He said, his voice thickening. "It helps to speak with you. It eases... the affliction."

"Do not call it that." Olenna said firmly. "They are Dragon Dreams. You are not broken, Prince Aerys. There is more steel in you than most shall ever see. I am certain you shall find others here to aid you.”

Aerys let out a soft, derisive breath. "Hardly! There are few who look at me and do not see the crown or the throne, few who do not flinch…” He murmured ruefully. “Lady Joanna is leaving for Casterly Rock, and Tywin with her. Uncle Daeron rides soon for Dragonstone." He lifted his eyes to hers, raw and unguarded. "I have no one left."

For a heartbeat, Olenna thought he looked so terribly young—so terribly like Loras—it made her chest ache.

"Write to me, then." She said, yielding. "And I shall answer. I will hear your thoughts, mad or merry."

Aerys's eyes widened. "I thank you, my lady. You... understand me."

"Of course I do." Olenna said softly. "We bear the same burdens, you and I. And burdens are lighter when shared."

For the first time that night, Aerys smiled—small and strange, but true. And so, in the quiet crackle of the firelight, a new unspoken vow was forged between them.

Aerys bowed his head in gratitude. When he spoke again, his voice was softer still. "Will you go now to take your farewell of the others?" 

Olenna gave a small smile. "I have already spoken with Prince Daeron."

"I do not speak of my uncle..." He leaned back against the mantle, studying her. "Lions bear much pride, my lady. They do not take kindly to being left behind like cast-off banners."

Olenna pressed her lips together. "I doubt Ser Lannister would care to see me again." She said, her stomach twisted at the thought.

At that, Aerys lifted his gaze, a curious smile playing about his mouth.

"You think so? I daresay you are mistaken." He murmured, with something akin to amusement. "Still… I did not mean Tywin."

•─────⋅⋅─────•

Olenna hated farewells, she soon realized. 

She found Joanna in the eastern gallery. The young lioness was seated beneath a stone arch heavy with ivy. The vines along the pillars seemed to vanish into the creeping green of her dress, as though the palace itself sought to claim her.

At the sound of approaching steps, Joanna looked up. Hastily, she rose and dipped into a curtsy.

"My lady." She said, breathless. "I did not think you were still here."

"I shall be gone within the hour." Olenna replied, tilting her head to study the girl. "I came because the prince told me you were lamenting my departure."

Joanna’s face fell further, her gaze dropping to the floor as her voice grew faint. "He has forbidden me to speak with you."

"Tywin Lannister?" Olenna asked, already knowing the answer.

Joanna nodded, her hands wringing the fabric of her skirts. But then, after a heartbeat, she lifted her chin with a flicker of defiance. "He only told me not to speak with you. He never mentioned anything about writing letters."

First the prince, and now the lioness cub. A touch of wistfulness stirred within Olenna. In all her years at court, she had believed herself surrounded by few well-wishers. Yet now, with one foot already out the door, she realized there were perhaps far more than she had ever dared hope for.

Joanna continued, her voice light and hopeful. "Perhaps, when the unrest in the Westerlands settles, you might visit me at Casterly Rock? My cousin, Lady Genna Lannister, has heard much about you. She would be delighted to meet you."

Olenna blinked, caught off guard. "Lady Genna?"

"Yes." Joanna replied with a warm smile. "Cousin Tywin’s sister. He has three brothers, but only one sister. She is well beloved and sweet of heart."

Olenna frowned slightly, her mind racing. She had heard the name before, perhaps in passing or tied to some distant tale of an unhappy marriage to one of the Freys, but she had never actually met the woman. "How has she come to know of me?" Olenna asked.

Joanna’s smile widened. "Never mind that, my lady. Think only of your journey now, and of returning safe and unharmed. I shall write to you as often as I can."

Olenna reached out and briefly clasped Joanna’s hand. "I wish the same for you." She said quietly. "You are headed into a far more dangerous game than I."

"Do not worry for me. Cousin Tywin will keep us safe." Joanna said with firm, unshakable faith.  

Olenna studied her for a long moment, feeling the depth of the girl's loyalty—and understanding then, in some quiet, inevitable way, why Tywin Lannister would one day love her so deeply. So much so, Olenna thought, that when Joanna was one day gone, he would never wed another woman again.

Olenna had never known such a deep connection herself. Her own marriage had been a barren thing, a union of convenience more than love, with a husband whose gaze often strayed, whose loyalty was never fully hers. 

There was a loud blast in the air. Joanna’s eyes flickered toward the path behind Olenna. “I believe that was a horn…”

Olenna nodded—she had heard it as well. “Stark awaits me by the gates, I must take my leave. Take care, Joanna.”

“I will, my lady.” Joanna replied, dipping into a graceful curtsy once more.

With that, Olenna turned away, leaving the young lioness standing amidst the spiraling vines that clung to the gallery’s stone.

When Olenna reached the bronze doors of the Keep, she turned to survey the red walls behind her, breathing in the sharp brine of the Blackwater Bay that rode the breeze.

When she first came to King’s Landing, she had never imagined she might come to care for the place. Yet nearly a decade she had walked these halls. Laughed, wept, whispered behind fans and beneath banners. Now, with the wind tugging at her braids, she turned for one final look.

A thousand memories lived in the stone.

"How strange." She murmured to herself. "I shall miss it."

The words tumbled out heavier than she expected. Still, she steeled herself, and stepped onto the path that led beyond the great gates.

And behind her, the Red Keep—King’s Landing itself—watched her go, silent and unblinking. Beryl eyes peered from shadowed windows, eyes that had granted no leave, and offered no farewell.

And still, she went.

Chapter Text

Tywin Lannister

Tywin hovered over the table, fists braced on either side of the map. The inked fields of the Westerlands sprawled before him—rivers, ridges, keeps—none gave him any peace.

The flap of the tent was thrown back sharply. Tygett entered first, his helm swinging from one hand, a fresh cut bleeding sluggishly across his brow. He tossed the helm onto the war table with a clatter, heedless of the map beneath it. Though he wore a black mood like a second skin, he held his tongue—at least for the moment.

"What?" Tywin growled, not lifting his gaze.

"We are losing." Tygett said flatly.

The tent stirred again. Kevan entered next, his mail clinking softly, and behind him sauntered their youngest brother, Gerion—blood spattered over his armor as if he'd bathed in it, a roguish grin tugging his lips.

"Tywin, we are losing." Tygett repeated, sharper now.

"We can hardly say that now, can we, brother?" Kevan interjected swiftly, ever the loyal mediator, always eager to prevent the rift from widening further. "Tarbeck Hall has already fallen. Walderan is dead, his line extinguished. We have fresh banners from both House Marbrand and House Prester..."

"The Reynes have gathered more." Tygett cut in, jabbing a finger toward the west. "Banefort. Plumm. Stackspear. Westerling. Reynard Reyne is no fool. He flees to Castamere to seal the gates behind him, and once he does… you and I both know we cannot break them." He fixed Tywin with a hard stare. "And when the realm sees that the proud lions of Lannister are gnawing on their own tails outside Castamere's walls, we shall be the laughingstock of all the realm."

Tywin's hands tightened on the table's edge. "And what would you have me do, brother?" He said coldly.

"You should have accepted the crown prince's offer of aid." Tygett said, without flinching.

Tywin’s jaw clenched. Across the table, Kevan raised both hands as if to appease the coming storm.

"Now, now, let us not—"

"I see our victory at Tarbeck Hall has not sated your bloodlust, Tygett." Gerion drawled from the other side of the tent, sprawling lazily into a chair. He propped his mud-caked boots on the edge of Tywin’s maps. "I say let the Reynes run to Castamere, we will give chase. The Red Lion is wounded, and his brother a coward… What did that bitch say? Their claws were as sharp as ours?" He snorted. "Seems not."

"And what then?" Tygett turned on him. "They dig into their mines, we starve under their walls like beggars while their crossbows pick us off one by one?"

"It may not come to that." Gerion countered with a grin. "You thought the same outside Tarbeck Hall, yet here we stand—midst a brotherly quarrel, while Walderan Tarbeck's severed head adorns what’s left of their walls."

Tygett opened his mouth to retort, but Tywin had heard enough. He swept from the tent without a word. A breath later, he heard footsteps behind him.

Kevan. Steadfast as a hound.

“Tywin." Kevan called, catching up, his voice low and uncertain. "You cannot just walk off in the middle of—"

"I need time to think." Tywin said, each word clipped and sharp.

Kevan hesitated. For once, he did not immediately retreat. His face—usually so open, so guileless—hardened.

"I do not mean to question you, brother. I would follow you into the seven hells if you asked it." Kevan said. "But you have been... distracted of late. You listen, but do not hear. You see, but do not act." He drew a breath, deep and steady. "Gerion believes you have a plan. All of us do. But if the Reynes dig themselves into Castamere, if Banefort and Stackspear and the others come to their aid... what then? We may get ambushed as we siege them under their own gates."

Tywin said nothing.

Kevan shook his head. "I do not wish to doubt you. I only fear this will become a war without end."

He seemed to be waiting—for an answer, for a sign—but none came. Tywin’s mouth remained a hard, thin line.

With a stiff look, Kevan turned and left him alone with the weight of the gathering dusk.

Tywin remained where he stood, the wind catching the edges of his cloak, the scent of iron and ash thick in his lungs. His mind raged, but it was not only the war that filled it. Something else stirred beneath the surface—unwelcome, unwelcome.

He remembered watching through the blurred panes of glass, the wind howling as a distant figure slipped away from King’s Landing, like a thief into the night…

And he crushed it down.

He made for the horses, tethered loosely beneath a line of battered pennants. Even here, at the edge of camp, air was thick with the stench of smoke and char, and Tywin could taste the ruin of Tarbeck Hall on the back of his tongue.

A low, mocking laugh snagged his attention. Ahead, near a broken cart, a soldier leaned in close to a woman—no doubt a whore from one of the nearby villages, drawn here like flies to blood. Other than vultures, these were the only creatures who ever truly profited from war, picking at the flesh of fallen men.

Tywin would have looked away, moved on—he had little patience for such spectacles. But the soldier suddenly struck the woman, a brutal backhand that snapped her head sideways.

Before Tywin quite knew it, he was moving.

The soldier raised his hand again, ready to hit her a second time. Tywin seized him by the arm in a grip like iron.

The man turned on him, mouth open with a curse, then paled to the roots when he saw whose hand it was.

"My lord!" He stammered. "My lord, she—"

"I do not care." Tywin’s voice was low and cold. "Any man who bears the lion upon his shield or surcoat will show better discipline… even toward those whose station is beneath contempt.” He added, his glance flicking briefly to the woman. 

The soldier gave a clumsy, trembling bow and all but fled.

Tywin turned to the woman, who stood hugging her ribs, eyes wide and wary. For a heartbeat, he simply looked at her—a girl, not much older than Joanna, with a bruise already flowering on her cheek.

He shot her a look of disdain, but said nothing… and then turned on his heel, striding back toward the horses.

Later that evening, Tywin sat alone, poring over maps and war plans by the dim light of an oil lamp. His mind was a whetstone grinding itself dull with the endless edges of strategy when the flap of his tent stirred and the whore from earlier slipped inside.

Tywin did not look up immediately. "How did you slip past my guards?"

The girl smiled coyly and drifted closer. "Guards do not mind a woman, milord. Surely ye do not think me dangerous?"

Tywin lifted his gaze, studying the sheer silk clinging to her curves. No doubt his men had checked her for knives, found none, and deemed her harmless.

But his mouth tightened. "In my experience, women are often the most dangerous, and the most deceptive."

The whore offered him a sly glance over her shoulder. “Oh? Looks like milord knows a thing or two about women after all.”

With a flick of her wrist, she tugged loose a knot at her throat. The thin silks puddled around her waist, baring her body shamelessly to his view.

"What is it you think you're doing?" Tywin asked dispassionately.

The girl giggled, a breathy, delicate sound—but when that did not move him, her laughter faltered. "Ain't it clear enough? M’offering to keep you company for the night.”

Tywin gave her a brief glance, his eyes making quick work of her light curls, the exposed skin, the way she attempted to be alluring—but it all came across as nothing more than desperation. He felt nothing—no stir of desire, not even a flicker of temptation.

Not like the heat that had flared in him in the presence of that infuriating woman, flaunting her indiscretions as if they were virtues—

No.

Surely, any misplaced admiration he had once felt was long gone.

"I would not waste a single coin on a whore." He said flatly, turning away.

Behind him a huff of indignation followed, and the girl’s voice rose tinged with irritation.

"I ain’t a whore." She said. "Aye, my family’s in need... and when the war comes knockin' at your door, this is all a good woman’s got left to offer. But I ain’t askin' for your gold. I came ‘cause you defended me. Ain’t that worth somethin'?"

Tywin sneered. "So you sought to repay me with your body?"

Her brow furrowed, the words tumbling out in confusion. "Why not? Pleasure’s what it’s for, ain't it? Thought you might be hot-blooded enough to enjoy it."

Hot-blooded… He had never given much thought to what it truly meant. Aerys was one such flounder, driven by reckless desires. His own brother Gerion, too, had his fair share of fleeting passions…

Was Olenna Redwyne also hot-blooded? Was that why she had sought out other men? Had she ever resorted to such cheap tricks to entice them, like this girl?  He could not imagine it. Her guile was more effortless—a little tut here, a tilt of her head there. The gleam in her eyes, that sly curve of her lips when she delivered a sharp or audacious remark, enough to silence the lords around her…

There was a rustle of cloth as the girl tugged her silks back up, glaring at him now. Tywin glanced at her again. 

"If that is what you seek, try one of my brothers." He said, without a shred of humor. "I am certain they would indulge in such a waste of time… what pleasure is there in bedding a stranger?" He added quietly.

She stared at him, then her eyes widened as understanding seemed to dawn on her. "I see, milord. You care for someone."

Tywin’s body stiffened, the thought of it setting his teeth on edge. "I do not."

"Ah... scorned, then?” The woman's smile only grew as she parroted back his earlier words. “In my experience, women are the most dangerous and deceptive… Is she the one you were talking of?"

Tywin turned sharply, his voice low and dangerous. "You speak of matters you know nothing about."

"I may not know much." The girl admitted. "But I know men like you. Whole lives pretending ye feel nothing, nothing but pride and cruelty. Highborn men are all the same."

There was some truth to her words, Tywin acknowledged. His father's softness had taught him what a Lannister must never be. He had built his life into a fortress against weakness... but there were moments, private and fleeting, when he envied those free enough to simply feel without shame.

The thoughtful silence shattered when the tent's flap swung open.

A young squire stumbled inside, then froze, wide-eyed at the scene before him.

"Apologies, Ser Lannister." He stammered. "I can return later—"

"No." Tywin said, cutting him off. "She was just leaving. Put on your clothes, and get out."

The girl shot the squire a scornful glance as she tugged her silks up around her, muttering under her breath, clearly displeased. But Tywin reached for a small purse of gold from his table and tossed it her way. She caught it deftly, her expression brightening instantly.

"Thank you, milord. Thank you!" She said with a wide smile, before quickly leaving the tent.

The squire hesitated, then stepped forward with a bundle of letters, ravens' missives, clutched in his hands. Tywin took them—but noticed the boy still held one aside.

"And what is that?"

The squire flinched. "A letter, Ser. Bound directly for Casterly Rock."

Tywin snatched the letter from him. The handwriting was neat, graceful—an elegant script that read his cousin’s name.

"Did you not think…" Tywin said with deadly calm. "That a letter addressed to my betrothed should go through me? Do you not realize that letters could be forged? That an enemy may be using a familiar hand to smuggle secrets from this camp?"

"It cannot be so, Ser." The squire said, though the blood had drained from his face. "I take them straight to Lady Joanna myself. She is at an outpost keep not far from here in the direction of Casterly Rock—under the protection of her brother Ser Stafford."

"And Stafford thought it wise to allow her so close to a battlefield?" Tywin ground his teeth, then returned his glare to the squire. "Starting today, every raven-letter is to pass through me.”

"Yes, Ser Lannister." The squire said quickly, hands trembling.

Tywin slit the seal open.

As his eyes traced the ink, a sharp sensation tore through him—immediate and consuming.

My dear Joanna,

I hope this letter finds you in good spirits. I trust you are keeping safe, I hear the Westerlands are full of bluster and blood these days. 

Word has reached the north of your cousin’s victory against the Tarbecks. You need not worry Joanna, something tells me that the Reynes' days are also numbered… All your worries will soon be swept away…
You have said so yourself, your cousin will not allow these pretender lions to grow too proud.

As for myself, I am safe and well enough, though I miss the sunlit courtyards and the godswood of the Red Keep…

Write to me when you can. The journey north is long, and a friendly word might make the chill a little less biting.

Yours,
Olenna

Tywin crumpled the letter slowly in his hand, feeling the bite of the parchment under his fingers.

He turned his back to the squire. “Get out."

The boy stammered something and fled. The tent was suffocatingly quiet now, save for the brittle snap of the parchment crushing in his hand.

Olenna Redwyne.

Somehow, it was always her. 

The letter itself was harmless—yet reading it felt like a fist to the gut.

His cousin, whom he had explicitly forbidden from speaking to her again, had defied him. Lied to him. Tywin had long known his cousin nursed a soft admiration for Olenna Redwyne, but he had not thought she would dare act against his command.

Tywin smoothed the parchment flat once more, eyes flicking over the words. North. She had gone north— on a whim . Madness. Folly. He had heard it in passing from Prince Aerys: Olenna Redwyne had chosen to follow Rickard Stark on some foolish adventure to glimpse the Wall and the northern wilds.

For the briefest moment, his hand hovered, as if he might tear the letter to shreds. Instead, he folded it crisply, with cold precision, and tucked it into the inner pocket of his cloak.

There were enemies yet to conquer—more real, more urgent than the ghosts she had stirred.

Still, as he turned back to the maps and the endless calculations of war, her words clung to him, an invisible thorn aching with every breath he drew.

Chapter Text

My dearest Lady Olenna,

I pray this letter finds you in good health. Indeed, the Tarbecks’s defeat has been a welcome relief. My cousins have dispatched Lady Ellyn Tarbeck’s daughters to the silent sisters I hear—it terrifies me to think that same courtesy would not have been extended to me or my female kin, were the situation reversed. 

Are you very frightened my lady, traveling so far and without the comfort of familiar faces? I hope the men accompanying you are honorable and kind—though I can scarce imagine any man daring to slight you! I find myself wishing this miserable revolt would end, if only so we might all return to court together.

Will you not join us again? I should be the happiest of ladies to attend you once more. I should dearly love to sit with you in the gardens, listen to your stories, and learn how to command a room with merely a raised brow.

Please write to me when you can. Tell me everything—even the color of the trees, if you please.

Yours in admiration,
Joanna

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

Sweet Joanna,

How your letter has gladdened me! You must not trouble yourself worrying for me—I am well looked after, I assure you. I could not hope for a more steadfast protector than  Lord Rickard Stark (Though between you and I, his frowns could sour milk.)

We have lingered longer than planned here in the Vale, for Stark and Jon Arryn have become fast friends, made so in the fires of the last war. Thus, I have been given a queen’s welcome—every door thrown open, every hearth warm. The Eyrie itself is a marvel, the moon doors creak and sigh with the wind, and the air is so thin and sharp that you feel half in the world of the living, half in the sky.

I say, should we return to court someday, you will be old enough to have your own ladies. Though I confess, selfishly, I hope you will always find some small need of me.

Be brave, little lioness. The storm will pass.

With fondness beyond measure,

Olenna

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

My dearest Lady Olenna,

Your letter arrived just as I thought I might burst from the stillness of waiting. Thank you for thinking of me.

The moon doors sound both terrifying and beautiful—like yourself, in a way. 

The war drags on. My brother Stafford says the cowardly Reynes have tucked themselves away like crabs in their Castamere. He believes we are now at a stalemate, as Casterly Rock and Castamere are both made for sieges, not battles. I try to hold onto hope, but at times the walls here feel tighter than the Eyrie’s cliffs.

Will you not write more about your travels? Reading them keeps my mind far from these dreary stones and from the endless waiting.

Yours always,
Joanna

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

Dear girl,

You asked for tales of travel—so I shall oblige.

We have arrived at White Harbor, and House Manderly has been most generous. Their city is a wonder of sea and salt: statues of mermaids and mermen adorn the squares, and the scent of fish and sweet bread clings to every street. We even visited a famous inn known for its lamprey pies—a local delicacy.

I even managed to drag Lord Stark to a mummer’s show. The grim wolf sat so stiffly among giggling children and drunk merchants. He bore it like a man sentenced to the stocks, but when the knights who ride with us began laughing at him, he could not resist a small smile. He reminds me somewhat of your cousin Tywin—stern, grim... though not without depths.

Hold fast, Joanna. I hear whispers even here that the Reynes have cornered themselves. The scent of their doom is near.

Ever yours,
Olenna

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

My beloved Lady Olenna,

Your letters are a balm to me. How I laughed imagining Lord Stark frowning his way through a mummer’s show!

Still, I must defend my cousin’s honor. Cousin Tywin may appear cold to those who do not know him, but when he grants his trust, it is deep and fierce. He does not waste his company. He chooses carefully whom he allows close… a sign, I think, of a noble heart that refuses to be wasted.

I am desperate to know—where are you now? Are you still safe? Write to me, I beg you.

I heard talk that we are drawing back from Castamere—although many say we are retreating, I have felt a brewing confidence in my cousins.

I cannot wait… A single pride of lions is all the realm really needs. Would you not agree, my lady?

Your most loyal,
Joanna

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

My dear Joanna,

Your loyalty speaks well of you—and of your cousin. I do not doubt Tywin Lannister’s mettle is as sharp as any steel forged in the Rock; a pity I have not been fortunate enough to retain his friendship.

Forgive the brevity of this letter, sweet girl. We are now at Last Hearth, and there is little time for writing, but I do not wish you to wonder. From here, we ride north still—the next you hear from me, I hope, shall be from the Wall itself.

Take heart. The storm is breaking. The Reynes’ fall is only a matter of time now. 

Keep your spirit bright, Joanna.

Always yours,
Olenna