[32] House Tyrell Doesn’t Want A Beggar King

Chapter 32: House Tyrell Doesn’t Want A Beggar King

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The sunlight slipped through carved shutters, bathing the dressing room’s polished floor in soft morning gold. Within that glow stood Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, perched on a cushioned stool before a mirror that captured every fine line and frown. A handmaiden hovered over her shoulder, brush in one hand, a delicate container of pigments in the other. The girl’s fingers trembled slightly, no doubt from the old woman’s impatient sighs.

“Do hurry,” Olenna said, her tone dry and precise. “I’ve no intention of spending the entire forenoon having my face dabbed like a canvas. Bald Tarly hates waiting, or so they say—and the gods know I won’t keep a man with such a brilliant head of nonexistent hair lingering in my halls.”

The handmaiden swallowed and worked faster, dabbing color along Olenna’s cheekbones, smoothing out the subtle shadows under her sharp eyes. Olenna watched the girl’s reflection, taking a mild satisfaction in the renewed urgency of her efforts. It was amusing how the mere mention of a perpetually irritable lord could spur a servant’s hands.

With a final dust of powder, the handmaiden stepped back. Olenna reached up and adjusted a strand of silver hair beneath her headdress. Not bad, she decided. The face staring back at her was dignified, cunning, and gave nothing away. Exactly what she required for her meeting with Tarly—though now that the morning’s routine had ended, perhaps she could finally escape this little chamber.

She stood, ready to leave, when the door swung wide without warning. Olenna’s lips pressed into a thin line. The handmaiden squeaked and backed away. In strode Loras Tyrell—no knocking, no heralding voice, just the scrape of hinges and his urgent footsteps.

Olenna clicked her tongue and turned, her spine straight, her chin lifted. “Where are your manners, boy?” she said sharply, casting a cool glance at her grandson. “Has Highgarden stopped teaching courtesy to its own knights? I could have been… quite indecent, you know.”

Loras halted mid-step, cheeks coloring slightly. “Grandmother,” he murmured, bowing his head. “I’m sorry. It’s urgent.”

Olenna folded her hands over her embroidered gown, letting the silence weigh on him. Loras hesitated—odd for him, this golden rose of the family, usually so swift with confidence. It made Olenna’s eyebrows lift with mild curiosity. At last, he found his voice.

“I… I brought home a Targaryen.”

A beat of stillness met his words. Olenna’s first instinct was to bark a laugh, but instead, her lips simply tightened. “What?” she said, short and crisp.

Loras’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Viserys Targaryen, the so-called Beggar King. He arrived at our gates not an hour past. He… he killed two of our knights—just like that—and demands an audience with you. The Red Priestess—Kinvara, the High Priestess of the Faith of Light—is with him, lending her support.”

Olenna’s eyes narrowed. The handmaiden, still present, looked ready to faint. Olenna waved her off with a curt gesture. The girl slipped out, relieved to escape this charged atmosphere.

“How lovely,” Olenna said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “We have a beggar king at our doorstep, painting the stones red with our own men’s blood. My first thought would be to tie him up and gift him to King Joffrey. At least that boy would see us in a kindly light for a day. But…” Her voice trailed off. Kinvara. The name drifted through her mind like an unsettling rumor. Everyone worth a dime heard of that woman’s influence overseas. A meddler, a mystic—someone not easily dismissed.

A red priestess was seen hanging around Stannis, too. Margaery had seen that woman with her own eyes before, and despite that, Olenna didn’t feel the urge to throw this Kinvara into the dungeons. Kinvara was far more influential than some random red priestess.

Olenna inhaled, then exhaled slowly. “But perhaps not,” she concluded. “A Targaryen prince is one thing. Add a priestess of note, and it complicates matters. We must be careful.” She waved a hand. “Loras, deploy knights all across the estate. Double our guard. If these two intend treachery, I want them caged before they can blink. As for Lord Tarly, cancel my meeting. The bald buzzard can sit in his hall and crow for a while longer. I’ve more pressing feathers to pluck.”

Her grandson nodded, relief and tension warring on his face. He turned to go, and Olenna eyed him sternly. “And next time, dear boy, try knocking first. My heart’s too old for surprises.”

“Yes, Grandmother,” Loras said, subdued. He left, the door closing behind him.

The Queen of Thorns stood alone in the quiet dressing room. Her reflection awaited her in the mirror, unchanged—except now, Olenna’s eyes glinted sharper. She would meet this fallen Dragon, see what fire he tried to breathe in her gardens, and if he dared show arrogance, she’d remind him that roses had thorns for good reason.

She stepped to the door and opened it. Time to greet these visitors.

****

I settled onto a rose-patterned sofa, my back straight and my expression composed, though my pulse thrummed with anticipation. I had to admit I was a little nervous.

Across from me, Olenna Tyrell lowered herself into her seat with a poised elegance that betrayed the sharpness in her gaze. Behind her, Loras Tyrell stood watchful, his posture taut, while off to one side stood Garlan Tyrell, arms crossed and sizing me up with quiet intensity. Garlan was a book character who was said to be even stronger than Loras. I didn’t know much about him, but he was certainly dangerous.

At my side, Kinvara remained as calm and still as a statue. The crimson hue of her robes vividly contrasted with the muted greens and golds of Highgarden’s decor. I cleared my throat, ready to speak, but Olenna spoke first, her tone clipped. “You have my attention, boy. I do hope you’re not going to waste my time.”

Rude and snarky, just as I remember. I inclined my head and said, “Lady Olenna, I’ve come seeking the support of your house.” My voice sounded steadier than I felt. “The Tyrells command respect and power, and—”

She cut me off with a short laugh, tapping a cane that rested beside her. “Support? From Highgarden?” She lifted a brow. “If that’s what you’re after, you should be talking to my son, Mace Tyrell. He’s the Lord of this house if you didn’t know. Except he’s off hunting, and it might be weeks before he returns. You’ve unfortunately missed the man who could give you what you want. If that’s it, we can end this meeting. Trust me, I have far more important things to do than to entertain a beggar king.”

I let a small smile show on my lips. “Perhaps,” I said, “but I know where the true strength of House Tyrell resides, and I don’t believe I’ve missed my mark at all. I’ve received Dorne’s support already,” I said, slipping a hand into empty air, “you can confirm it through this letter.” I pulled out a letter and reached out.

Olenna’s eyelids twitched at the display. Loras’s stance behind her grew more protective, and I noticed Garlan shift his weight as if measuring the distance between us. Kinvara said nothing, allowing me to lead this dance of words.

She waved a dismissive hand, taking the letter and opening it. She only gave it a look and scoffed. “Oh, that’s Prince Doran’s writing for sure,” she looked at Kinvara. She stayed silent for a bit and then hummed. “...Dorne supports you, and so does the First Priestess. The letter says you also have a few sellswords—Second Sons, was it? You’re preparing well,” her tone dripped with sarcasm and skepticism. “But I don’t think even your brother, Rhager, could have taken the throne back with this little support. It’d be suicide to support someone with your reputation, and here I thought Prince Doran was a smart man.”

I shrugged, “I’m sure you’ve also heard whispers that my sister is stirring trouble in Qarth with her dragons, busy gathering an army for me.”

“Sounds like a traveling bard’s fancy tale,” the woman didn’t trust a word from my mouth.

I felt a stir of pride and a flicker of annoyance. Kinvara came to my support, smiling as she spoke, “Not a fancy tale, my lady. As you read, Dorne’s backing is real, and my Faith of Light endorses his claim, as do I myself. Yes, his sister Daenerys has made herself known in Qarth. She’s no rumor—she’s walked through fire, raised dragons from stone eggs, and is forging a loyal force. These are not empty boasts.”

Olenna shrugged, looking utterly unimpressed. “Sounds to me his sister is more suitable for the throne with these dragons of hers,” she chuckled, and behind her, her grandsons also laughed. They didn’t believe in dragons, and my brags came off as incompetence.

I was starting to see why the Dornish hated the Reachmen. They could get under one’s skin, and even though their words were valid, the way they spoke to them was annoying.

She continued, looking at me, “Alright, fine. Suppose I handed you the Iron Throne on a platter—somehow cutting through Lannisters, Baratheons, and all the vipers—you’re still a Beggar King. A claimant who lost his crown before he ever wore it. Tell me, how do you plan to hold the Seven Kingdoms against the tide of challengers who’d rush in once they smell weakness?”

That was a good point. Holding the throne would be more troublesome than taking it, I think. But I kept my face neutral. “Your caution is understandable, and I have something to convince you,” I said. “But I wonder, Lady Olenna, how many sets of ears overhears this conversation? Are we sure this room is safe? I’d hate to have delicate truths carried beyond these walls by less-than-loyal tongues.”

Her eyes narrowed, and I sensed a shift in the air. “Are you questioning the loyalty of my people?” she asked, voice soft but threatening.

I held her gaze and let a moment stretch. “I question whether you can be absolutely certain that no rumor could slip through. I’m not here to insult your household, only to emphasize that some matters deserve a more secure setting.”

Olenna’s knuckles whitened slightly on her cane. The silence grew heavy. Finally, she gave the barest nod. “Very well,” she said curtly. “We’ll find a place where no ears lurk behind curtains. Really curious what you plan to show me. By the way, my grandsons can kill you before you can blink. Keep that in mind.”

Arrogant hag, I chuckled as Garlan helped her to her feet, and Loras gestured sharply for us to follow.

We left that chamber behind and ventured deeper into Highgarden’s castle. Corridors morphed into more private branches, and we passed through a heavy door that closed with a firm thud behind us. The chamber we entered had a vaulted ceiling and a hush that felt ancient. Dust motes swirled in the filtered light, and the tension was nearly tangible.

Olenna stood before me again, cane in hand, Loras and Garlan close at her flanks, while Kinvara remained at my side. “We’re alone,” she said. “No prying eyes, no loose tongues. You wanted privacy. Now you have it. Go on, tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” I said.

“...If you’re wasting my time, Targaryen boy, I promise you I won’t be amused.”

I didn’t bother with more words. Instead, I snapped my fingers, feeling a quiet surge of power. The air beside me wavered as if reality itself had grown thin. It split with a soft crack, and in that instant, my dragon lunged forth.

I felt like I’d done this a few times by now, but no matter, it still felt as impactful as the first time. Heat and the scent of char mingled with shock. Loras tried to yank out his sword, but a roar deafened the area. The two knights froze as the sight of a living, breathing dragon halted them mid-motion.

Garlan’s eyes were wide in disbelief, and even Olenna flinched. Her pupils narrowed, and her lips parted as she took in the creature’s gleaming scales, its wings half-furled in the confined space. Viserion growled, staring at the three of them as flames crackled out of her nostrils. She bared her teeth, and the whole chamber trembled.

“They’re my friends,” I said, raising a hand, “stay calm.” For a long heartbeat, no one spoke. The dragon let out a low, rumbling growl that seemed to vibrate through the stone floor. “Good girl,” I reached out a hand and patted Viserion’s head. She grumbled but did not bite me. Then, I looked at the hag, “Lady Olenna, as you can see. I have a dragon of my own. And this one’s bigger, stronger, and smarter than the ones my sister has. Is this enough to convince you?”

Olenna’s chest rose and fell in silence. Her knuckles no longer pressed into her cane; they relaxed, and slowly, a grin spread across her face, acknowledging power, audacity, and opportunity.

I watched that grin form and understood that I had, at last, peeled back her skepticism.

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