Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“The Lady Irene Tyrell is not remember for what she has accomplished but for what she inspired. She is a reminder that even the most delicate flowers can leave thorns in their wake, and that even the brightest lights can blind those who dare to look too closely. In the end, she is not a martyr or a heretic, but a reflection of the realm that destroyed her—a realm of beauty and ruin, of love and betrayal, of life and death.”

A excerpt from the treatise written by Maester Loryn of Old town

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐘𝐀𝐑𝐃 of Highgarden was alive with whispers, the soft rustling of leaves above blending with the low hum of noble gossip.

A visiting lady, her gown adorned with embroidered sunbursts, leaned into her companion and murmured behind her fan, her voice a serpent’s hiss.

“What is she doing?” Her eyes darted to the young girl sitting cross-legged on the grass, utterly heedless of decorum.

Irene Tyrell, the youngest child and only daughter of the prestigious house, was perched there among the blooms, her vermilion curls spilling wildly over her face. Her gown—fine emerald silk embroidered with golden roses—was bunched inelegantly beneath her, and her small hands were smeared with dirt as she tenderly pressed a sprig of lavender into the soil.

Another noble, a wiry man with a hawkish nose, scoffed quietly. “They say the maesters from the Citadel have taken an interest in her. Can you imagine? A girl barely old enough to hold a quill! Strange, isn’t it, for one so young to garner such attention?”

“She was born under the blue moon, wasn’t she?” A third voice chimed in, belonging to an older woman with a sharp chin and sharper tongue. “The darkest hour of the night, they say, and with hundreds of ravens perched on the walls of Highgarden. An omen, if I ever heard one.”

“Blessed or cursed.” Another muttered, her tone laced with superstition. “No one can agree.”

“Do you remember the story from last spring?” A young lord, barely old enough to wear his sword, leaned forward eagerly, his voice just above a whisper. “They say she mended a wounded falcon with her own hands. The bird flew the next day, as if it had never been harmed. What child can do that?”

The older woman sniffed. “A child who’s not entirely natural, I’d wager. Look at her now—sitting in the dirt like some hedge-born commoner.”

Despite their disparaging words, the nobles’ gazes lingered on Irene, unable to look away. Her bronze eyes, glinting like molten sunlight, were fixed intently on her task. She hummed softly to herself, her fingers brushing the lavender’s leaves with the same care one might show a sleeping infant. Her expression was one of quiet focus, utterly unbothered by the storm of judgment brewing around her.

“She has her family wrapped around her finger.” The hawk-nosed man added, his tone both bitter and bemused. “Lord Tyrell dotes on her as if she’s the bloody heir. And Lady Tyrell—well, she treats the girl like she’s the Maiden incarnate.”

“Perhaps it’s her oddities they cherish.” Murmured the sharp-chinned woman. “A curiosity, after all, is always more precious.”

The whispers died down suddenly as another figure entered the garden. Florian Tyrell, heir to Highgarden, strode toward the gathering of nobles. His dark brown curls clung damply to his forehead, and his training leathers were dusted with sweat and dirt. A sword hung loosely at his hip, still slightly damp from the practice yard.

“Lord Florian.” One of the ladies greeted, her voice bright and false. “Such vigor after your training, my lord.”

Florian gave her a distracted nod, his hazel eyes already scanning the garden. When they landed on Irene, his face softened, and his steps quickened. The nobles exchanged knowing glances, their whispers reigniting like embers catching flame.

“He adores her.” Someone said, barely audible.

“Who wouldn’t?” Said another, though there was a trace of bitterness in the tone.

Florian reached Irene and paused, his lips quirking upward. “What mischief are you up to now, little sister?”

Irene didn’t look up, her small fingers still patting the soil around the lavender’s roots.

“I’m not making mischief.” She said matter-of-factly, her voice lilting but firm. “I’m helping.”

Florian crouched beside her, his sword clinking softly as he knelt. “Helping?” He echoed, his tone teasing. “With what, exactly? The lavender seems to be managing well on its own.”

Irene finally lifted her gaze, her bronze eyes meeting his with the sharp intensity of a bird of prey.

“It wasn’t managing.” She corrected him. “It was wilting. Someone planted it too close to the rosebushes. The roses were taking all the nutrients.”

Florian blinked, then chuckled. “I stand corrected. You’re saving lavender, not causing mischief.”

“Exactly.” Irene returned her attention to the plant, her movements precise and deliberate. “And you should comb your hair. It looks like a sparrow’s nest.”

Florian laughed outright at that, running a hand through his messy curls. “You’re one to talk.” He said, tugging gently at one of her untamed red locks. “You look like you’ve been wrestling with a bramble bush.”

Irene wrinkled her nose, a faint smile playing at her lips. “I like bramble bushes.”

“Of course you do.” Florian said, his voice warm. He shifted to sit cross-legged beside her, heedless of his training leathers or the stares of the nobles. “You’ve always liked strange things.”

“I’m not strange.” Irene said, her tone sharp but without malice. “I just see things differently.”

“I know.” Florian replied, his voice softening. “That’s what makes you… you.”

The nobles watched the siblings with varying expressions, some touched by the obvious bond between them, others perturbed by what they perceived as improper behavior. But Florian didn’t seem to care, and Irene was too engrossed in her task to notice.

“She’s like no one else.” One lady whispered, her voice carrying a note of reluctant admiration.

“Perhaps that’s why the maesters are so intrigued.” Another replied. “Imagine what she’ll become in ten years. If she’s already this clever at five…”

“Cleverness isn’t always a blessing.” The sharp-chinned woman muttered. “Sometimes, it’s a curse. Especially in ladies.”

Back in the garden, Florian leaned closer to Irene, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Do you know what they’re all saying about you?”

Irene tilted her head, her bronze eyes narrowing slightly. “Something silly, probably.”

Florian grinned. “They think you’re cursed or blessed. Though it all depends on who you ask.”

Irene snorted softly, a sound so unladylike it made Florian laugh again.

“People say silly things when they don’t understand something.” She said, her voice matter-of-fact. “It’s easier to call me cursed than to admit they’re just afraid of me.”

Florian’s smile faltered for a moment, a flicker of protectiveness crossing his face. “Afraid of you? Why would anyone be afraid of a little thing like you?”

Irene glanced at him, her expression far too serious for a five-year-old. “Because I don’t fit.” She said simply. “And things that don’t fit make people uncomfortable.”

Florian didn’t respond immediately. He looked at her, really looked at her—the dirt on her hands, the wild tangles of her hair, the intelligence burning in her bronze eyes—and felt an odd pang in his chest.

“You fit with me.” He said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “And that’s all that matters.”

Irene blinked, her gaze softening. For a moment, she looked almost shy, her usual confidence melting away like morning dew. “Thank you.” She murmured.

The two siblings sat together in silence for a while, the whispers of the nobles fading into the background. The lavender swayed gently in the breeze, its purple blossoms catching the sunlight. Irene’s small hand rested on the soil, her fingers finally still.

Florian reached out and ruffled her hair, earning a half-hearted glare. “Come on, Moonflower.” He said, standing and offering her his hand. “Let’s go find something to eat. I’m starving.”

Irene hesitated, her gaze lingering on the lavender. Then, with a small nod, she took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. Together, they walked toward the castle, leaving the whispers and stares behind.

Florian carried Irene on his shoulders as they weaved through the sprawling halls of Highgarden, her laughter ringing out like silver bells. Her small hands gripped his head for balance, tugging lightly at his curls.

“You’re walking too slow.” She complained, craning her neck to peer down at him. “At this rate, Sylas will turn into an old man before we even get there.”

Florian smirked, his hazel eyes glinting with mischief. “Maybe Sylas already is an old man. Have you seen the way he reads all day? He’s probably grown gray hairs from thinking too much.”

“He doesn’t think too much. He just doesn’t like sweating.” Irene shot back, a teasing lilt in her voice. “Not everyone wants to smell like the practice yard, Florian.”

“I smell like valor!” Florian retorted, turning a corner that led to the library. “Besides, Sylas probably smells like ink and boredom.”

The large oak doors of the library creaked open under Florian’s push, and there was Sylas Tyrell, exactly where they expected him to be. He was perched on the windowsill, a thick tome balanced on his knees. The sunlight caught his bronze eyes, which flickered up from the page to meet theirs. His hair stirred in the breeze from the open window, giving him an almost ethereal appearance. It was a stark contrast to the disheveled siblings standing before him, one covered in dirt from the training yard, the other with smudges of soil on her face and grass stains on her dress.

“You’re covered in dirt.” Sylas said flatly, closing the book with deliberate care. “Both of you.”

“Irene made me sit in the garden.” Florian defended, his grin widening as he stepped further into the room.

“He is lying. Florian wouldn’t leave me alone.” Irene added, her voice airy and quick, as though she’d thought of the excuse on the spot.

Sylas’s gaze flickered between them, unimpressed. He rose from his seat, brushing imaginary dust from his tunic. “You’re here because you want food, aren’t you?”

“Don’t act like you’re above it.” Florian shot back. “We’re not waiting for dinner.”

Sylas groaned, though it was mostly for show. He stretched his arms, his bronze eyes narrowing in mock judgment. “You couldn’t have come clean, at least? You look like you’ve been wrestling pigs.”

“No, just plants.” Irene said, leaning down to rest her chin on Florian’s head. “Did you know certain plants can mimic the scent of rot to keep predators away? It’s quite clever.”

Sylas arched a brow, his interest piqued despite himself. “Rot? What kind of plant does that?”

“Carrion flowers.” She answered promptly, her words tumbling out faster now. “They’re fascinating. The smell tricks insects into thinking they’re landing on decayed flesh, so they can spread the pollen. Imagine if people could do that! Pretend to be dead to scare off anyone who might hurt them.”

Sylas gave her a skeptical look. “That’s… unsettling.”

“Not as unsettling as the monkshood.” Irene continued, her voice gaining momentum as Florian began walking toward the kitchen. Sylas followed, his curiosity outweighing his reluctance. “Monkshood is a beautiful plant, but if you’re not careful, it’ll kill you faster than you can blink. You only need a pinch. The poison seeps into the skin—tingling at first, then paralysis, then—”

“Death.” Sylas finished, shivering slightly. “How do you know all this, Marigold?”

“I know everything.” Irene declared, lifting her chin as though it were the most obvious fact in the world. “The maesters say so.”

“The maesters don’t know everything.” Florian interjected, glancing up at her with a smirk. “Neither do you, Moonflower.”

Irene tugged playfully on his curls in retaliation. “I know enough. Did you know you can make a person sick without killing them? It’s easy. Just grind up a little hellebore and mix it with honey. It’ll taste sweet, but it’ll make their stomach churn for hours.”

“Why would you do that?” Sylas asked, equal parts horrified and intrigued.

“To stop someone from hurting you.” She said simply, her bronze eyes glinting with an odd mixture of innocence and mischief. “Or to teach them a lesson. It’s not as cruel as killing them, is it?”

Sylas exchanged a glance with Florian, whose expression was one of reluctant amusement. “She’s five.” Florian said, as though that explained everything.

“She’s… something.” Sylas muttered, shaking his head. “And this is what you talk about while perched on Florian’s shoulders? Poison and death?”

“Not just that!” Irene replied, her voice bright. “I can tell you how to cure things, too. Like fevers. Feverfew and mint. Or aching joints—willow bark works wonders for that. And lavender, of course, for calming the nerves. Did you know that lavender oil can also soothe burns?”

“Irene.” Sylas interrupted, holding up a hand. “Please. Let’s get to the kitchen before you terrify the cooks.”

“Terrify?” She laughed, a sound that was light and musical despite the macabre content of her words. “The cooks like me. They let me take whatever herbs I want. Basil, thyme, rosemary…”

“Enough,” Florian said, though his tone was fond. “Save your knowledge for after we’ve eaten.”

“Fine.” Irene agreed, though the smirk on her lips suggested she wasn’t done. She drummed her fingers lightly on Florian’s head, her gaze drifting toward the high ceilings as they made their way through the halls.

By the time they reached the kitchens, the trio was a sight to behold—Florian’s training gear streaked with dirt, Irene perched high with her hair like a fiery halo, and Sylas trailing behind, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. Yet, for all their differences, there was an ease between them, a bond that no amount of gossip or oddity could break.

The warmth of the kitchen enveloped them as they sat down at the long wooden table, the tantalizing aroma of baking Orchard Galette filling the air. The cooks bustled about, sparing amused glances at the Tyrell children as Irene leaned forward, her hands gripping the edge of the table. She was rambling again, her words spilling out in an endless stream as her brothers listened with varying degrees of amusement and resignation.

“Apples are liars.” Irene began, her bronze eyes glittering with intensity. “They look harmless, but they’re full of secrets. Did you know that if you dry the leaves and crush them, they can make a tea so bitter it feels like your tongue is being bitten by ants? But the bitterness isn’t the dangerous part. It’s what happens if you drink too much. Your heart slows down, and then—” She clapped her small hands together, startling a nearby maid. “It stops.”

Sylas groaned, resting his chin on his hand as he regarded his little sister with a mixture of exasperation and curiosity. “Marigold, do you ever think about anything nice? Like, I don’t know, how apples make good pie?”

“This is nice.” Irene replied earnestly, tilting her head like a curious sparrow. Her curls, wild and vermilion in the firelight, fell into her freckled face as she fidgeted with the hem of her dress. “Knowing things is nice. Wouldn’t you want to know if something could kill you? I think it’s worse to not know. Then you’re just walking around, trusting everything, until—snap! You’re gone.”

Florian chuckled, leaning back in his chair. His hazel eyes were bright with amusement as he crossed his arms. “She’s got a point, Sylas. Imagine trusting an apple and ending up dead. Tragic.”

“It’s not just apples.” Irene continued, ignoring their banter. Her voice had taken on a lilting, almost hypnotic quality as she warmed to her topic. “People are like apples too. Sweet on the outside, but inside… seeds. Tiny, dangerous seeds. You never know when someone’s going to turn bitter.”

Sylas blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden turn in her words. “That’s… a bit dark, even for you, Marigold.”

Irene shrugged, her small fingers beginning to tap a rapid rhythm on the table. “It’s just the truth. People don’t like hearing it, but that doesn’t make it less true. Did you know there’s a fungus that can grow on apples? It looks like a little bruise at first, but if you eat it, it makes you see things that aren’t real. Your skin feels like it’s crawling, and you can’t trust your own eyes.”

Florian raised a brow, his grin widening. “Sounds like something you’d use to prank the lords visiting Highgarden, Moonflower. Slip a bruised apple into their lunch and watch the chaos.”

Irene’s lips twitched into a small, mischievous smile. “I wouldn’t do that.” She said, though her tone betrayed her. “It’s not efficient. If you really wanted to confuse someone, you’d use henbane. Just a little in their drink—enough to make their thoughts spin. Or nightshade, but that’s harder to measure. Too much, and they’d die before you had any fun.”

Sylas groaned again, louder this time. “You’re five years old, Marigold. Five. How do you even know about these things?”

“I told you.” Irene replied, her hands now smoothing invisible wrinkles on the tablecloth. “I listen. The maesters talk, and I listen. Most people don’t. They think I’m not paying attention because I’m little, but I remember everything.”

Florian reached across the table to ruffle her hair, ignoring her indignant squawk. “That’s because you’re a clever little thing, Moonflower. Too clever, sometimes.”

Irene swatted his hand away, her expression equal parts annoyance and affection. “Cleverness isn’t a bad thing. It’s like apples again. Did you know they can keep food from spoiling? If you put slices of apple in a barrel of grain, it stops the grain from going moldy. But if you leave the apple too long, the mold wins anyway. Everything is like that. Useful until it isn’t.”

Sylas sighed, though his lips twitched upward in a reluctant smile. “You make everything sound like a riddle, Marigold.”

“Life is a riddle.” Irene said solemnly, her fingers stilling for a moment as she looked between her brothers. “You just have to figure out the answers before it’s too late.”

For a moment, her words hung in the air, heavier than a child’s words ought to be. Even Florian seemed to pause, his teasing smile fading as he studied his little sister. The firelight danced in her bronze eyes, turning them almost gold, and for a fleeting moment, she looked much older than her five years.

But the spell broke as one of the cooks approached, carrying the steaming Orchard Galette. The golden crust glistened with sugar glaze, and the scent of spiced apples filled the air anew. Irene’s face lit up, and she clapped her hands in delight.

“It’s perfect!” She declared, her earlier solemnity forgotten as she bounced in her seat.

The cook chuckled, setting the pastry down in front of them. “Enjoy, my lady.”

“Thank you!” Irene said brightly, her small hands already reaching for the knife to cut into the galette.

“Hold on, Moonflower.” Florian said, gently nudging her hand away as he took the knife instead. “You’ll slice your fingers off if you’re not careful.”

“I wouldn’t.” Irene muttered, though she allowed him to take over. “I know how to hold a knife properly. You angle it just right—”

“Enough.” Sylas interrupted, grabbing a plate for himself as Florian began to cut. “Let’s just eat before you start telling us how apples can be used to summon demons or something.”

Irene tilted her head thoughtfully. “Well, there is a tree in Essos that’s said to grow fruit that—”

“No!”

Chapter Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐈𝐑 in Highgarden was thick with the acrid scent of smoke, the perfume of charred roses mixing with the iron tang of blood. The castle, once the most splendid jewel of the Reach, lay in ruin, its walls shattered, its verdant courtyards reduced to blackened husks. The banners of House Tyrell still clung to the ramparts, torn and singed, stubborn in their defiance.

Lord Myren Tyrell strode through the wreckage, his boots sinking into the damp earth where blood had seeped deep. His once-polished breastplate was tarnished with soot and grime, a deep gash splitting the gold-and-green enamel of the rose upon his chest. His face was eerily blank, bronze eyes devoid of the fire they once held. He had no more grief to give. It had been stripped from him alongside his wife, his sons, his people.

Yet, there was still one.

His men moved through the rubble, dragging the dead into rows, their bodies covered with what little cloth remained unburnt. Muffled cries came from the wounded who had not yet succumbed. Myren ignored them all. He had no prayers left for them. His sole focus was the collapsed remains of the rose garden, now a graveyard of crumbled stone and shattered petals.

A knight approached him, his voice hesitant. “My lord, we have yet to find—”

“I will find her.” Myren said, his voice cutting through the smoke like steel.

The men did not argue. They had seen the look in his eyes before. A father’s last thread of hope was not to be trifled with.

“My lord!” A voice called, hoarse from smoke and grief. The knight was bloodied but standing, approached with grim urgency. “We’ve found Lady Irene.”

Myren stopped. His world, already fragile, seemed to still entirely.

“Where?” The word came out too sharp, too desperate.

The knight led him through the ruins of the outer keep. The grand hall, once adorned with tapestries and golden candelabras, was now a blackened skeleton, its stained glass windows shattered, its floors covered in debris. Beyond it, the remnants of the rose garden stretched in uneven rows of smoldering ash and broken branches.

And there, amidst the ruin, lay Irene.

She was small—too small, even for seven summers. A frail thing, curled among the wreckage, her gown torn and muddied, her vermilion curls streaked with soot and blood. Her ivory skin was marred with bruises, scratches carving cruel lines along her arms and cheek.

Though she was breathing.

“Oh my sweet girl.” Myren whispered, his voice raw. He knelt, his fingers trembling as he brushed away the tangle of curls from her face. Her bronze eyes fluttered open, dull and unfocused at first, before recognition flickered in their depths.

“Father…?” She murmured.

Myren lifted her carefully, his hands steady despite the weight of grief pressing against his chest. She was light—too light. He cradled her against him, the way he had when she was but a babe, before war had stolen their peace.

“Irene…” He breathed.

She stirred weakly, her fingers twitching against his tunic. “It hurts…” She mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I know, little one. I know.”

The remnants of his men gathered around, their expressions somber as they watched their lord, a man who had always carried himself with unwavering strength, now holding the last piece of his family as if she were the most fragile thing in the world.

Irene blinked up at him, her small brows knitting together. “Where is Mother?”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

She looked around—eyes searching, scanning the ruins, the bodies, the blood. Her hands fisted into his tunic. “Where is Florian? Where is Sylas?”

Myren did not answer. He could not.

Her breath came faster, shallow and uneven. “No…” She whispered, a shake to her voice. “No… No.. No. No! NO!”

He pressed her closer to his chest. “Hush, Irene.” He murmured, his voice hoarse. “You must not—”

“You’re lying.”

Her voice cracked, something small and brittle splintering in it. Her little hands clawed at him weakly, pushing against him, as if trying to break free. As if running could change what had already happened.

“Florian promised!” She cried. “He said he wouldn’t leave me! Sylas said—Sylas said he would always—”

Her words collapsed into gasping sobs, and Myren could do nothing but hold her. His grip was firm, steady.

“You are all that remains.” He finally said, his voice low, almost lost beneath the crackling embers around them.

Irene trembled in his arms. Her breath came in uneven shudders, her fingers gripping at his cloak like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

“You are my heir now.”

She stilled.

The weight of those words settled between them like a stone. The heir who was never meant to inherit. The girl who spoke to plants and healed with hands too young to be so skilled. The child born beneath an omen-ridden sky, whispered about in hushed voices by servants and nobles alike.

She turned her face into his chest, her breath shaky, uneven. “I don’t want to be heir.”

He closed his eyes. “Neither did I wish for this. But here we stand, and the gods do not ask what we want.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, in a voice too quiet for most to hear, she whispered. “Will they come back?”

The question twisted something deep in him.

“No.” He said, his voice breaking for the first time. “They will not.”

Irene did not cry again. She did not scream or wail as a child should. Instead, she lay in his arms, silent, still.

After a long moment, she reached up, her small fingers brushing the dried blood on his cheek. “You’re hurt.”

He huffed a bitter, broken sound. “It is nothing.”

But she frowned, her young mind already working, already assessing. “You’re favoring your left side.” She murmured, her fingers ghosting over his ribs. “You’ve been wounded.”

He looked down at her, startled.

“Show me.”

“You need rest, Irene.”

“So do you.”

She stared up at him, eyes too wise, too knowing for a child, gods gods help him, she was already what she would one day become—a healer, a pragmatist, a girl who understood suffering far too well.

He sighed. “Another time.”

She nodded once, accepting that answer for now. Then, quietly, she murmured, “Will the roses grow back?”

He glanced at the blackened stems, the charred remains of what was once the pride of Highgarden. He should have said no. He should have told her that nothing would be the same again.

However he could not.

“Yes.” He said instead, voice softer than before. “They will.”

Irene closed her eyes. “Good.”

Then, for the first time since this nightmare began, she reached out—not to fight, not to push him away, but to hold onto him.

He let her.

The smoke still lingered as they walked, curling through the shattered remains of Highgarden like the dying breath of the once-great castle. Myren carried Irene in his arms, her small body light against his chest, but the weight of her presence—her survival—was heavier than any burden he had ever borne.

Around them, what few men remained gathered the dead, their movements slow, reverent. The bodies of knights and commonfolk alike were laid in rows, some draped with what little cloth could be salvaged, others left bare beneath the unforgiving sun. The scent of death clung to everything, thick and inescapable. Irene did not look away.

She watched the men work with quiet, eerie stillness. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her father’s tunic, gripping him tighter each time they passed a familiar face. The stablemaster’s apprentice, now just a crumpled heap by the burnt stables. The baker’s daughter, her flour-dusted hands stiff and cold.

The bodies of her brothers were not here. Nor her mother. Those had already been taken, already mourned in silence.

And yet, she still searched.

The ruins of Highgarden were unfamiliar in their devastation. The once-grand rose gardens were blackened husks, the gilded halls collapsed, the towering spires broken like snapped twigs. The fountains had run dry, their basins filled with ash and blood. Even the birds had fled, their songs replaced by the cries of the dying and the wails of the mourning.

It did not feel real.

Her father’s voice cut through the silence. “We leave for Oldtown on the morrow.”

Irene stiffened in his arms.

“Oldtown?” She repeated, her voice small.

“Aye.” His tone was firm, though not unkind. “House Hightower has offered their hospitality. You will be safe there.”

She frowned. “I don’t want to go.”

“Irene—”

“I want to stay with you!” She said quickly, her fingers clutching at his tunic again. “I—I can help. I know about medicine. I can tend the wounded—”

“No.”

His voice left no room for argument, but Irene did not yield so easily.

“I can be useful!” She insisted, twisting in his grasp until she could face him fully. “You said it yourself—I’m your heir now. That means I should be here. I should help rebuild—”

“You are seven summers.” Myren interrupted, his bronze eyes dark with something she could not name. “Most importantly other than myself you are all that remains of House Tyrell.”

The words landed heavy between them.

He sighed, shifting her slightly as they stepped over the remnants of a shattered archway. “I cannot have you here, Irene. Not in this.” He gestured around them, at the wreckage, the death, the ruin. “Not while there is still danger. You will be protected in Oldtown, under your grandfather’s care.”

She shook her head, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I don’t want to be protected! I want to stay—”

“You do not have a choice in this.” He said, voice weary but resolute.

Her eyes burned. “Neither did they.”

He went still.

She hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. Not with the bitterness curling at the edges of her voice. But once the words were out, she could not take them back.

Neither did Mother.

Neither did Florian.

Neither did Sylas.

Myren exhaled, long and slow.

“You think I do this because I wish to send you away?” He asked quietly. “Because I do not want you here?”

Irene did not answer.

“I do this because you are all I have left.” He continued, his voice tight. “I cannot lose you too.”

She swallowed, her throat thick with emotion.

“I will go with you to Oldtown.” He said after a moment. “I will see you settled. Then I will return here to begin rebuilding.”

She turned her face into his chest, hiding her expression.

He rubbed a hand over her back. “If you do not wish to go to Oldtown, then there is another option.”

She sniffled. “What?”

“You may go to the Red Keep, to stay with the Queen.”

Irene lifted her head slightly, blinking up at him. “Aunt Alicent?”

“Aye.” Myren nodded. “She loved your mother dearly.”

Irene hesitated. She did not know Queen Alicent well, but she had heard the name spoken in hushed tones throughout the halls of Highgarden before—whispers of courtly intrigues, of alliances and feuds, of a queen in green and gold.

“The princess and princes would be your kin as well.” Myren continued. “You would not be alone there.”

Irene bit her lip.

The Red Keep.

The heart of the realm.

The seat of the Iron Throne.

It felt distant. Foreign. Unfamiliar.

Then again so did everything now.

She exhaled shakily, turning her gaze back to the ruins around them. “Will Highgarden ever be the same again?”

Myren was silent for a long moment.

“No.” He admitted. “Though it will endure.”

Irene’s hands curled into fists.

Her home would never be the same. Her family would never return. The roses would bloom again, but they would not be the ones her mother had tended to so carefully, nor the ones Sylas had plucked for her when no one was watching, nor the ones Florian had sworn would one day adorn on her wedding gown.

Nothing would ever be the same.

Though she was still here.

She let out a slow breath, then looked up at her father. “Alright…” She said quietly. “I’ll go to Oldtown.”

Something in Myren’s shoulders eased, though his expression remained grave. “Alright.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes.

“Will you write to me?” She asked after a pause.

“Of course.”

“Promise?”

His grip tightened around her. “I swear it.”

She nodded, curling into him as they walked through the ruins of what was once their home.

Perhaps she was cursed after all.

The path to the dead was quiet.

Myren carried Irene through the wreckage, each step slow, measured. The castle was no longer the home it had once been-Highgarden, the heart of the Reach, was now a tomb. Its halls no longer rang with laughter, nor did its gardens hum with birdsong. The wind whistled through the broken stone, and beneath it all was the heavy silence of grief.

Irene did not speak.

She knew where they were going.

The dead had been gathered in the inner bailey, away from the smoldering ruins, away from the flies and the rot. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of old blood and wilting flowers-someone, perhaps a desperate servant clinging to duty, had laid crushed petals over the bodies in some feeble attempt to mask the stench. It had not worked.

The corpses were lined in rows, some covered in simple linens, others exposed. Some faces she recognized; others were unidentifiable—too burned, too broken. Their flesh had begun to bloat, their skin turning a sickly shade of gray, tinged green with decay.

Irene swallowed.

Her father's grip on her tightened briefly.

Then they stopped.

Her mother lay in the center, her brothers on either side of her.

The breath left Irene's lungs.

Lady Tyrell had once been a vision of warmth, with vermilion hair like wildfire and hazel eyes that could soften even the harshest of tempers.

She had been kind, always. A mother who whispered lullabies at night, who brushed Irene's hair with careful hands, who never raised her voice even when she should have.

Now, her body was cold and still.

Her once-vibrant hair was dull, tangled with dried blood, matted to her skull where an arrow had struck. The shaft had been removed, but the wound remained—an ugly hole at her temple. More wounds littered her body, hidden beneath her torn gown, her chest marred with deep gashes where blades had found her. Her hands, always so gentle, were stiff with death, fingers curled slightly as if they had never let go of the last thing they touched.

Irene stepped closer, her small fingers twitching, wanting to reach out but not quite able to.

She had died shielding her.

Her mother, who had once placed flowers in her hair, had fallen in a pool of her own blood, her body draped over Irene's small frame, whispering—‘Hush, my love, hush. Close your eyes. It will be alright.’

Irene clenched her hands into fists.

She turned to Florian next.

Her eldest brother, the one who had always made her laugh, who had stolen pastries from the kitchens and dared her to climb the tallest trees.

Florian had always been fearless, a storm of mischief and bravery, and now—

Now, his body was still.

His messy curls were matted with dried blood, his face pale, lips parted slightly as if caught mid-laugh, but there was no laughter left in him. His tunic was torn, soaked through with the deep crimson of his own lifeblood.

A gaping wound in his side showed where the sword had run him through, a cruel, jagged thing that had likely left him gasping for breath as he fell.

His hands, always quick to tug her into trouble, were stiff, fingers curled as if they had been gripping his sword even after death.

"Florian…” Irene whispered.

He did not answer.

Her gaze drifted to Sylas.

He had never been like Florian.

He did not chase danger, did not seek adventure. He had loved books, had spent hours in the library pouring over histories and treatises, had muttered about theories and medicine and stars. He had always wrinkled his nose when Florian dragged him into trouble, always huffed when Irene pestered him with questions.

Sylas had never wanted to fight.

Though life had not given him a choice.

His body was smaller than Florian's, thinner, more delicate. His dark curls fell over his forehead in soft waves, his face frozen in a look of quiet, almost childlike surprise. His tunic was damp with blood, a wound in his chest, smaller than Florian's but just as final. His hands were clenched— not in fists, not in defiance, but in grief.

Because Sylas had not died alone.

Florian had fallen first, cut down at the gates, and Sylas-dear, stubborn Sylas—had refused to leave his brother's side. He had knelt there, unarmed, terrified, holding Florian's lifeless body until the blade had found him too.

Irene's breath hitched.

She could see it. She could see Sylas trembling, hands pressed to Florian's wounds as if he could stop what had already been done. Could hear his voice, frantic, desperate—‘Florian, get up. You imbecile get up. Please get up!”

Though Florian had not gotten up.

Neither had Sylas.

Her chest ached.

"You should say something.” Myren murmured beside her. His voice was hoarse, heavy with things left unsaid.

She had never prayed much, never quite believed the gods would listen.

Though her mother had. Her mother had always whispered to the Seven, had always knelt in quiet devotion, had always told Irene that prayers were never wasted, even if they went unanswered.

So she tried.

She closed her eyes, pressed her palms together, and prayed—not to the Father, nor the Warrior, nor the Mother, but to the Stranger.

‘Please, let them rest.’

She opened her eyes.

They looked the same.

Still. Silent. Unmoved by prayer or grief.

Irene's breath shuddered in her throat.

Her mother.

Florian.

Sylas.

Gone.

While she was still here.

Myren exhaled beside her, rubbing a hand over his face. "We will bury them properly before we leave.” He said quietly. "They will not be left here."

Irene nodded slowly.

She looked down at them one last time.

Then, in a small, quiet voice, she murmured. “Florian still owes me a strawberry tart."

Myren let out a short, strained breath that might have been a laugh, or might have been something else entirely.

"He does.” He agreed.

"Sylas was supposed to teach me how to write in High Valyrian.” She added softly.

"He would have been a fine scholar.” Myren murmured.

Irene hesitated, then turned to face him fully. "Will I be alone in Oldtown?"

Myren's gaze softened. "You will have your grandfather, aunts, uncles, and cousins."

She bit her lip. "Though not you."

He reached out, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "I will return for you.” He promised.

She searched his face for any sign of falsehood, for any crack in the words. He was tired. More tired than she had ever seen him. Though  he did not lie.

Irene nodded.

"Alright.” He murmured.

They stood there a moment longer.

Then, slowly, Myren turned, guiding her away from the dead. While Irene, for the first time, did not look back.

The remnants of Highgarden’s people stood gathered in what was once the great courtyard, now little more than scorched stone and shattered debris. The banners that once bore the golden rose of House Tyrell had been torn, burned, their edges still curling with the last remnants of fire. Smoke clung to the air, mingling with the scent of death, of blood, of things that could never be undone.

They were few now—so few. The knights, the retainers, the household guards, the men-at-arms who had survived the siege. Stable boys and blacksmiths, seamstresses and cooks. Those who had tended to the halls, the gardens, the very heart of Highgarden. They had fought for their home, bled for it, and in the end, they had suffered for it.

And now, they waited.

Myren stood before them, Irene at his side. The weight of his name, his station, his grief—all of it pressed upon him, yet his voice did not waver. He took a slow breath and stepped forward.

“You have all bled for Highgarden.” He said, his voice strong despite the ruin around them. “You have fought, you have suffered, you have endured. I do not ask for your loyalty today—I do not command it. If you wish to leave, you are free to go. If you wish to find new lords, I will not stop you. You owe us nothing, not after what has been lost.”

The words settled over them like the ash that still drifted from the ruins. No one spoke.

“And yet, Highgarden stands still, if only in our hearts. Though my sons are gone, though my wife has been taken from me, House Tyrell endures.”

He turned slightly, shifting Irene so that all could see her.

“My daughter and only living child, Irene Tyrell, is my sole heir. To her, I bequeath all that I have left.”

A murmur ran through the gathered people. It was not surprise—they had all seen the bodies. They had all known, even before this moment, that there was no one else left.

Though  hearing it aloud, hearing the words spoken with finality, was something else entirely.

“My sons were brave.” Myren said, voice steady despite the weight of grief pressing against him. “Florian, who laughed in the face of danger. Sylas, who wished only for knowledge and peace. They died as they lived, true to who they were. Though she remains.“ He glanced down at Irene, his gaze softening for just a moment. “She is young, but she is strong, and one day, she will be Lady Paramount of the Reach.”

Irene stiffened in his arms.

It was the first time he had said it. Not just ‘heir,’ not just ‘the last of House Tyrell’—but ‘Paramount of the Reach.’

The title meant for Florian.

A burden never meant for her.

She swallowed, her throat dry.

“Irene is the heir now.” Myren said. “She is the last bloom of Highgarden. I swear this to you—I will see her protected, I will see her grow, and I will see our house rise again.”

Silence.

A breath, held too long, threatening to break. Then, the first man stepped forward.

Ser Rowan Lannett, Florian’s sworn shield, blood still dried along his temple where his helm had been cracked in the fighting. His face was drawn, grief carved into every line, but his eyes—his eyes burned with something unshaken.

He unsheathed his sword.

Then he knelt.

The sound of steel striking stone rang out as he laid the blade at Irene’s feet.

“I swore an oath to serve House Tyrell.” Ser Rowan said, his voice hoarse but unwavering. “I swore to protect its blood, to guard its heirs. I failed my lord, but I will not fail my lady. I swear myself to you, Lady Irene. I will serve you as I once served your brother. My sword, my life—they are yours.”

Irene’s breath caught.

She opened her mouth, but no words came. Then another knight stepped forward and another.

Ser Davan Tarly knelt, pressing his fist to his chest. “House Tarly has always stood beside House Tyrell. I will not break that tradition now. I pledge myself to you, my lady. May the Reach rise again, and may you lead us into that future.”

Ser Edric Flowers followed. “Your father gave me a place in his household when I had none. Your mother treated me as a son when no one else would. My sword is yours, my lady, for as long as I draw breath.”

A bannerman stepped forth. Then another. Then a squire, barely older than her brother had been, tears streaking his soot-covered face as he knelt.

“You were kind to me when I was nothing more than a stablehand…” He whispered, voice shaking. “You gave me bread when I was hungry. You called me by my name. I swear to serve you, Lady Irene, for as long as you will have me.”

More followed.

The maester, old and weary, pressing a hand to his heart. “I have tended to this house for decades. I will see it rise again before I die. I pledge my service to you, my lady.”

The kitchen maid who had once snuck Irene extra honeycakes. “You were always sweet, even when the other lords and ladies turned up their noses. I will serve you.”

The guard who had taught her how to hold a dagger, gruff and blunt. “I swore to protect Highgarden’s blood. I swore to protect you. That has not changed.”

One by one, they knelt.

One by one, they spoke their oaths.

One by one, they pledged their lives to her.

Irene’s hands trembled. She looked up at her father, searching his face for something—guidance, reassurance, anything.

His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was soft, proud in a way she had never seen before.

She turned back to the kneeling men and women, their heads bowed, their voices a chorus of unyielding loyalty.

The weight of the moment pressed down on Irene like an avalanche.

She was seven summers. A child. She should not be here, standing before kneeling knights and sworn men, accepting vows that should have gone to Florian.

Though she was all that remained.

She swallowed.

They were waiting for her.

She forced herself to stand straight, though her limbs felt too thin, too weak to bear such weight. She pressed her hands together, the way her mother had always done when addressing a room.

“You kneel for me.” She said, her voice quiet but steady. “Though it is I who should kneel for you.”

A murmur of confusion.

“You fought for my house…” She continued, her bronze eyes sweeping over them. “You bled for my land. You suffered for it. I… I have done nothing but survive.”

The words felt heavy in her chest.

“You swear your loyalty to me, but it is I who owe you my life.” She whispered. “I am not my father. I am not Florian. I am not the lord you wanted. Though I am here, and I will not forget what you have done for me.”

The silence that followed was thick with something she did not understand.

Then Ser Aldric Rowan rose first. He met her gaze, and for the first time, there was something like pride there. “You do not need to be Florian. You need only be Irene.”

He turned to the gathered men and women, his voice ringing clear.

“To Lady Irene. Heir of Highgarden. The future of the Reach.”

And as one, they rose.

And as one, they swore.

“To Lady Irene, Heir of Highgarden. The future of the Reach.”

Their voices rose into the ruins, loud enough to shake the very stones beneath their feet. They were enough to carry across the ashes of what had been lost. As Irene, for the first time since the siege began, did not feel alone.

Chapter Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐊𝐘 was a watercolor of pale gold and whispering blue, the sun hanging low over Oldtown’s towers, its light casting long shadows across the garden below. Otto Hightower stood on the balcony of the Hightower, his gaze locked on the child seated within the enclosed garden, the scent of crushed lavender and fresh rosemary drifting on the sea breeze.

Irene Tyrell sat with an unsettling stillness for a girl of seven summers, her small hands wrapped around a porcelain teacup, its rim kissed by the faintest trace of honeyed herbs. The Lord Hightower, her grandfather, his older brother, reclined across from her, speaking in hushed tones, though Irene hardly seemed to be listening. Instead, she traced patterns into the condensation forming along the cup’s side, her bronze eyes half-lidded, distant, lost somewhere beyond the walls of the Hightower.

The rumors surrounding her arrival clung to her like a spectral veil, whispers given shape by the murmuring tongues of courtiers and servants alike. Born beneath a starless sky, bathed only in the eerie glow of the blue moon, her first breath had been heralded by a hundred ravens spiraling above Highgarden.

They called her many things ‘ The Heir of Ruin’ , ‘ The Last Bloom of Highgarden , ‘The Rose of Ash and Flames,’ the girl who should not have inherited but did, the girl who did not want a title but bore it all the same. Her survival of the siege—when her mother and brothers had perished—was a thing of myth, whispered in shadowed corners. She had walked away from the ruin of her home, with a claim stronger than any living man’s.

She was the most desired bride in Westeros. The Reach was a kingdom within a kingdom, its lands stretching in a way akin to veins across the heart of the realm, feeding the realm with its endless bounty. Where the Lannisters held wealth in gold, finite and dwindling, the Tyrells possessed something greater—renewal.

The fields of golden grain, its vineyards heavy with fruit, its vast trade routes stretching to the farthest corners of Westeros—everything, all of it, rested upon her.

A king could lose the North, the Riverlands, or even the Vale, but to lose the Reach was to starve the realm itself. Without its wheat and barley, the markets of King’s Landing would wither, the great houses would turn inward, and the Iron Throne itself would be but a seat of iron with no kingdom to rule. For gold could be spent. As armies could be lost. However land—fertile, ever-renewing land—that was power beyond any crown.

It had been a small miracle that the Lord Hightower had secured the marriage between his daughter and the Lord Tyrell, uniting Hightower and Tyrell blood in a way that had eluded them for centuries. Through that union, the late Florian Tyrell, should have been the rightful Lord of the Reach. A boy who would have carried both Highgarden’s legacy and the old blood of House Gardener, the kings of the Reach before Aegon’s Conquest.

However Florian was gone. Slain during the siege that had stolen the girl’s childhood, leaving her to rise from the ashes as the sole heir. Her claim was unquestionable, her blood undeniably strong. There was no opposition, no scheming cousin, no distant relative with a better right. The gods had chosen her, a girl of seven summers, to sit upon the most coveted seat in Westeros outside the Iron Throne itself.

Otto observed her as he would a game of cyvasse, reading every flicker of movement, every unspoken gesture. She wore a gown of deep emerald, embroidered with golden vines that curled around her slender frame, its train brushing against the grass where her bare feet peeked from beneath the fabric. Her hands, delicate but ever restless, twitched at her sleeves, folding and unfolding the embroidered cuffs.

Her eyes darted briefly to the hedge of climbing roses at her side, and for a fleeting moment, her lips moved—silent words exchanged between her and the plant as though it could listen. A shiver prickled down Otto’s spine. The rumors of her strange ways were no mere exaggerations. She was not like other children, not like other highborn girls who played at being ladies and whispered of tourneys and knights. There was something else inside her, something older, something neither entirely gentle nor entirely cruel.

In the garden’s farthest corner, half-hidden behind a column of ivy, a boy lingered. Daeron. Otto’s youngest grandson, sent to Oldtown to squire under his nephew, Ormund Hightower, stood motionless, watching the girl with the kind of wonder a child might hold for an untamed bird. Daeron had been bold once, charming and quick-witted, but since Irene’s arrival, a quiet shyness had overtaken him. He had not spoken to her, not once, though his eyes followed her every movement with the quiet reverence of a boy who had read too many tales of enchanting beauties.

Daeron was a fair-haired thing, all Valyrian elegance and grace, yet in that moment, with his fingers curled around the stone pillar, he was simply a boy in awe of something he did not understand.

Otto exhaled through his nose. There were matches to be made, alliances to be forged, and Irene Tyrell was a piece that could tilt the balance of the realm.

Otto considered the possibilities.

Aegon, his eldest grandson, would benefit most from such a match. A union between the heir to the Reach and the supposed heir to the Iron Throne would strengthen his claim beyond question. Though there were contradictions in that, too—hypocrisies that would not go unnoticed. If a woman could not inherit the Iron Throne, what made Great House different? The lords of the realm would not be blind to such double standards. Not to mention the fact that Aegon was reckless, indulgent, a creature of fleeting desires and selfish appetites. He would ruin her. The same way a moth landing upon a fragile bloom, tearing its petals with unthinking carelessness.

Aemond was another option. The boy was studious, disciplined. A thinker. He would match Irene’s quiet intensity well. The boy would see the value in her, in what she represented. And appreciate the mind beneath the curls, the knowledge hidden within her hands. Though he was still without a dragon. It remained to be seen if the gods would remedy that in time. However Irene had no need of fire and wings. She was a different kind of power. Aemond and Irene together would be something else entirely. A quiet storm, a blade hidden in the folds of a healer’s robe.

Then, of course, there was Daeron. The boy had always been well-liked, easy with a smile, charming without effort. Yet, here he stood, hiding like a squire caught watching a princess from the shadows. He had never faltered before, had never hesitated in conversation, and yet—something about the girl in the garden had struck him mute.

One of them would have to take her hand, and in doing so, ensure the Hightowers’ grip on Highgarden remained unbroken.

However the girl was an enigma.

She had not spoken much since her arrival, at least not to the courtiers who circled her like vultures. The septa assigned to her had claimed she would not pray, but Otto had caught her more than once standing in the gardens at night, whispering beneath the branches of the weirwood tree, though there was no Old Gods worshipped in Highgarden.

She was neither timid nor afraid, nor did she carry herself with the arrogance of a child who knew her own importance. Instead, she moved through Oldtown like a ghost wandering halls not meant for her, skirting past conversations, vanishing into hidden alcoves, slipping away to places where few dared follow.

And none one had seen her weep since Highgarden burned.

Not once.

The only time Otto had caught a glimpse of something beneath the mask was when he had seen her in the rookery. She had been alone, standing amidst the rustle of wings, her hand outstretched as a great black raven landed upon her wrist. Its beady eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, it had been as though she were speaking to it without words. When she turned, her bronze eyes had gleamed golden in the torchlight, and Otto had thought—not for the first time—that there was something unnatural about her.

Not unholy, but simply  other.

She had been forced into her inheritance, a child thrust into the hands of destiny. Otto did not believe in omens, yet he could not ignore the truth standing before him. She was the last viable heir of Highgarden, a bloom that had survived fire and ash, and now she would be placed into the game like all the others.

On the balcony, he folded his hands behind his back, his gaze still fixed on the garden below. Irene lifted her head, her golden eyes finding his without hesitation. For a heartbeat, she held his stare, unblinking, unreadable. Then, without a word, she turned away, her attention drawn back to the petals in her palm, her fingers tracing their veins as though they whispered secrets only she could hear.

This girl, this small, strange child who should have been nothing more than a forgotten bloom in a garden of greater flowers, had become the single most indispensable piece upon the board.

The girl who did not want to inherit.

The girl who was never meant to.

Yet the gods had chosen her all the same.

She was a child, yes. Though her blood, the Reach pulsed, and through her, the realm would either rise or burn.

Whoever claimed Irene Tyrell’s hand would not merely win a wife. They would win the Reach.

Its armies.

Its wealth.

Its necessity.

Through that, they would win the war.

Otto had spent his life ensuring his house held power in every corner of the realm. He had placed his daughter beside a king, and through that, he had shaped history itself.

Now, he would shape it again.

A breeze stirred through the gardens below, lifting a few stray curls from Irene’s face. She exhaled softly, as if speaking to the wind itself, before turning back to her tea.

Daeron remained unmoving beneath the orange tree, his fingers still twitching, his breath held. Otto would not force the boy’s hand, not yet, though soon however.

The marble floors of the Hightower felt cold beneath Otto’s boots as he stepped away from the balcony. His gaze lingered for a moment on the girl below before he turned, his mind already weaving the next strand of his plan. For power was never taken—it was cultivated, nurtured like a garden. As of this moment, the girl in the green and gold dress was the most precious seed in Westeros.

He descended the steps in measured strides, the hem of his robe whispering against stone. The corridors of the Hightower were silent save for the distant crashing of waves against the cliffs, a reminder of the city’s might and its peril. Oldtown had stood for thousands of years, weathering storms and sieges alike. House Hightower had endured just as long, and Otto intended for it to endure long after he was gone.

As he stepped into the courtyard, the scent of damp earth and roses filled his lungs. The garden was sparse in the fading light, its usual vibrancy dulled by winter’s approach. Yet, Irene sat there as if she belonged nowhere else, a splash of color against the muted greens and grays of Oldtown.

But Otto’s focus shifted to the boy hiding behind the hedges.

Daeron stood with his hands clenched at his sides, his golden curls tousled from the wind, his violet eyes locked onto Irene with an intensity that only children could manage. He was watching her as if she were something both beautiful and terrifying.

The boy had not inherited his older brothers’ arrogance. He was not a creature of raw ambition or unyielding discipline. Daeron was, by all accounts, the most charming of his daughter’s sons—a boy who could win hearts with laughter, who had always carried the easy confidence of a child born to a life of certainty. And yet, here he was, paralyzed by the thought of stepping forward.

A moment passed before Otto spoke.

“She will not bite you.” Otto murmured, his voice calm but edged with the firmness that had guided kings.

The boy exhaled sharply, rubbing his hands along his tunic. “I know.” He said, but the hesitation in his voice betrayed him. “I just… I don’t know what to say to her.”

Otto let out a breath, allowing his gaze to drift to where Irene sat, still speaking softly with his brother. She was not like Helaena, despite the odd similarities between them. Where his granddaughter drifted through the world as if she were only half present, Irene was tethered to it with a strange, knowing intensity. There was something in the way she tilted her head, in the way she let her fingers linger on the petals of the rose bush beside her, that made Otto suspect she saw far more than she let on.

“You will greet her as you would any other noble lady.” Otto said simply.

Daeron scuffed his boot against the ground. “What if she doesn’t like me?”

Otto blinked, surprised by the naked vulnerability in the boy’s voice. It was not a fear of rejection in the way a courtier might dread a snub; it was deeper, more honest. A child’s uncertainty, untainted by pride or strategy.

For a moment, Otto was silent. Then, with a quiet sigh, he extended his hand.

“Then I will be by your side.”

Daeron hesitated only a moment before placing his small hand in Otto’s grasp. His fingers were warm, slightly sweaty, but steady. Otto gave them a firm squeeze before leading the boy forward, stepping past the hedges and into the open garden where Lord Hightower and Irene were seated.

Irene had not noticed them at first, too preoccupied with swirling her tea, watching as the leaves inside settled, as though she could divine their meaning. Lord Hightower, seated across from her, was the first to glance up. His expression shifted from quiet amusement to mild curiosity, though there was a glint in his gaze that suggested he had already anticipated Otto’s purpose.

“My lord.” Otto greeted his older brother smoothly before inclining his head toward Irene. “My lady.”

Irene blinked, as if pulled from some distant thought, before straightening in her seat. Her bronze eyes met Otto’s first, polite but guarded, before flickering to the boy standing beside him.

Daeron, despite all his earlier nerves, did not falter now. His fingers tightened around Otto’s as he took in the girl before him—the girl who had survived the Siege of Highgarden, the girl who spoke to plants as though they whispered secrets only she could hear, the girl whom men spoke of in hushed tones, half in reverence, half in superstition.

Yet Daeron did not see a legend. He saw a girl with wild red curls that refused to be tamed, a smattering of freckles across her nose, and eyes that gleamed like polished bronze in the fading light.

Before Otto could stop him, Daeron blurted out. “You’re the most beautiful lady in the realm.”

Otto barely suppressed the urge to close his eyes in exasperation.

Lord Hightower choked on a laugh.

Otto tightened his grip on Daeron’s hand, as if hoping to physically restrain any further outbursts, but the boy was already staring at Irene with wide, earnest eyes.

“Daeron…” Otto began, his tone dangerously close to scolding, but before he could say more, Irene tilted her head slightly, regarding Daeron with open curiosity.

“Why do you think that?” She asked, voice even, devoid of the usual flustered reaction one might expect from a girl being so boldly praised. There was no blush, no shy giggle, only pure, analytical interest, as if she were examining a rare specimen beneath glass.

Otto prayed the boy would respond with a measure of tact.

He did not.

Daeron straightened, his earlier hesitance vanishing as if it had never existed.

“It’s your hair.” He said, his voice gaining the kind of momentum only a child’s could. “You have curls like the setting sun, like the flames of a hearth on a winter's night, wild and untamed, as if the wind itself has kissed every strand." He gestured vaguely to the air, as though he could conjure the imagery from sheer will. “Oh and your eyes—have you ever seen gold in the sunlight? Not the kind in crowns or coins, but the kind on a knight’s sword hilt when it catches the light just right?”

Otto could already feel the secondhand embarrassment settling in.

However Daeron was not finished. “While your freckles they’re like stars. Not the kind you see in the city, but the ones you see when you’re out riding at night, when the sky is black and the world is quiet, and you realize how small everything is, except the stars. Except you.”

Silence.

Otto felt himself go still. Lord Hightower was grinning now, thoroughly entertained.

However Irene?

She was watching Daeron, an unreadable expression flitting across her face. Then, after what felt like an age, she reached up and traced a finger over the freckles on the bridge of her nose, as if considering his words in earnest.

Daeron fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot. “It’s true!” He added hastily, as if she might doubt him. “You are the most beautiful lady in the realm.”

Otto cleared his throat.

“I believe the lady has heard you the first time.” He said dryly.

Lord Hightower grinned. “Let the boy speak, brother. It is rare enough to find one so young who appreciates beauty in words, not just in sight.”

Daeron’s cheeks had gone pink, but he was smiling now—small and uncertain, but there all the same.

Irene, to her credit, did not laugh. She did not sneer or scoff or call him silly, as most highborn girls would have done.

Instead, she studied him.

There was something in the way she looked at people, Otto had noticed. As if she were dissecting them, peeling back the layers of their skin to see what lay underneath.

“Thank you.” She said, and though her voice was quiet, it held the weight of someone unaccustomed to receiving praise.

Daeron beamed.

Otto sighed.

Lord Hightower, still chuckling, took a slow sip of his wine. “Well, I must say, if nothing else, your grandson has the makings of a true poet.”

“A poet is not quite what I was aiming for.” Otto said dryly to his brother.

Deronye , undeterred by his grandfather’s disapproval, looked as though he had just conquered a the east with sheer words alone. “It’s true. I meant every word.”

She nodded, accepting this as fact. Then, her gaze flickered downward, where a small sprig of lavender had begun to curl around her fingers, its tiny blossoms brushing against her skin.

She murmured something too softly for Otto to hear, but Daeron caught it.

“What did you say?”

Irene glanced up. “The flowers, they agree with you.” She said simply,

And before Otto could even begin to unpack that statement, Daeron grinned so brightly it could have rivaled the sun.

He was well and truly lost.

Otto could already feel the beginning of a headache settling in.

This was not how the day was meant to unfold. This was not how courtships were supposed to begin—if it even was a courtship. However looking at Daeron, at the way his blue eyes shone with open admiration, Otto knew.

The boy had already made his choice.

While the girl—the girl who spoke to plants and carried the weight of a kingdom with the absentminded ease of a child who did not yet understand what it meant to rule—had not pushed him away.

With that, Otto thought grimly, might be the most dangerous thing of all.

Irene ran a finger along the delicate petals of the lavender sprig, her bronze eyes flickering with quiet curiosity. The plant responded in kind, bending ever so slightly toward her touch as if listening to a whisper only it could hear.

She glanced at Daeron again, still watching her with a reverence that made Otto Hightower wary. The boy had always been charming—bold, daring, a silver-haired prince with all the makings of a knight from some old song—but Irene was not the kind of girl who swooned over tales of gallantry and heroics.

She studied people like she studied her herbs—dissecting, analyzing, searching for the roots beneath the surface.

Her voice, when she spoke again, was soft but steady. “Do you like plants?”

Otto winced. Of all the questions she could have asked.

Throughout Westeros, her love for plants was not just known—it was legendary. She was the one who whispered to ivy and spoke in hushed tones to rosebushes as though they were old friends. The child who could list every herb and flower in the Reach with the precision of a maester, who treated her garden as both sanctuary and confidant. The girl whose affinity for greenery bordered on the supernatural.

Any sensible boy—any sensible prince —would have recognized the weight of her question.

“I don’t really care for them.” Daeron, spoke without an ounce of tact.

Otto nearly groaned aloud. Lord Hightower let out a sharp bark of laughter, raising his cup to his lips to hide his amusement.

Though Irene…

Irene did not scowl, she not frown, nor not turn away in disappointment. Instead, she merely blinked at him, her gaze unreadable.

For a child who had lost everything, who had been named heir not by choice but by cruel necessity, she was a remarkably difficult girl to unsettle.

Daeron shifted under her gaze, rubbing the back of his neck. For a brief moment, Otto thought he might attempt to amend his words, perhaps stumble through some apology for his lack of interest in what she so clearly loved.

“However for you. I’ll give you a garden of wonder.”Daeron said suddenly, his voice bright with determination.

Irene’s expression flickered with curiosity. Daeron, encouraged, pressed on.

His mother had once said that princes were meant to make grand gestures for the ladies they admired. That the great lords of history had built towers and sung ballads and fought duels in the name of beauty and love. That kings had moved mountains and rivers, and poets had wept ink upon parchment, all for the favor of a maiden who had captured their hearts.

Honestly Daeron wasn't entirely sure what all of that meant, either. Though he was sure of one thing—he wanted Irene to like him.

“My mother always says that princes make grand gestures to impress beautiful maidens.” He continued, nodding to himself as though he had just stumbled upon some great and ancient truth. “Since you’re the most beautiful lady in the realm, I’ll have to make mine the grandest of all.”

Otto exhaled slowly through his nose, resisting the urge to close his eyes.

Lord Hightower was openly grinning now, his amusement uncontained.

Irene tilted her head. “What would this garden of wonder be?”

Daeron straightened his spine, the full weight of his six summers confidence settling upon him. “I’ll find the most beautiful and rarest plants in the entire world!” He declared. “Not just from Westeros. From Essos. From the Summer Isles. From lands beyond the maps the maesters scribble in their dusty tomes.”

Otto had to admit—at the very least, the boy had inherited the Hightower ambition.

Irene considered this. “How will you do that?”

Daeron grinned, undeterred. “I’ll ask.”

Irene tilted her head further, and Otto, despite himself, found a trace of curiosity flickering in his own thoughts.

Daeron, ever eager, rushed forward with his explanation.

“I’ll find merchants!” He said, eyes alight with excitement. “The best ones. The kind who travel to strange and faraway places, where no one else has gone. I’ll ask them what they’ve seen, what grows in the places beyond Westeros. Not just the common flowers, but the ones no one else knows the names of. The ones that grow where it’s too hot, or too cold, or too wild for men to settle.”

Irene was listening. Truly listening.

“Not just merchants!” Daeron went on, his voice gaining momentum like a ship catching wind in its sails. “I’ll find explorers. The ones who map the edges of the world, who sail beyond the Summer Isles and past the Jade Sea, into lands no maester has ever written about. I’ll write to them, send letters with gold so they can bring back seeds, cuttings, roots. If that isn’t enough…”

He paused, took a breath, then continued with unwavering certainty. “When I’m old enough, I’ll go myself!”

Otto’s hands tightened behind his back.

Daeron, still caught in the thrall of his own vision, barely noticed. His expression was fierce with determination, his eyes burning with the kind of childish resolve that knew no limits.

“I’ll find the tallest trees in Yi Ti, the ones that touch the sky, and bring back saplings so you can have your own forest. I’ll find the flowers in Asshai that only bloom under the moon and plant them in your garden so you can see them glow at night. I’ll go to the ruins of Valyria and see if anything still grows there, even in all that fire and death, and if it does, I’ll bring it back to you.”

He was breathless now, as if the very act of speaking his plan into existence was enough to will it into reality.

“When I return I’ll plant them myself. With my own hands. As they would be for you, and you’ll have a garden that no one else in the world will have.” He finished.

“A garden of wonder.”

Silence settled over the gathering.

Otto had spent decades in court, had navigated the treacherous waters of politics and ambition longer than Daeron had been alive. Yet, for the first time in a long time, he found himself unsure of what would happen next.

Irene’s fingers curled gently around the sprig of lavender in her lap.

Slowly, she looked at Daeron.

Then, ever so slowly, a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. It was barely there, fleeting and quiet, like the first bloom of spring after a long winter.

Daeron beamed, utterly triumphant.

Lord Hightower let out a booming laugh. “By the Seven, boy, I think you may have just promised this girl the whole world!”

Daeron, still caught in the glow of Irene’s approval, shrugged. “Then I will have to make sure I deliver.”

Otto let out a slow, measured breath.

This was not the way things were done. Courtships were careful, calculated affairs. Even at their youngest, noble children were trained in the art of decorum, in the delicate dance of alliances and expectation. Yet, here was Daeron, making a promise far beyond his station, beyond reason, beyond logic.

Yet here was she, not rejecting it, but considering it.

Otto had come to the garden to guide Daeron into a simple introduction. A polite exchange, a foundation for the future. He had not expected his grandson to offer the girl a dream carved from soil and stars.

His grandson had not simply admired the girl who would inherit the Reach. He had just declared war upon the very stars themselves to win her favor.

Oh Gods help them all—she had let him.

Otto had seen many things in his long years. But as he looked at the children before him, the weight of the realm resting in the space between them, he felt something new settle in his chest.

Something inevitable.

“You would do all that?” Irene spoke up.

Daeron nodded at once. “Yes.”

She was quiet for a moment, turning the lavender in her palm. Then, finally, she spoke again. “What if the plants don’t like it here?”

It was not the question Otto had expected.

Daeron hesitated, his brows furrowing. He had not thought of that. He had imagined a garden vast and wild, filled with wonders from every corner of the world, but he had not considered whether those wonders would thrive in Westeros.

“I’ll ask about that too.” He decided, after a moment. “I’ll learn what they need. What kind of soil, what kind of water. If they need shade or sun, warmth or cold. And if they can’t live here…” Daeron paused, considering his words carefully. “Then I will build them a place where they can.”

Otto watched as Irene finally lifted her gaze from the lavender to look at Daeron fully. There was something in her expression—something quiet, something lingering.

Lord Hightower chuckled, raising his cup. “A grand vision for one so young.”

Daeron grinned, emboldened by Irene’s reaction. “I am a prince.” He said, as if that explained everything.

Irene hummed softly, lowering her gaze back to the lavender. She twirled it between her fingers again, thoughtful.

“You should start with something simple first.” Irene murmured.

Daeron tilted his head. “Like what?”

She considered for a moment. Then, carefully, she plucked a single petal from the lavender and held it out to him.

“Lavender is easy to grow.”

Daeron stared at the petal as if she had just handed him a treasure more valuable than dragon gold.

“Then I will grow you the finest lavender in all the realm.” He declared.

Otto sighed.

Lord Hightower laughed.

While Irene, still watching Daeron with those unreadable bronze eyes, simply tucked the remaining lavender sprig into her palm, as if tucking away a secret.

Daeron however turned the delicate lavender petal over in his fingers, frowning slightly as if trying to decipher a hidden message within its violet hue. He had never paid much attention to flowers before—beyond the ones woven into his sister’s hair or the ones decorating the halls of court feasts. But now, as he stood before Irene, who had handed him this small piece of herself, he found himself wanting to know more.

“What’s special about lavender?” He asked, glancing up at her.

At once, Irene’s expression shifted. It was subtle—most wouldn’t notice—but Otto did. The faintest glimmer of light entered her bronze eyes, a flicker of something rarely seen. Not amusement, not excitement, but something deeper. Something close to belonging.

She cradled the remaining lavender sprig in her palm, running her fingers along the tiny blossoms as she considered her answer. And then, in a voice soft yet certain, she began to speak.

“Lavender is one of the oldest herbs known to man.” She murmured. “It grows in rocky soil and thrives under the sun, but it can survive nearly anywhere if it is tended to with care. It is stubborn, in a way. Even in the harshest of conditions, it finds a way to grow.”

Daeron blinked, intrigued. “Like a weed?”

“Not a weed.” Irene corrected, shaking her head. “A survivor.”

Otto observed as she spoke, noting the way she held the lavender with the same quiet reverence one might offer a sacred relic.

“In the Reach, we use lavender for many things.” She continued. “Its scent lingers in gardens, in halls, even in the sheets of noble ladies who wish for restful sleep. Its oil can be pressed from the flowers and used for perfumes, or mixed with beeswax to make balms that heal burns and wounds. It soothes pain, calms fevers, and drives away insects. It can even be used in food, though only in small amounts—too much, and the bitterness takes over.”

She lifted the sprig slightly, as if presenting it to an unseen audience. “Maesters say lavender is only useful for the body. But that is not true. Lavender is just as much for the mind as it is for the flesh.”

Daeron tilted his head, captivated. “How?”

“It quiets restless thoughts.” Irene said, her voice thoughtful. “It is given to warriors before battle, to steady their nerves. To grieving mothers, to help them sleep without dreams. To children who wake screaming in the night, afraid of things they cannot name.”

A pause. A flicker of something unspoken in her expression.

Then, she pressed on. “In some places, they say lavender is a gift from the gods. That its scent lingers on the wind as a blessing. In other places, it is said to ward off evil spirits. That planting lavender by one’s door keeps darkness at bay.”

Daeron’s lips parted slightly, as if she had just told him a great secret. “Does it really?”

Irene considered this. “I think it depends on what you believe.”

Otto studied her closely.

There was something remarkable about the way she spoke—calm, deliberate, yet brimming with knowledge far beyond her seven summers. She did not merely recite facts as a maester might. She spoke as though she knew lavender, as if she understood it in a way no one else did.

Daeron was silent for a long moment, staring at the small petal in his palm as if he had never seen one before. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I like it.” He decided. “It smells nice.”

Lord Hightower chuckled into his cup, but Otto said nothing.

Irene gave Daeron a small, approving nod. “That is a good place to start.”

A quiet fell between them, but it was not an uncomfortable one. Daeron seemed content to absorb this new knowledge, and Irene—uncharacteristically—seemed content to let him.

After a moment, Daeron’s lips pressed together, as if weighing a thought.

“Would you teach me?” He asked suddenly.

Irene blinked. “Teach you what?”

“About plants.” Daeron said, straightening. “Since I’m going to make you a garden of wonder, I should know what I’m putting in it.”

For the first time since Otto had met her, Irene laughed .

It was soft, fleeting, like the rustle of leaves in a summer breeze.

Otto could not recall the last time he had heard the sound.

Daeron, beaming, puffed out his chest in triumph. “I mean it.”

Irene’s laughter faded, but something warm lingered in her eyes. She regarded him for a long moment before nodding, the smallest of smiles touching her lips.

“Very well.” She said, placing the lavender sprig into his hand. “We will start with lavender.”

Otto exhaled slowly, watching as his grandson clutched the flower as if it were a treasure beyond price.

In Irene’s eyes, he saw something shift, something he had not planned for, something that, in the years to come, would change the course of their world.

Chapter Text

𝐆𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐘 did not know how he had ended up here.

One moment, he had been sparring with squires in the training yard of Oldtown, his blade ringing against steel, barking orders at Daeron as he stumbled over his footwork. The next, his uncle—the Lord of Oldtown himself—had walked in with Irene at his side, and before Gwayne could blink, he had been ordered to escort her to the Citadel.

Not alone, of course.

Daeron had insisted on coming.

The boy was six summers, silver haired and sharp-eyed, carrying all the effortless charm and boldness of his dragon blood. Ever since meeting Irene, he had been utterly, hopelessly enthralled. It was almost laughable—a child smitten by another flower—but Gwayne had known many boys in love with ideas greater than themselves. It was a dangerous thing to long for something beyond your reach.

Now, they stood in the vast halls of the Citadel, watching as Irene did what no other child her age could do. She was seven, but she commanded the room.

The Archmaesters had gathered in the great stone chamber, along with Grand Maesters, Masters, Acolytes, and Novices alike—every level of the Citadel’s hierarchy drawn in by the mere presence of this girl. The air smelled of parchment and ink, of candle wax and the faintest hint of dried herbs. Scrolls lay unrolled across the tables, heavy tomes stacked beside them, but no one so much as glanced at them.

All eyes were on her.

Irene stood before them, utterly unafraid, her bronze eyes gleaming with sharp intelligence. Her vermilion curls caught the dim light of the Citadel’s lanterns, her ivory skin speckled with freckles that made her seem almost fey-like in the shifting glow.

She did not fidget.

She did not stammer.

She was speaking, her voice smooth and quick, explaining in intricate detail something the Maesters had long debated—the treatment of greyscale.

“… and when the lesions hardened, I observed that applying a tincture of crushed honeywort and vinegar softened the skin enough to allow careful removal with a sharp instrument.” Irene explained, gesturing lightly with her fingers. “The key was to minimize bleeding while ensuring the affected tissue was excised completely. Cauterization would have only worsened the infection.”

A murmur swept through the chamber.

“She was five.” Whispered one of the younger Acolytes in awe. “She treated greyscale at five.”

“A child, not even a Maester, and she has already accomplished more than half the Citadel.” Another voice hissed.

Gwayne folded his arms, watching, though his eyes flicked to Daeron beside him.

The young prince had leaned forward, utterly enraptured, lips slightly parted as he drank in every word. He had the look of a knight watching his queen issue commands to a battlefield.

“Lady Irene.” An Archmaesters—a old man with a chain so thick it weighed down his neck—tilted his head. “How did you determine the correct dosage of honeywort? Even the most practiced Maesters hesitate to use such a method.”

Irene blinked as if the question was beneath her. “I studied the effects on smaller wounds before attempting it on greyscale. It was a matter of careful experimentation, ensuring that the ratio of vinegar did not exceed the patient’s tolerance.”

“A child conducting medical trials.” Another muttered under his breath.

“Tell me, my lady.” A different Archmaester, this one with narrow eyes and ink-stained fingers, leaned forward. “What of the patient? The child you saved? Did they survive beyond the year?”

Irene’s expression flickered—so slight that only someone paying attention would notice.

“They lived.” She said simply.

Not a lie, but not the whole truth.

Gwayne had seen enough lords play with words to recognize it in an instant.

The Maesters, however, seemed satisfied, their curiosity insatiable. One of them clapped his hands together, his chain jingling as he stepped forward.

“My lady, would you be willing to demonstrate your technique?” His gaze gleamed with excitement. “We have patients in the infirmary—men afflicted with greyscale. If you are willing to show us your methods firsthand, the Citadel would be in your debt.”

Gwayne’s spine stiffened. The thought of a girl so young stepping into an infirmary full of dying men, of sickness festering in the air, of hands reaching out, desperate and rotting—

“I accept.” Irene said before anyone could protest.

Gwayne clenched his jaw. Beside him, Daeron nearly beamed with pride.

The Archmaesters glanced at one another, nodding in unison.

“Very well, my lady.” The ink-stained one gestured toward the door leading deeper into the Citadel. “If you would follow me.”

Irene turned on her heel and strode forward, unbothered by the watching men, by the whispered conversations happening just beyond her reach. Her gown, a deep emerald green embroidered with golden roses, barely brushed against the floor as she moved with a grace far too practiced for a child.

Gwayne exhaled sharply.

“Daeron.” He muttered. “Stay close.”

The boy nodded absently, barely listening, his blue eyes fixed on Irene as if she had been carved from the very same stone as the Hightower itself.

The moment they arrived to their destination they could practically sense death.

Gwayne had been in enough battlefields to recognize it. Though this was no battlefield of steel and blood—this was one of sickness and suffering, where the war was fought against the body itself.

The men afflicted with greyscale lay on cots, their limbs stiffened with hardened flesh, their faces frozen in states of half-decay. The disease had taken different tolls on each—some had lost fingers, some entire hands. One man’s face was nearly unrecognizable, his features turned to cracked stone, his eye little more than a lifeless mass.

The Maesters gathered around Irene as she stepped closer to the first patient. The girl did not flinch. Did not recoil. Instead, she tilted her head, studying the afflicted limb with a critical gaze.

Gwayne’s fingers twitched near the hilt of his sword. Useless here, but a habit nonetheless.

Daeron, to his credit, had not stepped back. He stood beside Irene, a breath’s distance away, his expression still full of awe but edged with something else now—concern.

Irene lifted her hand, reaching for the patient’s arm. Gwayne nearly stepped forward to stop her. But she did not touch the grey flesh. Instead, she gestured to one of the Maesters.

“I need a mixture of honeywort, vinegar, and warm water. Bring me a sharp blade, clean linens, and a basin.”

The Maesters scrambled to obey.

Gwayne stared. A girl of seven, commanding Maesters in their own hall.

The tools were brought. Irene washed her hands—thoroughly, carefully, with a precision that spoke of habit. Then, with movements too sure for a child, she took the knife and set to work.

She did not hesitate.

The blade pressed into the afflicted skin, cutting just beneath the hardened flesh. The patient groaned, though whether from pain or shock, Gwayne could not tell.

Irene worked quickly, peeling back the grey layers like a gardener trimming a dying plant. Her hands were steady, her breath even.

Daeron watched her as if she were a dragon in flight.

Gwayne exhaled, closing his eyes briefly.

This was not normal.

This was not a child’s place.

However, watching her, he realized—

She was something else entirely.

Something the world had not yet decided to fear.

The man beneath Irene’s hands trembled, his breath shuddering between clenched teeth. His arm lay still, though Gwayne could see the tension coiled in his muscles, the way his body fought against instinct, against the pain. He was awake—aware—but something about his expression was wrong.

Or rather, something about it was right.

Gwayne had seen men drugged with milk of the poppy before. He knew the haze it cast over the mind, the way it dulled not just the pain but the senses, drowning the world in a thick, heavy fog.

This man was not drowning.

He was here. Present. His eyes, though wide with strain, still flicked toward Irene, watching her, listening to her.

She had done something different.

“You are not cutting deep enough.” The patient gritted out, voice hoarse. “If you mean to take the stone, girl, take it.”

“You misunderstand.” Irene’s voice was calm, assured. “If I cut too deep, I cut into healthy flesh. I am not here to butcher you, ser, but to save what remains of you.”

A few of the Maesters standing nearby exchanged glances, intrigued. One of them—an older man with a chain nearly dragging to his waist—stepped forward, watching as Irene dipped her fingers into a small clay jar at her side.

“You gave him milk of the poppy.” The Maester observed, though there was a note of doubt in his voice. “He does not feel it as sharply as he should.”

“No.” Irene did not even look up as she smeared a thin layer of the substance across the freshly exposed skin. “Milk of the poppy dulls the mind along with the body. He still feels my blade, but the pain no longer rules him.”

The man beneath her let out a slow, shaky breath. “Aye…” He murmured. “That’s it exactly.”

The room went quiet.

“What did you give him?” The ink-stained Maester from before stepped forward. His tone was not suspicious, but fascinated. “If not poppy, then what?”

Irene rinsed her fingers in the basin of warm water, the red swirling like silk in the candlelight.

“Willow sap that was infused with feverfew and aetheris root.” She said simply, her bronze eyes flicking toward the gathered scholars.

Silence.

One of the younger Acolytes blinked. “That shouldn’t—”

“It should.” Irene corrected smoothly. “Feverfew works as a mild pain reliever when ingested. But when its oil is extracted and combined with the properties of aetheris root, it penetrates deeper, into the blood. Willow sap serves as the base—it has long been known to reduce fever and pain. Combined, they create something stronger. Something that dulls agony without dulling awareness.”

There was a pause as the men around her processed what they had just heard.

Then the old Maester spoke. “That is not written in any known text.”

Irene tilted her head, eyes sharp. “Then the text is incomplete.”

A ripple of astonishment ran through the room.

Gwayne caught a glimpse of Daeron out of the corner of his eye—the boy looked ready to burst. His hands clenched, his face practically glowing with pride as he beamed at Irene, his earlier awe magnified tenfold.

“You’re saying that you—at seven summers—created a treatment that has eluded the most skilled physicians of the Citadel for centuries?” Another Maester said his tone carefully measured.

Irene’s fingers did not pause in their work. “I am saying that the Citadel is too slow in its thinking.”

A sharp intake of breath. One of the younger Acolytes visibly flinched.

But the man beneath her blade—this grizzled, suffering knight—laughed. It was a dry, rasping sound, but real. Gwayne could hardly believe it. The man was in the middle of a greyscale treatment, awake and aware, and still, he laughed.

“Gods.” The knight murmured. “Here I thought you were just a pretty rumor.”

Irene raised an eyebrow. “I am not a rumor.”

“No.” The man rasped. “You are the Rose of Ash and Flames. You are the one that survived the Siege of Highgarden. You are the girl who speaks to plants and sees through sickness with the eyes of the gods. You are our future lady.” His lips twitched in something almost like reverence. “A miracle born from fire.”

A murmur rippled through the other patients.

“She’s real.”

“She’s the one they speak of…”

“I thought she was only a child—”

“She is a child.” The knight muttered, shifting slightly as Irene lifted the bandage over his arm. “A child who already knows more than all the old men in this damn place.”

Gwayne expected Irene to scoff, or brush off the words as flattery. But instead, she was quiet.

Listening.

“Why does she not wear a chain?” One of the patients asked. “Surely she is more Maester than noble.”

“I am both and neither.” Irene answered easily, pressing the fresh linen into place.

The words did not hold uncertainty—only a quiet understanding.

The old Maester, the one with the heavy chain, finally exhaled. “How did you come to this?” He asked, his voice softer now. “The idea for your remedy?”

Irene blinked, as if the answer should have been obvious. “Because I asked a question.”

“What question?”

Her bronze eyes flicked up, gaze steady. “Why does the Citadel think it already knows everything?”

A hush settled over the chamber.

One of the younger Maesters actually looked ashamed. The older ones were more careful in their expressions, but Gwayne could see it—the flickers of discomfort, the realization that they had spent decades reciting knowledge but had never once challenged it.

Irene did not give them time to respond.

Instead, she turned her attention back to the knight beneath her. “This will ache.” She murmured, more to herself than him. “Though you will heal.”

The man gave a weak, wry chuckle. “Seven hells, little lady. I believe you.”

Gwayne found himself exhaling, tension draining from his shoulders as he watched the girl work.

She was a Tyrell, a noblewoman, a child. Yet in this room, surrounded by men three, four, five times her age, she was the one they followed.

The Maesters had studied for decades. They had spent their lives searching for knowledge, yet it was a child who had brought them something they had not found in their tomes.

Innovation.

There was a reason the Reach was the most fertile land in Westeros. It grew not only crops but ideas—new, unbroken, thriving.

And this girl—the child who should never have lived, the heir who was never meant to be—was the future of it all.

The Maesters saw it now.

And so did Gwayne.

Across the room, Daeron was grinning.

Like he had just witnessed the forging of something greater than steel.

Like he had just seen the future.

The room had fallen into an almost reverent silence. The Maesters, men who had spent decades bound to their chains of knowledge, stood watching a seven-year-old girl do what they had never seen before.

Irene however?

She did not slow.

She did not falter.

She not hesitate.

Irene had set aside her first patient, his arm wrapped in fresh linen, his pain reduced to a dull ache without the cloud of poppy-induced haze. Now, she moved to the next.

Another man, another case of greyscale creeping up his forearm. His face was lined with worry, but as Irene stepped closer, bronze eyes gleaming with sharp intellect, his shoulders loosened.

She had already convinced them.

This was no child playing at Maester’s work. This was real.

“Your hand.” She murmured, holding out her own.

The man hesitated, then lifted his afflicted arm. Unlike the first, his greyscale had spread in uneven patches, flaking along the back of his hand while leaving the fingers relatively untouched. The skin between the grey was red and swollen. Painful. But alive.

Irene’s small fingers hovered over the lesions but did not touch them. Instead, she pressed against the soft flesh along his wrist, feeling for something unseen. Her brows furrowed slightly.

“Inflammation…” She muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

A Maester leaned forward. “The swelling comes from the body’s attempt to fight the disease.”

Irene hummed. “No.”

The Maester stiffened. “No?”

She lifted her gaze, calm but unyielding. “The swelling is a reaction to the infection, not the cure. The body does not fight greyscale—it surrenders to it. What you think is the body trying to defend itself is, in truth, the body making itself vulnerable.”

A murmur ran through the room.

The old Maester from before, the one with the dragging chain, took a slow step forward. “And how do you know this?”

Irene tilted her head slightly. “Because if the body was fighting, why do men still die from it?”

Silence.

She turned back to the patient and reached into her satchel, fingers sifting through glass vials and small cloth bundles. Then, she selected a thin, polished wooden needle, finer than a sewing pin, no larger than the length of her finger. She held it between her thumb and forefinger, tilting it toward the candlelight.

“What is that?” The ink-stained Maester asked.

“A needle.” Irene answered simply. “A hollow one.”

The Maesters exchanged glances. “Hollow?”

Irene ignored them, setting a small bowl on the table beside her. She uncorked a vial filled with a dark green liquid and poured a few drops into the bowl. Then, carefully, she dipped the tip of the needle into the liquid before turning back to the patient.

“This may sting.” She warned.

The knight nodded stiffly.

With the precision of someone far beyond her years, Irene inserted the needle beneath the hardened skin, piercing the flesh just enough to reach the swollen tissue underneath.

The man let out a sharp breath, but did not pull away.

Irene pressed the small end of the needle, drawing out a single droplet of darkened blood mixed with infection.

The Maesters gasped.

“She—she is draining the inflammation directly?” One of the younger Acolytes whispered.

“The swelling is not the cure.” Irene repeated, withdrawing the needle. “It is the sickness fighting to spread. If you release the pressure, you weaken the spread.”

The old Maester exhaled sharply. “Gods…”

Irene set the needle aside and picked up another vial, this one containing a thicker, pale blue salve. She dipped her fingers into it, the cool paste coating her skin, before applying it in delicate strokes over the freshly drained lesion. The patient let out a slow, relieved breath.

“What is in that?” Another Maester asked, his voice hoarse with curiosity.

“Goosegrass.” Irene murmured, still working. “For the swelling. Ground comfrey root to encourage healing. And a small amount of oil from the nyssa fruit.”

“Nyssa?” The Maesters stared.

“That is a Summer Isle fruit!” One of them gasped. “No Maester has successfully used it for medicinal purposes!”

Irene glanced up. “Because you mix it with the wrong compounds.”

The room stilled, and Gwayne felt something shift in the air. This was more than just a child displaying knowledge beyond her years. This was a reckoning.

The Maesters had spent their entire lives clinging to their texts, their histories, their treatments copied from men long dead. And here stood a girl, a child, who had created something new.

One of the older Maesters swallowed thickly. “How—how did you come to know this?”

Irene did not hesitate. “Because I do not believe in things simply because they have always been done.”

Silence.

The old Maester let out a long breath, running a hand over his beard. His fingers trembled slightly. “The Citadel has spent generations refining medical science.”

Irene’s gaze was unwavering. “Then you have spent generations wrong.”

A heavy gasp filled the room. The boldness of it—the sheer, unshaken certainty in her voice—was something no one had expected.

Even Gwayne, who had long since resigned himself to this girl’s sheer impossibility, felt his breath catch.

Yet Irene was not finished.

She stood, wiping her fingers clean on a cloth. Then, she turned to the Maesters fully. “Knowledge that does not change is not knowledge. It is stagnation.”

The words cut through them sharper than any blade.

One of the younger Maesters, a man who could not have been more than thirty, whispered under his breath. “She is right.”

No one argued.

Because what could they argue?

She had just done what they could not.

She had created medicine where there had been none.

She had healed where they had failed.

And she had done it alone.

Gwayne’s fingers curled into fists.

This girl… she was not simply brilliant.

She was dangerous.

Not because she wielded a sword, nor because she rode a dragon, nor because she schemed like those at court.

She was dangerous because she knew.

She knew how to think. How to challenge. How to break the chains of tradition and forge something new.

And that, more than any army, more than any banner raised in war, was the most terrifying power of all.

She turned back to her patient, fingers steady as she wrapped his wound.

The knight, still dazed, smiled.

“Gods save us.” He murmured. “The Reach has birthed a Queen.”

Irene tilted her head slightly, a small, unreadable smile playing at her lips.

“No.” She murmured, voice low. “I am not a Queen.” Irene tightened the bandage and stepped back. “I am a healer.”

“You don’t wish to be Queen?” The question came from a knight near the back of the infirmary, his voice laced with disbelief. It was not an accusation, nor was it scorn. It was pure confusion.

Every girl wished to be Queen. Every noble daughter was raised on the tales of great women who sat beside their Kings, who ruled through their husbands, who wore golden crowns and dictated the fates of realms with a whisper.

And yet, here stood Irene Tyrell, heir to the wealthiest land in Westeros, a girl whose name alone could shape the future of the realm, and she said no.

Irene tilted her head slightly, her bronze eyes gleaming with something too knowing for seven summers. She did not rush to answer. She let the silence stretch, let the weight of the question settle upon them like dust upon old tomes.

Then, finally, she spoke.

“Do you think a crown is a gift?”

The room hushed.

She did not raise her voice. She did not need to. The weight of her words settled upon them like autumn leaves drifting upon a still lake, rippling outward.

“A crown is not a prize. It is not some pretty thing made of gold and gemstones, meant to sit upon my head like an ornament.” Her voice was smooth, deliberate, each word cutting like a blade honed to perfection. “It is a chain. A noose, woven in silk so that you do not feel it tighten until you can no longer breathe.”

The men shifted. Gwayne felt something cold settle in his gut.

“I have never longed for a throne” Irene continued. “I have never dreamt of a court filled with lords and ladies whispering behind their hands, their words like poison, their smiles like knives. I have never wished to sit in a hall where men twice my age tell me I must marry wisely, bear sons, and be silent.”

She took a slow breath, shoulders rising and falling. “I am the last of my siblings. The last child of my mother. The last bloom of Highgarden.”

The men stiffened.

A knight pressed his knuckles to his lips. A soldier swallowed hard. Even the Maesters, men of knowledge and cold logic, could not ignore the sheer truth woven into her voice.

Irene lifted her chin.

“I do not wish to be Queen. I do not wish to sit upon the Iron Throne, playing at power while the realm burns. However I will be your Lady.”

A sharp inhale from the knight who had spoken.

“I will be the Lady of Highgarden. I will be the Paramount of the Reach, not because I asked for it, not because I wanted it, but because the gods have left me no choice.”

She exhaled. “If I must bear this burden, then I will do so as I see fit.”

Gwayne swallowed.

This was not the speech of a child.

This was the oath of a leader.

“I will not sit in idle halls, waiting for war to come to my doorstep.” Irene’s voice did not waver. “I will not leave the tending of my lands to men who care more for coin than for crops, who see my people as numbers rather than lives. I will not be some puppet passed between lords like a chess piece upon their board.”

Her fingers curled at her sides, small but steady. “When I take my seat in Highgarden, I will know the land better than the farmers who till it, I will know my soldiers’ wounds better than the Maesters who dress them, and I will know my people’s pain because I have stood among them.”

A sharp breath—someone weeping.

She pressed forward.

“I will build hospitals, not only for the lords, but for the smallfolk, so that no mother must watch her child die from fever when the cure was but a room away.” Her hands, always moving, clenched briefly in the folds of her gown. “I will teach my people how to heal, not with prayers alone, but with knowledge. I will create medicines that the Citadel has not yet dared to dream of. I will ensure that no man, no woman, no child is turned away simply because they cannot afford a Maester’s fee.”

A murmur rippled through the room.

A hospital for the smallfolk? It was unheard of. Maesters charged highborn families for their services, while the poor were left with poultices from hedge healers and prayers to the Seven.

She was redrawing the very foundation of medicine.

A lord’s daughter, promising a future where all men, noble and peasant alike, could be healed.

She was not normal.

She was never meant to be.

Irene’s bronze eyes burned, fierce and unyielding.

“I will not be Queen.” Her voice was soft, but there was steel beneath it. “Though I will be your Lady Paramount.”

And that, somehow, meant more.

The men—hardened knights, men who had seen battle, who had fought and bled for the Reach—fell to their knees.

A Maester inhaled sharply as one by one, every soldier, every knight, every Reachman in the room dropped down upon one knee, their heads bowed, their hands pressed to their hearts.

Even the wounded.

Even the man with his arm freshly bandaged.

Even the man whose leg was still being cleaned, pain still wracking his body.

Gwayne stared.

This was not how things were meant to go.

Children did not command the loyalty of men.

Girls did not bring hardened knights to tears.

Yet Irene Tyrell was not simply a girl.

Almost everyone knelt before Irene, some with hands pressed to their hearts, others lowering their heads as if in silent prayer. The reverence in their eyes was unmistakable. It was the kind a man might show a divine vision, something sacred and untouchable.

However Irene?

She panicked.

“What—what are you doing?” Her voice wavered, high, frantic, splintering like glass. “Get up—GET UP! You’re all still in need of treatment! You—” She pointed at a knight whose leg was still being bandaged.

“You’re still bleeding! And you—” Her bronze eyes darted to another. “Yneed your wound dressed again, or it’ll fester—”

No one moved.

Irene shook, her hands trembling at her sides, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Her fingers curled and uncurled like she was trying to physically hold herself together.

“I—I’m not—” She shook her head, curls bouncing as she backed away from them. “I’m not—I don’t—STOP THAT!” Her voice cracked, a raw, frenzied thing.

Gwayne had seen panic before. Had seen men freeze in battle, hands slick with sweat, eyes darting from left to right, unable to decide whether to run or fight.

But this was different.

This was not the panic of a child unused to being obeyed. This was overwhelming. The way her shoulders hunched, the way her hands twitched—this was not the reaction of someone afraid of power.

This was the reaction of someone who had lost something before.

“Irene—” Gwayne stepped forward, but she jerked back.

“I TOLD YOU TO GET UP!” She screamed. And then she burst into tears.

Her breath hitched, her entire frame shuddering as she let out a ragged sob. She clutched at her chest as though she could physically hold the air in her lungs, but it was slipping, slipping—

Her knees buckled.

Then chaos pure unfiltered chaos.

“She—SHE CAN’T BREATHE—!”

“Seven save us—what do we—”

“She’s—she’s dying—”

“DO SOMETHING!”

Gwayne had fought in skirmishes, had watched men bleed out in the mud with swords in their bellies, had seen bodies burned beyond recognition after dragonfire—but nothing prepared him for this.

Maesters scrambled, their once stoic composure shattering as Irene’s breath hitched violently.

Her fingers clutched at the fabric over her chest, her pupils blown wide, lips trembling as she gasped for air.

It was Daeron who reached her first.

He was utterly determined in a way only dragons could be. He skidded to his knees beside her, grabbing her face with small, firm hands.

“Irene—IRENE—look at me!”

She let out another broken gasp, tears rolling hot down her freckled cheeks.

“You’re not dying,” Daeron told her firmly. “You’re not. Breathe with me, okay? Breathe—One. Two. Three. Just like that.”

Irene tried.

She failed.

Daeron hugged her.

The room stilled.

“You’re not dying…” He whispered again, his small hands smoothing over her curls. “You’re okay. I promise.”

Her sobs slowed.

Her breath evened.

Still shaky, but not the ragged gasps of before.

Maesters exhaled. One of the knights looked like he might actually collapse from sheer relief.

Irene hiccupped.

Gwayne ran a hand over his face.

“Gods.” He muttered under his breath. “You nearly gave the entire Citadel a heart attack.”

Irene’s face burned red. She jerked away from Daeron’s embrace, rubbing furiously at her tear-streaked cheeks.

“I—I wasn’t—” She hiccupped again, visibly frustrated with herself. “I wasn’t—supposed to cry.”

“You weren’t supposed to collapse, either.” Gwayne pointed out.

“I didn’t collapse, I—” She bit her lip.

Daeron grinned. “You did.”

Irene glared at him through wet lashes. “Shut up.”

He beamed. “Make me.”

“You two are a nightmare.” Gwayne pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated.

The men chuckled.

Irene flushed harder, sniffing as she wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I—I don’t know what happened.”

“You panicked.” Gwayne said to her gently. “It happens.”

Irene scowled. “It doesn’t happen to me.”

“It just did.”

She huffed, arms crossing over her chest.

Daeron nudged her. “So… are you okay now?”

Irene hesitated. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress.

Then, finally—she nodded.

“I still think all of you are idiots for kneeling.” She muttered, voice thick with lingering emotion. “You’re still injured. And I still need to check on your dressings. And your fevers. And—”

Daeron laughed.

Maesters smiled.

And Gwayne, despite everything—despite the absolute insanity of this entire day—felt something settle.

Irene Tyrell might be brilliant.

She might be a force of nature.

She might be more than any of them could comprehend.

Yet at the end of it all—she was still a child. That made all the difference.

And Gwayne has seen many things.

He had watched a man fight with a sword through his gut, had seen a boy too young to hold a blade take a man’s life, had witnessed the aftermath of dragonfire, the way flesh melted like wax.

But this—this girl, barely seven summers, resuming her work as if she hadn’t just collapsed sobbing in front of an entire hall of men—

This was something else entirely.

Irene sniffed, rubbing her sleeve over her face one last time before wordlessly turning away from the chaos she had caused.

She reached for a basin of water. The surface rippled as she dipped her hands in, rubbing them clean of invisible stains. Then, as if nothing had happened, she lifted her head, her voice calm, steady.

“I need more clean linens.”

Silence.

Gwayne blinked.

The men stared.

Irene barely paused before moving again, reaching for a fresh bundle of herbs as she stepped toward the next patient.

The knight in front of her—a man whose beard was streaked with silver, his face lined with age—stared at her as if she had just risen from the dead.

“My lady—” He started.

“You’re running a fever.” Irene cut him off. She placed the back of her hand against his forehead, her touch swift and clinical. “If it worsens, I’ll need to use the willow sap tonic.”

The knight opened his mouth and then he closed it.

Irene pressed two fingers against his pulse, counting under her breath, her expression utterly neutral.

As if she had not just shaken apart in front of them all.

Gwayne felt something cold settle in his gut.

Daeron, still hovering at her side, frowned. “Irene—”

“I need warm broth for this one.” She interrupted, gesturing vaguely at the man beside her. “Something easy on the stomach.“

Daeron’s frown deepened.

“Irene.”

She ignored him.

She reached for a small clay jar, dipping her fingers into the cool paste inside before carefully applying it to the edges of a greyscale lesion.

The knight beneath her touch exhaled sharply. Not from pain, but from awe.

“You truly are a miracle.” He murmured.

Irene’s hands stilled.

For the smallest fraction of a second, Gwayne saw it—the hesitation. The way her breath caught, just slightly.

Then, just as quickly, she shoved it down.

“I’m a healer.” Her voice was flat. Detached. She withdrew her fingers, wiping them clean with a fresh cloth. “Nothing more.”

Gwayne clenched his jaw.

The men were still watching her with something bordering on worship. He could see it in their eyes—that dangerous, fragile thread of reverence.

It was clear Irene hated it.

She refused to meet their gazes, her hands moving with mechanical precision as she checked wounds, mixed salves, dictated instructions.

She did not speak of what had happened.

Did not acknowledge it.

And gods, they all tried.

“My lady, should you not rest—”

“I am fine.”

“My lady, you should take a moment—”

“I don’t need a moment.”

Daeron, stubborn as ever, stepped closer. “You were just crying—”

“I was not.” Irene said sharply.

The air in the room changed.

The boy—six summers old and too clever for his own good—stared at her.

“You were…” Daeron said quietly.

Irene’s shoulders went rigid.

She did not look at him.

Did not meet anyone’s gaze.

She busied herself with a roll of bandages, unfurling the linen with quick, precise movements. “I have work to do.”

Gwayne let out a slow breath.

This was not normal.

This was not healthy.

He had seen men bury their fear, their grief, their pain beneath duty, beneath routine. It was common enough among knights, soldiers, men who had lived through battle and did not know how to carry its weight.

However Irene was seven.

She should not know how to do this.

She should not know how to bury herself.

The silence stretched.

One of the older knights, still kneeling, placed a fist over his heart. “My lady, we are not blind to your suffering.”

Irene stilled.

For a moment—just a moment—Gwayne thought she might break.

Then, her fingers tightened around the roll of bandages, the white linen wrinkling beneath her grip.

“My suffering does not matter.” Irene murmured.

The words landed heavily. The knights exchanged glances, discomfort shifting across their faces.

Daeron took a step forward. “That’s not true—”

“It is.” Irene cut him off.

She turned then, bronze eyes sharp, unyielding, too old for her face.

“The world does not stop because I cry.” She said, voice low, measured. “The pain does not disappear simply because I feel it. The men and women are still dying. The children are still starving. The sick are still waiting.”

Gwayne had heard similar words from men twice, three times her age. However here was something worse about hearing them from a child.

Something wrong.

Daeron looked wounded. “Irene—”

“I am fine.”

‘Liar.‘ The word hung in the air, unspoken. Still, Irene refused to acknowledge it.

She picked up another bundle of herbs. Began grinding them down with a mortar and pestle.

“This will help with infection.” She murmured, mostly to herself.

No one dared to press her further.

Because what could they say? How do you help someone who does not want to be helped?

Gwayne watched as Irene continued her work, her hands moving with fierce determination, her shoulders tense with the weight she refused to put down.

Then he realized, with a quiet, unsettling certainty—the girl was going to break one day. When she did, none of them would be able to fix her.

Chapter Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐍𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 of the Hightower was warm, the scent of damp earth and crushed herbs curling through the thick, humid air. The light filtering through the glass ceiling cast a golden glow over the foliage, painting the leaves in shifting hues of green and amber.

Irene knelt by a bed of basil, her small fingers meticulously smoothing the soil, pressing it gently into place around the delicate stems. The dirt smudged her hands, speckling the emerald silk of her sleeves, but she hardly seemed to notice. Her bronze eyes were focused, sharp as a bird of prey, watching the way the leaves trembled at her touch.

Daeron mimicked her movements exactly, his silver brows furrowed in concentration. He pressed his fingers into the soil as she did, copied the way she tilted her head when examining the plants. His tunic—pale blue, embroidered with golden thread—was already streaked with dirt, but he didn’t care.

Irene did not stop him.

She never did.

Ever since they had returned from the Citadel, the maesters and the men she had healed whispered prayers in her name. Their voices followed her in the halls of the Hightower, murmuring like wind through the stones.

A miracle, they called her.

A child touched by the gods.

A girl who could see beyond flesh and blood, who could mend what others had given up as lost.

Irene did not like it.

She had taken to hiding away in the greenhouse, where the walls of glass and twisting ivy kept the world at bay. Where she could exist among things that did not speak, did not question, did not pry.

Only Daeron followed.

And she let him.

He was not like the others.

He did not ask if she truly whispered to the plants, if she spoke with the wind or read the secrets in the veins of leaves. He did not call her a healer, a prophet, a thing touched by fate.

He simply watched—listened.

And, sometimes, he copied.

Now, he pressed his palms into the dirt, glancing at her from beneath his pale lashes.

“Am I doing it right?” He asked, his voice hushed as if he feared disturbing the plants.

Irene’s gaze flicked toward him. She studied his hands—small, but careful, pressing into the soil with more gentleness than most men twice his age.

She nodded. “You’re not hurting them.”

Daeron grinned, his blue eyes bright. “Good.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant rustling of leaves against the glass. Irene reached for a sprig of rosemary, rolling the stem between her fingers before placing it into the earth.

Daeron hesitated. Then, mimicking her once more, he plucked a sprig of thyme and did the same.

Irene exhaled, the faintest hint of amusement flickering across her face. “Are you going to copy everything I do?”

Daeron huffed, leaning back on his heels. “I’m learning.”

“You don’t even know what you’re planting.”

Daeron frowned. “It’s thyme.”

She arched a brow. “What does thyme do?”

He hesitated.

Irene hummed. “Exactly.”

Daeron groaned, dragging a hand through his silver curls. “Alright, fine. Teach me, then.”

She tilted her head, considering. “Thyme is good for treating coughs. Boil the leaves in water, add honey, and it soothes the throat.”

Daeron perked up. “So it’s useful?”

“All plants are useful.” Irene murmured. “If you know how to use them.”

Daeron nodded solemnly, as if she had imparted the most sacred of knowledge. He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Do you have a favorite?”

Irene hesitated.

She should have said lavender. Or mint. Or even basil. Something pleasant, something safe.

But instead, she glanced toward the farthest corner of the greenhouse, where a small, unassuming plant grew in shadow. The leaves were dark green, the petals a deceptively delicate shade of blue.

She turned back to Daeron. “Monkshood.”

His brows furrowed. “Monkshood?”

Irene nodded. “It’s deadly. A single touch won’t kill you, but if it enters your blood—” She dragged a finger across her wrist. “—you won’t wake up.”

Daeron blinked.

Then, instead of recoiling, he leaned even closer, fascinated. “Have you ever used it?”

Irene’s lips quirked. “Not on a person.”

His mouth formed a small ‘o’ of understanding. Then, after a pause, he grinned. “You really are terrifying.”

Irene shrugged. “Not terrifying. Just knowledgeable.”

“Same thing.”

She huffed, returning to her work. Daeron mimicked her again, placing another sprig of thyme beside hers.

A beat of silence.

“Do you miss Highgarden?”

Irene’s fingers stilled.

She did not look up.

Did not meet his gaze.

Instead, she reached for another plant, carefully smoothing the soil around its base. “Yes.”

Daeron watched her closely. “Do you think about it a lot?”

She exhaled. “Every day.”

Daeron nodded, as if he understood.

Maybe he did.

His own home was far from here, after all. He had been sent to Oldtown to squire, away from his mother, his brothers, the Red Keep.

Perhaps he missed it, too.

After a moment, he reached out, plucking a single rosemary leaf from the plant beside him. He twirled it between his fingers, then held it out to her.

Irene blinked. “What is this?”

“A gift.”

She stared at the small, unremarkable leaf in his palm. “It’s rosemary.”

“I know.”

Irene frowned. “Why would you give me rosemary?”

Daeron shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Rosemary means remembrance.”

Irene’s breath hitched.

She stared at the leaf, her fingers twitching at her side. After a moment, slowly, she reached out and took it.

Her fingers brushed against his—warm, solid, real.

She curled her hand around the leaf, pressing it into her palm. Holding it close.

Daeron did not say anything more. He simply sat there, watching as she brought the rosemary to her lips, her bronze eyes unreadable.

Then, softly, she murmured. “Thank you.”

Daeron smiled.

For the first time in weeks, the greenhouse did not feel so empty.

The warm air wrapped around them like a living thing, thick with the scent of rosemary and basil, damp earth and blooming citrus. Irene was still rolling the rosemary leaf between her fingers, pressing its fragile veins against her skin, when a rustling of footsteps outside the glass doors broke the quiet.

A servant, dressed in the livery of House Hightower, approached with the practiced grace of someone well-accustomed to noble whims. He bowed low before Daeron, though his eyes flickered briefly toward Irene, as if unsure whether to acknowledge her or not.

“My prince.” The man said smoothly, hands clasped before him. “Your shipment has arrived. The cargo has been carefully handled as per your instructions.”

Daeron perked up instantly. His blue eyes lit with excitement, and he shot to his feet, dusting his dirt-streaked tunic without much care.

“Good.” He said, glancing at Irene, whose expression had shifted into one of mild curiosity. “Bring them in.”

The servant inclined his head and gestured toward the entrance. A pair of younger retainers stepped inside, each carrying a carefully wrapped bundle. The parcels were encased in woven reeds, bound with silk cords of deep indigo, and exuded an aroma foreign to the usual herbs that filled the greenhouse.

Irene’s nose twitched. There was something different about the scent—earthy, yes, but tinged with spice, with something sharp and almost intoxicating.

The servants placed the packages gently on the worktable beside the rows of drying lavender. With a final bow, they retreated, leaving only Daeron and Irene with the precious cargo.

Irene sat up straighter, her fingers already twitching toward the bundles before she even thought to ask. “What is this?”

Daeron grinned, taking his time as he untied the cords. “A gift.”

Irene’s brow furrowed. “For who?”

He glanced at her, eyes gleaming. “Who do you think?”

The last knot came undone, and the reeds were pulled away to reveal three plants nestled within dark soil, their roots still clinging to the damp earth they had traveled in. The moment Irene saw them, her breath hitched.

“Oh…” She exhaled.

Then, as if something within her had broken free, she surged forward, practically pressing her nose to the first plant.

The first was a delicate vine with curling golden leaves that shimmered as if dusted with fine mica. At its center, tiny flowers bloomed in clusters, their petals an almost translucent blue.

“Moonveil Vine.” She whispered, awed. “It only grows in the furthest reaches of Yi Ti, beyond the Shadow Lands. The flowers only open under the light of a full moon, and the sap inside its stems can be brewed into a tincture that heightens one’s senses. Some believe it can even grant visions of the future, though there’s no documented proof.”

Her hands hovered over the second plant, as if she feared touching it might disturb its fragile beauty. This one had thick, waxy leaves, tinged with deep crimson, curling around a bulbous bloom that pulsed faintly with warmth.

“This is Emberlotus!” She continued, her words tumbling out faster now. “It comes from the smoking jungles beyond the Jade Sea, where the land is so hot that even the rivers steam. The petals absorb heat, and when dried, they can be used to soothe fevers or keep a person warm in winter. But they’re extremely hard to cultivate outside of their native land because they require constant warmth.”

Finally, her gaze landed on the third plant, and her breath caught in her throat.

A single, slender stalk, its leaves dark as ink, curled toward the light. The flower at its peak was unlike anything she had ever seen—a black orchid with veins of molten gold running through its petals, as if it had been kissed by dragonfire.

She stared at it, momentarily at a loss for words. When she finally spoke, her voice was almost reverent.

“ Auridis Bloom.”

Daeron tilted his head. “Is that rare?”

Irene looked at him as if he had just asked whether the sun was warm.

“Rare?” She echoed, voice almost incredulous. “This flower has only ever been seen in the hidden valleys near the Golden Empire of Yi Ti. It’s said to be sacred, its petals infused with the fire of the gods themselves. Some healers claim it can be used to mend even the gravest wounds, but most consider it a legend. Even the Citadel doesn’t have records of anyone successfully growing one outside of its homeland.”

Daeron smirked. “Well, now they do.”

Irene turned to him fully, her bronze eyes wide. “You got these for me?”

Daeron’s expression softened. “The garden of wonder—do you remember?”

Irene blinked, and embarrassingly, she did not remember. Her mind sifted through memories, and then—oh.

She had forgotten.

However he hadn’t, and Irene felt something warm bloom in her chest.

“I—” She started, then stopped, because she wasn’t entirely sure how to thank someone for something like this.

So she did the first thing that came to mind. She leaned in, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek.

Daeron stiffened, his breath catching.

Irene pulled back just enough to look at him, smiling softly. “Thank you.”

Daeron was still frozen, his ears turning pink. “Oh.” He mumbled. Then, as if remembering how to speak, he cleared his throat. “It’s—it’s nothing.”

Irene chuckled. “It’s not nothing!” She glanced at the plants again, practically vibrating with excitement. “I can’t wait for the rest of the garden you’ll make.”

Daeron perked up at that. “You think I’m stopping with just three plants?”

Irene grinned. “You better not.”

For a moment, they simply sat there, the greenhouse around them filled with nothing but the soft rustling of leaves and the faint drip of water from the overhead glass panels.

Then, curiosity tugging at her, Irene glanced at Daeron and asked curiously. “How much did this cost?”

Daeron immediately looked nervous.

His smile turned just a little too charming, and he laughed—a soft, nervous thing. “That’s not important.”

Irene’s eyes narrowed.

“Daeron Targaryen.”

He held up his hands in mock innocence. “Really, don’t worry about it.”

She crossed her arms. “That means it was expensive.”

Daeron hesitated, then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Let’s just say… if I weren’t a prince, I might have to sell a small castle.”

Irene stared at him.

He shrugged. “However I am a prince. The gold in my coffers are plentiful.”

Irene groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You absolute fool.”

Daeron just grinned. “A fool with excellent taste in gifts.”

Irene shook her head, though she couldn’t keep the smile from curling at the edges of her lips. She looked at the plants again, her fingers trailing over the Auridis Bloom with near reverence.

“You are a fool.” She murmured, softer this time.

Daeron leaned in slightly, voice teasing. “A thoughtful fool for you.”

Irene huffed, glancing at him through her lashes. “That remains to be seen.”

Daeron smirked. “Well then, I suppose I’ll just have to keep proving it.”

She exhaled a quiet laugh, her fingers still lingering on the petals of the rarest flower in Westeros.

The garden was only just beginning.

And, for the first time in a long time, Irene thought—maybe, just maybe—she was beginning to bloom too.

Irene turned back to the plants, her mind already racing with possibilities. The greenhouse was vast, filled with herbs and flowers native to Westeros, but these—these were different. These were special. They needed their own space, their own care.

She exhaled, rolling up her sleeves. “We need to make space for them.”

Daeron blinked, momentarily distracted by the way her bronze eyes glowed with excitement. “What?”

She gestured around the greenhouse. “For the plants. We can’t just leave them here in their travel soil. They need a proper home.”

Daeron perked up instantly. “You mean you want me to help?”

Irene gave him a look. “Who else is here, Daeron? The ghosts of Oldtown?”

His grin stretched wide. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Before she could react, he was already moving, practically bounding toward the tools stacked neatly by the far wall. He grabbed a spade, a watering can, and a small trowel—only to nearly drop all three when he turned too fast.

Irene winced as the watering can hit the stone floor with a loud clang , sending a small splash of water over Daeron’s boots.

He froze, eyes wide.

Irene crossed her arms. “Careful.”

Daeron grinned sheepishly. “That was part of the plan.”

Irene snorted. “What? To water your feet?”

“Exactly.” He bent down, picking up the can and shaking the excess water from his boots. “It’s an ancient Old Valyrian gardening technique, you wouldn’t understand.”

Irene rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the way her lips twitched. “Right. Well, Valyrian gardening master, help me clear this corner. We’ll put the Emberlotus here since it needs the most warmth.”

Daeron nodded seriously, as if given a royal command. “Emberlotus. Warmth. Got it.”

She watched as he rushed over to the corner, spade in hand, before furrowing her brows. “Wait, not too deep! ”

But it was too late—Daeron had already thrust the spade into the soil with far too much force. A chunk of earth flew up, barely missing Irene as it smacked against one of the glass panels with a thud.

Irene sighed.

Daeron winced.

“I meant to do that.”

“You did not mean to do that.”

“I did.” He cleared his throat, dusting off his tunic with slightly less enthusiasm. “I was testing the soil integrity.”

Irene gave him a look, then walked over and plucked the spade from his hands. “You dig like you’re trying to kill a man, not plant a flower.”

Daeron crossed his arms, huffing. “Alright, then show me .”

Irene smirked and knelt, pressing the spade into the dirt with slow, careful movements.

“You have to be gentle.” She said, her voice turning slightly softer. “If you tear up too much of the earth at once, the roots won’t have good structure. Think of it like… guiding, not forcing.”

Daeron crouched beside her, watching closely. “So not like a battlefield?”

“Not like a battlefield.”

Daeron pursed his lips. “That explains why I was bad at it.”

Irene huffed a laugh and handed the spade back. “Try again. Gently.”

This time, Daeron moved slower, mirroring the way she had done it. His hands were large for his age—he was six, but already tall, already carrying the presence of something more than a child. But now, watching him dig with careful precision, she saw something else.

Eagerness.

Not the kind that came from duty, or from trying to impress others, but the kind that came from enjoying something.

He was trying.

Irene found herself smiling before she could stop it.

“Better.” She murmured. “Much better.”

Daeron looked up, and the way his face lit up at the praise made something warm settle in her chest.

“Alright.” Irene continued, clearing her throat. “Now we make the Emberlotus’ bed.”

She moved to grab a nearby sack of dark volcanic soil—a gift from one of the Hightower merchants who traded in Asshai imports. It was heavy, but before she could lift it, Daeron snatched it up.

“I’ve got it!” He declared, puffing out his chest.

“Daeron, it’s—”

Too late.

He tried to throw it over his shoulder like a sack of grain—only to stumble backward from the weight, crash into a stack of clay pots, and send half of them tumbling to the ground in a shattering cascade of noise.

Silence.

Irene stared.

Daeron groaned from where he lay sprawled on the floor, the sack of soil somehow still clutched to his chest like a prize. “Ow.”

Irene sighed, rubbing her temples. “You absolute menace.”

Daeron grinned up at her, utterly unbothered. “You can say it. That was impressive.”

“You just destroyed half the pot supply.”

Daeron sat up, glancing at the broken shards around him. “Hmm.”

“Hmm?”

He dusted himself off and shrugged. “They were ugly pots anyway.”

Irene let out a long breath, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Okay.” She muttered to herself. “I cannot kill a prince. I cannot kill a prince. I cannot kill a prince—“

Daeron beamed, finally standing. “See? Valyrian gardening techniques. ”

Irene kicked him in the shin.

“Ow! Hey!”

“Do that again and I’ll let the Emberlotus burn you.”

“Noted.”

Despite herself, Irene chuckled.

The rest of the process—once Daeron stopped throwing things—went much smoother.

They settled the Emberlotus in its warm corner, placing stones around its base to trap heat. The Moonveil Vine was given space near the glass panels, where it could stretch toward the moonlight when it bloomed.

And finally, the Auridis Bloom was given its own elevated space—a place where it would have the perfect balance of shadow and light.

Irene stepped back, wiping the sweat from her brow, admiring the work they had done.

It wasn’t just a greenhouse anymore.

It was becoming something else.

Daeron— mercifully— had managed not to destroy anything else, and now stood beside her, hands on his hips like a knight surveying a battlefield.

He turned to her with a satisfied grin. “So? Did we do well?”

Irene tilted her head, pretending to inspect everything one last time.

Then she nodded. “We did very well.”

Daeron’s grin widened. “Then it’s a good thing you had a fantastic assistant.”

Irene snorted. “You mean a clumsy assistant?”

“Clumsy but enthusiastic.”

Irene hummed. “That’s true. ”

For a moment, they simply stood there, the greenhouse alive around them. The plants seemed to hum in quiet approval, the scent of soil and fresh greenery curling around them like a living thing.

Irene let out a breath, hands settling at her sides.

Daeron watched her, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he nudged her lightly with his elbow.

“You look happy.” He noted.

Irene blinked. “What?”

“You look happy.” He shrugged. “Just saying.”

Irene glanced down at her hands, still smudged with dirt, then at the newly arranged plants.

Then, quietly, she realized—

She was happy.

It was a strange thing, almost foreign. She hadn’t expected it—not here, not in Oldtown, not in the halls of the Hightower where she had spent so long feeling like something misplaced.

But right now, standing here—with Daeron —surrounded by things growing—

Yes.

Maybe she was happy.

She smiled, looking at him.

“I suppose I am.”

Daeron nudged her again, grinning. “Good.”

Beyond the greenhouse’s curved glass walls, three men stood in observation—each watching the children within with varying degrees of amusement, wariness, and exasperation.

Otto, stood with his arms folded, his lips pressed into a thin line as he watched his grandson make an absolute fool of himself in front of the girl. Beside him, Lord Hightower, was watching the same scene with an expression bordering on delight.

Then there was Gwayne. The youngest of the three, he stood between them with a smirk playing on his lips, arms loosely crossed as he leaned against one of the stone pillars that framed the greenhouse’s entrance.

Otto let out a long, measured sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“That boy… ”

“He has spirit.” Lord Hightower said, sipping from his goblet, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “And heart, it seems.”

Otto scowled. “What he has is nothing. No sense. No tact. No subtlety. No restraint.”

“Ah.” Gwayne drawled, shifting to get a better view of the greenhouse’s interior, where Daeron—still practically glowing from Irene’s acceptance of his proposed garden of wonder—was now attentively listening as she rattled off more information about lavender, hands gesturing animatedly. “So, all of the things you wanted him to have, then?”

Otto shot his nephew a sharp glare.

Lord Hightower chuckled. “Leave the boy be, Otto. I much prefer this to Aegon’s… indulgences.”

Otto let out a slow, measured breath. “I would prefer if he were not embarrassing himself before the future Lady of Highgarden.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Lord Hightower mused, watching as Irene tucked another sprig of lavender into Daeron’s palm, nodding approvingly at his attempt to remember what she had just told him. “She doesn’t seem to mind.”

Gwayne let out a low chuckle. “If anything, I’d say she likes him more for it.”

Otto’s frown deepened. That, precisely, was what concerned him.

Irene was an enigma. A child not meant to inherit, thrust into a role she neither sought nor desired. He had studied her closely these past weeks, had observed the way she carried herself—not with arrogance, nor with the naivety of a child unaware of her value, but with a quiet, calculating presence that most men three times her age lacked.

She was not meek, nor was she one to be flattered by empty words.

And yet…

Otto’s gaze drifted back to the greenhouse.

She had not laughed at Daeron. She had not dismissed his promises as the ramblings of a boy desperate to impress her.

She had listened.

And now, even as Daeron fumbled his way through learning the names of plants he had never given a second thought to before today, Irene remained patient. Indulgent, even.

Otto did not like it.

“She is a dangerous child.” Otto muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Lord Hightower chuckled. “She is a brilliant child. Your grandson—well, it seems he has a taste for brilliance.”

“Brilliance is rarely rewarded in women.” Otto countered, his voice edged with something unreadable. “In men, it is celebrated. In women, it is feared.”

“That is because men are fools.” Lord Hightower said simply, swirling the wine in his goblet. “She is the heir to the Reach, Otto. She does not need the approval of lesser men.”

Otto exhaled sharply. “She will need the approval of the lords beneath her if she hopes to hold Highgarden.”

“She already has their approval.”

Gwayne arched a brow. “Does she?”

Lord Hightower smirked. “Tell me, have you heard a single whisper of rebellion against her claim? A single distant cousin laying stake to Highgarden? A single lord bold enough to say she does not belong?”

Gwayne considered this, his smirk fading slightly.

“No?” Lord Hightower took another sip of his wine. “That is because the Reach has already chosen her.”

Otto was silent.

“You see it, do you not?” Lord Hightower continued, his voice lower now. “They call her the Rose of Ash and Flames. The girl who should not have survived, but did. The girl who should not have inherited, but did. She is untouchable, Otto. Not because of her name, nor even because of her blood. But because the people have already made her a legend.”

Otto hated how right his brother was.

Faith was harder to kill than people.

If the Reach had already decided that Irene was theirs, then no scheming lord, no foreign invader, no king on the Iron Throne itself would ever be able to unmake her claim.

Which meant only one thing.

“She must be controlled.” Otto murmured.

Gwayne let out a low chuckle. “Tell me, Father, have you ever met a girl less inclined toward control than that one?”

Otto ignored him, eyes still fixed on the children inside the greenhouse.

Daeron, now eagerly attempting to replant a small cutting under Irene’s careful guidance, knocked over a watering can in his excitement. Irene sighed, rubbing her temples, before leaning down to fix his mistake with her own hands.

Otto sighed again.

Lord Hightower chuckled. “Ah, to be young.”

Otto turned to glare at him. “This does not amuse you?”

“Oh, it delights me.”

Otto resisted the urge to rub his temples. “We were meant to steer Daeron toward a more… diplomatic approach to courting.”

Gwayne raised a brow. “This is diplomacy. It’s just Daeron’s version of it.”

Otto scowled. “That is precisely what concerns me.”

Lord Hightower smirked. “Let me ask you this, Otto—do you honestly believe Irene will ever be won by pretty words alone?”

Otto was silent.

Because he knew the answer.

No.

No, Irene Tyrell would never be won by poetry or songs or empty flattery. She was a child of war, of blood and fire, of knowledge and instinct. She was practical beyond her years.

And yet…

She had accepted Daeron’s promise.

She had laughed at his antics.

She had not pushed him away.

Otto exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temples.

“Oh, don’t look so grim, little brother.” Lord Hightower clapped him on the shoulder. “If nothing else, Daeron is determined. ”

Otto watched as Daeron—still completely unaware of the weight of his actions—planted the sprig with a bit too much enthusiasm, sending a small shower of dirt onto Irene’s lap.

She sighed. Then, after a pause, simply shook her head and flicked a bit of dirt back at him.

Daeron grinned.

Lord Hightower let out another booming laugh. “Yes. Very determined.”

Otto closed his eyes.

Seven hells, this was going to be a problem.

As the golden light of the late afternoon filtered through the greenhouse’s glass walls, casting long, dappled shadows over the freshly planted herbs. Irene and Daeron had managed—somehow—to get the rare and exotic plants settled in their new places without too much disaster. Daeron had been a bit overenthusiastic, but with Irene’s careful correction—and occasional exasperated sighs—they had finished.

For the first time since stepping into the greenhouse, Irene felt a sense of peace.

Which, of course, was immediately shattered.

The heavy oak doors creaked open, and the deep, amused voice of Lord Hightower broke the calm.

“Ah, there you two are.”

Irene glanced over her shoulder just in time to see her grandfather stride into the greenhouse, flanked by Otto and Gwayne. The Lord of Oldtown was dressed in his usual fine robes, his silvered hair neatly combed, a pleased glint in his eye as he surveyed the scene before him. Gwayne, clad in his training leathers, arms crossed, smirked at the two children like a man who knew he was about to ruin their day.

And Otto—Otto’s sharp green eyes swept across the greenhouse with his usual disapproving scrutiny, pausing pointedly on the plants Daeron and Irene had just finished settling into the soil.

“You both have obligations.” Lord Hightower continued, his tone light but firm. “Daeron, it’s time for your sword training with your uncle.”

Daeron groaned.

“For Irene, your lessons in ruling continue with Otto and I.” Lord Hightower added, turning to his granddaughter.

Irene inhaled slowly through her nose, straightening her posture. Unlike Daeron, she did not groan or complain, though she did press her lips together.

Daeron, however, had no such discipline.

“I don’t want to train right now!” He whined, immediately turning to Irene and wrapping his arms around her as if she were his last hope of survival. “We’re busy! Important things are happening! The plants need planting!”

Irene sighed. “Daeron.”

“Look at them!” Daeron insisted, gesturing wildly to the newly placed Moonveil Vine and Emberlotus as if pleading his case before a council of lords. “They still need care! They’re delicate! ”

Gwayne snorted. “You’re delicate if you think this is getting you out of training.”

Daeron huffed, tightening his hold around Irene’s waist. “Can’t I please stay?”

“No.” Otto said dryly.

Daeron glared at him. “You didn’t even think about it!”

“I did, and the answer remains the same.” Otto said, voice calm.

Daeron groaned again, practically draping himself over Irene now. “Irene, tell them I’m doing something very important. ”

Irene arched a brow. “You are doing something important. Just not as important as your training.”

Daeron gasped as if she had personally betrayed him.

“Irene!” He cried. “How could you?”

Lord Hightower chuckled, watching the exchange with clear amusement. “Daeron, you’ll have plenty of time to help Irene with her garden after training.”

Daeron pouted but reluctantly loosened his grip.

Otto, meanwhile, had turned his full attention to the newly placed exotic plants. His sharp gaze flicked between the Moonveil Vine, the Emberlotus, and finally, the Auridis Bloom.

With visible skepticism, he gestured to them and asked. “So this is what Daeron spent thousands of golden dragons on?”

The greenhouse fell silent.

Irene froze, the words taking a moment to fully register.

Daeron, however, whipped around so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet.

“ How do you know that ?!” He demanded, eyes wide.

Otto lifted a single brow. “Because, my dear grandson, we have accounts and statements that update constantly. ”

Irene turned her gaze slowly toward Daeron, her bronze eyes narrowing in utter disbelief. “You spent thousands of golden dragons on me? ”

Daeron immediately looked trapped.

“I—I mean—” He stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t say thousands exactly—”

“You withdrew eighteen thousand golden dragons from your personal coffers.” Otto’s voice was calm, cutting. “Would you like me to retrieve the statement for you?”

Daeron choked.

Gwayne burst into laughter, leaning against the nearest stone pillar for support. Lord Hightower, too, looked highly entertained.

Irene, however, was still staring at Daeron like he had lost his entire mind.

“ Eighteen thousand?!” She repeated, her voice rising slightly. “For me?!”

Daeron threw up his hands. “They’re worth the price!”

Otto let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Daeron, do you have any idea what else that amount of gold could have been used for?”

“They’re for Irene!” Daeron argued, crossing his arms as if that explained everything.

Otto pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I understand that, but—”

“They’re for Irene!” Daeron repeated, like a stubborn child who refused to see reason. “She deserves the best plants! The rarest plants! The most beautiful garden in all of Westeros! ”

Irene felt her breath catch.

She had no words.

She could barely process the fact that Daeron—this boy, this ridiculous, excitable prince—had spent eighteen thousand golden dragons on her.

Not for a political maneuver.

Not for a dowry.

Not because anyone had asked him to.

Just… because he wanted to.

For her.

She wasn’t sure what to say.

Daeron, on the other hand, had turned his glare back to Otto. “Anyway, why are you keeping track of my personal money?”

Otto gave him a look. “Because you are a prince and I was once the Hand of the King, and your mother is still the Queen.”

Daeron grumbled something under his breath that sounded a lot like ‘meddling old man’ but wisely chose not to repeat it aloud.

Lord Hightower was still watching the entire thing unfold with great amusement.“Well at the very least, the boy has commitment.”

Otto shot him a withering look.

Gwayne was still laughing. “Daeron, I’ve seen men spend less gold on mistresses.”

Daeron scowled. “Irene is not a mistress! She is a dignified lady!”

Gwayne smirked. “I can see that.”

Irene finally found her voice. “… I don’t know whether to be honored or horrified. ”

“Honored!” Daeron said quickly.

Otto, still clearly trying to keep himself from a full-on tirade, exhaled slowly. “We will discuss this later.”

Daeron scoffed. “There’s nothing to discuss.”

Otto rubbed his temples.

“Alright, enough of that. Daeron, off to the training yard with you before Gwayne decides to drag you there himself. And Irene—come with Otto and I. There is much to discuss.” Lord Hightower clapped his hands.

Daeron let out a final, dramatic groan, casting Irene a woeful look as Gwayne grabbed him by the collar and started hauling him out of the greenhouse.

Irene, still somewhat stunned, followed her grandfather and Otto, though not before glancing back at the rare plants Daeron had given her.

Eighteen thousand golden dragons.

Just because he had wanted to.

She exhaled, shaking her head as she stepped out of the greenhouse, but—

Irene was smiling.

Chapter Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 of parchment and myrrh filled the solar, mingling with the salt-laden breeze drifting through the high arched windows. The flickering glow of candlelight cast long, wavering shadows against the shelves of ancient tomes and the grand cyvasse tables before them—two boards, two games, and at the center of it all, a child who should not have been.

Irene sat with an ease too practiced for seven summers, her small fingers moving over the cyvasse board like a weaver working a loom. She played two games at once—one against Otto, the other against, the Lord of Oldtown himself.

Her vermilion curls, unbound and wild, caught the firelight in hues of copper and gold, a sharp contrast to her ivory skin. The girl was a contradiction in every sense—eager yet detached, vibrant yet withdrawn.

However most frustratingly, she was winning against both of them at once.

Otto’s fingers twitched slightly as he considered his next move. The ivory dragon on his board remained untouched, a looming threat that should have cowed her into submission. Yet Irene’s expression remained unreadable, her bronze eyes scanning the pieces with meticulous precision.

“House Tarly.” She said suddenly, not lifting her gaze as she slid a spearman into position, cutting off Otto’s trebuchet before it could reach her heavy horse. “They’ve amassed grain stores twice the size of their usual surplus. Why do you think that is, my lord?”

Lord Hightower, shifting in his great chair across from her, hummed in thought. “A prudent measure, given the uncertainty of the realm.”

“A necessary measure.” Irene corrected. “Though not for themselves.”

She turned slightly to her second cyvasse board, the one between her and Lord Hightower, and with a deliberate flick of her fingers, moved her elephant forward—blocking his dragon’s path entirely. Otto’s brother frowned, gaze narrowing at the board.

She continued. “The Tarlys are feeding someone else. A force large enough to require excess supply, but not yet visible in movement.”

Otto’s brows furrowed. “A force where?”

Irene finally looked up, fingers resting lightly on the smooth curve of a crossbowman piece. “Dorne.”

A beat of silence.

Otto’s grip on his king tightened. “You suspect a Dornish alliance?”

She tilted her head slightly, as though considering whether or not to humor him with an answer. “I suspect House Tarly is being used as a quiet staging ground for something larger. The question is whether the Dornish are merely securing provisions… or if they’re preparing for war.”

Her fingers moved again—light, effortless.

Check.

Lord Hightower leaned back, his heavy robes shifting. “Where did you come by this information, little one?”

Her bronze eyes flickered, sharp and unreadable. “You forget, that I belong to the Reach. Unlike Oldtown, my home was not built on stone and knowledge—it was built on roots and whispers. I listen to the land and the people who work it. The markets, the river traders, the fields… they all speak, if you know how to hear them.”

Her small hand pressed against her chest, absently rubbing her thumb over the embroidered sigil of her house. The gesture was casual, almost dismissive, yet Otto did not miss the way her fingers trembled, just slightly.

A nervous tic? No.

A method of grounding herself.

He was beginning to suspect the child was not as detached as she pretended to be.

Lord Hightower let out a measured breath. “What do you propose we do with this information?”

Irene exhaled as if the answer was obvious. “We do nothing.” She said, moving another piece.

The trebuchet on Lord Hightower’s board now had a direct line to his king.

Check.

Otto frowned. “Nothing? If the Dornish—”

“If the Dornish are making quiet movements then that means they do not yet wish to be seen. If we respond too quickly, we risk forcing their hand before they have revealed their full intent.”

She turned back to Otto’s board, scanning it with practiced ease. “It is far better to watch. To listen. To let them believe they are unnoticed while we prepare for every possibility.”

Her fingers ghosted over her remaining pieces, then, without hesitation, she moved a single catapult.

Checkmate.

Otto’s mouth thinned. “You’ve been studying.”

“Of course.” She murmured, leaning back slightly. “You should know, that I do nothing without purpose.”

Lord Hightower let out a breath, staring down at his own board in silence. Otto’s gaze flickered between the two, unsettled.

The girl had won.

Against both of them.

It was not merely through childish cleverness or simple luck—no, she had maneuvered them deliberately, methodically, each move revealing a mind that thought several steps ahead. It was a disquieting thing to witness.

“You play well.” Otto admitted, studying her carefully. “Too well.”

Irene tilted her head slightly, her lips quirking at the edges in something almost akin to amusement. “Cyvasse is an extension of war, and war is an extension of politics. Would you have me remain ignorant?”

Otto met her gaze and found himself staring into something impossibly old, impossibly knowing. “You would have me believe that you are already thinking as a ruler should.”

Irene’s smile did not falter. “Should I not be?”

Lord Hightower, silent until now, finally spoke. “You did not wish to be heir.”

The words were not a question.

Irene’s fingers curled slightly against the table.

“No.” She murmured. “I did not.”

“Yet here you sit.” Otto countered. “Winning battles with words and strategy as though you were born to it.”

Her gaze flickered down to the cyvasse board once more.

“I am not my brothers.” She said quietly. “I do not lead armies. I do not ride into battle with banners waving. However I see . I see a world where kings and lords act before they think, what value is there in a ruler who does not listen first?”

Silence stretched between them.

Otto’s mind raced.

There was something dangerous about her—not in the way of warriors or conquerors, but in something far more insidious. She was not reckless, not blind with ambition like so many before her. She was careful, and careful things lasted.

Lord Hightower exhaled slowly. “You will make a formidable Lady Paramount of the Reach.”

Irene’s fingers brushed over the edge of the board, her gaze distant. “The Reach deserves a ruler who will not lead it into ruin.”

Her voice was soft, and Otto realized, filled with something that almost sounded like grief. She had not wanted this, and yet, she played the game regardless.

He studied her for a long moment before finally rising from his chair. “We shall see.”

Irene did not respond. She merely stared at the cyvasse board, watching the pieces as though they might tell her the future.

And Otto, for the first time in a long time, wondered whether the greatest threat to the realm was not the kings and queens warring over the Iron Throne—but the girl who did not seek power at all.

The candlelight continued to dance over the cyvasse boards, casting shifting shadows across the lacquered pieces as the game was reset. The weight of their previous match still lingered in the air, yet Irene’s expression remained unbothered, her bronze eyes calm, her fingers moving with ease as she arranged her defenses.

Lord Hightower, seated across from her, let out a measured breath. “You are not tired?” He asked, watching as she methodically placed her heavy horse behind a row of spearmen.

Irene tilted her head slightly. “Should I be?”

Otto observed her carefully. “Most children would be.”

She did not answer, only finished placing her pieces. She did not arrange them in a traditional defensive formation, nor did she opt for an obvious offensive strategy. Instead, she set the board in a way that forced movement—encouraged it.

“I am not most children.”

It was not a layout designed for defense.

It was a layout meant to test Otto.

The old man narrowed his gaze.

“I have another question for you.” He picked up his first piece—a trebuchet—and set it in motion.

Irene’s fingers hovered over her own pieces, but she did not move just yet. “Another test, uncle?”

“Perhaps.” Otto allowed. “Though tell me, since you seem to see further than most—what do you think of the succession?”

She finally moved a single crossbowman forward. “Which succession?”

Otto exhaled sharply through his nose, his patience tested. “The only one that matters. The Iron Throne.”

Irene hummed lightly, studying the board. “You wish to know whether I favor Princess Rhaenyra or Prince Aegon?”

Otto met her gaze directly. “Yes.”

There was no hesitation in her next movement. Her dragon shifted forward—aggressive, direct. “I do not favor either.”

A sharp silence filled the room.

Lord Hightower frowned. “A diplomatic answer.”

“A truthful one.” She corrected smoothly.

Otto scrutinized her. “You are of the Reach. Aegon is your own blood—your cousin. Yet you do not declare for him?”

She studied the board, fingers resting lightly on her spearmen. “Is that what you expected?”

“I expected an answer with more conviction.”

Irene exhaled softly, considering. “Conviction without understanding is nothing more than blind loyalty, and blind loyalty is dangerous.”

Otto’s lips pressed together. “Explain.”

She flicked a piece forward—an elephant. “Rhaenyra is the King’s firstborn. The heir he named.”

Otto countered, moving his trebuchet into position. “A woman has never ruled Westeros.”

Irene arched a brow. “No, but it is not against the law, is it?”

He did not answer immediately. “The precedent has always favored men.”

She tapped her fingers against the edge of the board, thoughtful. “Precedent is not law. It is tradition. And traditions change.”

Otto studied her, intrigued despite himself. “Yet, if the lords of Westeros reject her rule, if they refuse to kneel—what then?”

Irene moved a spearman, cutting off his trebuchet’s path. “Then war.”

Otto let out a sharp breath. “War.” He echoed. “You say that so easily.”

She finally met his gaze directly. “Because it is the truth. The lords of the realm will not accept Rhaenyra. Not now. Not after she has had children whose father is—” She hesitated, just slightly, before continuing. “—questionable…”

“The Velaryon boys are bastards.” Otto did not bother to soften the words.

Irene did not flinch. “The King does not say so.”

“The King is blind.”

She tilted her head. “Or simply unwilling to see?”

Otto did not respond immediately.

Instead, he moved his dragon.

A direct attack.

She did not react with surprise—only considered the board with careful eyes, her fingers trailing over her pieces in deliberate thought.

After a moment, she reached forward and moved a light horse. “If the King’s word is law, then Rhaenyra is the rightful heir.”

“The law means little without power.” Otto countered.

Irene lifted a shoulder in the barest shrug. “Then Aegon must prove himself.”

Otto’s expression darkened. “He is a boy of nine summers.”

“He has time.”

Silence settled between them, thick with unspoken meaning.

Otto leaned forward slightly. “If war comes? If the realm is split between them—who do you think will win?”

Irene did not answer immediately.

Instead, she moved her catapult.

And Otto saw it then.

He had lost. Again.

His lips thinned as his gaze sharpened. “You think Aegon can win.”

She considered her words carefully. “I think war is inevitable, and I think Aegon has the advantage.”

Otto’s fingers curled against the armrest of his chair. “Explain.”

Irene leaned back slightly, studying him with an expression Otto did not quite like—calm, assessing, detached. “The realm has never seen a ruling queen. The lords of Westeros—powerful, proud men who have warred and bled for centuries—will never accept it.”

Her fingers traced the edge of her king piece, tapping lightly against the polished wood. “However if Aegon takes the throne, he will need to prove that he is not simply a puppet for those who would use him.” Her bronze eyes flicked up, sharp as a dagger. “Even you.”

Otto held her gaze, his mind turning.

She was not blind to him.

To his ambitions.

To his calculations.

The girl was watching—measuring, weighing each movement like a cyvasse piece on the board.

He exhaled slowly. “What of you?”

She tilted her head slightly. “What of me?”

“If war comes, where will the Reach stand?”

She was silent for a long moment. Then, with careful precision, she reached forward, and tipped her king over.

A forfeit.

Otto narrowed his eyes.

“You would surrender?”

Irene let out a quiet breath. “No. I would survive.”

Otto studied her for a long time. Then, slowly, a small smirk touched his lips. He sat back.

“The game begins anew.” He murmured.

Irene nodded once. “It always does.”

The candles flickered in the dim light of the solar, and for the first time, Otto Hightower wondered—had they all underestimated this child?

Soon the pieces had been reset once more, and her small hands poised above the cyvasse board, moved her first piece with slow deliberation. She did not rush, did not make careless moves, every motion was precise, every choice considered.

Otto watched her carefully.

So did Lord Hightower.

The weight of the last conversation still lingered between them, unspoken but undeniably present.

It was Lord Hightower who finally broke the silence. “If Rhaenyra takes the throne what would happen?”

Irene did not look up immediately. Her bronze eyes remained fixed on the board as she moved a spearman forward, blocking Otto’s trebuchet from an early advance.

“Then Westeros will see its first ruling queen.” She murmured. “The lords of the realm will not be able to deny the precedent.”

Otto leaned forward slightly. “Do you believe they would accept it?”

She tilted her head, fingers trailing idly over her dragon piece, but she did not move it just yet. “Some will. The Blackwoods, the Manderlys, the Celtigars, the Arryns. Those with strong ties to Rhaenyra, or with more progressive ideals, will swear fealty.”

Her gaze flickered upward then, sharp and unreadable. “Howevy most? No. They will never accept her.”

Lord Hightower exhaled. “Why is that?”

Irene finally picked up her dragon piece, moving it forward by a single square—reserved, patient. “It is simple, the lords of Westeros do not like to be told what they must accept.”

She tapped her finger lightly against the board. “They will smile. They will kneel. Yet the moment she shows weakness, they will turn.”

Otto narrowed his gaze. “What of the Reach?”

At this, Irene let out a quiet hum.

She sat back slightly in her chair, studying the board before shifting her gaze toward the two men across from her.

“The Reach will be divided.” She said plainly. “My great-grandfather swore an oath to Viserys. That much is true. However the lords of the Reach do not think as the lords of the North do. They do not follow kings out of love. They follow power.”

Her fingers brushed absently over her lap, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle in her gown. “As we know power is an illusion. A crown means nothing if there are no men to defend it.”

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then you believe Rhaenyra’s claim is weak.”

Irene tilted her head. “Not weak. Precarious.”

Lord Hightower frowned. “If Aegon takes the throne?”

Irene studied him for a long moment, then reached forward and moved her king piece ever so slightly, just a fraction to the left. “If Aegon takes the throne, then the very foundation of inheritance will be shaken.”

Otto’s eyes sharpened. “Explain.”

She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the edge of the table, her expression unreadable. “Rhaenyra was named heir by the King. That is a fact. If Aegon usurps her, then what does that say for all other declared heirs across Westeros?”

Otto’s breath stilled.

And then, Irene smiled.

Not wide, not bright, but knowing.

“If Aegon can take Rhaenyra’s throne despite her being named heir, then what is stopping others from doing the same?”

She moved a spearman forward, tapping it lightly against Otto’s heavy horse.

Check.

Otto frowned, his mind already turning.

She was right.

If Aegon took the throne, then the precedent would be set. That no heir—no matter how legitimized—was truly safe. That birthright could be contested, that a stronger claim was not a matter of law, but of force.

And Irene Tyrell—who was, without question, the sole heir to the Reach—was sitting before them, recognizing exactly what that meant.

“If Aegon can take what was named for another then what does that mean for me?” She asked softly.

Otto remained silent. Irene’s fingers curled slightly against the table.

“House Tyrell has no other children.” She continued. “I am the only one left. No cousin stands to challenge me. No second son waits in the wings. I am the Reach.”

Her gaze flickered downward. “If a prince can claim a throne over a princess… then why should a daughter inherit over a distant male relation?”

The air in the room felt heavier.

Otto let out a slow breath. “You are comparing your claim to the Reach to Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne.”

“I am comparing precedent to precedent.”

Lord Hightower’s expression was unreadable, though Otto could tell he was considering the implications of what the girl had said.

She was not wrong.

If Aegon was declared king, and Rhaenyra’s claim dismissed, then the lords of Westeros would have justification to do the same in their own lands. To favor sons over daughters. To favor distant male cousins over direct female heirs.

Irene would be no exception, and she knew it.

She let out a quiet breath, then finally moved her dragon forward.

Checkmate.

Again.

Otto exhaled, rubbing a hand over his beard, but Irene was not done speaking.

She leaned back slightly, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

“I know how the Reach sees me.”

Her voice was softer now.

“They call me many things. ‘ The Last Bloom.’ ‘The Rose of Ash and Flame.’ ‘The Heir of Ruin.’ The girl who survived the Siege of Highgarden. They speak of me as if I am some omen, a chosen figure.”

She looked down at her fingers, turning them slightly as if examining them for something unseen. “They whisper that I am the hands of the Seven made flesh. That I heal with divine purpose.”

She let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. “It is not a blessing. It is a curse.”

Otto frowned. “Why?”

She lifted her gaze.

“Because religious fervor is dangerous.”

The words were spoken so simply, so plainly, that Otto almost didn’t register the weight of them at first.

Irene tilted her head slightly. “I am not a saint. However they would make me one if I let them.”

She exhaled softly, bronze eyes dark. “If I declare for a side, it is not just my voice they will hear. It is not just my army that will march.”

Her fingers tapped lightly against the table. “They will follow me.”

She said it as a fact, not as a boast. “They will spill blood in my name. They will call it holy.”

She exhaled. “If I were die? If I am struck down by my enemies?”

Her voice did not waver.

“They will crucify me.”

Otto’s breath stilled.

“They will make me a martyr. They will carve my name into history, not as a girl who lived, but as a symbol of something greater. As a symbol is far more powerful than a living person.”

She folded her hands again, her expression unreadable.

“So tell me, grandfather, uncle…” Her voice was quiet, but unwavering. “What do you think happens when I choose a side?”

Otto studied her carefully.

This girl. She knew. She understood, in a way most lords twice her age did not. She is the Reach. Her choice would decide everything, and she knew it.

Otto let out a slow breath.

Lord Hightower sat back, exhaling deeply.

Irene’s bronze eyes flickering in the candlelight, reached forward—and knocked her king over once more.

Not because she had lost, but it was because she had already won.

The king piece lay on its side, its polished surface catching the dim candlelight as it rested between Irene’s small fingers. She had not been defeated—no, she had chosen to forfeit.

A deliberate act.

A declaration in and of itself.

She sat in quiet contemplation, her bronze eyes reflecting the flickering flames of the hearth. There was no hesitation in her movements, no uncertainty in her posture. She was seven summers, but she carried herself like a ruler of seven decades.

Irene had spoken of martyrdom, of the Reach’s reverence, of the danger in choosing a side.

Though Otto knew she was not finished.

The child did not speak lightly. Every word that left her lips was chosen with care, every sentence constructed not for effect but for impact.

Lord Hightower, her maternal grandfather, exhaled through his nose. “You have thought on this.”

Irene tilted her head, bronze eyes gleaming like molten gold in the candlelight. “Of course I have.”

She moved her first piece—a crossbowman, small, seemingly inconsequential. “If I declare for Rhaenyra, I do so against my own blood.”

Her fingers hovered over the cyvasse board, trailing the edges of the pieces as if considering their weight. “My mother was a Hightower. My aunt is the Queen. My cousins are princes and princess. I am being fostered here, under the protection of my mother’s house. You my own grandfather the Lord of House Hightower.”

She lifted her gaze, meeting Lord Hightower’s with something knowing, something sharp. “What message would that send if I were to declare for her?”

Lord Hightower’s expression did not shift, but Otto saw the way his fingers curled against the arm of his chair.

She did not wait for an answer.

“It would mean my great-grandfather’s oath to Rhaenyra was not just a matter of duty—it would mean it was my will, not his. It would mean that I, a girl fostered by House Hightower, a girl raised under its roof, its faith, its protection—rejected it.”

Her fingers ghosted over a trebuchet piece. “If I do that, then the Reach will be forced to follow. Not out of loyalty, but because I am the last true heir of House Tyrell. If I raise my banners for her, then the fields will march. The heart of the realm? Hers.”

Otto’s lips pressed thin.

She was not wrong.

If Irene declared for Rhaenyra, then the Reach would belong to the Blacks.

The lords who wavered, those still hesitant to pick a side, would see no choice.

However that was not all.

Irene’s fingers traced the outline of her dragon piece. “The moment I declare, my great-grandfather’s oath is legitimized beyond doubt. It also means I have chosen exile from my own blood.”

She turned to Otto now, and he felt her gaze settle on him like the weight of an unsheathed blade. “It means I have made myself your enemy.”

The words landed heavy, yet she did not flinch. Instead she exhaled lightly. “If I declare for Aegon?”

She moved a light horse.

“Then I betray House Tyrell.”

Lord Hightower’s expression darkened slightly.

Irene tapped her fingers against the cyvasse board. “My father still rebuilds Highgarden. If I turn my back on that, I become something else entirely.”

She moved her next piece—a king.

“If I do that, then I am no longer the heir upholding their legacy... Instead I become a usurper.”

Silence filled the room.

Otto could feel the weight of her words settling deep in his chest.

Irene sat back slightly, folding her hands in her lap. “If I do that, what does that say to the lords of the Reach?”

She did not wait for an answer.

“It tells them that oaths mean nothing.”

Her voice did not waver.

“That loyalty can be broken if it is more convenient to do so.”

Her bronze eyes flickered darkly.

“That inheritance is not a matter of law, but of strength.”

Otto’s fingers tightened against the table.

She was playing out the war in her mind, not as a battlefield of swords, but as something greater.

A battlefield of faith.

A battlefield of belief.

Irene exhaled.

“If I remain neutral?”

She reached forward and tipped her king to the side again.

Lord Hightower leaned forward slightly. “What would that mean?”

Irene smiled, but it did not reach her eyes as she let out a slow breath. “If I do nothing, if I choose neither side, then I become something even worse than an enemy. I become a coward.”

Otto narrowed his gaze. “You think the Reach would turn on you for not declaring?”

Irene tilted her head slightly.

“They love me.” She admitted. “They worship me, though worship, is a terrible thing.”

She exhaled.

“They will not allow me to be nothing.”

Otto studied her carefully.

She continued, voice calm, steady. “If I stand aside, the Reach will fracture. The lords will be forced to pick for themselves. The Tyrell men, the ones who stand for Rhaenyra, will hold their ground. You my mother’s family, will press for Aegon. While I will be caught between.”

She ran a finger along the edge of the board. “I will be hated by both sides.”

She let the words settle before speaking again. “Some will call me a coward. Others will call me a traitor. The ones who love me will say I was forced into silence. The ones who hate me will say I was too weak to choose.”

She tapped her finger lightly against her king piece. “They will not let me remain neutral.”

Otto inhaled deeply. “Then what do you suggest?”

Irene’s smile was quiet.

“That is the problem, isn’t it?”

She exhaled softly, as if weary from the weight of it all. “I am not just a girl. I am already a symbol.”

Her fingers curled slightly against the table. “The Reach is the heart of Westeros. It is the breadbasket. It is the gold that funds the Crownlands, the trade routes that feed the Stormlands, the alliances that bind the Riverlands. We do not boast dragons, nor the wealth of Lannisport, nor the warriors of the North.”

She exhaled lightly.

“We are the land itself.”

Her voice was steady.

“I alone am the Reach.”

Otto felt a strange sense of unease settle deep in his bones, because he was right.

Irene Tyrell was not just the heir of a great house. She was the key . The deciding factor.

Otto let out a slow breath. “What will you do?”

Irene tilted her head slightly.

“I will watch.”

Her fingers brushed the cyvasse board.

“I will listen.”

She met his gaze directly.

“When the time is right…”

Her fingers wrapped around the dragon piece.

“I will choose.”

Silence stretched between them. Lord Hightower finally exhaled. Otto studied the girl before him, this child who was no child at all. She had laid out the entire war before them. In doing so, she had made something terrifyingly clear.

She would not be controlled.

She would not be swayed.

That whoever won the Reach—whoever won her —would win the war, would win the Iron Throne—The Seven Kingdoms.

Otto exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the edge of his chair.

The game had begun, and she was no longer just a player, instead she was the board itself.

And for a moment, no one spoke.

Then, Lord Hightower broke the silence.

“You have laid out the possibilities.” She said, his voice measured. “The consequences of every choice before you. However tell me, my dear—what will you choose?”

Otto’s fingers tightened on the arm of his chair, his breath held in his chest.

The girl did not answer immediately. Instead, she exhaled, the sound soft, thoughtful.

“I will choose what is best for Highgarden.”

Her voice was calm. Steady.

“What is best for the Reach.”

She lifted her gaze, meeting Otto’s without hesitation.

“What is best for my people.”

The room stilled.

Otto narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”

Irene tilted her head slightly. “It means that I will not be swayed by sentiment.”

Lord Hightower exhaled sharply through his nose. “You would cast aside blood?”

She did not flinch. “I will not allow blood to cloud my judgment.”

Otto leaned forward slightly. “What does your judgment tell you?”

She tapped a single finger against the cyvasse board, the movement precise, deliberate.

“That this war is not about who is right .”

Her voice was soft, but it carried through the room like a blade drawn from its sheath.

“This war is about who can win .”

Silence.

Otto inhaled slowly. “You do not believe Rhaenyra can win.”

Irene studied him for a long moment.

Then, finally, she spoke. “I believe Rhaenyra will fight . I believe she will gather her allies, that she will mount her dragons, that she will spill blood across the realm.”

Her bronze eyes darkened slightly.

“Yet war is not won by dragons alone.”

Otto watched her carefully.

“The lords of the realm may kneel to Rhaenyra’s name, to the King’s decree—but in their hearts, they resist. She is a woman, and though it should not matter, but it does .”

She moved a spearman forward on the board.

“The lords of the realm do not trust her sons.” She murmured. “They whisper that her claim is built upon lies, that her heirs are Velaryon in name only.”

She tapped the piece lightly.

“They will not say this openly. They will bow, they will offer fealty.”

A pause.

“When war comes, and the choice must be made not in courtly halls but on the battlefield?”

She exhaled softly.

“They will turn.”

Lord Hightower’s face remained unreadable.

Otto narrowed his gaze. “What of Aegon?”

Irene tilted her head. “Aegon is a boy.” She said simply. “A boy with a name and a crown that was never promised to him.”

Otto felt his jaw tighten. “Aegon is the King’s firstborn son .”

Irene nodded. “That is why he has a chance.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, quietly, she spoke again. “The Reach does not care for dragons.” She murmured. “The Reach does not care for Targaryens or Valyrian birthright. We are not the Stormlands, who rally to strength. We are not the North, who fight for loyalty. The Reach follows only one thing.”

Otto’s breath caught.

She lifted her gaze.

“Prosperity.”

The word landed like a stone in water.

She exhaled. “My people care for their fields, their trade, their harvests. They care for their wealth, their stability, the land that has fed Westeros for generations. War does not serve them.”

Her fingers hovered over the board.

“They do not follow kings.”

She tapped a single piece.

“They follow gold.”

Otto felt something cold settle in his chest. Because he knew—knew in that moment—that this child understood Westeros in a way few did.

She was not blinded by the grandeur of dragons, by the weight of history, by the desires of noble houses.

She saw the truth. The Reach was not a kingdom of swords. It was a kingdom of coin , and coin had no loyalty.

Otto let out a slow breath. “Then tell me, child—if prosperity is what you seek, who offers it?”

Irene’s fingers drummed lightly against the cyvasse board. “Neither.”

Otto’s breath stilled.

Lord Hightower’s expression darkened slightly. “You would say neither side offers prosperity?”

Irene inhaled, then exhaled, as if weighing every word before she spoke.

“Both offer war.”

She moved a piece.

“Both offer death.”

Her voice was steady.

“If I support Rhaenyra, I throw the Reach into rebellion against the Hightowers. Oldtown will burn. The Faith will revolt. The lords will fracture.”

She moved another piece.

“If I support Aegon, I abandon the oaths sworn to my King, the bonds of my father’s men, the legitimacy of my rule.”

She exhaled lightly.

“The Reach is not made for war, we sustain the realm, we do not destroy it.”

Her fingers curled slightly.

“If I choose a side, my people will suffer .”

Otto felt something twist in his chest.

Because he knew—she was right.

Irene was not thinking as a child.

She was already thinking as the Lady Paramount of the Reach. The sole heir to its lands, its wealth, its power. She was thinking as one who knew the weight of her decision.

Otto’s voice was quieter when he spoke.

“Then what will you do?”

Irene’s lips pressed together.

“I will wait.”

Otto exhaled sharply.

“Wait for what?”

Irene’s bronze eyes gleamed.

“For certainty .”

She leaned back slightly, her hands resting in her lap. “When one side has proven they can win , then I will make my choice.”

Lord Hightower let out a slow breath. “You would let the war unfold first?”

Irene met his gaze directly.

“I would let Westeros decide first.”

Otto exhaled.

She was not wrong.

The Reach was too valuable to risk on a losing side, and she knew it.

Otto studied her carefully. “If neither side proves victorious quickly?”

Irene exhaled softly. “Then I will make certain the Reach remains .”

Her fingers hovered over the board. “For no matter who wins the Iron Throne…”

She picked up her king piece.

“… they will need the Reach.”

She turned the piece in her hand, her expression unreadable. “When the time comes I will be the one to decide if they deserve it.”

Otto stared at her, something cold curling in his stomach, because in that moment, he understood.

She was not a child. She was not a girl playing at strategy. She is Highgarden .

The game was no longer between Rhaenyra and Aegon.

It was between Irene Tyrell and Westeros.

Chapter Text

𝐃𝐀𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐔𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐃 at the collar of his tunic, his fingers working the fabric nervously. It was too tight, or maybe it wasn’t—it was hard to tell. His mind buzzed like a hive of angry bees, the words of his grandfather echoing in his head. ‘ Take care of her, show her the city, make her feel at home.’

How could he make Irene feel at home when she barely spoke of it? When the weight of Highgarden, of the Reach itself, sat heavy on her small shoulders?

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye as they stepped onto the sun-warmed cobbles of Oldtown’s winding streets. Irene moved with a peculiar grace, her hands clasped behind her back, her bronze eyes darting from one building to the next, but never resting on the people. The people, however, rested on her.

The whispers followed them, hushed but ever-present, like ripples on a still pond.

“The Rose of Ash and Flames…”

“She is the heir now, isn’t she?”

“Look at her hair—wild as dragonfire.”

Daeron spoke faster, louder, hoping to drown out their murmurs before Irene could hear them.

“This is Fishmonger’s Square!” He announced, waving a hand toward the market stalls lining the harbor road. The scent of salt and fresh catch thickened the air, mingling with the aroma of spiced wine from a merchant’s cart. “They have everything here! Eels from the Mander, cod from the Sunset Sea, even oysters from the Arbor! You’ve never seen so many oysters, Irene, I swear it—fat and fresh, like little jewels in their shells.”

She blinked up at him, her expression unreadable. “Oysters are bivalve mollusks.” Irene said matter-of-factly. “They filter the water around them. If you eat one from a poisoned bay, you’ll die in hours.”

Daeron faltered, then forced a grin. “Yes, well— these won’t kill you. Probably.”

A slight twitch of her lips. Not quite a smile, but enough to make his heart stutter. He counted that as a victory.

Gwayne, their escort once more, cleared his throat behind them. “Let’s keep moving.” His voice was low, edged with the quiet authority that made even city guards step aside.

Daeron straightened, puffing out his chest. “Right! Next, I’m taking you to the Starry Sept.” He grabbed her wrist, tugging her gently through the street, careful not to hold on too tightly. “You’ll like it there, Irene. The ceiling—oh, you should see it! Painted like the night sky, with the Seven Stars shining down. The Faith’s been holding service there since before Aegon the Conqueror.”

“I know.” Her fingers twitched against his briefly before she pulled her hand free. Not unkindly. Just… cautiously.

Daeron ignored the sting of it.

“You’ve never seen it yourself, though!” He pressed. “And besides, there’s a garden just outside with the prettiest lavender bushes. Irene , they’ll be as tall as you in the summer! The way they smell—you’d like it, I swear.”

At that, she glanced at him. “Lavender calms the nerves. When crushed, it releases natural oils that—” She stopped abruptly, her gaze snapping to the side.

Daeron followed her eyes.

A beggar woman knelt by the edge of the street, her robes tattered, her hands cupped in silent plea. Her face was weathered by the sun, her lips cracked, her bones sharp beneath her skin. She was looking at Irene—not just looking, worshiping.

“Lady Irene.” The woman whispered, voice shaking like dry leaves in the wind. “The Mother’s favorite child… You survived where no one else did. The gods must love you.”

Irene stiffened. Her fingers twitched, smoothing over the fabric of her sleeves, then clenching in the folds. Her eyes darted away, her breath quickening.

Daeron stepped forward at once, blocking the woman from view. “Come, Irene, let’s—”

“I—” Her voice was small. Too small. She took a step back, her shoulders rigid, her hands flexing as though fighting the urge to do something .

Gwayne moved before she had to decide.

“Mind yourself.” He warned the beggar. Not unkind, but firm. The weight of his gaze alone was enough to make the woman shrink back into the shadows of a cloth awning.

Daeron swallowed hard, reaching for Irene’s hand again but thinking better of it at the last second. Instead, he said, softer this time, “We can go back to the Hightower if you’d rather—”

“No.” Her voice came out steadier than before, though her fingers still twitched at the hem of her gown. Irene squared her shoulders, lifting her chin. “No.” She repeated. “I want to see the Sept.”

He hesitated, searching her face. She was seven. Yet her expression carried the weight of something far older.

Then she turned away from the beggar and started forward again, her bronze eyes fixed ahead. Daeron exhaled in relief and fell into step beside her.

They walked in silence for a while.

“I don’t like it.” Irene muttered to softly that Daeron almost didn’t hear her.

He frowned. “Don’t like what?”

“The way they look at me.”

Daeron glanced around. The street was still filled with people—merchants shouting their wares, septas weaving through the crowd, knights on horseback. But she wasn’t looking at them. She meant the ones who whispered . The ones who watched her like something divine.

Like something not quite mortal.

He frowned, running a hand through his pale hair. “It’s just—”

‘ Because you survived. Because you’re all that’s left. Because you are Highgarden now, whether you want it or not.’

“They don’t know you.” Daeron said instead. “That’s why. If they did, they’d see you’re just—”

She turned her head slightly, watching him. “Just what?”

‘Just a girl. Just Irene. Just someone who smells like flowers and knows too much about poison.’

He shrugged, grinning crookedly. “Just someone who thinks too much about oysters and death.”

That won him a real smile.

The tension in his chest eased.

They reached the Starry Sept just as the bells began to toll, their deep, resonant chimes echoing through Oldtown’s narrow streets. Irene tilted her head back, watching the way the light caught the sept’s stained glass, painting the courtyard in shades of sapphire and crimson.

Daeron looked at her instead.

She was strange. Strange in the way moonlight was strange—silent, eerie, beautiful .

Oh gods help him, but he knew he was absolutely in love with her.

Immediately the scent of burning incense and melted candle wax wrapped around them as they stepped into the vast interior of the Starry Sept. The air was thick with it—frankincense, myrrh, and something faintly floral, like crushed lavender and dried rose petals. Sunlight streamed through the high stained-glass windows, painting the polished marble floor in shifting pools of sapphire, emerald, and ruby. Every footstep echoed in the cavernous space, the hush so profound that even the distant murmurs of the septons and supplicants seemed to be swallowed whole by the vastness of the sept.

Daeron had been here before—many times, in fact. He had prayed beneath the Seven-Pointed Star, listened to his grandsire lecture on the virtues of the Faith, and watched Gwayne kneel before the altar of the Warrior before battle. But never had the sept felt quite like this.

Perhaps it was because of Irene.

She stood motionless at his side, her bronze eyes darting across the sept’s high-domed ceiling, where a night sky had been painted in deep hues of indigo and black, flecked with silver stars that shimmered even in the dim light. The lanterns hanging from gilded chains cast a golden glow across the pillars, illuminating the intricate carvings of the Seven—the solemn face of the Father, the serene beauty of the Maiden, the nurturing form of the Mother, the stern countenance of the Crone, the fierce glare of the Warrior, the ever-smiling Smith, and the hooded, unknowable visage of the Stranger.

Daeron had seen people humbled by this place before. Lords, knights, even his own kin. However Irene… she wasn’t awed.

Not quite.

She was watching.

Studying.

As if she were committing every detail of the sept to memory—not with the wide-eyed wonder of a child, but with the careful calculation of someone unraveling a mystery.

Before he could say something—joke, perhaps, to ease the strange quiet—movement near the altar drew his attention.

Then Daeron stiffened.

The High Septon was waiting for them.

His heart gave a startled jolt. He had not expected him to be here.

The man was draped in immaculate white robes, layered with cloth-of-silver so fine it shimmered like a starry sky. A seven-pointed crystal rested upon his chest, catching the sunlight, refracting it in a hundred different colors. His long, solemn face was lined with age, his eyes sharp beneath the weight of his ceremonial diadem.

He had seen Daeron before. He had seen Gwayne before. Though he had never, never come to greet them personally.

This was not for him.

This was for her .

Daeron turned slightly, watching as Irene realized the same.

She was utterly still, save for the restless motion of her fingers against the hem of her sleeve—a small, nervous habit Daeron had come to recognize. Her bronze eyes met the High Septon’s gaze, steady but unreadable.

Then the High Septon smiled.

It was not warm, nor was it unkind. It was something else. Something deeper.

“Lady Irene Tyrell.” He said, and his voice carried through the sept, quiet but filled with something weighty . As if her name alone held power. “At last, we meet.”

Irene hesitated, then dipped into a small, precise curtsey.

Daeron had the sudden urge to step between them, to shield her from the intensity of the High Septon’s gaze, though he did not know why .

“Forgive me for not greeting you sooner.” The High Septon continued, his hands folding in front of him. “I have known of you for many years.”

Daeron saw the flicker of confusion cross Irene’s face before she carefully smoothed it away.

“You… have?” She asked, voice cautious.

The High Septon chuckled softly. “Yes, my sweet child. Since your birth.”

Irene’s fingers twitched again.

“I have kept watch .” The High Septon continued. “For you are not merely a Tyrell. Nor merely a daughter of Highgarden. The Faith is in your blood and bones —a child of the Hightower where the Seven’s light shines brightest.”

The words should have been unremarkable. She was, after all, a Hightower through her mother’s line.

Yet the way he spoke them… Daeron felt something cold slide down his spine.

Irene did not respond at once. When she did, her voice was careful, measured. “I have never been to Oldtown till a recently.”

“No, but Oldtown has known you .”

The High Septon’s gaze lingered on her as he continued. “For years, whispers have reached my ears of a child with hands that heal wounds thought incurable. A girl whose touch soothes the suffering, whose knowledge of medicine defies even the wisdom of maesters. A child who has saved lives when others had deemed them lost.”

Irene’s hands clenched tightly at her sides. Daeron knew why. She hated it when people spoke of her work as something unnatural.

A healer, yes.

A miracle, no.

“The people call you the Maiden’s Mercy .”

Irene’s entire body stiffened.

She blinked up at him, utterly silent, and Daeron realized with a sudden jolt—

She hadn’t known.

The High Septon inclined his head slightly. “You seem surprised.”

Daeron could see it now, the way her shoulders rose ever so slightly, the way her fingers trembled before she forced them still.

“I… did not know.” She admitted.

“Yet it is the truth.”

Irene’s throat bobbed. “I am not… divine.” Her voice was steady, but Daeron heard the undercurrent of unease. “I only know what I have studied. I know what herbs can cure and what poisons can kill. That is all.”

The High Septon smiled again, though this time there was something knowing in it. “ Is it?”

Silence stretched between them.

Daeron hated the way the Septon was looking at her, as if she were something to be unraveled, a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled.

Irene’s eyes flickered to Daeron briefly. He saw something there—something almost pleading.

And so, before the High Septon could speak again, Daeron stepped forward .

“She is only a child.” He said, his voice coming out sharper than he intended. “She is a healer, yes, but she is not the Maiden.”

The High Septon turned his gaze to Daeron, eyes assessing.

“I never said she was.”

Daeron clenched his jaw. “Then let her be.”

The High Septon chuckled, the sound soft but unreadable. “I have no intention of troubling her, young prince. Only to see her. To know her.”

His gaze shifted back to Irene. “The gods place their hands upon those they choose, child. Some are given swords, some are given crowns. However some…”

He reached forward, as if to take her hand. Irene took half a step back. It was small, barely noticeable, but Daeron saw it . She did not like to be touched by strangers.

The High Septon lowered his hand without comment. “Some are given the gift of mercy .”

Silence.

Then Irene inhaled deeply. “Daeron. I would like to see the lavender now.” She murmured, turning away from him.

It was the first time she had ever run from a conversation, and Daeron, without hesitation, followed her.

He did not look back to see if the High Septon was still watching them.

He already knew he was.

The garden behind the Starry Sept was unlike any other in Oldtown. It was not grand like the tended courtyards of the Hightower, nor sprawling like the flourishing greenery of Highgarden. It was quieter, older, and ancient . A place of solitude rather than spectacle.

The stone archway that led into the garden was overgrown with ivy and white climbing roses, their petals pale as bone against the dark stone. The air was thick with the scent of earth and incense, mingling with the soft perfume of crushed herbs beneath their feet.

Though it was the silence that Daeron noticed most of all.

Even the city’s ever-present murmur—the distant bells, the calls of merchants, the cries of gulls from the harbor—seemed muted here, as though the garden existed in a space untouched by time.

Irene moved ahead of him, her steps unhurried but purposeful. Daeron had to lengthen his stride to keep up. She was drawn forward, as if by some invisible pull, her bronze eyes flickering across the garden’s contents with quiet intensity.

They passed rows of carefully cultivated plants—sage, thyme, yarrow, rosemary, and nightshade, their leaves shifting in the faint breeze. There were stone benches half-buried in creeping moss, their surfaces worn smooth by age and prayer.

At the very center of the garden, beneath the outstretched arms of the largest and only weirwood tree in Oldtown, stood the Stranger.

Daeron had always found the statues of the Seven to be imposing, but none so much as this one. The Stranger was taller than the others, carved from black stone that had long since turned to a deep slate-gray with age. Unlike the Father, the Mother, or the Maiden, its face was featureless, hooded in eternal shadow.

It loomed over them, arms slightly raised—not in welcome, nor in warning, but something in between.

There at its feet, lavender grew wild and unchecked. The soft purple flowers bloomed in abundance, their stems bending toward the statue as if they sought its silent blessing. Ivory vines had wrapped themselves around the Stranger’s form, curling up its legs, across its torso, and around its veiled face. The contrast was striking—the dark stone wrapped in pale, living tendrils, as though death and life had reached an uneasy truce here.

Irene stepped into that shadow without hesitation, sinking onto her knees before the lavender. She reached out, her fingertips barely grazing the petals, her expression unreadable.

Daeron hovered a few steps behind. He had been to this garden before, but he had never truly lingered here. The Stranger was not a god one prayed to often. It was not like kneeling before the Warrior for strength or before the Mother for mercy. The Stranger was something else.

Irene exhaled softly, fingers brushing the lavender’s delicate blossoms. “Did you know that lavender is tied to both sleep and death?”

Daeron swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “No. No I did not.”

Irene plucked a small sprig from the earth, rolling it between her fingers. “It was often placed beneath pillows to bring peaceful dreams. Maesters say it soothes the mind, eases restlessness. However in the old days, before there were maesters, it was used to prepare the dead for burial.”

Daeron frowned, stepping closer. “Burial?”

She nodded. “In the North, they burn their dead. But here, where the soil is softer, the dead are laid to rest beneath the earth. In the days before the Faith, lavender was placed in their graves.” Her fingers ghosted over the petals. “To ward off the Stranger’s touch.”

The hair on Daeron’s arms rose.

Irene tilted her head slightly, gazing up at the hooded statue. “Yet the Stranger is not cruel.” She continued. “The other gods have faces—comforting faces. But the Stranger has none. It is the god of what comes after , of what no one can explain.” She glanced down at the lavender again. “It is feared, and yet… It is also necessary.”

Daeron found himself staring at the statue’s veiled face, trying to see something— anything —in its smooth, faceless stone. He had always thought of the Stranger as something distant, something unknowable. But here, standing in its shadow, listening to Irene’s soft words, he felt something he did not want to name.

“You don’t fear it?” He asked, keeping his voice low.

Irene turned her gaze back to him. “Do you?”

Daeron hesitated. “I—”

He stopped. He had never thought about it before. The Stranger had always been a thing spoken of in half-whispers, avoided in prayers. Something meant for others, not for him.

Then he thought of the way Irene’s hands had trembled when the High Septon called her. He thought of the way she had stepped back when the man had reached for her.

He thought of Highgarden burning.

“I don’t know.” He admitted.

Irene looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “That is better than pretending you do.”

She turned her attention back to the lavender, plucking another sprig and tucking it carefully into her sleeve.

Daeron shifted, uneasy. “Why do you know all this?”

Irene gave a small, almost-smile. “I listen.”

“To who ?”

“To everyone.”

That sent another shiver down his spine.

For a moment, the only sound was the distant rustling of leaves. A septa passed by the garden’s entrance, pausing briefly to watch them before continuing on her way. The scent of lavender was stronger here, thicker, like the air itself had been steeped in it.

Irene finally broke the silence. “I do not mind that people call me a healer.” She said, rolling the sprig between her fingers. “Yet I do not like the way they say it. As if I am something else. As if I am not just a girl who knows things.”

Daeron swallowed the lump in his throat. “I know.”

She looked at him then—really looked at him. Oh gods help him, but Daeron had never wanted so desperately to protect someone in his entire life.

She was not divine.

She was not the Maiden’s Mercy.

She was simply Irene.

And most importantly she was his friend .

“I think that you do not have to be what they call you.” Daeron said after a long moment.

She blinked at him.

“People believe strange things. They call you the Maiden’s Mercy because they do not understand you. Just like they say the Stranger is cruel because they do not understand it either.” He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yet you are not a god. You are just Irene. That is—” He hesitated, then shrugged. “That is enough.”

Irene studied him for a long moment.

“Thank you.”

It was quiet. Simple. Yet it hit him like a blade to the chest.

Irene rose from where she had knelt, dusting the earth from her skirts. “Come.” She said, tilting her head toward the garden’s archway. “I want to leave.”

Daeron hesitated, glancing once more at the Stranger’s statue. The ivory vines wrapped around it seemed almost alive in the shifting light, curling toward the hooded god’s faceless form like they sought something just beyond reach.

Then he turned away, falling into step beside Irene.

As they passed beneath the arch, leaving the scent of lavender and death behind them, Daeron risked one last glance at the High Septon’s looming figure inside the sept.

The man was still watching.

He had never stopped watching.

For the first time in his young life, Daeron Targaryen understood fear.

And the moment they stepped beyond the sept’s towering doors, the world came back in a rush of noise.

The market square outside the Starry Sept was alive with sound—merchants shouting their wares, children weaving through the throng in a game of chase, the occasional clatter of a horse’s hooves against the cobbled streets. The scent of roasting meat and spiced honey cakes filled the air, mixing with the briny tang of the nearby harbor.

There, in the middle of it all, was their uncle. Gwayne was casually against the base of a stone fountain, he was smiling—grinning really—at a very pretty lady.

Daeron knew that smile well.

Gwayne was a knight, a noble son of Oldtown, and every bit the gallant Hightower lord, but he was also a shameless flirt.

The lady in question was dressed in fine silk, her long hair pinned in intricate loops, and she was laughing—actually laughing—as Gwayne murmured something too low for anyone else to hear.

Daeron groaned. “Seven hells, not again.”

Irene, who had been quietly holding onto Daeron’s arm, blinked up at him. “What?”

“That.” He muttered, nodding toward their uncle.

Irene followed his gaze, her bronze eyes flickering with something wry. “Should we interrupt?”

“Oh, most definitely.”

Daeron dragged her forward, weaving through the crowd, careful not to jostle her too much. Irene was not fond of sudden movement or too much touching, but she also hated hesitation. He had learned quickly that the best way to guide her through a crowd was simply to lead—to give her something steady to follow.

She clung to his arm, her fingers curling lightly around the fabric of his sleeve. Daeron was a year younger than Irene, but already taller—his Valyrian blood giving him the lean, coltish height that made him look older than his six years. Beside him, Irene was small, slight in build, yet her presence was anything but.

People noticed her.

They recognized her.

And they whispered.

Daeron hated it.

Though he refused to let her see it.

So, instead, he pulled her right up to Gwayne and cleared his throat loudly.

Their uncle sighed—long and exaggerated—before turning to face them. “Must you ruin all my fun?”

Daeron smirked. “Yes.”

The lady covered her mouth, stifling another giggle, before excusing herself with a graceful curtsy.

Gwayne sighed again—this time with real suffering. “You are a terrible nephew.”

“I know.” Daeron grinned. “While you are holding all the coin, which means you must buy food.”

Gwayne lifted a brow. “You just left the Starry Sept, and already you are thinking of food?”

“Of course. The gods cannot help me if I starve.” Daeron smiled cheekily.

That earned him a chuckle. “What do you want?”

Daeron turned to Irene. “Street food.”

She blinked. “What?”

Daeron grinned, pleased that he had caught her off guard. “You must try it, Irene. You’ve eaten nothing but boring noble food your entire life. It’s time to see how real people eat.”

Her brows knitted together. “But—”

“No arguments.” He interrupted, already steering her toward the food stalls. “It’s delicious, I swear it. You trust me, don’t you?”

Irene hesitated. Then, slowly, she nodded.

That was all he needed.

The market was alive around them, the energy of Oldtown’s people wrapping around them in a way that Daeron loved. The people here knew him.

They called him Daeron the Daring.

It had started as a jest—he had once leapt from the city walls into a river below when he was four, and ever since, the name had stuck. Though  over time, it had become affectionate.

He had made an effort to know Oldtown—to know its streets, its people, its rhythms. He visited the harbor, spoke to sailors, wandered the market. He spent time with them, not above them.

And they loved his dragon.

Tessarion, his beautiful blue queen, was housed in the makeshift dragonpit on the city’s edge. The people had never feared her the way they feared the others. Tessarion was magnificent, but she was also gentle—a dragon who watched children play, who flapped her wings lazily in the sun, who let Daeron run his hands over her shimmering blue scales without so much as a growl.

The people called him their prince.

And Irene?

She was curiosity.

They had heard whispers of her, seen glimpses of her brilliant vermilion curls from afar, and now, they were seeing her for the first time.

The whispers followed them again.

“That’s her, isn’t it?”

“The Maiden’s Mercy…”

“They say she saved a man’s life just by touching him.”

Daeron clenched his jaw.

“Irene!” He said suddenly, voice light and cheerful. “Have you ever tried honey-caramel walnuts?”

She turned her head toward him, grateful for the distraction. “No.”

He beamed. “Then today is the day.”

Daeron pulled her toward a small cart where an elderly woman was stirring warm honey and crushed walnuts in a copper pan. The scent was incredible—buttery, rich, sweet.

He grinned as the woman recognized him.

“Prince Daeron!” She greeted, her face wrinkling with delight. “Come for a taste?”

“Yes! But first—” He gestured to Irene. “This is Lady Irene, and she has never had your walnuts before.”

The old woman lit up. “Oh, my dear, you are in for a treat.”

She used a wooden spoon to scoop up a handful of glossy, caramelized nuts, letting them cool slightly before handing them over in a small paper pouch.

Daeron plucked one and popped it into his mouth, sighing dramatically. “Perfect as always.”

Then he turned to Irene expectantly.

She hesitated, staring at the walnuts as if they were some great mystery.

Then, finally, she took one and ate it.

Daeron watched her carefully, waiting.

Irene’s bronze eyes widened slightly. Her lips parted.

Then—she reached for another.

Daeron grinned. “Good?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

He laughed, nudging her shoulder. “See? I told you.”

Gwayne, who had been watching with amusement, finally tossed a few coins to the old woman. “Come, let us keep moving before he buys the entire market.”

“I make no promises.” Daeron said cheerfully, leading Irene toward the next stall.

For the first time since they had left the Starry Sept, the weight in her shoulders seemed lighter.

And Daeron? He would make damn sure it stayed that way.

The marketplace hummed with life as Daeron led Irene from stall to stall, the scent of roasting meats and simmering stews thick in the evening air. The sky above was painted in deep purples and oranges, the last light of day slipping below the horizon. Lanterns were being lit one by one, their golden glow flickering across the busy square. Somewhere nearby, a minstrel was strumming a lute, his voice weaving through the hum of conversation and laughter.

Irene still held onto his arm, though her grip had loosened from its earlier tension. She had liked the honey-caramel walnuts, even liked the sugared almonds he made her try after that. But now? Now, Daeron wanted to introduce her to something real.

“You can’t just eat sweets all day.” He said, steering her toward a stall where skewers of lamb and onions were being grilled over an open flame. “You need to try something savory.”

Irene blinked at the smoking grill, her freckled nose scrunching slightly as the scent of sizzling fat met her senses. “I eat savory food all the time.”

Daeron grinned. “Oh? Do you?”

She lifted her chin slightly, ever the noble lady. “Of course, you know this. At the Hightower, we are served roast quail with pepper sauce, spiced venison, honeyed duck, and—”

“That’s not the same!” Daeron interrupted, waving a hand. “That’s fancy food, noble food. This is real food. The kind you eat with your hands.”

Irene visibly hesitated.

Gwayne, who had been trailing behind them, laughed outright. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

Daeron ignored him. He turned to the vendor, a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard and the easy confidence of someone who had been feeding Oldtown’s people for years.

“Two skewers!” Daeron said, slapping a silver coin onto the counter. “The best ones.”

The man grinned and plucked two sticks straight from the grill, the meat still sizzling, the onions glistening with rendered fat. He handed them over, and Daeron took one, offering the other to Irene.

She stared at it.

Daeron resisted the urge to laugh. “You hold it like this.” He said, gripping his own skewer and biting off a chunk of lamb with ease. The flavor hit him immediately—smoky, rich, perfectly seasoned. He groaned dramatically. “Gods, that’s good.”

Irene still didn’t move.

“You have to eat it.” Gwayne teased, arms crossed as he watched the scene unfold.

“I know that.” She muttered, clearly flustered. However she wasn’t moving because she didn’t know how.

Daeron watched, realization dawning.

Of course. She had been raised in courts and high tables, where food was neatly cut, placed on fine silverware, eaten with careful decorum. The girl had probably never held food in her hands before, at least not in public.

He softened.

“Here.” Daeron said, shifting closer, so their arms brushed. “Like this.”

He reached out, adjusting her grip on the skewer, making sure she held it firmly. She didn’t pull away, only watching him carefully, her bronze eyes flickering with something uncertain.

Then, slowly, she lifted the skewer to her lips. She took a tiny bite.

Daeron sighed. “Irene, you’re eating like a bird.”

Her freckled cheeks flushed slightly. “I am being careful.”

“Don’t be!” Daeron said, grinning. “This is food meant to be devoured.” He took another huge bite, chewing happily before adding, “If you don’t eat fast, I’m going to take yours.”

Irene’s eyes narrowed slightly—she had brothers once, after all. She took a real bite this time.

Daeron watched her closely, waiting for her reaction.

At first, she was still. Then—her expression changed.

She chewed slowly, thoughtfully, her fingers twitching against the wood of the skewer. “It’s… good.”

Daeron smirked. “I told you.”

Gwayne clapped a hand on Daeron’s shoulder. “Well done, lad. You’ve officially corrupted the heir of Highgarden.”

Irene shot them both a look, but she still took another bite.

Daeron grinned victoriously.

By the time she finished, her fingers were slightly greasy, and she looked like she didn’t know what to do with them.

Daeron, still grinning, handed her a cloth from the vendor’s stall. “See? Was that so bad?”

Irene dabbed at her hands carefully. “No.” A pause. “It was actually quite good.”

Daeron beamed.

However he wasn’t done yet.

“Now, we need something to drink.” He said, scanning the nearby stalls.

Gwayne arched a brow. “Ale?”

Daeron scoffed. “She’s not ready for ale.”

Irene crossed her arms. “I have had wine before.”

“That’s different.”

He dragged her to a small wooden cart where a barrel of chilled cider was being poured into clay cups. The vendor, a portly woman with a warm smile, recognized Daeron immediately.

“Prince Daeron!” She greeted. “Come for a drink?”

“Yes! But not just for me.” He nudged Irene forward. “She’s never had street cider before.”

The woman clucked her tongue. “That’s a crime, that is.”

She filled two cups with the cool, golden liquid and handed them over.

Daeron took his with a familiar ease, sipping deeply. It was crisp, sweet, slightly tart, and absolutely perfect.

Irene, once again, hesitated.

Daeron sighed dramatically. “Gods, Irene, it’s just cider.”

“I am drinking it!” She said indignantly—but she wasn’t, she was studying it.

Daeron wanted to groan. Instead, he rolled his eyes and took her free hand, wrapping it properly around the cup.

“Like this.” He instructed. “Now just drink.”

She took a small sip—then another.

Daeron watched her carefully.

“Well?”

Irene licked her lips thoughtfully. “It’s… interesting.”

“That means she likes it.” Gwayne said, smirking over the rim of his own cup.

Irene shot him a look but didn’t deny it.

Daeron grinned. “We should get more food.”

Irene’s eyes widened slightly. “More?”

Gwayne chuckled. “He won’t stop until you try everything.”

And he didn’t.

They moved through the market, sampling everything—spiced sausage wrapped in warm bread, savory cheese tarts with flaky crusts, roasted chestnuts still steaming in their shells. Irene, to her credit, tried everything. She wasn’t fast, nor was she messy, but she ate, and Daeron could tell—she enjoyed it.

Her noble upbringing battled against the messiness of the food, and at one point, when a bit of sauce dripped onto her sleeve, she froze—horrified—before Daeron simply took a napkin and wiped it away without a second thought.

“See?” He teased. “Not so bad.”

Irene scowled playfully, but there was no real anger there.

By the time they were finished, Irene’s posture had loosened, her eyes bright in the lantern light.

And Daeron? Daeron felt proud.

Because for the first time since they had left the Hightower, Irene wasn’t thinking about the whispers.

She was just a girl in a busy city, eating food with her hands, sipping cool cider, laughing—actually laughing—at something Gwayne said.

That was the victory he had wanted all along.

And soon night was fully upon them now, and the streets of Oldtown were alive with glowing lanterns, laughter, and the hum of music drifting from the taverns. The scent of roasted chestnuts and honeyed cakes still lingered in the air, mingling with the briny wind that swept in from the Whispering Sound. The marketplace had changed—not in structure, but in feeling. By day, it had been a place of trade and duty. By night, it was something else entirely.

It was a festival.

Irene had never seen anything like it.

Daeron could tell the moment they stepped away from the food stalls and into the part of the market where the vendors had set up their games. Her grip on his arm tightened ever so slightly, her bronze eyes widening as she took in the whirl of colors and movement.

Stalls lined the square, each one boasting some impossible challenge—a ring toss, a row of stacked bottles waiting to be knocked over, a dart-throwing game where the prizes dangled like glittering trophies. There were children shrieking with delight as they tried their luck, young men jostling each other in friendly competition, and vendors shouting boasts about their wares.

Then there were the prizes.

Dangling from wooden beams and iron hooks were brightly colored cloth animals—stitched lions, wolves, owls, dragons. Some were small enough to fit in a child’s hand, others so large that they would need to be carried with both arms.

Irene came to a sudden halt.

Daeron followed her gaze—and grinned.

At one of the largest stalls, right in the center of the festival games, hung a massive stuffed dragon.

It was Tessarion.

Not exactly, of course, but the resemblance was uncanny—deep blue fabric, golden eyes, silken wings stretched in mid-flight. It was so large that it could easily swallow Irene whole, half her size at the very least.

Daeron looked at her.

Irene’s lips had parted slightly, her expression unreadable.

In that moment, Daeron made a decision.

“I’m winning it for you.”

Irene snapped out of her trance immediately. “What?”

“The dragon.” He gestured to the massive stuffed beast with a grin. “I’m winning it for you.”

Irene blinked. “Daeron, you don’t have to—”

“Of course I do.”

She huffed, but she didn’t pull away when he grabbed her hand and started dragging her toward the stall. Gwayne, still amused from watching her struggle with the street food, trailed behind, his arms crossed over his chest.

The vendor was a broad-shouldered man with an easy smirk, standing beside a row of stacked wooden bottles. The challenge was simple—knock down all three rows with a single toss of the weighted ball.

Simple—but not easy.

“You’ve got sharp eyes.” The vendor said as Daeron approached. “That one’s the grand prize.” He nodded toward the massive blue dragon hanging above them.

“I know.” Daeron grinned. “I’ll be taking it home.”

Irene sighed. “You are insufferable.”

He winked at her. “You’ll thank me later.”

The vendor chuckled, holding up a small, heavy leather ball. “Three tries.” He said. “Knock all the bottles over, the dragon’s yours.”

Daeron cracked his knuckles.

Irene raised a skeptical brow. “Have you done this before?”

“No.” He grinned. “But how hard can it be?”

Gwayne outright laughed. “This will be entertaining.”

Daeron ignored him.

He took the ball, weighed it in his hand, and lined up his shot.

The bottles were sturdy, stacked in rows that seemed deliberately unsteady, just enough to throw off a person’s aim. But Daeron was a king’s son, the blood of Old Valyria, a dragonrider. He had steady hands. He had focus—and he threw.

The ball slammed into the bottles, knocking the first two rows down immediately.

The crowd whooped.

Irene’s lips parted slightly.

But the last bottle wobbled—wobbled—and then, with a slow, agonizing tilt—

Stayed upright.

Daeron groaned.

The vendor laughed. “Not bad, my prince, not bad. Try again?”

Daeron threw his second ball.

Same result.

By the third try, he was glowering at the bottles as if he could set them on fire with sheer force of will.

“You are going to break something.” Irene murmured.

“I refuse to let a pile of wood defeat me!”

Irene sighed, her fingers still gripping his sleeve. Yet Daeron had seen it—the way her gaze kept flickering to the blue dragon. She wanted it, whether she would admit it or not.

And Daeron? He was going to get it for her. Even if it took all night.

Gwayne, meanwhile, was laughing too hard to be of any help. “Are we going to be standing here for the next hour?”

“No.” Daeron said, tossing another coin onto the counter. “Because I’m going to win this time.”

The vendor, still grinning, handed him another three balls. “Confidence! I like that.”

Daeron lined up his fourth throw.

He took a deep breath.

He focused.

And he threw.

The ball slammed into the first bottle—then knocked into the second—and finally it sent the last one toppling over with a crash.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Irene startled slightly at the sudden noise, her fingers twitching against Daeron’s sleeve.

Daeron, still smug, turned to the vendor. “I believe that dragon is mine.”

The vendor laughed, shaking his head. “Fair and square, my prince.” He reached up, unhooked the massive blue dragon, and handed it over.

Daeron took it with both arms—it was bigger than he expected, almost awkward to carry, but he didn’t care.

He turned to Irene, grinning.

“For you.”

She stared at him.

Then stared at the dragon.

Then stared back at him.

“I don’t have anywhere to put that.”

Daeron grinned wider. “Sure you do. It’s half your size, so if you hold it close enough, it just becomes part of you.”

She let out a slow, long-suffering sigh. “You are ridiculous.”

“Yet you’re not giving it back.” He said, stepping closer, pressing the dragon into her arms.

She hesitated.

Then, slowly, she reached out.

She wrapped her small hands around the soft blue fabric—her fingers twitching against the silken wings, pressing lightly against the stuffed body as if testing its weight.

For a moment, she didn’t speak.

Then, finally— “…Thank you.”

Her voice was soft.

Quieter than before.

Daeron felt something shift in his chest.

He laughed lightly, nudging her arm. “I told you I’d win it.”

Irene rolled her eyes, but this time—there as a hint of a smile on her lips.

Daeron watched with undisguised delight as Irene stood there, arms wrapped around the massive blue dragon he had won for her. The fabric was soft, the stuffing firm enough to hold its shape but plush enough to be squeezed. The wings shimmered in the dim lantern light, and Irene’s fingers twitched, idly running over the seams, tracing the shape of the golden eyes. She was inspecting it, as she did with everything—studying it, cataloging it, committing it to memory.

Then—for the first time all night—she looked shy, truly honest to gods shy. Daeron grinned.

“What are you naming it?” He asked, voice light, teasing.

Irene blinked, glancing up at him as if she had just realized he was still there. She hesitated for half a second, her fingers still curled around the stuffed dragon’s plush body.

“…Tessy.”

Daeron stared.

Then he grinned even wider.

“Tessy?” Daeron repeated, his voice a little too pleased.

Irene immediately turned away, gripping the dragon tighter as if that would somehow make her disappear. “I— It was the first name that came to mind.”

“Tessy.” Daeron repeated, stepping closer, practically looming over her now. “Tessy, like Tessarion? My Tessarion?”

“I know what I said.”

Daeron could see it happening—the creeping flush blooming at the tops of her cheeks, the way her ears turned pink, the way she wouldn’t look at him directly, and oh.

Oh, he quite liked that.

Irene, flustered.

Irene, blushing.

Irene, stammering over her words in a way he had never seen before.

He laughed. A full, unrestrained laugh, tilting his head back slightly. “You’re blushing!”

“I am not.”

“You are!”

Gwayne, who had been watching all of this with growing amusement, chuckled deeply. “Oh, you’ve embarrassed her.”

“I did not embarrass her!” Daeron argued, still grinning. “She’s just finally admitting that she loves me.”

Irene whipped her head around so fast, her curls bounced. “I do not!”

Daeron gasped dramatically, pressing a hand over his heart as if she had just mortally wounded him. “My own wife, denying me?”

Irene groaned, burying her face against the stuffed dragon in her arms.

Gwayne outright laughed. “Wife, is it? Seven save us.”

“Well, obviously.” Daeron leaned in closer, tilting his head with an easy smirk. “You’ve named your dragon after mine. That means we’re basically bonded for life.”

Irene made a noise—a strangled, half-hearted attempt at protest—but she was still blushing.

Daeron beamed.

“Oh, you do love me.”

“I do not!”

“You do!”

“I don’t!”

“You dooooo—!”

“Daeron—!