Rhaenara Storm, the bastard daughter of Robert Baratheon, is thrust into leadership as the Lord of Storm's End, wielding her unparalleled blacksmithing skills and the ancient Valyrian sword Stormbringer.
Meanwhile, Ryon Sand, the secret son of Ober...
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Highgarden had fallen.
The once-flourishing castle of the Tyrells now lay in ruin. Soldiers marched through the courtyard, their armour clanking as they gathered spoils of war—silver goblets, embroidered tapestries, and gold coins meant for the vaults of the Tyrell family. The green banners of Highgarden, adorned with the golden rose of House Tyrell, were torn down, replaced by the crimson and gold of House Lannister.
Ryon Sand moved through the aftermath of the battle, his eyes sharp but his face unreadable. Highgarden had put up a brave fight, but their forces had been no match for the might of the combined Lannister-Tarly army. Soldiers, both Lannister and Tarly, looted what they could, some whispering among themselves about the riches of the once-great Reach. For them, this was the spoils of victory. For Ryon, it felt like something far darker—a hollow triumph.
The castle’s beauty, now marred by the stench of blood and death, gave him an odd sense of unease. He had grown used to war by now, and the sight of fallen soldiers no longer turned his stomach, but something about the fall of Highgarden struck him. It wasn’t merely the collapse of a great house—it was the end of an era, of a powerful family that had once held sway over the Reach. And more than that, it was the end of a matriarch who had outwitted many of Westeros' greatest lords.
Ryon approached the study of Lady Olenna Tyrell, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls. His mind wandered as he moved through the castle, thinking of the many rumours he had heard about the old woman who now awaited her fate. Olenna had been known as the "Queen of Thorns" for good reason—sharp-witted and sharp-tongued, a woman who did not suffer fools gladly. She had been one of the most formidable players in the Game of Thrones, outmanoeuvring men who thought themselves her betters.
When he entered her chamber, she was seated at a table, seemingly unfazed by the destruction that had unfolded around her. She looked tired, yes, but her eyes still gleamed with the intelligence that had kept her alive for so long.
"Come to see an old woman die, have you?" Olenna asked, her voice dry, but with a hint of amusement.
Ryon paused for a moment, not expecting such a greeting. He was there to ensure she didn’t escape, but something compelled him to step forward and engage. There was something almost magnetic about Olenna Tyrell.
"I didn't come for that," Ryon replied. "I came to offer... condolences, if they mean anything now."
Olenna looked up at him, her sharp gaze sizing him up. "You speak as if you had a choice. In war, boy, condolences mean nothing. Victory is all that matters. You should know that by now."
Ryon nodded but said nothing. He knew it was true. In war, there were no courtesies—just winners and the dead. But the conversation lingered longer in his thoughts as Olenna studied him closely.
