*Sniff*Sniff*
Olenna, frustrated by their continuous tears, uttered for the umpteenth time, "Enough with the crying already!" Her words seemed as ineffective as a Septa preaching in the bustling market. Rather than calming down, their loud wails had transformed into quiet sobs, as if Olenna was being unkind to them.
Ever since they received the devastating news that their ships, sent to acquire Starkhorses, had been intercepted by Ironborn pirates, Margery and Alerie hadn't ceased crying. The only reason they even found out about it was that one of the young sailors somehow managed to survive by jumping onboard and making it onshore and travelling day and night to bring them the news.
Margery was taking all the blame on herself while Alerie was just making herself miserable while thinking about all the cruel things that the Ironborn could do to her favourite maid, Tara and little Alla who she had raised as her second daughter after she lost her mother at a tender age.
"It's alright, M-Marge," Alerie hiccuped, attempting to remain strong for her daughter. "I believe the Seven will protect them and prevent any harm. I'll light a candle in the Sept day and night, praying for the Warrior to shield them and the Crone to guide them home," she murmured to herself while gently rubbing her daughter's back.
They had all gathered in Olenna's room, which was adorned with delicate floral tapestries that hung from the walls, depicting the vibrant beauty of the surrounding gardens. The air was filled with a soft fragrance of roses, carried in through the open windows that overlook the lush countryside.
Warm sunlight cast a gentle glow on the polished wooden floors and elegant furniture was arranged neatly, with plush armchairs and a comfortable sofa forming a cosy seating area. The cushions and upholstery were decorated in a palette of soft pastel colours, reflecting the grace and femininity of the Tyrell family.
Olenna was sitting regally in a high-backed chair, her piercing eyes looking at Alerie and Margery with faces of sorrow as tears streamed down their cheeks. Young Margery, at the tender age of thirteen, sat on the sofa with her mother, her youthful features marked with grief.
Her brown curls cascade over her shoulders, framing her cherubic face. Her eyes, usually sparkling with mischief and curiosity, are now red and puffy from crying. Her petite frame was trembling with emotion as she clutched a handkerchief tightly in her small hands.
"B-But it's my f-fault that they were hurt..." Little Margery uttered, her voice small and sniffly. "If I hadn't wanted 'it,' nothing would have happened."
"Nonsense," Olenna interjected sharply, preventing Alerie from soothing her daughter's worries. "It is in no way your fault."
"But I—"
"Did you command the attack on their ships?" Olenna questioned before Margery could even respond.
"No," Margery replied, her eyes reddened and her beautiful brown locks dishevelled, devoid of their usual adornments.
"Did you possess prior knowledge of the impending attack?"
"No—"
"Then it is not your fault at all," Olenna stated forcefully, her tone softening somewhat. "Traveling by sea always carries a certain degree of danger, and they simply encountered the misfortune of crossing paths with those accursed pirates."
"But we don't know if they are dead, do we?" a voice suddenly interjected from beside the window, capturing their attention. They all turned to look at Loras, the fourteen-year-old who had arrived half an hour earlier, still dressed in his sweaty training clothes. "We can still save them if we try, can't we?"
Olenna sighed and patiently addressed her youngest grandson, "And how do you propose we save them?"
"We should gather all of our forces and attack them immediately," Loras said waving his hands as if he had a sword and was about to lead an attack on the Ironborn.
"And whom, exactly, would you attack, my dear grandson?" Olenna asked, calmly consuming a piece of cheese from the table before her. Her tone carried a hint of condescension, but Loras was too caught up in his excitement to notice.
"The Ironborn, of course," Loras replied, standing up from his position by the window. He began speaking rapidly, his eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. "We can rally our soldiers, knights, and horses. I'm sure the Redwyne cousins would lend us some of their ships. Then we could swiftly sail to the Iron Islands—"
"Seven Hells! He's becoming more and more like his father," Olenna muttered under her breath. She interrupted her hyperactive grandson and spoke louder, her eyes closed as she massaged her forehead. "As I just asked, who specifically are you planning to attack?"
"Um... the Ironborn," Loras repeated, his confidence wavering upon seeing his grandmother's expression. He sensed he had made a misstep.
"I'm asking you to be specific among the Ironborn," Olenna continued, her piercing gaze fixed upon Loras. "Do you realize that there is an entire kingdom of islands teeming with them? The Greyjoys, the Blacktydes, Botleys, Drumms, Goodbrothers, Greyirons, Harlaws, or any of the dozen others? So, who do you intend to attack?"
"Maybe... the Greyjoys?" Loras replied tentatively, shrinking back at the sight of his grandmother's stern face. Fortunately for him, his sister interjected, lifting her head from their mother's embrace and speaking softly, "You can't do that..."
"And can you explain to him why not, Margaery?" Olenna inquired, her tone significantly calmer than with Loras.
"B-Because that would violate the King's peace," Margaery hesitated at first, her voice growing steadier as she continued, "And we lack any evidence that could justify an attack on a great house to present to the King."
"Finally! Someone in this family possesses some common sense," Olenna exclaimed, her voice filled with exaggerated relief. "I swear, if it were left to you and your father, this family would perish within weeks..." She turned to Loras, who was desperately trying to inch his way out of the room, seeking escape from his formidable grandmother.
An urgent knock resounded from behind the door, prompting Alerie to swiftly say, "Come in!" in an effort to spare her son from further scrutiny by his grandmother.
"My Lady... Hahh... Hahh..." Maester Lomys entered the room, gasping for breath as if he had sprinted all the way from his rookery. He attempted to convey a message but instead doubled over, breathing heavily as if on the verge of collapse.
"Ah, give me the letter," Olenna impatiently interjected, rising from her seat and snatching the letter from the maester's outstretched hand. "We'll all die of old age before you catch your breath," she remarked, opening the letter swiftly.
The maester appeared slightly offended, but Olenna paid him no mind as her eyes scanned the contents of the letter. Her expression transformed from annoyance to surprise, and her eyebrows raised as she finished reading.
"What is it, Mother?" Alerie asked, curiosity brimming in her voice.
Olenna didn't even bother correcting her and said in an impressed tone, "It seems your Gods heard you... They survived,"
"W-Who?" Alerie asked, her breath caught in anticipation.
"Both of them," Olenna said, settling back into her comfortable chair with a groan. "It seems they were miraculously rescued by a Northerner ship from Bear Island. They are currently there."
"Really..." Alerie and Margery exclaimed in unison, their eyes glistening with unshed tears. As Olenna nodded in confirmation, a mixture of relief and joy washed over them. They embraced tightly, their tears finally flowing freely.
"Thank the Seven!" Alerie exclaimed.
"I am so glad!" Margery added, their voices filled with genuine gratitude.
Tara had been Alerie's closest confidante, while Alla had become like a sister to Margery. The news of their survival brought immense relief to both of them.
Amidst their celebration, Loras, who had lingered near the door, spoke up in confusion, "But why would those barbarians save them?"
"Don't call them that," Margery fiercely retorted, and Loras sweated when he saw his sister have the same expression as his grandmother had a minute ago, "They saved Alla, so they must be good people,"
"The more pressing question is," Olenna interjected thoughtfully, "How did they come across them? I wasn't aware that they possessed fleets or ships on this side of the sea." She turned to the maester, who had regained his breath by now.
"No, my lady," the maester responded, shaking his head and adjusting his chain. "There hasn't been any notable naval presence in the North on the western side since Bran the Burner burned his fleet when his father, Bran the Shipwright, disappeared in Sunset Sea. So they should not have any ships available there other than the small fishing ones... at least not the ones capable of going against the Ironborn,"
"Hmm... That does make it intriguing," Olenna mused, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully. "Perhaps the silent wolf is doing something behind the scenes without anyone being aware..."
"When is she coming here, Grandma? Should we send ships to bring her back? I've heard it's bitterly cold there. What if she falls ill?" Margery anxiously inquired, her questions pouring out one after another.
"No need to worry about sending ships," Olenna reassured them, waving her hand dismissively. "It appears that he intends to bring them home himself."
"That is good news," Alerie remarked, a smile brightening her face.
"That is remarkably generous of him," the maester chimed in unexpectedly. "In fact, I would venture to say that he's being overly generous."
"Who is he?" Margery asked, curiosity evident in her voice.
"Jon Snow," Olenna absentmindedly replied, her attention drifting. "Tara mentioned in her letter that he was the captain of the ship that rescued them, and he's the one who will escort them back."
"He's a bastard," Loras sneered, wrinkling his nose in disgust, "Maybe he's looking for money and he's hoping that we're generous enough to give him a reward,"
"If I'm not mistaken, he is Lord Stark's bastard, conceived during the war," Maester Lomys interjected with a shrug. "Although he would be too young to hold the position of ship captain, so he might be someone else."
"Well, we'll find out when he arrives in approximately..." Olenna glanced at the maester expectantly.
"It should take them around three weeks, considering their departure on the day they sent the letter and favourable winds," the maester confidently estimated.
"Then we shall discover his true identity in three weeks' time," Olenna declared, a hint of anticipation colouring her tone.
Unbeknownst to them, their entire conversation had been heard by an unassuming raven that was sneakily hidden by the window.
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If you can't wait, you can take the bait: pat reon.c om/lazywizard