"Nightsong?!"
At the words of Randyll Tarly, disbelief exploded across Mace Tyrell's face.
His voice shot upward, shrill with shock.
"What did you say, Lord Tarly? Nightsong?"
"Weren't we just discussing Sumrhall and those three fools?"
The hall fell into instant silence.
The relaxed expressions of the gathered nobles froze. Every gaze locked onto the dust-streaked lord of Horn Hill.
Tarly glanced at them, then at the thin old woman on the high seat. After receiving Olenna Redwyne's faint nod, he answered calmly.
"Yes, my lord."
"Nightsong."
His voice was not loud, yet it rang through the hall like a verdict.
"As we speak, the green banner with the red-clad hunter flies from the highest tower of Nightsong's keep."
"The n of House Caron are under guard — eating the stale bread we provide."
A collective breath hissed in.
Joy. Worry. Shock. Calculation.
Whispers broke out as every noble began weighing what the fall of Nightsong ant for the Reach.
But no one was more stunned than Mace.
How?
That was the only thought in his mind.
Nightsong was no crumbling ruin like Sumrhall. It was the ancestral stronghold of House Caron, hardened over centuries — a true fortress of stone and will.
Even Mace, with little military sense, knew its reputation. Walls so high they made brave n tremble on ladders. Granite blocks like extensions of the mountains themselves. And Caron n — fad for stubborn courage and unbending loyalty.
Even ten thousand n would struggle to storm it quickly.
Did Tarly command ten thousand?
Mace didn't know. But he knew this:
No sane commander would launch such a costly winter assault in a blizzard…
…and win.
This wasn't rely unexpected. It was a miracle of Westerosi warfare.
"Tell , Lord Tarly!"
In his agitation, Mace forgot his dignity, stepping forward to grab the man's pauldrons.
"How did you do it?! Even I would've needed months to take it!"
Tarly did not answer.
He simply shifted his gaze — back to Olenna.
Mace followed.
Her eyes t his: three parts mockery, three parts chill detachnt, four parts bored inevitability.
"Gold, Mace," said the Queen of Thorns softly.
"I told you — gold dragons rotting in vaults are useless. Money must move to have aning."
Her bony fingers turned the dark red gem on her ring.
"The Carons are fierce, yes. Proud. Famous along the Dornish Marches."
"But they are poor."
She let the word linger.
"Tall walls don't buy bread. Strong keeps don't fill bellies. House Caron has never been good at trade."
Mace still looked lost.
Olenna sighed.
"During the War of the Ninepenny Kings, when fighting raged fiercest, the Carons marched with the alliance — broke. They couldn't even pay their n on ti."
"So more than ten years ago, I spent a great many gold dragons. I bought the captains of every gate guard at Nightsong… and several key lieutenants."
"They've received Tyrell gold every year since. Half of it, of course, in gilded coins."
"Ten… years ago…"
Mace's jaw nearly fell off.
Eyes wide as shields.
His mother had planted this piece over a decade ago — while his father still lived — a silent, lethal move on a distant board.
And today…
It had captured a castle.
Did Father know?
It didn't matter. He'd been dead more than ten years.
For the first ti in his life, Mace Tyrell truly felt the terrifying depth of the sches hidden inside his mother's frail body.
Then shock gave way to pure exhilaration.
"Then what are we waiting for?!"
His voice bood through the hall, confidence flooding back like a drunk knight after one good rumor.
"Nightsong is ours! What an opportunity!"
He waved his arms like a victorious general.
"Call the banners! Summon the vassals! The Redwyne fleet from the Arbor — gather everything!"
"We march at once! Using Nightsong as our springboard, we take Sumrhall, then drive straight into the Stormlands!"
"I'll show the realm how pathetic Robert Baratheon is before the great Mace Tyrell!"
"We'll present total victory in the Stormlands as a gift to the new king and the Regent!"
"Maybe we won't even need to spend those thirty thousand gold dragons!!!"
He spread his arms, already seeing himself triumphant… perhaps even nad Hand of the King.
Across the hall, Olenna and Randyll Tarly exchanged a brief look.
In it: shared disappointnt.
They both knew the truth.
Robert Baratheon had two thousand n at Sumrhall and open supply lines to the Stormlands interior. The narrow approaches toward Blackhaven were likely guarded by five thousand or more.
To smash through in winter?
Madness.
Nightsong's value was not as a launchpad — but as a nail hamred between the Reach and Stormlands. A buffer. A choke point.
The wise move was to hold.
Then attend the Regent's summons at King's Landing, request aid from the Iron Throne, and later call banners from the Vale, the Westerlands, perhaps the Riverlands.
Explaining this to Mace, however, was harder than breeding calves from cows and rams.
While he fantasized about conquest, Tarly stepped forward, ignoring him entirely.
"My lady, we received urgent intelligence."
Olenna signaled him to continue.
"Bring him in."
Two Horn Hill knights escorted a bound man forward — robes torn, beard unkempt, wrists raw from rope.
Olenna's lips curved thinly.
"Too tight," the man wheezed. "Lady Olenna, have them loosen it, please."
"Hmm," she said dryly. "You are called the Tiger of the Marches, Lord Caron. One binds a tiger tightly."
This was Bryen Caron, lord of Nightsong.
After a nod, his bonds were cut.
"Speak," Olenna ordered.
"It concerns a rchant caravan," Caron began imdiately. "Ten days ago, one flying the banner of House Fowler ca north through the Boneway."
Olenna's eyes narrowed. House Fowler ant Dorne.
"They stopped at Nightsong. But their escort was excessive — too many, too skilled."
"I recognized their commander. Disguised as a sellsword, but he was Qhoredan, captain of the Fowler guard."
Murmurs.
"I sent a man to drink with them," Caron continued. "He got a driver drunk. The fool bragged."
He leaned closer, voice dropping.
"They weren't carrying spices."
A pause.
"They were transporting…"
"The Regent's woman."
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