Chapter 20: The Queen of Thorns' Prudence & The Dragon's Shadow
Ashford Castle, a relic of a bygone era, stood grey and weathered against the verdant backdrop of the northern Reach. Its crumbling battlements and neglected courtyards spoke of diminished glory, a fittingly somber stage for the negotiation that would determine the fate of House Tyrell and its vast, fertile lands. Robar Baratheon had chosen it specifically for its symbolism: the old feudal order, like Ashford itself, was yielding to the inevitable rise of a new, more ruthlessly efficient power.
He arrived with an escort that was formidable but not overwhelming – five hundred of his elite Stormblade Cohort, their black and gold BCR-emblazoned surcoats a stark contrast to the pastoral landscape. Lord Tywin Lannister, a silent, golden lion at his side, accompanied him, his presence a clear statement of their united front. Stannis, ever the dutiful subordinate, remained with the main Baratheon-Lannister host, which was now strategically positioned to advance on Highgarden should these negotiations prove… unprofitable.
Lady Olenna Tyrell arrived shortly after, her retinue small but pointedly displaying the wealth of Highgarden. She herself, a tiny, wizened woman with eyes as sharp as dragonglass shards, was carried in an opulent litter. Her son, Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, looking florid and uncomfortable, waddled beside her, a peacock out of its depth. A few stern-faced Hightower knights, loyal bannermen of the Tyrells, completed her escort.
The parley took place in Ashford's dilapidated great hall, where Robar had ordered a simple, sturdy table and chairs to be set up – no finery, no pretense. This was a business meeting, not a courtly gathering.
"Lady Olenna, Lord Mace," Robar acknowledged them with a curt nod as they entered, his voice devoid of pleasantry. "Thank you for agreeing to this… consultation. Time is a valuable commodity, and BCR prefers to avoid unnecessary expenditure on protracted conflicts when a mutually beneficial agreement can be reached."
Lady Olenna sniffed, her gaze darting from Robar's impassive face to Tywin Lannister's equally unreadable expression. "Lord Protector Baratheon. Lord Tywin. Your reputation for… 'directness' precedes you. As does the reputation of your army, which currently sits like a vulture on Highgarden's doorstep." Her voice was surprisingly strong, laced with a tart irony. Mace Tyrell merely grumbled, dabbing sweat from his brow.
"A vulture, Lady Olenna?" Robar's lips curved into a humorless approximation of a smile. "I prefer to think of BCR as a prudent investor, identifying underperforming assets and offering opportunities for strategic restructuring. The Reach, with its immense agricultural output, is a prime asset. Unfortunately, its current management has shown a marked reluctance to integrate with the new market realities of Westeros."
"Meaning my oaf of a son backed the losing dragon," Olenna said bluntly, shooting a withering glance at Mace, who flinched. "Yes, a regrettable miscalculation. One which your… 'auditors' at Goldengrove seem to have rectified with extreme prejudice."
"Lord Rowan chose liquidation over negotiation," Robar stated, his voice cold. "A poor business decision. BCR prefers its acquisitions to be solvent, if possible. Which brings us to the terms of House Tyrell's integration into the Baratheon-Lannister economic sphere." He gestured to a BCR aide, who stepped forward and placed a meticulously drafted parchment before Lady Olenna. "The Articles of Integration and Agricultural Cooperation."
Olenna picked up the document, her sharp eyes scanning the clauses with surprising speed. Mace attempted to peer over her shoulder, but she swatted his hand away like an annoying fly. Tywin Lannister remained silent, a golden statue of disapproval, his very presence adding weight to Robar's unspoken ultimatum.
"Fealty to you as Lord Protector, and future King, naturally," Olenna muttered, reading. "A 'Special Contribution to the Realm's Reconstruction and Stability Fund'…" She snorted. "A rather large fine, dressed up in fancy words. Substantial. You aim to bleed us dry, Lord Baratheon?"
"Reparations for backing a regime that intended to incinerate a major metropolitan asset and plunge the realm into chaos, Lady Olenna," Robar corrected smoothly. "Think of it as a risk premium. BCR is merely ensuring its initial investment in stabilizing the realm is recouped. Furthermore, the fund will be reinvested into Westeros-wide infrastructure projects, including improvements to the Reach's own transport and irrigation systems, overseen by BCR engineers, of course. You will see a return on this 'contribution' through increased efficiency and productivity."
Olenna's eyes narrowed. "Integration of all agricultural output into BCR's Centralized Food Distribution Network. Quotas, price controls, export licenses managed by your appointees… You intend to make House Tyrell tenant farmers on its own land, beholden to your corporate bureaucracy."
"We intend to optimize Westeros's food supply, Lady Olenna," Robar countered. "To eliminate famine, stabilize prices, and ensure that the bounty of the Reach benefits the entire realm – while generating a healthy profit for its key stakeholders, including a strategically realigned House Tyrell. You will retain your lands, your titles, and Lord Mace will be offered a prestigious position as Chairman of the new Pan-Westeros Agricultural Advisory Board."
"A chairman with no power, I presume," Olenna said dryly. "A gilded mushroom kept in the dark and fed dung."
"His advisory input will be… valued," Robar said, his expression unchanging. "And the position comes with a generous BCR stipend."
The negotiations continued for hours. Olenna Tyrell, for all her age, was a formidable opponent, her wit sharp, her arguments pointed. She fought for every concession, every scrap of dignity for her House. She argued about the size of the "contribution," the extent of BCR's control over trade, the appointment of BCR officials to key positions within the Reach. Robar met her arguments with cold, unassailable logic, backed by the unyielding numbers prepared by his BCR analysts and the silent, ominous presence of Tywin Lannister. He conceded on minor points of nomenclature, on ceremonial roles, on extended payment plans for the "contribution," but on the core principles – fealty, economic control, military subordination – he was immovable. He was not negotiating terms; he was dictating the parameters of House Tyrell's new reality.
Finally, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the desolate courtyard of Ashford, Lady Olenna sighed, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. She looked at her son, Mace, who seemed utterly bewildered by the complex financial and political jargon. She looked at Tywin Lannister, whose faint, predatory smile indicated he knew the outcome was inevitable. And she looked at Robar Baratheon, this strange, cold new power that had descended upon Westeros.
"You leave us little choice, Lord Protector," she said, her voice weary but still edged with defiance. "To fight your combined armies, with the Ironborn gnawing at our coasts and our own bannermen wavering, would be… an act of folly. House Tyrell has always understood the virtue of prudence. We will accept your… 'Articles of Integration.'"
Mace Tyrell looked as if he might protest, but a single, sharp glance from his mother silenced him.
"A wise decision, Lady Olenna," Robar said, a hint of something that might have been respect in his tone for her pragmatism. "BCR values partners who understand the market. Your House will find that cooperation with the new administration, while… different, can still be profitable." He signaled his aide, who produced an ink pot and quill. "If Lord Mace would be so good as to affix his seal?"
With a trembling hand, under his mother's steely gaze, Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South, signed away the economic autonomy of the Reach. House Tyrell had bent the knee. The breadbasket of Westeros was now firmly under BCR control.
As the Tyrell delegation prepared for their subdued departure, a raven arrived, bearing the urgent markings of Stannis's command at Dragonstone. Robar broke the seal, his eyes quickly scanning the contents. Stannis reported that the blockade was absolute; Dragonstone was cut off. Several desperate attempts by Targaryen loyalists to run fishing boats out for supplies had been easily thwarted. More significantly, the message contained a coded addendum from Davos Seaworth.
Davos's agents, through a combination of bribery and exploiting dissent within the demoralized Dragonstone garrison, had made contact with a terrified young serving girl close to the royal apartments. Her information was explosive: Daenerys Targaryen was indeed present, along with her brother Viserys. And, hidden deep within the vaults of the ancient Targaryen fortress, were three large, stone-like objects, referred to in hushed whispers by the few remaining old Targaryen retainers as "dragon eggs," relics of a bygone age. The serving girl claimed Viserys often spoke to them, convinced they would hatch and bring him his kingdom.
Robar's mind, already processing the successful acquisition of the Reach, instantly shifted gears. Dragon eggs. Actual dragon eggs. The potential ROI on such an asset was almost beyond calculation. Dragons were the ultimate weapon, the ultimate symbol of power, the ultimate market disruptor. If they could be hatched, controlled…
His gaze became distant, focused on a future far grander than merely ruling Westeros.
"Lord Tywin," Robar said, his voice suddenly charged with a new intensity that made even the old Lion look up sharply. "Our work in the Reach is nearly complete. But a new… high-value acquisition opportunity has presented itself. Dragonstone."
He turned to one of his own trusted Stormblade commanders. "Signal Lord Stannis. He is to maintain the blockade but prepare a contingent of our most elite forces, including siege engineers. And send word to Maester Vaellyn in King's Landing. I may require his… specialized knowledge of heat and incubation sooner than anticipated."
Lady Olenna, overhearing this, paused at the doorway, her sharp eyes fixing on Robar. "Dragons, Lord Baratheon?" she asked, a strange note in her voice. "You intend to play with fire? Many a king has been burned by such ambitions."
Robar met her gaze, his own eyes glinting with a cold, predatory light. "Fire, Lady Olenna, is merely another resource to be managed. And I am a very, very good manager."
The shadow of dragons, long thought a relic of the past, had just fallen across his meticulously planned ledger for Westeros Inc. And Robar Baratheon, CEO of conquest, was already calculating its future stock price. The game was about to become infinitely more interesting.
Word Count: Approx. 3100 words