# The Red Keep - King's Chambers
The morning sun that painted King's Landing in shades of gold and promise held no mercy for Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. It spilled through windows whose shutters had been thrown wide by servants who understood that their monarch's hangovers required systematic assault by all available sources of discomfort, and it found him sprawled across silk sheets that cost more than most smallfolk earned in lifetimes, looking considerably less regal than the crown he'd abandoned somewhere between the throne room and whatever whorehouse had claimed his evening.
"Seven hells," he groaned, one massive arm thrown across eyes that felt like someone had replaced them with hot coals while he wasn't paying attention. "Close the bloody curtains before that demon sun burns holes through my skull. And someone bring wine—proper wine, not that piss the steward keeps trying to pass off as vintner's craft."
"Wine, Your Grace?" Jon Arryn's voice carried from the doorway with the sort of diplomatic neutrality that suggested he'd witnessed similar mornings often enough to have perfected his response to royal self-destruction. "I was under the impression that further alcohol might prove... counterproductive to your recovery."
"Counterproductive," Robert repeated with the sort of bitter humor that marked men who understood their own weaknesses with crystalline clarity while lacking the willpower to address them. "That's a very Hand of the King way of saying 'You drank yourself stupid again and now you're paying the price.' Just bring the bloody wine, Jon. Hair of the dog and all that cheerful nonsense."
Jon entered the chamber with measured steps, his weathered face showing no judgment despite seventeen years of watching Robert systematically destroy himself through excess that would have killed lesser men years ago. In his hands he carried not wine but a steaming pitcher of the herbal concoction that maesters swore could ease hangover symptoms, accompanied by bread that was still warm from the ovens and honey that gleamed like captured sunlight.
"Your Grace," he said with gentle firmness that had once corrected wayward boys in the Eyrie and now attempted to guide a king whose self-destructive tendencies grew more pronounced with each passing year, "I've brought something that will actually help rather than merely delaying your suffering until this evening when the cycle begins again."
Robert cracked one eye open—bloodshot and rimmed with the sort of red that spoke to quantities of alcohol that would impress hardened sailors—and regarded his oldest friend with expression that combined irritation, affection, and grudging respect for persistence that had kept him marginally functional through years that should have ended in complete dissolution.
"You're a terrible friend, Jon Arryn," he said without heat, accepting the offered cup with hands that trembled slightly. "A proper friend would bring wine and sympathy, not lectures about moderation and herbal remedies that taste like boiled sadness."
"A proper friend," Jon replied as he settled into the chair beside Robert's bed with movements that carried his seventy-two years like weights, "tries to ensure you survive long enough to see your children grown and your kingdom secure. Wine and sympathy serve neither objective, however much they might appeal to your immediate preferences."
Robert drank the maester's concoction with grimacing determination, each swallow apparently requiring heroic effort. When he finished, he set the cup aside and reached for bread with the sort of mechanical efficiency that suggested this routine had been performed often enough to become ritual.
"My children," he said with something that might have been bitterness or regret—with Robert it was often difficult to distinguish between the two. "Joffrey spends his days tormenting cats and servants with equal enthusiasm, Myrcella is sweet enough but soft as butter, and Tommen... Tommen I can barely remember exists half the time. Some legacy I'm leaving—a cruel boy, a timid girl, and a child so unremarkable I forget he's mine."
The observation landed in the chamber's warm air like stones in still water, and Jon felt his heart clench with knowledge that made such casual dismissal infinitely more tragic. Those children weren't Robert's legacy—they were Cersei's bastards, evidence of cuckoldry so brazen it defied belief. But sharing such information now, while Robert nursed a hangover and his judgment remained clouded by residual alcohol, would serve no purpose beyond triggering the sort of drunken rage that had marked his responses to previous attempts at discussing uncomfortable truths.
"Children surprise us," Jon said carefully, keeping his voice neutral despite the weight of secrets that threatened to choke him. "The boy you dismiss as unremarkable today might grow into someone worthy of your pride tomorrow, given proper guidance and example."
"Example," Robert laughed without humor. "What sort of example am I? A drunk who spends his nights whoring while his queen freezes him out of her bed and his kingdom rots from incompetence and corruption I'm too lazy to address properly."
"You're being rather hard on yourself this morning," Jon observed with the sort of gentle honesty that long friendship permitted. "Though I'll admit the assessment isn't entirely inaccurate."
"At least you're honest about it," Robert said with grudging appreciation as the herbal remedy began its work and the pounding in his skull reduced from catastrophic to merely agonizing. "Everyone else around here just tells me what they think I want to hear—'Yes, Your Grace,' 'Of course, Your Grace,' 'Your wisdom guides us all, Your Grace.' Makes me want to throttle them with their own tongues."
"Then I'll be honest with you about something else," Jon said, recognizing the opening for conversation that had brought him to Robert's chambers despite knowing this was possibly the worst possible time for delicate negotiations. "I think we need to take a journey north. Soon. Within the fortnight if arrangements can be made."
Robert's other eye opened, and despite the bloodshot appearance and obvious suffering, his gaze held the sort of sharp intelligence that reminded people why he'd won the throne through military conquest rather than political maneuvering. "North? What in seven hells would possess you to suggest such a thing when we're neck-deep in problems here that require attention?"
"Those problems will still be here when we return," Jon replied with diplomatic deflection of concerns that were entirely valid. "And some opportunities present themselves with timing that makes delay inadvisable. Ned has written to me about matters that require personal consultation—matters too sensitive for ravens and too significant to ignore simply because addressing them requires inconvenient travel."
"Ned," Robert's expression softened immediately, as it always did when his foster brother's name entered conversation. "How is he? Still freezing his stones off in that drafty pile of rocks he calls a castle? Still married to that Tully woman who never quite forgave me for not appreciating her sister's beauty strongly enough?"
"Lord Stark is well, from what I gather," Jon confirmed, carefully sidestepping the complex dynamics of Robert's relationship with House Tully and the ghost of Lyanna that haunted every discussion of northern politics. "Though he's mentioned some matters that would benefit from your direct attention—opportunities for strengthening ties between Crown and North that have been somewhat neglected during your reign."
Robert snorted, reaching for more bread with movements that suggested his appetite was returning as the worst of his hangover receded. "Neglected is a diplomatic way of saying I've ignored them entirely while focusing on more entertaining pursuits. What sort of opportunities? Because if he wants me to tour the Wall and pretend interest in watching crows freeze their arses off in service to dead threats, he can forget it right now."
"Nothing so tedious," Jon assured him with the sort of careful honesty that excluded essential details while remaining technically truthful. "Though I'll admit the matter involves some unusual circumstances that would benefit from your personal observation rather than relying on secondhand reports that might not capture the full significance."
"Unusual circumstances," Robert repeated with growing suspicion that his Hand was being deliberately vague about something important. "You're dancing around the point, Jon. Just tell me straight—what's so bloody important that it requires dragging me away from comfortable excess and into northern cold that makes even summer feel like winter?"
Jon took a deep breath, recognizing that the moment had come for careful revelation that would pique Robert's interest without triggering the sort of emotional response that premature disclosure might create. "A stranger has arrived at Winterfell. Under... remarkable circumstances. Bearing striking physical characteristics and demonstrating capabilities that Ned believes warrant your personal attention."
"A stranger?" Robert's eyebrows rose with the sort of interest that suggested his curiosity had been genuinely engaged despite his hangover. "What sort of stranger merits pulling a king away from his throne for personal inspection? Unless Ned's found some northern beauty he thinks might tempt me away from my current dissatisfactions?"
"Not a woman," Jon said carefully, watching Robert's expression for signs of the deeper recognition that would come once implications began penetrating alcohol-fogged comprehension. "A young man. Perhaps eighteen years of age, black of hair and green of eyes. Appeared suddenly in the Wolfswood under circumstances that witnesses describe as... impossible according to conventional understanding."
The description hung in the chamber's warm air like smoke from incense, and Jon watched carefully as Robert's expression shifted from casual interest to something approaching recognition—though whether he was truly making the connection or simply responding to description that triggered half-remembered grief remained unclear.
"Black hair," Robert said slowly, his voice losing the casual dismissiveness that had marked earlier conversation. "Green eyes. Eighteen years of age. You're describing..."
He stopped, unwilling or unable to complete the thought that was clearly taking shape behind bloodshot eyes and lingering pain.
"I'm describing what Ned observed," Jon confirmed with careful neutrality that neither confirmed nor denied the implications Robert was beginning to process. "He thought you should see the boy yourself before conclusions are drawn. Verify whether the resemblance is as striking as he claims, assess whether the timing and circumstances merit further investigation."
"Further investigation into what?" Robert's voice had gone very quiet, the sort of dangerous quiet that preceded either violence or grief depending on circumstances and available targets. "Into whether some northern bastard bears passing resemblance to features that are common enough among people with Baratheon blood? Or into something else entirely?"
"Into possibilities that should not be dismissed without proper examination," Jon replied with the sort of diplomatic precision that acknowledged unspoken questions while refusing to provide answers that weren't his to give. "You know as well as I do that some mysteries warrant personal attention rather than relying on intermediaries, however trustworthy."
Robert set aside his bread with movements that had lost their earlier mechanical efficiency, his massive hands clenching and unclenching as though seeking something to grip or destroy depending on where his thoughts led him. "Seventeen years," he said quietly. "It's been seventeen years since... since that night. Since the light and the impossible vanishing and all the maesters' useless theories about natural phenomena that couldn't possibly account for what witnesses described."
"Seventeen years," Jon agreed, recognizing that Robert had made the connection he'd been hoping for while simultaneously dreading the emotional response such recognition might trigger.
"And now some stranger appears in similar light, bearing features that might—*might*—suggest connection to mysteries we all agreed were best left buried because dwelling on them served no purpose beyond making old grief fresh again." Robert's voice carried complex layers of emotion that were difficult to parse—hope warring with fear, desperate longing wrestling with protective skepticism.
"Ned believes the matter warrants investigation," Jon repeated with gentle insistence that refused to let Robert retreat into comfortable denial. "He's asking for your presence, your perspective, your judgment about whether what he's observed represents something significant or merely coincidental resemblance that carries no deeper meaning."
"My judgment," Robert laughed without humor. "My judgment's been shit for years, Jon. You know it, I know it, half the bloody realm knows it. What makes you think I'm qualified to assess anything more complex than which wine pairs best with which whore?"
"Because," Jon said with quiet intensity that demanded attention despite hangover and emotional resistance, "some matters transcend politics or competence at governance. Some matters require a father's eye rather than a king's authority. And if there's even the slightest possibility that this stranger represents what we both suspect he might, then you owe it to yourself—and to him—to determine the truth rather than allowing fear of disappointment to prevent investigation."
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by distant sounds of King's Landing waking to another day of commerce and intrigue that continued regardless of royal hangovers or cosmic impossibilities being discussed in private chambers.
"A hunting trip," Robert said finally, his voice carrying resigned acceptance of necessity that outweighed personal preference for comfortable avoidance. "We'll frame it as a hunting trip—old friends gathering to chase game through northern forests while reminiscing about better days when life was simpler and choices seemed clearer."
"A hunting trip," Jon agreed with satisfaction that they'd reached consensus without requiring the sort of dramatic revelations he'd been prepared to deploy if gentler approaches failed. "Perfect cover for investigations that require discretion while providing reasonable explanation for why the king has decided to abandon King's Landing for a fortnight despite pressing matters that his small council keeps insisting require immediate attention."
"The small council can manage without me," Robert said with the sort of dismissive confidence that came from years of watching them handle governance competently while he focused on more entertaining pursuits. "Probably manage better, honestly—they won't have to waste time explaining things three times while I pretend to understand implications I stopped caring about years ago."
He rose from the bed with movements that suggested the maester's remedy was working its magic, massive frame unfolding with the sort of physical power that had once made him the realm's most fearsome warrior and now served primarily to intimidate servants who moved too slowly with his breakfast. "When do we leave?"
"A fortnight," Jon replied, already mentally cataloguing the arrangements that would need to be made—convincing Cersei that her husband's absence served her interests, organizing security that was sufficient without being so extensive it suggested unusual significance, ensuring the journey's true purpose remained concealed from eyes and ears that might use such information for purposes that served neither realm nor truth. "That gives us time to make proper arrangements, organize appropriate retinue, and ensure your absence doesn't create the sort of power vacuum that your enemies might exploit."
"My enemies," Robert snorted as he began the complicated process of making himself presentable for the day's obligations. "Half the court plots against me, the other half plots against each other while using me as convenient excuse, and everyone pretends loyalty while positioning themselves advantageously for whatever succession crisis they assume is coming. Sometimes I think the only honest people in this bloody keep are the servants who steal from the kitchens—at least they're straightforward about their dishonesty."
"Then consider this journey an opportunity to escape such complications temporarily," Jon suggested with the sort of gentle encouragement that had once convinced rebellious boys to attend lessons they'd rather skip. "Northern air, old friends, hunting in forests that don't require you to maintain constant vigilance against political maneuvering. A chance to remember what life felt like before crowns and councils complicated everything."
"And possibly," Robert said quietly, his back turned as he faced windows that overlooked a kingdom he'd won through violence and now struggled to manage through governance he'd never properly learned, "a chance to discover whether some losses aren't as permanent as grief has convinced us they must be."
"Possibly," Jon agreed, allowing himself the luxury of hope that circumstances might prove more miraculous than tragic despite every lesson experience had taught about the universe's preference for irony over justice.
As Robert continued preparing for the day ahead—trading silk sheets for clothing appropriate to royal dignity, gradually transitioning from hungover wreck to functional monarch through practiced ritual—Jon felt the weight of secrets he carried settling more heavily across shoulders that had borne such burdens for too many years.
The investigation into Cersei's children. The evidence of bastardy that would destroy succession. The stranger who might represent salvation or merely elaborate deception. All of it converging toward northern confrontation that would either restore legitimate succession or trigger the sort of catastrophic civil war that would make Robert's Rebellion look like border skirmish.
*But first,* he thought as he took his leave with appropriate courtesies, *we need to determine whether we're dealing with miracle or manipulation. Whether this Hadrian Potter is truly Robert's lost son or merely someone whose timing and appearance suggest either cosmic intervention or human conspiracy of unprecedented sophistication.*
The journey north would provide answers, one way or another.
And whatever those answers proved to be, they would reshape the Seven Kingdoms' entire political landscape in ways that none of the current players could yet imagine.
Some truths, after all, really were worth traveling through winter for.
—
# Highgarden - The Rose's Return
The pre-dawn darkness that shrouded Highgarden carried none of winter's bite—the Reach remained temperate even as autumn deepened across the Seven Kingdoms—but the chill in the air had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the sort of cold dread that settled over great houses when their most valuable political assets vanished without explanation.
Hermione materialized in the gardens with the soft *crack* of displaced air that marked perfectly executed Apparition, her boots touching dew-wet grass beside the mews where Margaery's hawks slept in their hooded silence. The journey from Wintertown had taken mere moments—one carefully aimed jump after another, each calibrated against magical signatures that marked familiar territory—but she'd timed her arrival with characteristic precision.
*Just before dawn,* she calculated as she surveyed the darkened castle whose windows were beginning to show lamplight in patterns that suggested considerable activity for such an early hour. *Early enough that discovering me returning from the mews won't seem suspicious, late enough that my absence has definitely been noticed and is probably causing exactly the sort of alarm I need to manage before it escalates into full-scale crisis.*
The borrowed memories of Margaery Tyrell provided intimate knowledge of Highgarden's layout, its rhythms, the patterns of guard rotation and servant movement that marked each hour's passage. More importantly, they provided the perfect alibi—a concern so characteristically Margaery that no one who knew her would question its authenticity.
*Sunwing,* she thought, allowing genuine affection to color her mental voice as she moved toward the mews with the sort of purposeful stride that suggested someone who had woken early to check on a beloved companion. *My golden hawk who took that unfortunate tumble during yesterday's hunt and landed badly enough to make me worry through the entire evening's feast.*
The hawk in question occupied the finest perch in the mews—because of course Margaery's favorite would be housed with all the privilege that befitted the heir of Highgarden's personal hunting bird. Sunwing was indeed magnificent: golden-brown plumage that seemed to capture and hold light even in darkness, fierce amber eyes that marked her as descended from the finest breeding lines, and a temperament that somehow managed to be both regal and affectionate in ways that made her the perfect companion for someone whose own nature combined those exact qualities.
"Hello, beautiful," Hermione murmured as she approached the perch, her voice carrying Margaery's musical cadence and genuine warmth. "How's that wing this morning? Still tender, or has the maester's salve worked its magic?"
The hawk mantled slightly at her approach—wings spreading in greeting rather than threat—and made the soft chirping sounds that marked contentment rather than distress. Hermione's hands moved with practiced confidence as she examined the injured wing, checking range of motion and feeling for heat that might indicate infection, her movements carrying seventeen years of accumulated muscle memory that belonged to someone who'd been working with hawks since childhood.
*The wing is healing well,* she observed with satisfaction that was entirely genuine despite the manufactured nature of her concern. *Whatever salve the maester applied has reduced swelling considerably, and there's no sign of infection that would require additional treatment. She'll be flying again within the week, assuming proper rest and continued care.*
"Well, well," came a voice from the mews' entrance that carried enough dry amusement to fill several wine casks, "I suppose this answers one mystery about where our missing rose has been hiding while half the household prepares to declare war on whatever enemy managed to spirit her away from locked chambers."
Hermione turned to find Garlan Tyrell—second son of Highgarden, widely considered the finest swordsman in the Reach, and blessed with the sort of good humor that made him universally beloved despite being overshadowed politically by his elder brother—leaning against the doorframe with expression that combined relief, amusement, and the particular exasperation that marked siblings who'd spent lifetimes managing each other's various dramatic tendencies.
"Garlan," she said with a smile that was pure Margaery—warm, unrepentant, and carrying just enough mischief to suggest she knew exactly what chaos her absence had caused and found it somewhat entertaining despite any inconvenience. "I trust I haven't caused too much alarm? I did try to be quiet when I slipped out, but you know how Mother worries, and Grandmother has that unfortunate tendency to assume the worst possible scenarios whenever circumstances don't conform to her careful scheduling."
"Too much alarm?" Garlan's laugh was warm despite the hour and the circumstances that had brought him to the mews before dawn. "Sister dear, the household has been in absolute chaos since your septa discovered your empty chambers an hour past midnight. Mother nearly swooned—actually swooned, which you know she never does unless the situation is genuinely dire. Father has been pacing the solar like a caged bear and muttering about deploying the household guard for systematic search operations. And Grandmother..."
He paused, his expression suggesting that describing Olenna Tyrell's response required diplomatic language that hadn't yet been invented.
"Grandmother has been terrifying everyone within earshot with increasingly creative threats about what she'll do to whoever's responsible for your disappearance," he finished with obvious respect for their matriarch's capacity for intimidation. "I believe she's currently working through a detailed plan involving systematic dismemberment of theoretical kidnappers, followed by feeding their remains to the pigs while their families watch. Very thorough. Very Grandmother."
"Oh dear," Hermione said with genuine contrition that wasn't entirely feigned—she hadn't intended to cause quite that level of alarm, though in retrospect it should have been entirely predictable given Margaery's political value and the family's justified paranoia about threats to their carefully laid plans. "I really should have left a note. I simply woke early and couldn't stop worrying about Sunwing's wing, and you know how I am when I'm concerned about the hawks—rationality rather abandons me in favor of immediate action regardless of hour or convenience."
"A note would have been helpful," Garlan agreed with the sort of gentle chiding that suggested he was already preparing to defend her actions to family members whose responses might be less understanding. "Though I'll admit the explanation is characteristically you—abandoning all sense of proportion or personal safety because one of your birds is suffering minor injury that any competent falconer could have addressed during normal daylight hours."
He moved into the mews properly, his own hands reaching toward Sunwing with the practiced confidence of someone who'd grown up around hawks and understood their moods. "How is she, really? Mother mentioned the injury during yesterday's feast, but you seemed confident the maester's treatment would address any complications."
"Healing well," Hermione confirmed with satisfaction that came from both Margaery's genuine affection for her hawks and relief that her cover story was being accepted without excessive skepticism. "The swelling has reduced considerably, there's no sign of infection, and she should be flying again within the week assuming proper rest and continued monitoring."
"Then you can tell Mother that yourself when we return to face whatever reception they've prepared for the prodigal daughter who disappeared in the night without explanation or escort." Garlan's tone was light, but his eyes held the sort of concern that marked older brothers who'd spent years managing younger sisters whose combination of intelligence and impulsiveness regularly generated exactly these sorts of crises. "Fair warning: you'll probably need to deploy every diplomatic skill you possess to convince Grandmother that your nocturnal excursion was motivated by concern for an injured hawk rather than some more complicated intrigue she hasn't been informed about."
*More complicated intrigue,* Hermione thought with internal amusement at the spectacular understatement. *Yes, I suppose 'visiting my supposedly dead former love interest who's been reborn in another dimension and is currently planning to reshape the Seven Kingdoms through systematic application of superior resources and revolutionary ideals' might qualify as complicated intrigue that Grandmother hasn't been properly briefed about.*
"I'll manage," she said with Margaery's characteristic confidence in her ability to navigate even the most treacherous family dynamics. "Grandmother appreciates honesty when it's delivered with appropriate respect for her intelligence. I'll simply explain that my concern for Sunwing overrode my judgment about proper protocols for nighttime excursions, acknowledge that I should have left notification, and accept whatever lecture she deems necessary about the importance of not terrifying one's family through thoughtless actions."
"And the fact that you somehow managed to exit locked chambers without triggering any of the security measures Father has spent years implementing?" Garlan's tone remained light, but his expression suggested he'd noticed details that simple hawk-related concern couldn't entirely explain.
"The lock on my balcony door has been sticking for weeks," Hermione replied with the sort of casual honesty that acknowledged minor security failures without suggesting anything more sinister than simple maintenance oversight. "I've mentioned it to the steward twice, but you know how these things get lost in the endless list of repairs that Highgarden requires. It's hardly surprising that a determined woman with sufficient motivation could work the mechanism open through patient manipulation."
The explanation was technically accurate—Margaery's memories confirmed that the balcony lock had indeed been problematic—while conveniently omitting the fact that Hermione had used wandless Alohomora to bypass security that no amount of mechanical manipulation would have defeated.
*Some truths,* she reflected with the sort of pragmatic acceptance that eighteen years as Margaery Tyrell had reinforced, *are best delivered in forms that serve immediate needs while preserving strategic flexibility for future revelations that circumstances might eventually require.*
They made their way back toward the castle proper through gardens that were beginning to show the first hints of dawn—roses that seemed to glow in the strengthening light, fountains whose music provided peaceful counterpoint to the chaos that awaited inside, ancient trees that had witnessed generations of Tyrells navigating crises both genuine and manufactured.
"One thing I don't understand," Garlan said as they approached the solar where lamplight suggested the family had gathered to coordinate response to Margaery's disappearance, "is how you managed to walk through the gardens without being challenged by any of the night watch. Father doubled the guard rotation after those reports about bandits operating in the Reach, and they're supposed to question anyone moving through the grounds after sunset."
"Perhaps they assumed anyone moving with such obvious purpose toward the mews must be authorized," Hermione suggested with the sort of reasonable speculation that deflected deeper investigation. "Or perhaps they simply didn't notice someone who wasn't attempting to hide her movements. Guards watch for threats and suspicious behavior, not family members checking on injured hawks."
*Or perhaps,* she added mentally, *Notice-Me-Not charms are remarkably effective at encouraging eyes to slide past without conscious registration, especially when the target isn't doing anything that would trigger active threat assessment.*
Before Garlan could pursue that line of inquiry further, the solar's heavy oak door swung open to reveal a tableau that would have been comical if the situation weren't so serious: Mace Tyrell pacing before the great windows like a general planning campaign strategy, Alerie Tyrell seated with perfect posture despite obvious distress, Willas Tyrell bent over maps and correspondence in the sort of focused analysis that marked his approach to every crisis, and Olenna Tyrell—the Queen of Thorns herself—occupying the room's central chair with the sort of absolute authority that made everyone else seem like supporting players in her personal production.
"Ah," Olenna said with deceptive mildness that anyone who knew her recognized as prelude to devastating commentary, "our missing rose returns, apparently unharmed and carrying no signs of the dramatic kidnapping, forced marriage, or political assassination that my imagination has been entertaining for the past several hours. How very anticlimactic."
"Mother," Alerie breathed with obvious relief that overwhelmed whatever lecture she'd been preparing about proper protocols and familial consideration, rising from her chair with movements that spoke to barely controlled emotion. "Thank the Seven. We've been so worried—your chambers empty, no note, no indication where you'd gone or whether you'd been taken against your will..."
"Margaery!" Mace's voice boomed with the sort of paternal concern that suggested he'd been genuinely frightened despite his usual bluster. "Where have you been? Do you have any idea what panic your absence has caused? I was preparing to mobilize the entire household guard for systematic search operations across the entire Reach!"
"I'm so sorry," Hermione said with genuine contrition as she moved into the solar, her posture and expression carrying Margaery's particular blend of remorse and affection that had always served to defuse family tensions. "I woke before dawn worrying about Sunwing's wing—you remember, she took that fall during yesterday's hunt—and I simply couldn't bear to wait until proper morning hours to check on her condition. I know it was thoughtless not to leave word, but my concern rather overrode my judgment about proper protocols."
"Your concern for a bird," Olenna repeated with the sort of flat precision that suggested she was cataloguing this explanation for future reference while remaining skeptical about whether it represented complete truth. "Overrode seventeen years of instruction about security protocols, family consideration, and the basic courtesy of informing household members when one plans nocturnal excursions that might be mistaken for abduction?"
"When you phrase it that way, Grandmother, it does sound rather foolish," Hermione acknowledged with Margaery's characteristic ability to admit fault while somehow making such admission seem charming rather than genuinely reprehensible. "But you know how I am about the hawks—they're not merely birds to me, they're companions whose welfare matters as much as any human's. The thought of Sunwing suffering through the night while I slept in comfort simply became unbearable."
"How is Sunwing?" Willas asked from his position near the correspondence table, his voice carrying the sort of genuine interest that marked someone who understood both his sister's passion for falconry and the legitimate concern that could drive someone to check on injured companions regardless of hour. "I examined her yesterday after the accident, and the wing seemed badly bruised though not broken. Did the maester's treatment prove effective?"
"Healing beautifully," Hermione confirmed with obvious relief at finding family member whose response focused on practical concerns rather than lectures about proper behavior. "The swelling has reduced considerably, there's no sign of infection, and she should be flying again within the week."
"Well then," Olenna said with the sort of decisive finality that marked someone who'd assessed the situation and reached conclusions that would determine how the family responded going forward, "it seems we can dispense with mobilizing search parties, canceling today's appointments, or sending ravens to every allied house asking whether they've noticed suspicious strangers attempting to ransom the heir of Highgarden. How very convenient that our crisis has resolved itself through simple explanation rather than requiring the sort of dramatic rescue operations that I'd been planning with such enthusiasm."
Her tone suggested that while she accepted Margaery's explanation as technically accurate, she remained suspicious about whether it represented complete truth—a suspicion that Hermione recognized as entirely justified while hoping it wouldn't lead to investigations that might uncover details better left unrevealed for now.
"I really am sorry for the alarm," Hermione repeated with genuine contrition that came from understanding exactly how much chaos her absence had generated. "I should have been more thoughtful about how my actions would affect the household. It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't," Mace said with the sort of paternal authority that attempted gravitas while being somewhat undermined by obvious relief that his daughter was safe. "You're the heir to Highgarden, Margaery. Your safety matters not just to this family but to all the political arrangements we've spent years carefully constructing. Disappearing without explanation creates exactly the sort of vulnerability that enemies might exploit."
"Your father is correct," Alerie added with gentle firmness that suggested maternal concern trumping any residual anger about protocol violations. "Though I'm grateful you're safe, and I understand your concern for Sunwing. Perhaps in future, you might wake your handmaid when such urgent concerns arise? Desmera would gladly accompany you to the mews regardless of hour, and her presence would prevent exactly this sort of alarm."
"That's actually an excellent suggestion, Mother," Hermione agreed with appreciation for practical solutions that would provide cover for future activities while maintaining appearance of proper security consciousness. "I'll speak with Desmera about being available for such emergencies."
"Now that we've established our rose hasn't been kidnapped, murdered, or married off to some ambitious lordling without our knowledge," Olenna said with the sort of brisk efficiency that marked someone ready to move past immediate crisis toward more interesting complications, "perhaps we might discuss some matters that actually require family consultation rather than merely generating dramatic panic at unreasonable hours."
She fixed Hermione with a look that suggested she saw considerably more than anyone else in the room and was choosing to accept surface explanations while remaining alert for deeper truths that circumstances might eventually reveal. "Sit down, child. And try to appear attentive rather than exhausted—whatever nocturnal adventures you've been enjoying have left you looking rather more worn than simple hawk-checking would account for."
*Perceptive as ever,* Hermione thought with mixture of respect and concern as she took the offered seat. *Grandmother knows something isn't quite right about my explanation, even if she can't identify specific inconsistencies. I'll need to be very careful about how I manage information going forward, because she'll be watching for exactly the sort of subtle behavioral changes that might indicate involvement in activities more complex than familial devotion to injured birds.*
"Actually," Willas interjected with the sort of perfect timing that suggested he'd been waiting for appropriate moment to redirect conversation toward matters that served multiple family objectives, "there is something rather interesting that arrived by raven yesterday while Margaery was occupied with her hawks. An invitation that might prove politically advantageous if handled with appropriate care."
He produced a letter bearing the direwolf seal of House Stark, his expression suggesting genuine interest in opportunities that such correspondence might represent. "Lord Eddard Stark writes to Father expressing interest in strengthening ties between House Tyrell and the North. He mentions potential for mutually beneficial arrangements regarding trade, resource development, and political cooperation that have been somewhat neglected during recent years."
"The North?" Mace's tone carried the sort of skeptical interest that marked someone who couldn't quite decide whether such overtures represented genuine opportunity or elaborate trap. "What would the Starks want with Highgarden? They're barely able to feed themselves through those terrible winters they endure—what could they possibly offer in exchange for cooperation that would benefit the Reach?"
"Resources," Willas replied with the sort of systematic analysis that had made him invaluable despite physical limitations that prevented him from participating in more active pursuits. "The North controls vast territories rich in timber, minerals, and other materials that the Reach requires for continued prosperity. More importantly, Lord Stark mentions infrastructure development projects that could transform northern capabilities while creating opportunities for houses willing to provide expertise and initial investment."
"Infrastructure development," Olenna repeated with the sort of sharp interest that suggested her political instincts had immediately recognized potential that others might miss. "That's unusually specific language for what's typically vague diplomatic correspondence. Did Lord Stark provide details about what sort of projects he's considering?"
"Canal construction connecting eastern and western waters," Willas read from the letter with obvious appreciation for engineering ambition on display. "Complete restoration of Moat Cailin's defensive capabilities. Maritime forces sufficient to challenge Ironborn dominance of western approaches. Resource development throughout the Gift that could fund such projects while strengthening the Night's Watch."
He looked up from the correspondence with expression that suggested he'd recognized something significant. "This isn't random speculation about possible improvements. This is comprehensive strategic planning that requires exactly the sort of expertise and resources that the Reach could provide in exchange for advantageous positioning in whatever northern development results from such investments."
"It's also," Olenna observed with characteristic shrewdness, "the sort of systematic thinking that doesn't typically emerge from northern lords whose approach to complex problems usually involves hitting them with swords until they stop being problems. Someone with considerable sophistication is advising Eddard Stark, and that someone understands both engineering principles and political leverage with remarkable precision."
*Someone like Harry,* Hermione thought with internal satisfaction at how perfectly circumstances were aligning to provide legitimate cover for exactly the sort of northern involvement she'd been hoping to arrange. *Someone who understands that systematic change requires resources and expertise from multiple sources, and that presenting such opportunities through proper diplomatic channels creates considerably better outcomes than attempting to accomplish everything through individual effort.*
"The letter suggests," Willas continued with obvious enthusiasm for projects that aligned with his own interests in systematic improvement and long-term strategic thinking, "that Lord Stark would welcome delegation from interested houses to assess opportunities personally and discuss potential arrangements for mutual benefit. He specifically mentions that such delegation would receive appropriate hospitality and security guarantees during their visit."
"A delegation to the North," Mace mused with the sort of cautious interest that suggested he was beginning to see possibilities despite initial skepticism. "During autumn, when winter approaches and travel becomes increasingly difficult. That's asking considerable commitment for opportunities that remain largely theoretical until verified through direct observation."
"Which is precisely why going now rather than waiting for spring demonstrates serious interest that the Starks will remember when allocating advantages to early supporters," Olenna replied with the sort of pragmatic calculation that had made her the most formidable political mind in the Reach. "If these infrastructure projects prove as significant as the letter suggests, houses that positioned themselves advantageously during planning stages will reap considerably greater benefits than those who wait until success is obvious and competition for favorable arrangements becomes fierce."
"You're suggesting we send delegation immediately?" Alerie asked with obvious concern about timing and the practical challenges that northern travel would entail. "Who would we send? Father is too valuable to risk on uncertain ventures, Garlan and Loras are needed here for security and representation..."
"Willas," Olenna said decisively, her tone brooking no argument about arrangements she'd clearly already determined. "He has expertise in exactly the sort of systematic development that northern projects would require, his limitations make him less obviously threatening than sending warriors, and his presence would demonstrate serious family commitment to exploring opportunities rather than merely conducting cursory investigation."
"And Margaery," she added with expression that suggested she'd recognized opportunities beyond simple infrastructure assessment. "Our rose needs to develop broader perspective than the Reach provides, and northern exposure would serve her education admirably while simultaneously positioning her for observations that might prove valuable for future family planning."
*Perfect,* Hermione thought with barely contained satisfaction at how beautifully Olenna's political instincts were aligning with exactly what she needed. *Not only legitimate excuse to travel north toward Harry, but family expectation that such travel serves their interests rather than merely my personal objectives. Grandmother has just handed me precisely the opportunity I was hoping to engineer, apparently because her own strategic calculations suggest it serves Tyrell advancement.*
"You want to send me north?" she asked with Margaery's characteristic blend of surprise and pleasure at unexpected opportunities. "For how long? What exactly would my role be in such delegation?"
"Your role," Olenna replied with the sort of precise instruction that suggested she'd already worked through every detail of what such mission would entail, "would be to observe, to learn, to make connections that might prove valuable for future arrangements. The North has been politically isolated for too long, and houses that position themselves as friends during their development phase will find such friendship remembered when they possess resources worth cultivating."
"More practically," she continued with the sort of pragmatic honesty that marked all her political instruction, "you'll assess whether these infrastructure projects represent genuine opportunities or elaborate schemes designed to separate foolish southerners from their gold. You'll evaluate the people proposing such projects—their competence, their trustworthiness, their actual capabilities versus their stated ambitions. And you'll determine whether House Tyrell's involvement would enhance our position or merely waste resources that could be better deployed elsewhere."
"That's quite a comprehensive mandate," Hermione observed with appreciation for how thoroughly Olenna had outlined exactly the sort of investigation that would provide perfect cover for considerably more personal objectives.
"You're quite a comprehensive young woman," Olenna replied with one of her rare genuine smiles that suggested affection beneath political calculation. "I've spent seventeen years preparing you for exactly this sort of assessment—evaluating opportunities that could reshape political landscapes, reading people whose capabilities might not be immediately obvious, positioning yourself advantageously regardless of whether circumstances prove favorable or challenging."
"When would we depart?" Willas asked with obvious eagerness to begin preparations for journey that aligned with his own interests in systematic development and engineering innovation.
"Within the fortnight," Olenna decided with characteristic efficiency. "That gives adequate time for proper preparations while demonstrating responsiveness that the Starks will appreciate. You'll travel with appropriate retinue—sufficient to demonstrate family status without appearing militaristic, large enough to ensure security without suggesting invasion."
"And you'll write to Lord Stark accepting his invitation while expressing our sincere interest in opportunities for mutually beneficial cooperation," she directed toward Mace, her tone making clear this was instruction rather than suggestion. "Be appropriately formal without being cold, interested without appearing desperate, confident without suggesting arrogance. The usual diplomatic balance that separates successful negotiations from spectacular failures."
As the family discussion continued—working through logistical details, debating appropriate gifts that would impress without seeming like attempts at bribery, considering political implications of northern involvement—Hermione felt pieces of complicated puzzle sliding into place with the sort of satisfying precision that marked careful planning meeting fortunate circumstance.
*Two weeks,* she calculated with growing anticipation barely contained beneath Margaery's perfect political composure. *Two weeks until legitimate travel toward Harry under family auspices that serve their interests while enabling exactly the sort of reunion I've been hoping to arrange. Two weeks to prepare appropriate explanations for whatever he might have learned about my identity, to coordinate with Susan about managing romantic complications involving multiple parties, to ensure arrival creates opportunities rather than merely generating additional chaos.*
"I'll make the family proud," she promised with genuine commitment to ensuring that whatever personal objectives her journey served, it would also deliver benefits that justified Olenna's faith in her capabilities. "The North will remember House Tyrell as friends who supported their development when others dismissed their potential, and we'll position ourselves advantageously for whatever transformations result from the changes they're implementing."
"See that you do," Olenna said with satisfied authority of someone whose plans were unfolding according to careful design. "And Margaery? Try to avoid any additional nocturnal excursions that generate household panic before your departure. I'd prefer not to spend your remaining time here managing crises born from impulsive concern for injured birds."
"Yes, Grandmother," Hermione agreed with appropriate contrition. "No more midnight hawk-checking without proper notification and escort."
*Though possibly some midnight correspondence with Harry,* she added mentally, *letting him know that circumstances have aligned to provide exactly the sort of formal diplomatic cover we need for managing reunions that serve both personal and strategic objectives.*
*Some stories really do unfold according to plans that serve everyone's interests simultaneously,* she reflected as family discussion continued around her. *Even the impossible ones involving dimensional travel, romantic complications, and systematic transformation of political landscapes through careful application of superior resources and revolutionary ideals.*
The game was changing, pieces moving into position for confrontations that would reshape the Seven Kingdoms in ways that none of the players could yet fully comprehend.
But for now, there was family, there was mission, and there was the quiet satisfaction of having navigated crisis through combination of truth, tactical omission, and perfect timing that had provided exactly what she needed while serving interests considerably larger than mere personal reunion.
Some reunions, after all, really were worth careful planning.
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