The vote passed unanimously. The meeting adjourned.
Lord Mace Tyrell had no choice but to accept it in silence. Inside, he seethed, blaming Matthos Rowan for secretly courting the crown and snatching the Warden of the Rose Road post. Betraying your own liege lord for a title?
Word spread fast and hit Highgarden like a hammer.
Lady Olenna was sipping tea when the raven arrived. She closed her eyes, fighting a wave of dizziness, then stood without a word. She ordered her carriage readied and left King's Landing that same day with her daughter, daughter-in-law, and grandson. Highgarden's roses had no business growing in a shit-heap like the capital.
Olenna Tyrell had finally snapped. She left her own son behind and fled as fast as the horses could carry her.
Varys brought the news to Daeron within the hour.
Daeron waved it off. The Tyrells had always been too clever for their own good, never knowing their place. Now they'd paid for it. Let the old woman run home and lock her gates. She could keep her current standing if she stayed quiet.
Tywin, by contrast, was perfectly content. He kept his seat as Hand and his grip on the Small Council, cooperating with every royal move that didn't threaten the Westerlands or House Lannister directly. In just a few years the Lannisters stood alone at the top—only the Martells could still pretend to rival them. And that was only because the other great houses kept tripping over their own feet.
Olenna's carriage rattled south. Two days later they passed Bitterbridge.
Even from a distance they could see the corpses hanging from the battlements—every member of House Caswell, swaying in the wind.
Janna gasped.
Olenna clamped a hand over her daughter's mouth. "Don't scream, my dear. They're only bodies now."
Janna shrank against her mother, trembling. Alerie Hightower, Mace's wife, held little Margaery tighter and stared at one of the female corpses twisting slowly on its rope.
"Mother, did you know her?" Willas asked quietly.
"Lady Caswell. We dined together now and then." Alerie's voice was flat.
Willas fell silent. On paper the destruction of House Caswell had been shocking but distant. Seeing the reality—rotting corpses, the stench, the casual horror—made everything suddenly simple.
Power is violence. All of Olenna's clever bargaining suddenly looked like the useless posturing it was. The Iron Throne was a mountain that could crush them without even noticing.
"Sleep, Willas. You're tired," Olenna said, her own voice subdued. She was reflecting, and she didn't like what she saw.
The carriage rolled on.
Two days later they met a convoy coming the other way—Randyll Tarly's riders escorting a cage wagon. Inside, stripped of his fine clothes and chained like an animal, sat Lord Titus Peake of Starpike. The once-proud lord looked twenty years older, huddled in filth.
Olenna lifted the curtain, took one look, and let it fall again. The carriage continued south without stopping.
At Starpike itself the walls were already half-ruined. Randyll Tarly's catapults had been pounding the ancient fortress for days. The five-pointed star walls that had once seemed impregnable now looked like broken teeth.
Inside the Red Keep, Daeron sat in the council chamber turning a small red pouch in his hands.
Rare Seed: Plant in autumn. One season to mature.
Today was the Desert Festival. The traveling merchant's cart had appeared in the oasis shop and offered this single seed for fifteen hundred gold dragons. The pouch alone was probably worth a hundred.
"Once it grows I'll have a Gemstone Sweetberry," Daeron murmured, smiling. "Worth every coin."
A knock. Ser Arthur Dayne's deep voice came through the door. "Prince, Lords Rowan and Hightower request an audience. Lord Tywin also reminds you that Lord Peake has arrived. It's time to pass sentence on the three rebel lords."
Daeron tucked the pouch away. "Understood."
He would see Matthos Rowan first—alone.
The man had hidden in Goldengrove the entire time the conspiracy brewed. Only a direct royal summons had dragged him out. Daeron intended to make the new Warden sweat a little before confirming the appointment.
In the courtyard below, Lord Peake was dragged from the cage like a sack of grain. Two Kingsguard seized him by the arms and hauled him toward the throne room while nobles stopped to stare.
"I—I demand to see the king!" Peake croaked.
Ser Jon Darry gave him a look usually reserved for dead men.
Petyr Baelish appeared, smiling thinly. "I'll take him from here, Ser. Prince Daeron will be along shortly."
Inside the throne room, Fossoway and Merryweather already knelt on the cold stone. Fossoway was bloodied but still breathing hard. Merryweather was a ruin—one eye gone, fingers missing, jaw shattered, one leg twisted at an unnatural angle. Tywin had clearly enjoyed himself.
Daeron glanced at the Hand. Tywin rose without meeting his eyes and descended the steps. "Both lords have confessed. You may pass judgment."
Daeron didn't waste words. "Take them down. Offer them the black before the axe falls."
"I'll take the Wall!" Fossoway gasped at once.
Merryweather could no longer speak. Whether from missing tongue or shattered teeth, only wet gurgles came out. The guards dragged them away. Whether either survived the journey north was no longer Daeron's concern.
Then he turned to the last prisoner.
"Lord Titus Peake. One of the chief conspirators."
Peake tried to bluster. "I sent a letter to the Iron Throne! I reported the plot! I surrendered! It was Tarly who—"
Daeron's sword flashed once. Dark Sister took the top of Peake's head clean off. The body toppled. The head rolled across the floor with a wet thud.
Tywin's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
Daeron wiped the blade on Peake's cloak. "Why waste breath on a man like that?"
He looked at Matthos Rowan, who had gone white.
"Relax, Lord Rowan. I don't kill good men." Daeron clapped him on the shoulder. "From this day forward you are Warden of the Rose Road. Your first task is simple: erase every trace of House Peake from the Reach. I don't want to see the name or the bloodline again."
Matthos swallowed hard, then bowed deeply. "It will be done, Your Grace."
Daeron watched him hurry from the hall, a faint, satisfied smile on his lips.
Let the realm remember: the Iron Throne had more than one face. Mercy existed. So did consequences—sharp, final, and very public.
The prince was angry. The lesson would not be forgotten.