297 AC
Ivy Hall, The Reach.
The knot in his stomach was washing him over and over, like a wave smashing into fixed rock. The waiting, by the gods, the waiting was destroying Alec. What could have brought him here? Lord Alec Kidwell was not a craven man; he was a man who fought alongside Tarly as he smashed the king at Ashford. He was a man who knew how men sung when their bowels were opened. How their necks sprayed as his sword danced. Yet, in this moment, his knees were shaking, his teeth were chattering. He was pacing his dimly lit solar with one hand on a letter from Highgarden.
He was sure his shortchanging of the Tyrells went unnoticed. It had been years, and Lord Tarly was the one to have mentioned this specific way in holding onto his grain and denying the bookkeepers a closer look. It had to be HIM.
Alec was sure that the heir of Highgarden, the 'Dark Rose,' was behind this, a man of twenty who had rapidly changed the Reach. Implementing stricter bookkeeping, stricter inspections, greater yields, a Reach that was overflowing with more coin than any in living memory. Yet, there was a reason why they called him the 'Dark Rose.'
At the blooming age of manhood, a minor lord had put hands on his younger sister in a drunken stupor. The Dark Rose took this insult gravely. He proceeded to strap the screaming minor lord to a horse and drag him through Highgarden; his back was scorched clean before having his head lopped off by the Dark Rose. Alec bore witness to this, as did many lords, and saw the terrible look in those black-of-night eyes.
If the Dark Rose was coming here, it would mean he had failed. And his doom was coming.
He must rectify this: a feast, a large feast, empty it all out. He would grovel and grovel. He had to. The Dark Rose was not like his oaf of a father. Mace Tyrell had all the means to press the war against Robert Baratheon, yet he failed to do so because he felt slighted by Lord Tarly winning a single battle. What an oaf. How that man came out of Olenna Tyrell's loins is an absurdity. The Queen of Thorns wasn't that interested in bookkeeping as she was in the wider political world, and thank the Seven for that.
Alec had always thought fondly of Olenna; she was quick of wit, and she kept the Tyrells in relative good standing with many lords after her son's behaviour. Yet her greatest sin was her son. That man was not worthy of leading the Reach, so Alec petitioned deep within his heart to never give his loyalty full. Now, that sombre petition was going to get him killed.
His sweat was drenching him. He felt his heart clamouring. He heard a knock on the door, and the door clinked open.
"My Lord, Tomas Tyrell has been seen crossing the Mullin Bridge with his convoy; he will be here by two days' ride," his maester spoke earnestly.
He gulped, for that was all he could do in this moment. But his eyes gleamed; he had a plan. He would do it to save his house and his family.
The noise was aching his ears, yet he had to push through. Men lined Alec's hall, their mouths stuffed with pies, meat, and ale. Ale itself was flowing generously everywhere. His own men were intermingled with Tyrell men-at-arms. All were smiling and laughing aplenty. Everything was going smoothly since the Dark Rose came to the keep.
He now rested on the main chair; Alec was to his left. He observed that the heir to Highgarden was covered in a darker shade of green garments, his hair was black as night. His eyes the same. His face was a mask; nothing ever gave anything away. Alec internally frowned at this, turning his gaze to the one seated beside Tomas: the younger brother of the Dark Rose, Garlan the Gallant Tyrell, one of the supreme swordsmen in the Reach and maybe the Seven Kingdoms. Many tourneys Alec went to these few years, and Garlan won half of them.
Behind Tomas stood a new form of men-at-arms, men who wore a dark rose as their livery. Alec had heard of these men-at-arms, his own people telling him they were named "The Rosey Blinders."
The Rosey Blinders were formidable warriors from all over the Reach, all second sons, and third sons of many lords trying to curry favour with the Dark Rose, who created this as an extra level of safety for his family members. Many believing he took inspiration from the Kingsguard. It was odd that other lord paramounts didn't have their own specialized guard as well.
This was the Dark Rose; he just moved when people were left diddling to their own devices.
Alec turned to his side and cleared his throat in hope to tackle the problem head-on. You just do not lie to men like this. It was clear the Tyrell heir wanted to make him wallow in his stress—in the dread and doom. He would not have it. Absolutely not.
"My Lord, I am aware of why you have come, and I—" he whispered.
"Don't ruin the mood, Lord Kidwell. We have plenty of time to discuss..." the Dark Rose quietly spoke back.
Alec felt the whole world get darker; he felt his blood tighten. His bones awash with a primal fear.
"M-m-y Lor—"
"Do. Not. Ruin. The. Mood." His tone was still quiet, yet firmer. The Dark Rose turned for a single moment before snapping his eyes back onto the festivities.
Alec sank deeper into his seat. He drowned in his ale and food, bringing fleeting comfort to the fact that he was sure to die. None would save him. The Dark Rose knew. And he could not worm his way out. By the gods, it was over.
"Alec, do you mind if I tell you a story?" the Dark Rose spoke once more.
"Yes, my lord."
"While I was on my way here, I was aptly admiring the beautiful hills and valleys all around your lands, the lush green, the hale and hearty trees; it was very pleasing to the eyes. This all before we were set upon."
"Set upon, my lord? Was there an attack?"
The Dark Rose snorted.
"Yes, an attack by very lively children who tried to prank our convoy. The sheer cheek of the children to play a prank like that! It was very amusing, partly because my brother was the one soaked in river water. That brought me endless laughter like no other. Yet it was fascinating: such healthy and lively children means that they are well fed. I had thought that to be one village, maybe one village out of others would not have such full bellies, yet every time I passed your lands, I saw more and more smallfolk with smiles and cheer gracing them."
Alec was confused. Was this not meant to be a reprimand? Did the Dark Rose actually grace him for a meaningless visit? Was all of this but a jape? Was he really in the clear? Alec did not want to have hope, but by the gods, it was glimmering softly within him. Maybe his house would not be torched.
"Lord Kidwell, your lands are truly odd. You have smallfolk who devote themselves to you more than lords twice your size. They all claim that you treat them far better than they ought to get from a highborn. That, in itself, has fascinated me, so I ask you: why do you treat your smallfolk with a good amount of care?"
Lord Kidwell steeled himself, his gaze meeting the Dark Rose.
"They eat, piss, shit, and drink the same as us. How can any look upon a lowborn baby and cast it to death for the unfortunate aspects of its birth? All lowborn are not guilty of their births. I just wish to see them not treated as cattle. My father taught me this, and his father before him."
"Hmm, is that why you steal?"
The Dark Rose whispered; the sheer ruckus being caused by the feast meant that their hushed voices were being drowned out. Alec knew he mustn't lie; he could not. If he was to meet his doom, he had to face it head-on. The Dark Rose was someone Alec desperately hoped would enjoy those who accepted their failures and responsibilities head-on.
"Yes, my lord. I withheld a portion of the grain tax that was your family's right. However, all I did hold, I spent lavishly on the smallfolk below me."
He bit his lip after saying the damning words. He quickly retreated his gaze back to the misty half-empty ale mug in front of him; his murky reflection saw a man waiting for his sealed fate. However, it was not a lie to Alec: he spent all he kept on the smallfolk. He remembered it as clear as day: the wide eyes, the grateful hands grasping for him, the weeping of the elderly, and the bone-shattering cheers. It went on and on till he re-entered his keep.
Now he was but a hollow man. Any sane lord would hang him for treason and for deigning to help the smallfolk. It was sound and it was logical. The only thoughts that crossed Alec's mind were his beheading or hanging. Would his neck be broken or lopped off? He grabbed his neck, which prompted the Dark Rose to speak once more.
"For that reason, and for that reason only, you will live. However, you will lose a toe, and more importantly, you will give me who taught you the fantastic way to hide your ledgers from me. I can see now you are of good heart, Lord Kidwell, but you aren't of wit to foil me time and time again. Have you never wondered why I didn't root you out years previously when I had done so to many others?"
It was the Thorn Year, the Dark Rose spoke of, a year after he started his 'double bookkeeping.' Many knights, minor lords, and nobles were put to death, and their coffers given over to Highgarden. Some tried to rally and meet the Dark Rose in battle, but were stopped due to petty infighting, to which they were readily crushed when found. This all added to the Dark Rose and his reputation. Alec thought he was safe, as Lord Tarly assured him they were not issued letters of major inspection. It had been five years past since that year.
But could he give over Lord Tarly? If he had to save his family and his house, could he do it? Lord Tarly and he fought side by side and paid the price in blood tenfold. No, he couldn't. He just would not. He would rather die than betray his friend.
"I am sorry, my lord, but I would rather face the sword before I give them up."
The Dark Rose laughed. The feast still raging on in the background.
"Good, very good. If you had done so, I wouldn't have entertained feasting like this. I would march at once, but I suppose I can enjoy this a little bit more."
Lord Kidwell was confused. Was he not going to die once again for his stupid insolent words? Just who is this Tomas Tyrell?
"I suppose many people believe they understand loyalty, but you, Lord Kidwell, find the answer where many fail. When the sword is at your neck, will you wither or will you stand? I see a man who refuses to wither. That is a man rare, truly rare in this world. I offer you a chance, Lord Kidwell: urge your conspirator to seek out my forgiveness. If not, I will bloody my sword with their heads come two moons' time. You will live, for that is the shield given to you by your happy smallfolk. Tell them to be wise, Lord Kidwell."
The Dark Rose downed his ale in one big gulp and let out a guttural roar.
"MORE BLOODY DRINK!"
All the men feasting echoed the words back. Their mugs held high, sloshing and spilling over the sizzled meat below. Lord Kidwell was wide-eyed as he looked on. He had survived by a hair. It was all he needed. He quickly shook off the fear and smiled. Inside was a Valyrian steel–inspired resolve. He would make Lord Tarly throw himself at the Dark Rose. His friend would listen.