- 249 AC -
(Luthor POV)
Sunlight poured over the wood and flowering vines, which Olenna had been taking care of. I sit by the window and smile, thinking about all the good I have in my wife. Olenna, my lady wife, lounges nearby, eyes half-lidded as she embroiders roses into a tapestry. I enjoy her company when I'm doing the paperwork. It's tedious, but I do it to keep our House strong and secure... And she also helps me with it sometimes. The gods granted me a wise woman to be my wife. That's where Roboute must get it from.
The door opens, and a small shadow enters. Our pride and joy, Roboute, has seen only two name days but is already dressed in finely tailored greens, which Olenna did the embroidery for. He holds a small leather-bound notebook under one arm. He walks with steady, confident steps, looking like a young lord already, and not what most would consider a babe in Westeros. He is special, truly unlike anything the realm has seen before. Olenna thinks so as well.
A servant begins to announce him, but Roboute raises his hand.
"You needn't announce me. I'm expected," he says and walks forward.
I smile seeing his unflinching face. I have made it my personal goal to get a reaction out of him in any way. Olenna told me I was making an even bigger fool out of myself than I already had, but I didn't care.
"And here he comes, my little rose of Highgarden. What brings you in such seriousness, Roboute?" I ask him.
"Father. Mother. I have a request of some importance," Roboute says.
"You have a request. Gods help us. At two?" Olenna raises an eyebrow.
"I would like your leave to design and build a complex. A centre for education and military instruction for the people of the Reach."
I look at him and blink my eyes in confusion.
"A school? Built by you?" I ask.
"Designed by me, yes, but built with your permission and resources. In time, it will repay itself in loyalty, innovation, and gold. We will raise not merely swordsmen, but governors, merchants, commanders and more."
"And who will teach them? You? With what money would we finance such a project? And did you say the people of the Reach? I believe you meant the noble heirs from our prominent Houses, no?" Olenna asks drily.
She's right. It would cost us a tremendous amount of gold to finance such a thing. We would also need to hire Maesters willing to teach outside the Citadel.
"Your mother is right, son. Old Town holds the Citadel and, therefore, all of the known knowledge in the realm. Creating a school to teach the smallfolk would not only upset them but most likely spawn another uprising, like Maegor I Targaryen faced. How do you expect this to work?" I ask.
"I understand both of your concerns, father, mother, but the solution to the problems you bring forward is rather simple. What I am planning is an investment of the highest degree. There is nothing more valuable and that can carry more fruit than education. We would have to dig deep into our coffers, I am aware of that, but it will be worth it. As for the Maesters, there is an even simpler solution," Roboute tells us.
"What solution?" Olenna asks.
"I have observed our Maester and read a few of his correspondence, which he sent back to the Citadel to report on me--"
"What?!" I shout and stand up.
"How dare he?! This is a major breach of trust and a betrayal of our House. I will have him--"
"Oh, shush, Luthor. Can't you see that Roboute hasn't finished speaking? Go on, dear, tell us," Olenna tells me.
"Thank you, mother. You are correct, I have removed all the letters which the Maester was going to send to the Citadel about me. This is useful for us, since we will use it as blackmail and to threaten him into helping us in this project."
"In what way?" I ask.
"You want to have him teach in the school under threat of having him killed should he not comply. But we could have done that either way, no?" Olenna asks.
"Naturally, but having something to threaten him with and showing the letters to him will make him believe that we have been going through his letters for longer than we have and strike fear into his heart. He will see it as us knowing his darkest secrets, and I can tell you, the Maesters seem to be pigs, no different from other men."
"You want to make him fear us?" I ask.
"Indeed. He will be the first piece we need to acquire a foothold in the door of knowledge, which the Maesters hold to themselves. We use him to knock out the other pieces. We appeal to their greed, pride and arrogance and promise to hand them the 'highest' positions until we have men and women of our own, loyal to us, who can teach. Until they notice what is going on, it will be too late," Roboute reveals.
The plan has merit. It really does. But I am unsure about the gold situation.
"The plan seems to be well thought out, Roboute. But how do you think we will pay for the construction and hiring of your school? Where shall I take the gold from?" I ask him.
"I understand your concern, Father. And I am willing to make you an offer. I am going to go to the Citadel to study the last few things they can offer. Only a short time, mind you. I have devised a few theories and plans which will increase our wealth and improve our finances. If I manage to increase our yield, you will fund my project."
"Hmm..."
I look at Roboute with the sternest expression I can muster in my family's presence. I can't deny them anything, but he is so young and needs to experience failure. So, I will do this.
"Very well, son. Should you manage to increase our crop yield slightly, I will grant you your wish and fund your project. You have my word on the matter. What do you say?"
"I accept, Father. Thank you. Now, I will take my leave; there are things to prepare for."
Olenna and I watch him leave the solar. I smile and shake my head in amusement. I walk over to my paperwork and look through House Tyrell's finances. There has to be a way to make room for Roboute's plans.
"What are you doing, Luthor?" Olenna asks me.
"I am looking for a way to cut off some gold to fund Roboute's project."
"What?! Why? I thought you gave him the task to discourage him, and not to have to do it."
"I only told him that, so that he learns to work for what he wants and not to give it to him outright. He is only two after all."
"You can't be serious, Luthor. I love Roboute more than anything and know of his intelligence, but this is a rushed decision. Think about it first."
"I have thought about it already. I couldn't tell him no, and neither could you, my love. You know it. And I have a feeling that Roboute will surprise us."
.
.
(3rd Person POV)
The chamber smelled of old vellum and crushed herbs. Scrolls were stacked high in an unorderly fashion, and a single candle burned low. Maester Ballabar, an ageing man with a thick chain of links and a permanently furrowed brow, was hunched over a particular parchment, scribbling with concentration and hidden agendas. He had to make do, as his situation in Highgarden had become one of grand importance. The newest addition to House Tyrell had gained his full attention and interest.
A soft click at the door pulled the Maester from his thoughts. He turned and froze when he saw who it was.
Roboute Tyrell, heir to Highgarden and future Warden of the Reach, two years old, stood in the doorway. Two guards. No nursemaid. Roboute was holding a small satchel and stared at the Maester like a statue carved from ivory and iron. Emotionless as the monster the Maester saw him as.
"...Young Lord Roboute? Shouldn't you be with your wet nurse?" Ballabar frowned.
Roboute walked in and nodded to the two guards. They didn't speak, but closed the wooden door to the chamber and stood at the entrance, keeping watch over the Maester.
"I haven't used a wet nurse in a long time, Maester, you know that."
"I beg your pardon, my lord, but this is highly irregular--"
Roboute walked forward slowly and interrupted the old man.
"As are your letters," he said.
Ballabar stiffened visibly. Roboute pulled a sheaf of folded parchment from his satchel and dropped it onto the desk between them. Seeing his handwriting caused the Maester to stiffen further. His eyes widened.
"Your most recent one, dated four days past, describes me as 'a child possessed of unnatural cognition, likely sorcerous in nature, and requiring observation by higher authorities.' Shall I continue?" Roboute asked.
"You… read these?" Ballabar almost whispered.
"I read all of them. You send them in triplicate, in cypher, but your code is the same that the Citadel used during the Fourth Dornish War. Very sloppy. I am disappointed, Ballabar. Given your extensive experience and loyalty to our House, it's disappointing to see you follow your own agenda. Or is it the Citadel's agenda?"
The Maester opened his mouth and then closed it. Seeing the expressionless face of Roboute and hearing his words, he felt his throat tighten.
"I know the poison you keep hidden behind the dried mint. I know about the silver you took from Lord Tarly's steward to "alter" his son's assessment. I know of your letter to Archmaester Vaellyn suggesting that my Lord Father, Luthor Tyrell, is "a gentle fool" and "easily manipulated." You see, I've had time. You gave it to me by doubting me."
"What do you want?" Billabar trembled.
"Ah, there it is. Not denial. Not anger. The question. What do I want?" Roboute observed.
He climbed gracefully into a chair across from Ballabar, his small legs dangling, but his posture perfect. He studied the Maester's face and saved all that he saw for future reference in interrogation and psychology.
"I want you to live, Maester. I want you to rise. I want you to write to the Citadel and propose a grand vision: a school, founded under the banner of House Tyrell, sanctioned by the Citadel, and led by you. A place where noble heirs are trained in command, strategy, stewardship, and history. A place where the Maesters guide the future rulers of Westeros directly," Roboute told the Maester a half-truth.
"They'll never allow it. The Citadel doesn't want--"
"The Citadel wants relevance. Power. Access. Do not insult me by pretending otherwise. You will offer them this: dominion over the next generation of lords. Access to every major House through their heirs. A chance to rewrite the realms in their own image — quietly, behind quills and ink," Roboute interrupted the man with a soft tone, but it felt like a sharp sword to Ballabar.
The man swallowed hard.
"And what of you? What is your angle?"
"I will be watching. I will guide you from behind the curtain, as you guide others. We both wear masks, Maester. Yours has links. Mine has roses."
Ballabar hesitated. His eyes flickered to the pile of stolen letters and the guards at the door. He had to remain loyal, but maybe he could take advantage of this situation as well. He had to play the long game, he told himself.
"And if I say no?"
"Then I return your letters to the king myself, along with annotations. I let the Tarlys know what you did. I tell my father everything. And then I whisper to the servants what poisons you hide behind mint. You don't seem to understand, Maester, your days as a free man are over. You are now a slave, my slave, and you will not do anything unless I allow it. You won't eat, drink, indulge or even breathe without my consent. And if I find some form of trickery or even a white lie... I will send you to House Bolton to be flayed. Or better yet, I'll do it myself."
...
"B-but, Y-You're a child. H-how can you-you say such things?" Ballabar trembled.
Roboute looked at him with the same expression he had since he walked into the room. Despite his young age, he had a presence that put grown men in fear and pressured the Maester.
"I am Roboute Tyrell, the future of my House. Now write that letter, I expect it to arrive before I do at the Citadel. All the knowledge I wish to have shall be prepared for me. And if it isn't, I will hold you responsible."