Chapter Text
Lord Leyton Tyrell stared at the letter sitting atop his desk with a furrowed brow and a curt frown. The green seal bearing the hand of the king’s personal sigil taunted him, broken and scattered about with the rest of his letters. His eyes drifted towards the other room, where his daughter sat quietly with her sewing, accompanying her lady mother as she parsed through the books and numbers in preparation for summer harvesting season.
Otto Hightower’s elegant hand bore words he’d once dreamt of hearing, although he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the Hand’s request, especially considering Lord Hobert’s prior disdain for his family. His brother Garth may have ended up breaking his betrothal to the daughter of Oldtown by the end, but the road to convince him of doing so had not been easy.
He’d been half in love with the woman, but Hobert was convinced she would be the one to become Viserys’ lady wife instead of Queen Aemma.
Instead, she’d been pawned off to some fat Manderly man up north, and his brother was known as an eternal bachelor, refusing to even entertain the idea of marriage after it had been broken.
But that had been nearly ten and nine years ago, and now Hobert’s niece was now the Queen of Westeros alongside his brother, the Hand of the King.
Leyton’s dark eyes read and reread the hand’s words, making sure there was no misunderstanding what the Hand was proposing.
To Lord Leyton Tyrell,
Lord Paramount of the Mander and Warden of the South,
I am writing to express my congratulations on the recent betrothal of your son, Martyn, to Lady Bethany Fossoway of Cider Hall. Such a match is sure to bring much happiness to Highgarden, especially with your heir’s nuptials set just as summer begins.
I am sure you are eager to secure such prestigious matches for your other children as well. I do recall how the young Lady Leyla and my daughter Queen Alicent used to play in the rose gardens of Highgarden during our tours of the Reach, and how well the two seemed to get along.
Seeing as how your daughter’s sixteenth name day is coming up, it seems prudent to invite her to King’s Landing to partake in the festivities of court. She would be most welcome in the company of the Queen’s retinue and Alicent would so dearly love to see Leyla again.
Perhaps I can arrange for my son Gwayne to escort her from Highgarden up the Rose Road.
Ser Otto Hightower
Hand of the King
Leyton recognized the charming speech of the Hightower second son. The soft way he seemed to weave small threats and offers with offhand comments and single sentences. It was a skill inherited from his father, who learned it from his father.
The Tyrells may have not been skilled in that particular art, but their courtesies and gentle cunning were what made them who they were today.
From simple Stewards to the Lords of the Reach.
Who else could boast such a rise without falling?
Who else could maintain their wealth and prestige when so many had risked their station for folly?
His mother had groomed him well, ensuring he did not become an oaf like his father, who bent over backwards to accommodate King Jaehaerys at every turn. It was moves like that which led to the Hightowers discarding the marriage offer between Lady Jynessa and Garth for something loftier.
If they could even call bearing corpulent heirs for that lump of northern mass lofty.
Leyton scoffed, taking another sip of honeyed cider as he carelessly tossed the letter aside. Still, if what he was reading was right, perhaps the Hightowers had finally come to their senses.
Lord Hobert had laughed in his face when it came to betrothing Leyla to his son and heir, but it seemed Ser Otto did not hold that same contempt.
Leyton resisted the urge to scowl.
His daughter was better than the son of a second son with nothing to inherit. But perhaps Ser Otto was right.
Time in King’s Landing would do her well.
It would give her a chance to find a suitable husband, one that would make her lady of another Great House. Or perhaps, she may even manage to snag the eye of the dragon prince Daemon.
Gwayne Hightower would be a suitable match for many a young lady, but certainly not for the only daughter of House Tyrell.
“Leyla!” He called out to her, waiting patiently for the soft footsteps and bright smile to emerge into the light of his solar.
He couldn’t help but smile as he caught sight of her. It was hard not to when she looked the very image of her mother in her youth.
Long, dark, curling black hair with deep brown doe’s eyes, Leyla brought her lips to her father’s cheek in greeting before turning to face him. “Yes father?”
Gods above, the Mother had blessed him with a beautiful child.
Pale skin, slightly tanned from her time in the gardens, with a woman’s figure beginning to emerge.
Leyton softened.
She would do well in King’s Landing, he realized. But first he had to make sure her wits would be sharp enough for the dragon’s den.
“Do you remember the Lady Alicent Hightower?”
A flash of recognition crossed her face, miniscule enough that only those who truly knew her would be able to see it. “Of course, although I do believe she is known as Queen Alicent now, am I correct?”
Good. His smile widened slightly. “Yes, that is right.” Pride beamed through her teeth like a summer sunrise. “It is my understanding the two of you got along quite well when you were children.”
Leyla remained impassive, a sweet smile on her face as she replied, “Yes, I do recall showing her around the rose gardens when we were young, although she was always more interested in the Sept and library.”
Leyton nodded, hoping she was understanding the severity of the situation he was about to present to her. “It appears as though the Queen is eager to reconnect.” His daughter’s brow rose ever so slightly. She would need to work on that if she was to survive in court. He handed her Ser Otto’s missive with a grim face, “She and her father, the Hand, have invited you to court.”
He watched as her expression shifted while she read, pursing her lips together into a quiet frown when she reached the end of the letter. It flipped almost immediately as she handed the piece of parchment back to him. “I am honored to have received such an invitation. When do I leave?”
Leyton’s laughter caught him and his daughter off guard. Mina Ashford, clearly puzzled by the noise coming from his solar, entered with a furrowed brow and a confused purse of her lips. It was almost remarkable how much Leyla resembled her when she wore the same expression.
“What is going on?”
“Father is sending me to King’s Landing,” Leyla’s tone was curt and short, one he’d often heard her use when she didn’t get her way. While she was polite enough to keep it restrained in company, Leyton and Mina had often been on the receiving end of it alone in their keep.
His daughter practically threw the piece of parchment in her mother’s face, who read it with the same beleaguered expression Leyton himself had worn.
“Gods above,” Mina muttered. The Lady of Highgarden sighed and turned toward her daughter with a tight expression, “Well, it is a great honor to be summoned, and so we shall do all we can to prove–”
“I’m not going,” Leyla cut her mother off with a sneer.
“Leyla, a refusal of a royal summons is not taken lightly–”
“But it’s not a royal summons, is it? It’s from the Hand of the King, no doubt wishing to further his own station by using mine.”
“And so we shall continue to let him believe he is doing so.” Leyton finally chimed in, pride surging in his chest. He’d taught her well. Leyla turned to meet his gaze with disbelief. “Ser Otto is clearly proposing a match between you and his heir, but I would see you become something beyond the pawn of a second son.”
Leyla’s posture shifted then, dropping her arms to her side as she suddenly became interested in the conversation once more. Leyton smiled.
“King’s Landing is a dragon’s den, glittering with opportunity.” He stepped out from behind his desk, “There will be no shortage of great men about, and with a beauty like your mother’s…” He grasped his daughter’s chin in his fingertips, gently stroking her skin with a soft smile, “Well, I daresay you could even draw the eye of a prince if it came down to it.”
Understanding washed over her and Leyla lowered her gaze in deference. But still a small frown lingered on the edge of her lips, Ser Otto’s words chafing against her.
“How do we know he won’t throw his son at me like he did with the King?”
“He very likely will,” Mina chimed in, brushing her hand against Leyla’s shoulder, “And you will greet him with the respect and courtesy befitting his house.”
“But Ser Otto will have to do more than that if he wants to earn your hand as a gooddaughter,” Leyton’s stomach churned at the possible thought, but he knew his daughter was savvy enough to weather the storm and come out on top. “You are a daughter of one of the great houses. You will not bend for the first man who comes your way, will you?”
Leyla’s lips tugged upward into a smile as Leyton pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, “No, father.”
“Good,” Leyton grasped her hand and surveyed her dress. It was one of her favored ones, but clearly worn and rather simple compared to the luxurious fashions she would be encountering in King’s Landing, “Now, I believe you and your mother are owed a trip to the modiste. After all, such an occasion deserves a new wardrobe, don’t you agree?”
Her smile shone as bright as the sun, grasping tight to Leyton’s neck as she engulfed him in a bear-like embrace, muttering thank yous under her breath before rushing out of the room at her clear dismissal.
Leyton chuckled to himself and took another gulp of honeyed cider.
His wife simply looked at him, arms crossed beneath her chest as she arched a brow. “You must be careful, Leyton. Toying with the Lords of the Reach is one thing, but Otto Hightower–”
“--Is nothing compared to a potential match with a Targaryen,” Leyton finished off the cup and immediately reached for the decanter. His wife’s lips twisted downward in disdain.
“That is precisely what I am afraid of.” Mina reached for the second cup and poured one of her own. “I know you seek to further us, but I cannot throw my only daughter into a viper’s nest and expect her to make it out without being bitten.”
“Ser Otto is no viper. And she will have the protection of the Queen, if he is to be believed.”
“And if he is not?”
Leyton swallowed the last of the cider and turned to his wife with a rueful smile, “Then I suppose our daughter must use what she has learned here to ensure she does.”
Mina’s brow furrowed and somewhere deep in the castle, girlish laughter disappeared in the wind.
The day before Leyla was set to leave for King’s Landing, she was ambushed by both her brothers on the hawking trail.
Her peregrine falcon cawed from its perch as Harlan and Martyn rode up the trail from Highgarden. Their mounts whinnied anxiously as her bird eyed the destrier and courser with renewed interest. Not far behind them, Master Plover followed with two gorgeous red tails on his arm.
Leyla smirked.
At ten and two Plover had already decided she was fit to take to the trails by herself while her brothers were still bound by the falconer’s watchful eye. Now she was on the cusp of her ten and sixth name day, and still her brothers weren’t allowed on a hunt without Plover.
It made her laugh.
Her pride was quickly curtailed, however, by her brothers’ raucous laughter and wide smirks.
“There she is Martyn!” Harlan’s loud voice cut through her contemplative silence, nearly frightening the red tails beside him. “The future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!”
He lifted his cap and swept his arms in a mock bow, his destrier clopping along in the mud beneath him.
Leyla rolled her eyes and sent her falcon soaring once more. Harlan rode up beside her with a wry smirk, clean shaven and baby faced as he cocked his head and turned back towards their elder brother, looking every bit the jester he pretended to be, “Do you suppose we’ll have to bow in her presence now or are we exempt considering we used to be the ones changing her diapers?”
“Peace, Harlan,” Martyn, ever the solemn leader, pulled his leather glove on and carefully pulled one of the red tails free from its cage. “Our sister has been honored, and if she does secure a match with the Prince,” A gleam arose in his hazel eyes, “She’ll never stop being a little thorn in our side.”
“Careful or I’ll sick Stryker on both of you until she pecks your eyes out,” Leyla snapped, still playful but a touch biting, a standard when it came to growing up with brothers.
As if she could hear her, Stryker released a loud caw and landed back on her arm, a fresh rabbit locked in her talons.
Martyn had the good sense to shut his mouth but Harlan simply scoffed and shook his head as Leyla handed the rabbit over to the falconer with tight lips. Harlan eyed her bird’s prey before wresting one of the red-tail hawks free and setting it on the hills behind them.
"Excellent work, Mistress Leyla," Plover spoke from his place beside her brothers with an approving smile.
Pride burst through her chest and she nodded her thanks. Leyla gently stroked the falcon's chest with a spindled finger, the bird cooing affectionately at the touch.
"Stryker and I work well together, don't you think, brother?" Her words were directed at Harlan, who was having a difficult time wrangling his hawk without help of the whistle. Harlan shot her a dirty look but continued to say nothing. "Besides," Leyla continued, addressing her brothers' earlier comments with a sneer, "Regardless of father's ambitions, Prince Daemon has made it clear he only has eyes for the Princess Rhaenyra."
Stryker let out another cry and took off into the trees once more, swirling the skies as she searched for her prey.
Oh how wonderful it must feel, Leyla thought, to not be beholden to anyone else’s wings but your own.
"And what of your ambitions, sister?" Martyn's gleaming hazel eyes met hers, a wry smile dancing on the edge of his lips.
Leyla's mouth dried at his words. A question hanging on her mind since she'd brought her father the letter bearing the hand's seal. Her ambitions?
They were what every lady dreamed of, she would say in polite company. A loving husband, children to surround herself with, and a keep to hold her until the end of her days.
Of course that was the polite answer. If she were truly to speak her mind, it would include dreams of power, of a crown on her head and a kingdom at her fingertips.
In fact, if she were honest about her dreams, she surmised they might look an awful lot like Alicent Hightower's, minus the decrepit old man spilling his seed into her every night.
But Leyla Tyrell was not honest.
She was polite.
Throwing her head back with a hearty laugh, she tossed the pair a dazzling smile, "Haven't you heard, brother? I don't have ambitions."
Martyn’s brow rose slightly with an approving nod and he shrugged off a laugh as his hawk obeyed him much easier than Harlan’s. “You will do well at court,” Martyn spoke with an affirmative tone, grasping the small mice his bird had brought back and handing it over to Plover. Harlan meanwhile, was still trying to whistle his bird back to his perch. “No one ever says what they mean there, anyway.” Leyla’s chest bloomed at his compliment. Martyn always was the better brother, from his way with words to his solemn yet affectionate smiles. He took after their mother that way, who was quiet and lonesome, yet always desperate for company.
Leyla hoped his new wife would help draw him out of the shadows. Still, for as much as she liked Bethany Fossoway, she was rather silly. Far too honest, and far too trusting.
She couldn’t help it, Leyla supposed. Not when she grew up with a red-faced fool for a father and that boisterous laughingstock of a mother.
“I hear that’s not the case for the Princess,” Leyla smirked as Stryker nibbled on her fingers. Rumors about Princess Rhaenyra abounded everywhere in the Seven Kingdoms, but most seemed to say the same things. She was an outspoken girl, quick to anger, who rejected tradition and favored the customs of her Valyrian ancestors. The Hightowers even said she refused to bathe when attending small council meetings, smelling of dragon and sweat and all things not meant to be spoken of in polite company.
"Does no one else find it strange how willing and able the Targaryens are to marry their own kin?" Harlan finally spoke up once more, blue eyes narrowed at the horizon, blowing his whistle in the familiar pattern until finally, his hawk returned with a pair of mice in its beak.
"It's unnatural is what it is” Martyn scowled, twisting his lip up in disgust while Leyla tried not to think about it too hard. The Targaryens had made it a point to prove how exceptional they were. With their dragons and the blood of an ancient empire rushing through their veins, they answered to neither gods nor men. Leyla supposed marrying brother to sister and uncle to niece were part of that exceptionalism. She turned her gaze to her brothers, who she supposed could be considered attractive--with their dark curls and light colored eyes--but scrunched up her nose and nearly threw up in her mouth at the thought of marrying one of them.
But then again, she was not a Targaryen.
“I’d certainly go insane if I had to marry and have children with either of you,” Leyla remarked with a victorious smirk, causing Martyn to roll his eyes and Harlan to mock her by repeating her words in a higher voice. “Oh, don’t worry Harlan,” Leyla handed Stryker over to Plover, gently placing her in the cage to signal her hunt’s end. “I am sure Father will be able to find someone for you.” She pursed her lips, as if truly considering his options, “Perhaps a septa, or a blind woman.”
“Or maybe the Seven will finally hear my prayer and he’ll send you to the Silent Sisters,” Harlan sent his hawk out once more, narrowly avoiding being pecked in the eye by the animal.
His words were teasing, but there was more than enough truth in them.
Leyla’s laughter echoed across the clearing.
“Never,” She wrapped her reins around her gloved hands, the skirts of her riding habit brushing against both sides of the white palfrey as she adjusted her riding position, “Father likes my singing too much.”
With a final nod towards Plover–and before her brother could form a response –she kicked up her mount and began the trek down the cliffside back towards Highgarden.
It was nearly lunchtime when she returned and much of the servants were in the process of loading up her new wardrobe as well as large caravans of food, wine, and other bits and pieces of home she would take with her on her journey.
Her father had also permitted her to take several companions with her for the journey, as well as choosing her sworn sword.
“He will be the one protecting you while I cannot,” Her father had spoken solemnly after charging her with the task, “I trust you will make the proper decision when it comes to it.”
Of course, she’d done exactly as he’d asked, and chosen one of her favorite champions from her fourteenth name day.
Ser Arthur Florent, the third son of a Lord Florent and someone she knew she could trust. It helped that she knew he wasn’t interested in her in the slightest. In fact, he was much more interested in her brother, Harlan. A fact she’d discovered only a few months ago after walking in on both of them in a rather compromising position in the garden.
Harlan, of course, never believed her words that she would keep it a secret. Arthur, however, found solace in knowing someone refused to judge him despite sins he believed would send him to the Seven Hells.
The two had grown close over the last few months, to the point where her cousin Allyria, was convinced they’d been hatching some sort of secret betrothal and elopement.
It couldn’t be further from the truth.
She knew his secrets and now he would know hers.
And despite knowing she could trust him, he’d knocked every champion off their tourney horse that day, all to crown her the Queen of Love and Beauty with a crown of red roses against her black hair. He was strong, well-built, and would protect her if the situation called for it.
But as to her companions…well that was a little bit harder to decide upon.
Allyria was great fun, but couldn’t keep anything to herself, while her older sister Maris was serious and solemn, and apparently kept secrets only the gods knew.
Ellyn Webber was more trustworthy than Allyria, but Leyla hated having to deal with her constant spouting of the faith.
In the end, she chose Allyria and Maris Ashford, her cousins, and her soon to be sister in law, Bethany Fossoway, who–despite her silliness–had become someone Leyla found herself confiding in every now and then.
She passed the day with reading and sewing and eating the last of her lemon cakes before finally allowing herself to fall asleep in the comfort of her bed one last time.
Except she couldn’t.
Instead of collapsing into the soft sheets and silk comforters, Leyla found herself staring up at the ceiling of her bedchamber.
Her stomach rolled over as she tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable despite the feathers of her goosedown mattress. Eventually, she settled on staring vacantly at the vaulted beams and painted frescoes above her.
Commissioned by Ser Alester Tyrell when he was granted Highgarden in the Age of the Conqueror, each of his family's bedchambers were decorated in the image of the Seven. The Maiden looked down from above, a mane of curly ruddy hair stretching to her feet as her eyes sloped downward in a show of piety. A garden spread out from her feet, with the daughters of Garth Greenhand on either side.
None of them looked like her. They all bore red, brown, or golden hair with light eyes and pale skin.
Her mother's dark coloring came from her Tarbeck grandmother, and it was another reminder of how tenuous their claim to Highgarden truly was.
Aegon the Conqueror may have lifted them up, but it would only take one mistake to topple them.
She would not allow that mistake to be hers.
Her father's ambitions spread wide, as did hers, but family always came first.
Firmly planted roots always yielded better results in sweeter soil and hers were soon to find purchase in the rocky and bitter shores of the Crownlands. But as her mother liked to remind her, with proper care and the right hand, flowers can bloom anywhere, even in the most adverse conditions.
"Even in the north, roses bloom," Her mother whispered against her skin after Elyse Florent called her a cow one day. She'd cried her eyes out in her chambers and her then eleven and twelve year old brothers had needed to be restrained from riding to Brightwater Keep and demanding retribution.
Leyla smirked.
If only Elyse Florent could see her now.
She was soon to be tied to some patch-faced son of House Crakehall--if rumors were to be believed--while Leyla was headed to King's Landing to become the Queen's companion.
But it would not be easy, as her mother often reminded her. She would need to be as sharp as her House's thorns if she wished to avoid the snips and snarls of dragons and vipers.
But while her brothers studied the art of armor and swordplay, Leyla sat and listened at her father and mother's feet.
Paid attention as her father offered wine and grain and brokered trade deals with Lannisters, Targaryens, and Hightowers alike. She watched as her mother placated her brother's new wife with a kind smile and soft courtesies, treating Morenna Manwoody the same way she treated his first wife. In doing so, she'd earned the woman's trust and confidence when the rest of the reach seemed content to look down their noses in disgust.
She'd watched her mother smooth over misunderstandings between Harlan and other second born sons with an offer of lunch and a compassionate word, while her father wrote letters and brokered betrothals with a laugh and a hawking trip.
Her brothers may have learned how to plan armies and fight wars, but Leyla would be the one making alliances and playing the game.
Courtesy was her armor and a shrewd mind was her weapon.
You will do well at court.
She turned on her side, blew out the candle and hoped her brother was right.