'There if I grow,
the harvest is your own'

     REYONA AROSE WITH the budding dawn.

      Despite the comfort of the soft, affluent bed that she'd been given, Reyona had barely managed to sleep a wink. Disturbing terrors filtered in and out of her unconscious mind, pulling her from her slumber in a cold sweat. Thoughts of Bran on his deathbed, the murder of Mycha, and the slaughtering of Sansa's direwolf kept her eyes peeled open, watching the golden ceiling above her bed. Eventually, Reyona simply had given up on dreams altogether.

      Once the yellow star broke through her curtains, Reyona decided it was appropriate to get up. No one had yet come to call on her. Reyona was left in an awkward state of not knowing what to do. Generally, her handmaid, Shaire, had the duty of awakening her to break her fast. But, in this new land, Reyona was unsure and a tad clueless about what to do.

       However, Reyona Stark was not one to be idle. Septa Mordane often scolded Reyona, chastising the girl for taking initiative and doing tasks out of turn, or without being asked. 'It's not a lady's job to rise and get ready alone, then leave without informing anyone!' Septa used to remind her. It had taken two years, two long, stubborn years for Septa Mordane to break Reyona Stark of her habit of independent behaviour.

      Reyona could not be blamed; she was restless. She enjoyed doing things for herself.

      Packed away in the corner of the room, two trunks sat. Within these trunks were the entire contents of Reyona Stark's life. What a dismal sight, Reyona thought, tossing the thick duvet covers off her frame.

      Lyanna watched her lady stride across the stone floor, hardly tilting her head to curiously see Reyona open the lid to the larger of the trunks.

     Reyona pulled a nice, grey frock out from the trunk and folded it over her arm as she searched for a few more things she would need to get dressed. Rummaging through the wooden box, Reyona pushed a silk cloth away with her fingers, but paused when it resisted, heavy in her hand.

      She knew what it was almost immediately, though she had forgotten that this was the hiding place Reyona had decided on. Casting a nervous glance behind her shoulder, Reyona made sure that no one had entered the room before peeling back the silk layer of cloth. Hidden in the lavish folds of red material, the castle-forged dagger that Jon had gifted her gleamed up from her open palms.

      It was still just as beautiful and haunting as when he had first bestowed it on her.

      Quickly, before anyone could enter, Reyona strode behind the changing wall and stripped down. She looked at the dagger for a moment, sizing up the size of the buckle on the strap, deciding where would be best to wear it. Reyona didn't consider the idea that she would ever need to use it. Reyona Stark was well protected, surrounded by the Tyrell guard, sitting safely behind the towering walls of Highgarden.

       Rather, as Reyona tightened the strap of the dagger's sheath around her thigh, Reyona decided she would wear it as a reminder, a testament of her love for her brother and a regard for his wishes for her well-being.

       Reyona slid the grey frock over her head and fixed the skirts as a gentle knock sounded on her door.

      "Just a moment," Reyona called. She adjusted her skirts where the dress bunched up around the hilt of the dagger, smoothening it out. Grabbing a leather tie from the vanity, Reyona stepped out from behind the wall and began to weave her fingers through her hair, crafting a thick braid down her back. "Come in."

       The door swung open to reveal a beaming Elinor, and a couple other handmaids, as they filtered into Reyona's room. Each of them shared the Tyrell traits: honey brown hair with golden eyes to match, a sweet contrast to the ridged people of the North. "Oh, I did not expect you to be up and about," Elinor said with a soft, meaningful smile. Elinor was calmer around Lyanna, Reyona noted, when the direwolf was lazily laying at the foot of Reyona's bed instead of sticking her muzzle in Elinor's space.

      "I couldn't sleep," Reyona admitted, eyes trained on Lyanna. Her pet was growing more and more curious as the women totted about, fixing Reyona's bedsheets, drawing open the curtains, and bringing day into the room. With a silent command, using a flat, open palm, Reyona instructed Lyanna to remain down. She didn't want to scare the handmaids off just yet. "Night terrors."

      Elinor nodded her head in understanding, not saying any words of comfort or of apologies for the ward's rough night. Reyona appreciated the fact that she didn't mention a word of apologies. Shaire used to apologise to Reyona whenever she had a night terror. As if it were her own fault, as if Shaire had cursed her. "Lady Margaery is awaiting you in the dining hall. I am to bring you to her."

     "Lyanna," Reyona called, getting the direwolf to jump to its feet. "Lead the way, Elinor."

                      Reyona hardly ate, settling for a small loaf of sweet bread made right there in Highgarden, according to Margaery. Her thoughts of worry for Bran were clearly evident on her pale face, painted in the divots in her brow and the manner of which her eyes shifted back and forth, restless.

      Margaery grabbed a basin worth of bright red apples and dumped them into a satchel she was carrying, fashionably around her shoulders. Reyona arched a brow at the odd behaviour, but she didn't question Margaery's actions. "Shall we venture to the weirwood, then?"

      A Tyrell guard, stoic and silent, accompanied Reyona and Margaery on their short quest. Reyona wondered if a guard was truly needed; she'd never needed one when she wandered the grounds of Winterfell. But, Reyona held her tongue. She thought of he father's initial protest to Reyona travelling South. 'Morals are loose in the South, Reyona. Be on your guard.' Reyona had not taken his words to heart, but it was worrisome for her that they were accompanied in the Tyrell's own home.

     Within Highgarden's walls, thick green groves, marbled fountains, and elegant, brimming courtyards were around every corner. The castle was bustling with life, townsfolk mulling about, buy and selling, singing and dancing, and genuinely being merry. The sight brightened Reyona's dampened spirit. 

     Margaery pointed to a large dome in the distance, a massive cathedral to the gods. "The sept," she explained, "is matched only by the Great Sept of Baelor and the Starry Sept. Grandmother prides herself on it. My mother used to tell me that it was the reason why the Reach is as bountiful as we are." Margaery chuckled with a soft pause, shooting a skewed smirk at her companion. "However, Grandmother says that's child's talk."

      Reyona laughed along with Margaery, keeping her opinions on the matter to herself. The new gods were the gods of her mother, Catelyn Stark. The old gods, the gods of her father, the gods of the North, those were the deities in which Reyona Stark placed her faith. The Seven did not bless this land.

      They walked further out from the chaotic, blissful life of Highgarden and into a fortified wood. The palatial keep was decorated with statues and colonnades, all were covered in ivy, grapes, and climbing roses. A wilderness of beauty. But, in the midst of that beauty, there was a dejected air. It was a small, glum godswood compared to Winterfell's, Reyona determined. The three weirwoods standing beside a reflecting pool were large and ancient, and once graceful. Time had entangled the three woods together. A single weirwood with three, despondent, separate trunks. With the despondent branches reaching for the sunny sky, the crestfallen faces carved into the very bark of the trees seemed to be crying out in desperation for the old gods. The castle's godswood was suffocating in the lavishness of the New Gods and their affluent desires. Reyona's heart was saddened by the sight.

      "The Three Singers," Margaery told Reyona. She stepped forward and placed a hand on the forlorn trunk of the nearest weirwood. Margaery didn't see the dying wood that Reyona saw. "According to legend, Garth Greenhand planted the Three Singers. He is an ancient ancestor of the Tyrells, and they have survived through centuries."

      Old Nan had told Reyona tales about the First Men in her lectures. The stories of Highgarden and the tales of Dorne had been Reyona's favourites. Warring families with ancient bloodlines that somehow seemed like mystical creatures in the manner that Old Nan described them. But, now that Reyona had made it to the Reach, the magic was all but diminished. The land was beautiful, but there were no Giants. There were no pumpkins the size of horses, no grapes as big as a man's skull. 

       As Reyona grew older, she was smart enough to distinguish fact from fantasy in Old Nan's tales. But, there was an empty ache that left her solemn bones cold as her childhood delights were dashed on the stone of reality, revealed for the trivial lies that they were in the midst of Highgarden.

     Margaery stepped away with the guard to give Reyona some privacy to pray, deciding to take a few turns around the wood while she awaited Reyona's finish. 

     Reyona sat beside the reflection pool and started into it. A young woman peered back, steel grey eyes filled with uncertainty, but the rest of her features a model of a calm lady. Reyona turned away from herself and turned her thoughts to Bran, listening to the summer breeze as it swayed the blood-tipped branches, rustling the leaves. She inhaled the scent of blooming roses and exhaled her prayers, thinking only of the grief of her mother. The pain of her brother. Reyona wanted, desperately, for that pain, for that grief, to blow away. Taken on the wind, ushered to another land, another time. 

           Reyona sat there for some time, praying until her mind could no longer focus. She stood, placing her palm flat onto the face of the closest trunk of the Three Singers, peering deeply into its carved, bloody eyes. "Please, for Bran," she begged.

                             Unknown to Reyona, a world away, Brandon Stark awoke from his fevered coma.

      Reyona pushed her thick braid over her shoulder and strode away from the wood. Turning, she found that Margaery was returning from her fourth stroll around the garden, her guard not far behind. Margaery paused at a colonnade and reached out her nimble grasp, snatching a budding rose from its perch and delicately pulling it off the branch.

        "Are you finished?" Margaery inquired, handing the rose to Reyona. The Tyrell's voice was sweet and patient. It made Reyona feel that, if Reyona were to ask, Margaery would have no problem lounging in this place for the remained of the day. 

      Reyona inhaled the scent of the rich flower. "Yes, I've said all I can, for now."

      "I didn't take you as a very pious person," Margaery admitted to her, folding her hands together as the walked out from the godswood, the wind whipping up her long, chocolate curls. Lyanna followed behind them, beside the guard who barely regarded the beast's presence. She heard her own words and quickly backtracked, afraid she had misstepped. "Not that piousness is a bad quality."

       Reyona smiled, shaking her head. "Not to worry, Margaery. I wouldn't consider myself very religious. In fact, I would say it's the opposite. The old gods require a different fashion of 'worship' compared to requirements of the Faith of the Seven. But, being in the weirwood helps me comprehend situations more." It was something Reyona had picked up from Eddard, though she was unconscious of it. "The gods grant me peace in times of hardship." They walked past a sprouting patch of white daisies. Reyona stooped down and plucked a couple, sticking one in her braid while pocketing the other.

     "Perhaps I should consider the old gods more closely," Margaery lightly jested, "all I've been taught are the ways of the Seven. I've never known anything different."

     Margaery clapped her hands together, eyes alight as she faced Reyona. "I've got just the thing to cheer you up. Let's travel through the Marketplace! You'll enjoy it. Dancing minstrels, singing children, delicious food, only the very best that the Reach has to offer." 

     Reyona contemplated the idea, sparing Lyanna an arched brow. The Tyrell did not seem phased by the direwolf accompanying them, and so Reyona decided that it would be fine. Lyanna needed to be exposed to new sights and experiences just as much as Reyona, if not more.

     The Marketplace was everything that Margaery has portrayed it to be, alive and bustling with chatter and craftsmen. Men and women of all shapes and sizes flocked to see Margaery and the Wolf girl, who brought her very own wolf to the market.

     Children squealed in delight at the sight of Lyanna, rushing to the wolf with chubby fingers extended in the hopes of running their tiny fists through her glossy pelt. Scared mothers clutched to their offspring, however, tightly steering them from the giant beast.

      Margaery was surrounded by excited children, swallowed up by a hoard of kids without parents. Reyona determined, by their dirt-streaked faces and oily scalps, that these children were street orphans. Yet, Margaery embraced them all the same as any other smallfolk that had been eager to speak with the Tyrell girl. "Good afternoon," Margaery beamed, "I've brought something for you all."

      Reyona watched on the sidelines as Margaery pulled her tan satchel out from behind her slim waist, flipping open the top to reveal the bounty of apples within. "One for each of you. Go on," she prodded. The orphans swarmed her, each reaching out a hungry hand, tugging and pulling.

      Margaery's guard did not stand for it, however. "Lady Margaery," he spoke up for the first time, voice a low growl. "Let me take that." Margaery frowned at the man's outstretched hand, but complied, giving the satchel to the guard. "Straight line," he barked at the children. The orphans politely complied, sheepish expressions on their faces as they lined up, awaiting their share. 

      Lyanna barked. Reyona whipped her head around, confused by the sound. It was a rarity for Lyanna to bark, as the direwolf only did so in the presence of her pack or people that she had grown accustomed to. "What is it, Lyanna?" Reyona asked, gaze wandering the various faces of smallfolk watching Lyanna in intimidated curiosity. 

       All nearby people were keeping an eye on the beast, except for one. He strolled past the sight of Margaery feeding the hungry and the massive wolf and its owner with ease, never faltering in his relaxed pace for a moment. It was odd. 

      Lyanna yelped again, nose pointed in the direction of the man, trying to gain his attention. When the man didn't turn around to acknowledge her, Lyanna broke free of Reyona's hand and pounced, taking the man down into the dirt.

      Reyona rushed to the scene, heart thumping wildly in her chest as smallfolk screeched, running about in fear. "LYANNA!" Reyona shouted, placing a hand on the direwolf's head, sizing up the situation as the man groaned and cursed in the mud. There was no blood or screaming from the man. As Reyona pulled Lyanna off of the man, she found that her pet had been licking him. 

      "Ugh!" The young man growled, swiping at his stubbled cheeks. "Disgusting. Foul. Creature."

       Reyona frowned, still holding Lyanna back as she took in the mused, shoulder length of his dark curls and the light growth of a beard on his chin. She knew this man, Reyona realised. The thick brown colour of his eyes gave it away, but she couldn't place his name. He was the Tyrell soldier that had helped her remove the tie from Lyanna's neck when Lady had been sentenced to death. 

                       There was a crowd gathering around her, Lyanna, and the man. 

     "Many apologies, Ser," Reyona gushed, ears red. "Lyanna only does that to people she likes. You saved her, if you remember. Lyanna doesn't forget people easily, I'm afraid." 

      "Your wolf is strong," he grunted, propping himself up on his elbows as he watched the curious sight of Lyanna and Reyona Stark, his heart pounding like the pulse of a rat escaping the sharp claws of an alleycat. 

      Margaery and her guard approached, the prior watching the scene unfold with wide eyes. The guard, however, was scowling. He stepped forward and prodded the man roughly with the tip of his boot.

       "Hey!" 

        "Get yer lazy ass up off that ground, Willum," the guard grunted at Willum's protest. "It ain't relaxation time."

       Willum Flowers jumped up from the earth and dusted himself off, shaking clouds of red dirt from his clothes. "I was just tackled, if you didn't notice."

      "Oh yes," the guard snorted, "I noticed alright. You went down without a fight too." Margaery grew disinterested with the conversation and began talking with more smallfolk, but Reyona was more interested than before. A curious man, this Willum Flowers was. "Aren't you to be squiring for Lord Loras?"

      Willum puffed up his chest, defensive. "I was on my way to pick him up some bread between spars." Willum crossed his arms over his chest, annoyed with the guard, but not expressing it openly. Instead, Willum turned to Reyona with a smirk. "Sorry for giving you a scare. You weren't afraid to stick your hand in between me and your wolf?"

      Reyona arched a brow, noticing the glint of humour in the pits of his eyes. "Lyanna has never bitten me."

      "There's a first time for everything. A wolf is no pet."

      That's what the King had said, Reyona remembered, her stomach clenching. Swallowing the spite she wanted to spit back at him, Reyona instead rifled through her frock pocket and produced one of the daisies she had picked, presenting it to him. "A token, ser. May this flower represent the good nature betwixt you, myself, and Lyanna—my pet."

      Willum examined the token before plucking it out of her hands with two fingers. He twirled it between his forefinger and thumb, watching the petals twirl round and round with a small smirk. "Ah, a flower for a Flowers. A cruel irony."

      "I thank you, Lady Reyona," he said, though Reyona could hear everything but gratitude in his tone. There was cleverness, humour, sarcasm, but a lack of actual thankfulness. Reyona remembered the rambunctious, annoying guard then. He was the very same one that had walked her at the Camp. The guard beside Margaery told Willum to get a move on, that Lord Loras was waiting. "I bid you a farewell, and until we meet again," he sighed, shooting the superior a short glare. 

       Then, to Reyona's surprise, the Tyrell guard stuck the daisy in between his lips and continued on his merry way. Once he was out of earshot, Reyona leaned down and scratched Lyanna behind the ears, close enough to whisper lowly:

                   "Next time, aim for the neck."

      "Forgive my cousin," Margaery sighed, stepping in line next to Reyona. The pair turned back from their path and began the journey back to the Keep. Afternoon lessons would begin soon, Margaery told Reyona. "He's Loras's personal guard, so you will see him often. Best to just ignore him. Willum has a good heart, but he can be ... well," Margaery allowed her voice to trail off, words failing her.

___________

author's note:

boom, another update. I figured it would be important to show tyrell life, idk, is it boring? well, if it is, it's too damned late! Also, Sandor super-fans, don't worry. He'll be back soon. 

New OC, Willum Flowers, what do you think ?  

( thank you to Nessa030201 for being a dope af reader )