Tending to Gardens

“They’re coming, that much I know...My folk have reported outriders upon the borders they have! My keep is nowhere near prepared to face any sort of siege, not now at the time of Harvest! I need my folk in the fields, not standing on the walls awaiting a foe who might not even appear!”

The puffy-cheeked Lord Ashford dabbed at his forehead with a white handkerchief as he stared up at the High Table where Theobald sat, seeming to pay only partial attention to him as he went about his meal. “Your grace...”

The man fell silent as his king finally glanced up from his plate. Though by no means a handsome man, the garb Theobald wore this day was so fine that it did much to make up for the sharpness of his features and the thinness of his face. Slung over his shoulders was a cloak of brilliant green velvet, trimmed with black-dyed fur from the finest of pelts, the cloak’s black amice covered in rows of the Hands of House Gardener sewn in gold.

“Lord Ashford...” Theobald began, the crowded hall falling quiet, Theobald taking the time to cut himself another bit of honeyed pork and chew it, staring at the Ashford the whole while. “...It’s harvest time for them as well, and I doubt they would make any move against us so soon after they were pushed back at the mouth of Prince’s Pass. You should recall that, you were there if I remember correctly.” And you could barely fit into that armour of yours if I recall.

The pudgy Lord Ashford nodded his head, waving a hand dismissively. “My sources are reliable your grace, even Lord Appleton’s heard the rumours, you can ask Ser Appleton that and hear the same things I have been telling you.”

Theobald paused with his goblet of wine midway to his lips. “Very well Lord Ashford, a hundred knights you’ll have, but you’ll be paying for their upkeep if these rumours turn out to be just that...” He took a sip before setting his goblet aside, standing from his seat as the entire court rose with him, his golden crown glittering on his head in the light coming into the hall from the many large, stained-glass windows filling it. “I will hear no more of the matter now, indeed I believe the bells in Myranda’s Sept are about to toll.”

There was a moment of silence as all in the hall waited and listened, and as if on cue the tolling of bells began to ring out across Highgarden. “You may all attend to your meals if you wish, my lords and ladies, but I must go to the Sept for my daily prayers.”

Servants rushed forward to remove their king’s crown, replacing it with a lighter one fashioned into a string of jewelled flowers, a golden hand affixed to the front of it. He slid on the brown riding gloves his servants gave to him as he began to make his way to the feasting hall’s exit, many of the pious lords and ladies (and those wishing to make a good impression) rising with him to prepare to set off for the Sept as well.

After leaving the hall he was quickly approached by Artys Tyrell, some minor steward he had recently appointed to keep records for him. “Your grace...” Said Artys, dipping into a bow before his king. “...There is some business we should attend to.”

“Then we will attend to it as we walk, my daughter is waiting for me to take her to the Sept for daily prayers, and I will not have it delayed by your continued nonsense about a feast that I have no wish to go to. Let them all have their fun, I have a realm to run.” Theobald stopped briefly to wander towards the corridor’s other side, which was open and looking out upon a field of brilliant flowers stretching out for nearly an acre in one of the castle’s many smaller courtyards. Their scent was heavy in the air, and he enjoyed every breath.

“But there will surely be many important folk there, from the Lannisters to those eastern Targaryen...” Artys fell silent when Theobald held up a hand to silence him, his king straightening the golden chain of flowers that held his cloak on his shoulders.

“And that, Artys...Is part of the reason I refuse to go. Anyone who recognizes those Targaryens as an equal to my throne, or thinks they should mingle with the most powerful families in Westeros is mad. Let them be on their little rock, and soon enough they will undoubtedly return east to try an rebuild the empire of their people.”

Artys nodded, falling in step behind Theobald as he set off once more. “Certainly your grace, but the dragons...”

“Another reason Artys, the less we have to do with them, the less they will look at us. The Starks married into the family for reasons of their own, and if the Targaryens ever do anything with their lizards, the Starks will be prominent in their sights to become their subjects, and yet the Reach shall remain unknown. Tell me Artys, why is my castle the grandest in Westeros, and why is my kingdom the most respectable?”

Artys frowned, shrugging his shoulders. “Why your grace?”

Theobald tapped a finger to his temple, grinning. “The Casterlys have gold and their castle upon a cliff. Casterly Rock, a grand thing. But rocks and gold are alike in that neither grow, but remain barren to be hoarded. The Stormlanders have Storm’s End, a finality, there is nothing more to be gained there. But the Reach...”

He paused as they came to one of the castle’s many vistas, reaching his arms out over the white walls and massive, sprawling gardens of the keep, out farther over the rolling green hills and fields. “Our castle is Highgarden, a garden grows and expands, it continues and bears fruit. It is neither barren ‘nor finished, and the same can be said for my kingdom. The Reach shall always reach for better things, and as King of the Reach, I must maintain a semblance of an image....Come now, my daughter awaits.”