Chapter Text
Imaginatively [a woman] is of the highest importance; practically she is completely insignificant. She pervades poetry from cover to cover; she is all but absent from history. She dominates the lives of kings and conquerors in fiction; in fact she was the slave of any boy whose parents forced a ring upon her finger. Some of the most inspired words, some of the most profound thoughts in literature fall from her lips; in real life she could hardly read, could scarcely spell, and was the property of her husband.
– Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own, ch. 3
Olenna Tyrell was no stranger to masques. Had not she and Joanna Lannister staged a triumphant version of the Knight of Tears for Olenna's son's wedding at Highgarden? Unorthodox subject matter, to be sure, but the king was in attendance and, dubious marital practices aside, it was one of the few recorded tourneys in which a Targaryen participated and did not mysteriously die. Young Prince Rhaegar had adored it while his father watched through narrowed, suspicious eyes. Not terribly different from the situation as it now stood.
Of course, Joanna had died soon afterward giving birth to the monster of Casterly Rock--may she rest in the Mother's grace--and Olenna was forced to admit that the other woman's steadying presence and quiet authority would have come in very useful in these trying circumstances.
"Ladies!" she pronounced, using the voice Mace had long ago termed the great horn of Highgarden. Five pairs of eyes--from Lannister green to Dayne violet to Stark grey--snapped to attention. "It is customary for a tournament to be accompanied by a masque, but it seems Lady Whent has been remiss in her planning. It is for us, therefore, to remedy this lack."
Already, the Stark girl was fidgeting with a loose thread in her skirt. No lady of Highgarden would have dreamed of behaving as she did in company, but Lyanna Stark had an odd sort of grace about her when someone was foolish enough to shove a tourney sword into her hand, and everyone knew northerners were funny in the head anyway. Exactly what the young lord of Storm's End saw in her was a mystery to most of the Reach, but Olenna suspected the answer was simple: Lyanna was the only woman in Westeros who showed no interest whatsoever in Robert Baratheon.
But that was neither here nor there. Olenna sighed. "We have few resources and even less time. Had I known of the situation, I would have had supplies brought from Highgarden, but nothing to be done for it now. So, first, I would like an inventory. Gowns, jewels, cloaks, everything you have with you. Steal from your brothers or husbands--they'll forgive you."
Tywin Lannister's daughter let out a cough that Olenna suspected was disguised laughter. She had a twin brother who was recently knighted by the Sword of the Morning himself, if Olenna remembered rightly (and Olenna always remembered rightly, whether or not she admitted it). No small feat for a young man of fifteen. The daughter was Cersei, as blooming a summer beauty as Olenna had never been, though perhaps a trifle young to be crowned the queen of this tournament.
Not to mention her father was out of favour, and the king himself would be attending. Olenna narrowed her eyes at Cersei Lannister. "Lady Cersei, have you any suggestions?"
Cersei dipped her head so her face was obscured by the fall of her hair--as bright as beaten gold. "Only that if we are in need of knights in the masque, my lady, my brother Jaime will not object to my borrowing from him when he arrives."
"Indeed." Olenna nodded. "A useful contribution."
"And my brothers," interjected Lyanna Stark, the accents of Winterfell falling oddly on Olenna's southron-trained ears. "All three of them are here in Harrenhal."
"I certainly do not intend for you all to masquerade as knights," she sniffed. "That would be ridiculous. But I shall take your suggestions under advisement. We may borrow your brothers as well, should they be willing. Every good masque includes a comely gentleman or three." At the strangled gasp from Lyanna, Olenna rolled her eyes. "I trust they teach young men how to dance at Winterfell, Lady Lyanna?"
"I...not very well, my lady," the girl admitted, her cheeks turning pink. "Nor ladies, I fear."
"Well, you shall do your best nonetheless." If they ran short on men, Lyanna would make a tolerable knight. No doubt the girl would prefer it thus, but if she was to be Robert Baratheon's lady, this would be her world, not the mud of the practice yard.
"What is the masque, Lady Olenna?" asked Cersei with a smile as sweet and as untrustworthy as Olenna herself might once have worn. "Have you chosen a subject?"
"I have several possibilities in mind, although we must tread carefully. They say the king is in a bad temper." She was one of the few who had not been shocked to learn that King Aerys, who had not left the confines of the Red Keep in the better part of five years, would be amongst Lord and Lady Whent's guests for their grand tournament. But then, spies had always been a good investment and Highgarden had plenty of money.
"Father says he's never anything but." The other ladies gasped and tittered at Cersei's boldness but Olenna merely studied her, brows raised. "It's true."
"Truth-telling will win you no favours here, Lady Cersei. Unless you wish your brother to end his promising career on the point of a Kingsguard's blade, I suggest you curb your tongue." The girl's smile faded to a sullen pout. Olenna remembered then what else she had heard about Cersei Lannister--that her father had sought Prince Rhaegar himself as a son-in-law, to no avail. Olenna could have told Lord Tywin a great deal about the dangers of expecting anything from prospective Targaryen marriage alliances, but he hadn't had the wit to ask her. Nor had the king softened the blow, insisting that his son would marry a lady whose bloodlines met his exacting standards. To the surprise of nearly all the lords of the Reach, Prince Rhaegar had defied his father and married Princess Elia of Dorne, with whom he held court within the ancient walls of Dragonstone.
No doubt keeping this in mind and noting too the sickliness of the Dornish princess--who had produced a daughter but not yet the longed-for heir--Lord Tywin had given his unmarried daughter her own position in the Tower of the Hand. Olenna suspected, too, that the Hand of the King paid little mind to what Cersei did and did not observe. Men really were fools sometimes. More gently, she added, "You must be careful, child. One never knows who might be listening."
At that point, a gust of wind slithered through the half-melted walls, and the Wailing Tower made good on its name. Even Lyanna Stark jumped a little, though she ducked her head in embarrassment as soon as she realised Olenna had seen her.
"Well, then." Olenna clapped her hands. "Bring me an inventory, ladies, and we shall see if we can't make a silk purse from this sow's ear. Someone must keep the men civilised, after all."