Lost in Sothoryos Chapter 82 - My Death was Greatly Exaggerated

Robb rode through the Reach under a clear noon sky. The air was warm and filled with the scent of grass and flowers, and everything around him seemed to be alive and just felt incredible. It was nothing like the North. The soil was rich, the fields stretched far, and every patch of land looked like it had been cared for. He could see why men fought over this place. It was wealth in its simplest form... food, water, comfort. Things that the North never had enough of.

Highgarden stood ahead, surrounded by gardens and orchards instead of moats or spikes. Its walls were smooth and pale, built more for pride than defence. There were no steep hills or hidden approaches, no thick layers of stone like Winterfell had. It was beautiful, but beauty was not really useful in war. Robb understood that now more than ever. If he had come here as an enemy, this place would fall quickly. Still, part of him envied the people who lived within it. They to wake in the night to the sound of wind that could freeze a man solid, or to worry for the people under your purview, that they had enough to eat.

When he rode up to Highgardens gate he didn't expect them to laugh when he told him he was Robb Stark. Of course he knew everyone thought he was dead but at least offer him a little more respect than that. They still let them through anyway, as they assumed he was the messenger.

Robb was led through Highgarden's gates under the watchful eyes of guards who carried themselves more like courtiers than soldiers. The main courtyard stretched wide, like an open field, framed by climbing ivy and the carved faces of marble kings and queens that had long since passed, it reminded him of the tombs beneath Winterfell. The air was warm and felt nice combined with the scent of fruit trees, their branches thick with ripening pears and apricots. Robb slowed his pace, taking in every detail. He saw children running near a courtyard fountain, and it reminded him of Bran and Rickon chasing each other through Winterfell's yard. He looked away before the thought could stay too long. This place was a world away from the hard stone and cold of Winterfell.

He found himself thinking that Highgarden was too open, too soft. Its beauty was nice but also it's also a huge weakness. The battlements were built for show; wide enough for a walk, but too low and thin to repel a siege engine. The walls were smooth, their stones set with care but not for endurance. This place had never needed to prepare for starvation or snow. Robb saw no murder holes, no fallback gate, no sign that its people ever expected the war to turn to them. He thought of Winterfell's halls, its double walls, its hidden passages, and the damp chill that lived in every stone. Winterfell was made to endure. Highgarden was made to impress.

As he looked around he thought about what he was doing and whether it was right. Every step of the campaign had felt heavier than the one before. Hed come here because Daeron was his brother, and that meant more to him than he could say, but he wondered if what he was doing now was in vain, would Daeron ever return, he had to believe he would. Still, the doubt lingered. He hoped he was doing right by his men. He hoped that when Daeron returned, he'd come back to a kingdom waiting for him so they could all be a family again. He wanted to believe that everything he'd done would help bring the prince home, that it would mean something when the fighting was over.

They crossed a long bridge that spanned over the inner gardens, and a sea of flowers and herbs that looked more like a painted tapestry than anything real. Bees buzzed lazily in the air, and the faint sound of a harp drifted from a distant terrace. Robb couldn't remember the last time he'd heard music that wasn't sung by soldiers.

It was nice.

Being here made him think so much of his home, of the North, and the long winters that were there. He thought of how far he was from home, from the godswood, from his mother's voice, and from his father... despite everything that had happened he missed him, even if he had supported Robert Baratheon. Every day since returning from death had been heavier than the last, and every choice since then seemed to take him further from the boy he had been. He told himself he was here for his men and for Daeron and that was a good enough reason.

At the far end of the bridge, the great doors of the keep stood open, and a pair of servants stepped aside to welcome him. The main hall was bright, its high windows flooding the space with sunlight that caught on the polished floors. Tables had been laid out with food; roasted meats, fresh bread, platters of fruit, and jugs of rich red wine. The scent filled the air and it was incredibly tempting after weeks of hard rations. Robb's stomach tightened, though he did not show it. He had expected a cold reception, perhaps a negotiation or a guarded meeting. He hadn't expected hospitality.

At the far end of the room stood Willas Tyrell, leaning slightly on his walking stick, a calm smile on his face that did not reach his eyes. "Lord Stark," he said a slight tightness in his voice, "I must admit, this is not a meeting I ever expected to have."

Robb inclined his head. "Few likely did."

When Willas's men had first told him who approached their gates, he had thought it a jest. All the realm had heard that Robb Stark was dead, cut down by Robert Baratheon at the Battle of the Princes Pass, his body left to rot among the corpses. Willas's surprise was plain, though he tried to hide it behind courtesy.

"I was told you were slain," Willas said. "Every tale from the south said so."

"I nearly was," Robb replied. "I was left on the field with the rest of the fallen. Corpse collectors found me and took me to a nearby keep. I lived, though not by much." He recounted calmly, though the memory of that day still lingered... the heat, the dust, the feeling of his own blood drying on his skin.

Willas studied him quietly. The story didn't sound like the sort of miracle he wanted to believe in, but the man before him looked every inch the Robb Stark he'd heard of, the blue eyes, the northern build, the red Tully hair. Whatever doubts he had, he kept them to himself and gestured toward the high table. "Then Westeros owes its surprises to stubborn northern blood," he said lightly. "Come, my lord. You must eat. The road from the south to the Reach is not kind, and you've the look of a man who's eaten little besides salt beef and hard bread."

Robb didn't argue. The smell of the food had become impossible to ignore. He took his place beside Willas at the upper dais where he introduced his family. On Willas's right sat Lady Alerie Tyrell, Beside her was the Queen of Thorns herself, Olenna Tyrell, her eyes already fixed on him. Next to Robb, a young woman, Elinor Tyrell; Willas cousin.

Robb greeted each of them with the courtesy due their rank. "My ladies," he said, bowing his head. "I wish we'd met under kinder skies. The highgarden deserves better than to be turned into another battlefield."

Olenna snorted softly. "The gods never cared for what we deserve. War only ends when there's no one left to fight it." She said bluntly. Robb couldn't help the faint smile that tugged at his lips.

Willas gestured for the servants to begin serving. Platters of food were brought forth; spiced lamb, honeyed chicken, buttered carrots, warm bread, and a wine deep as blood. Robb ate carefully at first, aware of the eyes on him, but hunger won over caution soon enough. The warmth of the hall and the taste of real food eased some of the tension in his shoulders.

Willas asked him about the North; its weather, its people, how the war had changed it. Robb answered politely, though he still stayed guarded. The North had changed beyond easy words. There were too many dead to count, too many halls half empty.

Before long, Olenna tired of the small talk. She leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharp as a blade. "Enough about the snows and the wolves. Tell me, Lord Stark my granddaughter, Margaery. Where is she?"

The question silenced the table. Robb looked down at his cup for a moment before answering. "I don't know where she is," he said honestly. "I don't even know where my sisters are."

The words struck the Tyrells harder than he expected. Willas's expression faltered, and Lady Alerie's composure cracked for just a heartbeat. Olenna frowned deeply, suspicion and worry mingling in her gaze.

Robb set his cup down. "Daeron didn't flee with her. He sent his family away while he stayed behind. That's the last I heard."

Olenna's eyes narrowed. "And you call that reassuring?"

"Maybe not but it was necessary," Robb said evenly. "He's protecting her in the only way he can."

"And what makes you so certain she's safe?" Olenna pressed.

Robb looked up at her and replied, "Because she has two dragons guarding her."

The hall went still. The servants froze where they stood. Willas turned wuickly, his mouth parting in disbelief. "Dragons?"

"They live," Robb said simply. "I've seen them myself," he lied.

Elinor leaned closer, her voice soft but full of wonder. "You've truly seen them?"

Robb nodded once. "They're real, and they're growing fast," he lied again. He trusted Daeron would never lie to him, if he had dragons then he had dragons.

Willas's expression shifted from disbelief to awe. "By the Seven," he murmured. "To think that such creatures still exist... I would give anything to see one."

As the meal went on, the tension eased. Elinor spoke to Robb often, being openly flirtacious, asking about the cold, about how Northerners endured such harsh weather, and even how their women kept from freezing in their furs. Robb answered with a faint smile each time, humouring her. She laughed easily, and though Robb said little, he didn't seem to mind her attention.

When the feast drew to a close, Robb set his cup aside and turned to Willas. "Perhaps we should move to your solar," he said. "There are things better discussed away from wine and food."

Willas nodded, setting his walking stick beside him as he rose. "Of course. And if you don't object, my grandmother will join us. Her counsel is... difficult to exclude."

Robb gave a small, knowing smile. "Not at all. I'd expect nothing less."

The great hall began to empty as they left their seats. The murmur of conversation faded behind them, replaced by the sound of their footsteps on the stone floor. As they walked toward the solar, Robb's face grew calm again, his earlier ease replaced by the focus of a man who had come here with a singular purrpose. Whatever warmth the feast had brought was gone. The time for talk was over. The time for decisions was about to begin.

Willas's solar was smaller than Robb expected, though it still spoke of wealth. The floor was covered in woven rugs from essos, and the walls were lined with tall shelves filled with scrolls and maps. The air smelled faintly of parchment, beeswax, and the sharp tang of wine. A single window stood open, letting in the sound of the gardens outside. Robb noticed how the breeze stirred the curtains, carrying the scent of roses. It was a beautiful room.

Willas moved slowly toward his chair, leaning on his walking stick. Olenna followed close behind. Servants brought wine and three goblets, setting them down before slipping out and shutting the door. Robb remained standing, resting one hand lightly on the edge of the table.

"Please," Willas said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. "Sit."

Robb nodded and took the seat. Olenna lowered herself into one beside her grandson, her eyes never leaving him. For a while, none of them spoke. The silence stretched until Willas finally broke it. "I'll speak plainly, my lord," he said, folding his hands on the table. "You have my respect, but you've also brought an army into my lands. I'd like to know what you hope to gain by this siege before any blood is spilled."

Robb met his eyes. "Your surrender. Or your loyalty. Either will do."

Willas's expression didn't change, but Olenna gave a short laugh. "He doesn't waste time. Go on then, wolf, tell us what you mean by loyalty."

"I mean bending the knee," Robb clarified. "Highgarden's gates stay open, your men lay down their arms, and you swear fealty."

"Fealty to you?" Olenna asked, her brow arching.

Robb shook his head. "Not to me. To King Daeron Targaryen."

That drew a pause. Willas's hand tightened slightly on his stick, and Olenna's eyes narrowed. "The boy isn't even in Westeros," she said. "You expect us to kneel to a ghost?"

"He's not a ghost," Robb replied. "He's alive. And when he returns, he won't be alone."

Olenna tilted her head. "Ah, yes... the dragons."

Robb's voice was calm. "You've heard the rumours. I've seen the truth. When he returns, the balance of power will shift faster than any of you can imagine. Robert's crown won't protect him, and Tywin Lannister's gold won't save him."

Willas leaned forward slightly. "You speak with conviction, my lord, but even conviction won't hold back a siege. You know as well as I do that Highgarden's fields could feed an army for years. Why waste time here when you could march north and secure your own lands for when Daeron returns?"

"Because I know your army is marching home," Robb said.

Willas froze. Olenna's face didn't change, but her eyes flicked toward him for the briefest moment. Robb noticed. "That's why I'm here," he continued. "I know Mace Tyrell's pride won't allow him to see Highgarden under siege. He'll turn his host around and march to relieve it. When he does, my men will be waiting. He'll find his own home surrounded and his soldiers caught between my own."

Olenna's tone turned sharper. "And how, pray, do you plan to keep us from warning him?"

Robb rested his forearms on the table. "I already have my best archers stationed around the castle. Any rider who leaves won't make it far. You can try, but it won't matter."

For the first time, Olenna looked genuinely surprised. The faintest trace of admiration crept into her expression. Willas's face remained calm, but there was tension behind his eyes.

"I'm not here to destroy Highgarden," Robb went on. "I'm here to bring it under the right banner. When Mace's army arrives, they'll join ours. Together, we'll march on Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister. Between us and the Dornish to the south, their armies will have nowhere to run."

"And if we refuse?" Willas asked quietly.

"Then you'll fight a losing war," Robb said simply. "And when Daeron returns with his dragons, he'll remember who stood with him and who didn't."

Olenna tapped her cane against the floor. "So that's it? You ride into my lands, threaten my house, and call it loyalty to a king who hasn't even shown his face? You're bold, I'll give you that."

Robb allowed himself the faintest smile. "Boldness is all that's kept me alive this long."

She studied him for a moment longer, then leaned back, her expression softening into something that might have been amusement. "You sound less like your father than I expected. He had way too much honour for something like this."

Robb didn't answer.

Willas exhaled slowly and set his walking stick aside. "If we agreed to this... what then? What becomes of my people? Of the Reach?"

"They'll be left alone, protected, and spared the war that's coming," Robb said. "I have no wish to see this land burn. I only want to end the war before it goes on too long or worse... dragons return to these shores and it becomes a different kind of war."

The solar fell quiet again. Olenna's gaze stayed fixed on him, unblinking. At last, she let out a short laugh and clapped her hands once. "Well played, Lord Stark. You've thought this through."

"I've had time," Robb replied.

"You've also found yourself a seat at the table," she said. "Welcome to the game."

Robb gave a faint, humourless laugh. "The game's already over. Whether I win here or Daeron returns later, he'll still be king. The rest of you just haven't realised it yet."

Olenna smiled thinly, the expression somewhere between respect and warning. "You speak like a man who already cleared the board."

"N maybe I have," Robb said.

Willas rose slowly. He looked to his grandmother, then back at Robb. "If I do this," he said, "if House Tyrell bends the knee to Daeron Targaryen, will you guarantee the safety of Highgarden and its people, I also ask you to speak on our behalf when Daeron Targaryen returns? We are giving up a lot by doing this, we have asked for no land or marriages, no positions of power."

"You have my word," Robb said. "As Lord of Winterfell."

"But I would not worry about such things, Margaery I'm sure will carry a Targaryen babe by the time they return and you'll be considered family."

Willas nodded. "Then it's done." He went down on one knee, head bowed. "House Tyrell swears its loyalty to House Targaryen through his proxy Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell. We will follow King Daeron when he returns."

Olenna watched, her expression unreadable. After a moment, she gave a soft sigh and looked at Robb again. "You've won your point, Stark. I hope you know what you're doing."

"I do," Robb said.

Willas rose and extended his hand. "Then let us begin. My men will open the gates and see to feeding yours. Highgarden will shelter the Northmen for now."

Robb shook his hand firmly. "You have my thanks, Lord Tyrell."

Olenna gave a small, almost fond smile. "The Reach and the North. Who would've thought?"

Robb turned to the window. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the gardens below. "The realm's changing," he said quietly. "Better that we change with it."

Behind him, Olenna's voice carried. "Or be buried under it."

Willas called for a servant and motioned toward Robb with a polite smile. "You've travelled long and spoken longer, my lord. You must be weary. There's no sense in riding yourself down after such a day. Rest here tonight. You'll find Highgarden's hospitality worth the risk."

Robb rose, his joints stiff from the ride and the weight of his armour. "That would be welcome," he said. "It's been some time since I slept under a proper roof."

Willas nodded to the servant at the door. "See that Lord Stark is given one of the guest chambers in the eastern wing. A bath, fresh linen, and food, if he wishes it."

The servant bowed and led Robb through the quiet halls of Highgarden. The castle was quiet now, the torches burning low and the air carrying the faint sweetness of night-blooming flowers from the gardens outside. They passed through a corridor hung with tapestries of hunts and harvests, and Robb caught himself staring at them—images of peace that felt almost foreign after y war.

When they reached the chamber, the servant opened the door and stepped aside. "All is prepared, my lord," he said softly, bowing again before leaving him to the room.

The chamber was large and bright even by torchlight, its stone walls draped with soft green hangings. A fire burned in the hearth, its light flickering against a deep bronze tub filled with steaming water. The scent of soap and herbs filled the air. His armour felt heavier than ever. Piece by piece, he removed it—the chestplate, the vambraces, the chain—and set them carefully on a nearby table. The leather beneath was stiff from travel. When he finally sank into the water, the heat stung at first, biting at every cut and bruise. Then it settled, loosening the ache in his limbs, the dull pain in his back. He tilted his head back and let out a long breath.

His mind refused to rest.

The victory in the solar had gone as well as he could have hoped. Highgarden was his now, or near enough. The Tyrells had bent the knee, their banners would soon march beneath Daeron's. But that was the simple part. The road ahead was far worse. The Stormlands awaited.

Robert Baratheon awaited.

The thought struck him harder than he expected. He closed his eyes, and for an instant, he wasn't in Highgarden anymore. He was on the field again—the sun burning through smoke, the roar of men dying all around him, and that hammer swinging down. He remembered the sound of it connecting: the crack of bone, the shattering pain as the world went white and air left his lungs.

He pressed his hand against his chest. Even healed, the indentation was there, a faint hollow in the flesh and bone where the hammer had crushed him. The maesters had called it a miracle that he'd lived at all. He could still feel the ghost of the blow when he drew breath too sharply. For a moment, panic crept up his spine. His breathing quickened. The memory was too clear; the sound, the pain, the taste of blood. He stared at his reflection in the rippling water, his own eyes staring back.

"I can't be a coward," he muttered under his breath. "I have to see this through."

The words cantered him. He drew in a slow breath, then another.

He reached for the cloth beside the tub and ran it across his chest, washing away the dirt and dried sweat. The simple act helped; it gave his hands something to do. He focused on the warmth of the water, the crackle of the fire, the soft hush of wind outside the window. For the first time in weeks, he felt clean.

Then he heard the door creak open.

He didn't turn immediately. "I'm fine," he said. "I don't need anything."

There was no answer. He turned slightly, expecting the servant, then froze.

Elinor Tyrell stood just inside the doorway, the light from the fire outlining her shape. She wore only a thin white shift that brushed her knees, the fabric soft and sheer enough that it caught the light when she moved. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, and her cheeks were faintly flushed. She smiled when their eyes met. "So it's true," she said softly, stepping into the room. "The wolf really does rest after all."

Robb's brow furrowed slightly. "You shouldn't be here."

"Perhaps," she said playfully, "but it would be a shame to let our honoured guest spend the night alone."

She moved closer, the faint scent of rose oil following her. Her fingers brushed the edge of the table as she passed, tracing the wood. "I thought you might want company," she said, her tone leaving no room for misunderstanding. "It can be a long night, and you've earned a gentle welcome."

Robb looked at her for a long moment. His first instinct was to tell her to leave, but the warmth of the fire and the exhaustion of the day dulled his resistance. There was something disarming in her forwardness, in the way she looked at him without fear or formality. He drew a slow breath.

"All right," he said quietly.

Her smile widened and she closed the door behind her.

(AN: So our boy Robb is playing the game and doing it much better than in canon. He knew sieging high garden would never work, but it allowed him to put the Tyrell's in an awkward position, one they'd likely accept due to Margaerys association with Daeron. So now Robb has an army over twice the size and is able to march against Robert Baratheon, that's if he can get over what happened. Hope you enjoyed.)

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