The private chambers of Willas Tyrell smelled of dried lavender, beeswax, and the unmistakable, dusty scent of ancient parchment. Attached to his sleeping quarters was a breathtaking personal library, a circular room lined from floor to ceiling with heavy oak shelves.
"The Citadel guards its secrets jealously, but it helps when your mother is a Hightower," Willas explained with a modest smile, leaning his weight onto his polished cane as he guided Orion through the stacks. "My grandfather in Oldtown ensures that whenever a particularly rare text is copied by the acolytes, a duplicate occasionally finds its way to my shelves instead of the Maesters' restricted vaults."
Orion walked slowly along the towering shelves. To Willas, the ten-year-old boy was simply admiring the sheer volume of knowledge. In reality, Orion's Absolute Mind was rapidly scanning and perfectly memorizing the titles, authors, and visible bindings of thousands of books in a matter of seconds. He cataloged Valyrian histories, treatises on Essosi trade, and detailed anatomical studies of flora and fauna.
His eyes suddenly stopped on a strangely bound spine, tucked away in a shadowed corner. The leather was incredibly old, dyed a faded, mossy hue and stamped with faint, leaf-like indentations.
Orion reached out and pulled the heavy tome from the shelf. The cover bore no standard Westerosi script, but a faint, archaic title translated roughly to Book of Green Magic.
He opened it. The pages were brittle, covered in dense, flowing symbols that looked more like the winding roots of a tree than actual letters.
Willas heard the rustle of the ancient parchment and turned, his eyes widening slightly as he saw what Orion had found.
"You have a good eye, cousin, but I am afraid that one will yield you no answers," Willas said gently, stepping closer. "That is a written copy of Garth Greenhand's Personal Book of Knowledge. Or, at least, that is what the scholars believe it to be. It is entirely unreadable. It is written in a sacred, sound—a language known only to the Kings of House Gardener."
Orion ran a finger lightly over the twisting symbols. "If it was known to the Gardeners, why did the knowledge not survive with the Tyrells? Our ancestors were their High Stewards."
"Because the knowledge was lost long before Aegon's dragons ever burned King Mern on the Field of Fire," Willas replied, a historian's melancholy creeping into his voice. "It died with Garth the Tenth. Garth Greybeard."
Willas gestured for Orion to follow him to a small reading table by the window. "Garth Greybeard came to the crown when he was only seven years old. Because he was crowned so young, his predecessor died before he could teach the boy the oral key to this language. The unbroken chain of Gardener knowledge was snapped in a single generation."
Orion sat down, keeping the book open on his lap. "And he never learned it himself?"
"Garth was neither wise nor clever," Willas sighed, sitting heavily in the chair opposite Orion. "He was vigorous in his youth, but vain and frivolous. He surrounded himself with fools and flatterers, completely ignoring the histories of his forebears. And in his old age, he lost his wits entirely. He sired no sons, only daughters—one married to Lord Manderly, the other to Lord Peake. When Garth's senility set in, those two lords began a vicious rivalry over who would succeed him. It escalated into open war."
Willas pointed a finger toward the sprawling lands of the Reach visible through the window. "With the Reach in chaos and the King too feeble to stop it, our enemies descended. The Storm King and the King of the Rock carved away our lands. The Dornish marched right over the Mander and sacked Highgarden. They chopped the ancient Oakenseat into pieces and burned it. They found King Garth tied to his bed, whimpering and covered in his own filth. The Dornish cut his throat—an act of mercy, they claimed—and put Highgarden to the torch."
"Almost a decade of anarchy followed," Willas continued, a touch of Tyrell pride finally bleeding into his tone. "Until our ancestor, Ser Osmund Tyrell, made common cause with the other lords, defeated the Peakes and Manderlys, and placed a second cousin on the throne. But the damage to the Gardeners' ancient lore was permanent. The language in that book died with the boy-king who never learned to read it."
Willas smiled apologetically at his young cousin. "The greatest Maesters at the Citadel have spent lifetimes trying to decipher it, but it remains a dead book, Orion. It is just a beautiful relic."
"A tragedy," Orion agreed softly, his voice perfectly conveying the disappointment of a curious child.
But beneath his calm exterior, a monumental event was occurring.
As Orion stared down at the dense, twisting symbols, the Absolute Mind engaged. Where the greatest Maesters of Westeros saw an impenetrable, dead cipher, Orion's god-like cognitive processing saw a simple mathematical substitution matrix based on botanical geometry. His brain cross-referenced the shapes with the ancient runes of the First Men, the structural patterns of high Valyrian, and the linguistic syntax of over six thousand languages from his past life on Earth.
Within a fraction of a millisecond, the encryption shattered.
The winding, root-like symbols on the page abruptly reorganized themselves in his mind, translating instantly into perfect, fluent meaning. It was not just a history book; it was a sprawling, highly advanced treatise on genetic modification, soil chemistry, and the absolute biological manipulation of plant life, disguised beneath the mythological prose of "Green Magic."
Orion now held the lost, god-like agricultural secrets of Garth Greenhand in his mind, instantly comprehending every word of the dead Gardener language.
"Yes," Orion murmured, gently closing the heavy tome and running his hand reverently over the moss-colored leather cover, making sure his face revealed absolutely none of the terrifying power he had just unlocked. "Just a beautiful relic."
"May I borrow it for the evening, Willas?" Orion asked, his voice adopting the gentle, inquisitive tone of a child fascinated by a puzzle. "I know the words are lost, but the patterns of the ink... they are quite beautiful. I would love to try and copy the artistry."
Willas chuckled warmly, waving a dismissive hand. He was more than happy to indulge his brilliant young cousin. "Keep it for as long as you like, Orion. Half the Maesters in the Citadel have gone cross-eyed staring at those pages. Just do not let Grandmother catch you wasting your time on pretty scribbles when you could be calculating the grain yields."
Orion smiled in thanks. He settled back into the heavy wooden chair by the window, resting the ancient tome on his lap. To Willas, the ten-year-old was simply admiring the archaic calligraphy.
In reality, Orion was rapidly absorbing the greatest lost secrets of the Dawn Age.
As he flipped through the brittle pages, his Absolute Mind cataloged and cross-referenced the recipes hidden within the root-like script. Garth Greenhand had not just been a king; he had been a master of what modern Earth would call advanced biochemistry and cellular regeneration.
Orion found a detailed breakdown for a poultice made from precisely fermented kingscopper, crushed weirwood bark, and the venom of a basilisk. The book described it as a "draught of the closing flesh," but Orion's mind instantly translated it: it was a hyper-accelerant for tissue regeneration. Quick-healing medicine that could close a fatal sword wound in hours without scarring.
A few pages later, he found a distillation of rare Summer Isle orchids and crushed pearls that Garth had supposedly gifted to his favored daughters. "The dew of eternal morning," the book called it. Orion recognized the chemical structure immediately—it was a flawless antioxidant and cellular preservative. An anti-aging, anti-wrinkling serum that could keep a woman looking twenty-five until her dying day. The commercial value of that single page alone would make the Arbor's wine trade look like a beggar's coin pouch.
But it was the final third of the book that made Orion's breath hitch entirely.
Here, the botanical recipes faded, replaced by philosophical and anatomical diagrams of the human body, specifically the head. It detailed Garth Greenhand's personal meditations—the way he claimed to "speak" to the earth, commanding seeds to sprout and barren fields to bloom with a mere thought.
Westeros called it magic. The Maesters called it myth.
Orion's Adaptive Learning went to work, violently tearing away the mystical veil of the First Men to expose the raw mechanics underneath.
The book wasn't describing a blessing from the Old Gods. It was describing a neurological frequency. It detailed specific breathing techniques, sensory deprivation, and mental focuses designed to force the human brain past its natural biological limits.
The realization hit Orion like a bolt of lightning. Magic in this universe isn't a supernatural force. It's a biological anomaly.
It was the result of a human unlocking and utilizing a higher percentage of their brain's latent neural pathways, allowing their consciousness to physically interact with the natural energy fields of the world. A greenseer simply had a slightly more active cortex than a normal man. A skinchanger was just projecting brainwaves on an animalistic frequency.
And Orion... Orion possessed the Absolute Mind.
His brain didn't operate at five, ten, or even fifty percent. His cognitive architecture operated at a state of absolute, boundless infinity.
When Orion had first been reborn, he realized his god-like psionic and reality-warping abilities had been restricted, locked away by the sheer physical rules of the Westerosi universe. He had possessed the ultimate engine, but no key to start the ignition.
Garth Greenhand's book was the key. By defining "magic" as a purely neurological function native to this world, the book provided the exact localized frequency Orion needed to bypass the universe's restriction.
Orion closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. He didn't need to spend decades meditating in a cave like the Children of the Forest. He simply identified the "green" neural pathway described in the book, and with the effortless ease of flipping a switch, his Absolute Mind flooded it with infinite power.
A strange, thrumming warmth spread through his veins, vibrating at the exact frequency of the earth beneath the castle. It was a terrifyingly intoxicating sensation.
Orion opened his eyes. He kept his face perfectly blank, but he slowly reached his hand out, resting his fingertips against the edge of Willas's reading table. Sitting in a small clay pot on the corner of the desk was a decorative Highgarden rose. It had been clipped from the bushes days ago; its stem was severed, its leaves were browning, and its yellow petals were dry and curling at the edges, slowly dying.
Orion didn't speak. He didn't chant. He simply thought.
He pushed a microscopic fraction of his newly unlocked Green Magic through his fingertips, into the wood of the table, and into the clay pot.
In the blink of an eye, the withered brown stem flushed a vibrant, pulsing green. The drooping flower suddenly snapped upright, the dry petals hydrating and expanding outward in a spectacular explosion of perfect, vibrant gold. The air around the desk was instantly flooded with the overwhelming, sweet perfume of a rose in the absolute peak of its bloom, looking healthier than any flower growing out in the Tyrell gardens.
Willas, who had been reading a scroll across the room, suddenly looked up, his nose twitching at the sudden burst of fragrance. He looked at the flower on the desk, blinking in mild confusion.
"Curious," Willas murmured, limping closer. "I could have sworn the maids said that cutting was dead this morning."
"The air in your library must be very good for it, Willas," Orion said smoothly, pulling his hand back and offering an innocent, admiring smile.
Beneath the desk, Orion's heart beat a steady, powerful rhythm. The restrictions were breaking. The Arbor had the gold, the Tyrells had the army, but Orion Redwyne now held the power of the gods.
Soon the sundial corner of the study signaled the end of the afternoon. Willas carefully rolled his scroll and reached for his polished cane, pulling himself up with a soft grunt.
"The kitchens will have laid out the evening feast by now," Willas said, gesturing toward the heavy oak door. "We should not keep my father waiting. When Lord Mace is hungry, the entire castle hears about it."
Orion smiled, carefully placing the moss-covered Book of Green Magic onto a side table, memorizing its exact placement. "Lead the way, Cousin."
They walked together through the winding, torchlit corridors of Highgarden. The castle at night was a different kind of beautiful, the pale limestone bathed in the warm, flickering glow of iron braziers, the evening breeze carrying the sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine through the open colonnades.
When they reached the great dining hall, the sheer opulence of House Tyrell was on full display. The chamber was massive, with vaulted ceilings painted with climbing golden vines. A long table of dark mahogany groaned under the weight of silver platters piled high with roasted boar, honey-glazed fowl, river pike, and mountains of fresh fruit.
Mina was already seated near the center, speaking softly with Lady Alerie. She caught Orion's eye as he entered, her dark, expressive eyes silently searching his face to ensure he was faring well in the lion's den of her family. Orion gave her a subtle, reassuring nod.
Mace Tyrell was holding court at the head of the table, booming with laughter as he recounted a tourney joust to young Loras, who was listening with rapt, idolizing attention. Garlan was quietly helping little Margaery cut her meat, displaying the gentle patience that would one day make him one of the most beloved knights in the realm.
Willas and Orion took their seats just as the heavy doors at the far end of the hall swung open.
The low hum of conversation vanished instantly. The Queen of Thorns did not require a herald. Olenna Tyrell moved through the hall with a slow, deliberate grace, her dark wimple framing her sharp, lined face. The servants scrambled out of her way, bowing deeply.
Mace immediately stopped his story, clearing his throat. "Ah, Mother. We saved you the finest cut of the boar."
"I am an old woman with bad teeth, Mace, not a direwolf," Olenna rasped, taking her seat directly across from Orion. She waved away the servant holding the heavy carving knife and pointed a gnarled finger at a bowl of soft, mashed root vegetables. "Give me that. And pour the boy some wine. He has been thinking all day; his head must be heavy."
A servant hurriedly poured a modest splash of watered Arbor Gold into Orion's silver cup.
For a few minutes, the only sounds were the clinking of silverware and the crackle of the massive hearth fire. Olenna ate sparingly, her sharp eyes darting around the table before finally settling on the ten-year-old sitting quietly across from her.
"Well, Orion?" Olenna spoke up, her voice cutting clearly through the ambient noise of the hall. "You have breathed the air of the Reach's heart for half a day. You have seen the hedge mazes and the pale stone. How do you find Highgarden?"
Every eye at the table turned to the young Redwyne heir. Mace leaned forward, fully expecting the boy to gush over the sheer size of the walls or the legendary Tyrell armory. Loras looked ready to hear praise about the stables.
Orion dabbed his mouth elegantly with a linen napkin, accessing his terrifying charisma to project the perfect image of a profoundly impressed, yet highly cultured young lord.
"It is a masterpiece, Great-grandmother," Orion answered, his voice carrying clearly down the table. "The architecture is flawless, and the gardens are as beautiful as the songs claim. But I think its true wealth is kept indoors."
He turned slightly, offering a respectful nod to the young man seated beside him. "Cousin Willas was kind enough to show me his private library. The books he shared with me were... incredibly enlightening."
Mace blinked, a look of profound disappointment crossing his boisterous face. "Books? By the Seven, boy, you are in the greatest castle in the realm, and you spent the afternoon staring at dusty paper?"
"Knowledge is the foundation of every great castle, Uncle," Orion replied smoothly, his golden tongue weaving the rebuke so gently that Mace only chuckled in response.
Willas, however, smiled warmly, a flush of genuine appreciation touching his cheeks. Since his crippling injury, the young heir often felt overshadowed by his father's love for tourneys and his younger brothers' martial prowess. To have his brilliant young cousin publicly praise his intellectual pursuits was a rare and deeply validating gift.
Mina beamed from across the table, her Tyrell instincts purring at how flawlessly her son was navigating the family dynamics, effortlessly winning Willas's absolute loyalty with a single sentence.
But it was Olenna whose reaction mattered most. The old woman paused, her silver spoon hovering halfway to her mouth. She looked at Orion, then flicked her gaze to Willas, and finally back to the ten-year-old boy.
Her mind, sharpened by decades of political warfare, caught the subtle, dangerous undertone of the word enlightening. She knew Orion was not a normal boy. If he found something in Willas's library worth praising at the dinner table, he hadn't just been reading histories. He had been hunting for weapons.
A slow, predatory smile crept across Olenna Tyrell's wrinkled face.
"Dusty paper, Mace, has toppled more kings than Valyrian steel," Olenna drawled, finally taking a bite of her food. She kept her glittering eyes locked on Orion. "I am glad you found your cousin's library so useful, my boy. We shall have to see what other hidden things you can dig up while you are here."