a bolt-on conspiracy theorist

When Symond's mother died, no one from the Summer Isles attended like Xuxa promised. With a small host of Reachmen nobles coming to insincerely offer condolences, the little boy hidden behind his lord father watched with pure confusion.

Lord Lynus Tyrell was all smiles and laughs. He'd pat other lords on their back and thank them for the attendance. His wife's dead body seemed to have no affect on him, nor his grieving children. Well, one half of his children.

Symond was wrought with grief. He cried watching the silent sisters present her on a bier, the septon receiting a prayer with his eyes beseeching the blubbering boy to shut it. His sister, his junior by five years, sat still and stolid. It was chilling how little she reacted to their mother dying. The only care that'd be shown was a slight lip twitch when looking over to her brother.

The lack of agony infuriated Symond at the time, he couldn't wrap his head around why the feast seemed joyous and gregarious when a life was lost. He didn't think of it as a lesson at the time.

Symond stood hovering over the corpse, stuffed full with buds of lavender and rosemary, an entanglement of vines with grapes and golden roses plucked from the halls of Highgarden rested above his brow. The floral aroma would've soothed him if there wasn't a repugnant aftertaste that lingered from his father.

The Stranger reversed the spell that must've stained on him. Perhaps Symond mourned efficiently when his father's hand fell limp in his palm, seeing light fade from his blue eyes. He cried furiously, his ribs ached and nose dripped the whole night through. He couldn't bring himself to shed tears afterwards, though the gout that the silent sisters couldn't remove made his eyes water and burn.

Nysa was cold and unmoved as a statue as the septon blessed their father's soul to rest in eternal peace, watching over them in the seven heavens. She stood dutifully behind her older brother as he shook hands and mingled with the other lords in attendance. Head down, sorrow yielded.

His father taught him, without ever knowing, that funerals were not funerals for lords and ladies. They were opportunities to network. A handful of lords presented their daughters to marry when coming to offer their condolences. There were houses with wishes for emancipation of their debts, easy to brush off and say “what unpaid taxes?" The lords with requests for loans weren't as easy and ever so persistent. The awkward ones were proposals for Nysa's hand, he could feel her writhe behind him.

Lord Leyton Hightower, the Walder Frey of Oldtown, offered a son and daughter. “Malora is booksmart, she'd be the wise choice for a wife. Alerie is the beauty, taller one too. Second sisters tend to be taller, haven't you noticed?"

Symond nodded passively with a dull smile on his lips, he already knew his answer. They were all the same, but his septon would clout his mouth as a child when he interrupted others.

“There's Denyse, but she's near three and ten. She hasn't bled yet."

All attempts to suppress discomfort in the negotiation washed away, his dull smile fell into a frown. “I have a betrothed, appropriately aged."

Lord Leyton's eyes widened, red crashed over his face like a rash. “You don't say! Who's the lucky lady?"

“That I cannot say, there are arrangements to finalize before I reveal anymore." Symond deflected, the courteous smile came back to bloom.

“Making plans already, a relief to know Lord Lynus left us in good hands." Lord Leyton patted him on his back, sending the new Lord of Highgarden squirming from the unexpected touch. “What about the young lady, hm? Does she have a husband to be?"

Symond looked over his shoulder at his little sister, whose quivering eyes peaked underneath her eyelashes at Lord Hightower. Two years spent in the Water Gardens and her beauty flourished with time, but she was still green as summer grass. Three and ten, the same age Symond lost his mother.

“We've secured a betrothal for Baelor, but Garth is ready to take a wife." Lord Leyton offered.

In the distance was the Hightower host, the one he could predict Garth being was the young green and grey armored knight, herding his younger siblings like cats as Baelor Breakwind stood to the side.

“We're keeping our options open, she's still has her studies." A practiced excuse came to reply.

“Of course, no rush." The pulled smile on Lord Leyton's face contrasted to his casualness as he stepped away.

In the never ending orbit of lords playing merchants, Symond's gaze routinely drifted over to the Martell siblings standing off to the side. The years had been kind to them, except for the fatigue that darkened around Elia's eyes. She must've been crying, he concluded. He wasn’t too fond of the Martells, but he was part of her childhood too.

And yet the exhaust on her face did not pair with how she behaved. Oberyn, behind her by a pace, would lean over her shoulder and whisper a jest in her ears. She'd fail to stifle snorts and giggles as Doran shot looks at her warning to rein in her indecency before their mother caught on, though the Princess Doralyn was absent with fondness of her newborn granddaughter coddled in Lady Mellario's arms.

His allegiance to his father's memory wasn't as devoted, but his nostrils flared at the sight of the two Martells being so shameless.

The line of lords and ladies making their acquaintances and plans with him soon deteriorated. He took the opportunity to approach his friends, who made no effort for sympathies.

When he stopped in the clearing of their circle, with his sister trailing behind him, Elia and Oberyn cleared their throats from another inside jest that Doran hushed them with a side glance for.

“I…" The boy who grew up in the south, where words cut with honey, wanted to say something clever. I'm glad to see you find the humor in this. I'm glad somebody has derived joy from this lost. The boy whose mother took him to the Water Gardens and played hopfrog with little Oberyn until their legs gave out spoke instead, with the practiced grace of a man grown. “I'm grateful you're here with us during these difficult times, your support is not in vain."

Doran gave a formal but slow nod. “We were better acquainted with Lady Xuxa, but Lord Lynus was very much a part of our upbringing as well."

A sympathetic, closed lipped smile formed on Elia's lips- the same kind, pity smile her mother would give young Symond after scraping his knee and drawing blood. Commiseration drowned in Oberyn's eyes in place of his typical spirited gaze, assessing Symond's grief the way a maester would assess rot.

“You do not have to pretend to be fond of him." He relieved them of their politeness. Lord Lynus despised the Dornish as any Tyrell did, his wife befriended them out of spite. Or that was the tale told in the eyes of Tyrell knights with their own grudges.

“He is your father, nonetheless." The Princess of Dorne countered gently.

“Was, he was his father." Nysa broke her silence to correct him.

A small breath passed through Symond's nose, trying to stifle any pulse of irritation from the witling.

“Yes, and yours too." Oberyn added with nothing but fondness in his voice and smile. “We'll be here for you if you need us."

Symond looked over his shoulder, his little sister held her stance as still as a tree but the glow in her face could not be contained. “Will you be here for the tourney?" She asked, her voice springing with peppiness.

“I wouldn't miss it for the world." The young prince confirmed.

“I'll speak to the master of games, we must have one row against each other. My lance, your spear." Symond insisted. Hearing about Oberyn's progress in letters from Nysa sparked his excitement over the years. Poking a dummy stuffed with hay nor spoon feeding his father did not make the days go by fast.

“You seem rather confident to be on the opposite end of my spear." Oberyn noted, his darting eyes appraising him.

Symond's hands linked behind his back, the smugness in his upturned lips hinted a secret. “I think you'll be surprised to see the durability of my lance."

“Oh, this I have to see." Not that it was the lance that convinced him. Prince Oberyn never backed down from a challenge.

“Will you ask for my favour, my prince?" Nysa interrupted the banter between the two boys, eyeslashes batting.

Symond sighed as one foot took a step back for him to turn slightly to face her. “Ladies are not supposed to ask to be approached for favours, Nysa."

“She's a young lady who knows what she wants." Elia spoke on her behalf, proudly grinning at the Tyrell girl. “Dorne has made a great impression on her."

“For better or for worse." Symond mumbled. Since his sister came back, she'd been anything but the girl he grew up beside. She'd switch accents for certain words. Wore Dornish cut dresses, baring her navel or shoulders. Open toed sandals. Dornish braids. And worse, she bowed and bent to no one.

“With all due respect, brother, you said that Dorne influenced me greatly when I first came back." Nysa added. For all he knew, this wasn't a funeral. It was a battlefield between him and the girls.

“I meant the maturity you presented when you arrived back home, which I'm now putting into question." He snapped back with Princess Doralyn chuckling at the feuding.

He took a small breath to collect himself before turning to address Elia. “May I talk to you?"

“You can always talk to me." Elia said softly.

“Alone." He specified. “On a walk, in the gardens?"

For a beat, Elia and Oberyn exchanged words through glances. An inquiry from Oberyn and a soft nod with her hand squeezing his forearm from Elia. Envy sprouted through Symond for reasons he couldn't put his finger on. The connection he was denied for three whole years, taunting him in his despair.

“What was that? Earlier between you and Obbie?" Symond asked after a few moments of silence in a slow stride through the botanical maze, guided along trimmed shrubs and rosebushes with buds that promised winter’s end. The cool air caressed their faces, a welcome breeze after standing still in stuffy air at the sept.

“What do you mean?" Elia's brows furrowed.

He reenacted the quiet exchange between brother and sister, the small goofy expressions on his face made her giggle.

“Obbie knows that I've been tired beyond reason lately, I was letting him know that I'll be okay." She explained.

“Oh, you're tired?" The circles under her eyes made sense. His hand took her arm gently but rushed to link with his arm. “Come, there's a bench nearby."

Her smile vanished as she was dragged through the garden, the aroma and haste putting a dizzy spell on her. “I don't need to sit-”

“I want to sit with you, either way." He protested as he found a secluded area with a white stone bench to seat them both at.

Elia let out all exhaustion in a sigh as she sat down next to him, brushing golden brown strays out of her face and tucking them back into braids. She was beautiful as she was kind in memory, but her eyes never met his. Only admiring the view the resting sun behind the hedges, painting the sky the color of peaches.

“It's a beautiful day, despite the circumstances." Symond blurted out, the words tripping on his tongue.

Elia hummed and nodded. “It is." How he loved her for not making a weather report seem redundant.

A silence held over them. “Is there anything I can do for you?"

“I want to cherish this moment."

He nodded, looking forward in the same direction as she did. As much as he longed for her laughter in his home, he saw the need for silence. He'd been trapped in thick silks, dyed in ink black with no time to feel the wind, the sun gifting its warmth after the bleakness. He could feel what she did, grounded.

“Summer is approaching." Elia stated, her head tilted back to soak in what she could of the retiring sun.

“Thank the gods." Symond murmured under his breath, yet she caught what he said and it brought a crooked smile. “I'm a rose. Not a snowdrop. I do not breed well in winter."

“I don't know…" She took a good look at him. “You came out rather refined."

“I'm glad you think so." There was an itch in the inner corner of his eye that he rubbed out. “I feel discombobulated."

Her eyes softened at his confession. “I know what you mean. When my father died, I was lost. Confused, angry. Irrevocably angry."

Symond blinked with surprise. “Angry?" She nodded. “I remembered you differently. You were distraught, yes, but you never hostile."

A stifled chuckle came from her. “I'm angry all the time. I know better than to let others feel my wrath.”

“Are you angry now?"

She paused to evaluate her words. “I'm worried." Concern fell over his face as he gave her his full attention. “I worry for you and Nysa. She's a force, but she's a child. She needs a firm hand to guide her. You are that hand."

“Dorne has no room for my sister's fostering for a few more years?" The jest fell flat as there was nothing but a flat expression from Elia. He tried to sigh to relieve the embarrassment that clung to his chest. “I won't fail my sister, she's the last of my mother's blood."

“Is that a promise?"

He nodded.

“Good." She said softly with content.

Symond built silence between them to remember how he planned this moment to go, reciting a speech in his head with haste.

“I've been looking forward to this moment for years. You and me, sitting in a plot of flowers, talking to each other like this. It's what kept me strong while tending to my father, like a garden on cursed soil." He began, trying to sound natural. “I didn't know how to be strong, how to live to my family's words as I witnessed the color drain from his face... Then, I'd think of you."

He paused for a reaction, but there was a breath hitch in place of an expected swoon. Her eyes casted down at the marble stone beneath their feet. “Sy, I-”

Her hands hesitated as he grasped onto hers, but she relinquished. “I know I haven't courted you or written you letters in your absence, it's not for mindlessness but rather a misguidance in efforts. I promise you, if you stay and come to Lannisport and Ravens Keep with me as my wife, I will more than make up for it."

“I cannot marry you."

A curt chuckle fell from his breath. “Of course you can, you can marry anyone you want. You can be the Lady of Highgarden, or the Princess of Highgarden. Or both."

“Symond, I'm engaged."

He threw his hands out of her grip like he just discovered poison oak on his palms. “Engaged?"

“To be married." She clarified, her hands gripped the bench at her sides.

He let the news settle in. The first instinct was to blow up, to badger her about how she ruined everything. It took a deep breath to collect himself.

“To whom?"

She hesitated. “I cannot say."

“I won't tell."

His pleading got a soft but short laugh from her. “I won't either, not until the time is right."

Since his father died, he dreaded how every part that made him him was repressed. Snark replaced smiles. He must always be pleasant, never tempestuous. For once, it was beneficial to be without thorns. To say the right thing.

“When the time comes, can I be the first to know?" He asked as a simple favor.

A soft sigh escaped her, one hand reached. Her hand on top of his, clenched up awkwardly, was torture in the sweetest measure. “Yes, I promise."

A current of dejection came over him, even as she promised him a inconsequential piece of herself. He tried to hide it, but all decayed around him. The sun disappeared behind the hedges and an unsettling air loomed over, the dusty warm colors of the sky sulked to grey. The ground pulled beneath his feet once again.

“Let's forget about what I- how I tried to… you know.”