The throne room was a riot of colour.

Flowering vines and creepers of every description, some imported from as far away as Yi Ti and Sothyros, flourished in the sun-filled hall, rising from the urns in which they were planted to entwine the great room's marble pillars. Doves and finches fluttered among the greenery, filling the air with their cooing and calls, and speckling the polished floors with their shit.

Guards in the livery of House Tyrell lined the high arcades to the left and the right, their polished halberds gleaming as they stood at rigid attention. Masks of white porcelain covered their faces, painted in vivid floral designs. Only their eyes revealed them to be men and not mannequins.

Lord Eldyn Norridge eyed the motionless guardsmen nervously as he advanced down the throne room's central aisle, careful not to trip over the twisting vines which wound across the floor like rivers across a map. He had been to Highgarden once before- long ago, in the days of old Lord Vyman. It was known throughout the Reach that the Court had since grown strange, but Norridge had not been expecting this.

At the head of the room, the Lord of Highgarden lounged in his throne, a chair of polished oak overgrown with bloodflower tendrils. He was a lean man, with a gaunt face and dark, wild hair. He wore a doublet of deep green silk, with black riding pants and boots. A half-smile played across his mouth, and his pale eyes glittered with suppressed mirth as they dashed endlessly about the room. He was eating a fireplum- the bright red juice dripping in rivulets down his chin- and he seemed unaware of or uninterested his bannerman’s presence.

Norridge stopped before Tyrell’s throne and gave an awkward bow. There was no steward in evidence in the hall, and no one had announced him. When he had arrived at Highgarden he had been directed to report immediately to the Great Hall... and been left to himself to find it.

“My Lord Tyrell,” he stammered, tugging unconsciously at a greying beard, “I come in answer to your summons. It has been some time since last we met, I am Lord Norridge.”

“Hmmm? Porridge, yes, just so. You've been expected.” said Lord Tyrell in a lazy, absent drawl. He was watching the birds flutter and flit among the vaulted ceiling. He flicked away the pit of his plum in the other man's direction.

For a moment, anger overcame Norridge’s nervousness and caution. He had not traveled halfway across the Reach to answer a summons-sent with not even a word explanation!- only to be insulted by some daft boy on a throne!

He spluttered a moment, searching for words, but Tyrell beat him to it.

“Now, now Forage, don't be mad at your rightful liege and master,” he said, eyes wandering over Norridge's reddening face, “After all, it's you who’ve been a bit naughty, no?”

“Naughty?” Norridge spat. He would not be spoken to like this. He was a good lord, and a good bannerman to the Tyrells- he paid his yearly taxes and had rallied his men to the their banner when the Blackfyres rebelled, and sent riders when Highgarden had called for men to put down the Brightwater Brigands.

“Just so, Norton. Quite naughty, in truth.” Tyrell snapped his fingers, and a very small, very bald man in maester's robes shuffled out from beside the throne. Norridge hadn't noticed him there amidst the vines.

“Read the charges,” Tyrell said with a lazy wave of his hand. 

Suddenly, Norridge's insides turned to water. This was turning from a fever dream into a nightmare.

"Charges?!"

It could only mean one thing. [i]They knew.[/i] Oh, gods...how could they know? He had been so careful....

The maester produced a scroll from the folds of his robe and read, “Lord Eldyn Norridge, You are formally charged with the selling of fifty one men, twenty seven women, and thirteen children into bondage, a crime against the king's justice, the laws of the Reach and Realm. By the authority of Lord Leos Tyrell, Lord of Hi-”

“This is outrageous!” shouted Norridge, stumbling backwards, “What proof have you-”

“The sworn deposition of three Volantese galley captains, and of those whom you sold into slavery, recovered off the coast of the Arbor,” said the maester, in a quiet, clipped voice. 

“Mercy,” Norridge whispered, looking at Leos, “I am a loyal bannerman, mercy please...”

“Loyal?” murmured Tyrell, standing. He was a tall man, and thin, and drawing up to his full height resembled a scarecrow come to life, “Loyal?! Selling slaves and keeping secrets- badly! I might add- isn't loyal. It's naughty, it's wicked.”

He advanced on Norridge, who backed away, paling visibly.

“What's more, Drainage, if I can find out about your little business on the side, selling paupers to Volantese pirates, how many other houses in the Reach can? how many of the ones pining for Bittersteel to return and looking for an excuse to defy me?! Not to mention Celena fucking Lannister and that one eyed wonder Brynden Rivers, who will- unless something is done about it!- shortly be appointed hand of the king."

Leos was nose to nose with Norridge, his eyes bright and wild, spittle flying from his lips as he spoke.

“A bannerman selling slaves under my nose? It does not say much for my ability keep the fear of the Stranger in my subjects, does it?! Makes me seem weak. And these are not. People. In front of whom [i]one-should-look-fucking-weak[/i]! I should eat your liver on toast!”

He stopped shouting, a smile broke out over his features as suddenly as the sun through clouds.

“Now then.” he cooed, retreating backwards to his throne like a gangly spider to its web, “My men are taking your holdfast. Your son and daughters will be brought here, as wards. Your lands and incomes held in trust by Houses Osgrey and Graves, to be returned to your children in time, should you...comply with my wishes.”

In his peripheral vision, Norridge could see Tyrell's masked guardsmen approaching him on either side.

“Am I not merciful, Norridge, my love, my popingsy, my darling?”

“Y-yes, lordship,” Norridge said. The guards were on either side of him now, one had a gauntleted hand on his shoulder.

“Yes, like the Maiden herself.” rambled Tyrell, “In mercy, not fertility. I don't have womb, Cabbage.”

“O-of course not, lordship.”

Leos Tyrell was back to staring at the birds, and said no more.

The maester at his side glanced at him and at Norridge, and there was a long moment of silence in which the maester seemed to decide that the Lord of Highgarden was no longer deigning to speak.

“His lordship has instructions for you.” said the small man, “You will be taken to the Shield Islands under guard. Your task will be explained on the way.”

He gestured at the guards.

Norridge was led out of the hall as Lord Tyrell of Highgarden, Marshal of the Reach and Warden of the South, began humming a hymn to the maiden and laughing as he watched the birds flutter about his throne.