On the road to Highgarden.
"I still think the school only needs to be responsible for making children literate," Margaery insisted, seated gracefully within the carved oak carriage as it rolled through the golden fields of the Reach.
She pulled back the embroidered curtain with both hands, sunlight streaming across her face as she argued with Arthur about the true purpose of the school she had founded.
"No, no, no—you're missing the point entirely," Arthur replied with a shake of his head.
Moments earlier, he had explained his vision for a more modern model of education: one that combined classical learning with practical training—what he referred to as quality and vocational education. But Little Rose, raised among septas and singers, hadn't fully grasped it.
Within the rigid pyramid of Westerosi society—from king to great lords, then bannermen and knights—education had never been a path to upward mobility for commoners. And Arthur wasn't naïve enough to think his ideas could overturn that hierarchy overnight.
Yet, to him, education wasn't about reshaping the system—it was about restoring its essence: to help people improve themselves and unlock their potential, regardless of status or birth.
After a pause, Arthur said, "Rather than just literacy, the school should be training the kinds of people society actually needs—urgently. Like doctors who save lives and heal the wounded. Think about it—when has a peasant ever had a proper physician?"
"Never," he answered himself. "For thousands of years, commoners have had no doctors of their own. We can't keep letting septons and septas fill the role out of habit. That's not their calling."
Margaery considered his words carefully.
In the North, where many still kept to the Old Gods, castle-trained maesters sometimes tended to villagers when necessity demanded. But in most of Westeros, maesters served only the noble houses. For them to treat a commoner was rare—and, in many places, frowned upon.
The maesters of Oldtown had been trained for years, forged in the Citadel's great halls to serve lords and ladies. To touch the poor was considered beneath them.
Thus, the duty of tending the sick among the smallfolk fell to the Faith of the Seven. Septons and septas served as spiritual guides and makeshift healers, comforting both the soul and the flesh. Their methods were humble: prayer, herbal poultices, and milk of the poppy.
This was why, during the later stages of the war, the High Sparrow had gained such rapid support. With nobles distracted by their feuds and failures, the Faith stepped in to serve the people in ways their lords had long neglected. And the people, in turn, rallied to their cause.
"But that need not continue," Arthur said, gesturing beyond the window toward a village nestled along the Mander. "We could train doctors—real ones—in our schools. People from the villages, raised up with just enough knowledge to tend to simple illnesses: fevers, wounds, childbed infections."
"And not only doctors," he continued. "The schools in rural towns can also train skilled workers for our workshops. The Reach has thriving breweries and weaving halls. The Westerlands need smiths for their forges. The Riverlands can use carpenters, coopers, and jewelers. Each region has industries that require hands, not just arms."
Arthur spoke with the clarity of someone from another world—a world where labor was organized, knowledge specialized, and no child's future was predetermined by their father's station.
He envisioned training centers that allowed young boys and girls to skip the long, uncertain apprenticeship years and begin working in earnest by the time they came of age. Simple vocational schooling—modest, yes, but enough to change lives.
As a soul from another time, Arthur saw the gaps that Westerosi lords overlooked. Where others saw serfs and tenants, he saw wasted potential.
"Common folk really do need medical care," Margaery admitted, adjusting her posture. "Too many suffer or die for want of it. The septons mean well, but their skills vary wildly, and their methods are rooted in old herbs and half-remembered lore."
At that moment, the Redwyne twins spurred their horses forward to catch up with the carriage, having grown bored riding behind the procession.
"In truth, the herbalists and hedge doctors across Essos are a better model," Hobber chimed in, leaning on the window frame. "They cost far less to train than our maesters."
"And their treatments are cheaper too," added Horace. "A few simple tinctures, poultices, and powders are enough to cure most ailments."
Thanks to their upbringing on the trade-rich isle of the Arbor, the twins had been exposed to merchant vessels from Lys, Volantis, and Qarth. They'd learned more of Essos than most mainland lords ever would.
Arthur nodded. "Maesters in Westeros train at the Citadel for over a decade. They forge links for healing, history, economics, and more, because they're expected to serve as advisors and healers, engineers and scribes. But this breadth is a weakness, not a strength."
He was frustrated by how much of their education was misaligned with the needs of common people.
"The Citadel was designed for lords," he said. "Not for the people. But what the people need is specialization, not generalization. A few good years of training—focused entirely on simple medicine—would be enough to produce a generation of practical healers."
Arthur turned to Margaery.
"You're in a unique position," he said. "If you can convince Lord Tyrell to fund schools across the Reach—not just to teach letters, but to train local doctors—you could revolutionize the region. You wouldn't need Citadel-trained maesters. Just field medics—local healers—capable of treating common fevers, stomach flux, or infected wounds."
He smiled faintly. "Even without grand libraries or silver links, they could save thousands."
His lands were small, and he had no maester of his own. Nor could he spare the coin or time to experiment on his own. But if Margaery persuaded her father—Duke Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden—the scale could be staggering.
These healers, Arthur imagined, were akin to the "barefoot doctors" of his past life. Trained quickly, with limited but sufficient knowledge, they could extend life expectancy across entire villages. Because most common folk didn't die of rare diseases—they died of infection, childbirth, and fever.
"It wouldn't even require much silver," Arthur added. "Just the will."
And if that seed were planted now, it could bloom across Westeros in a generation.
Margaery's fingers brushed the edge of the curtain as she looked out across her homeland. Sunlight danced on fields of barley and rolling vineyards. Beneath all the wealth and glory, she thought, were countless smallfolk who had never seen a doctor in their lives.
Perhaps Arthur Bracken wasn't just a soldier or a rising lord. Perhaps, she thought, he might be something more.
Little Rose nodded thoughtfully. "You two are right. I'll bring it up with my father."
After a moment of quiet reflection, Margaery added, "Actually, Ser Arthur's thoughts are far more profound than mine. What I've done up until now—founding schools and teaching children to read—feels almost trivial. Teaching a child to write their own name is not enough. The true purpose of education should be to cultivate real talents: those who can heal the sick, till the land more efficiently, or work with skill in the trades."
There was a seriousness in her tone now, one that hadn't been present before. Her face, so often lit with charm and warmth, was now composed with focus and determination. She truly seemed to have taken the matter to heart.
For a moment, the conversation fell into silence. The most highborn among them, the future Queen of the Reach, sat in deep thought.
No one spoke as the small party continued its journey. The carriage wheels creaked softly over the road, birds chirped in the trees, and the golden fields of the Reach waved gently in the breeze as they approached the walls of Highgarden.
…
Later that evening, Margaery sat with her father, Lord Mace Tyrell, in his expansive solar behind a massive carved wooden table shaped like a rose in bloom. Candles flickered against the polished stone walls. Arthur stood nearby, along with the Redwyne twins, as Margaery relayed all she had learned and considered.
The Duke of Mace, still chewing a grape, finally spoke: "I was a bit impulsive this morning. Since Ser Arthur Bracken is clearly an honorable and kind-hearted young lord, the Tyrells will do what we can to assist him. It's getting late now. Tomorrow, you may go to the arsenal and choose anything you need. We'll give it to you for a little less than the usual price—consider it a courtesy."
There was some genuine warmth in his tone, his plump face creased with a smile that made him look more like a jolly merchant than the head of one of the Great Houses of Westeros. Yet Arthur couldn't help but feel that the man had no sense of dignity when it came to making or retracting statements. Mace Tyrell was too flexible for his own good, the kind of man who could say one thing in the morning and another by nightfall without a hint of shame.
Among all the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms, only Edmure Tully could match him in that regard. Coincidentally—or perhaps predictably—both men were known for being easily swayed, especially by those close to them.
With Arthur's matter addressed, Margaery decided to speak on her own behalf.
"Father, after hearing Ser Arthur speak, I've come to realize that the schools I've started have very little true impact."
"As long as you understand," Mace replied, setting down his wine cup. "Most of those peasant children you've been teaching will never be good for anything. If one of them can write his own name, that's already an achievement. The rest? Wasted parchment."
"But I've had another idea," she pressed on before he could brush the topic aside. "What if we gather a group of villagers who already know their herbs—herb-wives, midwives, even old woods witches—and have the maesters instruct them in basic medicine? Nothing too advanced. Just enough to treat fevers, dress wounds, or manage childbirth. Like the witch doctors we've heard about in Essos."
Mace's eyes widened with alarm. "Daughter! Are you trying to start a rebellion in Oldtown? Do you know how protective the Citadel is about their knowledge? They'll see this as an insult to the chain!"
Arthur spoke up in her defense. "But it would help your people, my lord. And that is the duty of a noble house, is it not?"
"Yes," Margaery added. "The common folk need this. The maesters are trained for lords and castles. But the smallfolk—they need someone, anyone, who knows a tincture for infection, a salve for a burn, or a way to stop a child's fever."
There was an awkward pause, but Mace Tyrell sighed and threw up his hands, his expression equal parts exasperation and indulgence.
"Fine, fine. Your father supports you—as always. We'll speak more about it at the feast tonight. Don't wear me down too quickly, my little rose."
With a wave of his hand, he dismissed them, and Arthur and the others exited the solar, leaving Mace to his fruit and thoughts.
…
When dinnertime came, Arthur was escorted to a long hall adjacent to the kitchens—the same place breakfast had been served earlier. There, he dined with twenty or thirty guests seated along two long wooden tables. These were mostly minor knights, hedge lords, and retainers—visiting nobility who lacked the status to be seated at the high table with the Tyrells themselves.
The senior members of House Tyrell—Mace, Margaery, and Lady Olenna—were nowhere in sight. Nor were the prominent bannermen, such as Paxter Redwyne of the Arbor or Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill. Arthur guessed these high-ranking lords had been placed in a separate hall for a more exclusive dinner.
Still, the meal was rich: fresh-caught river fish stuffed with herbs, honey-glazed carrots, and thick loaves of brown bread. Wine flowed freely, and conversation buzzed around Arthur's recent victories at the tourney.
He had hoped to retire early and rest, but before he could escape, the Redwyne twins appeared at his side, practically dragging him from his bench.
"Come on," said Horace with a grin, "the nobles and knights of the Reach are dying to meet you."
"That's right," Hobber added, slapping Arthur's back. "You're the tourney champion—time to show off that pretty face!"
Arthur sighed, but he couldn't quite hide the faint smile tugging at his lips.
There would be no rest for the champion of the lists tonight.
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