The Rose Way

A visit to Rose Palace should have inspired feelings of hope, warmth, and security in visitors. The very air around it should have been filled with soothing scents, the planters filled with a myriad flowers and colors which made any seeking shelter feel at home.

The teachings and words of Rosethorn the Wise should have been honored in every inch of that bloom rising from the city like a monument to his guidance and strength. A rose in bloom, lit with their faerie lights, to guide ponies in need of healing to his descendants’ hooves.

Instead, the sight made Rose Seed feel bile rise in the back of his throat.

Unlike Damme, where it was all solid black stone masonry, Rose Palace was an alluring marvel of marble and high curving windows and archways that seemed to imitate the alluring curves and supple bodies of the Roses who inherited his mantle. A tempestuous little trick of architecture to draw the eye, heart, and mind and invite as seductively as a lover’s whispered call to bed.

He stepped past the two Merrieguards stationed by the door with little acknowledgement. These, he knew, were Roseate’s. Their loyalty and fealty was to the mare, not the city, and their love of the power she promised and disseminated among them like trinkets, a full-blown addiction.

Stopping short of raw hedonism.

It only served to disgust him further.

Memory guided his steps and steered him toward his aunt’s office. A distant aunt, he reminded himself. Quite distant.

Not enough for his tastes. Although, if it were greater, would he be so close to Rosewater, Rosemary, and Aunt Carnation?

Three poor mares. Hopefully, fate stopped dealing the first two such terrible cards soon, and had the grace to send his dear, gentle aunt to a place where she might find happiness.

“Well, well,” a familiar voice crooned, setting his blood boiling with suppressed fury. “The sleeping florist managed to stumble his way to the palace. Though, he does present such a wonderful figure for us this morn, doesn’t he boys?”

Rosejoy.

Seed flicked an ear to the sound of her studs’ snickering. “Awful quick to pass us by,” he called mockingly.

“Like that cousin of his,” said another. “Shunning that he wants what we have.”

Rosejoy laughed and gave one a playful swat. “Now, boys, put those tongues away or get to work on one another. Let Joy, handle the Garden stud.” She trotted up behind him, and visiting a sensuous brushing of her shoulder against his flank as she came close and traced her snout beneath his jawline.

She knew he couldn’t touch her here. Not until she did something.

His aunt’s favorite pet goon lipped his chin. “How’s my dear Roselyn Dream?” she purred. “The boys and I miss her so, how she’d dance and sing for our touch …”

Seed let out a deep, projected yawn, and didn’t bother covering his mouth. Fitting for his reputation. As it faded, he spoke in a sleepy slur, “G’morning, Rosejoy. Up early to practice for ballet with the boys?”

The way she tensed and recoiled, how her stallion playmates sucked in sharp breaths and watched—oh, he could feel those startled glares upon the back of his neck—was almost sweet enough to make him understand.

It almost made him understand why they so loved the power they plied against their own Merriers.

He turned a sleepy smile upon Rosejoy. Oh, that was quite a quiver from nose to tail. She remembered his little dance lesson trick well.

Good.

Another yawn, coupled with a wave served well as his exit. “Have a good morning, then. Gotta run along and speak with the Baroness—oh. That reminds me!” Seed turned, his eyes, his smile now sharp. He winked. “Work on your pirouette, my dear. I hear tell it needs practice.”

Satisfied that he’d left his love’s former enabler a seething, frightened mare, Seed continued on the last leg of his trek toward the Baroness’s office. The stink of rutting mare curled his nose. Despite himself, Seed sniffed and grimaced. Stallion come, and recent.

So she’d entertained herself before his visit. Not an ounce of tact or propriety. Stars, no wonder visits always made his mother’s coat bristle.

Delightful.

Seed pasted that lazy-eyed look upon his face and rapped the back of his hoof against the door. “Rose Seed, answering a summons,” he slurred.

He could almost imagine the flash of disdain across her features before Roseate spoke, “Enter.”

His horn lighting a deep, bubbling fuchsia, Seed coaxed open the door and stepped inside. Unable to help himself, he let his eyes flitted about, surveying the ever-shifting arrangement of furniture cushions and papers to try and cover the stains of her own revelry and lust for her own power and influence.

It gave him a little longer before he had to lay eyes upon her, and feel the memory of twenty-five years of snide comments and cutting words bringing that bile back to burn the back of his throat.

Seed bowed his head. “Baroness Roseate,” he greeted formally.

The smile she gave made his skin crawl. “Rose Seed, nephew mine.” Roseate flicked an ear toward the cushion resting before her desk, just slightly to the right. “Come, sit. We have much to discuss.”

Another bow, and Seed moved to sit as requested. He offered Roseate one of his lazy smiles. “I confess, I was surprised when Crown came to deliver your summons. Such an early meeting, I can only wonder to what I have the pleasure of discussing with you, my lady.”

“The usual trappings of the Barony, I’m afraid.” She actually managed to look somewhat rueful. “The cities finances are … a task, I’m afraid. What with the continued war effort and the current tariff situation.”

Which come as a result of your raids. “I can imagine. Though, I should think they wouldn’t be too trying after recent cutbacks in certain areas.”

Her ear flicked. The words like a swat of a scroll across her nose. “A regrettable necessity,” she demurred. “In the face of Prim aggression and saber rattling, certain steps must be taken to ensure our way of life endures.”

Seed hummed. “I understand, my lady.” He feigned like he had something to add, then stifled a yawn. “My apologies.”

“Accepted, nephew. I do hope your wife shares your understanding and support.”

“I can tell you with certainty, my lady, that she has read the words of Rosethorn and knows the virtue of protecting one’s loves, and the right to share in those bonds of support and joy.”

“That, dear boy, does my heart well.” The crimson Rosethorn markings on her face dimpled. “Such a beautiful thing, the Garden has become. Especially these past years.” Sighing, she circled her hoof over one of the many scraps of paper littering her desk. “It truly is a shame, though, that our families had such a falling out during Rosewine’s time.”

Seed opted to keep his blank, sleepy smile and pretend the offered laurel merely bounced off his face. “Words said in anger, and written in anger, but—“ he held wide his hooves ”—in the here and now, do our ponies not mingle and dance and lay together on Sowing Night?”

“Indeed.”

Across the table, Roseate’s eyes gleamed as they bored into his. Rose hues of pink and fuchsia engaged a subtle battle of will. The same which had played out between Rosewine and her mother, and Budding Rose and Roseate before he’d taken his place in the game.

“I am so glad you feel that way, truly.” That hoof ceased its circling. Roseate leaned forward and propped her chin upon the back of the other. “I only wish your mother felt the same. The wounds of two hundred years … stars, the nature of we Rosethorns can be a difficult one when our dander is raised.” Her brows raised minutely. “What say you, nephew mine? Can we not put to rest old offenses and tear down the walls separating Merriers and Gardeners?”

The deed contract Rosewine had authored was endorsed by both treaty offices. Any move to undo her play would have to come at the hoof of her heir, the leader of the Garden of Love, a minor lord or lady of a smaller barony in all but name.

The younger Rosethorn offered a pained grimace. “If only, my lady. But, as you protect Merrie, I too must protect my Garden of Love. And my ponies prize high our neutrality in this conflict.”

Another flick of her ear, but Roseate did little more than sigh. “Of course. Though it pains me, I understand. That clever mare, Rosewine.” Her hoof began to circle again. “I will not deny, though, I had hoped you might consider it, but …” Those eyes pierced into his soul, and made Seed feel as though he could never cleanse himself enough. “Perhaps, I might propose another way we might affirm relations. If you’ll allow it.”

“I am here to hear, my lady,” he said, perking his ears and smiling at his little joke.

The Baroness lit her horn a brilliant gold, sliding a slip of paper from within one of the piles of disorganized clutter. “Given the difficult situation we find ourselves in at this point in the war, I must admit, Merrie does not have the same depth of coffers as our adversaries in Damme. And though we are close—“ she looked as though she might lick her lips ”—quite close to victory, it would be of great help if we might draw aid from our friends in your Garden of Love.” Here, Roseate raised her brows. “I do apologize for the necessity of our cuts to contracts with Rosewine Vineyard, and others throughout Merrie, but the war requires sacrifice. And … I hear tell of several new contracts from foreign buyers.”

Ah. There it is.

She wanted a slice of the pie Petal had managed to craft from the load of manure Roseate had dumped on the steps of the Garden Villa when she sent word that Rose Palace would be canceling this year’s contracts.

That had caused some immediate panic, but Petal’s silver tongue managed to pull them out of the fire. However, Seed wondered just how Roseate thought winter celebrations without Rosewine Vineyards wine would be.

Or perhaps she thought the mare would donate casks in hopes of currying favor and future business.

He wrinkled his snout. “I suppose Petal’s gotten a good few in the last few months. I confess, I don’t know the figures, you’d have to ask her for the specifics.”

Flickety-flick went that ear. So Roseate knew Petal’s answer to that question would come with multiple stacks of paper to justify refusal. A polite denial.

“I had hoped we might handle this as family, nephew,” came Roseate’s reply. “Two Rosethorns, seated across from one another in Rose Palace. There is nothing two of our blood cannot overcome.”

Seed nodded. It was a fair play, he had to admit. And, to a point, she was right.

There was nothing a Rosethorn couldn’t overcome to protect those dearest to his or her heart. Two? Let any who stood in their path tremble.

The same could be said, however, of the Primlines.

Collar, for example.

But it was an expected play.

He made his move with a heavy, remorseful sigh. “Then, I must work only with what I know, my lady, and say that I cannot offer any further aid than our obligatory taxes.” Seed let the set of his ears suggest contrition. “Without the contracts to Rose Palace, we can only work based on what my wife’s estimations for this year without foreign contracts. Much as you have Merrie to protect and see fed, I must protect and feed my Garden.”

The gold shimmer around that sheet flickered and died as disappointment flitted across Roseate’s features.

With a sigh, she slid it back into its pile. “Regrettable. But, ponies must eat and feed their families.” That point, at least, she could put aside. “Perhaps with the new year, the vineyard’s profits will bloom. Do pass my best to your wife.”

Seed nodded his assent. Easy request down. Now, for the real politics. He gave another yawn and shifted just slightly, as though to rise. “If there’s nothing up, Baroness—“

“As a matter of fact,” Roseate cut across him with that faux sweet tone he loathed. “There is. Pardon my interruption, but thinking on your village did remind me of another tidbit.”

The Rosethorn stallion blinked and perked his ears, settling back into his cushion. He sent silent thanks to Crown for the warning, and, outwardly, tilted his head again.

Attentive and interested in what she might have to say next.

Another sheet of paper was drawn forth from one of the stacks. Roseate spared it a quick glance, then folded her hooves upon the desk. “It has been brought to my attention, through no small amount of gossip, that there was a rather unfortunate mishap on Rosewine Bridge. At the Commoners’ Gala, I believe you called it?”

Humming in confirmation, Seed gave another nod. “Yes. You’ve heard correct, my lady.”

“I feared so.” Roseate tilted her head opposite his. “The foal is well?”

“As well as one can be after such a fright.”

“Of course. The poor dear. How old?”

“Five.”

“My, so young. That a tragedy was averted is truly a blessing, I should think. And that poor family …”

Lies spilling forth from her lips like venom flowing from a serpent’s fangs. Not one ounce of sincerity in her words. Not a shred of real decency or concern for her fellow ponies.

Through it all, Seed nodded with her. And kept his smile while he watched her face for tells.

He found one in the razor’s edge gleaming in her eyes as she offered a smile like a hungry vixen.

“I wonder, then, if the other part of the rumor surrounding this tale of …” Roseate rolled a hoof through the air. “Near tragedy and miraculous rescue. I wonder if that might be true as well.”

Seed rubbed at his cheek like he needed to wake himself up. “Which part might that be? I’m afraid I don’t much keep an ear for town gossip.”

That smile seemed to grow. “The part that it was no Merrieguard, but a Dammeguard pegasus who crossed the river to rescue the foal from drowning.” Here, her brows raised. “And brought him to Merrie’s beach to recover.”

There was little use lying or playing dumb, oafish stallion beyond a certain point. And with this, events that an entire community and whomever joined from Merrie and Damme had all witnessed together, any such effort would be foolhardy.

And would tip the hoof he played alongside Collar’s.

“Ah, that. Yes, I can confirm it.” He allowed himself a genuine smile. “I witnessed his rescue dive myself, and went to him on the beach. Or, tried, rather.”

“Tried?” she pressed.

Seed shrugged. “He fled when he saw the Merrieguard and I approaching, no doubt thinking the worst due to the—ah—tensing of feelings in recent days.” That flick of her ear, he quite enjoyed. “Unfortunate that we startled him so. I should have liked to thank him. The family longs to.”

“Mm. Of course they do. What parent wouldn’t?”

You, his inner voice spat in harmony with his mother’s, with Aunt Carnation’s, with Aunt Rosewater’s, and with Rosemary’s. You, you horrible witch.

His lazy smile, though, never faltered. “You’ll be pleased, then, to learn that Lord Collar of Damme has offered his aid in locating our mystery rescuer and letting us host him at the Garden.” Now, his own markings dimpled. “With considerations for his safety.”

A dark look crossed Roseate’s face, gone in an instant. The reminder of Primline Collar’s continued defiance, a sore spot.

“I would caution you in trusting him, nephew,” she said slowly. “That stallion mixes poison with fanciful sentiment, just like his mother.”

“Perhaps, but …” Seed bobbed his head from side to side. “I would like to think in something like this, something in the spirit of Princess Celestia’s treaty, I grant him the chance to let us thank the stallion and put old offenses aside for a time, if brief.”

“A wonderful desire, to be sure.”

Oh, how thin could that smile be? It must have rankled her so that the treaty office had given the diplomatic equivalent of a stern ahem when she tried to voice complaint against Rosewater, and asked about that implied request to treat for a captive’s release to lure Collar and his bride to be into an ambush.

The ice she danced upon grew thinner and thinner, and Roseate just loathed knowing that.

Whether or not she actually understood it was another matter entirely.

But the mare did rally well to school herself into that false smile, albeit with a tell of faltering patience. Quashed with a deep breath through her nose, and then gone.

“I wonder if you might permit me to ask that you consider an alternative,” she mused.

Here we go. “An alternative to what, my lady?”

“You offered to receive him in the Garden of Love. I would like you to consider Rose Palace.” Roseate’s smile, now, had lost that tightness. The troubles and obstacles in her path, banished from focus for now. “I would like, nephew, that you consider allowing our ponies, Gardeners and Merriers, to receive him together.”

Around the board, chess pieces moved. This play, Seed knew, would not be easily fenced.

“I should think the Garden could certainly receive him adequately,” came his reply. “He would be an honored guest at our table.”

Roseate laughed and fixed him with a look of pitying amusement. “Do we not all value family, my nephew? Who would not offer a seat at their table for this?”

“Touché, my lady. Though, I did already offer, and the Drops are old friends of mine. I would look—stars, I would feel myself a terrible friend and leader if I didn’t extend him welcome myself.”

“I understand entirely.” He could imagine the vixen watching from her hiding place, waiting for a small rabbit to hop into her path. “But would it not show our ponies the strength of the culture we share, the value placed in our foals’ lives, if we welcome him here together, you and I?”

Knight took pawn. Damn it. “I cannot deny, there is an appeal to that notion.”

The vixen’s eyes gleamed. “Allow me to sweeten the deal, oh sales pony nephew of mine.”

Seed feigned a laugh. “Selling me? Stars, my lady, you sound as though you’ve listened to Petal wooing patrons at a wine tasting!”

“Given her reputation in business,” Roseate mused, chuckling with him. “I think we should both thank our lucky stars she chose that over politics. If she could sell her word as well as her wine, this region would be under her spell like a siren’s song. But yes. Let me sell you on this, Rose Seed.”

The younger Rosethorn made a show of reclining in his cushion as though he were the patron and she were entertaining him. If she wanted to play games and banter like they actually were a family, Seed could play right back.

And stole the knight in return for his pawn.

Roseate reclined herself, steepling her hooves as she regarded him through half-lidded eyes. “The boy is already the subject of whisper and rumor, a sort of commoners’ hero, if you would. And, as you say, his actions will warrant praise abroad, should they be raised.” Here, she arched a brow. “Political coin, dear boy, which Lord Collar of Damme will almost surely exploit to curry favor in Canterlot.”

And you’d use just the same, if you could claim him a Merrieguard. Seed pretended to chew the inside of his cheek in thought. He couldn’t deny it, or tell her it was warranted.

Not without appearing to be a sympathizer.

A bishop fell to hers. “That … I mean, that is a good point, my lady. If a bit calculated.” He gave a rather earnest look. “Lord Collar seemed genuine on the bridge, I’ll say.”

That pitying look returned, its implications quite clear.

His only reply was to sigh and bow his head, his ears flattening. The very picture of a stallion cowed and abashed by his own foolishness.

“Oh, my dear, sleeping nephew.” She tutted, shaking her head.

A mournful sigh blown through his nose completed the illusion he’d woven for her.

The vixen tensed in her hiding place. Roseate’s smile was that of a patient old teacher dealing with her most inept student. “You take more after your father, Blue Rose, than your mother. Your heart lays with your greenhouses and the flora you nurture within them, not in the political games played between our cities.”

She sprang, certain her prey would satisfy her needs.

Seed raised his head to meet her gaze. “I suppose, then, you’ve thought through what this could mean for …” He hesitated, his shoulders slumping. “For Merrie and the Garden?”

“Of course.” Roseate leaned forward and set her forelegs on her desk. “Dear nephew, we are presented with great opportunity. Each pony raised under Prim rule who finds their heart opened to the Merrie lifestyle, the Rose Way, we score victory, and vice-versa for those who scorn ours. But a stallion who saves a Gardener’s foal, the product of our way, plays at the hearts of ponies in both our cities, and those in Canterlot. More to the point—“ she raised her brows, hinting ”—an ancient one who authored the treaty.”

“I … think I understand what you’re saying.” Licking his lips, Seed asked, “You want to use this chance to let him see and choose?”

A hum and inclining of her head confirmed it. “You yourself have seen it, nephew. How their eyes and faces light when given the chance to share in the hearts of lovers aplenty. What, then, if the foal’s rescuer does the same? What, Rose Seed, if he should find himself in the mores of love, pleasure, and the security of loving community our ancestor gave this world?”

A lie confirmed. The great lie of Roseate’s tenure in Rose Palace.

Us versus them. Tussen Twee or Principes. In Roseate’s world, in that of her supporters and the Primfeathers and theirs across the river, there could be no peace until Primline or Rosethorn submitted and their way faded from the region.

Stars, do you weep or rage at your houses?

The chastised stallion from the Garden of Love pulled a face like he was trying to follow strands of spider’s silk in the blackness of a moonless night. “It could make ponies see our way isn’t so foreign or bad,” he admitted.

“Mm, yes. Or more.” Roseate extended an upturned hoof. “It could turn favor upon our way, and cast a judging eye upon the houses that seek to destroy it.”

In the days where the Primfeathers ruled Damme, or even when Prim Lace’s father occupied Prim Palace, this would have been a winning strategy. This would be a coup worthy of Rosethorn.

Now?

With the Lace Reformations, all it would see done was the continuation of the war, by way of artificial fueling. All she really wished, was to fuel the fears of Merriers long enough that she or her loyal daughters could find some way to capture Collar.

If not him, then their children would capture his.

And on and on without end.

The same as had been since Rosethorn and Prim Clothesline had been laid to rest, and their children erupted into conflict.

“Then …” Seed let his ears flatten, then perk. Comprehension, to her, had only just dawned. “I see. We would like him to find himself here and show him blossoming in our way.”

Roseate nodded once. “An apt analogy for our family.” She brought her hoof back to touch her breast, right beneath the crimson Rosethorn heart upon her coat. “Who better than the Rosethorns, Seed? Let us greet him here, you and I, and all of our ponies. We can tend to him like a gentle seedling, and coax him to bloom full in our garden. Merrie.”

She was good, Seed had to admit.

He could understand why so many fell to her sway, and bit hard on her lies. The mare drowned you in fear of the old history and that of the chance it might repeat, and then fed you hope’s sweet nectar from her promises of liberty with Rosethorn guidance.

If only that guidance wasn’t based in a lie, a twisting of Rosethorn’s words.

“By my hoof?” he asked.

“I think not, nephew mine.” She shook her head. “You have your garden to attend. Let my daughters tend to this seedling with their hooves. A gentle touch and enticement will see his heart opened for us.”

Her eyes said more.

Enticement, she knew, was no issue. Perfume, song, smiles, a swaying of hips, a flirt of the tail against a lover’s thigh, these were all enticements.

Her eyes said lure.

Seed sighed, but nodded solemnly. “Let me … consult with the family,” he said, rising from his cushion. “They should have say.”

“Ah, of course. Let those affected most guide our hoof.” Bowing her head, Roseate seemed to consider the matter settled. “Do carry with you my best to their foal. Poor little dear.”

Bowing his head, Seed gave his assurances that he would indeed carry her tidings back to the Drops. He turned and trotted for the door, his visage of that big, dumb, easily cowed stallion Roseate knew since his foalhood pristine even as the mind nurtured by Budding, Carnation, and Rosewater’s hooves worked.

The Rosethorn stallion had just wrapped his magic around the door handle when Roseate called to him again, “Oh, nephew?”

An ear swiveled to the sound of her voice. Seed turned, his head already tilted curiously. “Yes, my lady?”

“I hear tell my eldest has been spending quite a bit of her time in the Garden recently.” Her eyes, now, were cold as ice and the smile upon her face, one which threatened to break his façade and draw a shivering fit. “I wonder, with whom might she be most?”

Seed blinked and kept that dumb look plastered upon his face. “She has dined at my table, but other than that, I couldn’t really say.” He shrugged. “I’ve never really had reason to mind her too closely, Rosewater has always respected the Garden’s way.”

“I see. Well, do tell me if any names should come to mind. A mother does so worry about her children, even during times they stand apart.”

With a bow and renewed assurances that he’d keep his eyes peeled, Seed slipped from the Baroness’s office and did his level best to maintain a sedate, casual pace as he left Rose Palace. Internally, he seethed and worked to control his breathing.

Roseate wouldn’t get a damn thing. Not from him, not from his Garden of Love. The rutting bitch could curse him ‘till her voice failed, just as she had his mother.

Rose Seed would bend no more than Budding Rose had. No more than Rosewine had to her own mother or sister. How unfortunate that Roseate had neglected to consider some of the lesser known Rosethorn proverbs.

His personal favorite, the last words Rosewine Rosethorn ever spoke to her mother, said in the frigid tones of a winter storm the instant the treaty office’s wax seal had dried on the deed:

Beware the Rosethorn who does not play the game, for you have already lost.

Sunny days were always something to cherish in the dying days of fall, especially this far to the north of Canterlot. For Rose Seed, they meant he had a secondary measure to combat his worries or moments of temper.

They meant he could pull out his favorite outdoor lounging cushion—a lovely little piece of furniture fashioned almost like a chaise, but a bit bigger, perfect for a pair or trio of lovers to embrace upon while they enjoyed the fresh air.

Better still, Petal had managed to carve out from her work readying for the Primrose Gala an hour to lay with him, held tight in his hooves, while he drew in deep breaths and savored her scent and warmth to help calm him. She knew well how Roseate taxed him.

She knew well he needed those moments of comfort. And these days, her efforts were rarely taken alone.

Dazzle’s snout pressed into the back of his neck. “You did well fending her off,” he murmured.

“Did I?” Seed muttered into Petal’s mane. “I now must put my hope in Crown’s assessment, and Collar delivering our rescuer before Roseate’s lackies manage to dig him up, and keeping him safe in the meantime.”

“I think you’ll find Collar more than capable of that.” Dazzle nipped him gently, adding, “And after that last raid, I think we’re all about to see the Dammeguard show that we are no mere lambs.”

Petal snorted a laugh. “We?” She turned an amused look upon Dazzle. “Are you leaving us to take up the armor again?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t think I’m needed right now.” His eyes, blue with a hint of orange around the edges, sparked like his fireworks spell. “I’d like to hope Prism, Trem, and I won’t have to, but …”

It went unsaid. They would if they felt their loves, their village was threatened.

The three former Dammeguards hadn’t abandoned their regimen. They’d only altered them to fit the needs of the Garden and Rosewine Vineyard.

“Anyway,” Dazzle’s teeth stung Seed out of another line of consideration. “If I know Collar—and I knew him decently well, back when I was an officer—that stallion’s either coming here, or he’s on a cart or ship somewhere far away from her grasp. He’ll flip the board before he willingly gives one of his pieces to her.”

Seed thought back to the meeting with the Lord Heir of Damme. He recalled that look in Collar’s eyes quite vividly, his tone as he vowed he would not see Roseate use his Dammeguard’s actions for her own gain.

Have you already considered alternatives if he can’t be safe here?

“I won’t deny,” he said, aloud. “I’d be a bit upset if he did.”

“But?”

“After this morning, I’d loan him the cart and provisions.”

Snorting, Petal turned her head up so she could look back at him. A frown played upon her lips. “This entire thing is ridiculous,” she whispered. “Stars, my grandmother held a grudge against the Primlines for their raids, but even she would’ve found it so.”

Seed hummed his agreement. Both their families had in that day. Rosewine, certainly, hadn’t had an ounce of love toward the Primlines and Primfeathers, but she knew when to swallow that to pry free a few bits from potential clients.

The bridge only came about later in life. Her effort to offer a laurel and look to the future, despite her own caution.

Past dealings. One could only wonder how they’d shaped the region now. “Just as a weed’s roots cling tightest when we pull them from the soil,” the Rosethorn stallion said. “So, too, do those who trade in fear and animosity when the embers begin to fizzle and die.”

“Mm, not that I disagree, but I’d rather you wax poetic on something more positive.” Petal winked. “Our firework stallion’s climactic performance splattering upon our coats, perhaps?”

Seed felt Dazzle bury his face in the back of his neck, his faux angry huff hot and teasing. “I try to be supportive, and you tease me,” he groused, his twitching lips betraying his amusement. “Well, it’s not working this time, because it’s not flustering me—I’m offended. So there!”

Snickering, Seed bucked his hips backward. “Which is why I can smell your arousal and feel you stirring against my rump, I’m sure.”

“Shush, you!”

“I will not.” He turned and licked Dazzle’s nose. “Brat.”

His ears twitched to the sound of familiar laughter. “That you have the audacity to call anypony a brat is astounding on either side of the river.”

Seed sat up, grinning. “Auntie Rosewater!” he greeted. With a sly smile, he waggled his ears. “Haven’t seen you more than a minute since that date with Fervent and Goldie. How was it?”

The look Rosewater fixed him with would’ve sent a younger Seed hiding behind his mother’s legs. But it wouldn’t have done anything to stop his grinning, just as it didn’t now.

“It was a lovely time, thank you,” she replied slowly.

So she hadn’t yet heard what he’d gotten up to in Damme or with the Dammeguard’s helm. Good.

Rosewater trotted past the climbing rose archway, across the yard to meet them, and greeted Dazzle with a smile and a nose to his cheek before turning her gaze upon Seed once more.

The mare chewed the inside of her cheek. “I hear you’ve had quite the eventful morning.”

Oh, stars, not this now. Seed fixed her with a chipper smile. “Nothing to worry yourself over, Auntie. Here, there’s room for a fourth if you want to help us bully Dazz.”

Her ears lowered. “Seed.” Those rosy eyes pierced his own, searching out any sign of stress or blame. No, not searching.

Expecting.

His decision was made in an instant.

“She asked if I’d mind giving her a cut off the top of the vineyard’s new contracts,” Seed answered, honestly. “Told her we couldn’t as far as I knew, and told her that a big part of that was because of the contracts she canceled, and she backed right off that.”

“Mm.” Her snowy white ears twitched. “And the other things she wished to discuss?”

Damned if she almost never missed a trick.

Almost.

With a heavy sigh, Seed shared a thorough recounting of Roseate’s angling, her efforts to sell him on a united front between the Garden and Merrie in hosting the Dammeguard. Dancer’s Dammeguard, as the foals had taken to calling him.

Once he’d finished, Rosewater closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. “That’s … not unexpected, I admit. An inelegant substitute for full victory, trying to acquire the means to put pressure on the Primlines.” She cast her gaze skyward and exhaled heavily. “If that were their stance.”

“I mean, she’s got the Primfeathers pegged,” Dazzle quipped.

She leaned down and nipped his ear, drawing a squeak. “You’d be surprised. By a few, at least.” Rosewater shifted and flicked her tail in thought. “I would put more stock in trying to solidify her base in Merrie, and perhaps garner support here, should she ensnare him. Political support in Canterlot, if anything, might yield some trade, but …”

“Hard to read the future there.” Seed looped a band of magic around her foreleg and gave a tug. “Seriously, Auntie, relax with us. My neck’s gonna start aching if you make me look up like this.”

He felt the static tingle of her magic pinching the tips of his ears a half-second before Rosewater gave them a sharp twisting. Seed grimaced, smiling through the pain.

In reply, Petal leaned up and nosed into the Rosethorn mark upon Rosewater’s breast. “Join us, Water,” she coaxed, playing on an old nickname. A dirty trick. “You’ve run all over to negotiate and rejoin us socially, and in advocating on behalf of the Garden. Join us in relaxing now. Like the gazebo.”

Oh, a masterful play. Delightfully dirty, in fact. The caressing hoof Petal traced along the left edge of that mark, like a lover trying to entice another back to bed on a chilly winter morning.

It was all Seed could do not to draw her into a kiss and praise such perfect application of coaxing guilt.

Enough to make Rosewater actually worry her lip before her ears dipped in silent submission. She’d acquiesced even before she moved around the cushion to slide on to join, her hooves wrapping around Dazzle from behind.

Seed smiled into the back of Petal’s neck. This felt right.

His Garden was whole.