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Highgarden.
The most fertile land on the continent of Westeros lay bathed in the golden light of high summer.
No chill of the North touched the wind. No reek of King's Landing fouled the air. There was only the perfume of roses and climbing vines, bees droning through immaculately trimmed hedgerows, fountains scattering cool mist across the courtyards.
Everything here was peaceful, prosperous, and bursting with life.
Lord Mace Tyrell, head of House Tyrell, reclined on a velvet-cushioned chaise longue with the satisfaction of a man who believed the Seven Kingdoms' peace and plenty existed largely because of his own good graces. He plucked a purple grape from the vine beside him, rolled it between his fingers, and savored it.
A Maester cut through the garden at a hurried pace, shattering the afternoon's contentment.
"My lord."
He presented a scroll of parchment sealed in wax.
"A raven from King's Landing."
Lord Mace sat up, took the letter, and broke the seal with his thick fingers, clumsily but eagerly. When he read the contents, his small eyes lit up. His breathing quickened.
"Quick! Send for the Lady Olenna, and Margaery, and Loras — now!"
A moment later, in the rose garden of Highgarden, the inner circle of House Tyrell had gathered around a great white marble table. Exquisite pastries and chilled fruit wine covered the surface. No one touched any of it.
Mace Tyrell spread the letter flat with both hands, excitement practically leaking from his plump cheeks.
"A letter in Tywin Lannister's own hand!"
His voice cracked slightly on the announcement.
"He has extended an olive branch to House Tyrell!"
"He writes that King Joffrey is yet unmarried , and that he intends to wed the rose of Highgarden."
Mace's gaze drifted to his daughter. Margaery, beautiful beyond measure, sat with her hands folded in her lap.
"My daughter — you shall be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!"
He turned next to his son. Loras, the Knight of Flowers, handsome and silent.
"He also proposes that Loras wed Cersei."
"If both unions are secured, House Tyrell will be completely bound to the Lannisters , and to the Baratheon Iron Throne. One family. One power!"
A flicker of resistance crossed Margaery's eyes. She masked it quickly with a smile, angling her expression just enough to test her father's mood.
Becoming Queen had been her dream since childhood.
But she had options now. No need to commit before she understood the game being played.
Loras said nothing. He'd gone quiet the moment Cersei's name left his father's mouth.
Cersei Lannister. A woman whose jealousy was legendary.
And if he married Cersei , what happened to Renly?
Something cold settled in his chest.
"What a magnificent proposal!"
Lord Mace didn't notice his son's silence. He swept his arms wide, already imagining the golden rose banners rippling above the Red Keep.
"Lannister gold, combined with Tyrell granaries and Tyrell armies! Who in all of Westeros could stand against us?"
"Oh, is that so?"
The voice was old and edged with amusement.
Lady Olenna Redwyne , the Queen of Thorns, Margaery's grandmother , sat at the far end of the table, using a small silver pick to methodically carve a cube of honeydew melon into smaller pieces. She hadn't looked at the letter once.
"My dear foolish son," she said, without looking up, "have you forgotten there's a fire-breathing dragon in the north?"
Lord Mace's smile froze on his face.
"Mother, Lord Tywin is the Hand of the King. Everyone knows he represents the will of the Iron Throne now."
"Hand of the King."
Lady Olenna finally raised her eyes. They were clouded with age, but sharp as broken glass.
"You mean the old man who hid in Casterly Rock counting his gold dragons during the Battle of the Trident , who didn't dare march until Robert's warhammer had already caved in Rhaegar's chest?"
She set down the silver pick.
"What use is he? Lann took the Vale and the Riverlands in a matter of months, and turned the entire North upside down while he was at it." She wiped the corner of her mouth with a handkerchief. "And your so-called Hand of the King , the great 'Lion' who publicly declares his support for Lann while not sending a single soldier to actually help him?"
"He's no lion, Mace."
"He's a viper hiding in the dark."
"He isn't showing us favor out of generosity. He's showing us favor because he's afraid. He's afraid that northern dragon will march straight south and melt that sword-forged chair of his into a puddle of iron."
Sweat pricked along Lord Mace's forehead.
"But... Mother, this is the Queen's crown. House Tyrell has waited so many years..."
"A Queen's crown bolted to a Lannister chain?"
Lady Olenna gave a cold laugh.
"You think marrying Margaery off makes her Queen? No. It makes her another leash for Tywin Lannister to use on that little mad dog Joffrey."
She looked at Margaery.
"Have you heard the story of Sansa Stark, my dear? I understand that poor girl suffered humiliation after humiliation in King's Landing , mocked publicly, before all the court. If not for Lann, she would have been sent crawling back to the North in disgrace." A pause. "The one who humiliated her was your so-called future husband."
"Joffrey has Targaryen madness paired with Lannister cruelty."
"Are you certain you can handle that?"
Margaery rose from her seat, walked to her grandmother's side, and quietly refilled her cup with fruit wine.
"Grandmother." Her voice was soft, but there was iron beneath it. "You're right."
Lady Olenna studied her granddaughter , beautiful, ambitious, and not even slightly dazzled by the word Queen. Something warmed in the old woman's eyes.
She was very like her younger self.
"Good. It's good that you can see it clearly."
Lady Olenna shifted.
"But even if you did manage to control Joffrey , what then? What you'd be controlling is a puppet. The one actually holding the strings is Tywin Lannister."
"And Westeros no longer belongs to one king's word alone."
She tapped the table with one gnarled finger.
"Lann."
"He has a three-headed dragon."
"He has a giant army."
"He made House Arryn and House Tully kneel before him in less than a month , and used that same stretch of time to bring the entire North to heel. He even ripped out the rot at the Dreadfort by the root."
"Do you honestly think a man like that cares who sits as Hand of the King? Who wears the queen's crown?"
"You'd be getting a title. Nothing more. And a title without the strength to back it is a mirage , beautiful until it isn't there."
The rose garden went quiet.
The flush of excitement had drained from Lord Mace's face, leaving something heavier behind. Loras sat still and silent, but the simplicity had gone out of his expression.
Yes. Lann.
The man had risen like a comet across a dark sky, and he'd announced his presence to all of Westeros in the bloodiest, most direct terms imaginable. The old rules of the game , the careful marriages, the whispered alliances, the counting of swords , looked thin and hollow against that kind of force.
"Tywin Lannister wants to lash us to his wobbling war chariot," Lady Olenna said, "and send us charging at a real dragon."
"If we win, we're heroes — forever living in his shadow."
"If we lose, the roses of Highgarden burn to ash."
"He has a fine plan, I'll give him that. Trying to play us for fools."
At the word fools, she glanced at her son.
The meaning couldn't have been clearer.
"Then , then what do we do?" Lord Mace asked, panic creeping into his voice. He looked to his mother the way he always did when the ground shifted under him.
Lady Olenna did not answer immediately.
She looked at the letter lying open on the table. Then she looked past the table, past the garden wall, to the endless sea of roses stretching toward the horizon.
The words of House Tyrell were Growing Strong.
They had always been like the vines of this land , knowing when to bend, knowing what to cling to, finding the strongest support and winding their way upward. That was how they had thrived for thousands of years in the brutal soil of Westeros.
Now it was time to choose what to cling to next.
The Lannisters , a tree that looked tall but whose roots were already beginning to crack?
Or Lann's fire , dangerous, unpredictable, and blazing with possibility?
After a long silence, Lady Olenna slowly got to her feet.
"Mace."
"Yes, Mother."
"You will send a reply to Tywin Lannister today."
Her voice left no room for argument.
"Tell him we are immensely honored by his proposal. Tell him the rose of Highgarden is proud to be considered for union with the Lion. Flattering words. Humble tone."
"Cersei and Loras can meet."
"As for Margaery , give nothing definite. Tell him her marriage requires careful preparation. We must divine an auspicious date. We must prepare a fitting dowry. The finest trousseau in the history of the Seven Kingdoms takes time."
"In short: stall."
Lord Mace nodded vigorously.
Stalling was the one thing he was genuinely good at.
Loras, though, had gone rigid.
"I am not marrying Cersei."
A flicker of tired exasperation crossed Lady Olenna's face.
"Loras, do you intend to spend your whole life swallowing swords?"
"Do you know what they say about you?" She didn't wait for an answer. "They say you're prettier than Cersei. And that you wield a blade better than any man. Been working diligently behind Renly Baratheon's back for years now, and Renly's still breathing , truly remarkable technique."
Loras's face went red, then white.
He'd heard those rumors. He'd always heard them.
"So marrying Cersei is hardly the worst thing that could happen to you," Lady Olenna said. "At the very least it might set you straight. You've already done enough shameful things. I will not have House Tyrell disgraced because of your private entertainments."
Loras clamped his mouth shut. His heart was a knot of frustration and misery.
He wanted to find Renly.
"And then what?"
Margaery's voice cut through the silence. She hesitated, catching the slight narrowing of her grandmother's eyes. "I mean , not about Loras. What comes after the stalling?"
Lady Olenna looked at her most beloved granddaughter.
Those weathered eyes caught a new light , something wild and reckless, the gleam of a gambler who has decided to push everything to the center of the table.
"Then," she said, each word deliberate,
"you, my dear girl , the fairest rose Highgarden has ever grown ,"
"You are going to the North."
Silence.
Then all three of them spoke at once.
"What?!"
"Mother!" Lord Mace's voice cracked. "Have you lost your mind? To the North? That frozen wasteland? You want to send her there , walking straight into his hands? Putting herself on the table like a dish at a feast?"
"Silence, you hopeless fool."
Lady Olenna's voice snapped like a whip.
"Do you think that if you hide in Highgarden, danger won't find you? We've been sitting on the fence for too long already. Lann has likely been watching us with no small amount of irritation. We need to show him something real. Something that costs us."
She turned back to Margaery, and her voice gentled.
"You go and see for yourself what that dragon is actually like. See whether this business about storing grain is real." She held Margaery's gaze. "And ask him — yourself, in person — what he wants."
"Everything Tywin Lannister can offer us is false. A hollow queen's crown on a chain."
"But if we were to help a real dragon climb to the Iron Throne..."
She left it there, unfinished.
But the unspoken words hit Margaery like a fist to the chest. Her heart hammered.
Help a dragon climb to the Iron Throne.
Then what would she become?
"Grandmother."
Margaery drew a slow breath. The firelight of ambition burned openly in her eyes now, and she didn't try to hide it.
"I understand."
Lady Olenna nodded, something close to pride in her expression.
She knew what this was. A gamble. The largest gamble House Tyrell had ever made , their whole future staked on a single throw.
But she also knew this: in an age when dragons had returned to the world, Growing Strong couldn't mean clinging to whatever had always been there. Sometimes a vine had to let go of one wall entirely and reach for something new.
Even if what it was reaching for was a flame that could burn it to nothing.
➤ Next: Cersei Is Locked Up Again
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