The Reach.
In the days of the First Men and the Andals, this was the seat of the Gardener Kings. After the Conquest, when Aegon's fire turned the last Gardener to ash at the Field of Fire, the stewardship was granted to the Tyrells.
Highgarden sat atop a verdant hill overlooking the winding Mander River. It was the crossroads of the realm, where the Kingsroad and the Rose Road met in a bloom of white marble and gold. Many called it the most beautiful castle in the Seven Kingdoms, though the men of the Vale would always argue for the Eyrie.
The castle was a masterpiece of art and nature. Roses grew in every crevice of the white stone, and the air was thick with the scent of jasmine and ripening fruit. Inside the walls, the "Bower"—the ancient rose gardens—was a labyrinth of fountains, marble colonnades, and artificial waterfalls. From the high towers, one could see for leagues across fields of wildflowers and golden grain.
In a gazebo of white marble, decorated with a leaping fountain, the Tyrell family gathered for the afternoon.
Guarding the entrance were two giants in gilded half-helms and green surcoats embroidered with the golden rose. They were seven feet tall, broad-shouldered, and identical in every respect: the same sharp jaws, the same deep blue eyes, and the same thick red beards. These were Erryk and Arryk—the Queen of Thorns' twin guards, whom she called "Left" and "Right" because she could never tell them apart.
"Did you know?" Olenna Tyrell asked, her voice like the snap of a dry twig. "Renly had a Myrish lensman paint a portrait of my granddaughter."
"I heard," Mace Tyrell replied. He had once been a handsome man, and though he had grown stout in his middle years, he still possessed a head of thick brown curls and a jaunty, spade-shaped beard. "It is a magnificent painting. It captures her likeness perfectly."
"Then you understand Renly's intent," Lady Olenna said, her sharp eyes fixed on her son.
At over sixty, Olenna was a tiny woman with silver hair and skin like parchment, but her mind was as sharp as a Valyrian steel dagger. She navigated the board of power with more precision than any man in the Reach.
Mace shifted uncomfortably. "Is it so wrong to want your 'Little Rose' to be Queen? Everyone in King's Landing knows the King does not love the Queen. His heart still belongs to that brown-haired Northern girl, Lyanna Stark. Her ghost sits on the Iron Throne beside him."
"The King?" Margaery asked softly. She was dressed in a gown of pale green silk, a gold-rose cloak fluttering behind her. At sixteen, she was the very image of blooming youth—slender, beautiful, with soft brown hair and eyes like a doe. She had been raised for this, but the boldness of her brother Loras and Renly's plan still surprised her.
"Stupidity," Olenna snapped. "King's Landing is a viper's nest, and the Lannisters have burrowed deep into the foundations. My dear Renly... he is a charming boy, but he is all talk and silk. At least he is clever enough to try and replace the Lioness with my granddaughter rather than trying to seize the crown for himself. For now."
Olenna sighed, plucking a grape from a silver bowl. "We control the grain and the gold. No matter who sits on that cold iron chair, they cannot survive without the Reach. We do not need to rush."
"The King is not a fit match for her, Father," Willas Tyrell said from his wheelchair. The heir to Highgarden was a thoughtful, scholarly man with a gentle face. "Robert Baratheon is fat, drunk, and spends his days hunting in the woods or in the brothels. He is not the stag he was during the Rebellion. Marrying Margaery to him would be undignified—and dangerous."
Willas looked at his sister. "Perhaps there is another way. A better way."
"Renly thinks he is the answer. He is brave and kind, at least," Mace added hopefully.
Olenna snorted. "Renly is a Baratheon. He has enough Targaryen blood in him to be dangerous. A pretty face doesn't change a rebellious heart. He has a brother on the throne, and that brother has children. If we follow Renly, we follow a traitor."
She looked at Willas and her expression softened slightly. "My grandson is the only one of you with a lick of sense. Tell Loras and Renly to stop playing their games. Roses grow in Highgarden, not in the Red Keep. As long as the King lives, we stay out of his business."
"But Mother, it is an opportunity!" Mace's face turned a frustrated red. "The Tyrells have sat on the Small Council for a decade, but we have never held the crown. Even the Martells of Dorne have had a Queen!"
Mace's neck swelled at the mention of the Martells. The feud between the Reach and Dorne was thousands of years old, and it had been exacerbated when Oberyn Martell crippled Willas during a tourney.
"I don't blame Prince Oberyn, Father," Willas said calmly. "It was an accident of the lists. My horse fell on me. It could have happened to any man."
"You are too kind, Willas. Hatred and pride are for men with more ego than brains," Olenna said.
She leaned back, looking at the golden roses carved into the gazebo's ceiling. "The Starks were kings, the Arryns were kings, the Lannisters were kings. Even the Baratheons were royal through their mothers. The Tyrells were only stewards until Aegon burned the Gardeners. But what does that matter? We are at our zenith, Mace. The world needs our food. We wait. We do not jump into the fire."
"Fine," Mace grumbled. "But the Florents keep questioning our legitimacy. I'll make them pay for that eventually."
"Kings are not born every day," Olenna said. "It took our family a hundred years to produce a man like Leo Longthorn. Let us not waste our strength on small grudges."
Leo "Longthorn" Tyrell had been the greatest jouster of his age, a champion who many believed was the finest lance in history. He was the standard Mace Tyrell desperately tried to live up to.
"Willas," Olenna asked, turning back to her grandson. "Do you have anything interesting from your letters?"
"Actually, yes," Willas said, leaning forward. "A strange report from across the Narrow Sea. There is a new power rising in the Disputed Lands. The sailors call him the 'Iron-Masked King' or the 'Hammer King'. He has seized several fire-weed estates, liberated the slaves, and crushed a detachment of Unsullied."
"The Hammer King?" Olenna's eyebrows went up. "Sounds like a runaway slave with a lucky strike."
"No," Willas corrected. "He is the new Commander of the Wolf Pack Company. They say he is a giant who wears a horned iron mask and wields a warhammer that shatters shields like glass. He has disrupted the entire fire-weed harvest. The price of Myrish medicine is already skyrocketing."
"A hammer-wielding demon from the North," Olenna mused, her eyes narrowing. "The Wolf Pack... I remember them. They were founded by exiles who wouldn't bend the knee to the dragons. Interesting."
"He is more than just a bandit," Willas added. "He is building a 'Free Army' of liberated slaves. He is setting the Disputed Lands on fire. If he moves on the Stepstones next, he'll have his hands on the throat of every merchant in Oldtown."
"A King of Iron and Butter," Mace scoffed, though he looked uneasy. "He is a world away. A mere sellsword."
"Maybe," Willas said softly. "But he has a warhammer. And in my experience, men with warhammers have a habit of changing the world."
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