Golden roses bloomed on every side.
Joffrey savored the scenery during their approach, his body moving in comfortable rhythm with the white destrier beneath him.
Garlan Tyrell and Maester Leo rode as companions on either flank.
Leo was his messenger—a cadet member of House Tyrell, son of the Oldtown garrison commander, and a maester formerly of King's Landing.
The other was Highgarden's second son, Garlan the Gallant, a knight of exceptional skill.
Garlan was undoubtedly a golden rose in full bloom.
Throughout their brief journey, Garlan Tyrell—who resembled an older, more mature version of Loras—greeted the King with perfect courtesy and restraint, his words economical yet precisely conveying their intent.
In Garlan's telling, the Queen of Thorns' sudden arrangements seemed mere whimsy—the capriciousness of an aged woman set in her ways.
Joffrey graciously declared he took no offense and waved enthusiastically to the grand honor guard.
Maester Leo could be counted only half a golden rose.
Throughout their ride, though Leo spoke little aloud, he reported everything he knew to Joffrey through the Divine Grace network—every detail, every secret, without omission or concealment.
He had no choice in the matter.
Having conducted research alongside Archmaester Marwyn, Leo now possessed crystalline understanding of magic's mystery and might. He grasped too well the terrible power of the Divine Grace Core embedded within his flesh.
No secrets could hide from the King's eyes or the Security Bureau's reach.
Whether from awe of power, thirst for truth, or simple concern for his family's welfare, Leo had no cause to withhold information.
Thus Joffrey reviewed extensive intelligence about Highgarden once more—though most had been studied many times over, save for a few recent developments.
Highgarden lay completely exposed before his gaze.
Margaery, for instance, had spent these days leading her companions in play and leisure, showing remarkably little concern for either war or marriage.
Lady Alysanne Bulwer, merely seven years of age, numbered among Margaery's companions and now dwelt at Highgarden. Her mother, Lady Victaria Tyrell, ruled Blackcrown in her daughter's stead.
Garth Tyrell, Highgarden's seneschal, was uncle to Lord Mace Tyrell. Men called him "Garth the Gross."
His two bastards, Gyles and Garrett Flowers, both lived at Highgarden, their private lives a tangle of scandal.
Willas, heir to Highgarden, seemed more scholar than lord. Lamed in his youth, he devoted himself to learning, possessed of keen intelligence and wisdom, deeply troubled by Highgarden's precarious situation.
Maester Lomys, who served Highgarden, bore no surname yet was in truth a bastard of House Hightower. Though he possessed no inheritance rights and remained unacknowledged, his early years studying at the Citadel in Oldtown had clearly shaped him profoundly.
The Tyrell family's fool, Butterbumps, remained the Queen of Thorns' particular favorite.
Whenever secret and crucial discussions took place, Lady Olenna Redwyne would always have Butterbumps present, singing loudly to mask the conversation's content.
Joffrey understood she sought to confound the spies that lurked in Highgarden's gardens.
But the royal family no longer required such petty stratagems. Varys's and Littlefinger's informants had been either abandoned and forgotten, eliminated, or recruited to serve more useful purposes.
The remaining spies in Highgarden's gardens were those left behind and forsaken.
After all, intelligence that spies might gather paled beside what a simple Security Bureau operation could achieve, while remaining more likely to expose themselves and provoke suspicion and hostility.
Furthermore, it proved utterly impractical to painstakingly guide distant spies back to King's Landing while evading the Tyrells' watchful eyes and deadly threats.
So they had been abandoned to their fate.
But now, in this moment, they could be reactivated.
Joffrey gazed straight ahead.
Highgarden's gates stood wide, their details growing ever clearer, the faces of crowds lining both sides gradually coming into focus.
Until he could smell the mingled fragrances of a dozen perfumes.
He raised his hand.
The entire Kingsguard column behind him halted instantly.
The honor guard, stretching across hills and fields, slowly pressed closer, drums and horns sounding constantly—part demonstration, part celebration.
"Enough ceremony, I think," Joffrey dismounted smoothly.
Standing before him was Highgarden's true ruler, the Queen of Thorns herself—Lady Olenna Redwyne.
Joffrey smiled and cast his appraising gaze over her.
The ancient woman possessed a crown of silver hair, stood short in stature, and the hands gripping her walking stick seemed to sink into its head—appearing soft and boneless, all thin fingers and prominent knuckles.
Two tall guards of remarkably similar appearance flanked and supported her. Lady Olenna called them her "Left Hand" and "Right Hand."
Yet now she shook off both protectors.
"Your Grace, Highgarden is honored to receive so benevolent a monarch."
She opened her toothless mouth, and the breath that escaped carried the sour, rotten scent peculiar to ancient women.
Joffrey discretely stepped backward. "Lady Olenna, you are too kind."
Lady Olenna seemed oblivious to his retreat. "Also, pray forgive this old woman's ignorance—is the war concluded? Is Renly dead? Does no one contest your claim to that throne any longer?"
What a sharp-tongued Queen of Thorns indeed!
Joffrey chuckled. "The war continues yet, my lady. We have merely reclaimed Storm's End, Cape Wrath, the Dornish Marches, and the coastal territories—hardly worth mentioning."
"Though it is but a matter of days now."
His smile broadened. "Renly approaches Storm's End even now with fifty thousand swords, and one clean, decisive battle shall bring peace to the Seven Kingdoms."
Loras and several Tyrells gathered closer.
Joffrey glanced at Loras meaningfully. "Yet he remains my uncle, after all, and I cannot bear the curse of kinslaying. Lady Olenna, I fear you shall not witness Lord Renly's death."
The Queen of Thorns snorted. "Perhaps not. The Wall runs so dreadfully cold—how could one so delicate as Renly endure it?"
Loras's face darkened with sorrow.
Joffrey shifted topics smoothly. "Rest assured, I shall also take care to preserve Lord Mace's life, provided he does not recklessly devote himself to my uncle's cause when the decisive moment comes."
The Queen of Thorns replied without hesitation. "You need harbor no concerns on that score—my son possesses little taste for such heroics."
"Mother," Lady Alerie Hightower could not help pleading for her husband. She possessed long silver hair, dignified bearing, and appeared to be in her thirties despite her true age.
"Hold your tongue," Lady Olenna remained ruthless toward her gooddaughter.
"I merely spoke facts about my son—I require no assistance in playing the gracious hostess. Would you have Highgarden speak falsehoods before His Grace?"
"Please, Grandmother," Margaery glided forward with practiced grace.
"His Grace has traveled far, surely not to discuss Father's valor with you."
She smiled sweetly at Joffrey. "Your Grace, I have gathered Highgarden's most beautiful golden roses to weave a wreath in your honor. Please do not refuse such a humble offering."
She extended a wreath of woven gold, her eyes bright with anticipation.
The maiden wore silk of palest green, the fitted bodice displaying her comely figure to advantage. Soft brown curls spilled across white shoulders in a manner that made one long to taste the sweetness they promised.
Most enchanting were those doe-like brown eyes, so playful and lovely.
Joffrey's smile turned radiant.
"My dear Lady Margaery, I too bear a gift for you."
"A queen's crown."
Joffrey conjured a golden diadem from seemingly thin air. Its ornamentation featured thorns and flowering branches, while a pair of lions and stags pressed down upon a golden rose at its heart.