"Lord Loras Tyrell."
Gazing upon the Highgarden host that approached with measured steps, Joffrey spoke with deceptive calm.
"You reported that yesterday evening's meeting proceeded smoothly, that you had reached accord with Lady Olenna. Are we and Highgarden not truly at peace? Or is this some peculiar manner of welcoming ceremony?"
All eyes turned to the Knight of Flowers.
Loras Tyrell shook his head in vehement denial. "There must be some misunderstanding, some oversight. Your Grace, I beg your patience—allow me to ride forth and discover what transpires here."
He could offer only desperate assurances. "Your Grace, Highgarden is most certainly not your enemy."
Yet he knew nothing of this development.
As the King's envoy and appointed Governor, Loras had arrived at Highgarden ahead of the royal host, allowing him a long night of discourse with his kin before His Grace's arrival. They had settled the family's course at last.
Had they not agreed to all terms?
His sister Margaery would wed King Joffrey, Highgarden would submit anew to the Iron Throne, abandon all resistance, and support the King's reforms. In exchange, the family would receive royal pardon for their rebellion, and Lord Renly's life would be spared.
Though Sansa Stark's betrothal to the King would remain intact, preventing Margaery from being sole queen;
Though the King demanded great wealth in tribute;
Though Highgarden lost much autonomy, and the ancient order of succession had been pried open;
Though their reputation suffered grievous harm.
At least the family would endure. Highgarden would not become a smoking ruin, and the Tyrells would remain lords paramount of the Reach. What more could they ask?
Yet what was this display?
Did they truly mean to assault King Joffrey with a mere twenty thousand common soldiers?
Had the intelligence I provided not been sufficiently clear?
Loras cast his gaze about the royal column.
Thousands of Kingsguard had halted their march, each squad and platoon forming defensive formations that interlocked with mathematical precision. The arrangement appeared loose, yet it was more than adequate for warriors of their caliber—their efficiency in slaying foes was beyond mortal reckoning.
Even in close combat, no ordinary army could hope to match them.
More troubling still, the warlocks had gathered near the baggage train. Pre-prepared steel lay beside them, and within mere heartbeats, hundreds of artillery pieces would spring forth from their sorcerous hands, hurling steel and flame.
At this distance, their shells could strike Highgarden's walls directly.
How could they show hostility at such a moment?
They must be halted!
Seeing that the King offered no objection, Loras spurred his destrier forward with desperate haste.
"Hold! Hold, all of you!"
Loras reined up before the advancing column and cried out in urgent appeal.
The knight commanding the formation raised his right arm, signaling the host to halt. The riders around him drew rein obediently, while those wearing closed helms lifted their visors.
The mood of the column remained remarkably calm.
Loras breathed slightly easier—it seemed matters had not yet reached the worst possible pass.
Then why this martial display?
He scanned the formation with worried eyes, finding only familiar faces.
The family's captain of guards—Ser Jon Fossoway. Highgarden's master-at-arms—Ser Moryn Tyrell. Lord Titus Peake of Starpike. His cousin's husband—Ser Leo Blackbar...
At the column's heart rode his elder brother, Garlan Tyrell.
Garlan wore his personal arms—two golden roses on a field of green.
Then I should bear three golden roses.
Three golden roses. The Governor of Highgarden knew he likely possessed no right to such honor any longer.
The Governor and Garlan Tyrell regarded each other across the narrowing distance.
His elder brother was taller, broader of shoulder, his face framed by a well-kept beard. He was smiling.
Garlan the Gallant.
His brother far exceeded him in swordsmanship, able to spar against half a dozen men simultaneously without taking injury. Perhaps few in all the Seven Kingdoms could match his blade.
Yet personal valor had always counted for little in war, and would matter even less in conflicts to come.
The Governor strove to project authority.
"Garlan, what task did Grandmother set you? Why bring forth the host? If His Grace takes offense, we cannot bear the consequences!"
Garlan Tyrell smiled warmly at his younger brother.
"Loras, do not distress yourself. Grandmother merely took it into her head to express Highgarden's most fervent welcome and sincerity to His Grace."
"Besides..."
Garlan turned in his saddle to gesture behind him. "Where do you see an army? I observe only Highgarden's honor guard—peaceful, grand, and sincere in their devotion."
Just so? Loras had to wonder. "Nothing more than that?"
Garlan urged his mount forward and clasped Loras's shoulder. "Nothing more, brother. Highgarden's decision stands unchanged. How could we deceive you, our own blood?"
"His Grace's presence brings supreme honor to our house."
Garlan's eyes held depths of complex emotion. "Return and report to His Grace. All is well—Highgarden remains his loyal subject. Governor... ser."
Loras's breath caught. Something in that final address struck him like a physical blow.
"Brother, I..." He stared deeply into Garlan's face, a thousand words crowding his heart, yet when they reached his lips they became silence.
"Growing Strong." Though his thoughts churned in chaos, their family motto remained crystal clear.
"Growing Strong." Garlan echoed with feeling.
"Go now."
Loras looked around at the assembled riders, and familiar faces seemed to become strange in an instant—not merely changed expressions or gestures, but something far deeper.
He raised his eyes to gaze upon the white elegance of Highgarden rising before them.
From his earliest memories, Highgarden had always appeared so pristine and beautiful, never changing, never likely to change through countless years to come.
I am home.
The dazzling castle blurred gradually in his vision, as if transforming into a dream.
Am I truly home?
Tyrell. Highgarden. Governor. Golden Rose.
At last he wheeled his destrier about and, beneath the gaze of all assembled, galloped eastward toward his King...
"Honor guard."
Joffrey nodded with thoughtful consideration.
"I see." He studied the shaken Loras with calculating eyes. "Lady Olenna's hospitality proves difficult to refuse, though rather sudden in its manifestation."
Are you testing my resolve? Seeking to preserve Highgarden's independence despite all agreements?
"Loras."
Joffrey's tone carried subtle displeasure. "As Governor, you bear primary responsibility for such oversights."
"I understand your inexperience, so this once I shall overlook the matter. But should anything similar occur hereafter, you must handle it with greater care and report such developments in advance. Do I make myself clear?"
Loras fell silent and dropped to one knee upon the green grass.
A servant brought forth a white destrier. Joffrey mounted smoothly. "We shall continue forward."
The Kingsguard resumed their marching formation, arranging themselves in twenty ranks with dozens in each file, moving forward in perfect synchronization. Baggage carts and supply wagons brought up the rear.
Loras knelt motionless upon the verdant earth.
Ser Barristan the Bold approached slowly and sighed in silence.
He recognized the familiar scent of sorrow and confusion that clung to Loras like morning mist. Much as with Highgarden's reception, many within the Selmy family found his own return difficult to accept, as if he were a complete stranger to them.
Indeed, had he not voluntarily abandoned his inheritance decades past, he would already have become Lord of Harvest Hall, with children and grandchildren to carry on his name.
Yet none were willing to speak of such ancient history anymore.
Ser Barristan helped Loras to his feet. "Life presents us with many crossroads, and each choice leads us down different paths. Retreat is no longer possible—the only course remaining is to move forward."
"You and I share this burden."
Loras recalled his captain's counsel and struggled to master his churning thoughts.
"Highgarden's golden roses bloom in full splendor."
Loras managed a brittle smile. "I pray His Grace finds them pleasing."