Great Lord Tyrell and his household resided in the long, slate-roofed fortress behind the Great Sept of Baelor, a place called the Maidenvault. It was there that the late king, "Blessed" Baelor, had once confined his sisters—believing that if he could not see them, he would be spared the temptation of lust.
Utter nonsense, Tyrion thought.
Before the tall, intricately carved wooden doors stood two guards in gilded half-helms and green cloaks trimmed with gold thread, the golden rose of Highgarden embroidered on their chests. Each was seven feet tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, and built of pure muscle.
"Gentlemen," Tyrion said, "please announce that Tyrion Lannister has come to call."
The name alone was enough to open doors. The fame of the hero of the Blackwater needed no escort; his Lannister name was its own invitation.
Inside the banquet hall—nothing but women.
Lady Alerie, the tall and commanding wife of Great Lord Tyrell, wore jeweled rings woven into her long silver braids. Lady Leonette, bright-eyed and lovely, of House Fossoway, was wed to Ser Garlan. And many more women besides, all distinct yet sharing one thing in common—their eyes lit up at Tyrion's arrival.
He went straight to the central table, where a frail, white-haired old woman sat surrounded by Margaery and Sansa.
"It is an honor to meet you, Lady Olenna."
"Ah, the charming Lust Demon." The old woman's perfume carried the sweet scent of roses. She raised one small, thin hand. How curious, Tyrion thought, that such a tiny creature was called the Queen of Thorns.
"How kind of you to join me and my flock of foolish hens for supper."
Tyrion kissed the back of her hand. "The honor is mine, Lady. Forgive me for not coming sooner. Lady Sansa's safety concerns my brother's life. Whenever she leaves the Tower of the Hand, she should be accompanied. Of course, bringing a knight to a dinner of this sort would hardly be proper."
"Ha! I had thought to invite the Queen herself," said Lady Olenna. "But letting a mother meet her son's bride too soon can only breed awkwardness. Having her uncle instead is far better."
"I'm sorry, my lord," Sansa said, rising. "I should have asked your permission first..."
"That won't be necessary," Tyrion replied. "You're not my wife. You needn't ask my leave for everything."
"Well said." Lady Olenna clapped lightly. "Margaery doesn't need the king's permission for all she does, does she? Alerie, fetch our lord a chair."
Tyrion took his seat, noticing a flicker of unease pass across Margaery's face.
"My darling has always had a way with kings," Lady Olenna said, toothless yet sharp as ever. "First Renly, and now Joffrey."
"Renly was handsome," Tyrion replied. "Joffrey... more exalted by birth."
The old woman gave a dismissive snort. "Oh yes, he's grand, charming, and smells clean. He knows how to dress, how to smile, how to bathe—and from that, concludes he deserves to be king! The Baratheons have always had their foolish notions. I suppose they inherited that from their Targaryen blood." She dabbed her nose with a cloth. "They once tried to marry me to a Targaryen, you know. I refused outright."
"As for His Grace Joffrey—by the gods—the smallfolk say the grain he distributes binds them up so badly they can't even relieve themselves."
"Your family seems rather fond of them both," Tyrion said with a grin.
"Mace? My dear boy." Olenna sighed. "Sometimes I wish I were a peasant woman, so I could take a wooden spoon and knock some sense into that thick skull of his."
"Mother!" Lady Alerie protested.
"Be quiet, Alerie, and mind your tone. And don't call me mother—if I'd given birth to you, I'd remember. Anyway, I wasn't talking about you, only scolding my idiot son, the dim-witted Lord of Highgarden."
The old woman turned back to Tyrion. "It was rebellion, I told him so. Robert had two sons, and Renly an elder brother. How could he ever think himself fit for that ugly Iron Throne? My son tells me you weren't keen on seeing your sweetheart become queen, either. The Lannisters ruled for generations, as did the Arryns and Starks. Only House Tyrell were stewards before Aegon the Conqueror burned the true kings of the Reach in the Field of Fire. Truth be told—as those dreadful Florents often moan—our claim to Highgarden is rather shaky. Which is exactly why a fool like my son swells with pride at the thought of his grandson on the Iron Throne."
"The blood of House Tyrell traces back to Garth Greenhand," Tyrion said.
The Queen of Thorns waved dismissively. "And what good would that do? House Florent, House Rowan, House Oakheart—half the southern lords are the same. They say Garth was skilled at sowing seeds, making all things flourish. But in my eyes, he sowed far more than fields. As for your father, Lord Tywin and my dim-witted son seem to have found perfect accord. Perhaps they think along similar lines."
"Sweetheart, take Lady Sansa for a walk. I'd like a word alone with our handsome Lust Demon."
"Yes, Grandmother." Margaery rose, walked around Tyrion, and took Sansa's hand. "Come, my lady. Let's take a stroll."
Sansa looked to Tyrion, who nodded. "Go on, my lady. Be a proper lady."
"I must say, you cut quite the figure—especially after defeating Stannis," said the Queen of Thorns, watching the girls depart. "My son tries to claim the victory as his own, but only a turnip would believe it. Were it up to me, I'd marry my granddaughter to you myself. From Lannisport to Highgarden, the Ocean Road would feel like our private hall."
"My lady, I didn't come here to complain…" Tyrion began.
"This isn't a complaint—it's a rightful claim." The Queen of Thorns gave a wry smile. "When I was eighteen, King Daeron annulled my betrothal. My husband, in turn, was rejected by Princess Shaera Targaryen. The gods wove their cruel threads, binding two unlucky souls together—and somehow we made three children of it."
She sighed. "Sometimes misfortune can be a blessing in disguise, and fortune…"
"Blessings and curses depend on where you stand," Tyrion said reflexively.
"My word, a poet!" Olenna chuckled. "Where did you learn that? Asshai, perhaps? What a pity I missed you. Were I fifty years younger, I'd march into battle myself and bring the taxes of the Arbor as my dowry. Ha! What I mean is, you may yet find your luck."
Dorne, Tyrion thought. You're a widow, and my father's a widower.
"But my lady, about Margaery and I…"
"Hush." Olenna lifted a finger. "A young girl's heart fluttering a bit is hardly a crime—but best to keep it buried deep."
"I don't wish to speak of it again. Frankly, it was a rather shameful business—for both of us. Let's leave it as a sweet misunderstanding." The old woman continued, "My son may be the Great Lord of Highgarden, but a fool nonetheless. Still, his word is law. Whatever our displeasures, what's done is done. I'll be plain with you—you may resent being used by Highgarden, but surely the taste of the rose makes up for it?"
Tyrion's face betrayed nothing.
"No matter," said the Queen of Thorns. "I like you, little Lust Demon. You can fight, and you can make verse. The friendship between House Tyrell and House Lannister will endure—not between our fathers, but between you and me."
Tyrion inclined his head.
"I'd like you to grant me one favor," Olenna said softly, "as a full stop to this... misunderstanding."
"Name it."
"If my sweet girl should ever face danger in King's Landing—help her. Even if it's only once. Will you?" She reached out and clasped his hand.
"I will, my lady," Tyrion said.