The Reach, Highgarden. In the age of the Seven Kingdoms, this had been the seat of House Gardener. After Aegon's Conquest, it was granted to House Tyrell.
Highgarden crowned a gentle hill overlooking the Mander. The Ocean Road and the Roseroad met beneath its walls. Built of white marble, the castle was often called the most beautiful in all Westeros, though the men of the Vale would argue for the Eyrie.
Highgarden was a place of art and abundance—green, fertile, thriving. In the rose gardens, flowers bloomed in profusion. Courtyards, pools, and carved fountains adorned the grounds, while marble colonnades and stone statues lined the halls. Vines and climbing roses twined over ancient walls. From the castle's towers, one could see leagues of fields and manors spread below, the countryside awash with wildflowers and golden roses.
In a white pavilion beside a fountain, several members of House Tyrell were deep in conversation.
Outside the slender, elegant structure stood two guards in green cloaks trimmed with gold thread, gilded half-helms on their heads. The golden rose of Highgarden gleamed on their chests. Both men stood near seven feet tall, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, corded with muscle. A closer look revealed they were indistinguishable—same square jaws, same deep blue eyes, same thick red beards. They were the Queen of Thorns' twin protectors.
"Do you know about the portrait Renly had the Myrish paint of my granddaughter?" the Queen of Thorns asked.
"I do. There is such a painting," Lord Mace replied. "It's beautifully done. The Myrish style is very lifelike."
Once powerfully built, Mace had grown somewhat stout with age, though he still cut a handsome figure. His curly brown hair framed a neatly trimmed triangular beard now touched with gray.
"Then you know what Renly intends." Lady Olenna fixed her son with a sharp look.
She was past sixty, silver-haired and small of stature, with soft hands and thin fingers. Her voice carried the tart edge of age. As the elder of House Tyrell, she still stepped carefully across the board of power.
"Wouldn't you like your little sweetheart to be queen?" Mace said awkwardly. "It's not just Renly. All of King's Landing knows the king does not love his queen. He still carries a torch for that brown-haired girl from the North. Her shadow lingers."
"The king?" Margaery exclaimed, startled as she weighed the matter.
She wore a green cloak embroidered with golden roses, the fabric lifting in the breeze over her green gown. Young, slender, and beautiful, with brown hair and doe-like brown eyes, she had not imagined her brother and Renly would dare so much.
"Foolishness," Lady Olenna said sharply. "The situation in King's Landing is murky. The Lion's power there runs deep and tangled. Sweet Renly—can you truly rely on that charming young man and his pretty words? At least he hasn't gone so far as to crown himself. He'd rather replace the lioness with my sweet girl."
She sighed.
"No need to rush. We hold the granaries and the bread. Whoever warms that cold iron chair will think twice before crossing us."
"The king is not a suitable match," said Willas from his wheeled chair.
The heir to Highgarden sat calmly, his tone measured.
"I said as much before. Father and Renly cling to their own ideas. You should have asked Grandmother and Margaery. King Robert is fat and drinks too much. He passes his days in brothels and on hunts. He is no longer the dazzling stag he once was. For my sister to wed him would bring neither honor nor safety. We might find a better choice."
"Well, I think Renly would suit," Mace insisted. "He's brave and gentle."
Lady Olenna snorted. Small though she was, she was all thorns.
"I suspect there's a touch of madness in him, perhaps from that trace of dragon blood. Good looks and charm don't soften a rebellious heart. His brother has children. He himself has an elder brother. Once, they meant to marry me to a Targaryen. I refused."
"My grandson Willas is the only sensible one among you," she went on. "That is some comfort. Tell Loras and Renly to put an end to their foolish games. Roses grow in the Reach. We have little planted in King's Landing. The king still holds the reins. Let us not stir needless trouble there."
"But Mother, this is a rare opportunity," Mace protested, his face reddening. "For more than a decade, the Small Council has scarcely had a man from the Reach. Our house has never won the honor of the crown. Even the Dornish—House Martell of Dorne—have produced a queen."
The mention of House Martell made Mace bristle, color rising along his neck. The Reach and Dorne had never been friends, and House Martell had left its mark on the heir of Highgarden.
"I bear Prince Oberyn no grudge," Willas said mildly. "That is the way of tourneys. Sometimes we even trade recipes for cooking horse."
Willas had a crippled leg. In his first tourney, he had faced Prince Oberyn of Dorne. Oberyn had unhorsed him. His foot caught in the stirrup as he fell, and the horse came down on him. One knee was shattered beyond repair, and the heir to Highgarden had been lame ever since.
"My grandson has sense, at least," Lady Olenna said. "Hatred and vanity make fools of men. Your father grows giddy at the thought of his grandson on the throne, like a fish leaping at bait."
"The Starks were kings for generations. So were the Arryns and the Lannisters. Even the Baratheons, if you trace the line through the mother, descend from ancient kings. Only House Tyrell rose after Aegon the Conqueror burned the rightful King of the Reach in the Field of Fire. Before that, we were but stewards. And what of it?"
She fixed Mace with a sharp look.
"My son, we have never been stronger. Our branches are heavy with fruit. Every side needs us. We should wait, not rush."
"Very well, there will be other chances," Mace muttered, his temper flaring. "And those cursed Florents, always prattling on about legitimacy. I'll deal with them sooner or later."
"Enough, Mace. Kings do not spring up like weeds. Look at Longthorn Leo. How many years passed before our house produced a man like him?"
"Longthorn" Leo had been a famed warrior and tourney champion, admired and respected throughout the realm. Even a century later, Leo Tyrell was still remembered as the finest knight their house had ever produced, a master of the lance, perhaps the greatest jouster of his age.
"Now then," Lady Olenna said, turning back to Willas, "have you any more interesting tidings for your old grandmother?"
"Nothing of note here," Willas replied. "But across the Narrow Sea, there is something curious. A new king has risen in the Disputed Lands. He frees slaves and raids Fire Herb manors. The price of Myrish Fire Herb has been climbing ever since."
"The slaves call him the Fire Herb King, or the Iron King. He wears an iron mask, fights with an iron hammer, clad in iron armor, and is said to be unstoppable on the battlefield."
"The Fire Herb King?" Lady Olenna raised a brow. "He sounds like a runaway slave."
"No. He is the new commander of the Wolf Pack. A fierce and cunning warrior. He wields a warhammer none can withstand. He has slain many Myrish men, even Unsullied."
"The Wolf Pack? The demon with the warhammer." Lady Olenna paused. "Descendants of those savage northerners. I did not expect them to still be stirring."
"They were drawn into the Myrish struggle and now stand as a faction of their own," Willas said.
"Fire Herb King," Mace scoffed. "He's nothing more than some distant bandit."
For all his years in armor, Mace had little to show in battle.
"The price of Fire Herb keeps rising," Willas continued calmly. "We may need to make contact with this Fire Herb King. And there are whispers he may strike at the Stepstones, just as the Ninepenny Kings once did."