Highgarden was a vision of beauty, its castle built from white marble, radiating a sense of purity and grace.
Its towers rose above all else, offering sweeping views of the surrounding lands for miles, where fields and estates stretched out beneath a sea of wildflowers and golden roses.
Highgarden's godswood was just as famed. Within it stood three heart trees, known together as the "Three Singers," said to have been planted by the Green Hand himself.
Today, members of House Tyrell had gathered in the godswood, not to enjoy the scenery, but to discuss matters of great secrecy. One letter had come from King's Landing, the other from across the Narrow Sea.
The godswood had been chosen for its seclusion, and to avoid the Spider's spies.
Willas, the crippled heir to Highgarden, grandson of the Queen of Thorns, son of Mace, and brother to Garlan and Margaery, was the first to read the letter from King's Landing. It was from his younger brother, Loras.
"That mad dog." Mace flew into a rage after hearing its contents. The Mountain had nearly killed his most beloved son. The Lannisters were truly mad.
"Loras is still just a boy swinging a stick, while the Mountain is Tywin's most trusted hound, and far older than him. If even Tywin's dog dares act so brazenly, just look at what King's Landing has become," the Queen of Thorns said coldly. Though Loras had won through less-than-honorable means, the fact that the Mountain had nearly cut down the child of a great house in a fit of rage, and then walked away without consequence, was outrageous.
"Thank the Seven," Margaery said softly. The Hound had stepped in, driven by his hatred, and blocked the blow.
"That brute is truly terrifying," Mace said. "Loras was fortunate this time."
Garlan nodded, then shook his head. "In the lists, the Mountain may not be the very best, but on the battlefield, he is without equal. And for him to behave like this while the King turns a blind eye… this is troubling."
"Grandmother, Loras also said something else. He asked that we fully support Great Lord Renly's cause," Willas continued.
"I think it's worth considering," Mace said after a moment. "Robert has never thought much of us, and we have no place in King's Landing. If Prince Joffrey takes the throne, it will be a Lannister court through and through. We might as well throw in with Renly and make our move. There's much to gain."
"And what claim does Renly have to that ugly, cold Iron Throne?" the Queen of Thorns asked quietly, fixing her son with a look. "He is only the third son, and his elder brother has children of his own."
"Robert didn't have much of a claim either. We have men and grain, and the Stormlands have always produced fierce warriors," Mace insisted.
"Enough, you fool. Look at that fat head of yours. Do you think the Iron Throne is so easily taken?" the Queen of Thorns snapped.
"I agree we should wait until the situation becomes clearer before making a move," Willas said, siding with his grandmother.
House Tyrell was deeply tied to Renly, supporting him both openly and in secret, but joining him in a bid for the throne was another matter entirely. That kind of gamble required the utmost caution.
"I've heard the Riverlands are about to become a battlefield soaked in blood. We should proceed carefully," Garlan said. "The Starks and Lannisters already have deep grievances. House Arryn resents losing the title of Warden of the East. And ever since Lord Eddard's wife tried and failed to seize the Imp, the Lannisters have been preparing for a major clash with House Tully. All of this could spark a full-scale war between the Lannisters and Houses Arryn, Tully, and Stark."
"And wouldn't that be a good thing?" Mace asked. "If the lions, trout, falcons, and direwolves all stand together, where would that leave us?"
"Let me remind you, Mace," the Queen of Thorns said, her gaze sharp. "You are playing a dangerous game. We must be certain of victory in the end. We cannot rush in blindly. Kingdoms and honor matter, yes, but what matters more is our family and the lasting strength of our house."
"Yes, Mother." Mace lowered his head, though he still believed his reasoning had merit. Their side still held considerable advantages.
"My little flower, don't take after your foolish father," the Queen of Thorns said, drawing Margaery closer and taking her hand. "Tell me, how many people do you think have a claim to the Iron Throne?"
"Prince Joffrey represents the king's will and has the backing of House Lannister. Great Lord Renly holds Storm's End, and our relations with him are good. And then there's Gendry across the Narrow Sea. The King of the Two Cities is not only the king's bastard, but has also tied himself to the remnants of House Targaryen through marriage."
"Very good, my clever granddaughter." The Queen of Thorns nodded in satisfaction. "But you've missed one person, Lord Stannis. Great Lord Renly dislikes bowing to others and has no love for House Lannister. But Lord Stannis bears resentment toward both Robert and Renly."
"With the situation this chaotic, why should we rush to involve ourselves?" The Queen of Thorns looked over her children and grandchildren. "We have ample grain and plenty of soldiers. No matter which side wins, we will be the weight that tips the balance. All the more reason not to enter the game lightly."
Lord Mace nodded as if he understood, though he clearly still held to his own views.
"There is another letter," Willas said, continuing. This one was indeed from Gendry.
"I have long heard of Lord Mace's great reputation and have always wished to meet you… I hope to hunt with you south of the Kingswood and take down a stag together."
Lord Mace Tyrell, already broad and ruddy, with brown curls and a shovel-shaped beard streaked with white, flushed even more at the praise.
"This lad writes quite well," Mace said approvingly, suddenly feeling that, at last, someone had recognized his remarkable military talent.
"Hunting in the Kingswood, taking down a stag together." The Queen of Thorns pursed her lips. Thin and frail as she was, she was all thorns. "Bold words. He's hinting at you. There are many with designs on the Iron Throne, so don't act rashly. But from what I hear, this boy is currently in Myr, fighting those horse-smelling Dothraki."
"You're right, Grandmother," Garlan nodded. "Khal Drogo of the Dothraki is likely besieging Myr right now. Gendry is locked in a brutal fight with them."
"This boy is solid steel. He built everything from nothing, and now he's prepared to fight the Dothraki to the death. He looks far more like a true Baratheon than Renly, who spends his days preening." The Queen of Thorns clicked her tongue. "Still, does anyone have a likeness? Let this old grandmother see what he looks like."
"I do." Ser Garlan took out an iron hammer pendant from his pocket. Inside was a portrait in the Myrish style. "These are quite popular in the Twin Cities."
"He does look the part. With a bit of grooming, he might outshine Renly." The Queen of Thorns studied the vivid portrait. It showed a young man in armor, with short black hair, sharp features, and a steady, resolute gaze. His hair was as dark as the deepest night.
"How many warships does this king command?" the Queen of Thorns asked.
"At least four hundred. His fleet controls the Sea of Myr and the Stepstones," Garlan said with certainty. It was an impressive number.
"Then his fleet alone could rival the Iron Islands, the Royal Fleet, and the Redwyne Fleet combined. As for his armies, every city in the Twin Cities prospers, and he commands elite troops." The Queen of Thorns weighed it carefully. If they ever came to blows, he would be a formidable opponent.
"On the surface, they do seem to dominate their region. But I think we won't know the true strength of the Twin Cities Alliance until the Battle of Myr is decided."
"Best to stay cautious and keep on good terms with everyone," the Queen of Thorns said after a moment's thought. "No matter where the unrest lies, east or west, we watch and wait."
...
At the Eyrie, the Tully sisters fell into another fierce argument.
Though Lady Lysa was younger than Catelyn, she had grown much heavier. Repeated pregnancies and miscarriages had worn down both her body and her mind. Her face was pale and swollen, her Tully blue eyes dull and wet, her gaze unfocused, her thin lips drained of life.
"You've gone too far. Bringing the Imp here without permission, without even a word, dragging us into your quarrel with the Lannisters…" Lysa lashed out at Catelyn.
"Your quarrel?" Catelyn shot back. "Little sister, this was your doing from the start. You wrote that cursed letter to me, saying the Lannisters murdered your husband."
"I wrote to warn you, to keep you away from them, not to have you confront them head-on. By the gods, Cat, do you even understand what this could lead to?"
"We should have acted long ago, little sister. I've said it again and again."
"We are safe here. Even if the Lannisters marched through the mountains and passed the Bloody Gate, they could never take the Eyrie. You've seen it yourself. No one can reach us here," Lysa said with confidence.
Catelyn was left speechless. Lysa seemed terrified, unwilling to commit even a single soldier. Uncle Blackfish had been right.
"But that's not what matters most right now." Lysa suddenly turned on her, her eyes sharp with hostility. "After all these years, he still hasn't forgotten you. And your husband is even worse. He actually threw Petyr into a dungeon."
"What are you talking about?" Catelyn was stunned. Eddard had never mentioned anything like this. And wasn't Littlefinger their ally? Hadn't he been helping them?
"You don't need to say anything. It must be that narrow-minded Stark. He knows Petyr loves you, thinks of you." Lysa let out a harsh, almost unhinged laugh as she stared at Catelyn.
"Little sister…" A chill crept over Catelyn. This was not the Lysa she knew. Had she lost her mind?
"Mother, Aunt Catelyn, what are you talking about?"
Robert Arryn stood at the doorway, clutching a worn rag doll, staring at them with wide eyes. The boy was painfully thin, smaller than others his age, his face sickly, his body trembling from time to time. Catelyn knew the maesters called this condition epilepsy.
"Auntie is a bad person," Lysa suddenly said to her son.
"Make her fly," Robert said eagerly.
"That's a fine idea." Lysa stroked her son's hair, her eyes still fixed on Catelyn.
"Petyr… Petyr is fine for now," Catelyn said quickly. Lysa did not seem to be speaking lightly.