In the storied Age of Heroes, when legend and history wove together like golden thread through green silk, Garth Greenhand's eldest son—Garth Gardener the First—claimed dominion over a high hill that overlooked the gentle curve of the Mander. Through countless turning seasons and the rise and fall of kings, that ancient seat grew into what men now called Highgarden, jewel of the Reach.
The ancient glory endured still.
Though his bloodline—the proud House Gardener—had withered and died upon the Field of Fire, the Tyrells who inherited their seat had not chosen to let such memories fade into dust. For generations unnumbered, they had served as High Stewards to their Gardener lords, and even now, raised to lordship themselves, they honored the old ways.
Even in these troubled times, the legend of Garth Greenhand lived on.
The highest tower in all of Highgarden bore still the name "Garth's Thumb," and this Thumb remained the beating heart of the great castle, as it had for three hundred years and more.
Naturally, the weighty council that King Joffrey would preside over had been arranged within this ancient tower—as had so many momentous gatherings through the long years of Westerosi history.
The afternoon sun was dying slowly, painting the chamber in shades of amber and gold.
Save for the King himself and his betrothed, all others had taken their appointed places. The very air seemed to hum with unspoken tensions, thick as morning fog upon the river.
Ser Aegon Lywell, captain of Highgarden's household guard, stood proud upon the left with his Tyrell men-at-arms arrayed behind him, while across the way, the white cloaks of the Kingsguard held their ground with quiet dignity. The lines were drawn as clear as swords upon a battlefield, though each side watched the other with wary respect.
Directly across from Ser Aegon stood the most revered knight in all the Seven Kingdoms—Ser Barristan the Bold, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Only Loras Tyrell sat closer to the throne than Barristan's place of honor.
The Tyrell contingent commanded the places of greatest prominence. At their head sat the formidable Olenna Redwyne, the Queen of Thorns herself, sharp as Valyrian steel despite her years. To her right, Willas Tyrell, heir to Highgarden, bore himself with quiet grace despite his twisted leg.
Flanking them sat Garth the Gross, High Steward of Highgarden; Ser Garlan the Gallant, second son of House Tyrell; the learned Maester Lomys; and Ser Vortimer Crane, the castle's master-at-arms.
Upon the King's side, Loras held the seat of honor, followed by Ser Barristan in his white cloak and mail. Behind them sat Ser Beric Dondarrion, Ser Jeor Bywater—called Ironhand, the red priest Thoros of Myr, and Maester Leo Tyrell.
Six against six.
What strange symmetry, much like the six-pointed star that had adorned the King's recent decrees. Or perhaps, should one count the King and his bride-to-be, seven against seven—echoing the seven-pointed star that had blessed the realm for a thousand years and more.
Six, or seven? The numbers held their own significance in this deadly game.
The Queen of Thorns sat silent as stone, her sharp eyes cataloguing every twitch, every glance, every breath from those across the chamber. In the maze of her mind, she weighed strategies as a merchant might weigh gold, calculating how best to secure Highgarden's future.
Direct confrontation would be madness itself.
In the hours since their arrival, she had witnessed things that chilled her ancient bones. Not only had the King's strange crystals been pressed into the flesh of every Tyrell soldier and servant, but she herself bore one now—that small, warm stone that pulsed with life-giving power. She had felt its magic course through her, mending old aches, sharpening dulled senses.
Then had come the retreat from the walls, that display of sorcery that had sent grown men fleeing like children. The fireworks that bloomed like deadly flowers in the sky.
Loras had spoken true. King Joffrey possessed power beyond reckoning—not scarce like the dragons of old Aegon, but abundant as spring rain.
Resistance? Only fools would contemplate such folly. House Tyrell had knelt before the Dragon once before, yielding Highgarden with grace when Aegon's flames had consumed the Gardener kings. That submission had won them lordship over the richest lands in Westeros. They would not make the mistake of stubborn pride now.
The question was not whether to kneel again, but what such kneeling might purchase.
The old surrender had won them the Reach entire. Such fortune would not come twice, but there remained room for clever maneuvering.
Fortunately, there was Margaery. Lady Olenna allowed herself the ghost of a smile. With the marriage pact as surety, House Tyrell held cards yet to play. Show weakness when wisdom demanded, seek reasonable recompense, grow strong in the shadows—such was the way of roses.
True, there was the Stark girl to consider. But compared to that cold northern maid, Lady Olenna trusted in her own gifts for statecraft. Surely even a proud king could see which alliance served him better.
She trusted too in Margaery's beauty and wit. Perhaps the girl might conquer from within what armies could not breach from without?
The Queen of Thorns closed her eyes, gathering her strength. Whatever came, they must survive this night. But first, she must divine what this young king truly desired.
The air hung heavy with unspoken thoughts. Every soul in that chamber harbored secrets, nursed ambitions, weighed choices that might echo through generations. Yet all shared one common thread of anxiety: Why had the King not yet come?
After what seemed an age, a servant's voice rang through the stone halls: "His Grace approaches!"
As one, they rose and bent the knee. "Welcome, Your Grace."
King Joffrey entered with Margaery upon his arm, golden and radiant as the sun itself. He claimed his seat upon the throne prepared for him, then gestured with royal grace. "You may be seated."
The twelve took their places like pieces upon a cyvasse board.
Joffrey's smile was warm as summer wine as he surveyed first his own men, then the Tyrell delegation. "Lady Olenna, the fires of war burn bright across the Seven Kingdoms, and military matters press upon us like wolves at the door. I pray you'll forgive the haste of this first meeting—duty compels us to speak plainly from the start."
Olenna Redwyne's voice came soft as silk over steel. "Think nothing of it, Your Grace. Highgarden understands the burdens of rule. We are family now, after all."
Joffrey's smile deepened, though something flickered behind his eyes.
"Indeed, and I was foolish to speak as though we were strangers. Family should have no secrets between them, should they not?"
His expression grew troubled then, and he heaved a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of kingdoms.
"I must confess, Lady Olenna, the Crown faces trials unlike any in living memory."
The Queen of Thorns felt her purse strings tighten. Here came the reckoning.
Joffrey began to count upon his fingers like a merchant tallying debts. "The royal coffers grow light as autumn leaves. My good-uncle Tyrion grows gray with worry, claiming daily that bankruptcy stalks us like a shadow. The Crown's debts have grown beyond counting, and each day brings fresh expenses.
"Nor can we feed those who depend upon our mercy. The refugees who flee to King's Landing's walls come in their thousands, and our granaries empty like sand through an hourglass. Food grows dearer with each passing day.
"Worse still, the realm bleeds from a dozen wounds. Beyond the Wall, the wildlings mass like storm clouds, while darker things stir in the haunted forest. The moment they scent weakness, they'll pour south like a black tide.
"In the Vale, Lady Lysa's fears have twisted her mind until she sees enemies in every shadow—even in the Crown that would protect her.
"The Stormlands remain a charnel house of warring lords.
"Dorne has all but declared independence, spitting upon oaths sworn in blood and salt.
"Even here in the Reach—" Joffrey's gaze swept the assembled lords and ladies "—Earl Rowan of Goldengrove and Ser Fossoway of Cider Hall raise banners of rebellion against their rightful king."
Confusion rippled through the chamber like wind through wheat. If Highgarden had bent the knee, surely these lesser lords would follow?
Joffrey leaned forward, his voice heavy with the burdens of kingship. "Lady Olenna, the Crown has need of Highgarden's strength. The realm has need of it. Should you extend your hand in friendship, all the Seven Kingdoms will remember House Tyrell's loyalty when songs are sung of these dark days."
Olenna Redwyne coughed delicately, like an old cat clearing its throat. "Command us, Your Grace."
Joffrey appeared almost reluctant to speak the words that followed.
"Though it pains me to ask so much of those I would call kin... to turn the tide of war and set the realm to rights, the Crown has need of two million gold dragons, five million tons of grain, and every sword that Highgarden can muster."
The Tyrell lords stiffened as though struck by lightning. Several half-rose from their seats before catching themselves. Such demands would strip Highgarden to the very bones!
Margaery's lips parted as though to speak, then closed again like a flower at dusk.
The Queen of Thorns remained still as marble for a long moment. Then she nodded with the grace of a queen. "For the Seven Kingdoms, for Your Grace, Highgarden acknowledges its duty. The blood of Garth Greenhand does not shirk when called upon."
Surprise flickered across Joffrey's features before melting into genuine warmth.
"Lady Olenna, you are truly a woman worthy of song! Such nobility of spirit—small wonder that even Lord Mace heeds your counsel above all others."
He clapped his hands once, sharp as a whip crack, and a Kingsguard moved to stand behind Willas Tyrell's chair.
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