The gardens of Highgarden remained in eternal spring, as if the war and bloodshed of Westeros had never tainted this paradise.
Sunlight filtered through the vines, casting dappled shadows on the exquisite stone path. A harpist sang ballads of knights and princes, while a group of noble girls in luxurious silk dresses chatted, occasionally emitting trilling laughter like birds.
These noble girls were all beautiful, but the harpist's gaze always lingered on one of them—Margaery Tyrell.
Known as the Rose of Highgarden.
And Margaery truly lived up to the name; she was the most brilliant flower among them all.
Whether it was the curve of her smile, her neatly arranged curly hair, or her fingers turning a handkerchief, one couldn't help but look at her again and again.
Margaery seemed confident in her charm, knowing she was the focus of attention wherever she went, and she enjoyed this feeling.
But she also knew that beauty alone couldn't make everyone like her. Unless... Margaery instructed her companion to pour a cup of clear wine and bring it to the singing harpist.
"Lady Margaery thinks you might be thirsty. Have a drink before you continue singing."
Watching the fragmented sunlight swaying in the wine cup, the harpist's heart melted. He drained the cup and looked at Margaery, who glanced back at him.
Although she showed no expression, to the harpist, she was smiling at him!
So he performed even more vigorously, the theme of his songs shifting from singing of knights to praising beautiful princesses.
Amidst the melodious music, the girls began discussing King's Landing.
"Before long, our Little Rose will become Queen. Any thoughts from the future Queen?"
"Thoughts?" A sly look flashed in Margaery's eyes. She suddenly reached out and pinched her companion's chubby cheeks, making the girl look somewhat wretched under her kneading.
"Wait until the Queen pinches your face later to see if there's any difference, haha~"
The group of noble girls laughed together, seemingly forming a beautiful harmony.
But just then, a maid arrived, her hurried footsteps like noise disrupting a musical movement.
"Lady Margaery, Lady Olenna asks you to come over. She is waiting for you in the garden."
The current High Steward of Highgarden was Margaery's uncle, known as "Garth the Gross."
House Tyrell's words were "Growing Strong"; it was a vast family.
For close positions like the Highgarden Guard or Steward, they didn't need to give them to outsiders; their own family members were enough.
House Tyrell didn't even oppose their children going to the Citadel to become maesters like Randyll Tarly's family did.
They even supported children from branch families going to the Citadel, becoming maesters, and then returning to Highgarden.
In other words, Highgarden's maesters were Tyrells.
House Tyrell was an upgraded version of House Frey!
When Margaery arrived in the garden, she saw her uncle Garth, her brother Willas, and Maester Lomys surrounding a petite old woman, discussing something seriously.
Margaery walked quickly towards them and greeted each one.
"Uncle, Brother, Maester Lomys."
"Lady Margaery."
"Margaery."
After greeting everyone, Margaery naturally stood closest to Olenna. The Queen of Thorns, Lady Olenna, was pruning a rose bush with her wrinkled but exceptionally steady hands. Her sharp little scissors precisely cut away excess branches, just like the political pruning she had done all her life.
"Show her," Olenna said. Lomys handed the letter to Margaery.
Compared to Mace's pampering of the children, Olenna focused more on cultivation. Upon receiving news from King's Landing, she immediately summoned Margaery.
Margaery took the letter and began reading carefully. Just reading the beginning, her eyes widened involuntarily.
"—Jon Snow." Margaery read the name, her brown eyes flashing not with fear, but with intense curiosity and scrutiny. "A Northern name that sounds so ordinary, yet he has accomplished feats beyond the reach of all 'great' lords."
"What?" Willas smiled gently, a hint of teasing in his tone. "Our dream of being 'Queen' is shattered again, yet you don't seem very sad?" He referred to Margaery's engagement to Joffrey, which had long since vanished like smoke.
Margaery returned a smile brighter than the most vibrant rose in the garden, dazzling the guards standing nearby. "Brother, a crown is certainly charming, but isn't the person who can forge a crown even more interesting?" Her gaze returned to the letter. "From showing promise at the Green Fork, to shocking the Westerlands by slaying 'The Mountain,' to now—he almost single-handedly lifted Stannis from a military defeat to a political pinnacle. How will history books a thousand years from now write this name?"
Lady Olenna, who had been silent, finally put down her scissors and let out an ambiguous humph. She looked at Garth and said, "This boy reminds me of that 'Wolf of the North,' Cregan Stark." Her voice was hoarse but clear. "When the Blacks and Greens were exhausted from fighting, he came south from the North, settled the matter in one stroke, and established the new King, Aegon III. That time was known as the 'Hour of the Wolf.' Now, the fate of the Seven Kingdoms is actually held in the hands of a Stark bastard. Those lords who obsess over bloodline and honor must be slapping their own faces swollen."
"And, Grandmother," Willas added, his analysis always hitting the mark, "the situation Jon faces is more complicated than Duke Cregan's back then. He not only has to face external enemies but also deal with internal ones—like his brother who declared himself King, Robb."
Mentioning Robb, a flash of imperceptible envy passed through Olenna's still-bright eyes. Eddard Stark died, yet he unleashed two such amazing wolf pups. Robb's record in the South was already dazzling, but compared to Jon's strike straight to the heart that dominated the overall situation, it was undoubtedly more shocking.
Her life's greatest regret was not birthing an heir for House Tyrell who could take charge alone, tough and decisive. Garlan was martial, Loras proud, Willas wise but crippled. Only Margaery inherited all her wits, but unfortunately, she was a girl.
"Can the warm South truly not raise tough seeds?" Olenna murmured to herself. Immediately, her unyielding spirit rose again. She turned to Margaery and ordered decisively: "Write to your father. Tell him not to be like a hesitant fat pigeon! Have him cooperate immediately and explicitly with Jon Snow's actions."
"Are we moving against the Lannisters?" Lomys confirmed.
"Of course!" Olenna's tone brooked no doubt. "Now is not the time for hypocritical honor!
"Besides, there aren't that many family ties to sort out between Tyrell and Lannister!"
Just then, the maid who brought Margaery hurried over again with a secret letter. It was Mace asking his mother if pursuing Tywin would be "loss of face." Olenna unfolded the letter, glanced at it, and the wrinkles on her face deepened with anger. She took a deep breath to suppress her displeasure, handed the letter out, and complained to her grandchildren: "This fool! When he lost battles and benefits, he didn't care about losing face. Now that it's time to strike hard to consolidate interests, he starts worrying about his fat face!"
The Queen of Thorns' scathing comment made the siblings, Willas and Margaery, turn their heads away in unison, pretending not to hear.
Maester Lomys and Steward Garth also pretended to talk to each other.
For the Tyrells, the future chessboard had become full of variables due to this unexpected piece, Jon Snow.