Lynn watched Highgarden's rose. Those beautiful brown eyes gleamed with wisdom. As if seeing through hearts.
Margaery walked to Lynn's side. Personally refilled his water. Movements elegant, natural. Carrying perfect intimacy.
"Your sincerity—enough to drive all Westeros mad—could make any house stake its future." Her voice light. Carrying undisguised probing. "I'm just curious, my lord... what do you truly want?"
"A prosperous North. A home where my people can survive the Long Night safely." Lynn's answer: flawless.
"Only that?" Margaery's lips held a smile. But those pretty eyes locked on Lynn. Trying to find even the slightest crack in his facade.
"What else?" Lynn countered. "Does Lady Tyrell think I should covet that chair forged from a thousand swords?"
Margaery's smile deepened. She believed him, of course. A man who could hatch dragons, command eight thousand Unsullied, manipulate hundreds of thousands of wildlings, even produce world-changing white sugar and canned food—would he be satisfied with a corner?
His ambition probably ran deeper than Casterly Rock's gold mines. Higher than the Wall. But she didn't expose it. Some things—once spoken—lose their charm.
"The Iron Throne is cold and hard. Sit too long, others covet it. Who'd like that?" Margaery followed Lynn's lead. Teased with a relaxed tone.
She shifted topics. Gaze casually sweeping toward the Red Keep outside. Voice lowering: "Only, that chair's current occupant probably won't sit much longer."
Lynn's eyebrow raised slightly. Looked at her. "Why do you say that, Lady Tyrell?"
"A king who loses health, reason, even subjects' awe—he's not far from falling off the throne." Margaery's voice: calm.
Lynn raised an eyebrow. She'd seen it too. This Highgarden rose—far sharper than she appeared.
"His Grace is just... somewhat temperamental." Lynn feigned ignorance.
"Temperamental?" Margaery laughed lightly. That laugh carried pity. "Lord Lynn, you're a warrior. You should know better than I. A true warrior's eyes should be sharp—not murky like now. His body hollowed by wine and desire. His will corroded by endless suspicion and rage. He's no longer the Storm King who hammered the Dragon Prince at the Trident. Now he's just a fat pig in a cage, waiting for slaughter."
Margaery's words: bold, vicious. Right to Lynn's face, she degraded the Seven Kingdoms' king to worthlessness.
Lynn watched her. Said nothing.
"So, you understand my meaning, my lord?" Margaery stepped forward. Those beautiful brown eyes burned with ambition's flames. "King Robert doesn't deserve to keep sitting on the throne. House Baratheon needs a new king. One young, handsome, wise, beloved by nobles."
She almost said the name outright. But the implication was too obvious.
Renly Baratheon. Robert's youngest brother. Duke of Storm's End. Generous, friendly. In King's Landing, Renly was most popular.
"Duke Renly is indeed a perfect heir." Lynn followed her words. Tone carrying amusement. "Only, Lady Tyrell seems to forget something."
"What?"
"Duke Renly doesn't like women." Lynn's words fell. The room's air instantly froze.
Margaery's smile stiffened. Those always-smiling brown eyes showed shock. She hadn't expected Lynn to so bluntly expose this secret—known to all King's Landing nobles, yet never spoken aloud.
Lynn watched her stunned face. His smile deepened. "A king who doesn't like women—how will he produce heirs for the realm? Will Highgarden's rose wither alone in a garden without a master?"
Margaery had convinced her grandmother: once Robert died, House Tyrell would fully support Renly for the throne. And she—Margaery Tyrell—would become the new queen.
As for Renly's special preferences... So what? In power's arena, marriage was always just transaction. As long as she became queen, as long as House Tyrell reached power's peak, she didn't care whose bed her husband slept in at night.
But now, this plan she thought most secret, most perfect—Lynn casually exposed with one sentence. She felt like a naked clown. A self-important performance. In others' eyes—just a joke.
"You... how do you know?" Margaery's voice carried imperceptible panic.
"I know far more than you imagine." Lynn stood. Looked down at her. "I know Renly spends every night with your dear brother Loras. I also know House Tyrell prepared two plans long ago. Once Robert dies, you'll immediately crown Renly king. Use Highgarden's grain and armies to pave his road to the Iron Throne. And you, Lady Margaery, will be the most dazzling chip in this gamble."
Margaery's face turned deathly pale. Lynn was exactly right. She felt all her disguises stripped bare before Lynn's all-seeing eyes.
"So you came tonight not for business. You came to recruit me. Test me. You want me, my wildling army, my dragon to become House Tyrell's sword for seizing power. Right?"
Margaery bit her lip. Couldn't say a word. She'd never felt such defeat and helplessness.
"Lady Tyrell, you're a clever woman. But sometimes, cleverness backfires." Lynn sat again. Picked up his water. Sipped. "You bet on Renly—like building castles on sand. It looks beautiful, but one wave, it instantly collapses. Because you all forgot someone."
"Stannis Baratheon." Lynn spoke the name everyone deliberately ignored. "He's the Iron Throne's first heir. He's rigid, stern, inflexible. But he commands Dragonstone's fleet. Holds House Baratheon's most legitimate succession rights. You think he'll watch his brother take the throne that should be his?"
Margaery's body swayed. She knew Stannis, of course. But she and her grandmother subconsciously ignored this grim man. Because he was too unlikeable. Too hard to control.
"War... is inevitable." Margaery murmured.
"Correct." Lynn nodded. "A war sweeping all Seven Kingdoms. Then, your Renly will simultaneously face Lannisters from King's Landing and Stannis from Dragonstone. What are his odds?"
Margaery fell silent. Her proud wisdom seemed so fragile before Lynn's realistic analysis.
"So what's your choice?" Margaery looked up. Those beautiful eyes showed confusion.
"My choice?" Lynn smiled. "I never choose."
"So House Tyrell wants to invite me into this game of crowning a new king?" Lynn pulled the topic back.
"Not invite." Margaery shook her head. Looked at Lynn seriously. "Cooperation. Duke Renly needs a powerful ally. One with absolute authority in the North. You, Lord Lynn, are the only candidate."
"Ned Stark is honorable, but his honor makes him forever loyal to Robert, no matter how incompetent Robert becomes. You're different." Margaery's gaze burned. "You're like us. You only believe in interests and strength. If you support Duke Renly, when he takes the Iron Throne, anything you want—House Tyrell and House Baratheon will grant. Warden of the North. Lord of Winterfell. Even an independent northern kingdom."
Her offer—far higher than Cersei's. More tempting. An independent kingdom. The ultimate temptation no vassal could refuse.
Lynn looked at her. Suddenly smiled. "Lady Margaery, you seem to forget something."
"What?"
"I, Lynn, am King-Beyond-the-Wall." Lynn stood. Walked to the window. Looked at the cold moon outside. "My crown wasn't granted by anyone. I carved it out with my sword—from wights and wildlings. One cut at a time. My people only worship me. Not some king on the Iron Throne."
Margaery's breath caught. She suddenly realized: she and her grandmother made a mistake from the start. They were used to measuring everyone by southern power game rules. They thought Lynn—like other lords—craved the king's ennoblement. Higher titles. More land.
But they forgot: Lynn's foundation wasn't within the Seven Kingdoms at all. He was an intruder from outside the system. Whether in the distant North or across the Narrow Sea in Slaver's Bay—not part of it.
And his power far exceeded any ordinary vassal's. A hundred thousand wildlings. Ten thousand Unsullied. Even a dragon. Even the Lannisters couldn't field such forces at once!
"So your choice is..." Margaery's voice carried tension.
"My choice?" Lynn turned. Looked at her face—more beautiful in nervousness. Lips curved with amusement. "Why should I choose? Renly's good. Joffrey's fine. Stannis works too. Let them fight. Struggle. Bash each other bloody. And I'll just sit in the North drinking mead. Watching you tear each other apart in the southern quagmire. When you're all exhausted..."
Lynn didn't finish. But the unspoken implication's oppressive weight made Margaery feel suffocated. She understood. Lynn never intended to pick sides. He'd wait until everyone was mutually destroyed. Then bring his rested northern army south. Clean up the mess.
This man's ambition—far greater than she imagined. Than anyone imagined!
"You..." Margaery opened her mouth. Her proud wisdom and eloquence seemed so pale before this man's absolute strength and vaster ambition.
"However..." Lynn shifted. Walked back before Margaery. "Though I'm not interested in your southern throne changes, I'm very sincere about our cooperation."
Lynn reached out. Gently lifted Margaery's chin—stiff from shock. Margaery froze slightly. But didn't stop Lynn's presumptuous action. Clever as she was, she'd guessed what Lynn would say.
"The canned food business—I'll fully support House Tyrell. In return, I need Highgarden's grain and craftsmen. The more, the better. As for other matters..."
Lynn leaned down. Almost whispered in Margaery's ear. Voice only they could hear: "Perhaps we can try a deeper cooperation method."
Warm breath on her ear made Margaery's body tremble uncontrollably. Her always-perfectly-smiling face showed a flustered blush.
"For example, let Highgarden's rose bloom not just in King's Landing—but more beautifully in the North."
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