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Tywin Lannister rode without looking back.
Behind him, dozens of his personal guard followed in silence, every man wounded, armor caked with blood and dust. They moved like wolves with broken spines, leaving behind the city that had once been theirs.
The news had already spread.
The King had dismissed the Hand.
That little madman Joffrey, in the most foolish and public way imaginable, had slapped his own grandfather , the most powerful man in the realm , across the face for all the world to see.
Tywin's expression gave nothing away. That rock-carved face revealed no anger, no pain, nothing. But his captain of the guard, who had served him for years, knew the truth: the calmer the Lord of Casterly Rock looked, the hotter the fire burning beneath.
They did not ride for Casterly Rock. They stopped instead at a hidden stronghold in the Crownlands.
"My lord." The captain stepped forward. "What are your orders?"
Tywin swung down from his horse and took a waterskin from a squire. He drank once.
"We return to Casterly Rock."
"And King's Landing?"
"Let that little madman and his new queen amuse themselves."
A flicker of weariness moved through Tywin's pale green eyes.
He had lost.
Not to Joffrey's madness. Not to those fair-weather Gold Cloaks who changed allegiances with the wind.
He had lost to a man in the North who had never once shown his face.
He saw it clearly now.
Sansa Stark.
Liana.
Even Varys.
All of them , Lynn's pieces on the board.
Lynn had thrown King's Landing into chaos and forced its most powerful player out of the game entirely.
"That northern bastard," Tywin murmured.
He had underestimated the man from the start. He understood that now.
"Send someone to Highgarden." His voice was flat. "Tell Mace Tyrell that if he still wants the roses of House Tyrell to keep blooming, he'll come to Casterly Rock and meet with me."
"Yes, my lord."
The captain turned and went.
Tywin raised his head and looked north.
---
Highgarden.
Warm sunlight fell across gardens in full bloom. The air smelled of roses and honeysuckle, sweet and heavy.
The atmosphere inside the council chamber was something else entirely.
"Bastard! Madman! Whoreson!"
Lord Mace Tyrell, red-faced and heaving, hurled his golden goblet at the floor. It rang off the stone and skidded into a corner.
"That little beast! How dare he! How dare he humiliate House Tyrell like this!"
A royal decree from King's Landing sat in the center of the table. The handwriting was sharp, almost aggressive. Any man of Highgarden who read it felt his blood rise.
Pay double the back taxes in full.
Publicly renounce all ties with the traitor Tywin Lannister.
This was beyond insult. This was grinding House Tyrell's face into the dirt.
"Father, we have to fight back!"
Loras Tyrell rose from his seat, jaw set, eyes burning. The Knight of Flowers, humiliated.
"We should muster our armies now. Let that little madman learn that Highgarden's roses aren't his to pluck whenever he pleases."
"And then what?"
The voice came from the shadows in the corner , old and unhurried, almost bored.
Lady Olenna sat deep in a wide armchair, turning a flower over in her fingers.
"Then we march our finest knights to die beneath the walls of King's Landing?"
Her eyes moved slowly across her son and her grandson.
"Do you have straw where your brains should be?"
"We can't stand alone!" Loras shot back.
Lady Olenna made a sound that was almost a laugh.
"Don't forget who drove Tywin out."
"It was Lynn."
"Joffrey is just a blade in Lynn's hand. If we move against Joffrey now, we move against Lynn."
Mace's broad face went slack. "Then — then what are we supposed to do? Bend the knee? Swallow this? Where does that leave House Tyrell's dignity?"
"Dignity." Lady Olenna dropped the rose onto the table. "When your head is mounted on the city wall, dignity is worth nothing."
Her eyes went sharp.
"We are in far more danger than either of you has managed to understand. Tywin has fallen , any alliance with the Lannisters is finished. Joffrey thinks he can squeeze us like overripe fruit whenever the mood takes him. And that true dragon in the North is sitting very still, watching, waiting for us to stumble."
The chamber went quiet.
Mace had nothing to say. Neither did Loras.
For the first time, they felt it , House Tyrell balanced on the edge of a cliff, the ground crumbling beneath their feet.
"Where is Margaery?" Lady Olenna asked.
"Still traveling, Grandmother," Loras said. "She should be near Oldtown by now."
"Good."
Lady Olenna's fingers drummed once against the tabletop.
"She is our only card left to play."
She drew a slow breath.
"Pass on my orders."
"First: prepare double the tax payment and send it to King's Landing. Put it directly in Joffrey's hands."
"Second: in House Tyrell's name, proclaim to all Seven Kingdoms that we stand against the traitor Tywin Lannister."
Mace's eyes went wide. "Mother, have you lost your mind? We can't possibly —"
"Shut your mouth, you brainless fool."
The words landed like a slap.
"This is how we signal our position to Lynn. We show him we are willing to bow. If we keep wavering, Margaery has no chance at all."
She pushed herself up from the chair and walked to the window. The garden stretched below her , roses in full bloom, red and gold and white against the green.
"Joffrey wants a victory. Fine. We give him one. Let him keep dreaming his kingly dreams on that Iron Throne."
"And we —"
A glint of cold intelligence moved through Lady Olenna's eyes.
"We place everything we have on the North. On the man who will decide what future we get."
"The wealth of Highgarden. The granaries of the south."
"These will be our gifts to Lynn."
---
Dragon's Hold.
Lynn stood at the highest point of the castle and looked out over his domain.
Below him, the fortress had changed almost beyond recognition. Countless emerald vines had pushed up from the earth like living serpents, coiling around the black stone walls in dense layers. Tougher than rope, their roots sunk deep into every crack and crevice in the rock. The castle had become something alive.
His work. Natural magic, pushed and shaped until the stone and vine were one. These vines could reinforce a wall under siege , or close around an enemy like a fist.
Behind the castle, on what had been bare ground, crops were growing. Potatoes. Turnips. Cabbages. They ripened at a speed that had nothing to do with seasons or soil, growing under Lynn's will alone. Columns of wights moved through the rows in neat formation, harvesting the vegetables and carrying them to the canning workshop.
Dragon's Hold ran without waste and without rest.
Lynn turned and walked into the armory.
Rows of weapons lined the walls. Iron spears, war axes, longswords , crude work, hammered out day and night by wildling smiths from southern ore. The craft wasn't elegant. It didn't need to be. Sharp enough. Strong enough.
His army of the dead was being armed, piece by piece.
He picked up a longsword and swung it once. The blade hissed through the air.
"The south isn't nearly messy enough yet," he said to no one.
"I should pull Renly and Stannis into this."
House Tyrell had bent the knee. Joffrey had slipped his leash entirely. Tywin had retreated to the Westerlands, but a man like Tywin Lannister didn't accept defeat , he waited and sharpened his knives.
Still.
Lynn turned the sword in his hand and looked south through the window.
The waters of Westeros weren't murky enough. Not yet.
➤ Next: Fulfilling the Promise
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