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The sun climbed higher, almost reaching its peak.
The cool morning air had burned away. Afternoon heat now pressed down on Highgarden, thick with the sounds of servants, craftsmen, cooks, and pages moving through the halls—yet everything felt strangely listless.
Early autumn in the Reach had always been kind. The worst of the heat was gone, winter still far off.
In normal years the granaries would be full, and the castle would ring with feasts and festivals—people saying goodbye to summer and praying for a mild winter.
This year, all joy had vanished.
The weather stayed fine, but the mood inside the castle was heavy and oppressive.
The guards at Highgarden had doubled. The market tents that usually sprang up outside the gates had disappeared overnight, replaced by ragged bands of barefoot refugees drifting across the countryside.
They were fleeing south across the Mander, heading for Oldtown in desperate hope of survival.
Margaery walked down the spiral stairs and into one of the castle gardens.
She followed the gravel path for a short while until she reached a beautifully carved pavilion. Two massive guards stood like stone statues on either side.
Margaery rolled her eyes inwardly. Her grandmother never went anywhere without her personal "Left and Right Door Gods."
"Sister, you're just in time," Willas smiled at her. "The wine's on its way. Golden Arbor gold—our favorite."
"I thought you only drank at night," Margaery said with a laugh as she sat beside her brother. Willas shifted with a small wince from his bad leg to make room. "What's the occasion? Breaking your own rule today?"
"More like trying to drink like our brainless father and his two idiot brothers," Olenna snapped before anyone else could answer. "Though wine's never been a problem for them—their heads are already full of straw."
Margaery and Willas were long used to their grandmother's sharp tongue.
Age had given Olenna the right to say whatever she pleased. She used words like blades, cutting everyone around her, and no one dared complain.
A servant soon poured the Arbor gold. A silver platter of honey-glazed roast chicken sat before Margaery, the smell mouthwatering.
"As for you, my dear," Olenna turned to her granddaughter, "stop staring at the wine and eat something. Living in Renly's camp hasn't done you any good. If you get any thinner you'll be a walking stick. Don't forget—you still have to give me grandchildren."
"With our fine brother-in-law, that day feels a long way off," Willas said, spearing a piece of chicken. "By the time it happens, Margaery will have recovered just fine."
"If that day ever comes," Margaery muttered under her breath.
Her marriage to Renly Baratheon—and the Tyrells' decision to throw themselves into this war—had been her father Mace's idea.
Everyone knew Mace Tyrell dreamed of seeing his grandson sit the Iron Throne.
To be fair, it wasn't pure ambition. After the Targaryen dynasty fell, the Tyrells had lost their strongest protector. Inside the Reach, old whispers had started again—questions about whether the descendants of stewards were truly fit to rule the old kingdom of the Gardeners.
Without the dragons' protection, House Tyrell had to secure its power on its own. Making Margaery queen was Mace's only real path.
Queen Margaery…
The girl repeated the words silently in her head.
It had once been her greatest dream. Now even thinking it felt forced.
She had believed the war was a gift from the gods. After winning Renly Baratheon's favor, the Tyrells had thrown their full strength behind him. One hundred thousand soldiers from the Reach and the Stormlands had given Renly the confidence to crown himself.
Margaery had once imagined herself wearing a crown in King's Landing.
The false glory had vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. Renly treated her with cold indifference, made no secret of his preference for men, and refused to consummate the marriage.
Her father kept pressing her to produce an heir, but she had no way to even begin.
Then the real crisis hit.
Renly and the Tyrells had let their huge army go to their heads. They marched slowly, obsessed with tourneys, and completely ignored the threat of Tywin Lannister.
Only when news of the massacre at Riverrun reached them did they wake up. The Old Lion had crushed the northern army and was now driving south.
Lannister forces had seized the Blackwater crossings. The easy plan to take King's Landing was dead.
Jaime Lannister had crushed the riots in the city and cut off food supplies, but that plan had also failed.
"However it happened, you need to get this done quickly," Willas said seriously, wiping butter from his fingers. "Otherwise the rumors will say you're barren. You know what that would mean."
"I know," Margaery answered, a hint of irritation in her voice. "But I'm not Loras. I can't make Renly come to my bed every night."
"Loras has already taken enough seed from your husband to give you several children," Olenna said sharply. "Have the tricks I taught you done nothing to spark His Grace's interest?"
"Grandmother," Willas cut in, gentle but firm. "That's enough. This isn't Margaery's fault. Father chose the husband. Besides, we're at Highgarden and Renly is far away in the Stormlands. Talking about it now is pointless."
Olenna pressed her lips together and finally stopped.
Right now, a far more dangerous threat than Margaery's marriage hung over House Tyrell.
After receiving reinforcements from the Westerlands, Tywin Lannister had invaded the northern Reach. His advance was careful and merciless. Hammerhal had surrendered without a fight. Minor lords were bending the knee to Joffrey one after another.
The main Lannister force was heading straight for Bitterbridge. Meanwhile, the Mountain and Amory Lorch's men were burning, killing, and looting across the Reach with no mercy.
Villages were put to the torch. Septs were sacked. Septas were raped. Smallfolk were slaughtered.
Refugees streamed into Highgarden every day, telling stories of hell on earth.
The Reach lords were in chaos and demanding to march home to defend their lands. But Renly still insisted on pushing toward King's Landing.
Mace Tyrell was furious but powerless. He had ordered Willas to raise a fresh army at Highgarden.
To make matters worse, Stannis Baratheon had landed and was besieging Storm's End.
Renly had been forced to split his forces. Mace took the main Reach army to face Tywin. Renly returned to the Stormlands to deal with his brother. Margaery was sent back to the relative safety of Highgarden.
"Since you don't want to talk about those sword-swinging idiots, let's discuss something even worse," Olenna said. "If this war continues the way it's going, we won't win a crown—we might end up under siege ourselves."
"It's too early to say that, Grandmother," Willas shrugged. "We still have the numbers and we're fighting on home ground. The advantage is ours."
"Your father had plenty of men when he besieged Storm's End," Olenna said coldly. "All it got him was Stannis's eternal hatred."
"Lord Randyll Tarly is with Father," Margaery said quickly.
"Randyll may have beaten Robert once, but that doesn't mean he can beat Tywin!" the old woman snapped. "Your father's greatest talent has always been ignoring good advice and listening to fools."
"Don't take it to heart," Willas said to his sister. "Grandmother's leg hurts and suddenly she thinks the world is ending."
"Your leg doesn't hurt enough yet to bring you back down to reality," Olenna shot back. "Go check the walls and make sure we don't end up like House Gardener."
The younger Tyrells' faces tightened.
House Gardener had once ruled the Reach before the dragons destroyed them. Harlen Tyrell's role in that upheaval was still a closely guarded family secret.
"On the bright side, the Lannisters are hitting our bannermen, not us directly," Margaery tried to lighten the mood. "Maybe that will make the vassals more obedient."
"A lord who can't protect his vassals doesn't deserve to be a lord," Willas shook his head. "Every day the lions run wild, our standing drops. If it weren't for your marriage tying us down…"
"Loras would break your other leg if he heard that," Margaery said with a half-smile.
"There's no honor in politics," Olenna cut in coldly. "We're already serving a usurper. We have no right to talk about loyalty. You just do your duty to the family. We'll handle the rest."
Margaery lowered her head and poked at the greens on her plate.
A year ago she had been a carefree girl. Now she was just another piece on the board—moved whether she liked it or not.
Only with her family could she drop the mask for a little while.
"Speaking of vassals, House Hightower sent a letter," Willas changed the subject. "They say the war has cut their income in half."
"Wanting more money again?" Margaery raised an eyebrow. Even though her mother was a Hightower, relations between Highgarden and Oldtown had always been complicated.
"They're asking us to supply grain for their army. They claim they can no longer afford it."
"That doesn't make sense," Margaery frowned. "Hightower lands are far from the fighting. Why are they in such trouble?"
"All trade has stopped," Willas said, brow furrowed as his bad leg started aching again. "The sea routes to King's Landing and Lannisport are cut. Viserys Targaryen is fighting in the Stepstones—merchant ships can't get through. Volantene traders have taken over the trade routes. Prices are soaring. Oldtown is in chaos. The unemployed are turning into bandits. Fanatical believers are setting fires everywhere. The city watch can't keep order."
"Can't the Hightowers deal with it?"
"Their leader has real influence. Rich merchants and knights are secretly supporting him. Even some lords are sympathetic." Willas peeled an apple. "Our spies also report a monk named Cordin has appeared in the Reach. He doesn't take money—just preaches and heals people. A mysterious white knight travels with him, helping the smallfolk. In Wilburton they led a mob that wiped out Vargo Hoat's sellsword company."
"Fanatics are never reliable," Margaery sipped her wine. "Stannis follows a red priest. The east is singing the Targaryen's praises. Not one of them can be trusted."
She noticed that when she mentioned the Targaryen, Willas and Olenna exchanged a quick glance.
After getting a silent nod from her grandmother, Willas turned to his sister, his expression serious.
"There's something else you need to know. Dorne is moving."
"Are the Martells going to war?"
"Their trade with Volantis has become extremely active. They're buying grain at high prices. Prince Doran never does anything without reason." Willas lowered his voice. "Oberyn's three daughters are still in Volantis. Combined with Viserys Targaryen fighting across the Narrow Sea… I'm almost certain Dorne plans to ally with the Targaryen and strike at the Lannisters from both sides."
"They'll march through the Reach," Margaery realized at once. "We'll be caught in the middle."
"That's why we can't act rashly," Willas nodded. "But if the situation changes quickly, we have to talk to the Targaryen first—before Dorne does."
"That's treason," Margaery whispered.
"Not yet," Olenna said. "But Renly could die at any moment. When that happens, we need a way out. We're sending someone to Volantis to contact Viserys and whatever remains of the Targaryen cause. We need to know what they want. The Citadel has a man who's perfect for the job—he's always been very interested in Targaryen blood."
"Does Father know?" Margaery narrowed her eyes.
"What Mace doesn't know is best for Mace," Olenna waved a hand. "Let him fight his war. We'll secure the family's future."
The old woman stopped mid-sentence.
A sweating maester came stumbling into the pavilion, gasping and pale.
"Lord Willas! Urgent message! A raven from Storm's End!"
"Calm yourself!" Olenna snapped. "Shouting like that—what kind of behavior is that?"
"It carries King Renly's seal… and… Stannis Baratheon's seal!"
The pavilion fell into dead silence.
Margaery and Olenna stared at the scroll in Willas's hand.
The heir to Highgarden took a breath, his face grim, and slowly unrolled the letter. He began to read…