The roses of Highgarden were in full bloom, their scent heavy in the warm air that drifted through the open terrace. Bees hummed lazily among the blossoms, and laughter fluttered like silk among the gathered ladies. The morning sun painted everything gold, the marble, the flowers, the women.
Margaery sat with her mother, Lady Alerie, and her formidable grandmother, the Lady Olenna Redwyne Tyrell, surrounded by a bevy of cousins and companions. Alla and Elinor whispered behind their hands, their eyes bright with gossip. Megga tried to embroider a golden rose but kept pricking her finger instead. Leonette Fossoway, dear, calm Leonette, looked on with a patient smile, used to the chatter of the Tyrell women.
A servant poured honeyed wine. It gleamed like amber in the light.
"Robert won the crown for a Stark girl," Lady Olenna declared, plucking a grape from the bowl before her and rolling it between her fingers. "It's about time he made it true."
A ripple of amusement passed through the circle.
"It is a wonderful match," Margaery said, smiling softly. "I hear Lady Sansa is very beautiful and kind."
"Kind?" Olenna sniffed. "Kindness in King's Landing is a candle in a storm. I hope the poor girl has the good sense to hide it when needed."
Alla leaned forward eagerly. "I heard Prince Joffrey is very handsome too, looks like his uncle Jaime come again."
Leonette laughed lightly. "If he has Ser Jaime's looks and his father's crown, he will have no shortage of admirers."
Elinor sighed dreamily. "There'll be another tourney, is it true?"
"Yes," said Margaery, her smile brightening. "Loras writes from King's Landing, it will be a grand tournament in honor of the new Hand. King Robert means to hold a ball as well."
Megga clasped her hands together. "Oh, how wonderful it will be!"
"Wonderful for pretty girls," said Lady Olenna dryly, "not for you, Megga."
Poor Megga's lip trembled, and her needle fell to the floor.
"Mother!" Lady Alerie said sharply.
"Don't take that tone with me," Olenna retorted, waving her hand as if to bat the words away. "And don't call me mother. If I'd given birth to you, I'm certain I'd remember. I'm only to blame for your husband, the lord oaf of Highgarden."
That earned a peal of laughter from Margaery. "Grandmother!" she chided gently, though amusement danced in her eyes.
"Speak of the oaf," Olenna said, her sharp gaze shifting toward the open archway, "and the oaf arrives."
All eyes turned.
Lord Mace Tyrell swept into the garden with his usual pomp, his velvet doublet straining at the seams and his cloak embroidered thickly with golden roses. Behind him came Garlan, tall and courteous as ever, and Willas, walking slowly with his cane but smiling as though he carried sunlight with him.
"Ah, my lovely flowers!" Mace boomed, his voice echoing off the stone columns. "What a pleasant sight on such a fine day. Mother, you are looking well."
"As well as one can, surrounded by fools," Olenna replied without looking up. "How fares the king's realm? Have they made you Hand yet, or are they still waiting for you to grow a brain?"
Mace flushed a rosy shade to match the garden. "Mother, I—"
"Enough, enough," Willas interjected, smiling, ever the peacekeeper. "You'll frighten the servants again, Grandmother."
"They should be frightened," Olenna said tartly. "Fear keeps them from spilling wine on the carpets."
Margaery rose and went to kiss Willas on the cheek. "You should have sent word, brother. We would have had fresh bread and fruit laid for you."
"It was a whim," said Willas, eyes crinkling with affection. "The hounds needed exercise, and I needed to see my little sister before she forgets what the most handsome man in the realm looks like."
"Never," she said warmly.
Garlan embraced her next, steady, strong, and smiling. "Loras writes that you've been the talk of the court, Margaery. The smallfolk adore him, but they'll adore you more, I think."
"I'd be honored by their love," she replied lightly. But deep within her, the thought stirred, to be adored, yes… but to be remembered as well. To be loved and powerful, both.
Olenna's sharp eyes flicked toward her, as if she had plucked the thought straight from her granddaughter's head. "Mind you don't let the fools in silk decide your worth, girl," she said. "Beauty fades. Wit does not."
Margaery smiled, "Then I shall keep both well, Grandmother."
The laughter resumed, soft as music among the roses, and Margaery let it wash over her.
"Loras asks that we bring a retinue to the tourney," Lord Mace Tyrell announced, beaming as though he had declared a victory. "Along with Margaery herself, of course. I agree with him, it is time House Tyrell made themselves appear in court."
A murmur passed among the ladies. Margaery felt her heart quicken, though she kept her face serene, fingers idly brushing a rose petal on the table beside her.
"For what, you oaf?" Olenna's voice cut clean through the air, sharp as a thorn. "To prance around begging for scraps from lions? They hold the court, if you've forgotten that."
Mace flushed crimson. "Mother, I—"
"Don't 'Mother' me," she snapped. "You've got more ideas than brains, and that's saying something."
A few of the cousins tittered before Alerie hushed them. But it was Willas who spoke next, his voice soft yet certain, the one voice their grandmother always stilled herself to hear.
"I think it will be harmless, Grandmother," Willas said. "Even beneficial. With so many lords gathered for the Hand's tourney, it will be an excellent opportunity to build alliances. Perhaps even arrange marriages, for Loras, for Margaery, and… for me."
At that, Margaery's heart softened, her smile dimming.
Her brother Willas, the best of them all. He had their father's warmth without his foolish pride, their grandmother's wit without her cruelty. He had a scholar's mind and a knight's soul, and though his leg had been shattered long ago, he bore it with quiet grace.
Sometimes she thought the gods had been cruel to give him such wisdom and kindness, only to bind him to a cane. Yet if the world were fair, she thought, every maiden in Westeros would be lining up for his hand.
Garlan broke the silence with a grin. "Aye, perhaps Loras can knock Ser Arthur Manderly from his horse this time. He was positively livid after the last tourney."
Olenna gave a sharp laugh. "Oh, that would be a sight."
Mace scowled. "Of course he will! Loras will not lose to a damned Manderly again."
Margaery smiled faintly but said nothing. She remembered Loras's letters, ink splattered in anger, pride wounded deep. Even Renly himself had not been able to calm him.
Margaery hadn't been there to see it, but she'd heard every tale that drifted through the Reach. Of the boy from White Harbor, Arthur Manderly, barely sixteen, yet victorious in both the melee and the joust. Of how Loras had protested the match as unlawful, claiming Arthur was not yet a knight. And of how Ser Barristan Selmy himself had drawn his sword and knighted the boy before half the realm, declaring, "Then he shall be one."
A legend, they called him. The boy who had saved King Robert's life at seven years old, when an assassin from Harlaw crept through the royal camp. The boy who had won Nightfall, the Valyrian steel sword, as his prize. The boy who had bested the Kingslayer himself in the lists.
The realm loved its legends. It always did.
Olenna sniffed. "Make sure your brother doesn't lose again. Bloody corpulent Manderlys, overreaching themselves once more. It seems running north hasn't frozen their ambitions."
Willas leaned forward, the sunlight glinting off his cane's carved handle. "They are prospering, Grandmother, not overreaching," he said gently. "Ser Arthur is a man of great knowledge, and I hope to see his city one day."
Her grandmother's mouth pursed as though she had bitten a lemon. "Hmph. A city of northern fishermen and bears, perhaps. What could possibly be worth seeing?"
Before Willas could answer, Mace gave a loud snort. "And what knowledge can a northerner have? From what I know of the boy, he is a rebel, a scourge of customs! Building that ridiculous Iceacademy of his with vagabonds and failed maesters."
Willas's lips curved in mild amusement, though his tone remained patient. "Winter Academy, Father. And it is fascinating, truly. The grandmage of the academy was once one of the most famed Archmaesters of the Citadel, but was despised for his progressive views, from what I've heard."
Lady Alerie, who had been silent for some time, spoke then, her voice quiet but sure. "My lord father once said Archmaester Herman was the wisest man he knew."
"Whatever he was, he's now the Manderly's rat," Olenna muttered, dabbing her lips with a cloth. "A nest of maesters teaching peasants their letters and calling it learning. The North breeds strange things, wolves that walk as men and boys who think themselves wise."
Her words drew a soft chuckle from Garlan, but Willas only smiled in that way of his, calm and unshaken. "Yet we cannot deny what they've built. Ser Arthur sent me several books from his academy. Among them was The War of the Roses, a dramatized history of the Reach's anarchy, written from a different perspective. A touch biased, perhaps," he added, "but impressively detailed and accurate."
Olenna gave a dismissive sniff. "The Reach needs no northern child to lecture it on its own history. If I wanted to hear nonsense, I'd go to Oldtown and listen to the septons preach."
But Garlan was not done. "They may be ambitious, Grandmother, but one cannot deny they are now very wealthy," he said. "I saw a steel in the markets a few moons past, light, strong, and pale as milk. They called it white steel. Made in White Harbor, they said. Worth its weight in gold."
Leonette nodded. "It's true. The merchants in Oldtown speak of it often. They say the Manderlys trade silk and spices from Essos now. And weave their own cloths in White Harbor. Their tapestries and craftsmanship are said to rival that of Myr. I have seen it myself and coudn't deny its beauty."
Margeary's gaze slipped toward her grandmother. "Perhaps their ambition is not so terrible, Grandmother," she said softly. "The Manderlys build while others war. If their wealth grows, it will bring prosperity to the whole realm."
Mace grumbled. "Bah, northern trade! The Reach feeds the realm. Let them have their silks and cold winds; we have gold enough from our fields."
"Fields that grow quiet when wars rage," said Willas mildly. "And it is knowledge and trade that endure where swords fail."
Olenna's eyes narrowed, but Margaery could see the faint gleam of approval there. Her grandmother prized cunning more than pride, though she rarely admitted it.
"Perhaps," Olenna said at last. "But mark my words, ambitious men are just as dangerous as stupid men. You'd do well to keep both close, but never lie in bed with either."
The days that followed were a blur of motion and murmurs, of silks and steel, of laughter and last-minute orders shouted across the courtyards of Highgarden. Servants scurried beneath the archways like ants beneath the petals of a rose, carrying bolts of fine cloth, chests of coin, and casks of wine bound for the capital. The air was alive with the scent of lavender and oil, and with the promise of change.
Highgarden always looked its fairest in the days before departure, the banners flying from every tower, the rivers glittering beneath the sun, the knights assembling in the lower yards. Margaery stood upon her balcony and watched them gather, her father's bannermen. The Hightowers of Oldtown, Redwynes of the Arbor, the Florents of Brightwater Keep, and many others. They came with wives and sons, squires and banners, all hungry for the glory and gossip of King's Landing.
"A retinue of two hundred knights," Willas had said with quiet amusement, "and twice as many servants. Father means to make an entrance."
And so he would. Lord Mace Tyrell had a taste for pomp as some men had for wine. His cloak alone, embroidered with golden roses thick enough to stand from the cloth, would weigh down an ox.
Garlan, ever modest, had chosen to remain behind. "There is little to be gained from tilting in the lists," he told her, smiling as Leonette looped her arm through his. "And less to be gained from leaving my lady wife to pine."
Leonette's expression softened. "You're too kind, husband. But Margaery, you will charm them all, as you always do. Write to me often, and tell me everything."
"I shall," Margaery promised, embracing her. "Every secret worth knowing."
They were to sail up the Mander to Tumbleton, and from there ride the kingsroad north. Her father insisted upon bringing the great barge, richly appointed, carved with roses and gilded leaves, and half the household with it. The journey would be long and slow, but Margaery did not mind. She loved the river, the gentle rocking of the boat beneath her feet, and the way the sunlight danced upon the water. It was freedom, of a kind.
Her grandmother had other thoughts, of course.
"Mind you, girl," Olenna had said as she oversaw the packing of her trunks, "you are not going to enjoy yourself. You are going to be seen. A clever marriage that endures is what we need."
"I know, Grandmother," Margaery had replied, though she smiled.
"Good. Then remember what I tell you, nothing below a great house. We are not some hedge-born roses to be plucked and tossed aside."
Margaery knew the words by heart now. She had thought on them often, in the quiet of her chambers as her maid brushed her hair. Marriage was her duty, her weapon, and perhaps, if she played her hand well, her crown.
She considered the men who might serve that purpose.
Renly Baratheon was the most likely and the least appealing. Handsome, yes, and charming, but she had seen how his eyes followed Loras more than any maid. It was a dangerous game, that one.
Prince Joffrey was already promised, and his brother Tommen still a child.
Robb Stark, though, he intrigued her. She had never met him, but the Starks were said to be cold, steadfast, and proud. She had always admired men of quiet strength, the sort who said little but meant much. The idea of being Lady of the North had a certain poetry to it, a rose blooming amid snow.
Robert Arryn of the Vale was too young, Edmure Tully too old, though both had their merits. And then there was Tyrion Lannister.
A dwarf, yes, but sharp as a blade, if half the tales were true. She had learned enough to know that wit could be far deadlier than beauty. Had he not been so despised by his kin, and had her father the sense to see past appearance, she might have found that match… interesting.
Still, Margeary was her father's daughter, and duty came before curiosity.
As for the tourney, she would confess to a girlish eagerness. Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Arthur Manderly. the two names that every singer's tongue could not seem to rest from. The Lion of the Rock and the Merman of the Sea. The realm argued which of the two was fairer, braver, deadlier.
Margaery smiled to herself as the barge rocked gently upon the Mander's current. I shall see for myself soon enough.
The journey took a fortnight, golden days upon the river, cool nights beneath a sky littered with stars. They passed fields of barley and bright villages, then hills that grew steeper as the land gave way to stone. By the time they reached Tumbleton, her father had already announced their approach with horns and banners, as if they were kings returning from conquest.
When at last they reached the walls of King's Landing, the city shimmered beneath the late afternoon sun, vast and alive. The smell of salt and smoke filled the air; gulls wheeled above the masts, and the red walls of the Keep glowed like embers in the haze.
Margaery stood at the prow of the barge as they entered the harbor. Her silks fluttered in the sea breeze, her hair braided with tiny golden roses. The sight before her was both terrible and magnificent, the sprawl of roofs and domes, the bells ringing from a hundred septs, the glitter of armor on the city gates.
"There it is," she murmured, "The heart of the realm."
Olenna, beside her, gave a small, knowing snort. "A rotten heart, more often than not. But even rot can be gilded, if you paint it bright enough."
The banners of House Tyrell unfurled in the harbor breeze, green and gold, the golden rose of Highgarden blooming proud and bright against the smoke-stained sky. And beneath them, Margaery Tyrell, golden rose of the Reach, lifted her chin and smiled. The dance had begun.