The Reach was beautiful beyond words.
Highgarden, built of pristine white marble, stood like a jewel amid rolling green hills, radiating purity, wealth, and abundance. Its tall towers rose above the surrounding countryside, offering sweeping views across leagues of fertile estates and golden fields. Wildflowers bloomed freely between vineyards and farmlands, while golden roses—the pride of House Tyrell—flourished wherever the soil was rich.
The castle's godswood was just as renowned.
Unlike the dark, ancient groves of the North, Highgarden's godswood was bright and open, filled with sunlight and gentle breezes. Three massive heart trees stood together at its center, their pale bark smooth and unmarred, their red leaves whispering softly. They were known collectively as "The Three Singers," and legend claimed they had been personally planted by the Greenhand himself.
Today, however, the House of Tyrell had not gathered here to admire beauty or tradition.
They had come to speak of secrets.
Two letters lay at the heart of the gathering—one sent from King's Landing, the other from across the Narrow Sea.
The godswood had been chosen not only for its privacy but also to avoid the ever-present ears of the Spider. Varys's little birds rarely ventured here, and if they did, the ancient trees would hear before men ever could.
Willas Tyrell, heir to Highgarden, broke the silence.
Seated comfortably despite his crippled legs, Willas read aloud the letter from King's Landing. It had been sent by his younger brother, Ser Loras Tyrell.
As the words were spoken, Lord Mace Tyrell's face darkened with rage.
"That mad dog," Mace roared, clenching his fists. "That brute nearly killed my son!"
The Mountain's name needed no further explanation. Gregor Clegane—Tywin Lannister's monstrous hound—had attacked Loras in full view of the court.
The Queen of Thorns snorted sharply.
"Loras is still a child who plays at tourneys with sticks," she said coldly, "and The Mountain is Tywin's most vicious dog, twice his age and ten times his cruelty. If even Tywin's dog dares act so brazenly, look at what King's Landing has become."
Loras had used clever tricks to defeat The Mountain in the lists, but Clegane's response had been to attempt murder—against the son of one of the realm's greatest houses—and then walk away without punishment.
Such arrogance spoke volumes.
"The Seven be praised," Margaery said softly. "If not for The Hound, Loras would be dead."
"But that brute is terrifying," Lord Mace added grimly. "Loras was fortunate. Next time, luck may not favor him."
Ser Garlan nodded in agreement.
"In a joust, The Mountain may be clumsy," he said, "but on the battlefield, he is death itself. That the king ignores such behavior…" He shook his head. "It bodes ill."
Willas shifted the conversation.
"There was more in Loras's letter," he said calmly. "He urges us to give our full support to Lord Renly."
Lord Mace rubbed his chin.
"I think it has merit. Robert never favored us, and we hold no true power in King's Landing. If Joffrey takes the throne, the realm will belong entirely to House Lannister. Supporting Renly may bring us far greater rewards."
"And what claim does Renly have to that ugly iron chair?" the Queen of Thorns snapped. "He is the third brother, and Robert's line still exists."
"Robert himself had little claim," Mace countered. "What matters is strength. We have soldiers and grain, and the Stormlands have fierce warriors."
"Enough, you fool!" Olenna barked. "Do you think the Iron Throne is something one simply grabs? Look at your fat head and think for once."
Willas inclined his head.
"I agree with Grandmother. We should wait until the situation becomes clearer before committing."
Though House Tyrell was already deeply entangled with Renly—through alliances, feasts, and quiet promises—open rebellion was another matter entirely.
"The Riverlands are about to burn," Ser Garlan said thoughtfully. "House Stark and House Lannister are already on the brink. House Arryn resents losing the Wardenship of the East. And ever since Lady Stark's failed attempt to seize Tyrion Lannister, House Lannister has been preparing for war against House Tully."
"If Stark, Tully, and Arryn truly unite, they will drag the realm into chaos."
"Is that not good for us?" Mace asked. "If lion, trout, falcon, and direwolf unite, what hope does anyone else have?"
"You are playing a dangerous game," Olenna said sharply. "We must win, not rush. Kingdoms rise and fall, but our House must endure."
Mace lowered his head reluctantly.
"Yes, Mother."
Olenna turned to Margaery, taking her hand.
"My little rose, tell me—how many people now desire the Iron Throne?"
Margaery thought carefully.
"Prince Joffrey, backed by House Lannister. Lord Renly, supported by the Stormlands and by us. And… Gendry across the Narrow Sea. The King of the Twin Cities—Robert's bastard—seeking legitimacy through marriage with the remaining Targaryens."
"Very good," Olenna said approvingly. "But you missed one."
"Stannis," Margaery realized.
"Yes. Renly resents being beneath his brothers. Stannis resents everyone." Olenna's eyes narrowed. "With so many claimants, why rush? We hold grain, gold, and men. We are the weight that tips the scales. We will wait."
Willas then lifted the second letter.
"This one is from Gendry."
He read aloud.
I have long heard of Duke Tyrell's renown and wish to hunt with you in the Kingswood, to the south. Let us hunt the stag together.
Lord Mace's face flushed with pride.
"This boy writes well," he said, beaming.
Olenna sniffed.
"Hunting the stag, indeed. A clever hint—many hunt the throne, so do not rush. But is this not the same boy fighting horse lords in Myr?"
"Yes," Garlan confirmed. "Khal Drogo besieges Myr. Gendry prepares to meet him in battle."
"A true Baratheon," Olenna said thoughtfully. "Steel through and through. Not like Renly, who only knows silks and smiles."
She leaned forward.
"Bring me his likeness."
Garlan opened a small Myrish pendant, revealing a detailed portrait. The young man depicted wore armor, his black hair short, his gaze resolute.
"He is handsome," Olenna admitted. "Cleaner than Renly, too."
"How many warships?" she asked.
"Over four hundred. They dominate the Stepstones."
Olenna's expression grew serious.
"Enough to challenge the Iron Fleet, the Royal Fleet, and the Redwynes combined. Dangerous."
She closed her eyes.
"We wait."
The Eyrie
High above the clouds, the sisters of House Tully argued once more.
Lady Lysa Arryn, though younger than Catelyn, looked far older. Years of childbirth, loss, and fear had ruined her health. She was bloated, pale, her blue eyes dull and wet with constant anxiety.
"You dared act without permission," Lysa shrieked. "You brought the Imp here and dragged us into your feud with the Lannisters!"
"And you think this is only my feud?" Catelyn shot back. "You wrote to me, accusing House Lannister of murdering your husband!"
"I warned you to stay away from them!" Lysa cried. "Not to provoke war!"
"We must act," Catelyn insisted.
"Here, we are safe," Lysa said fiercely. "The Bloody Gate cannot be breached."
Catelyn fell silent. Blackfish had been right—Lysa would never move.
Then Lysa's expression twisted.
"He still loves you," she hissed. "Your husband even imprisoned Petyr."
"What?" Catelyn was stunned.
"You don't deny it," Lysa laughed madly.
At that moment, young Robert Arryn appeared, clutching his rag doll.
"Make her fly," he whispered.
Lysa smiled.
Catelyn felt true fear.
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