The black banner with the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen had long been hoisted once again over the battlements of King's Landing; the authority of the iron throne had changed hands once more.
Yet in the distant south, the initial report of the true dragon returning to Westeros and landing on Dragonstone had only just arrived at Highgarden, having flown via raven across the vast Stormlands and traversed the entire The Reach.
Unlike Dorne—which bordered the Narrow Sea and faced the Stormlands across the water, with House Martell long keeping a watchful eye on the movements across the Narrow Sea—Highgarden sat deep within the interior of The Reach.
The roses there were accustomed to a life of peace and prosperity, relying entirely on ravens to relay messages across more than half of Westeros, so news naturally arrived several beats slower than at Sunspear, which lay along the coast.
The afternoon sun in The Reach was always at its most intense.
Golden light spilled into the rose gardens of Highgarden, where countless roses—red, yellow, and pink—climbed upward, weaving into a flowing tapestry of clouds.
The air was filled with a rich, sweet fragrance, so sweet it made one dizzy, masking the suffocating calculations and helplessness hidden deep within the castle.
Olenna, known as the Queen of Thorns, sat in an intricately carved oak chair, her thin, withered hands resting on the armrests. Her gaze was faint, yet like a precise scalpel, it slowly swept over the family members gathered around the stone table in the courtyard.
The table was set with exquisite desserts and fruit wine. Her children and grandchildren sat or stood, looking warm and harmonious, much like the perfect family legends passed down through the world.
Yet, in Olenna's heart, there was only a fire burning, tightening her throat, and she longed to turn around, grab the wooden spoon hanging on the kitchen wall, and ruthlessly knock some sense into this foolish son who was causing her to lose all face.
Mace Tyrell, the Duke of Highgarden, was currently fiddling with the sword at his waist, his face full of smugness.
He had just been recalled from Bitterbridge, still wearing the gloom of his failure to achieve glory, yet in the blink of an eye, he had donned an expression that suggested, "I have grand ambitions."
Beside Mace, Willas, Garlan, and Loras stood or sat quietly, each in their own posture.
Willas, in his wheelchair, had calm brows and eyes, revealing not a shred of his thoughts; Garlan, robust and sturdy, sat with his back straight, full of the composure of a warrior; beside them, Loras stood with his hand on his sword, his body wrapped in lingering hostility.
All three were younger members of the family, yet none were the core of the discussion at this moment.
Only Margaery, dressed in the plain black dress of Renly's widow, sat with lowered eyes, gentle and well-behaved, blending perfectly into this courtyard, hiding all her thoughts.
"Mother," Mace finally couldn't help but speak, breaking the suffocating silence. "I don't care about Bitterbridge anymore; that fellow Randyll Tarly really has some skill, and I believe he can manage the army well."
"I just returned, and I've arrived just in time to discuss this huge piece of good news!"
Olenna didn't even lift her eyelids, sneering in her heart.
Good news? There were no such things as pies falling from the sky in this world.
She knew it all too well.
After Renly died, Mace had originally been overseeing the army at Bitterbridge, but what was the result? He had made a complete mess of it, and the morale of the army had collapsed.
If she hadn't swiftly appointed the renowned general Randyll Tarly to forcibly stabilize the one hundred thousand troops at Bitterbridge, the face of Highgarden would have been lost long ago.
Yet this son's brain was always a puddle of paste.
Mace was completely unaware of his mother's anger: "Mother, why is there anything to hesitate about regarding this matter?"
"The legitimacy of our House Tyrell originally stems from House Targaryen. Now that the true dragon has returned to Westeros, we should naturally give our full support!"
He was high-spirited, completely immersed in his own calculations, not noticing the coldness flashing in Olenna's eyes, nor reading the subtle, fleeting thoughts in his daughter's lowered eyes.
He only thought he had grasped a heaven-sent opportunity, and immediately slapped the stone table, continuing loudly, his tone full of unquestionable certainty and high spirits:
"Our support for Renly ended in his unfortunate death, which was a disaster for Highgarden. But in such a critical situation, with the true dragon returning to Westeros, is this not the arrangement of the gods?!"
The more Mace spoke, the more excited he became, his gaze falling directly on Margaery beside him, full of doting and self-satisfaction:
"Although my daughter was nominally married to Renly, the two never consummated the marriage; she is still pure and untouched. In this situation, coinciding with the return of the true dragon, this is a fated opportunity!"
"My daughter was born to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, not just the lady of some Storms End. This time, she must become the queen of the Targaryen true dragon!"
He stood up, waving his arms as if he could already see the scene of Highgarden wielding power over the Seven Kingdoms, his voice growing louder:
"As long as we marry Margaery to Prince Aegon, Highgarden will fully support his campaign for restoration!"
"I will personally command the one hundred thousand troops at Bitterbridge to clear the world and pacify the four directions for him. With the military strength and provisions of The Reach, the return of House Targaryen to the iron throne is a foregone conclusion!"
"When that time comes, my daughter will be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and the glory of our House Tyrell, the glory of The Reach, will surely surpass what it was in the past!"
Mace spoke with great enthusiasm, spittle flying, completely immersed in the beautiful dream he had woven, as if everything were already set in stone.
Willas in his wheelchair, and Garlan and Loras beside him, were all silent.
The three each held their own posture; none echoed him, and none refuted him, just quietly watching their Duke father talk to himself.
Margaery still sat with lowered eyes, her plain black skirt motionless. Only her fingertips gently twisted the hem of her skirt, hiding all those churning thoughts beneath a gentle appearance.
Olenna gripped her cane tightly, her knuckles slightly white. The rich rose fragrance in the courtyard felt increasingly pungent now.
She looked at this irredeemably stupid son before her, and the urge to take a wooden spoon and knock him on the head was almost uncontrollable.
Finally, she spoke slowly, like a needle dipped in ice, piercing directly through Mace's excitement, causing the air in the courtyard to instantly freeze.
"The will of the gods?"
Olenna slowly raised her eyes, her thin fingers tapping the cane, making a crisp sound—once, then again—tapping on Mace's smug heart.
"I have lived for nearly a hundred years, and I have seen more gods than you have eaten desserts."
Her gaze swept past Mace, past his gesticulating arms, past the unconscious stupidity on his face, and finally landed on the untouched cup of fruit wine on the stone table.
"Renly's death was a disaster for Highgarden, not some blessing from the gods. It was the blade of Stannis killing his own kin, and it was our own blindness that made us bet everything on a pillowcase."
She paused, staring at her foolish son like a hawk watching dull prey.
"As for this Aegon Targaryen who has landed on Dragonstone..."
"My foolish son, you only stare at the true dragon blood in him, yet you forget that what House Targaryen is most famous for has never been legitimacy, but the madness carved into their bones and blood."
The smugness on Mace's face froze instantly. He opened his mouth, still muttering unconvinced: "Mother, he is the true dragon returning, it is destiny, how could he be mad for no reason?"
"For no reason?" Olenna chuckled, her laughter full of mockery. "After the glory of the Conqueror, how many Mad Kings have trampled over the Seven Kingdoms? Cruel Maegor? The incompetent Aegon IV? The mad Aerys?"
"The madness in the bloodline never disappears just because of the word 'legitimacy'."
"We haven't even figured out whether this Prince Aegon is warm or cold-blooded, wise or foolish, nor do we know how many troops he has under his command or what schemes he holds in his heart, yet you dare to pat your chest and promise to marry Margaery to him, and to hand over the one hundred thousand troops of The Reach?"
She raised her eyes to sweep over the flowers outside the courtyard, her tone carrying a coldness regarding the lag in intelligence.
"Dorne is by the sea and well-informed; that Red Viper has long since moved at the first sign of wind. But we live deep in the interior of The Reach, and we were several beats slow even to hear the news of his landing. With such a lack of information, you talk of marriage and allegiance—how is that any different from closing your eyes and gambling with your life?"
Olenna's gaze slowly fell on Margaery, her tone softening a bit, but hiding an unquestionable firmness.
"My granddaughter is the most beautiful rose of Highgarden, not a chip for you to gamble the fate of the nation. Even though she never consummated her marriage with Renly, in these chaotic times, purity is no match for the temperament of a monarch."
"If he is a true dragon, then Margaery marrying him would naturally make her the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."
"But if he has inherited the Targaryen madness and becomes the next Mad King, a bloodthirsty tyrant, then Margaery marrying him would mean the Tyrell family being tied to his chariot as hostages."
"My granddaughter, and the entire House Tyrell, would all be buried with him."
She turned to look at Mace, the disdain and frustration in her eyes no longer concealed.
"You can't even manage the army at Bitterbridge and had to rely on Randyll Tarly to clean up your mess, yet now you dare to boast that you will personally lead the army to clear the world for him?"
"The future of Highgarden is not something to be gambled with the paste in your brain. Before we see clearly whether this Prince Aegon is a dragon or a madman, any rash decision is pushing the entire family into a fire pit."
As her words fell, the courtyard fell into a dead silence.
Mace Tyrell's face flushed red, a surge of anger stuck in his chest, but he dared not vent it on his mother, so he could only press his lips tightly together, holding back a belly full of frustration.
His cheeks were puffed out from anger and grievance, his skin taut, looking exactly like his well-known nickname—a bloated pufferfish, both ridiculous and infuriating.
Willas sat in his wheelchair with lowered eyelids, motionless; Garlan frowned slightly but understood that everything his grandmother said was the truth; Loras gripped the sword at his waist, his heart only thinking of revenge for Renly, indifferent to these power plays.
Margaery still sat with her head lowered, her long eyelashes covering the light in her eyes.
Every word of her grandmother's, she had taken to heart.
Her fingertips slowly released the twisted hem of her skirt, her inner deliberations already thoroughly churned, with no more hesitation.
How could she not understand her grandmother's concerns?
In chaotic times, betting oneself and one's family on an unknown monarch was walking on the edge of a blade.
But she knew even better that if she kept shrinking back in Highgarden, guarding the status of Renly's widow and sitting idly for a lifetime, she would ultimately just be a rootless rose trapped in a courtyard.
Highgarden would gradually lose its chips for a foothold, and she would never touch the position of Queen of the Seven Kingdoms in this life...
That was the ambition carved into her bones, the glory that the golden rose of House Tyrell should rush toward, which could never be offset by the stability of being trapped in a corner.
Rather than letting her father make rash decisions and letting her grandmother worry back and forth, it would be better for her to make the trip herself.
Go to Dragonstone, see this returning true dragon with her own eyes, and personally discern whether he was a wise monarch or a Mad King.
If she succeeded, she would take the one hundred thousand troops of The Reach as a dowry and become the legitimate Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, leading Highgarden to the pinnacle—she believed no monarch would refuse such a "generous" dowry.
If she failed, she could retreat safely and leave a way out for her family. She imagined that the Prince would not make things difficult for a woman.
With her thoughts settled, Margaery slowly straightened up, her plain black skirt falling along her frame.
She was still the same gentle and compliant figure, but her voice, when she spoke, carried a firmness completely different from her appearance, gently breaking the silence of the courtyard.
"Grandmother, Father."
She raised her brown eyes to look at Olenna, her gaze gentle and honest, without a shred of defiance, like a docile doe.
Then she turned to look at the flushed Mace, her tone soft:
"I have already made a decision in my heart."
"I do not wish to be trapped in Highgarden forever, acting as a widow of Renly with only a title."
"Highgarden has fallen into a predicament due to Renly's death. Now that the true dragon has returned, it is both a crisis and a turning point."
"Grandmother is concerned about whether Prince Aegon is a true dragon or a Mad King, and Father is certain that he is destiny fulfilled. But no matter how much others say or guess, it is not as good as seeing it with one's own eyes and exploring it personally."
She lowered her head slightly, her posture respectful, but her words were resonant:
"I am willing to go to Dragonstone as an envoy of Highgarden to pay a personal visit to Prince Aegon."
"I will see his temperament clearly, discern his character, and see whether he has inherited the glory of House Targaryen or is sinking into the madness in his bloodline."
When she raised her eyes, the ambition hidden in her depths was wrapped in gentleness, leaving only the earnestness of sharing the family's burdens:
"This trip is not for a rash marriage, but to find a clear path for Highgarden, and to find a destination for myself."
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