The Reach—endless green plains, rolling golden fields, and the sweet scent of blooming roses drifting through the air. Before the Targaryen Conquest, it was the proud realm of House Gardener, Kings of the Reach. After the Field of Fire turned their dynasty to ash, House Tyrell, once only Highgarden's stewards, rose to prominence in their place. Centuries later, Highgarden remained one of the most beautiful and prosperous seats in all the Seven Kingdoms.
The castle itself was carved from pale white marble, its walls gleaming beneath the sun. Vines draped the towers like intricate tapestries, and the many fountains sparkled with flowing water. From the highest balconies, one could see far beyond the Mander River—across endless plantations, orchards, and meadows where wildflowers glimmered gold and pink in the breeze.
In a graceful white gazebo nestled among Highgarden's famous rose gardens, a small gathering from House Tyrell sat conversing. The gazebo's slender arches were wrapped in flowering vines, while a gentle fountain bubbled at its center.
Outside the structure stood two towering guards—identical twins, broad-shouldered and seven feet tall. Their gilded half-helms glinted as sunlight struck them, and their green cloaks, embroidered with the golden rose of House Tyrell, swayed softly. Their matching red beards, square jaws, and piercing blue eyes made them nearly indistinguishable. They were the famed twin protectors of Lady Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns.
Inside the gazebo, Olenna leaned on her cane, her expression sharp beneath her snow-white hair. Though well over sixty, her eyes still gleamed with quick wit and a lifetime of political cunning.
"You know Renly had a Myrish artist paint a portrait of my granddaughter, don't you?" Olenna asked, her tone laced with both amusement and annoyance.
Lord Mace Tyrell—once muscular, now softened by age and comfort—cleared his throat loudly. "Yes, Mother, I know about the painting. It was quite beautiful, done in that lifelike style the Myrish love."
"Then you also know Renly's thoughts." Olenna fixed him with a pointed look.
Mace fumbled. "Well… yes. And what's so wrong with the idea? Wouldn't you like your precious darling girl to become queen? Besides, everyone knows the King has little love for his current Queen. His heart still lingers on that brown-haired northern girl. Everyone says her memory haunts the court."
Margaery's eyes widened slightly. Draped in a flowing green cloak threaded with golden roses, she looked elegant and soft—an image perfectly suited for Highgarden's rose gardens. Her brown eyes and gentle smile gave her the appearance of innocence, yet intelligence shimmered beneath.
"The King?" she murmured, surprised. Though still young, Margaery already understood the political weight of marriage alliances. She had not expected her brother and Renly's ambitions to extend this far.
"Foolishness," Olenna snapped. "King's Landing is more dangerous than a nest of vipers, and the Lannisters hold half its strings. Renly may be charming with his smiles and jests, but charm alone won't protect him—or my granddaughter—from lions with claws. Still… it does please me that Renly's plan wasn't as reckless as it could have been. He chose to replace the lioness rather than topple the throne entirely."
She sighed, her expression shifting to weary pragmatism.
"There's no need to rush. We control the granaries, the bread, the wine. Whoever sits on that iron monstrosity in King's Landing—Baratheon, Lannister, or any other fool—they cannot afford to anger us. Patience is a rose's greatest weapon."
Willas Tyrell, seated calmly in his wheeled chair, interjected. The eldest son and heir of Highgarden, his gentle eyes contrasted sharply with his broken leg—the result of a Tourney accident years ago. "I don't think the King is a wise match," he said quietly. "I've said so before, but Father and Renly insisted. Sister should have been consulted first."
He shook his head.
"King Robert is no longer the proud stag of his youth. He has grown fat, drinks heavily, and wastes his nights in Brothels and his days in hunts. A marriage to him is not an honor—it's a risk. Perhaps we should consider a more… advantageous option."
"Well, I think Renly would make a good king," Mace offered. "He's handsome, charismatic, brave—"
Olenna snorted. "Brave and charming, yes, and with a dash of foolishness. Likely inherited from that sliver of dragon blood the Baratheons claim. His brother already has children, and he himself has two elder brothers. The idea of him sitting on the throne is fantasy."
She tapped her cane irritably.
"At least my Willas has some sense. Tell Loras and Renly to stop their childish schemes. Our power grows in the Reach itself, not King's Landing. Let the lions tear at each other for a while longer. The current King still manages to hold his realm together—barely. We need not disrupt that."
"But Mother," Mace protested, "opportunities like this do not come often. For over a decade, the Small Council has been dominated by others. And our House has never held the crown! Even the Dornish have had queens."
Every mention of Dorne made Mace's face redden like a ripe berry. The age-old enmity between the Reach and Dorne ran deep, sharpened all the more by the accident that had crippled his son.
"I don't blame Prince Oberyn," Willas said calmly. "The Tourney field is dangerous. Injuries happen. Sometimes we even joke about how to cook horse meat."
Olenna patted her grandson's hand fondly.
"That's why you're the clever one. Grudges make men blind—and fools twice over. Mace, calm yourself. Kings are not grown like melons on a vine. It took our House generations to produce someone as remarkable as Long-Thorn Leo. Do you think crowns appear just because you want them to?"
Lord Leo Tyrell—Long-Thorn—was a legend in the Reach. A knight of unmatched skill with a lance, born a century earlier, still celebrated in ballads and Tourney lore.
"Now then," Olenna continued, "Willas, do you at least have some interesting news for your poor grandmother?"
Willas nodded.
"No court rumors, but there's talk from Across the Narrow Sea. A new king has risen in the Disputed Lands. The slaves call him the Butter-King or the Iron King. He freed enslaved laborers, raided Firegrass Manor, and has caused the price of Myrish gunpowder herbs to skyrocket. They say he wears an iron mask and fights with an iron warhammer. On the battlefield, he's unstoppable."
"The Butter-King?" Olenna raised a brow. "Sounds like an escaped slave fattened on freedom."
"No, Grandmother. He's the new commander of the Wolf Pack Company. A fierce warrior, cunning and brutal. He's killed many Meereenese soldiers—and even Unsullied."
At this, Olenna stiffened.
"The Wolf Pack Company… the wild northern mercenaries? I thought their descendants faded long ago!"
"It appears they're still very active. They've gotten entangled in Myr's civil conflicts and now operate as an independent force."
Mace waved dismissively. "What does a bandit king Across the Narrow Sea have to do with us?"
Willas shook his head. "Everything, Father. The gunpowder herb grown in Myr is becoming exorbitantly expensive. And the Butter-King controls much of that trade now. If we want to maintain our stores, or if war spreads to the Stepstones, we'll need to negotiate with him. He's unpredictable—like the Ninepenny Kings before him."
Olenna frowned thoughtfully.
"A mercenary king rising in the Disputed Lands… chaos Across the Narrow Sea always finds its way to Westeros eventually."
She tapped her cane again, her voice low but firm.
"Then perhaps this Butter-King deserves our attention. Warhammer warriors rarely take root quietly. And if he disrupts the Stepstones, he may affect trade routes all the way to Oldtown."
Mace harrumphed. "Let him play king in his dusty corner of Essos."
"Mace," Olenna scolded sharply, "you couldn't strategize your way through a vegetable garden. Listen to your son."
Willas offered a small smile.
"Whether he is a threat or not, the fact remains: prices are rising, and the markets are restless."
Olenna leaned back in her chair, sighing deeply.
"So the world shifts again. Lions in King's Landing sharpening their claws. Stags stumbling under the weight of their own appetites. Roses blooming here in peaceful Highgarden. And now—an Iron King pounding at the gates of Essos."
Her sharp eyes turned to Margaery.
"My sweet girl, remember this: in politics, you must act like a rose—delicate in appearance, but with thorns sharp enough to draw blood. Whatever storm brews in King's Landing, or Across the Narrow Sea, our House must stand steady. The moment will come when your beauty, your grace, and your wits will be needed."
Margaery lowered her gaze, thoughtful.
"Yes, Grandmother. I understand."
Olenna allowed the ghost of a smile.
"Good. Then let the other kingdoms play their dangerous game of thrones. The Reach will wait. And when the dust settles, those who control the bread, the grain, and the gold roses will rule—not through fear, but necessity."
In the garden, the golden roses swayed gently in the southern wind, as though bowing in agreement with the Queen of Thorns' words.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)