Highgarden, the ancient seat of House Gardener, now ruled by the Tyrells, was a vision of white marble and lush greenery. Many considered it the most beautiful castle in Westeros, a city of art and flowers, of gardens and fountains and waterfalls. From its slender towers, one could see for leagues across the fertile plains of the Reach, a landscape of wildflowers and golden roses.
In a white gazebo, several members of House Tyrell were gathered. "Do you know," the sharp-tongued matriarch of the family, Olenna Tyrell, asked her son, "that Renly had a portrait painted of my granddaughter by a Myrish artist?"
"I know of it," Lord Mace Tyrell replied. Once a brawny man, he had grown stout with age, but he was still handsome, with curly brown hair and a beard flecked with grey. "It was very beautiful. The Myrmen have a lifelike style."
"Then you also know of Renly's intentions," Lady Olenna said, her gaze sharp as a needle. She was a small woman, with a full head of silver hair and soft, slender hands, but her wit was as thorny as the roses of her house.
"Do you not wish for your darling Margaery to be queen?" Lord Mace asked, a hint of awkwardness in his voice. "All of King's Landing knows the king does not love the queen. His heart still belongs to that northern girl, Lyanna Stark."
Margaery, who had been listening quietly, was startled. She wore a green cloak woven with golden roses, her dress the color of new leaves. She was a beautiful girl in her teens, with soft brown hair and doe-like eyes. She had not realized her brother Loras's games with Lord Renly were so audacious.
"Folly," the Queen of Thorns scoffed. "The court is a viper's nest, and the Lannister lion is deeply entrenched. Can you truly rely on that witty young lord? At least he has the sense to want Margaery to replace the lioness, rather than declare himself king. There is no need to rush. We control the bread of the Seven Kingdoms. No king, no matter who sits that cold iron chair, can afford to offend us."
"The king is not a suitable match," Willas, the heir of Highgarden, said from his wheelchair. "He is fat and drinks too much. He is no longer the charming stag he once was. For my sister to marry him would be dangerous. We could choose someone more advantageous."
"I think Renly is a fine man," Mace offered. "Brave and gentle."
Lady Olenna snorted. "I think he is a bit mad, perhaps from that drop of dragon blood in his veins. He has a rebel's heart. His brother has children, and he himself has an older brother. They once wanted me to marry a Targaryen. I refused." She turned to her grandson. "Willas, you are the clever one among us. Tell Loras and Renly to stop their foolish games. The rose of Highgarden has few roots in King's Landing. Let us not cause trouble there while the king can still control the situation."
"But, Mother," Mace protested, his face flushing, "this is a rare opportunity. For a decade, there have been few men of the Reach on the Small Council. Our house has never worn a crown. Even the Dornish have had a queen." The mention of House Martell always agitated him.
"I do not blame Prince Oberyn," Willas interjected calmly. He had been crippled in his first tourney, his leg crushed when Oberyn Martell unhorsed him. "The tourney field is a dangerous place."
"My grandson is wise," Lady Olenna said, patting Willas's hand. "Hatred makes a man lose his mind. Your father is like a fish, fantasizing about his grandson on the throne." She turned back to Mace. "House Stark were kings for generations, as were the Arryns and the Lannisters. The Baratheons have the blood of kings through their mother's line. We Tyrells were merely stewards until Aegon the Dragon burned the last Gardener king on the Field of Fire. But what does it matter? We are flourishing. We have never been stronger. All sides need us. We must be patient."
"And that damned House Florent," Mace grumbled, "always questioning our legitimacy. I'll make them pay for it one day."
"Enough, Mace," his mother sighed. "Kings are not so easily made. How many years did it take for our house to produce a man like Leo Longthorn?" Lord Leo had been a renowned tourney champion a century ago, still considered the finest knight House Tyrell had ever produced. She turned back to Willas. "Do you have any other interesting news for your old grandmother?"
"Not news, precisely," Willas said, a thoughtful look on his face. "But an interesting tale from across the sea. A new 'king' has risen in the Disputed Lands. He frees slaves and raids the firegrass manors. The price of Myrish firegrass has skyrocketed. The slaves call him the Butter-King, or the Iron King. He wears an iron mask and armor and is said to be invincible on the battlefield."
"The Butter-King?" Mace scoffed. "Sounds like an escaped slave."
"No," Willas corrected. "He is the new commander of the Wolf Pack Company. A fierce and cunning warrior who wields a warhammer. They say he has killed many Meereenese pit fighters, and even Unsullied."
"The Wolf Pack?" the Queen of Thorns said, surprised. "The descendants of those wild Northmen? I did not think they were still active."
"They are their own faction now," Willas confirmed, "after becoming entangled in the Myrish power struggles."
"What is so curious about this Butter-King?" Mace said dismissively.
"The price of firegrass is soaring," Willas replied patiently. "We will need to have dealings with this man. And he may well make a move on the Stepstones, just as the Ninepenny Kings did."