The training yard at Highgarden smelled of sweat, steel, and crushed roses. Lord Mace Tyrell, red-faced and heavier than his armour liked, was hacking at a pell with a blunted longsword when Maester Lamys hurried up, parchment clutched like a battle standard.
"My lord, a raven—"
"Not now, Lamys!" Mace wheezed, bringing the sword down with a clang that made the post shudder. "Can you not see I am finally trimming the belly your honeyed figs put on me?"
The maester waited, patient as stone, until Mace's next swing went wide and the lord of Highgarden had to lean on the sword like a cane.
"It is from the Eyrie," Lamys said quietly. "From Lord Edric Arryn himself."
Mace's puffing stopped. "The little falcon? In private, then. And fetch me something to eat; all this exercise has me starving."
They repaired to a small solar overlooking the Mander. Mace had barely torn into a capon when the door creaked again.
"What is this I hear about a letter from the Vale?" Lady Olenna Tyrell walked across the room to sit closer, cane tapping, eyes sharp as any dagger.
Mace sighed. "Good evening to you too, Mother. How in seven hells do you always know?"
"Because I'm not a great turnip with ears, dear. Read it."
Lamys cleared his throat and unrolled the parchment.
To the noble Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Reach, Warden of the South,
I send greetings from the Eyrie. The Vale prospers as never before, and I find myself in need of a lady worthy to stand at its head. Your daughter Margaery is renowned across the realm for her beauty and grace. I would treat with you for her hand, offering in return the full friendship and alliance of House Arryn, the second richest and The best-armed of the Seven Kingdoms. I await your reply with hope. Deeds, not words. Edric Arryn Lord of the Eyrie, Warden of the East
Mace's eyes grew round. A slow, delighted smile spread across his meaty face.
"The second-richest lord in Westeros wants my Margaery! And the boy's barely fifteen! Imagine the dowry—"
Olenna snorted so hard the candle flames danced.
"Second-richest? Hah! The boy's got more brass than sense if he thinks his mountain scrapings outshine the Reach. Though… one hears whispers of iron wagons and full granaries. Mayhaps there's a kernel of truth in it. Or mayhaps it's just hot air from a high place."
Mace flushed crimson. "Mother—"
"Don't 'Mother' me, you great cabbage. Renly Baratheon has been sniffing around Margaery for moons. And you've already started those little plots of yours—whispering about swapping Cersei for our girl on Robert's throne, or failing that, hitching her to Renly himself. Why throw it all away for some falcon chick on a rock?
Lamys tried to be helpful. "The letter does mention the Vale's wealth—"
"Wealth!" Olenna barked. "Everyone knows the little falcon has turned the Vale into a giant mint. Good for him. But coin is coin, and thrones are thrones. The Reach and the Stormlands border each other. Trade, armies, marriages; everything neat as a garden bed. This Arryn boy lives on top of a bloody mountain on the other side of the continent. What does he offer besides cold stone and colder manners? We don't know this boy. For all we know he's a monster in a pretty doublet."
Mace looked sulky. "He's highborn. Arryn and Tully Blood, with Blood ties to the Starks."
"And a scar across his scalp that says he picks fights with mountain clans for sport," Olenna cut in. "Renly is charming, connected, and right here. The falcon is an unknown quantity perched on a rock. We've already laid the groundwork with Renly—don't uproot the rosebush before it blooms."
She leaned forward, voice dropping to that deadly honeyed tone that made grown men sweat.
"Worst case, Robert lives another ten years (fat chance) and Renly still sits the storm throne. We lose nothing. But tie ourselves to the Vale now and we're married to whatever strange notions that boy cooks up next. I hear he teaches smallfolk to read and arms peasants with steel. Next he'll be giving them seats on his council."
Mace opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.
"So… we refuse?"
Olenna rolled her eyes so hard it was audible.
"Of course we don't refuse, you oaf. We stall. Great lords—especially hot-headed young lords—hate waiting, but they hate being told no even more. We answer sweetly, speak of Margaery's tender years, invite the boy to visit Highgarden at his earliest convenience. Let him see what a real castle looks like. Let Margaery smile at him. By the time he climbs back down his mountain he'll either be besotted or bored, and either way we keep every door open."
She tapped the table with one bony finger.
"Write this, Maester: warm words, vague promises, and an invitation. And make it flowery; the boy seems to like pretty speeches."
Mace still looked uncertain. "But if he truly is the second-richest—"
"Second-richest today," Olenna said. "Tomorrow is a long time in this game, and we are playing for the only prize that matters."
She rose, smoothing her skirts.
"Send the letter. And Mace—next time you decide to play soldier, do it after supper. You sweat like a pig and it quite ruins the roses."
With that, the Queen of Thorns swept out, leaving the scent of crushed petals and danger behind her.