When Lady Anya followed the gaze, her heart sank. The person standing next to Jon wasn't just a woman; she was a noble lady whose radiance seemed to make the moonlight itself look dim.
Compared to Anya, who had been running around hustling for a living, this girl was exquisite—like crystal. She was a summer rose, carefully cultivated and bathed in golden sunlight, with a softness capable of smoothing even the cold steel and stone of King's Landing.
Her beauty wasn't the distant, freezing aloofness of the North, nor was it the wild, scorching heat of Dorne. Instead, she possessed a carefully sculpted harmony, a flawless weapon designed to disarm anyone.
She stood with that effortless, airy grace unique to southern nobility. Her gown swayed with the breeze like petals, but what truly caught the eye were her large, almond-shaped eyes. They were the color of warm honey amber, possessing the depth of an autumn forest. They seemed to perpetually hold a smile—clear, bright, and looking at the world with apparent kindness. The intelligence flickering behind them was enough to make anyone lower their guard.
When she smiled, her eyes curved into charming crescents, revealing pearly white teeth. The faint blush on her cheeks radiated an irresistible affinity, a magical pull that made people willing to orbit around her.
And right now, that annoying jerk, Jon, was hovering around this rose like an eager bee, clearly trying to earn one of those smiles.
Seeing this, the anger that had fueled Anya's march evaporated, replaced by a surge of indignation and sadness.
If this were anyone else, facing such an overwhelming opponent might have led to an immediate retreat. But this was Anya Taylor-Joy. She was a stubborn woman who had supported her family and stood on her own two feet since she was a child.
The feeling of loss lasted only a second before she swept it aside. She didn't wallow; she reloaded. Her fighting spirit bottomed out and rebounded instantly.
The next moment, the red-headed girl stepped forward, and a silent, deadly underground war began.
---
Meanwhile, on the other side of the courtyard, a sense of peculiarity rose in Margaery Tyrell's heart.
The Rose of Highgarden had actually spotted the redhead the moment she appeared. Out of habit, she had already assessed the newcomer and prepared a response. She noticed how the girl's eyes darted between her and Baron Jon, and she immediately deduced that this woman had an unusual relationship with the "Shadow Hand."
Perhaps acting on female intuition, Margaery subconsciously brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and then, quite openly, looped her arm through Jon's, making her intentions clear.
"Lord Jon, please allow me to express my sincerest gratitude once more. For your heroic performance and for saving me..."
"Ahem. It seems I'm interrupting."
Margaery didn't get to finish her sentence. Lady Anya had arrived.
The red-haired woman, dressed in practical work clothes rather than silk, stopped right in front of them. Without hesitation, she stepped up and intimately took Jon's other arm, scanning the Highgarden rose with a look of critical inquiry.
"I presume this is the Golden Rose of Highgarden—Lady Margaery? Your arrival truly brings light to our humble Tampa."
The praise flowed smoothly from Anya's lips, but it carried the distinct, confident tone of a hostess welcoming a guest.
Margaery caught the subtle power play immediately. However, she didn't address the challenger directly. Instead, she turned her smiling eyes toward the master of Tampa.
"Lord Jon, and this red-haired lady is...?"
"Uh, this is Anya Taylor-Joy," Jon introduced, reverting to business mode. "She manages the bulk commodities and trade logistics for Tampa..."
"Hehe, ever the Shadow Hand," Margaery chuckled, elegantly covering half her face with her fan before turning her gaze back to the red fox. "You know that isn't what I was asking."
In the eyes of the Highgarden Rose, the girl standing before her looked like a cat with its hackles raised—or perhaps a dog guarding its food bowl.
But at the same time, a flash of genuine admiration crossed Margaery's eyes.
Strictly in terms of appearance, this redhead was stunningly exquisite. From the moment Margaery saw her, she marked her as a legitimate rival. Among women, the comparison of beauty never truly fades; it just becomes the most direct form of combat.
As someone groomed from birth to be a Queen, Margaery only needed one glance to deduce a harsh fact: if it came down to looks alone, almost any man would give a slightly higher score to this red-haired girl. Even Margaery had to admit it.
Fortunately, as the only daughter of House Tyrell, she possessed other overwhelming advantages—wealth, status, and political power—that gave her unparalleled confidence.
The fleeting thought of being outshined was instantly swept away, transformed into an invisible weapon that she instinctively launched at her enemy.
"So, tell me, Lady Anya... are you in love with Lord Jon?"
The question came out more directly than she intended. Even Margaery wasn't sure why she blurted it out so bluntly.
Logically, Jon should have been the most insignificant of her potential suitors. But the man was wrapped in mystery.
Ever since Jon had rescued her from the bandits that night, Margaery had been desperate to verify one thing: was what she saw a hallucination, or was it real?
Regardless of the answer, she knew one thing for certain—this man had imprinted himself on her heart.
If she didn't handle this quickly, Margaery was smart enough to foresee that her destiny might get tangled up with this noble bastard of House Stark. And that was absolutely not in her plan.
But every time she recalled that figure wreathed in emerald fire—that body like a flawless statue carved from white marble—her thoughts began to drift, and she found herself starting to believe in so-called miracles.
Compared to her rationality, the Maester who had kidnapped them—Qyburn—was much more direct. He had knelt on the spot and pledged himself to this strange Baron as his Master.
Margaery could understand that reaction. People always fear what they cannot explain, and fear breeds worship.
But she was different. She was the fairest Rose of Highgarden. She was destined to wear a Queen's crown in this life, whether that crown came from Robert Baratheon... or Joffrey.