"That Snow is simply rude!"
"Exactly. Bastards have no upbringing; they just love to spout nonsense."
A group of maidens, roughly Margaery Tyrell's age, were gathered around her. Most were cousins from cadet branches of House Tyrell or House Redwyne.
They were Margaery's handmaids. All of them were lovely, and clustered together like that, they looked like a bouquet of blooming flowers.
But no one dared approach them with improper thoughts, as guards stood nearby, watching over the noble girls vigilantly.
Serving highborn ladies was a skill in itself. Often, only other nobles knew the proper etiquette. These weren't village girls plucked from the fields; they were highborn themselves.
Just as Tywin's late wife Joanna had once served as a handmaid to Queen Rhaella, Margaery's companions were daughters of lesser branches of Tyrell, Redwyne, or Hightower.
Right now, Margaery and her circle were discussing the man of the hour: Jon Snow.
However, Jon's reputation among these young ladies was terrible. To them, he had crudely insulted Margaery and her brothers.
"This Jon didn't just offend me and my brothers," Margaery said, taking a small bite of a pastry before setting it down. Bean paste filling—too sweet. Not to her taste. "He was trying to provoke my father. To make him make a mistake."
"Even so, he shouldn't have spoken so gracelessly. He has no manners at all," said Lia Tyrell, Margaery's cousin.
Lia was a girl who loved music and the harp. She was often melancholy, favoring tragic tales of knights and romance.
Honor, romance, even tragic heroism—that was what she sought.
If Jon had marched south to avenge his father, killed Joffrey, and then died heroically, she might have composed a song for him. But now...
A man who used any means necessary to win? She couldn't bring herself to like him.
Lia's assessment was quickly echoed by the others, and the group united in condemning Jon.
"I heard he's a Duke now."
"Duke of Harrenhal."
"He won't live long then. His line will die out quickly. Hmph, it's what he deserves!"
Listening to her companions' outrage, Margaery forced a smile. She put down another pastry—a honeyed date this time. Also too sweet. She didn't like it.
Feeling irritable, Margaery thought about her two engagements.
First Renly, who was assassinated. Then Joffrey, who had just been killed by Jon.
What about the next one? If her next betrothed died suddenly too, her reputation as the "Rose of Highgarden" might turn into the "Black Widow of Highgarden."
No matter how beautiful she was or how large her dowry, who would dare marry her then?
Of course, she wouldn't truly struggle to find a husband. But there were few men worthy of her status, and the pool was shrinking.
She could settle for a lesser lord, but as Margaery Tyrell, she wasn't willing to settle.
When Renly and Joffrey were alive, her ceiling was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Now, looking around, there seemed to be no suitable match left.
Margaery felt a sense of emptiness and confusion. Watching her friends chatter, she suddenly said, "I'm feeling a bit tired. I'm going to take a nap."
"Shall I join you?" asked Alla Tyrell, another handmaid.
Handmaids, companions, bedwarmers—as a Duke's daughter, Margaery was never short of company.
"No need. I'll just rest for a little while." With that, Margaery left alone. After all, inside Highgarden, what danger could there be?
Walking through the gardens where butterflies danced, Margaery watched servants bow as she passed.
She didn't have the energy to fake a smile. Having just come of age, she suddenly felt powerless against fate.
If not Renly, if not Joffrey... who would be her final destination?
In a year, two at most, she would have to marry. Who would it be?
Lost in her frustrated thoughts, Margaery found herself outside a study. The guard informed her that Olenna and the Seneschal of Highgarden were inside. She decided to go in.
As Olenna's carefully groomed granddaughter, she had the right to attend any family meeting.
But as she approached the door, she heard an angry voice from inside: "How can a rose of Highgarden be planted next to a dog kennel?! This Stannis is crossing the line!
"Without the Dragonstone fleet, he's just a stag with broken antlers. Daring to make such a demand... he doesn't know his place!" The speaker was a man—her uncle, Garth Tyrell.
Garth was older and even fatter than Mace, earning him the nickname "Garth the Gross." Though he suffered from flatulence, Margaery had always found him gentle. She wondered why he was so angry today.
She slowed her steps, pausing before entering.
"Stannis may lack an army, but he is now the de facto sole King. He controls the Crownlands and the Stormlands. Those Florents have always coveted our lands, and the Dornish to the south aren't toothless either. Mace rejected him too bluntly." Margaery recognized her grandmother Olenna's voice.
The usually indomitable Queen of Thorns sounded a bit weary. Mace doted on his children, and so did Olenna. Naturally, she didn't want her granddaughter marrying a bastard.
Smart as she was, Margaery had already guessed what was happening, but she remained outside.
"Perhaps we could choose a girl from a cadet branch. Jon Snow is a bastard, yes, but Stannis is making him a Duke. Aside from Margaery, marrying any other Tyrell girl to him wouldn't be an insult," said Willas.
It was a sensible compromise. But Olenna sighed. "You think Stannis just wants a Tyrell daughter? He wants our submission! He wants our dignity!"
The atmosphere in the room was heavy. Willas spoke again. "Then perhaps... an assassin?"
Assassin? To kill whom? Stannis or Jon Snow?
Margaery felt an invisible vortex pulling at her. She was surprised—her gentle, scholarly brother Willas showing such ruthlessness?
Finally, she pushed the door open.
"Ah, Margaery," Willas looked up, seemingly unsurprised.
"Sit, my child." Olenna beckoned, and a servant quickly placed a chair for her.
Olenna stroked her granddaughter's smooth hand with her own withered, spotted one. Her eyes held affection, but also resolve.
This was a woman who would poison Joffrey just because she didn't like him. Never mind Jon Snow—even Stannis wouldn't stop her if she decided to act.
"Grandmother, I want to go to King's Landing."
"What?!"
Willas, Garth, and Olenna all stared at her.
"Margaery, House Tyrell has not fallen so low that we need to beg. We will never agree to Stannis's terms!" Willas, usually so mild, was suddenly sharp as a blade.
"Indeed, Margaery. You have Garlan and Loras, and so many cousins. House Tyrell is strong!" Garth encouraged.
But Margaery shook her head. "Grandmother, Uncle, Brother... I cannot be so selfish. I cannot let my brothers die for my sake. I know they would do it for the honor of the House, but I think there might be another way."
"Margaery, you don't need to worry—" Willas started, but Olenna silenced him.
"What is your idea? Let's hear it."
"I think... I could go meet this Jon Snow. What if he refuses the marriage? That way, Tyrell honor is saved, and we avoid paying the price in blood," Margaery explained.
Even though Jon's military achievements were dazzling, to them, he was still just a bastard.
Bastards were usually treated poorly within their families. Perhaps they could tempt him with gold and wine, convincing him to decline the match voluntarily.
Then, a daughter from a cadet branch—or even a vassal house—would likely be enough to satisfy his appetite.
Margaery's idea was a revelation. They had been treating Jon and Stannis as a single entity. Margaery made them realize they could be dealt with separately.
"As expected of Margaery. Always the cleverest girl in the family!" Garth praised. Willas smiled at his sister.
Olenna patted Margaery's hand. "Very well. I think it's worth a try. In that case, Willas, go prepare with your uncle. I will go to King's Landing as well."
"Grandmother, you're going too?"
"Stannis wants a King's dignity, doesn't he? We'll give it to him. Go on."
Willas and Garth left the room. Margaery stayed seated. She knew her grandmother's habit—if she was still holding your hand, she had more to say.
Sure enough, once they were alone, Olenna leaned in, looking into Margaery's bright brown eyes. "Do you feel wronged?"
"No, Grandmother. Why would I feel wronged?" Margaery denied it instantly, her gaze steady.
But Olenna smiled faintly. She saw everything. She had raised this girl; she knew her.
"Do you know the story of me and your grandfather, Luthor Tyrell?"
Margaery shook her head.
"I was supposed to marry a Targaryen. But I didn't like those madmen. So, one night, I climbed into your grandfather's bed. The next morning, he took my hand and knelt before your great-grandfather," Olenna said, the wrinkles around her eyes crinkling with a smile as she recalled a memory from fifty years ago.
Margaery hadn't expected her grandmother, nearing seventy, to share such a story. She was surprised and a little shy, a blush coloring her cheeks.
"I've been gathering more information on this Jon Snow. When Robb first called his banners, the lords were testing him. It was Jon who stepped into the game and forced the cunning Roose Bolton to bow his head," Olenna said, her tone shifting. "Rumor says it was Robb's idea, but how could a boy who breaks a sacred vow for lust have that kind of brain?"
"So, Grandmother, you mean..."
"It's very likely it was Jon's idea all along!" Olenna said sharply.
"You know about the Battle of the Green Fork. But what surprised me most was him stopping Robb from crowning himself. Robb intended to remove him from command, but Jon launched a mutiny at Harrenhal, seized Bolton's troops, and took over. Do you think a man like that is content to stay beneath anyone?"
Listening to Olenna, Margaery's eyes widened.
"So, Grandmother, you..."
"I'm going with you to see what this boy is really made of. If he can truly be of use to us... other than you, I can give him anything! But... if you actually find yourself liking him, well, I suppose I'd have to accept that too." Olenna winked at her granddaughter.
"I... how could I..." Margaery stammered, intending to say she'd never fall for a bastard.
But recalling Olenna's analysis, the qualities this rising "bastard" displayed were undeniably dazzling.