"People think the Tyrells are flowers, that only by clinging to a tree can they bear fruit." Garlan gazed into the distance, a faint loneliness hidden in his voice. "The ridiculous part is, we believe it ourselves."
William nodded in deep agreement.
He thought of the course Margaery's life had once taken. Renly was a man who loved men, and she serenely played along with his show of affection. Joffrey was arrogant and cruel, so she played the docile bird before him. Tommen was a timid child, and she dutifully acted the role of a gentle elder sister. She wed three kings, none of them true partners, yet on the surface, Margaery always seemed to embrace these political marriages with ease, treating herself wholly as a tool of alliance.
Compared with other daughters of lords of her rank—not to mention domineering women like Cersei or Arianne— even Sansa and Arya had their own dreams. Margaery, however, lived only to please one person after another, more like the daughter of some minor, struggling house than the princess of noble Highgarden.
"If she has no choice, then whatever path she chooses, I will not interfere, only support her quietly," Garlan said evenly, his eyes calm as he looked at William. "But now it is different, William."
Brother, you're giving me far too much credit, William thought with a wry smile. If it were possible, he truly was the one who most wished to claim Margaery for himself.
On Earth, the legendary nurse Florence Nightingale once led a medical team that reduced the British army's death rate in the Crimean War from forty-two percent to just two. The feat not only boosted morale but also returned many veterans to the front and raised overall strength.
With William's magic fueling her, the Little Rose, able to cast healing spells endlessly, could reduce battlefield deaths to zero—so long as a man did not die instantly, she could save him. In the war about to erupt, Margaery's value was incalculable, enough to shape the outcome of battles.
But dreams are rich, and reality lean.
In the original tale, shifting tides had swiftly turned courtly intrigues into open war, and Renly's plan to place Margaery in Cersei's stead never unfolded. Yet the plan surely had merit—Lord Pufferfish might be easy to sway, but the Queen of Thorns would not have agreed otherwise.
If Margaery could become queen, House Tyrell would gain the bloodline prestige to rival the ancient houses of the Reach, securing Highgarden's rule and fulfilling a dream three centuries old. And all it would require was a political intrigue, not mountains of corpses. With the political instincts drilled into her, how could Margaery pass up such a chance?
William shook his head, a trace of regret in his eyes. "It seems you misunderstand, Garlan. I fear I cannot influence Margaery."
"She's angry—after hearing what you did at Skyreach." His sister was angry, yet Garlan, the brother, looked almost pleased.
"Well, you needn't do me any favors. If you truly care for her, then act bravely," Garlan said, patting William's shoulder, his gaze blazing like a torch. "So you won't regret it in the future."
After calling upon all the important members of the Hightower, Garlan departed for Highgarden. The bowl of chicken soup he left behind kept William tossing, plagued by doubt, until at last, traveling with the Hightower retinue, he reached Highgarden and resolved, Do it!
If he could truly win the Little Rose, it would be a windfall—having her by his side was like carrying endless healing potions, a safeguard that would let him fight with abandon. And if he won on the battlefield, the ripple in the story could be offset. At worst, he would gain nothing and earn the enmity of the Queen of Thorns and Renly. But that hardly mattered—Renly was destined to fade, and Olenna placed profit above all. If he grew strong enough, she would race to ally with him.
The road to Highgarden was lined with flowers, the cool air rich with the scent of roses, everything serene and pleasant. With his heart unburdened, William felt the sky bluer, the sun brighter, and admired with excitement the most beautiful castle in all Westeros.
Highgarden stood upon a hill, its walls of white marble rising in three encircling tiers from the base. Green foliage adorned the dazzling white, at once romantic and imposing.
House Hightower was represented by Ser Baelor. As expected, the Old Man of Oldtown and Malora declined the invitation, but the rest of the Hightower men had all come.
Though the exorcism incident had led to the three of them being treated differently, Baelor seemed to regard William as one of his own. All along the road, he often rode side by side with Garth and William. He looked to have fully recovered from his earlier fright, once again cheerful, and was often seen riding through the column, busying himself here and there.
His gaze followed two hawks gliding overhead, tracking their graceful forms until they vanished into the distance. Then Baelor turned back toward Garth and William with a triumphant smile. "That was Willas."
Willas's skill with hawks, hounds, and fine horses was well known, though Garth and William only knew much about horses and little of falconry. Baelor spoke a few words about hawks, but when he saw neither Garth nor William could hold up the conversation, he changed the subject. "William, you've not yet met Willas, have you?"
"I have not had that honor, ser."
In truth, Garth and Willas were somewhat acquainted, but William was a poor excuse for a squire. He had never accompanied Garth on his visits to Highgarden, so even after six years in his service, he had never once laid eyes on Willas.
"Willas is gentle by nature. If not for that leg, he would have been the perfect heir of Highgarden." Baelor's tone carried a note of regret, yet to William the words struck oddly, calling to mind Tyrion's talk with Bran. In Westeros, dwarfs and the crippled were rarely welcomed in the eyes of the great.
Soon, the column reached the gates of Highgarden. The doors stood wide, and a group of people waited in welcome. Garlan stood among them. William gave him a nod, but his attention was immediately drawn to the young man at his side—similar in build to Garlan, cloaked in a fine green mantle patterned richly, half concealing striped silks of green and gold. A carved jade rose fastened the cloak, delicate and lifelike. His face was somewhat thin, his features bearing a trace of Garlan's likeness. He stood quietly, strikingly handsome, the very image of noble grace.
What most captivated William were his eyes—gentle, warm as the spring breeze, yet within the depths of those dark pupils seemed to lie an unfathomable world, impossible to see through.