The Red Keep had never been a particularly quiet place, but the arrival of House Tyrell had given its corridors an entirely different sort of energy.

Servants hurried between chambers carrying fresh linens, correspondence and arrangements for the approaching royal wedding. Courtiers gathered beneath the vaulted ceilings, exchanging pleasantries with people they privately despised, while gold-cloaked guards stood watch at the entrances.

In one of the castle's reception chambers, Lady Margaery Tyrell was receiving a small gathering of noblewomen and visiting dignitaries.

She wore a gown of pale green, its embroidery worked delicately with golden roses. Beside her stood Lady Olenna Tyrell, who appeared to have exhausted her patience with the proceedings some time ago.

“Another invitation?” Olenna remarked, examining a parchment presented by a nervous attendant. “Seven save us. Does nobody in this city possess a hobby that doesn't involve gathering people into a room?”

Margaery accepted the parchment with an amused smile.

“Perhaps they simply enjoy your company, Grandmother.”

“Then their judgement is worse than I feared.”

A nearby noblewoman concealed a laugh behind her cup.

Margaery glanced over the invitation, thanked the attendant and passed it to a waiting secretary with a quiet instruction to check the household's existing commitments.

Across the chamber, two minor lords had begun a disagreement over precedence at an upcoming feast. Their voices remained courteous, although the expressions accompanying them suggested considerably less affection.

Margaery noticed the exchange.

“Lord Merryweather,” she called pleasantly, “I believe my grandmother was hoping to hear your opinion on the arrangements.”

Olenna turned slowly.

“Was I?”

“Very much so.”

The elderly woman regarded her granddaughter for a moment before directing a thoroughly unimpressed look towards the approaching lord.

Margaery merely smiled and returned her attention to the remaining guests.

Beyond the chamber's open doors, the business of the Red Keep continued uninterrupted. Visitors arrived and departed, servants announced appointments, and the afternoon's conversations carried on beneath the watchful eyes of the royal household.

The gardens of the Red Keep offered a welcome reprieve from the noise of the royal household.

Beyond the high walls, King's Landing continued its usual business, the distant clamour of merchants, bells and crowded streets carried faintly upon the warm afternoon air. Within the gardens, fountains murmured beneath climbing vines, and narrow stone pathways wound between carefully maintained flowerbeds.

Lady Margaery Tyrell sat beneath the shade of a flowering arbor, a small table arranged before her with a silver pitcher, two cups and a plate of sugared fruits.

A young attendant stood nearby, reading from a parchment containing the household's arrangements for the following morning.

“...and the seamstress has requested another fitting, my lady. She says the alterations to the sleeves will require your attention.”

Margaery glanced down at her own sleeves.

“Again?”

“I am afraid so, my lady.”

“At this rate, I shall have spent more time being measured for the wedding than attending it.”

The attendant smiled cautiously.

“Shall I tell her you are unavailable?”

“No, that would only encourage her to find me at supper. Tomorrow will do.”

The girl made a note.

A short distance away, two gardeners were debating the placement of several newly delivered rosebushes. One insisted the flowers required more sunlight; the other maintained that the southern beds were already overcrowded.

Margaery listened for a moment before rising from her seat.

“If you plant them beside the fountain, won't the roots suffer from the damp?”

Both gardeners turned.

“The soil drains well enough, my lady,” the older man replied. “It's the shade I'm worried about.”

“Then perhaps the eastern wall?”

“That's what I've been telling him,” muttered the younger gardener.

His companion gave him a look.

Margaery laughed softly.

“I shall leave the roses to those who know them better than I do.”

She returned to the arbor, where her attendant had already resumed sorting the day's correspondence.

For a little while, the garden settled back into its ordinary rhythm. Water trickled into the fountain basin, leaves stirred overhead, and footsteps occasionally sounded along the paths connecting the gardens to the castle.

Margaery poured herself another cup of watered wine and unfolded the next letter, her expression shifting into quiet concentration as she began to read.

King's Landing was considerably less fragrant beyond the walls of the Red Keep.

The narrow streets bustled beneath the afternoon sun, crowded with merchants, labourers, children and the occasional unfortunate nobleman discovering that a fine pair of boots offered little protection against the city's gutters.

A small procession had gathered outside a modest charitable kitchen near the Street of Flour.

Lady Margaery Tyrell stood beside a table laden with bread, dried fruit and baskets of fresh vegetables, accompanied by several attendants and a discreet escort of Tyrell guards.

The visit had attracted considerable attention.

Some of the smallfolk watched from a distance, curious about the young woman who might soon become their queen. Others had rather more immediate concerns.

“There's six of us at home, my lady,” an elderly woman explained, clutching a loaf beneath one arm. “My daughter's been poorly, and the little ones—”

“Then take another,” Margaery replied, selecting a second loaf from the basket.

The woman hesitated.

“Are you certain?”

“I suspect the bakers will survive the loss.”

The woman laughed, thanked her repeatedly and disappeared into the crowd.

Nearby, a young boy had been examining the embroidered roses on one of the guards' surcoats with considerable interest.

“Are those real gold?”

The guard looked down.

“No.”

“Look like gold.”

“Still aren't.”

Margaery overheard the exchange and smiled.

“He's terribly disappointing, isn't he?”

The boy nodded solemnly.

The guard sighed.

A short distance away, an attendant approached with a concerned expression.

“My lady, we've nearly exhausted the bread. There are still people waiting.”

Margaery surveyed the remaining baskets before turning towards the steward overseeing the distribution.

“Can the kitchen prepare more?”

“Not before evening, my lady.”

“Then arrange another delivery tomorrow. And see that the families who have been waiting longest receive what remains.”

The steward bowed and departed to make the arrangements.

From somewhere further along the street came the unmistakable sound of an argument between two merchants, followed by a mule braying loudly enough to drown out both participants.

Margaery glanced towards the commotion.

“I had been told the markets were lively,” she remarked to one of her attendants. “Apparently that was an understatement.”

The girl smiled.

Around them, the distribution continued. Guards maintained a narrow passage through the crowd, the kitchen workers carried fresh water to those waiting, and the ordinary business of the city pressed on around the visiting Tyrell household.

Margaery accepted a fresh list of supplies from the steward and began reviewing it, occasionally looking up to acknowledge those passing nearby.

Highgarden was a world apart from King's Landing.

Where the capital crowded its inhabitants behind towering walls and narrow streets, the ancestral seat of House Tyrell seemed determined to give everything room to breathe.

Terraced gardens descended towards the banks of the Mander, their pathways lined with flowering hedges, ornamental fountains and carefully tended rosebushes. Beyond the castle grounds, the fertile countryside of the Reach stretched beneath a clear afternoon sky.

For Lady Margaery Tyrell, returning to her family's seat, even briefly, offered a welcome change from the obligations of the royal court.

Unfortunately, Highgarden possessed obligations of its own.

“My lady, the household steward wishes to know whether the visiting Fossoways are to remain for supper.”

Margaery glanced up from the correspondence spread across a stone table beneath the garden pavilion.

“Which Fossoways?”

The attendant hesitated.

“The... red apples, my lady.”

“Ah. Yes, of course. Have another place arranged for Lord Garlan as well, if he hasn't already made other plans.”

The attendant curtsied and departed.

Across the table, Ser Loras Tyrell was examining a polished training sword, apparently more interested in the condition of its edge than the conversation.

“You could simply tell them all to go home,” he suggested.

“And have Grandmother accuse me of neglecting our family's friendships?”

“She'd probably approve.”

“She'd approve until someone important took offence. Then it would become my fault.”

Loras grinned.

Margaery selected another letter from the small pile.

“Besides, some of us understand that entertaining guests is rather more useful than hitting people with swords.”

“Depends on the guest.”

She gave him a look over the parchment.

“Loras.”

“What?”

“Try not to demonstrate your point at supper.”

He laughed, setting the sword aside as a stablehand approached with news that his horse had been readied.

“Duty calls,” he announced, rising.

“Try to return with the same number of limbs.”

“No promises.”

Margaery shook her head as her brother departed, though her smile lingered.

Beyond the pavilion, gardeners moved between the flowerbeds, servants crossed the terraces carrying household supplies, and the distant sound of horses drifted from the training grounds.

Margaery returned to her letters, pausing occasionally to consider a passage before making a note in the margin.

Highgarden was home, certainly.

But even among the roses, there was always something, or someone requiring the attention of a Tyrell.

The private apartments assigned to House Tyrell were considerably more comfortable than many of the Red Keep's older chambers.

Fresh flowers stood in polished vases, sunlight spilled through tall windows overlooking the gardens, and a faint breeze stirred the embroidered curtains. A small table had been arranged with refreshments, although the plate of lemon cakes remained largely untouched.

Lady Olenna Tyrell sat beside the window, examining a piece of correspondence with an expression suggesting that its author had personally offended her.

“Another request for an audience,” she announced.

Margaery, seated opposite with a length of pale green fabric spread across her lap, glanced up.

“From whom?”

“Some dreadful woman whose husband owns three villages and apparently believes this qualifies her to discuss royal affairs.”

“Lady Staunton?”

“Is that her name? I thought it was something equally unfortunate.”

Margaery suppressed a smile.

“She was very courteous when we met.”

“Of course she was. People generally are when they want something.”

Olenna discarded the letter onto a growing pile.

A seamstress kneeling beside Margaery adjusted the hem of the gown, carefully securing another pin.

“If you please, my lady. Just a moment longer.”

“Take your time.”

“You've been saying that for the better part of an hour,” Olenna observed. “At this rate, the girl will have sewn you into the chair.”

“The sleeves weren't sitting properly.”

“Then perhaps you should consider wearing something without sleeves.”

Margaery laughed.

“I'm certain that would give the court something to discuss.”

“The court discusses everything. Half of it is nonsense, and the other half ought not to be repeated in decent company.”

The seamstress wisely kept her attention on the fabric.

A knock sounded at the outer door, followed by the muffled exchange of a servant speaking with someone in the adjoining chamber.

Olenna barely glanced towards it.

“If that's another invitation, burn it.”

“Grandmother.”

“Very well. Read it first. Then burn it.”

Margaery shook her head, smiling as the seamstress finally stepped back to inspect her work.

Outside, the sounds of the royal household continued: footsteps in the corridor, distant voices, and the occasional clatter of servants carrying trays between chambers.

Margaery rose carefully to examine the gown in a standing mirror while Olenna reached for another letter, apparently prepared to find fault with its contents before she had even broken the seal.

The afternoon sun had settled comfortably over the gardens of the Red Keep, warming the pale stone pathways and drawing the scent of roses into the gentle breeze.

Beneath a shaded pavilion, a small gathering of ladies had assembled around a table dressed in white linen. A silver tea service stood amongst plates of lemon cakes, sugared fruits and delicate pastries, while several handmaidens attended to the refreshments.

Lady Olenna Tyrell occupied the most comfortable chair, a distinction nobody present had thought to question.

Opposite her sat Lady Margaery, with Sansa Stark beside her, listening as one of the handmaidens described the latest arrangements for the approaching royal wedding.

“...and the confectioners have proposed another tasting, my lady.”

Margaery looked up from her cup.

“Another?”

“They wish to settle the matter of the lemon filling.”

Olenna made a thoroughly unimpressed noise.

“Seven save us. How many lemons must a royal wedding consume before somebody decides we've had enough?”

Sansa smiled faintly.

“I rather like lemon cakes, my lady.”

“Of course you do, child. Sensible girl.” Olenna selected one from the plate. “It's the people who insist upon holding meetings about them that I object to.”

Margaery laughed softly.

“Perhaps we should appoint you to oversee the arrangements, Grandmother.”

“Perhaps you should develop a greater appreciation for my remaining years.”

One of the handmaidens lowered her eyes to conceal a smile.

Sansa accepted a fresh cup of tea, thanking the girl quietly before turning towards Margaery.

“Will there be many guests from the Reach?”

“Quite a few, I expect,” Margaery replied. “My father has never considered a celebration complete unless half the kingdom has been invited.”

“And the other half offended by the omission,” Olenna added.

Margaery gave her grandmother an amused look.

Beyond the pavilion, gardeners worked amongst the flowerbeds, and a pair of guards walked their customary circuit along the outer paths. The distant sounds of the castle drifted over the hedges, occasionally interrupted by birdsong and the soft splash of a nearby fountain.

A handmaiden approached with another plate of cakes, hesitating as she considered where to place it amongst the crowded dishes.

“Just beside Lady Sansa, thank you,” Margaery said.

Olenna eyed the fresh offering.

“If another plate appears, I shall begin to suspect the kitchens are attempting to bury us beneath pastry.”

Sansa's smile broadened, though she said nothing.

The handmaiden arranged the plate and withdrew, leaving the ladies to their refreshments as the afternoon continued around them.

Margaery turned towards Sansa, resuming their earlier conversation about the visiting families from the Reach, while Olenna settled back in her chair, listening with the unmistakable air of someone reserving the right to interrupt whenever she pleased.