If You Won't Lead Us, What Are We Supposed to Eat?

The air in Highgarden's rose garden was heavy with a sweetness that made the head swim.

Lady Olenna Redwyne sat in a white wrought-iron chair. Sunlight filtered through the trellis, dappling her with light and shadow.

"Grandmother, why did we throw the envoy sent by that Black Lion into the dungeon?"

Willas Tyrell's voice was gentle and courteous.

He sat beside his grandmother, a trace of puzzlement on his face.

"This war isn't ours."

Lady Olenna Redwyne took off her Spectacles and slowly polished them with a silk handkerchief.

She did not answer at once. A faint smile hovered at the corners of her mouth.

"Child, when have we ever had the luxury of choosing our wars?"

Her voice sounded like wind stirring dead leaves.

But the smile on her face soon faltered.

A servant stumbled into the garden, his face full of panic, shattering its peace.

He did not even stop to bow before he spoke, panting hard.

"My lady!"

Shock made the servant's voice shrill.

"The Westerlands army... the Riverlanders ambushed and routed it on the Goldroad!"

Willas Tyrell froze. His gentle composure shattered, leaving only disbelief.

The wrinkles on Lady Olenna Redwyne's face seemed to stiffen. Her clouded eyes snapped toward the servant, their gaze sharp.

The servant flinched under her stare and hurried on.

"Word came from the border. Westerlands deserters are flooding toward Deep Den like headless chickens."

He swallowed, his voice trembling.

"Tywin Lannister...

No one knows if he's alive or dead."

A short, dry laugh broke the stillness.

"Ha."

Lady Olenna Redwyne put her Spectacles back on, as though she had never lost her composure.

The first shock had vanished from her clouded eyes. In its place was a glint of something close to delight.

She looked at her grandson, her smile widening.