Whoever Overthrew House Targaryen Was the Root of All Evil

Highgarden.

The most beautiful castle on the Westeros Continent still basked in warm, gentle sunlight.

The waters of the Mander River murmured past, while golden roses in the gardens bloomed in profusion.

The air was filled with the sweet fragrance of melons and fruit, mingled with the scent of flowers and grass.

Inside a pavilion at Highgarden today.

The exquisite round table was laden with freshly picked grapes, honeydew melons, and wine from the Arbor.

Yet few of the three people seated around it touched the delicacies spread across the table.

Mace Tyrell held a golden goblet in his hand.

The red wine within trembled faintly with his plump wrist, sending ripples across its surface.

His round face, usually adorned with a self-satisfied smile, was now filled with disbelief.

It was absurd. Far too absurd.

"Suleiman..."

Mace Tyrell swallowed, his voice low.

He raised his head and looked at the old woman seated opposite him.

"Do you think... that Suleiman might truly be possessed by Rhaegar Targaryen's ghost?"

The question was utterly ridiculous, yet it carried an oddly earnest air.

"Or perhaps the gods sent him back? To punish the Usurpers."

The more Mace Tyrell spoke, the more reasonable he found his own argument. His gaze grew somewhat unfocused.

"An army of a hundred thousand... even a hundred thousand pigs..."

Smack. The sharp sound cut off Mace Tyrell's wild speculation.

Lady Olenna Redwyne slammed the fork in her hand heavily onto the table.

"Put those ghost stories out of your mind, Mace."

Her small, hawk-sharp eyes glared fiercely at her son.

Olenna Redwyne's voice was cutting and forceful. Though her hair had gone entirely silver and her body was bent with age,

the authority emanating from her very bones still made Mace Tyrell, Warden of the South, shrink his neck.