At the foot of Highgarden, the Mander River branched into countless silvery tributaries, like the spreading skirts of a beautiful woman.
A white marble castle stood atop the hill, its battlements covered in climbing roses that still bloomed in late autumn. From afar, it looked like a dream suspended in clouds of red, gold, and pink.
After half a month at sea, Leon and his companions reached this domain of the "Gardeners."
The spy aboard the ship had never made another move, leaving Gerion no choice but to abandon the investigation.
The moment they stepped onto the drawbridge, the Eye of Insight caught something else beneath this gentle facade.
"Welcome to Highgarden, Lord Gerion, young masters."
An impeccably dressed steward bowed before the enormous, gold-inlaid oak doors. His manners were flawless, but as his gaze passed over Leon, it paused for a barely perceptible moment.
As though checking whether the goods matched their description.
"Lord Mace and Lady Olenna are preparing the evening feast. In the meantime, should you be interested, you may visit the training grounds and the rose market."
The steward's words were like silk steeped in honey, every syllable polished to flawless smoothness.
His smile was just right, the angle of his bow precise enough for a maester to measure with instruments.
But Leon's Eye of Insight caught something else.
After that pause to "inspect the goods," the steward's gaze flicked upward, very slightly and very quickly.
It was no casual glance.
It was directed toward a half-open carved window on the eastern side of the main keep's third floor.
A shadow moved behind the window. Slightly, fleetingly.
Leon did not look up.
He etched the window's location into his memory.
"The training grounds!" Gerion was already striding down the steps. "I've long heard that Highgarden's knights excel at fighting among flowers. Let's see how they do it...!"
Tyrion rolled his eyes and followed.
Thea rested a hand on her sword hilt, her gaze combing through the shadows of every column.
Leon walked at the rear.
As he passed directly beneath that window, he slowed half a step.
The Eye of Insight extended his perception.
The person behind the window had already left.
But an exceedingly faint trace of deliberately restrained presence lingered in the air.
It was not malice.
It was appraisal.
Like a gardener inspecting a nursery before the morning dew had dried, weighing and pricing every rose with a glance, deciding how deeply to prune.
Leon withdrew his perception and caught up with the others.
He remembered the window's location, and the silent, unseen gaze behind it.
The display had begun with the very first step.
Gerion laughed heartily. "Highgarden's training grounds are renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Naturally, we must see them."
As they passed through the bustling streets of the rose market, the noise from the training grounds grew clearer.
Clashing metal, hooves striking the ground, the training master's gruff commands.
The grounds were spacious, with dozens of squires and knights practicing at various pieces of equipment, sunlight scattering into tiny glints on the sweat they shed.
Just as they stopped, a figure walked straight toward them from the grounds.
Chestnut curls, finely made practice leathers, and a blunt training sword at his waist.
He was about ten, with rosy cheeks and bright eyes, wearing that mixture of curiosity and arrogance peculiar to young noblemen.
Garlan Tyrell. Mace's second son.
The Eye of Insight immediately supplied its observations:
Steady steps indicated solid fundamentals. His gaze swept quickly over Leon and Tyrion, lingering on their height for 0.5 seconds. His chin lifted slightly: an unconscious sense of superiority.
Two squires of roughly his age followed him.
"You're the Lannisters from the Westerlands?"
Garlan's voice still had a boy's clear pitch, though he tried hard to make it sound composed.
"We are."
Gerion stepped forward with a smile. "I'm Gerion Lannister. And you must be young Garlan Tyrell? Lord Mace often speaks of his valiant second son."
At the mention of his father and the word "valiant," Garlan's chest lifted almost imperceptibly.
"Welcome."
His manners were impeccable, but his gaze soon drifted back to Leon, particularly those pale violet eyes, which drew a couple of extra looks. "I've heard Lord Tywin's sons are... different. Now that I've met you, I see it's true."
He rolled "different" around in his mouth, its meaning unclear.
Thea turned slightly, taking a position half a step ahead of Leon and to one side.
Rosso's expression darkened as he stared fixedly at Garlan.
"Differences make the world interesting, young Garlan."
Tyrion tilted his face upward, his smile as bright as a child's. "Just as Highgarden's roses have hundreds upon thousands of colors and scents. Wouldn't it be terribly dull if they were all the same?"
Garlan was momentarily stumped, apparently not expecting such a quick response from this dwarf.
He decided to try another approach.
"I hear you westerners are better at digging gold out of caves than practicing with lance and sword in the sunshine?"
He pointed toward the training grounds, where a mounted knight was thrusting a lance at a suspended ring target. "Highgarden's knights are the true exemplars of the Seven Kingdoms. Would you like a closer look? Perhaps... you could even try?"
Try.
Despite knowing their physical limitations made standard knightly training almost impossible, especially for Leon and Tyrion.
Some resting squires and young knights on the grounds looked over, whispering among themselves with smiles of amusement.
Leon calmly met Garlan's gaze.
Garlan's suggestion was not purely malicious. It was more a boy's desire to show off, mixed with a certain probing intent.
The elbows of his leather armor showed fresh wear. Apparently, he had recently been practicing extensively on foot.
His sword-hand thumb habitually hooked over the guard, a stance favoring defense or readiness to grapple.
"Thank you for the invitation, young Garlan," Leon said, his voice quiet but clear. "Observing fine technique is itself a way of learning."
Garlan raised an eyebrow. "Just observing? Don't dare try?"
"Observation suits me better," Leon said.
"Because..." Garlan's gaze swept over Leon's figure. He left the sentence unfinished, but his meaning was clear.
The quiet laughter along the sidelines grew more noticeable.
Leon did not respond to that look.
He turned toward the grounds and casually pointed at a knight practicing charging thrusts.
The man rode a chestnut mare, his movements textbook-perfect. His lance struck the center of the suspended ring target every time, drawing waves of cheers.
"That knight, for instance," Leon said. "His application of force is textbook. His posture is perfect."
Garlan's lips curved upward. "That's my riding instructor, Ser Alyn. He reached the final eight in last year's tourney in the Reach."
"But he has a small problem," Leon continued, his voice as calm as before.
Garlan's smile froze. "What problem?"
Leon's Eye of Insight had already broken the knight's movements down into a stream of data:
With every thrust, the horse's left ear turned backward once, a slight, brief, but regular movement.
The horse's muscles offered a moment of slight resistance when the left rein tightened.
At the instant of the thrust, the rider's center of gravity unconsciously shifted about half an inch to the right, compensating for some subconscious resistance...
"His horse," Leon said. "Every time he shifts his weight left to prepare for a thrust, its left ear turns backward."
Garlan frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means the horse feels uncomfortable or confused."
Leon's gaze settled on the chestnut mare. "The pressure from the left rein or spur needs finer adjustment.
"The direction of a horse's ears reflects its mood and condition. Turning them backward usually indicates tension, discomfort, or readiness to resist."
He paused.
"Moreover, because of this slight lack of coordination, Ser Alyn unconsciously shifts his body half an inch to the right to compensate when thrusting at full force.
"That poses no problem when practicing against a stationary ring target. But in a real tourney, against a moving target..." Leon looked at Garlan. "His lance tip will veer left. About three inches."
Garlan froze.
Instinctively, he looked toward the grounds. His squires, several nearby knights watching the spectacle, and even the training master at the edge of the grounds followed his gaze.
Ser Alyn happened to be charging again.
The chestnut mare galloped, his lance held level.
At the very instant he drove the thrust forward, the horse's left ear did indeed turn backward. It was slight, but visible to anyone watching closely enough.
And at the last moment, Ser Alyn's body made a tiny adjustment to the right.
The lance struck the ring target, but not dead center. It landed slightly to the left.
The training master shouted something. Ser Alyn reined his horse around, shook his head in some frustration, and patted its neck.
Silence fell along the sidelines.
The quiet laughter vanished, replaced by astonished stares.
Garlan opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but no sound came out.
A barely perceptible flicker of embarrassment and surprise crossed his face. That trace of arrogance had been pierced clean through by an unexpected, terrifyingly "professional" critique.
He looked at Leon again. This time, there was something else in his eyes.
"You... know how to judge horses?" His voice was a little dry.
Leon did not answer.
He merely tilted his head slightly, his gaze passing over Garlan's shoulder toward the ivy-covered colonnade on the western side of the training grounds.
There was nothing there.
Except...
An exceedingly fine strand of silver-gray hair, almost indistinguishable from the ivy, hung through the gap of a half-closed wooden window.
A well-kept hand covered in brown age spots rested on the window frame.
The hand did not move.
It simply rested there, like a hawk perched on a branch.
Leon withdrew his gaze.
"Only a little." Leon inclined his head. "Just as young Garlan excels in martial skills. We each have our strengths."
Just then, a gentle but clear voice interrupted:
"Garlan, didn't Father ask you to check the number of newly arrived lances? Why are you still here?"
A young man five or six years older than Garlan slowly emerged from behind the columns in the direction of the rose garden, leaning on an exquisitely crafted ebony cane.
He had the Tyrell curls and gentle brown eyes, with handsome features, but his right leg clearly troubled him as he walked.
Willas Tyrell.
Mace's eldest son, unable to practice martial skills after accidentally injuring his leg in a fall during a tourney when he was young, yet renowned for his wisdom.
His gaze swept over the Lannister party, resting briefly on Leon before finally settling on his younger brother, carrying both an elder brother's reproach and an offer of rescue.
Garlan seemed to have found a way out-or rather, he was somewhat afraid of this elder brother.
"I was just going, Willas. I only... met our guests." He nodded to the Lannister party, much more properly this time. "Excuse me. I'll see you at the feast."
Watching Garlan hurry away with his squires, Willas turned to Leon and the others with an apologetic, courteous smile:
"My brother is young and impetuous. Please forgive him if he has caused any offense. I am Willas Tyrell. Your rooms are ready. Please follow me."
A small, elementary attempt to make things difficult for them had seemingly been resolved with ease.
Leon did not turn to look at that window again.
But he knew that from his very first step into Highgarden, he had been placed at the center of a certain hawk's vision.
That hawk would not swoop rashly.
It merely watched.
Watched how its prey walked, how it breathed, how it exposed the still-soft bones beneath its down in the sunlight.
Then, at the proper moment-
It would extend its talons.
The real test lay not on the training grounds, but in that magnificent banquet hall after sunset.
And Leon knew that the true "rose thorns" might only just be beginning to reveal their sharpness.
On the third floor of the main keep, the shutters of the eastern private chamber had already closed.
Olenna Tyrell sat on a low couch by the window, an old family ledger spread across her knees.
Her finger rested on a line of figures. She had not turned the page for a long time.
"The matter at the training grounds." She spoke, her voice like aged silk sliding over a blade.
Lady Mariel, the head attendant who had served her for thirty years, bowed slightly:
"Young Garlan had the flaws of his riding instructor pointed out to him in public by that Lannister child. Ser Alyn's horse turned its ear backward, and his lance tip veered three inches to the left."
"Three inches." Olenna repeated the words, the corner of her finely lined mouth twitching faintly. "He could specify 'three inches'?"
"Those were his exact words."
Silence.
Olenna closed the ledger and placed it beside her knees.
Her fingers stroked the gold rose stamped onto the cover, slowly, as though stroking a cat's back.
"Those eyes," she said. "Did you see?"
Lady Mariel knew she was not asking about their color.
"I did." The old attendant's voice was steady. "As though observing... piercing through."
"Tywin Lannister." Olenna rolled the name gently over her tongue, as though tasting aged vinegar. "What is this... thing he has hidden for seven years?"
No one answered.
There was only the faint crackle of firewood in the chamber's hearth, and the deepening dusk outside the window.
"The seating for dinner," Olenna said suddenly. "Put that child diagonally across from me. Not directly opposite...
"Directly opposite would be too deliberate. Diagonally across, two seats away."
"Yes."
"And one more thing."
The Queen of Thorns paused, an exceedingly rare look, almost one of regret, flickering through her gray-green eyes. "Tell Mace to speak less tonight. The moment he opens his mouth, he gives away his bottom line."
Lady Mariel bowed and withdrew.
Olenna was left alone in the chamber.
She slowly rose and went to the window. With the thornwood cane she never went without, never showed weakness with, and never leaned on, at least in public, she gently pried open a gap in the shutters.
In the dusk, the Lannister guests were being led through the rose garden by attendants toward the banquet hall, where the lights had just been lit.
The smallest figure walked at the rear.
Short and slow, but not shrinking back.
The crimson velvet formal attire did not look ridiculous on him. Instead, it seemed like some stubborn declaration.
Olenna watched him walk step by step through the brightly lit doors of the hall and disappear into the shadows beneath the golden rose sigil.
She let the shutter fall.
Outside the window, Mace's eldest son was speaking quietly with a maester behind a colonnade.
Her eldest grandson, Willas, had already learned to stand straighter on his crippled leg than many able-bodied men, and to hide every sharp edge behind a gentle smile.
But the way that child had looked at the little Lannister monster tonight...
Olenna sighed softly.
It had not been appraisal.
It had been recognition.
The recognition of one of his own kind.
Over by the training yard's stables, Garlan Tyrell was repeatedly examining the ears of a newly arrived warhorse.
He gritted his teeth.
"The left rein... loosen it a little," he told the groom.
Puzzled, the groom did as he was told.
Garlan swung into the saddle and tried a charging thrust.
This time, the horse's ears did not turn back.
The lance tip struck the bull's-eye.
He reined in the horse and gazed toward the brightly lit windows of the banquet hall, remaining silent for a long time.