The odd looks on Emond’s and Willas’s faces left Gavin puzzled.
He couldn’t begin to guess what they were playing at, so he decided to handle the most immediate problem first—filling his stomach.
He made his way toward the long tables loaded with food.
It didn’t take long to understand why they had smiled like that.
He had barely started eating when a steady stream of young noblewomen and older ladies began drifting over.
They surrounded him, chattering and asking questions, one after another.
Some of the older women were shockingly direct, their compliments and suggestions bold enough to make Gavin’s face burn.
He stood there red-eared and tongue-tied, trying to answer without giving offense.
Relief came when Mace Tyrell rose at the high table and lifted his cup for the opening toast.
The sudden focus on the lord gave Gavin the chance he needed.
He quickly piled more food onto his plate and slipped out into the courtyard before anyone could follow.
The courtyard glowed with lanterns even though evening had fallen.
Moonlight poured over the stone paths and mixed with the warm lamplight.
Tall trees rustled softly in the breeze.
Flowers bloomed in every color, their scent sweet on the night air.
A cool breeze brushed Gavin’s face and he finally felt like he could breathe again.
He found a bench beneath a spreading tree, sat down, and started eating.
No wonder they looked at me like that.
Emond could have given me some warning.
A clear, pleasant voice spoke behind him.
“Good evening, ser.
I don’t believe we’ve met.
I’m Margaery Tyrell.” Gavin turned quickly.
A girl of thirteen or fourteen stood a few paces away.
She had straight brown hair that fell neatly to her shoulders and a face that looked as if it had been carved from fine marble—delicate and perfectly proportioned.
Her large eyes were bright and clever, watching him with open curiosity.
He set his plate aside and bowed at once.
“Good evening, Lady Margaery.
I’m Gavin Flowers.” In his previous life he had always liked this character.
Little Rose had played the game better than almost anyone—every move calculated, every alliance weighed—until Cersei had simply flipped the board over.
Watching her end had left him genuinely sorry.
Now the real girl stood in front of him, and he couldn’t help wondering what she wanted.
“This is your naming-day feast,” he said.
“Shouldn’t you be inside being the center of attention?” Margaery smiled.
“May I call you Gavin?” “Of course.” “Then tell me, Gavin—why are you out here instead of inside?” The mischief in her eyes told him she already knew the answer.
Gavin sighed.
“I think you saw exactly why.” Margaery laughed softly and sat on the bench opposite him.
She swung her legs a little, resting her chin on her hands, and gave him a playful look.
“I have the same problem you do.” They shared a quick, understanding smile.
“You can just call me Margaery,” she said.
“No titles.
I watched your team melee.
It was thrilling.
You must train very hard with the sword.” “Not especially hard,” Gavin answered, sitting down again.
“But I practice every day.” Margaery let out a small, theatrical sigh.
“Highgarden holds a tourney almost every year.
This one is bigger than usual because of my naming day.
Father spent a fortune on it.” Gavin chose his words carefully.
“It might be extravagant, but it shows how much Lord Mace cares for his family.
You must be happy to have a father like that.” She smiled at first, then the smile faded into something quieter.
“Actually… the tourneys aren’t entirely by choice.
I’m sure you’ve heard how things stand in the Reach.” Gavin had.
House Tyrell’s grip on its vassals was famously loose.
He kept his answer neutral.
“I’ve heard a little.” Margaery didn’t seem offended.
“It’s no secret.
Holding tourneys lets us show strength and knightly virtue.
It helps remind the lords of the Reach who their liege is.
But it costs a great deal, and it makes Highgarden’s streets and camps far more dangerous than they need to be.
Sometimes I wish we could spend that coin on improving the lands instead.” Gavin blinked.
He had assumed a massive gathering like this would turn a profit.
“You don’t make money from it?” “Prizes and the cost of hosting all the nobles come to more than twenty thousand gold dragons.
Do you really think we profit?” “Don’t you collect taxes from all the merchants who come?” “We try,” Margaery said with a rueful little shrug.
“But the tax collectors can’t keep up.
There are too many people, too many roads leading here, and everything is spread out and chaotic.
A lot of merchants simply don’t report what they’re selling.” Gavin thought for a moment, then spoke without really meaning to lecture.
“There are better ways to handle it.
You could plan out a few main commercial streets ahead of time and set them up with Tyrell tents before anyone arrives.
Build proper camps around them.
Then your tax men only have to watch the entrances to those streets.
They can count goods by type and quantity as they come in.
It would be much harder for merchants to hide what they’re carrying.
The outer camps could charge rent too.” Margaery stared at him, eyes wide with genuine surprise and admiration.
For several long seconds she didn’t speak.
The problem that had plagued House Tyrell for years had just been solved in a few casual sentences by a fifteen-year-old bastard from a minor house.
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