It was common knowledge that the witch who lived in the impossibly tall marble tower was in the bean business. She raised them on trellises that ran up the tower walls, keeping the stalks trimmed at a level just below the roof, and could sometimes be seen from a distance leaning out of a window with an oversized pair of sheers.
King George's spies had not, as yet, been able to determine how she delivered the sprouts to the giants in the sky, but they did know that she was usually paid in food rather than in gold. This showed in the wild growth of her unruly red hair and the rough-spun cloak that she wore whenever she ventured beyond her tower walls, which was rare in the extreme.
Whenever she did leave her magically-fortified sanctuary, the King's men approached her with the same proposition. Gold, jewels, riches beyond her imagining—anything for just one of her beans. The King wanted to expand his territory. Every time, the witch answered with the same, chilly "No."
After the war raging between the White Kingdom and the neighboring country proved too much for King George's coffers, His Majesty decided that enough was enough and hired a thief. "Bring back at least six," King George instructed the man, who was renowned throughout the land for his prowess.
The thief had little trouble scaling the walls surrounding the witch's garden, and found it overflowing with vegetation. He skirted around the haphazard rows of tomatoes and monkshood until he reached the enormous beanstalk growing at the far end of the garden.
He filled his pouch with beans and had turned to go when the witch made her appearance, with fire in her eyes to match her hair. "What do you think you are doing?" she snarled, advancing on him.
"King George sent me!" the thief wailed.
The witch surveyed him for a moment, tapping her chin in thought. "Then it is King George who must be punished," she said. She extended a hand. "The beans, if you please."
Miserable but seeing no other option, the thief returned her stolen goods. Empty-handed, he climbed back over the wall and left the witch to her own devices.
The witch retired to tower to brew an infertility poison with a dash of essence of bad luck and poor judgment. She hesitated to add this final component, for King George had shown remarkably poor judgment already without any help from her, but in the end reasoned that he could not possibly get much worse. When she finished, she turned the concoction to vapor and wafted it by magic into the king's bedchamber while he slept.