Olenna
June 20
"Something smells," Olenna thought as she watched the smoke rise above Maegor's from the Florent Queen's pyre and off into an already dark and brooding sky. Not a new thought for the wizened Lady; far from it. The beat of that frustrating, suspicion-laden refrain had become near constant in her o'erly weary brain since moments after her arrival the previous day at the catastrophe named King's Landing.
That observation made for a welcome distraction from the ruthless chastisement that the curse of hindsight kept throwing in her wrinkled face. Two days! Two days too late to the stop the ravaging of her house's status and her family's health, if not life. This the Queen of Thorns could not readily abide. Why had she not departed Highgarden, by river galley and not horse, the very day Mace and Garlan had finally ridden out to chase after pretty, spoiled, thoughtless Renly Baratheon?
Olenna knew the sad, brutal truth of it; she was simply grown old and tired and slipping. The effort of haranguing her complacent, too pleased, would be grandfather of a King, son off his enormous arse at Stannis Baratheon's clever rearranging of the board had simply exhausted her. And her once keen mind had damnably failed to anticipate that the elder of the two Stags, or - perhaps as was widely whispered - his wolfish advisor, might well tip things even more dangerously against her interests.
No, that discomforting insight had only come with the serendipitous dual appearance at Highgarden of both Paxter - carrying the offer of Master of Ships - and dark wings sent by her informers - baring the bones of the Blackfish's embassy to the younger Stag. Ten irretrievable days lost. The resulting journey up the Mander with Paxter to a waiting Mace, Garlan, and Margaery in Bitterbridge had been relatively easy and fast. Infuriatingly for once, her oaf of a son had actually listened to her raven delivered entreaty and paused the very quest she had prodded him into so that she might foolishly join him.
The rest of the journey turned into a trail of agony for her ancient bones as fast horse litters jarringly carried her up the Roseroad, into the Kingswood, and down the short stretch of the Kingsroad to the Blackwater Rush. For though they had ridden fast, it had neither been so fast as if they were unencumbered by an old woman nor ultimately fast enough to avoid fate. The speed of the litter and her mind numbing misery had slowed them; to find Loras near death, Margaery no longer a queen, and her house's undisputed position atop the Reach tittering. Two days! The Seven mocked her hubris and witlessness.
Well, there was nothing left her than to muck out the mountainous piles of manure left in House Tyrell's blighted garden; allst the while the Game of Thrones continued on, as ever it must. Thankfully, some of the manure, judiciously applied, might fertilize the Golden Rose into 'Growing Strong' again. Potential plays still existed that could render her house's position on the board salvageable. So, without yet knowing all the pieces or their motivations, the Queen of Thrones intended to assess each plant, garden wisely, and apply the most basic maxim: never send a boy to do a Great Lady's work.
With the flames finally leaping up from the mound of wood, the dull gold and flat black clothes covering Selyse Florent's stiff body started to visibly blacken and smolder. Soon after, Olenna's aged nose caught the first unpleasant whiffs of charred flesh mixed in with the aromatic smoke issuing copiously from the stack of burning cedars, pines, and oaks.
The composition of the circle of lords and knights gathered in the Red Keep's inner bailey to pay homage to the murdered Queen gave hope to her belief that the situation might not be irredeemable. They were almost entirely Stannis Baratheon's recent foes from the Reach, the Stormlands, and the Westerlands who still wore the mud from bending the knee. A glum, unenthusiastic lot; not surprising given the circumstances, but one dutifully attendant on the new King.
Whereas of his allies, only the Crownlanders stood among the funeral crowd. Of the North, thanks to the belief about the assault upon the Stark, nary a lord. And from the Vale and the Riverlands, just two lords, by mark of obligation as members on the Small Council, did their duty: the mediocre Nestor Royce and the impressive Brynden Tully. Stannis Baratheon, by imprudently obliging his wife's wicked rites, offered House Tyrell a wedge to exploit. The only question was in which direction.
The first logs deep within the conflagration started to crack, splinter, and shift. An anticipatory hush filled the silence in the bailey as the corpse of the flame worshipping fox wearing stag colors tilted ... and then steadied. Whoever had reattached that ungainly eared head to the too lanky body, and it had not been the Silent Sisters, that much was certain, appeared to have done an adequate job of it.
For the moment, there would be no second, faux decapitation to appease the uneasy Seven worshipping crowd and further humiliate the Florent woman's pathetic legacy. However, as the flames and heat continued to rise, only time would tell, it always did one way or the other. The tools utilized in delicate work oft being as important as the skill in manipulating them.
As the immolation continued too slowly and too grotesquely for her interest, the Queen of Thorns distracted herself with the petty conjectures, such as whether strident Selyse was at last rid of that unsightly hirsute upper lip. Then, inevitably, on to wondering what righteous people, except during a contagion, burned their dead? "What a barbaric practice," she inadvertently huffed loudly in remonstrance upon discovering none.
"Mother," Mace reprimanded her both promptly and quietly.
As night follows day, her son opened his mouth and she grimaced at what came out of it. "We are surrounded by friends. None here cared much for the ugly termagant. And certainly not for her heretical religion. Not the King. Nor his absent friends," she openly declared, bobbing her white haired head towards the Stormlands' side of the circle about the pyre.
"Yeeessssss," he begrudgingly hissed.
"Stannis Baratheon knows our House is irrevocably beholden to him," she pointedly argued, while again bobbing her head in the same direction to where Garlan, as Hand, stood dutifully, somberly, proudly there beside the King. Golden shackles that. As part of the wealth of the Westerlands flowed into the coffers of rival Reach lords, so would Highgarden's coin ebb away into the bottomless pit of Harren's folly granted dear Garlan. "Where is the harm in speaking the truth?" she complained, both angry and appreciative at how cleverly she was constrained.
"Grandmother, Lord Alester and Sers Alekyne, Imry, and Erren are present. It is an offense to the Mother and the Stranger to speak ill of her Grace's memory near her kin," Margaery tried delicately to censure her.
She crinkled her lips derisively at the silly girl who held claim as her granddaughter. The Florents were nothing in and of themselves; Stannis' audacious, yet conservative play had promised a neutralized Brightwater Keep. And he was not a man to go back on his word. Besides, by repute, the King would long remember the pack of foxes failure to support him. Had he not deliberately chosen to stand apart from his Queen's kin here? That left the Florents to try to ingratiate themselves elsewhere; their marriage alliances to both Leyton Hightower and Randyll Tarly being the obvious ploys she must somehow foil. "What do the Seven care? Is this a Sept? No. Selyse Florent worshipped a vile foreign flame god. This foolish pyre will only propel her sinful soul all the faster down into the lowest depths of the SevenHells."
"Grandmother," came the shocked condemnation.
"Tell me again, Margaery, why you are not standing by the side of your husband, Lord Renly?" she peevishly pointed out using that spoiled child's new old title. The Lord Paramount of the Stormlands also stood alongside his brother among his banner lords. Undoubtedly brewing over his defeat. Probably contemplating another rebellion. Even possibly contemplating another murder. Rumor was rife over Renly's role in the Queen's death and the attack on the Stark; not that either made sense to Olenna, even given how stupid and dangerous as Renly was prone to be.
"In consideration of his Grace's grief, my sweet lord husband did not wish to rub the joy of our fresh marriage in the sore wound of the King's tragedy," the young chit explained with vast sympathy, as if her grandmother did not have two peas to rub together in her head.
"Harrumph," Olenna replied skeptically. The pair's bedside reunion in Renly's tent had not been that of young lovers overjoyed at the end of a forced two months separation, no, definitely not. But for the moment, the two at least shared together a fierce devotion in tenderly nursing Loras' hideous wounds. Though would that change when the poor dear caught wind of the equally rampant rumors about her husband and her brother? Regardless of the truth that she strongly harbored, the old woman prayed her repugnantly disfigured grandson would live. His shattered leg had already begun to fester from the demon wolf's venom.
Woosh!
The sudden air sucking sound drew her wandering attention and myopic gaze back into the redolent smoke and haze of heat cast by the flames; revealing that the Florent's hair had ignited in a ball of fire, transforming her whole head into an obscene torch. The corpse's clothes were now nothing but embers and ash. The exposed flesh a nauseating patchwork of seared, cracked, roasting, black meat where it had not already burnt fully off to reveal protrusions of white bone.
"Only crazed fanatics could enjoy this," the old woman muttered to herself in disgust at the bile surging sight. Her forbearance and strength of will at an end, Olenna placed a perfume-laden scarf to her nose to aid her breathing.
"What was that, Lady Olenna?" Mathis Rowan obsequiously inquired.
"When I say something I want you to hear you'll know it, Mathis Rowan," she snapped at the fair weathercock friend of Mace's; yet another grasping lord whose pride had been bruised this morning by not being allowed to directly attend the King.
"My pardon, my Lady."
She granted him a wan smile to acknowledge his apology. At least that one, along with dear Paxter, would not be inclined to join any conspiracy to replace her House as Lord Paramounts of the Mander; not until success and his place in the conspiracy sat assured. The same cold calculation could not be applied to the fecund Hightowers, wily Arwyn Oakheart whose line was now betrothed into the Starks, or the absent, humiliated, prideful Randyll Tarly.
"Lead us from the darkness, O my Lord. Fill your servant's heart with fire, so she may walk your shining path," an unsure, barely audible voice called out into the roar of the fire in what must be a blessing of this Essosi God's.
Olenna snorted in derision; little remained of Selyse to walk a path, shining or other, or a heart to fill thanks to fire. Idiots. In agreement with her, the whole of the circle started to shift uncomfortably at the blasphemous invocation.
"Lord of Light, defend us," came the muted response of the betrayers of the Seven who remained for the non in royal service.
There were not more than a score of whom she'd heard called the Queen's Men present, or at least willing to open their mouths; no doubt in fear of the Northmen despite their snubbing of the ceremony. The wounded Stark had accused Red Priests of the supposedly sorcerous attack upon him: shadow assassins. Ha! Only a deadly, ignorant First Men would believe such absurdity; a sledgehammer of a tool, effective, but limited.
"R'hllor, you are the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, the heat in our loins."
Like fanatics themselves, the Old Gods worshipping Northmen had extracted the vengeance desired by the supposedly reborn Lord of Winterfell. The fallen, whom she heard had madly stood still and simply chanted their heresies as defense against the bloody rampage, had received their own "blessed" fire in the inferno the rampaging Northmen had made of the Dragonpit. The smoke from that and half of burned down Rhaenys' hill still hung like a grey veil in the windless air over the city.
"The night is dark and full of terrors," the few chanted weakly.
"And the day too," Olenna thought of the fool who botched the assassination, if he was not already dead. Tortured, barely conscious in some cellar deep below the Maidenvault; every last ounce of information being flayed out of him by the likes of that Bolton lord. A dagger for the Stark to wield later, but against whom?
"Yours is the sun that warms our days, yours the stars that guard us in the dark of night."
She would not pray that the Stark survive his wounds, so similar she'd been told to the ones his Willas crippled like son's cursed wolf had inflicted on her sweet, misguided Loras. The parallels in that regard between her house and the Stark's were blindingly obvious; yet drew no sympathy from her. Nor did it give her a sense Seven granted justice. No, the man was too powerful and worse, too clever, to be allowed to continue playing at the Game of Thrones; so long as the odor of his death could not in any way be traced back to the wilting Golden Rose.
"Lord of Light, protect us!" they called back.
The pyre suddenly erupted in a powerful explosion of brilliant, ruby red flame; casting yellow and orange burning sticks and white-hot glowing coals and tiny flotsams of blackened flesh all about the inner bailey. Instantly, the circle or "mourners" broke apart. Lords and knights not caring a whit for each other's position or dignity turned to block the debris or crouched low in avoidance or scurried off as fit their own needs and instincts.
Some either clever or impious fools even started crying "a sign!" and other such nonsense. But of the Seven or this Essosi R'hllor, none declared.
Pleasingly, both Mace and Mathis Rowan grabbed her, not so gently, to put their thick bodies between her and harm. More pleasingly, she glimpsed Garlan attempting the same with the King. Successfully reconstituting a blighted garden required the careful tending of new shoots as much as it did the outright culling of diseased plants.
The size of the Queen of Throne's litter, as well as the looming presence of Left and Right, kept undesirables away from the Tyrell conclave as they swayed and jolted their way down the serpentine stairs from the inner bailey to the middle one. The only others in ear range were her four porters; long serving, trusted men brought with her from Highgarden, where their families lived under watchful eyes. Olenna had years early found the quantity of burly, deaf mutes with the wits to learn the necessary range of hand gestures quite insufficient; and thus managed the loyalty of her servants with the available safeguards as best she could.
Far ahead of them, already approaching the swing in the stairs that would take them past the backside of the Maidenvault and the injured wolf, were the King, Garlan, Renly and Margaery leading the procession of lords and knights away from the funeral and to the first, full meeting of the new Small Council. Full, except for Gormon, who should soon be leaving the Citadel once the raven arrived to declare that a sole King undisputedly ruled King's Landing and all Seven Kingdoms.
"Of course the Northmen did something to the pyre," Mathis Rowan droned on like a dog unwilling to let go its favorite bone. "T'was them that killed her Grace," he repeated. "Lord Eddard likely wished one last humiliation upon her for his pains."
"Because Selyse Florent sent the attacker against Lord Stark?" Paxter reiterated dubiously.
There was as much irritating mystery surrounding that near fatal assault as the other, more successful one.
"Lord Lancel and Ser Tyrek claimed that the two fought like curs for the King's affection," Mathis Rowan stated emphatically from his post escorting the right side of her open-air litter down the steps.
Olenna snorted in amusement. "Fought for Stannis Baratheon's affection; words never before uttered by man, woman, or beast," she thought disparagingly. Respect, fear, competency, persistence – those attributes applied to Stannis Baratheon; not affection. Or dare she imagine, love? Ha! "Not for that unbending lump of iron."
Knowing her verbal ticks and moues of condescension near as well as Mace, Mathis Rowan immediately suspected her opinion and proved persistent in vigorously defending his supposition of intrigue and violence, "They were rivals. Fought over the Lady Sansa being one of her Grace's ladies-in-waiting. Lord Eddard feared her Grace might induce Lady Sansa to worship that odious Red God," he puffed indignantly.
Lady Sansa, there was a Stark whom the old woman could pity; that cunt Joffery Hill had treated the maiden monstrously. "What if it had been Margaery to suffer?" She shuddered to think; but knew damnably well how far the Queen of Thorns would have gone to prevent or avenge such an affront.
"And the destruction of the Dragonpit a mere ruse?" Mace posed; the lummox still trying to fit the complex but too simple pieces together.
"Yes, what would the Northmen care of them – a boon to the goodwill of the Faithful. What's more, Lord Eddard knew Her Grace cared little for them as well. A schism between rival temples of their bloody Red God or some such heathen nonsense," Mathis Rowan continued.
"And the Lord of Winterfell secretly wishes to break the lady's betrothal to the Freys and have her marry the King instead?" Paxter asked for confirmation, concluding the replay of the gist of Mathis Rowan's rambling theory.
"You have not heard the Lady sing and play her harp; which she reportedly did often for their Graces. Bewitching!" And immediately he started humming a tune that was indeed hauntingly lovely despite how poorly he did so. "Makes one forgot how she … how she looks." And then a laugh. "As if looks would matter to his Grace in choosing his next Queen," Mathis Rowan added snidely.
Paxter and Mace, walking to the right of her litter, chuckled at the quip made at Selyse Florent's ashy expense and the King's repute. It was oft joked that Stannis Baratheon's cock must be iron to ever stand when near her. And damned well rusted anyway, as there was only the greyscale struck Shireen as proof they rutted even as much as once. Despite his many faults, Renly could be quite a droll fellow at times.
No matter the humor of the statement, the Queen of Thorns recognized the inexorable logic behind the phrase "his next Queen." Who else but one seeking to have the new King marry again would slay the Queen whilst leaving his Grace, drugged asleep, alive, right next to the slain hag? "So obvious," she rebuked her slow wits. Whether it was the Stark, that was likely something else.
"Paxter," she commanded.
"Yes, Naunt Olenna?"
"Before the day is out, send word to the Arbor by ship or raven; Desmera shall sail soonest to King's Landing."
There were naught but a few straggly wisps of red hair atop her nephew's head, but little wrong with what lay inside. "To woo the King?"
"Of course to woo the King. T'will be what's expected. King's Landing will soon be overrun with ripe maidens chasing the title 'Her Grace.' We shall stand out and draw suspicion if we do not play along; regardless how much Stannis Baratheon despises our houses. And our only other choice is sweet Elinor and now is not the time to break a betrothal to the Ambroses."
Her kin all nodded in understanding. Lord Arthur was married to Alysanne Hightower and had been among the lords who had begun to distance themselves from the Renly-Tyrell alliance before Loras' fall. Elinor might not suffice to keep the ants loyal, but openly snubbing them through her could irrevocably throw them into opposition to Highgarden.
"So Desmera is not to win the King's heart?" Paxter half suggested and half asked for confirmation.
The exclusion of her grandniece from the slew of marriage alliances proffered by the elder of the two Stags and his wolf turned loyal sheep dog had initially bothered Olenna's vanity. Was not Desmera, unlike her brothers, attractive? Did the girl lack charm and the quality to become a Great Lady? But then, the spider web built to imprison Highgarden through war by greed and marriage had become obvious to her. The posts of Master of Ships and hostage for House Redwyne and that of Hand and Harrenhal to hold House Tyrell hostage; and nothing more. "She may try if she cares to be disappointed. Desmera's true purpose shall be to tally week by week and month by month which House's fortunes rise and which fall in pursuit of this illusive crown."
Paxter sighed. Then, "Yes, Naunt Olenna," he dutifully agreed.
"A year only, dear," she announced, understanding her nephew's concern. Had not his hostage sons only just been returned to his care? And himself already stepping in to take their place with the new King upon the Iron Throne.
"A hundred dragons, his Grace marries Lady Sansa," Mathis Rowan chortled over the top of the litter at his longtime friend.
This attitude irked the Queen of Thrones. They were not playing at Cyvasse or watching a joust; this was part of the board upon which the Game of Thrones was played and she had little interest in dying. "Your duty in this farce of marriages, Lord Mathis," she declared sternly, "is to convince Randyll Tarly to betroth his daughter Marianne to my Willas."
"I-I-I am?" Mathis Rowan stuttered.
"What?" growled Mace at the same time. She had been leaning that way since last night, but had not had time to fully form her thoughts or to inform Mace of what is most judicious play was.
"Lord Randyll is the Reach's best general," she stated as explanation; one that caused the self-absorbed Mathis Rowan's pride to indistinctly grumble. "We must assure him of our trust in his abilities and reward his service." "So that he does not instead ally with the Hightowers, Oakhearts, and his Florent kin," she judged. With the crown still unsteady upon Stannis Baratheon's head and his well-known loathing of the Tyrells, it would be unwise to blindly count upon the King, dutiful though his character was, to support their hegemony over the Reach in the event of an open challenge.
"In losing his battle and Heartsbane to the boy Stark's pet wolf?!" Mathis Rowan blurted out incredulously, restraint of a bloated ego torn away in the blink of an eye.
To SevenHells with a silly piece of Valyrian steel when Highgarden and her house were at stake! "Greater things than a sword have been lost to that beast, Mathis Rowan," the Queen of Thrones said cold as the Stranger's kiss.
Both her son and Paxter joined her in glaring angrily at the pompous buffoon, undoubtedly believing her to speak of Loras; which she was, but only tangentially. Mace, in his ire, even forgot for a moment his dismay at her surprise dictate of whom Willas must marry. Time her grandson gave up his ridiculous dream of marrying his "Jenny of Oldstones."
"Uhm, err, my apologies, my lady. I spoke … hastily," Mathis Rowan answered contritely, if not wholly believably.
The old woman, though ruing her need of Goldengrove, refrained from lashing him further with her tongue. "Lord Renly's disgrace has made these difficult times for the Reach," she conceded. "As your daughter is betrothed to Tyrek Lannister and Lord Randyll must allegedly betroth his Talla to Willem Lannister if he is to reclaim his ancestral sword, I imagine you shall both attend Lord Lancel's wedding in Casterly Rock to that Northern She-Bear. Kindly speak to him there, out of sight of the Iron Throne, of the wisdom of countering the Stark insult by moving closer to Highgarden."
"How exactly should I do that? T'is rumored that they want his Dickon betrothed to a Banefort lass as well; offering lashings more of Lannister goal as part of the dowry."
"As having a grandson who one day will rule Highgarden is more valuable than having a grandson that is merely the nephew to the Lord of Casterly Rock, I have complete faith in your wit, Lord Mathis, that some clever stratagem will come to you. Why else did my son chose you to be his Deputy to sit upon the King's new Small Council," she both praised and chided him. Though Mace had every confidence in Mathis Rowan; Garlan and Paxter and Gormon's presence in the Red Keep would ensure his devotion to Highgarden never faltered.
As Mathis Rowan nodded his head in understanding, an oafish facsimile of Mace, the porters' feet started shuffling as they entered the wide curve where an entrance for the main barracks of the Red Keep's defenders entered the stairs. A barracks not currently filled with content Gold Cloaks but with agitated, unpredictable Northmen and Riverlanders.
The smell of enemies and plots permeated the Queen of Thorns' nose.
"Beg pardon, Lady Tyrell, only members of the Small Council are permitted entry," a tall, lantern jawed, knight of apparent competence spoke firmly at the entrance to the hall; not in the least swayed by the presence of the even taller and more imposing pair of Arryk and Erryk.
"And you are?" she challenged.
"Ser Jacelyn Bywater, his Grace's Lord Commander of the Order of the Royal Stag, my lady," the middle-aged knight replied evenly.
The name was familiar, but taunted her memory as to whom he was until her discerning eye noticed the cast iron hand he sported at the end of his right arm. That clue cleared the cobwebs from her age addled brain. She now recognized him as the knight who had given the city gates to the Starks and, last she had heard, was merely the new Commander of the Gold Cloaks.
"That is quite a mouthful, Ser. And how many members are there in this esteemed Order that in all my many years I have never heard uttered of before?"
A wisp of a smile crossed his lips. "Only one at present, my lady."
"How impressive. You must be honored. Now allow your better through, Ser," she commanded, immediately judging him clever but not the sort inclined to budge without great cause.
"That I am not allowed, my lady."
"I believe my old eyes saw Lord Renly enter. Clearly there are exceptions, Ser; unless his Grace has created yet another new position on the Small Council. Groomer of the Stag? Dust Rag of the Iron Throne? Perhaps Lord of the Royal Privy?"
The wisp of a smile turned into an outright grin. "Lord Renly is brother to the King."
"A remarkable relation, no doubt. And I am grandmother to the Hand, Mother to the Warden of the South, Aunt to the Master of Ships, and goodsister to the Grand Maester. None individually as impressive as that of Lord Renly's brother, I shall grant you, Ser. But those four close relations certainly add up to a sum more significant than one sibling, do they not?"
"Were the new Grand Maester present, I would gladly allow him entry to plead your cause to his Grace, my lady." And then this creature of the Starks meant to replace Barristan the Bold shrugged his shoulders.
"What seems to be the problem?" Mace inquired in his bullying lord's voice; done with whatever dilly-dallying had delayed him, Paxter, and Mathis Rowan in the outer yard.
"Our Lord Commander of the Order of … what was that again, Ser?"
"The Royal Stag."
"Yes, that was it, the Royal Stag … forbids me entry. Alas," she breezily declared, enjoying the little game.
"Here, here, Ser. This is Lady Olenna Tyrell, my mother. Best make way if you know what's best for you," Mace blustered.
"The Master of Ships may enter, my lord," this Bywater announced, bowing slightly towards Paxter. "As may the Warden of the South and his deputy. None other."
"Haha, well played, Ser," the Queen of Thrones laughed, well pleased with the intelligence and flexibility of the Wolf's chosen man.
"What?" Mace asked in confusion, as her amusements frequently caused him to.
"Lord Mathis, be so kind as to go out and keep an eye on the likes of the Ambroses, Ashfords, Appletons, and their ilk."
"My lady?" the weathercock queried hesitantly.
"Mace, escort your mother and, for today, your Deputy Warden of the South into the Small Council Hall," she commanded; refusing to allow a boy to do a Great Lady's work.
Then, over Mathis Rowan's sudden incoherent spluttering, her old ears heard this Bywater declare, "Be welcome, Lady Tyrell. Lord Tyrell." She did not wait to allow her son to gather the courage or outrage to gainsay her and promptly hobbled forward through the doors to see how strongly the board arrayed against her.
"Everything smells," she decided. And it was neither the usual effluvia of King's Landing's gutters and sewers nor the heavier pallor of smoke that currently lay over the city and the keep, but the rank stupidity piled high within the Small Council Hall. Stannis Baratheon's eyes had widened briefly at her appearance in his council, but had said nothing at her intrusion. Olenna thus rewarded his rare display of equanimity by guarding her tongue; well knowing the traditional limits of a woman's counsel in a room full of pompous cocks.
"I simply can't see how I can be expected to depart King's Landing for Storm's End until all my banner lords are present and accounted for. They are pledged to me. As their liege, t'would be insulting and neglectful to place myself ahead of their safety," Renly Baratheon portrayed his patently false noble intentions for the fourth or fifth time.
"I did not realize your former host to the East so paltry as to fear the depredation of bandits, Lord Renly," the only lord present who equaled Olenna's great age harped snidely at the beaten brat's obvious delaying tactic.
"For a trifle of a favor, say a lady's scarf, my Northmen will gladly escort your maiden warriors to safety, Lord Renly," the young Wolf added with a light tone as a fig leaf over his scorn.
She found the slight of build youth with gleaming Tully red hair to be confident, but not overly boastful, until perhaps now. Not in the least what she would have expected of a mere pup who could thrash Randyll Tarly. Well, he and his uncle, the Blackfish.
"My Stormlanders fear neither bandits nor Northmen, Lord Robb," the spoiled child replied archly. "There are the injured. Ransoms to be paid. I must keep faith with my duty to them, Stannis. Surely, you of all lords would understand that."
The King began grinding his teeth in ire at the ongoing farce. Stannis Baratheon had won and his younger brother had lost. From lord to lordingly to knight, both rebelling Kingdoms had bent the knee. And yet the spoiled child refused to fully recognize defeat; and in a tantrum seemed intent on tipping the game board over out of sheer spite.
The Tyrells too did not desire to withdrawal so quickly from King's Landing. But at least when it happened her house would remain a force on the board. Renly, while still heir to the crown, would leave no allies of significance behind when he departed for Storm's End; unless it might be his cousin Aemon Estermont, carrying the newfangled title of "Lord Ambassador of the Iron Throne" on the Small Council. At least with Loras' terrible injuries, Highgarden had a valid reason for a delay by direct family; though not of their men-at-arms or direct pledged banner lords.
"By the forbearance of the North and the Riverlands, ransoms for those captured from Lord Tarly's army have been waived, Lord Renly. My deaf old ears remember me saying that afore more than once. Shall Lord Robb send Ser Grey Wind of House DireStark over to clean your young, plugged ones?" The crotchety old crab of Claw Isle and Master of Coin to the realm threatened.
"He is welcome to try, Lord Ardrian," the younger Baratheon postured.
The Queen of Thorns suspected the brash Stag's response would have been more accommodating had the direwolf been present. Unfortunately, the young Stark had arrived at the Small Council with only crutches and a too diffident battleaxe of a North Lord. She much desired to see with her own eyes the creature that had laid Loras low. Or to know it had died of its wounds.
Pointless, stupid bickering continued. Enough was enough. She cared not a whit when the Stormlands' armies departed so long as Renly, and presumably Margaery with him, left soonest before he could pettily sow more chaos and leave Highgarden to reap the dark harvest. Or worse, be reaped themselves. The Queen of Thorns kicked Mace under the table.
Dull eyes looked at her.
Her own sharp ones purposefully darted daggers down at the purse on his belt.
"Oh," he mumbled, and then intentionally cleared his throat. Loudly.
"Yes, Lord Mace?" the King queried severely.
"I have a disposition for the return South by your Grace's Reach allies, if you would care to hear the … suggestion," her son posed with more delicacy than was his normal want.
Stannis Baratheon shifted in his chair and offered a terse nod to Garlan. A good sign that.
"Lord Tyrell, the King would deign to hear your proposal," the Hand announced formally to his father.
With a smile, the oaf pried the folded parchment out of the pouch, opened it, and began rattling off house names and dates spread out over the next three weeks.
Olenna only half listened, she knew the order of the list; having been in the room with Mace when it was drawn up. The Hightowers, being the most dangerous and with the furthest to travel, would depart first down the Roseroad; followed by the main body of Highgarden's forces. Tarly's horse would cross the Blackwater Rush with the aid of what Paxter as Master of Ships could gather and then head due south to meet with the Roseroad. The Oakhearts would travel west on the GoldRoad and then march cross country over the northern Reach, passing Goldengrove, to arrive at Old Oak. And Mathis Rowan's troops would leave last with the Florents. The other noble, but not as significant, houses would be released on an alternating every other schedule based on the perceived loyalty of each particular house's lord.
As Mace ran down the lengthy list, Olenna watched her grandson carefully; waiting until she could subtly catch his attention. With patience, it was accomplished. His eyes revealed little as the tiny, natural seeming gestures she put her aged hands and bent fingers through broadly spelled out in the hidden language she had taught all her grandchildren as youths what she desired of him. Garlan's littlest sword hand finger bobbed twice, slowly, in agreement.
"Will this suffice, your Grace?" her son asked the King when he finished.
"Lord Davos, do you foresee any problems sending the river galleys to transport Lord Tarly across the Blackwater Rush?"
"While I may be of some assistance, your Grace. Perhaps this matter be best addressed by Lord Redwyne," the lowborn Onion Knight politely contradicted the King.
Stannis Baratheon grimaced briefly. "My pardon, Lord Paxter; no slight of the Arbor or your position in my council was intended."
"None taken, your Grace. I will gladly investigate, and with Lord Davos aid, surely find a quick answer for you by the morrow. And we shall happily bring to Southwark any Stormlanders who would find a river trip less hazardous than a march," he added to poke a finger at Renly's obstinate figure.
"Lord Redwyne?" a voice piped up.
"Yes, my Lord Hand?" Paxter returned to his nephew.
"Kindly please also discover whether a vessel might be made ready on the morrow to sail for Storm's End."
This gained a startled exclamation from the spoiled child in the hall.
"My sister, the Lady Margaery Baratheon, is in earnest to see her new home. She has heard ever so much about it from our brother and Lord Renly's former squire, Ser Loras. Alas, those were mere words, as colorful as a rainbow they were; and not nearly satisfying enough for a young woman's fancy. What say you, Lord Renly? Will you oblige my lady sister, your wife? Will you oblige a Hand of the King from House Tyrell?"
A mask of caution slowly slid over the foolish young stag's face. Had he truly no idea that he was utterly ally-less here? There was more to being king than appearing noble and smelling pretty.
The Queen of Thrones smiled to herself. Garlan had improvised her direction to best fit the moment and not hesitated in making the veiled threat against a goodbrother and Lord Paramount. There was more to being Hand than appearing noble and smelling pretty too. With a little time and experience, this grandchild of hers just might do. Then, when the Stranger at last took her, she needn't worry about sending a boy to do a Great Lady's work; for there might be a man capable of doing it.