THE FOUL-SMELLING FLOWER
"So," said Garth Tyrell, flipping through the pages before him, "not poison."
Maester Quinze nodded. "No, my lord. Not poison. Indeed, so far as we can tell, the weapon was coated with simples that dull pain and slow the blood, to make certain that the blow would not be noted, and that the death would not happen too swiftly after it was done."
"I see," said Garth. "A clever tactic. We are clearly dealing with a most cunning and skillful killer here." He glanced at Quinze. "Have we any idea what this weapon was?"
"We do," said the maester. "But only because the death was so novel that I cracked open Maester Thorndyke's Compendium and found it there. An Eastern weapon. The Demon's Claw, they call it. A thin little blade that can be driven into the body with a swift pat. It takes skill and knowledge to use it, of course. In this case it was driven into a lung, causing poor Lord Peake to…"
"You do not need to explain to me what it did to poor Lord Peake," said Garth. "I may not have made my chain, but I earned my silver link." He put down the report, and stared at the maester. "Have you any idea who may have killed him?"
The maester's face grew pinched. "Prince Oberyn has spent much time in the east, and learned many things there, my lord."
Garth snorted at that. "Many men have spent time in the east, Maester Quinze. I have spent time in the east. Should I suspect myself?"
Quinze flinched at that. "Of course not, my lord. I was merely saying…"
"Enow," said Garth, suppressing a belch. "We have nothing but suspicions against Prince Oberyn, who is well-loved by our Dornish allies." He shrugged. "And if he has murdered Lord Peake, well, what harm has he done us? Peake was playing us false, in contact with his Lannister kin." He laughed. "Aye and his kin across the Narrow Sea, and half-a-dozen local bandits beside. Fond of plotting was Lord Titus, but not particularly deft at it." Garth stood from his seat. "I consider this matter closed, Maester. Lord Peake was killed by persons unknown, and that is how it shall be recorded. Now if you will excuse me, I have a fete to return to." Quinze bowed at that, and Garth walked away, heading back to the party.
It did not take long to reach the hall, filled with laughing celebrants. And why not?, he thought. But a handful of months ago, we were doomed. Now we are triumphant. The Lion has been bearded in his den, and we, who all considered finished, are the ones who have done it. He looked over the crowd, and frowned to himself. At least, most of us have. Some have come to congratulate us . The wave of Essosi nobles who'd arrived in recent weeks had been a mixed blessing, to Garth's mind-while they gave the court the feel of something more than the Reach and Dorne deluding themselves that they were the kingdom, they also brought the ambitious, and the heedless.
"Lord Seneschal!" came a loud voice that Garth recognized as belonging to both those groups. He sighed to himself and turned to look at his interlocutor, feeling once again the quite unique experience of not being delighted at seeing a reasonably attractive young redhead walking towards him.
"Mistress Falena," he said smiling. "And how does this evening find you?"
"Do not patronize me, Lord Garth," said Falena, doing her best to look lordly and cross, a difficult endeavor for a woman with somewhat frizzy hair and a rather friendly demeanor. "I have used your proper title-you should use mine."
"Lady Lothston," said Garth, doing his best to suppress an eyeroll. "What business do you have with me?"
Falena Lothston managed a nod. "Much better." She coughed, and fidgeted, then began. "I find my quarters small and inconveniently placed." She bit her lip and looked away, tugging on the sleeve of black Myrish lace on her gown, as if to adjust. "I am… that is, the head of House Lothston in exile and Lady of Harrenhal deserves better, does she not? Lord Seneschal?"
Garth smiled pleasantly at her. "Alas my dear, our quarters here are full to bursting, and I am in no position to grant you what you deserve."
Falena nodded at that, and then glanced at her feet. "I see. Yes. Hmmm. Well, then, ummm, yes, but…" She fixed him with her deep blue eyes, with such a look of desperation that Garth almost felt pity, amongst other things. "Could you move the Norvosi delegation, my lord? They sing. Late into the night. And badly." She coughed, and then looked at her feet.
"I will see what can be done," replied Garth, before breaking wind and resuming his walk
Lady Lothston wrinkled her nose, but then kept to his heels. "Is my Lord Seneschal well…? I mean, in his internals? And… and digestion?"
"I do not understand what you speak of, Lady Lothston," answered Garth placidly.
"I… it… you… that is…" Falena coughed at this, something she might have meant to do briefly, but which developed into a series of coughs that sounded not unlike an actor trying to portray consumption, badly. Still she kept walking beside him as he headed towards the sun around which this court circled. That sun was, Garth saw when he arrived, listening to one of the smaller darker planets in the sphere.
"Oh, yes," said Aesnyth Waeyte of Qohor. "The Inner Sanctum of the Great Temple of the Black Goat is forbidden. That is where the God lives, and only his Brides and the priests may go there." She smiled beatifically. "My sister Laevyna is a Bride, married to the Black Goat. She lives in the Temple, and I do not see her."
King Viserys regarded her, clearly intrigued. "Do you not miss her?"
The girl looked back with her strange deep eyes, and shook her head. "Oh, no. She was married to the God when I was very young. I only know of her from her portrait in Kadath." She gave a grave nod. "She was very pretty. I've no doubt the God is very happy with her."
Arethusa Pendaerys of Tyrosh gave a laugh at that. "No doubt," said the young noblewoman, flipping her bright purple hair.
Aesnyth fixed her with a deep stare. "Do you think me a liar, Lady Pendaerys?" Garth regarded the Qohorik, a small thing with dark black hair pulled into two braids, clad mostly in black, with a bit of white, and other portions in that strange hue her people called fuligin, which was somehow darker than black. Not one I'd like to get on the bad side of , he thought. And indeed, Arethusa was skiddling away, back to her Tyroshi friends Maegra Orthys and Yrabel Haen, both of whom stared at the Qohorik girl with naked hostility and a certain measure of fear. Aesnyth seemed not to care.
But why should she? What are they to her, a Waeyte of Kadath?, thought Garth. The Waeytes were an old family, at least as old as Valyria. And likely older. The Dragonlords found something ancient at Kadath, and the blood of what they found flows in little Aesnyth alongside that of old Valyria . He'd seen Kadath, near Qohor, looming like a mountain, a smaller Hightower, though he'd never visited. To his eyes, it seemed clear that the Valyrian fortress that topped the structure was a recent addition to something far older. And from that black and drear citadel, the Waeytes had levied a charge on the caravans that went to and fro, had produced innumerable High Priests of the Black Goat, and were still paid lordly sums by Qohor itself for protection. Largely from the Waeytes themselves, Garth imagined.
And compared to that… well, what are the Pendaeryses, the Orthyses, the Haens of Tyrosh? The Dagaerons, the Bazannes, the Jaeldas of Myr? Magisters on their second or third generation of membership. None of them have ever made Archon or Chief Magister, and none of them are like to. Garth sighed. That is what we attract. Ambitious climbers, the desperate, and curiosity-seekers. Still, it's better than attracting no one at all.
Lady Lothston was leaning over young Aesnyth, fiddling with the girl's dress. "You shouldn't let them bother you. People can be cruel to those they see as different."
"Let them try with me," said Aesnyth, narrowing her eyes. Falena cooed, and hugged her.
"You are so precious!" declared the young Lothston brightly. Aesnyth accepted the hug with a sort of frosty dignity. Garth took the opportunity to sidle closer to King Viserys. Obara Sand hovered over him, while her father sat nearby, watching the scene with amusement, and just a dash of pride, and Ser Barristan Selmy stood at attention, his expression unreadable.
"Your Grace," said Garth, with a nod to the young king.
"Lord Seneschal," replied Viserys. "I have missed you."
"Simply a bit of business," answered Garth. "How are you enjoying this party in your honor, Your Grace?"
"It is…" The boy bit his lip, and looked at his feet. "Fine, I suppose."
Garth smiled and knelt before the little king, ignoring the pain in his knees. "If His Grace does not mind me saying so, he does not look fine."
Viserys pouted. "It's just… the Iron Isles are being treacherous. The Greyjoys want to leave the Seven Kingdoms, and we're ignoring it so we get their help against the Stags. And that's not right. They are hurting the Iron Throne, and yet we smile on them."
Garth nodded at the little boy, whose eyes seemed close to tears. "Your Grace is very wise for your age to note that." He smiled. "And rest assured, your Small Council notes it as well. So let me give you this advice-a wise king chooses not merely his battles, but the time of them. Yes, the Ironmen are our enemies, as bad as the Stags, in truth. But the Stags are the greater threat so they are who we will focus on first. And when we have taken care of them, and secured Your Grace's throne, well, then we will take care of these raiding scum. Till then, be patient. All things come with time. The readiness to take them when they come, that is all."
Viserys nodded at this. "You are very wise, Lord Seneschal."
"I thank you, Your Grace," said Garth. "I have some experience in teaching the young. I gave similar advice to my nephew, when he was your age. And again when he was… far older."
"Did he listen to you then?" asked Viserys, eyes curious.
Garth felt his eyes water. "No. No, Your Grace, he did not."
Viserys nodded. "He should have."
The tears came then, despite his efforts to stop them. "Indeed, Your Grace. He should have." Viserys stared at him for a brief second, and then wrapped his little arms around Garth's neck. Garth found himself returning the hug. "I thank Your Grace for the kindness you have chosen to show me." Garth pulled away, and stood to his feet. He glanced over to see Aesnyth Waeyte regarding him gravely.
"My uncle Meircyrre bids me to always remember that all fall under the Black Goat's hooves in time whenever I feel low and uneasy," she said.
Garth nodded. "Your uncle is doubtless a pious man," he said.
"He is High Priest of the Black Goat," answered Aesnyth. "He must be."
"Oh, ho, ho, ho," came a cheery voice. "What is all this grim looks and dourness?" The fair young thing it belonged to came into view, clad in gold-laced silks, and smelling of the sweet fragrances of her home city of Lys. "This is a celebration," she declared. "We should all make merry, whilst we may."
"Lady Uthera Ruari," said Garth, doing his best not to guffaw over her name. "A delight to see you as always." And how can it not be, when you try so hard to be delightful? , he thought. Aye, and have been so carefully presented. You cannot fool these eyes, milady. All these other petty nobles from Tyrosh, from Myr, from Norvos, from Pentos… you have not been brought as one of a crowd. They have been brought to make you seem all the fairer .
The girl tittered in appreciation. "Oh, Lord Seneschal, you are too kind." She kneeled before Viserys, and ignored how Obara Sand and Aesnyth Waeyte were now glaring daggers at her. "Come now, Your Grace, why do you not dance a little? 'Twould cheer your spirits. Why, I was just showing young Lucyaen Tregaelyn some of the latest steps of Lys. Perhaps I could show them to you?"
Viserys eyed the older girl for a moment. He's clearly tempted, and to be honest who can blame him? And she-well, she recalls his second namesake. Targaryens oft start the lists of love young, they say, and she's the sort so many fancy .
The young king shook his head. "I am sorry, milady, but you seem too experienced for me." Garth chuckled as Viserys turned to Obara. Ahh, but not this Targaryen. His tastes are his own. "Lady Obara," asked the king, taking her hand, "would you dance with me?"
Obara Sand stared at the king in shock. "I… I barely know how, Y-Your Grace…"
Viserys smiled as he lead her out towards the floor. "That is all right," he said, nestling his head on her shoulder. "Neither do I." Aesnyth Waeyte watched them venture out onto the floor and then stamped her little foot.
"Beccheggiayre!" she shouted. "I wish to dance! Accompany me!" The hulking mute that the little Qohorik had as a manservant shuffled to her, and then lead her out to join the dancers. Garth shook his head, and glanced at Uthera, who he noted with some surprise was smiling.
"You seem in good spirits for a lady jilted," he noted.
"The game is young," she replied, "and so are all we who play it, Lord Seneschal."
Garth took her hand gently. "The wisdom you show, so in excess of your years never ceases to amaze me, Lady." He raised it to his lips as she giggled in delight. And so does that outlandish name you've given, and the calluses on your pretty little hands. Who and what are you, my fine Lyseni filly, and what are you playing at?
"Perhaps the Lord Seneschal cares for a dance," she said, looking at him enticingly with her deep violet eyes.
"Alas," said Garth, "I've grown graceless, and dare I say it, discomfitingly large in my later years, and so avoid dancing on full floors. Ask a younger, lighter man."
Uthera sighed, and then glanced at Prince Oberyn. "Perhaps the Prince cares to give me a turn?"
Oberyn shrugged and gestured to the floor, where Ellara was dancing with Martyn Mullendore. "I await my lady's return," he said with a smile.
Uthera sighed in disappointment, then spun back out onto the floor. As Garth sidled to a seat next to the Prince, Lady Lothston frowned at him. "That was quite rude," she said, glaring at him and Oberyn. "She simply wished to dance with you."
"And I am too fat and too old for her," replied Garth, "and the Prince wishes a dance with his sweet paramour." He shrugged. "Still you are welcome to dance with her if you wish. Though I would hurry-Ser Aron seems interested, and she seems willing to give him a try." Falena Lothston glared at him, then moved away.
Oberyn smiled at Garth. "You remain certain that they know each other then?"
"Oh, I am positive," answered Garth. "Lady Lothston insists they'd never met before arriving here, but she is a bad liar. But the true Lady Lothston, it seems, which I suppose makes sense, as it's such a strange thing to lie about."
Oberyn nodded and glanced at his eldest daughter and the king dancing together awkwardly. "Well, we have seen many strange things, have we not? I will not lie, I'd hoped my girls would make good companions to the King, but his infatuation with Obara…" He shook his head. "I am her father, and it baffles me."
"I think it a simple thing," said Garth. "He adores her fierce affection, her total devotion, and the attentions of a girl who, to judge by their builds, will always be about a head taller than him." The Prince raised an eyebrow at that. "Trust me, my Prince, it is an experience. This I know personally."
The Prince shook his head, and glanced at Aesnyth dancing awkwardly with her giant of a manservant. "She has something of a rival, it seems-Lady Aesnyth won a measure of affection when she burst into tears when the dragon died in a puppet show, and since then…" He shrugged. "Well, he remains intrigued." He turned to regard Garth again. "So what was it that took you from this hall?"
"My Maesters have concluded their investigation into the death of Lord Peake," Garth replied.
"Some sort of poison applied to the cup, I imagine," said Oberyn.
Garth shook his head. "Oh, no. The Demon's Claw was used. An assassin's weapon, from Leng, though it is popular with many of the Sorrowful Men of Qarth. A deadly instrument, in skilled hands."
The Prince shrugged. "I defer to your expertise in odd means of death, Lord Seneschal."
"Some the Maesters thought you might have done it," noted Garth with a chuckle.
Oberyn gave a scornful chuckle. "Once you are thought to be a poisoner, everyone sees your hand in any odd deaths that occur near you."
"Indeed," said Garth with a nod. "That is why the most important rule of poisoning is never to be suspected."
The Prince considered that, then threw his head back and laughed.
