Chapter 3: Poison

When you think of Olenna Tyrell, what is the one word that comes to mind?

In a past life, my answer might have been cunning, rude, devious, dangerous. She was intelligent, to be sure, and subtle, and capable of the most elegant wordplay and yet, none of those things came to the front of my mind when I looked at her.

Now, that word was old.

The passing resemblance to Diana Rigg aside, as well as the almost pitch-perfect recreation of the voice I remembered, this woman was... different, to say the least. It would not have been an exaggeration to say that she was the oldest person in the capital. Pycelle offered stiff competition, but I doubted that even he could match the tally of years that she had, and it showed. Her skin seemed to be hanging off her bones, and her entire visage was marked by wrinkles. Her manner of dress did much to alleviate the dreaded sag, but there was only so much to be done.

Her back was hunched, her hair gone a snowy white, her frame smaller than even mine, and I was a child. I thanked whoever was watching that at least she wasn't toothless, and had a still-strong set of teeth with she seemed determined to use to constantly snack on something. Cheese, figs, cakes, and all in the scant few minutes I had been sat here. She munched on her cakes and delighted in bossing her people around, issuing orders like a general, delighting in the mounting frustration of her servants and maids.

In spite of the silliness of her antics, especially considering her age, I did not let myself relax. This was a woman on-par with Tywin Lannister in the power department, and just as ruthless, and perhaps even more subtle than he. In a straight battle of wits, I did not doubt my defeat. Here, she was in her element, overlooking the city, high above it all, on a vast terrace which doubled as a garden. In many ways, her seeming infirmity only enhanced the sense of danger that one got from sitting in her presence.

One did not live that long without serious brains or at least without picking up some tricks along the way. At the peak of her power, the only advantage I had to bring to bear was the element of surprise. My entire plan was predicated on it, and I intended to take full advantage.

"Your Grace," her tone was almost mocking, "not that I don't enjoy your company, but can I ask why you decided to join an old woman for tea today?"

"For the pleasure of your company, of course."

She raised her eyebrows at that, and once again saw fit to mock me, "I am honoured. To think that the His Grace could find time out of his busy schedule of chasing cats to sit with little old me." She brought her tone back down to earth, "Though, once you marry my granddaughter, I suppose you and I will have a lot more time together, won't we?"

I feigned a frown, "Marry your granddaughter? A little presumptive, don't you think?"

Olenna's gaze grew sharper, "Tell me, Your Grace, are you at all familiar with the events of the past year?"

"Only as much as any King tends to be."

"Very well, allow me to illuminate you." She gestured to the table, laden with cakes, "This is the product of my house. House Tyrell has supplied a million bushels of wheat, half a million bushels each of barley, oats and rye, twenty-thousand head of cattle, fifty-thousand sheep, and is set to supply more to feed this cesspit of a city." She gestured to the guards standing at attention at the entrance to the terrace, "As is that. House Tyrell have supplied twelve-thousand infantrymen, eighteen-hundred mounted lances, two-thousand in support, all for your war." Olenna snorted, "Why, even a member of your own Kingsguard is a Tyrell! All that comes with the assurance that my granddaughter would be queen." She leaned back in her chair, adopting an almost casual air about herself, acting with the kind of nonchalance one would expect if you were discussing the weather, "Of course, if you don't desire our little rose, we can't fault you for that. The heart want what the heart wants, after all, but then you can't fault us for taking our grain and our men away from here." She leaned in, her tone regaining the intensity it had lost not a moment ago, "And when the people starve, who do you think they'll blame?"

I allowed myself to smile, completely unfazed by her threats, "This is how you sell your granddaughter? With threats? One would think you would seek to exalt to me about her womanly virtues."

"I didn't take you for a fool. My granddaughter is one of the loveliest maidens in the realm, a fact obvious to anyone with eyes, even if you were a sword-swallower like Renly was." She looked me up and down, the insinuation clear in her tone, "Are you?"

I snorted, "Hardly."

"So, why are we here? You knew my granddaughter is nice, kind, and pretty, and now you know that House Tyrell is necessary to your survival. What more could you ask for?"

I allowed myself to smile, "A couple million dragons should suffice."

Olenna snorted on her drink as she laughed, "I offer thousands and thousands of tons of food, thousands of men, the hand of the most eligible maiden in all Seven Kingdoms, and yet you still have the gall to ask for more?"

"I'm not asking."

She raised an eyebrow, thoroughly unimpressed, "Oh?"

"It is not House Tyrell that is necessary, Lady Olenna, it is the Reach. You have cast a pretty net around the Reach, to be sure, but unlike my grandfather in the Westerlands, your power still rests atop a house of cards. Houses Hightower and Redwyne will never betray you, on account of blood, but the rest? Say I made Lord Tarly's daughter my bride, and Lord Rowan my Hand. They are both sensible men, or so I have heard, and they would doubtless take the opportunity presented. With the Florents already loyal to Stannis over you, that is three of your most powerful bannermen poised to oppose you. Say my uncle Jaime marries into another great house, and all of a sudden your house of cards comes tumbling down. Mix the Lannister armies in, and the Dornish, who will surely take advantage of the ensuing chaos, and we have the makings of another war on the scale of the one in the Riverlands, all right on your doorstep."

Olenna nodded sagely, "And when the fields burn and the granaries are all looted, who will feed the realm, hmm?" She smiled at me, thinking she had won, "It was a handsome threat to make, child, but an ultimately empty one. You want to be a good king, or at least that is what I hear, and letting your people starve is hardly going to aid you in that cause, is it?"

I ceded her point, "You're right, of course. I never did have much of a stomach for bloodshed." I shook my head almost mournfully, "The only real time I've ever seen any was when Joffrey died. Frothing at the mouth, face turning purple, it was horrid." I looked Olenna in the eye, "Had you ever seen the Strangler work, Lady Olenna, before you had it slipped in his cup?" She paled a shade, her face remaining otherwise flat and her expression unchanged. I smiled at the implicit admission, "My mother may have stuffing in place of her brains, but I do not." I leaned in, my voice quietening till it was little more than a whisper, "Did you think I wouldn't notice that headdress that Lady Sansa was wearing? That Baelish is mysteriously missing, and straight after Joffrey's death?"

Olenna switched from shock to anger, "Has the crown suddenly stopped needing the troops, gold and wheat that my house supplies? Do you expect our alliance to continue after you have threatened our future with these lies? For our armies to continue to fight your war?"

I continued, unfazed by her threats, "I may not have the stomach for bloodshed, Lady Olenna, but my mother certainly does, and she loved Joffrey with all her heart. All I'd need to do is tell her, and she would demand that heads roll as justice for Joffrey, and three of your four grandchildren are currently in her grasp. Your armies may be vast and mighty but they can't protect you, nor your grandchildren, from the truth. Assuming your house survives the ensuing conflict, I imagine you will find it significantly harder to make any alliance afterwards, with the taboo of kingslaying staining the Tyrell name." I lightened my tone and dismissed my earlier threats with a careless wave of my arm, "Of course, none of that need happen at all. I am not a cruel boy like Joffrey was, and I happen to actually like your granddaughter, but I am also a person who understands the necessity of setting an example to keep people in line."

Olenna's expression turned sour, "Two-million dragons."

I attempted to be reassuring, "Come now, the Reach is fat and bloated like your Lordly son, you can afford the expense. Not to mention, with the Riverlands in ruins, I expect you should make most of that coin back quickly enough over the course of the coming winter. Once your virtual monopoly on food for the coming winter is considered, it's a tiny price to pay for all that I'm offering you."

She eyed me coldly for a moment, and then threw her head back and cackled, "Oh yes, you'll do just fine for our rose, I can tell."

I shared her smile, and stood from my chair, "I'll be waiting on that coin, Lady Olenna. I expect the first shipment to arrive before Tyrion's trial commences."

She waved me away, "Yes, yes. I'll let the Lord Oaf of Highgarden know."

I walked away from the terrace, allowing myself to relax slightly when it disappeared out of sight behind stone walls. My stomach threatened to rumble, on account of the fact that I neglected to eat or drink anything with Lady Olenna, in spite of having ostensibly sat with her for tea. Even still, I did not stop for food, making my way directly to the chambers that I had selected for my solar. Once inside, I sent for the Grandmaester, who appeared only after a long delay, "My apologies, Your Grace, for the delay."

As Pycelle sat, I observed him. His whole body seemed to tremble with age, making it seem as if he was about to keel over at any moment. The chains wrapped around his neck seemed to weigh him down immeasurably, and he walked as a hunchback would. When he sat down, he did so with a small whimper, as though he was relieving himself of a great burden. It was a masterful performance, in truth, and if I didn't know any better, I suspected that even I would have fell for it. The snowy white and thinning hair, the mildly dishevelled look of his robes, the wrinkles about his facial features, all seemed to sell the image he sought to present.

He looked nothing like he did in the show, and save for the occasional similarity, he didn't much sound like him either. It was hard to gauge which Pycelle this man truly was, and there was only really one way to find out. He may not have been the greatest player in either the books or the show, but he was competent enough and certainly worthy of caution. In any case, I suspected I would get what I wanted out our meeting today.

I sent Ser Balon, the knight who had been guarding me for today, to wait outside, covertly instructing him to send for Bronn as I did so, and gestured for Pycelle to sit, "Do you know why I have called you here today?"

"I gather you want to discuss a few matters with me privately, in advance of tomorrow's council meeting?" I nodded, and he continued to speak, "I often find that the council environment is less than hospitable to the principles of good governance."

"You are right, in a sense. In truth, I have called you here to discuss your treason."

Pycelle broke out in a fit of feigned stammering, "Your Grace, you cannot... I mean... I have... I would never..."

"Perhaps my uncle was right, perhaps in the Black Cells you truly found your level." Pycelle's words became unintelligible, "Stop it." Silence descended on the chamber, "Am I the only one who can see through this performance? Is it possible that so many could be so stupid for so long?"

Pycelle straightened, any pretence of frailty abandoned, the fear draining from his face, "There are times I have trouble believing it myself."

"Then why do you bother?"

"So many flowers, Your Grace. Each wanting to grow the tallest, bloom the brightest, and one by one, sooner or later, they all get plucked. I don't want to be the tallest or the brightest, Your Grace, I only want to remain in the garden, until my time comes to return to the dirt."

"I thank you for your poetic candor, Grandmaester, but I still don't see why I shouldn't have you returned to the dirt today."

Pycelle remained calm in spite of my threat, "Since the time I convinced the Mad King to open his gates to your grandfather, I have served the interests of the House of Lannister, unfailingly."

"Which is also treason, I might remind you."

Pycelle nodded sagely, "In that case, Your Grace, your uncle the Lord Jaime Lannister is also a traitor, and a far greater one than me, given that he killed the Mad King rather than merely deceiving him as I did."

"Even still, you betrayed my uncle's trust, who I might remind you is a Lannister."

"Because I felt he was acting against the interests of his house, yes. A wise decision, don't you think, Your Grace, given that he also turned out to be a kingslayer?"

"And what have the Lannisters done to earn such touching loyalty?"

"They have built the strongest house."

"And what happens when they are no longer the strongest house?"

Pycelle smiled, "By that time I will be rotting beneath the floor of the Sept of Baelor. Assuming you deem my years of service worthy of that honour, Your Grace."

I nodded, "In the future, starting from today, it is not House Lannister you will serve, but me. You will keep my secrets, and you will divulge them to nobody, not even my grandfather. And should you to fail to do that, I will have you returned to the dirt, post-haste."

"Yes, Your Grace."

I nodded and smiled, "I have a request for you, Grandmaester. I am in need of a certain kind of poison, and I have been told that you are something of an expert on the subject."

Pycelle frowned as he nodded, "Of course, Your Grace. May I ask why you are in need of poison? If you want to be rid of someone, surely you can just order them executed in your capacity as King? Poison is a woman's weapon, after all."

"I care not that it is a woman's weapon. And no, Pycelle, you may not ask why. In any case, I need something to weaken a man when ingested, to kill him slowly. Something... subtle, almost unnoticeable in everyday life, yet effective."

Pycelle took a moment to think, "Widow's Blood or the Tears of Lys come to mind, Your Grace, alongside some species of mushroom."

"Do you have any of those in your stores?"

"A little Widow's Blood, and perhaps a little Greycap. I'm afraid that after Lord Tyrion raided my stores, I find myself to be a tad short on anything else."

"Fetch what you have." Pycelle made to leave, "And Pycelle?"

He stopped in place and looked at me questioningly, "Yes, Your Grace?"

I let my tone carry the promise of violence, "Not a word. To anyone."

Pycelle bowed and left for his chambers. In the interim before he returned, Bronn arrived, "You called for me?"

I nodded and gestured for him to sit, "I did. I have a task for you."

"What is it?"

"Tell me, Bronn, have you heard of the Mountain that Rides?"

Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite in the future. Didn't like the way this one came out. The dialogue just doesn't feel right somehow.