The journey from White Harbor to King's Landing had been grueling, especially for the Reach lords who were unaccustomed to the northern seas. The stormy weather and choppy waves left many of them seasick and miserable. Even Olenna, despite her sharp wit and unshakable demeanor, was weary by the time they arrived. Mace, sulking in defeat, hadn't spoken much since they set sail. The weight of his blunder at Winterfell still hung over the Tyrells like a dark cloud.

When they finally docked at the port of King's Landing, the Tyrells were greeted with a sight that surprised them all. The air smelled fresher than they remembered, free from the usual stench of rot and filth that had once been synonymous with the city. The streets were cleaner than before, massive barrels strategically placed at every corner, likely for waste disposal. Even the common folk looked healthier, their clothes less ragged and their faces washed clean. It was as if the city had undergone a transformation.

"Is this still King's Landing?" Olenna muttered under her breath, her sharp eyes scanning the streets. She could hardly believe the cleanliness. The smallfolk they passed were surprisingly well-dressed, and there seemed to be a sense of order that had been missing during her last visit.

"Something's changed here," Lord Hightower observed, still pale from the journey but intrigued by the new developments. "Not just the streets, but the people. They're… content."

Mace Tyrell grumbled as he descended from the ship. "Hmph, perhaps the city's learned some manners at last," he said, though his tone lacked conviction. His eyes darted around, clearly uneasy.

Olenna narrowed her eyes. "More than manners. Someone's been cleaning up the filth, and it wasn't the crown. Robert Baratheon never cared for such things." She turned to Mace, her face hardening. "We'll find out who. But first, we go to the Red Keep. We need to secure an audience with the king."

The Tyrells and their bannermen made their way through the streets, and as they approached the Red Keep, the signs of change became even more apparent. New guards in clean, well-tailored uniforms patrolled the gates. Even the air within the city walls felt different. Olenna's mind raced with possibilities.

When they entered the Red Keep, Olenna's plan was already forming. Whatever had happened in King's Landing was an opportunity. If the king's court had shifted, there were new alliances to be made. And with the failure in the North, she knew they would need a new strategy to retain their power in the Reach and beyond.

Once inside, they were met by Ser Barristan Selmy, who had recently returned to the city after a long absence from the court. He greeted them formally, though Olenna noticed the stiffness in his posture.

"Lady Olenna, Lord Mace," Ser Barristan began, "the king will see you shortly. Much has changed in the city since your last visit."

"I can see that," Olenna replied, her voice sharp and inquisitive. "Tell me, Ser Barristan, who has brought about these changes? Surely it wasn't King Robert."

Ser Barristan's eyes glimmered with faint amusement. "You can thank Jon Frost for that, my lady."

"Jon Frost?" Mace Tyrell scoffed. "That bastard again?"

Ser Barristan nodded. "Indeed. He arrived here two years ago, and in three months' time, he initiated changes that have... well, let's say, improved the city in ways many thought impossible. He reorganized the city's waste management, hired skilled builders to make massive barrels for putting waste and clean the streets, and even brought in healers and apothecaries to tend to the poor. The king approved of his plans, and now, as you see, King's Landing breathes easier."

Olenna's eyes narrowed, though her lips curled into a thoughtful smile. "A bastard with ambition and a knack for improvements," she murmured. "How very... interesting."

Mace's face flushed red with frustration. "He mocks us at every turn! First Winterfell, now he's wormed his way into the capital."

But Olenna wasn't listening to Mace's whining. She was already thinking of how she could use this information. Jon Frost, it seemed, was a rising star in the North and now in the South as well. If his influence was growing in King's Landing, perhaps there was another way to deal with him—one that didn't involve petty insults or failed negotiations.

"We'll speak more of this later," Olenna said, her voice sharp. "For now, we must meet with the king. There's much to discuss."

As they continued their walk toward the Red Keep, the Tyrells couldn't help but notice the marked respect the city folk paid to Jon Frost's name. Each whispered mention of his accomplishments was a reminder that their plans in the North had been derailed, and now Jon's influence was spreading here in the capital. But Olenna wasn't one to be outmaneuvered so easily.

The imposing structure of Red Keep looked the same, but within its walls, Olenna was about to meet a different king than the one her spies had painted for her. The reports she'd received over the years had all described King Robert as a drunkard, a man more interested in whores and feasting than ruling. But from what she had gathered during her brief stay at the capital, things were not as simple.

As they made their way to the Red Keep, Olenna observed more signs of Robert's shift. Soldiers patrolled in clean armor, well-fed and disciplined. The training yard, often filled with lazy lords and knights in the past, now had hardened men sparring and drilling—men who appeared to be taking their roles seriously.

The Tyrells were led into the throne room, and there sat Robert Baratheon, much more imposing than she'd expected. He still carried his infamous drinking horn, and his booming laughter could be heard from the corridor, but Robert was different. His body, though still broad, had lost much of its former bloat. He looked like the warrior he had once been—strong, fit, and surprisingly alert.

"Ah, the Tyrells!" Robert's voice thundered as they entered. He rose from his seat, a broad grin splitting his face as he waved them forward. "Come in, come in! I've been hearing stories of your time in the North."

Mace Tyrell, feeling out of his element after the debacle at Winterfell, bowed stiffly. Olenna, always the calculating mind, observed the king closely. His blue eyes gleamed with intelligence, and though he reeked of alcohol, she could tell he was far from the fool her informants had led her to believe.

"Your Grace," Olenna said with a smooth curtsy, her voice carrying that edge of sharpness she was known for. "I trust the stories were only flattering."

Robert snorted. "Oh, some were, some weren't." His eyes narrowed, a grin still playing on his lips. "But I've learned not to trust all the gossip. I prefer to hear things from the mouths of those who've lived them."

Olenna smiled, reading between the lines. Robert wasn't a fool. He was playing the same game they all were. But she wasn't here just to exchange pleasantries.

"King's Landing has changed much since I was last here," she said, steering the conversation. "The streets are clean, and your people seem healthier. It appears you've taken quite an interest in ruling."

Robert raised a brow and shrugged. "A king needs to keep his people happy, or they'll turn on him when the winds shift. I've done my share of drinking and fighting, sure, but ruling isn't something you can ignore, even when you're the king."

Olenna nodded, keeping her gaze steady. This was going to be more difficult than she had anticipated. Robert wasn't the inattentive king her spies had painted him to be. He had evolved. She would need to be careful with how she approached her next move.

As Mace began to fumble through some pleasantries, Olenna's sharp mind was already at work. If Robert was no longer the lazy, indulgent king he once was, how could she turn him to their side? How could they undo the damage done in the North and gain favor with the crown?

"Your Grace," Olenna began, her voice calm but laced with urgency. "The North's refusal to purchase grain from the Reach has placed my family, and indeed much of the Reach, in a precarious position. Our farmers are suffering, and if nothing is done, it will affect the stability of the entire realm. A poor Reach means less food for the entire kingdom."

King Robert Baratheon, seated on the Iron Throne, listened closely, his expression thoughtful. The years of ruling had softened his once-imposing figure, but his eyes still gleamed with the same sharpness that had won him the throne. He leaned forward slightly as she finished her plea.

"I hear you, Lady Olenna. But I cannot force the North to buy your crops," Robert replied, his voice steady. "The Northerners bled for me—more than any other. They fought harder, lost more, and asked for nothing in return. Look at my Small Council," he gestured around the room. "No Northerners here, because they didn't ask for positions or power. They supported me because they believed in me, not because they wanted favors."

Olenna's eyes narrowed slightly, though she remained composed. She had expected resistance, but hearing it so plainly put before her stung. She had hoped that the king would at least offer some assistance in pressuring the North.

"They are proud people," Robert continued. "And after all they've done, I won't risk losing their support over grain. The North is self-sufficient now, and I won't push them to return to the days when they starved just to keep the Reach wealthy."

Olenna's mind raced, considering her options. The king's refusal to intervene directly meant they would need another strategy. Forcing the North's hand was out of the question, but perhaps there were other ways to create influence, ways to shift the power dynamic in the Reach's favor.

"Your Grace, the Reach has always been loyal to the crown," Olenna said, her tone smooth as she pivoted. "And we will continue to be, of course. But you must understand, without the income from our grain sales, the Reach will struggle to support the realm as it has in the past. Surely there must be some way to resolve this without causing unrest between your bannermen?"

Robert leaned back, his eyes hardening as he considered her words. "I won't let the realm suffer, Lady Olenna, but I also won't be bullied into action. If the Reach has to adapt, then so be it. You're resourceful—you'll find another way. But I won't see the North pushed aside after all they've done."

Olenna dipped her head in acknowledgment, though inwardly, she was already calculating her next move. If the king wouldn't help, then they would have to find other avenues—perhaps alliances in King's Landing, or sowing discord among the Northern lords. One way or another, she would see the Reach restored to its former glory.

"Of course, Your Grace," Olenna said, her voice respectful but determined. "We shall find a way."

As she left the throne room, Mace Tyrell and the other Reach lords followed behind her, their faces a mixture of frustration and resignation. They had come seeking royal intervention, but instead, they would need to forge a new path on their own.

Meanwhile, in the Red Keep, the atmosphere was tense after the Tyrells' departure. King Robert Baratheon lounged in his throne, a goblet of wine in hand, while Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, regarded him with a frown.

"Why did you let them leave like that?" Jon asked, concern etched on his face. "If you had just said a word to Lord Stark about their grain prices, he would have complied.

Robert scoffed, swirling the wine in his cup. "Let the Reach sell their grains at whatever price they choose. The North just became self-sufficient recently. Did you forget that they struggled for years? No one came begging for assistance from us then. And now that they are doing well for themselves, you want to force them to buy grains?"

"Do you think they will rebel, my King?" Petyr Baelish, the master of coin, chimed in, his voice smooth and calculated.

Robert shrugged. "They won't. They know better than to challenge the crown. They will claim independence, but I have no dragons to make the North kneel, nor have they ever been conquered. Even when they were poor, they fought back."

Jon Arryn leaned forward, concerned. "But if we do not support them in their time of need, they might look elsewhere for assistance—perhaps even to the Targaryens or other houses that would exploit their newfound strength. We cannot afford to lose the Reach's loyalty, Robert."

"Loyalty is earned, Jon," Robert replied firmly, setting his goblet down. "I will not bribe North into servitude. If they want to stand on their own two feet, let them. If they are resourceful enough to thrive, then they will do what is necessary to keep their people fed."

Petyr exchanged a knowing look with Jon Arryn, who sighed in defeat. "Very well, my King, but be cautious. The Reach is not a place we can take lightly."

Author's Note:

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