Olenna Tyrell
Two days later, she set out for the capital, and it did not take her long to arrive. Her retinue was small but loyal—several handmaids, her favorite cook, a maester skilled in medicine, Right and Left serving as her personal bodyguards, and another forty guards and servants under the command of Ser Lyn Povveres. All of them were her own people, tested and retested time and again.
The Roseroad appeared relatively clear and well-kept. Magnificent horses from the famed Tyrell stables pulled her carriage swiftly and with ease. The vassals of the Reach considered it an honor to offer her their castles for rest and lodging along the way.
She entered the capital through the River Gate, a massive set of wooden doors reinforced with metal bands and square-headed nails. It was guarded by two tall, round towers crowned with battlements. The city walls stretched as far as the eye could see, to the right and to the left, and beyond them, rising on higher ground, the enormous city seemed to grow upward.
The smallfolk called the River Gate the Mud Gate, and there was more than a grain of truth to that. A sprawling fish market and port lay directly before it. The stench from the market was so strong that Lady Olenna pressed a perfumed handkerchief to her nose. Nor was the vast harbor, filled with hundreds of ships from the farthest corners of the world, particularly clean or well-kept.
Her escort forced a path through the buzzing crowd of idlers, beggars, merchants, townsfolk, thieves, prostitutes, gawkers, and all manner of others. At times, the soldiers had to keep the poor people at bay with their spear shafts, and once, Ser Povveres lashed a beggar who had rushed toward the carriage in hopes of receiving alms.
Lady Olenna tossed him a silver stag, and the beggar bowed obsequiously—he had not offered his back in vain.
She had never liked the Red Keep—too noisy, too false, and too dangerous. Countless factions and alliances constantly formed there to satisfy fleeting desires or pursue long-term schemes, only to dissolve just as quickly. Though there were also long-standing, almost ancient alliances. Sons and grandsons drank with those their forebears had drunk with, married those their ancestors had married. Enmities, too, were inherited—sometimes reaching all the way back to the Age of Heroes.
She had arrived just a little too late—Margaery had already given birth. Two lovely boys lay in an ivory cradle, wrapped in light brocade. The future king and his brother, younger by only a few minutes, slept quietly, still unaware of the fortune of their birth.
The walls, from ceiling to floor, were draped with incredibly expensive Tyroshi tapestries embroidered with gold thread and pearls, depicting parrots and flowers. The entire floor was strewn with flowers—irises, roses, daisies—mercilessly trampled underfoot by those entering.
"What have you named them?" she asked, turning to her granddaughter. Margaery rested in the same room, lying on a wide bed beneath a silk canopy, covered with snow-white sheets. The pregnancy and childbirth had not been easy—the glow of her skin had dimmed somewhat, dark circles had appeared beneath her eyes, and she looked exhausted.
"We're still deciding, Grandmother," Margaery smiled. "Are you upset about something?"
"You have beautiful children. You and Joff must make sure to raise them properly."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that the difference between them is negligible, and I don't want it to turn out that the younger one wants to claim the crown or challenge the older one's rights. Do you understand me, dear?"
"It's possible, but I think unlikely."
"My dear, you are a queen now—you must consider many things. I've said my piece; you've heard it. What you do next is your choice. I doubt the Seven have granted me enough years to see such a thing come to pass."
She then ordered everyone to leave the queen's chamber.
"How are things with Joffrey in bed?"
"Grandmother!"
"Don't disappoint me, Margaery. Surely you haven't forgotten my lessons on how important that is?"
"No, I haven't—but everything is wonderful between us. He has…" she hesitated, searching for the right word, "…a rather ardent temperament."
"I'm glad to hear it. I brought you an ointment made from hare's testicles—it has the property of tightening the muscles, especially those of the abdomen. I imagine you'll need it after childbirth. You do want to keep the king's interest in you for as long as possible, don't you?"
"Of course, Grandmother."
"Then remember: he may be king on the battlefield, in the Small Council, or anywhere else—but in your bed, you are the queen."
They spoke for a long time that day, practically until her granddaughter grew tired and began to yawn.
Olenna liked how things were unfolding, though she did not like how deeply Margaery had fallen in love with Joffrey, nor her reluctance to take a more active role.
After some thought, she decided not to pressure her. Growing Strong, just as it should be. Olenna recalled that at such an age, she herself had not dreamed of playing the game of power, but of far more ordinary things—handsome men, splendid feasts, tournaments, and the songs of minstrels. Time would pass, and her granddaughter would not miss her chance.
(End of Chapter)
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