The day of Tyrion's trial dawned with a chill I had not yet felt since I became Tommen. I couldn't decide if it was a good or a bad omen, though anything that chased the oppressive heat of King's Landing could not be wholly evil.

My footsteps thumped hollowly upon the elegant marble corridors as I made my way to one of the more secluded gardens inside the Red Keep, with Ser Balon's sharp armored strides ringing behind, always the dutiful protector.

The cool light of the morning sun spilled forth from the many windows and open courtyards of the castle, bathing the halls of the keep in soft bluish tones as we strode by. It almost made this accursed palace seem pleasant. Lamplighters in Baratheon black and gold livery scuttle about, snuffing out the candles and oil lamps they'd lit the night before with short ladders beneath their arms and long metal sticks to smother the flames in their hands.

The candle wax and oil bills the Crown accrued every month had been one of the most insane things I'd ever seen, and now with mother dearest no longer in the picture, I had restituted the rule of using candles only at night and in oft frequented places. The Chief Steward—now former Chief Steward—had zealously protested my decision, explaining to me, as if he would to a misbehaving child, how keeping the candles and torches lit all day round throughout all the keep was an expert display of power and wealth.

The whole of the Red Keep. Even areas that had not been inhabited since the early days of the Targaryen Kings. The fool must have thought I had my mother's narrow-mindedness or Robert's drunken indifference to say that to my face. So, as the ex-Steward was being dragged away for embezzlement and misappropriation of funds, I told him, "I much prefer the eight thousand gold dragons the Crown will have available to spend on the betterment of its people over your petty power plays, good ser."

A good catchphrase that had the servants of the Keep murmuring my praise for days. Truly, I was a wise monarch.

He was just another of Littlefinger's cronies ensconced into every possible office in my castle that I had recently rooted out. I dared not move against Petyr Baelish's men inside the city proper, lest I gave away my game too early, but given how sweet and innocent young Tommen was before Baelish left for the Vale, he would simply assume Lord Tywin was cleaning house and putting his own loyal men in the offices of the Red Keep. A big loss for him, to be sure, but from what I gathered so far in my careful investigations, it was nothing compared to the stranglehold Baelish had on the whole economy and industry of the Realm—thus a hitch not big enough to make him change his plans.

I turned a final corner and glimpsed two Tyrell guards standing a few feet down into the small inner courtyard, faces hidden beneath their helms. As dangerous an adversary as the likes of Varys and Littefinger were, Olenna Tyrell was the only person in Westeros who could exert soft and hard power on par with Tywin Lannister, and I'd just been invited to break my fast with her.

I marched past the guards without stopping, only turning my head around to give a silent nod to Ser Balon. He'd stay behind with the Tyrell men, maybe throw some dice together, drink some ale, rape a peasent. Things men do in this world.

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Underneath the small gazebo that crouched near the edge of the garden, Olenna looked as in her element as a northman would beneath a heart tree. Dozens of clay pots hung from wrought iron hooks over the sides of the gazebo's railing, overflowing with knotted vines and blooming flowers that seemed like a single interlaced organism, ready to creep up along the flanks and smother their prey in beautiful greenery.

A trap worthy of the Queen of Thorns.

"Your Grace," said Olenna. She was sitting behind a large table set square in the middle of the open floor, with a full spread of cheeses and pastries and fruits that could have fed a smallfolk family of four for a whole week before her. "Forgive an old woman for not standing to greet you. My knees aren't the same as they were in my youth, you see." She pointed to the chair opposite her. "Please, do sit down."

I wanted to roll my eyes. A slight before we even began sparring. "No problem at all, Lady Olenna," I said, pulling the chair out. "I find myself growing weary of courtesies these days."

"I can imagine." She sniffed, her wrinkled nose twitching. "This city is filled to the brim with both shit and brown-nosing lickspittles. Not unlike my son, the Lord Oaf of Highgarden. I expect he's made himself known to you by now. He will be the one who walks around puffed up like a prized peacock. I pray you'll forgive me for his existence. I confess to being half guilty of it."

"Hardly." I smiled. "He's a dear, the Lord Mace. Very astute, too. I value his words greatly."

She regarded me for a moment, then threw her head back and cackled. "You'll do just fine for our rose, oh yes."

I had a mind to eat before arguing on the finer points of governance, some points which would no doubt aggravate Olenna, but her self-assured statement that I would simply do for Margaery had just enough pretension to bother me.

"Will I?" I said. "I didn't know your granddaughter and I were already betrothed. I believe they call that putting the carriage before the horses, my lady." I put some teeth in my smile. "A dangerous notion, that."

"Dangerous, Your Grace?" Olenna's gaze sharpened. "You are not a devout student of history, I take it?" Olenna's words were spoken softly as a petal, her posture easy and relaxed. But I could see the briers pricking up as her gaze sharpened.

I raised an eyebrow. A non-answer if there ever was one, but that seemed too much like a gotcha question for me to give her a yes or no.

Not to be stopped, she barreled on. "Very well, let me lecture you. When your father raised his banners in rebellion against the Targaryens, Brandon Stark had just been murdered in King's Landing. He had been on his way to marry Hoster Tully's eldest daughter in Riverrun when he heard of his sister's abduction, and rode to King's Landing to demand the dragon prince's head, fool man that he was. But even after he died, the Stark-Arryn-Baratheon alliance still needed the Tully armies, so the good, dutiful Ned Stark honored his older brother's vows and welcomed the rebel Riverland forces into the fold by marrying Catelyn Tully." She rested her wizened hands over the table. "Dangerous would have been for Ned Stark to renege on his family's promise of marriage. And now, just like your father's alliance needed the Tullys, you need the Tyrells."

I nodded along. "Well said, my lady. Truly well said." Olenna Tyrell was a woman used to winning verbal battles, so she took my words as acceptance. With that indignant huff all old folk are wont to do when they finish spelling out the truth of the world to the young and foolish, she resumed eating.

Eager to eat as I was, I snuffed out my amused expression and, seeing as there were no attendants to serve—or listen in—on us, reached for a plate myself. While the average person ate a hundred times better on my old world compared to Westeros, I was royalty here. Not a day had passed where I hadn't feasted on at least seven courses during the grand dinners and feasts. And that was a bill I was most ready to foot.