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The grapes were fat this time of year, and Olenna lazily plucked one off the vine. She popped it in her mouth as she reclined on her bench in the gardens, a book in hand, red hair tossed over her shoulder in a loose braid.
Nothing much of note was happening in the Arbor. The sun still beat down with the heat of early summer, and the smell of salt still hung in the air, but for the most part, the castle and its grounds were quiet. It was a welcome respite from the hubbub of a few days prior, too—her older brother Gwayne, their father’s heir, had married, and the celebrations had echoed through the halls until the wee hours of the morning.
The feasting lasted six days. It could have gone longer, Olenna was sure, but there were schedules to adhere to: Lord Runceford Redwyne and Lady Elinor were to set sail for a tournament in Blackhaven. As they were the hosts, the wedding celebrations had to come to a close. …Not that Olenna was disappointed at the guests’ departure. She could finally fall asleep before dawn. That being said, the Arbor was an island, and the arrival of new people was admittedly nice. Most of the rowdy ones had left when Gwayne stopped serving the wine free of charge, but a few of his new wife’s family did remain to keep the bride company.
And Olenna was glad for it. Her new good-sister, Malora Ashford—well, Redwyne now— had made her disdain for Olenna clear from the start. Every time Olenna had tried to find a time to speak with her, or spend time with her, Malora found a way to make herself busy. And when she did manage to sit down with her for tea, Malora’s only explanation was that she simply preferred spending time with Gwayne over her, and that she would ‘understand when she had a husband of her own.’
The remark had been meant to sting, too. How could it not, when Olenna’s broken betrothal to Prince Daeron had been the gossip of Highgarden for moons on end less than a year before? The reminder didn’t hurt like it could have; Olenna had never been looking forward to the wedding with any excitement. When the news had come she had felt more relief than devastation. But Malora’s snide remark had still been pointed. Olenna was a maiden at nine-and-ten, and rejected by the king’s son. It was meant to cut bitterly beneath a honeyed surface, and if Olenna had cared, it might have even worked.
Naturally, Olenna was not overly fond of her new good-sister, no matter how much Gwayne seemed to look past all that. Instead she much preferred the company of Malora’s brother, Ser Randyll Ashford, and his wife Florence who had once been a Footly. Ser Randyll was a somewhat standoffish man, and he was oddly protective of a wooden chest he kept in his chambers, but he opened up with some conversation—and overall, he did not seem like he misliked having Olenna around. That alone was an improvement on Malora. Florence was more gregarious and fond of gossip than her husband, and dined with Olenna often. They were a kind couple. Not especially interesting, but kind.
Much like the Arbor itself.
At least, until Maester Byron shuffled up to her in the gardens wringing his hands together. “My lady,” he said, a quaver in his voice. “I’m afraid I’ve discovered something terrible.”
Olenna sat up and set her book next to her. “Terrible how?” With their parents away, Gwayne was acting lord, but he was blithe and fond of the drink; hardly one to take care of anything serious. And there must be a reason Maester Byron was coming to her instead of him. This was not a good sign.
She was, unfortunately, correct in her assumption. Maester Byron led her back to his chambers where a sheet lay draped over the form of a body. “The stableboy Alyn,” he said, his voice low with mourning. “I found him in a stall collapsed over a hay bale. He was long dead by the time I found him. And I don’t believe it’s natural causes.”
Her breath quickened. “Murder, then? How?”
“Poison.” The maester pinched his lips into a thin line. “It must be, with the, the—” He took a breath and swallowed. “Poor boy was a sight when I came upon him. His face… you do not wish to see it, my lady. Such a thing is not fit for a woman’s eyes.”
That would only guarantee she took a look for herself. Olenna scoffed and pulled back the sheet.
She regretted it almost immediately. She could handle it; she would not prove the maester right—but Olenna still had to suppress a gag at the sight of Alyn laying there. Blood dripped down like tears from open, yellowed eyes, and his mouth was contorted in a soundless scream. The pain of his death was written in every frozen muscle.
“Gods,” she whispered.
“I did tell you not to look,” Maester Byron replied. “…I’ll have to go inform your brother of this as well.”
“No, I shall,” Olenna said quickly. The maester was shy of the truth, and that might reflect in his report. She would deliver the news herself. “And… keep me updated. If you learn or hear anything.”
He nodded, and Olenna tried to keep herself calm as she stepped into the hallway.
There was a murderer in the Arbor. It happened after the guests had gone, within castle grounds, on an island with well-guarded waters. So it was someone here now, someone she knew. Could it be someone she’d trusted all her life, one of her servants or advisers or even family? Or was it the Ashford entourage? The latter made more sense, but Olenna would be a fool to dismiss any possibility yet. And Alyn… Olenna had barely known him, but he’d worked for her family for a year now. That he was dead was… unthinkable.
And would he even be the only victim? A cold pang of dread pierced her chest. Poison was not a weapon where the target could fight back; there was no passing off the body as having died in an honorable duel. And that meant whomever it was could kill many, quickly, with no bloody sword or clothes to give them away. Olenna remembered reading of a poisoner on Fair Isle several generations ago who killed six others before ending his own life too.
She could only pray the death toll here would stop at one.
Gwayne took the news as well as could be expected for a flippant boy thrust into leadership woefully unprepared. “A shame,” he said, and bit his lip. “I suppose I’ll have to make the arrangements for a funeral. This is a one-off mishap, I assume, though it’s still a pity Harry went with Mother and Father.” Their acting master of whispers, Ser Harrold Cupps, was competing in the tournament as a knight. So was the master at arms Ser Regiwold Costayne. The killer had chosen a good time to strike.
“Yes,” Olenna replied. “A pity he is not here to search for the murderer.” And Gwayne would probably be useless at searching too. She could tell he already wanted to wash his hands of the whole mess and move on to more pleasant horizons.
Not that Olenna could claim she didn’t hope for the same thing. She certainly had no wish for another death. Perhaps this was all some terrible accident and the maester was wrong about poison. There was always a chance.
Alas, any hope for a peaceful future was crushed by early the following morning. Olenna had scarcely awoken when Maester Byron was back before her with the same anxious expression on his face. “My lady,” he started again, but Olenna cut him off.
“No,” she said, shoulders sagging. “Tell me you didn’t find another one.”
He looked back at her sadly. “I’m sorry. This is becoming a problem, it seems.”
Weren’t it already? Olenna sighed and looked up to meet his gaze. “Who is it?” Not Gwayne. He may be an oaf, but he’s still my brother. My family. Please, please don’t be—
“Septon Qyle.”
Her heart dropped. No. Septon Qyle had been a friend once, a companion growing up who never once looked down on her for being a woman or too young, who debated with her and helped her find interesting books in the library.
And now he was dead.
A lump rose in Olenna’s throat. “Take me to him.”
This time, she looked past the mask of blood around the eyes and nose, and inspected the entire corpse closely. Maester Byron had started to protest, saying it was not proper for a woman to handle a man’s body like that, but a quick reminder he could easily be the next one dead (and, quite frankly, should have done this himself) was enough to quiet any complaints. And it didn’t even take too improper an inspection for Olenna to find what she was looking for: the murder wound.
Or wounds, actually, because there were two of them. Two tiny pinpricks side by side on the septon’s ankle. A snakebite.
It made sense, when she thought about it. Why no one had seen any suspicious people about the murder scenes, the origins of the poison used… the only question now was where the snake had come from. The Arbor was an island. There were a few native snakes, but none venomous. This was no coincidence or accident. Someone had planned this, brought their weapon of choice intentionally.
And Olenna was sure she knew who it was.
Her mind raced as she walked as calmly as she could towards the Vine Keep’s guest apartments. Of course it was him. Randyll Ashford. That chest he’d brought was the only thing large enough to hide a venomous snake in, and the murders had started just after he’d arrived with it. He wouldn’t let anyone see inside. No doubt that was why.
All she needed was to verify it for herself. Olenna was not so rash as to have a man imprisoned sight unseen. If she could get a look at the chest, confirm there was indeed a snake in there… And she had her chance now. Randyll and Florence were currently having breakfast with Gwayne and Malora, meaning they’d be away from their chambers. Long enough for Olenna to check, at least.
She made it to their apartments without incident. The guards didn’t mind opening the door for her; it was her father’s castle, after all. A thrill rushed through her as she stood in the room alone. If she was wrong, this was an invasion of privacy, and no doubt she’d wind up in trouble for rifling through Randyll’s personal belongings. …But Olenna did not expect to be wrong.
The chest wasn’t hidden very well. Tucked under the bed, the first place any prospective thief would search. It was locked, but that wasn’t hard to solve either—after first checking the side table drawers and inside a vase, Olenna found the key under one of the pillows on the bed.
She picked it up. The brass weighed heavily in her palm. If she was right, this was the only thing between her and a creature that had already killed two of her household. Slowly, she knelt in front of the chest, breath bated.
The key turned in the lock with a click. It fell to the ground, but Olenna ignored it. She leaned back as far as she could and carefully, carefully tipped the lid up. Inside the chest was dark, but not so dark that she could not make out a writhing form, green or brown or black, slithering around as the morning sunlight reflected off its scales.
It seemed to like the heat of the light, and snapped towards it, towards her, and Olenna slammed the lid shut with wide eyes. Her heart pounded in her chest. Terror had turned her veins to ice, and even though she’d blocked the attack in time, the fear remained.
She’d almost died. Like Alyn the stableboy, like Septon Qyle, and her brother would find her laying there on the floor with blood pouring from her eyes.
Olenna took several breaths, each deeper than the last as she forced herself to relax. She wasn’t dead. This discovery would prevent more deaths. She just needed to replace the lock, turn the key, go to Gwayne, and—
She whirled around ready to leave, only to immediately freeze. She was not alone. Florence Ashford stood there, brow furrowed, arms crossed over her chest. “Lady Olenna,” Florence said, her voice low. “I think you should leave.”
Olenna swallowed hard, standing her ground. If Florence wasn’t helping Randyll do the killings, she might be able to reason with her. They were friends. “This is my family’s castle and you are guests in our home. I have a right to know what has been brought onto my property.”
“I was under the impression guests could have some privacy in their own chambers. With their own belongings.”
“Is the snake yours too, then?” No use in dancing around the point.
Florence shook her head, letting her arms fall to her sides. “He’s Randyll’s. I’m never allowed to…”
She trailed off, and Olenna took the moment to step to the side. She did not want the viper chest directly behind her. Just in case her next words were met with a bad reaction. “Florence,” Olenna said carefully, “I believe your husband may be the one responsible for the murders.”
“What?” Her confusion seemed genuine, and Florence stepped back with her hands clasped over her mouth. “That, that boy, and the Septon… and my Randyll? You think he had the snake do it? No, no, that’s impossible, it’s…” She turned away, but whirled back to face Olenna just as quickly. “What are you going to do?”
“I have to inform my brother,” Olenna replied softly. This was surely difficult for the poor woman. “I assume he’ll have Randyll arrested at once.”
“And if I want him to be spared? Please, my lady. What if we leave and return to Ashford at first light? He will cause no more harm here, I swear it!” The desperation in her voice was raw, and for a moment Olenna was almost convinced by it.
Then she remembered Septon Qyle. The long nights diving into scripture, picking apart the wording, laughing together over idiots and drunks making fools of themselves in the courtyard outside. And then his bloody, pale face, grimacing like a weirwood tree. Randyll must answer for his crimes. “I’m sorry,” Olenna said. “But Lord Gwayne can be merciful. If Ser Randyll confesses, I’m sure he will agree to spare his life and send him to the Night’s Watch instead. They are good-brothers; I’m sure he has no wish to take his head.”
Florence nodded, head bowed in resignation. There was nothing more to say. Olenna smiled tightly—a weak excuse for an apology—and left the room. She had to go find her brother.
Randyll’s arrest was ordered on the spot.
When he was taken in he acted as if he knew nothing about the murders, naturally, but the proof was in front of them all. In the snakebites on the bodies in the maester’s chambers. His judgment was scheduled for first light the next morn, and Olenna had a smile on her face as she strolled back to the gardens. The cloud of fear that had hung over the castle since Alyn had been found dead was lifted, and soon enough justice would be served.
Poor Florence, though. Olenna couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was a terrible thing for a woman to lose her husband this way, and even more so face the embarrassment of having married a criminal. Society would judge her for whatever role they believe she played. She deserved whatever kindness Olenna could offer. Such as a ship, leaving first thing after the trial, to send both her and the snake back home so the scorn would be as brief as possible. Olenna could even pack the snake tonight and make sure she would not have to carry the chest herself.
Olenna slipped into the guest chambers and headed straight for the chest. …But it was not as she had left it. The lock was on the floor, the chest left unsecured. Olenna stepped towards it, hesitant. Was the snake about to attack again? She had to check and make sure it was there, especially with the damn thing left unlocked. But if it sprang at her again…
Hands trembling, Olenna cracked the lid the barest hint of a sliver. And then a little more, and then a little more. No snake struck out towards her. In fact, there… didn’t seem to be a snake inside at all. Olenna let the lid fall all the way open as she stared at the empty wooden bottom. There was nothing inside but some rodent droppings, probably the serpent’s dinner.
How had this happened? Had she forgotten to secure it properly, and the snake managed to knock the lock off from inside? Olenna remembered turning the key, but she had been so startled by Florence showing up that she had neglected to double check anything. And it wasn’t like she was familiar with the lock. It was possible, she supposed, that whatever she had done with the key had failed to actually lock it shut.
Because Randyll was already in a cell in the dungeons. And if the snake was on the loose and it wasn’t him, it was either an accident, or… or the killer was still out there.
Gwayne had to be told at once. Olenna stood and sprinted from the chambers, looking for wherever her brother had gone. The hour was getting late, so perhaps the dining hall, or—
She rounded a corner only to find him walking back from the kitchens, a goblet of wine in his hand. “Olenna!” he said, grinning. “I’m celebrating the capture of our killer. Care to join me for a cup? Pella’s just opened a bottle of vintage Gold if you’re interested.”
Olenna shook her head and started to follow him back to his chambers. “We have a problem. The snake’s gone.”
Gwayne paused. “Gone? Escaped or taken?”
“I don’t know yet. But we’ll have to be careful. You should find someone to catch it tonight.”
“I will.” Gwayne reached his chambers. “Let me splash some water on myself first, try to sober up a bit. I hadn’t expected to have to deal with this again.” He ran a hand down his face, then pushed open his door. “Be back in a minute.”
It closed behind him, and Olenna leaned back against the wall opposite the door with a sigh. It was just like Gwayne to toast to his own success when it was both Olenna’s doing and premature besides. But before she could truly start to grumble about the wait, Gwayne had darted back out of his room, panting. Olenna straightened immediately. “Gwayne? What’s wrong?”
“Found the snake,” he said, jerking his thumb backwards over his shoulder. “It’s on my pillow.”
They decided to leave the door shut for the time being.
This was clearly no accident nor escape—it was a targeted attack, and an assassination attempt no less. Randyll still sat rotting in their dungeons. The only option left had to be Florence. Olenna hadn’t wanted to believe it, not someone she’d considered a friend, and yet…
Her heart raced as she rushed to get Kennos, the captain of the household guard since as long as Olenna could remember. He’d help. Gwayne was running to check on Malora and keep her away from the room, but the snake had to be dealt with as soon as possible, and Florence right after that.
Kennos’ room was on the third floor. At the end of a long hallway, past Olenna’s own chambers. But as Olenna rounded the top of the stairs and started towards where she knew he’d be, someone stood between them.
Florence. With a dagger in hand.
She’d sent the snake after Gwayne, and gone for Olenna herself. Her head turned, and they locked eyes. Olenna’s breath caught in her throat, frozen. There were seconds to decide what to do, or it would be too late to defend herself.
Olenna flung herself into her own room. There were places to hide there, she knew, unlike the empty hallway or trying to backtrack down the stairwell. And if she could sneak out again while Florence was distracted looking… it was her best chance. She tucked herself into her wardrobe, and left the door cracked open just enough to see out of.
The sound of Florence’s footsteps creaked on the floorboards before she even came into Olenna’s narrow window of sight. “Where arrree yooouu?” Florence practically sang, ducking to peer under the bed. “I know you’re here.”
One by one, hiding spots were crossed off. Behind a chair. Inside a large chest similar to the snake one, but actually held slippers. Behind another chair.
Olenna’s throat was dry. The wardrobe wasn’t the most obvious place; it was tucked halfway behind a large fern and of a design with shelves to take up much of the space. Florence may not have expected Olenna could fit. One of the benefits of being short.
Still. She would come to it soon enough; there were not many places left to search. Olenna could not let herself be cornered like that. She would have to move.
And if she was caught she was dead. Olenna swallowed hard, and waited for Florence to look up inside the fireplace before daring to shift a muscle. And when she did, she didn’t hesitate—she crept from the wardrobe in a fluid motion, crouching to her hands and knees on the floor to make herself less obvious.
She had wanted to make it to the door, but Florence noticed first. She whirled around, dagger glinting in the fading sunlight, and Olenna had no choice. The only place to go was under the bed.
Florence padded around the room, giggling. She stopped in front of the door as she blocked the only escape. All Olenna could see from under the bed was Florence’s skirt, mere inches from her nose. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut, block it out and pretend she was anywhere else—but that would only get her killed. She needed to stay alert, be ready to run or defend herself. Still, Olenna didn’t dare exhale.
She watched Florence turn the lock on the door. It didn’t itself trap Olenna inside; she could unlock it in a matter of seconds. But it was a barrier to slow her down. Make it harder to sneak by Florence. Olenna silently cursed, dreading every second as Florence began to recheck everywhere she had before. She didn’t even bother with the wardrobe; Olenna had revealed her position and stupidly left it open behind her.
And Florence wasn’t stupid. She would look under the bed soon, perhaps even next. If Olenna was to have a hope of surviving, she needed to keep the element of surprise.
Which meant moving now. Olenna rolled out from the other side of the bed, clambered to her feet, and darted for the door.
She almost made it, too. But Florence was just faster, and blocked her path barely three feet from the door. She pointed the dagger at Olenna’s chest. “You,” she said, walking forward to force Olenna back. “You want to imprison my husband for something he did not do? If you’re going to make an accusation, you should be right.”
Olenna had no response for that. Her eyes were locked on the blade. She took another step backwards, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “You said the snake was his. You lied. And for what? Why?” She managed to make herself look Florence in the eye. “You acted like my friend. Was that all a lie too?”
Florence shook her head. “No, we were friends. That stableboy, though—Addam?”
“Alyn.”
“Doesn’t matter. He beat the horses, did you know that? No? I bet he hid it whenever your family was around. But I saw. Saw him kick a cat, too. Those animals can’t fight back. Snaggletooth can.”
Snaggletooth? Olenna blinked, trying to process everything Florence was saying. “The snake has a name. You keep a viper as a pet?”
Florence took another step forward, still brandishing the dagger. “Randyll picked him up on a trip through Dorne last spring. He wanted to create a bestiary. But I fell in love at first sight, and insisted he stay with us. Snakes are such fascinating creatures, you know? They can even be loyal when they know who takes care of them. To strangers, though… well, I find he’s a handy guardian against would-be thieves. They open a chest expecting treasures, only to find their own demise. No great loss, of course. Ridding the Reach of undesirables is a bonus.”
“And Septon Qyle?” Olenna backed up again, well aware of the large window now only a few inches behind her. But as long as the dagger was in front, she had little choice. Her fingers found the edge of the stone just behind her hips, fumbling for any sort of grip in the cool recesses. “What did he do that made him unsavory?”
“The same thing as you. Asked too many questions.” Florence lunged forward.
On instinct, Olenna went low. She couldn’t be pushed from the window if she was below the ledge, and with a bit of luck, Florence could even be carried out by her own momentum. So she crouched down, and hurled herself forward.
…She was not fortunate enough to send her flying, but Olenna did succeed in tackling Florence to the floor. She tried to go for the knife, straddling over her, but Florence still clung to it with a white-knuckled grip. “Don’t you dare, you bitch,” Florence growled, swinging the blade wildly as Olenna tried to grab her arm. It was an effort to avoid being slashed open by it, and if she could have, Olenna would have fled then and there—but Florence held tightly to her dress with her other hand, and wrapped a leg over her knee to pin her.
Things were flipped in an instant. Before she could even react, Olenna was the one on the bottom, pinned between the unforgiving floor and a madwoman. And in a battle of strength, Olenna knew she would lose. Florence had ten years and twenty pounds on her.
So she was going to have to be clever. The dagger descended towards her neck, and instead of trying to push back on Florence’s arms, where she had already failed, Olenna focused on twisting Florence’s wrists. Not stopping the knife, just changing its direction. Concentrating on the weak points of her grip—because holding on to anything was impossible, if her wrists were bent all the way forward.
It was a desperate, last-ditch effort. But somehow, somehow, Florence’s iron lock on the handle slipped away, and it landed harmlessly sideways on the front of Olenna’s dress.
Olenna didn’t waste a moment. She snatched it up, and plunged it upwards into Florence’s stomach. A gasp of air left the woman’s throat—a choke, perhaps, or just in surprise—and then she went limp, collapsing motionless still on top of Olenna. Hot blood soaked into both of their gowns, no doubt staining them, the carpet, and most likely the floorboards as well. A lingering reminder.
Olenna rolled Florence off of her and sat up, the evening’s events only now sinking in as the shock began to subside. She had killed someone. Stabbed her straight in the heart. …And in doing so, had saved her own life, avenged the dead, and prevented further killings. A small enough price to pay. Her body still shook, but at last she was safe.
Maester Byron found her not too long after. He helped her up, draped a blanket over her shoulders, called in a maid to assist her in changing into cleaner clothes. He and Kennos carried the body away, too. Olenna watched blankly. These were her chambers this morning. Now they were a murder scene.
The story she and Gwayne decided on, when Olenna found her senses again, was that in the wake of her husband’s imprisonment Florence Ashford had gotten so drunk that she stumbled over and fell directly onto her own dagger. It was not the most elegant of stories, but it saved a modicum of embarrassment for both Randyll and Malora, and they readily agreed to accept it. The so-called murders were deemed nothing more than accidents due to the snake’s unfortunate escaping, and Randyll’s time served in the dungeons ample penance for that. He and the snake were sent home on the same ship Olenna had originally prepared for Florence.
She watched them sail away with a heavy heart. One innocent man, one snake, and one body. A waste of life, really. Just like her own dead.
But at least the killing was over for now. Things could finally return to normal, and she and Gwayne—and Malora, unfortunately—could remain in relative peace until their parents came home.
…Hopefully.