Chapter 94 — You'd Better Not Ask
"My sleep isn't what it used to be…" Grand Maester Pycelle yawned, his eyes heavy. "Lord Tyrion… I only wish I were as young as you."
The meeting was at an ungodly hour, and it showed. The old maester bowed slightly in apology.
Tyrion waved a hand dismissively. "You may wish to be young like me, Grand Maester, but I can't promise I'll live long enough to reach your age."
He leaned back, eyes half-lidded, though he looked as if he might drift off himself at any moment.
"And besides," Tyrion went on, "I'd rather rise before dawn than lie awake all night, turning like a spit—worrying over unfinished work until my skull feels ready to split."
The words sounded noble enough.
They would've sounded even nobler if Tyrion didn't look like he was one blink away from sleep.
Still—he had made the effort. He'd risen deliberately early for this, ensuring Pycelle was the first man he visited today.
The Grand Maester's quarters within the Red Keep were nestled among the ravens. They sat in a drafty chamber beneath the rookery, while one of the maester's serving girls brought them breakfast: hard-boiled eggs, stewed plums, and a bowl of oat porridge.
Pycelle gestured politely, inviting Tyrion to help himself.
"These are difficult times," the old man said solemnly. "Many smallfolk have nothing to eat. I thought it best I kept things simple."
Tyrion shrugged. "Admirable."
Then, with a faint smile, he added, "Though our Commander of the City Watch has just returned from the Reach in triumph. In celebration of such a glorious moment… perhaps we might allow ourselves the tiniest indulgence."
He let the suggestion hang in the air like perfume.
"Of course," Tyrion added, "that's only a thought."
As he spoke, he reached for the largest brown egg on the plate and cracked it neatly against the table.
As he peeled it, a wicked little thought crossed his mind.
It's rather like Pycelle's spotted bald head.
Tyrion's smile deepened.
"I eat when I can," he said lightly. "One never knows when tomorrow might offer nothing at all."
A glimmer flickered in his eyes—as if he'd remembered something… or someone.
A dangerous thread of thought.
He decided it would be wiser to step away from it.
"So," Tyrion said, smoothly shifting the subject, "do your ravens rise this early too, Grand Maester?"
Pycelle blinked, clearly unsure where Tyrion was going with this. He stroked at his white beard, which spilled down onto his chest like fresh snow.
"Why, of course. If you like, once you finish eating I can have ink and parchment brought in at once."
"No need," Tyrion said simply.
Swallowing the last bite of egg in his mouth, Tyrion spoke around the chew, his words slightly muffled.
As he did, he reached into his tunic and produced two letters, laying them neatly beside the bowl of oat porridge.
Grand Maester Pycelle's eyes dipped immediately.
Two parchment scrolls—rolled tightly, sealed cleanly in wax.
He didn't bother hiding the curiosity that flickered across his face.
Tyrion glanced at the serving girl who was still bustling nearby.
"Send your maid away," he said. "We'll speak more freely."
"Child," Pycelle ordered at once, "leave us."
The girl hurried out, and even had the sense to pull the door closed behind her, sealing the room in quiet privacy.
Pycelle's gaze returned to the letters, almost magnetized.
"And these are…?"
"Letters for Prince Doran Martell of Dorne."
Tyrion offered it casually, as if he'd said salt or pepper. He reached for another egg, cracked it with practiced ease, peeled it clean, and bit in.
"A pair of them," he continued. "Same message. It matters. Use your fastest birds."
Pycelle nodded quickly, schooling his expression—though the gleam of interest in his eyes betrayed him all the same.
"Of course, my lord. Once breakfast is finished, I shall see to it immediately."
Tyrion shook his head, his voice suddenly clipped and absolute.
"No. I want it done now. The plums will still be here later. But the realm won't wait."
He swallowed another mouthful and went on, piling pressure on pressure.
"Renly is marching north along the Roseroad, and Podrick Payne has seen fit to throw oil on the flames."
"And Stannis on Dragonstone…" Tyrion's eyes narrowed. "No one can say when he'll choose to sail."
Pycelle blinked, slightly taken aback by the urgency.
"If you insist, my lord…"
"I do insist, Grand Maester."
The words were calm.
The meaning was not.
Tyrion's brows lifted, and his gaze swept over the old man and the table—Pycelle's porridge untouched, the plums untouched… while Tyrion's eggs were already disappearing like soldiers in a losing battle.
Pycelle sighed, defeated by momentum and authority. He pushed himself up with a stiff shuffle, the heavy chain around his neck whispering and clinking.
It was a magnificent thing—thick and weighty, easily ten times the burden of an ordinary maester's chain, threaded with gemstones and precious metals.
Tyrion's eyes lingered on it.
He had always noticed that Pycelle wore far more gold, platinum, and the pale metal of White Ravens than any man reasonably required—far more than the cheaper links that served no purpose other than decoration.
The old maester waddled away.
Tyrion remained behind, entirely unbothered, and continued consuming breakfast with the slow pleasure of someone who might not get another proper meal for days.
Only after he had finished the eggs completely—and sampled the stewed plums, soft and bursting sweet—did he hear the faint flutter of wings.
Pycelle was slow… painfully slow.
But Tyrion was suddenly in no hurry.
The plums suited him.
He rose casually, waited until he saw a dark shape pass across the pale edge of morning sky—black wings against dawn—then turned sharply and strode toward the far end of the chamber where a maze of shelves rose like a cluttered tower.
The shelves were filled with everything.
Dozens of sealed jars marked with wax.
More than a hundred stoppered bottles.
White glass vials, dark vials, narrow-necked flasks, fat round ones—each arranged with obsessive order.
There were herbs by the dozen, powders by the score, tinctures and oils and dried petals… every container neatly labeled in the careful, precise hand of a maester.
Pycelle's stock of medicines was staggering, and even more impressive—the organization behind it was flawless.
Tyrion skimmed the labels like a man reading a menu.
Dreamwine.
Nightshade.
Milk of the poppy.
Greycap powder.
Monkshood.
Ghostgrass…
And then—more unpleasant names still.
Tears of Lys.
Basilisk venom.
Blind-eye poison.
Widow's blood…
His eyes flicked across the chaos of temptation—then locked onto his target.
He rose onto his toes, stretching, reaching… straining with every ounce of stubborn effort in his small frame.
Finally—his fingers hooked the rim.
A dusty little jar perched high above, forgotten, coated in neglect.
Tyrion smiled as he read the label.
Then, as smoothly as a thief in a sept, he slid it into his sleeve.
When Pycelle eventually clattered back down the stairs, Tyrion was already seated again, spooning porridge into his mouth with innocent diligence.
"My lord… it is done," Pycelle said, staring at the wrecked breakfast table.
Whatever his expression was, his beard swallowed most of it.
He eased himself down slowly, eyes returning to that same blend of vague confusion and hungry curiosity.
"But my lord… matters such as this—yes, it is best done swiftly. Yet you say… it is of great importance?"
"Oh," Tyrion said mildly. "Yes. Precisely."
He ate two more spoonfuls, then grimaced faintly.
The porridge was too thick, too plain—no butter, no honey.
Even though Podrick just brought a whole wagon of such things into the Red Keep.
Tyrion lifted his head at last, face blank as official parchment.
"So," he said, voice flat, final, and cold, "you'd better not ask."