"What did you say? Lord Eddard has already left King's Landing?"
Renly sat behind his desk, his expression frozen in disbelief.
His attendant, Loras Tyrell, frowned slightly. "It's true. He departed this morning, with the Hand of the King seeing him off, along with the northern lords."
Renly's fist slammed against the wooden desk, anger flashing across his face. "Damn it! Why didn't we hear of this sooner?"
Yesterday, Lord Eddard Stark and King Robert had quarreled fiercely, parting on bitter terms. Renly had planned to visit Eddard today—to confirm whether Margaery truly resembled Lyanna Stark. He hadn't expected Eddard to leave so suddenly.
Loras tried to reassure him. "Perhaps the argument between His Grace and Lord Eddard drove him to depart early."
Renly considered it. That might have been part of it. Yet as a member of the King's council and someone who maintained decent relations with Eddard Stark, why hadn't Eddard confided in him the night before?
Then Renly recalled the look Eddard had given him upon returning to King's Landing with the captured nobles of the Seven Kingdoms. There had been something deliberate in that glance—something unspoken.
Had Eddard discovered something?
Impossible.
Renly mentally reviewed every step of his plan. No one beyond himself and House Tyrell should have known. Still, he needed to think carefully about how to reestablish contact with Eddard Stark.
Loras, ever confident in his sister's charms, offered a suggestion. "Why not let Margaery enter the royal court directly—to serve His Grace? With her beauty and grace, she could easily win his favor."
Renly shook his head. "No, it's too soon. Margaery hasn't even had her first moonblood. Sending her now would only invite that serpent of a queen's malice."
He turned to Loras. "This cannot be rushed. Margaery is still growing, and the Lannister woman grows more arrogant by the day. My brother... he's already grown tired of those fair-haired, blue-eyed creatures. Just give me more time."
Renly's eyes gleamed with quiet confidence, a faint smile playing at his lips.
Loras met his gaze, his own eyes full of unspoken warmth and allure. The air between them thickened with something tender, dangerous, and electric.
...
Deep within the secret passages of the Red Keep, the air was damp and heavy. The only sound was the crackling of torches breaking the silence.
Varys held a torch aloft, dressed in rough-spun fabric, disguised as a plain and unremarkable woman. Beside him stood Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos, who had crossed the Narrow Sea to meet him.
"My old friend," Illyrio said gravely, "you've fallen into that Easterner's hands after all."
Gone was his usual smugness; his face was serious as he looked at Varys. "Varys, that Easterner doesn't play by any rule known to man. The inheritance of the Seven Kingdoms was laid before him, yet he refused it. The princess's beauty is blessed by the gods themselves, and still he showed no interest. Tell me—could it be that the Easterner simply doesn't care for women?"
Varys looked at his companion, exasperated.
Gods, when had Illyrio grown so slow-witted?
"Enough with these absurd guesses. If he truly had no interest in women, he might at least have agreed to our offer for the prince's sake—young, handsome as he is. But no. He cannot be swayed by temptation or force. And tell me," Varys added, his tone carrying a faint, cutting amusement, "I hear you even considered using a dragon egg to change his mind?"
A flicker of irritation crossed Illyrio's face. "I swear, I lost my senses for a moment. But as soon as I left Tyrosh, I realized my mistake. That Easterner is insatiable and utterly without honor. If I'd truly handed over the dragon egg, I'd likely be returning to you empty-handed."
Varys's voice was low and rough. "Good. You understand now. If that Easterner truly possesses a dragon, he may also know how to hatch dragon eggs—and command the beasts. We cannot afford to let him have one. It would only bring disaster."
Illyrio nodded, then frowned. "But does he truly have a dragon? The prince told me there was no sign of one when Tyrosh fell, and your 'little birds' reported the same."
Varys's expression darkened slightly. "I can't say for certain. Apart from those defeated Westerosi nobles, no one has seen a dragon. Still, I'd rather believe he has one—because that means young Griffin's chances will be better."
A knowing smile tugged at Illyrio's lips. "You still haven't forgotten my plan. And admit it—it's sound. The key is to have the Easterner marry the princess. Once she becomes his queen, we'll finally uncover who that man truly is."
Varys sighed. "Don't be so confident. We're not the only ones scheming in Westeros."
Illyrio raised an oiled eyebrow and smoothed his gleaming mustache. "Oh? You've heard something important?"
Varys nodded, his eyes shadowed. "His Grace's brother, Lord Renly, and House Tyrell have been... restless. It seems they're moving pieces we know nothing about."
Illyrio's brow furrowed. "Do you have any leads?"
"Not yet," Varys said. "Renly is cautious—far too cautious. My little birds haven't overheard a single useful conversation, nor uncovered any written correspondence. But they did find something... interesting."
He drew a parchment from his sleeve and handed it over. "The Tyrell Great Lord has been searching for a talented artist to paint his youngest daughter. This portrait was one of the rejected sketches."
Illyrio's eyes lit up as he studied the image. "This young Lady Tyrell is quite beautiful."
Varys gave him a flat look. "That isn't the point, my friend."
Illyrio chuckled sheepishly.
Varys continued. "The Tyrells' behavior is suspicious. They contributed more to the war than anyone, yet demanded nothing in return. They even paid the king's reparations in full, allowing the captured nobles to be ransomed home. What are they really after? Now, thanks to their patient maneuvering, the king plans to dismiss his brother as Master of Ships—so that House Tyrell may claim a seat on the Small Council."
Illyrio stroked his glossy beard thoughtfully. "Perhaps they simply want a place at the council table. That's not unlikely. You know Westeros better than I do, old friend. The Tyrells have wealth, but not power. They wouldn't pass up a chance to win the king's favor."
Varys sighed. "If only it were that simple. And... just now, I received word from the East. The Easterners are at war with Lys. Lys and Myr have offered enormous contracts, and mercenary Companies are flocking to the Disputed Lands to fight them."
Illyrio immediately understood and his expression darkened. "Myles won't join that war. Before I left Pentos, I warned him repeatedly—the Golden Company must stay out of the Disputed Lands."
Varys's gaze sharpened. "My dear friend, you'll sail back tonight. Watch them closely. Don't forget—the Golden Company harbors several greedy and hot-headed men. I'm not certain Ser Myles Toyne can keep them in line."
Illyrio frowned, recalling the troublesome rogues in the Company—men like Tristan Rivers.
He doubted whether Myles Toyne could truly control those whose loyalty ended with their purse strings. But his confidence soon returned, and he smiled. "You worry too much. Have you forgotten? Griff is there. He serves as Myles's second-in-command, and Myles trusts him completely. Griff knows what must be done."
Varys rubbed his temples, weary. "All the same, to be certain, my old friend, you should return at once."
He didn't want to admit it—but he knew it to be true. Since the arrival of that Easterner, everything had fallen into chaos.
Now the linchpin of their entire plan—the Targaryen siblings—were hostages in Tyrosh. And still, they could not persuade the Easterner to wed the princess.
The longer this dragged on, the worse it would be for them.
Varys watched in silence as Illyrio's figure receded into the darkness, vanishing into the depths of the passageway.
...
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