The last merchant ship had slipped out of Blackwater Bay, and King's Landing felt emptier with every passing day. Word of the Reach army marching north had spread through the city like a sickness. Fear hung in the air.
Davos stood at the head of the Small Council chamber, exhausted. He had never wanted to sit in this seat, let alone stand in it while the realm cracked apart around him.
"That will be all for today," he said, voice rough with fatigue. He remained on his feet. Sitting in the Hand's chair still felt wrong.
Petyr Baelish rose with his usual smooth smile, leaning on his cane. "Lord Davos, I'll see to the grain shipments. At least our sea lanes are still open."
Davos gave a short nod. "Thank you, Lord Baelish."
He watched the man leave, then exchanged a glance with Varys. The eunuch murmured something about sending more eyes toward Dorne and the east before slipping out as well.
Neither man went far.
They met beneath an archway where a suit of green dragon-scale armor had been mounted like a statue, its gauntleted hands gripping a verdigris-stained bronze axe. Varys had arrived first. He heard the familiar tap of Petyr's cane long before the man appeared.
Petyr rested the cane against the armored figure. "What did Jon Snow offer the Martells that was worth keeping their army out of the war? It must have been something substantial."
Varys gave a delicate shrug. "Perhaps the heads of the Mountain and Amory Lorch."
"Don't play games with me, Lord Varys." Petyr's voice was soft, but the edge was there. "The Reach army is already in the Riverlands. Stannis is finished. Jon will take the Iron Throne. Is that what you want?"
Varys studied him for a long moment. The time for half-truths was ending.
"What do you want to know?" he asked.
Petyr's gray-green eyes narrowed. "Who do you truly serve? Or rather… who are you truly working for?"
Varys met his gaze without flinching.
Petyr spoke first, offering something real. "I arranged the death of Jon Arryn. Eddard Stark's fall was also my doing."
Varys already knew this, of course. But hearing it spoken aloud was Petyr's way of showing his hand.
The Spider decided to match the gesture.
"I serve the true Targaryen line," Varys said quietly. "Not the bastard currently calling himself king."
Petyr's eyes lit with genuine hunger.
Varys told him the truth he had kept buried for years. How he had switched the infant Aegon with another child the night the Mountain came to the Red Keep. How he had placed the real Aegon with Jon Connington. How they had spent years building the Golden Company into a force loyal to the boy. How they had finally gone to Daenerys.
Petyr listened like a starving man at a feast. His fingers tightened on the cold metal of the statue.
"And the dragon queen?" he asked. "Have you spoken with her?"
Varys hesitated only a heartbeat. "Yes. Young Aegon will wed Daenerys Targaryen. Together they will return to Westeros with three dragons."
Petyr's breath came a little faster. The idea of dragons — real dragons — clearly thrilled something deep in him.
Varys continued. "We need the realm divided and bleeding when they arrive. Jon Snow and Stannis tearing each other apart serves us. But…"
Petyr caught the hesitation. "But what if they don't fight? What if they both step back and prepare for the Long Night instead?"
Varys said nothing, but his silence was answer enough.
Petyr stepped closer. "I can close the Bloody Gate if you need me to. Or keep it open. The Vale's army is mine to move when the time comes. If your dragon prince needs a safe landing in the north… or a closed door… I can provide either."
He smiled, thin and sharp.
"And if the moment requires it," Petyr added softly, "I can arrange for Stannis to die. A sudden vacancy on the Iron Throne would give your Aegon somewhere to plant his banner."
Varys looked at him for a long time.
Petyr Baelish was dangerous. Ambitious. Untrustworthy. But right now, Varys needed allies who could act.
He gave a small nod.
"We will speak again soon," he said.
Petyr's smile widened. He already knew exactly who he would speak to next.
---
Inside Maegor's Holdfast, Queen Selyse was unraveling.
She had lost more hair in the last week than in the previous year. Her temper was short and vicious. Servants walked on eggshells. Even Shireen, veiled and quiet, moved like a frightened mouse whenever her mother was near.
"Why couldn't you have been a boy?" Selyse snapped at her daughter for the third time that day. "If you were a son, your father wouldn't have to rely on his brother's bastard!"
"I'm sorry, Mother," Shireen whispered, eyes down.
Selyse grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "Sorry? You're always sorry! What use are you?"
Shireen's eyes filled with tears behind the veil, but she didn't pull away. She never did.
A servant entered nervously and offered a folded handkerchief on a silver tray.
Selyse recognized it at once. Petyr's token.
Her entire demeanor changed.
"Let him in," she ordered at once. "Now."
She smoothed her skirts with shaking hands, suddenly desperate for the one man in the Red Keep who still seemed to listen to her. The one man who might still have a way to save them.
Outside in the corridor, Petyr Baelish adjusted his cane and allowed himself a small, satisfied smile as the guards opened the door for him.