Chapter 76
VARYS-The Spider
Varys thought himself a great warrior, though he did not wield a blade or a bow. His weapon was perhaps far more potent than both those things could ever be.
He was a merchant of words and whispers, and assassins. Through these very weapons, he had slowly and surely hollowed out an empire and empire that had stood tall for around three hundred years.
And though it was the Baratheons and the Starks who had fought in battles, it was he who had brought down the Targaryen Empire—Him and his slowly, but surely spun web of lies, and half-truths.
He had continued that very task, even during the reign of Robert Baratheon, to destabilise the realm so much that it would become easy for a conquering force to land and unite the Kingdoms once more.
It was a well-thought-out plan that would have worked if not for one singular individual.
Varys had accounted for many people in his plans. He had thought of the Old Lion and his thirst for legacy. He had considered the Starks of Winterfell and their unwavering loyalty and stubbornness. He had thought of Lysa Arryn, and her forbidden affair with the corrupt and insane Master of Coin.
He had even made plans about the fertile Reach, and the ancient Rose that ruled over it all.
Yet he had not planned for that boy, a young and inconspicuous boy who had tried to fade away into shadows, as if avoiding his gaze, knowing already of the web and intent that lay hidden underneath.
Often, he wondered how a boy of barely ten years had learned of his plans. How had he seen through his smiles and lies when he had been able to fool Kings and Lords and Magisters of all sorts?
But not him.
He had seen through him and his lies even as a child. And now, as an adult, he was the biggest thorn in his side. A constant hurdle in his plans, that refused to budge.
"Well, at least we have taken care of our Viper problem," Illyrio added, as he read the missive mentioning how the ship carrying Oberyn Martell had been sunk, with every person on the ship now thought dead.
It was a well-planned move from the King, for if there was anyone who could further the poison already lingering in the head of the Targaryen Princess, it was him—the Red Viper of Dorne.
He was also the only person in the realm who could uncover the boy's true identity and reveal him for the pretender he was. Aegon Targaryen, they called him now, but he had been born with a different name, carrying a different legacy, but Varys and Illyrio had promised that they would succeed where their ancestors had failed.
That they would bring down the mighty House Targaryen, and so they had spun a lie, and done it so well that no man in the realm could unravel it from the truth.
The former Hand of the King, and companion of the Prince, Lord Jon Connington was blinded by guilt and love and saw in the boy's Valyrian features a reminder of the love he had lost in the Battle of Trident.
He saw in that babe a chance at redemption and revenge, and his hatred for the Dornish Princess and what she had robbed from him made it so that he refused to search for the hints of her blood in the boy.
The young Princess, though, was becoming distrustful. She hid it well, but Varys had played this game for years and could see the doubt and uncertainty lingering in that gaze as she looked at her nephew.
But her hands were tied, and though she had doubts about the boy's heritage. She kept them to herself, both in fear of retribution and a desire for revenge against those who had ruined her life.
"I wouldn't rejoice so much," Varys answered as he sat there in their manse in Pentosh, trying to combat the Stark boy who now sat on the Iron Throne.
"We do not know yet if Dorne will believe our word," and already he had sent a secret missive to Prince Doran, hoping to blame the Prince's death on the Stark boy, but there was a chance that the Dornish Prince would see through his lies.
"Without Dornish support, it will be hard for us to take Kingslanding," and though they had an army, what they lacked were ships to carry that army and ports to land them.
And it was all because of that one boy, who had unravelled his carefully spun web in five years, and had bound together the Seven Kingdoms once more, just as Aegon the Conqueror had.
"Let us hope that Prince Doran believes our words and not the Kings," and that was the only hope.
"And what of the West?" for to take the capital they would need to attack it from two sides, at least.
Cregan Stark had used the threat of the Blackfyre invasion to do what many Kings before him had tried to obtain. He had built for himself an Army, a standing force, twenty-five thousand strong, stationed at Duskendale, all of it under the command of a very competent and able commander in the form of Randall Tarly.
It was not as large as the army they had cobbled together, but theirs was an army of sellswords and mercenaries, many of whom would not hesitate to turn to the other side at the offer of Gold and other rewards.
Their only hope was to have at least two of the Seven Kingdoms revolt against the Crown, and while previously one could always rely on the Greyjoys to take such a risk, their new King had hollowed out the Iron Islands and had put them under direct control.
The Starks, the Tullys, and the Arryns would never turn against the King, and the Queen carried the Baratheon name, putting all the swords and shields of Storms' End behind her.
She was also a Lannister, and perhaps twice over if the rumors about Queen Cersei's proclivities were true. Still, there existed a grudge between the King and the former Kingsguard, the Kingslayer offering him an opportunity to turn the West against the Crown.
It was not a certainty yet, for while the Kingslayer was the heir to the West, it was the Old Lion that ruled over those lands.
"The Old Lion is in the capital," he began, and King had summoned all of his Lord Paramounts to the capital to cement their loyalty, but it also presented them with an opportunity.
"The payment has been made, and soon enough the Old Lion will be dead," and Illyrio's face contorted at the mention of the Gold, as he put down his cheese and grumbled in frustration.
"Was it truly necessary to spend so much time just to kill one single man?" and it was their only hope.
"It is the only Faceless men who offer the certainty of death," and while the Sorrow Full Men were quite skilled as well, they did not offer the same level of certainty as the House of Black and White.
But Illyrio was a merchant, and he had not become as rich as he was by wasting gold, and the death of the Old Lion had come at a great cost.
"We could have bought two dozen ships with that," he suggested, and they could have, but without a shore to land on, even a hundred ships would be useless.
"We could have a thousand ships, yet they would be useless if we had no shores to land our armies," and they had gathered a respectable fleet of a hundred and fifty ships, small and large, most of them had been taken from merchants and magisters on contract.
"Dorne and the West are the only regions that have some reason to defy the King, the rest of the lands will not allow us to land our armies," and even if they were able to force their way onto the shores, the losses would be too heavy, hence making this entire campaign unviable.
"Let us hope your gamble pays off," and that was all they could do now.
"Indeed, but I am hearing rumors that the magisters and merchants are growing worried," Varys whispered, as Illyrio nodded, for it was he who dealt with them.
"The fools grow greedy and restless," and that was not good.
And that was worrisome for they needed those ships, just as they needed the shores of Dorne and the Westerlands to land their army.
"I soothed their worries as much as I could, but we are running out of time, my friend," Illyrio warned as he looked him in the eye, and he knew it as well.
"We need to act, and we need to do so soon," and that was why he had spent all that gold on the Faceless Men.
"And we will," Varys assured him, though before he could say anything more, a servant came into the room and whispered something into Illyrio's ear before handing him a massive.
His old friend frowned as he opened the missive, and Varys saw his eyes widen as he gasped.
"What happened?" he asked, growing worried as Illyrio replied through gritted teeth, as he pushed away the table of food infront of him, spilling it all on the floor as he rushed to stand.
CLANK. CRASH!
The copper plates clanked, and the wines spilled as the servants all backed away in fear as Varys rose up as well.
"THOSE FOOLS! THOSE DAMNED FOOLS!" he screamed, as Varys's worries only grew.
"What have they done?" he asked, as Illyrio finally threw the letter towards him, and he shouted.
"The fleet! The bastards have taken back their fleet!"
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THOROS OF MYR—The Red Priest
Years ago, Thoros had come to the Seven Kingdoms to spread the word of the Red God. He had come to serve, but the truth was that he was not a very Godly man back then.
He wore the robes, spoke the sermons, and offered the prayers, but he worshipped the Red God, for he asked for little but fire and blood. The Red God did not ask for celibacy, sobriety, or even piety for that matter.
The Red God only sought fire and death, and Thoros was ever happy to offer both those things as long as he could drown himself in wine and women.
But now, years later, he served the same God, but this he served not for wine, or gold, or women. Now, he served in fear. He served for salvation and purpose, for Thoros had laid eyes on the Death that was coming for them all. He had stared it dead in the eye. Had felt its chill creep up his bones as that pack of
He had seen it unaffected by steel or spike, only to die through fire—frozen, or alive.
That was the day he had decided to do all in his power to make sure that the Living would win this war, that he would do the Red God's work and serve his chosen, and that was what Cregan was.
He was God's chosen, the Azor Ahai. The boy may not claim to be the chosen one, perhaps he may not even know himself, but in Thoros's eyes, he was the destined Prince, he was the Lightbringer.
It was the only explanation for the boy's odd behavior, and how he knew all that he did, and why Thoros had been drawn to him all those years ago.
It was not chance—No. It was fate. It was the work of his God.
And so, for five years, Thoros had lived a lie as he lived and fought with the Golden Company, earning himself the trust and favor of these men who sought to go against his chosen Lord.
But even now in this lie, he was doing the boy's work, for he had known of their plans even with the Sea splitting them apart. He had known them all, and so he had sent him here five years ago, so that he may entrench himself in their ranks, so that one day he could unravel the Spider's carefully spun web, in one final stroke.
So, this was why Thoros found himself sitting in darkness, wine in hand, as he stared at the calm sea in front of him. And the port was in pandemonium, as half the galleys that had once been stationed there were now all gone, as the magisters and the merchants all broke faith with Varys and the Cheesemonger and their plans, and drew back their ships.
It was a big blow for the spider and his plans, and if there was anything he knew about the boy he was just getting started.
He had brought down that corrupt, thieving Master of Coin while he was but a boy, and now he had years to plan and ruled over an entire continent.
If it were anyone else, the Spider could have won. But against Cregan, all plans became useless, for he was blessed by the Gods.
And just as he was thinking about Cregan and his prowess, he heard a sound of footsteps behind him, as a stranger came and stood beside him. He wore a long robe and a mask that covered his face, and he reeked of sea and salt as Thoros put down his flask and whispered slowly.
"So, you are alive?" he asked, and the man nodded.
"Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated," and for good reason, and so he pushed himself up and stood beside him.
"Come, let me take you to the Princess..."
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"Father is dead!" The three sand snakes stood in front of their uncle, who sat there in front of them in his wheelchair.
"Everyone is saying that he is dead. That his ship sunk," and Doran looked the three of them in the eye, as he offered them the truth.
"No," he answered as the three girls all stilled upon his words.
"Oberyn is very much alive," but they would pretend otherwise. Already, a funeral had been arranged for him.
"But you shall mourn to the world as if he is dead," he whispered, and gave them his command.
"You will cry, and wail, and curse, and weep as dutiful daughters would. I shall weep with you, and so shall all of Dorne, and all those who ever knew the Red Viper of Dorne," he commanded, as they turned quiet.
"You will curse the King in the shadows, whisper treason to all those willing to listen, and if you hear any whispers back, you shall speak of them to me, and only me," and they nodded, for they had lived for half a decade in the capital and knew of the politics and games that were being played.
"Where exactly is father?" questioned Nymeria to Doran.
"Essos...."
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