Chapter 95 Rossart's Fruit
"It seems today is your unluckiest day. The tunnel you worked so hard to find has led you to a dead end."
The gold-robed knight, sheltered behind two of his shield-bearers, taunted the men trapped at the end of the passage. Ian and his companions were similarly blocked, with nowhere to run.
Originally, the knight had been crestfallen when his subordinates reported that the enemy had fled from the Stranger's Temple into the tunnels below. He never expected the passage would be a dead end, allowing him to corner his quarry here.
"On the contrary," Ian said, turning to face him. "I think this is my luckiest day. As for you... you were very unlucky to have followed us."
"Is that so?" the gold-robed knight sneered, though a flicker of caution entered his eyes. "You have seven men. I have seventy. Tell me, in this narrow tunnel, how exactly do you plan to make me unlucky?"
He knew the man was likely bluffing, but he remained on guard.
"That's not important, my friend," Ian said with a broad smile. "It's almost dawn outside. How about I treat you to breakfast?"
"Outside?" The knight's vigilance sharpened. He abandoned the idea of interrogating his captive and, worried that the villain's penchant for monologuing would be his undoing, waved his men forward. "Attack!"
The gold-robes advanced, passing their commander in a tight formation, five men abreast. With hammers and spears pointed forward, they began to press down the tunnel toward Ian.
They had taken only a few steps, however, when several men stumbled, tripping over jars that lined the tunnel walls. The clatter drew the commander's attention. He glanced toward the wall and his eyes widened in shock. Where he had seen only solid stone, Ian was now pushing open a hidden door.
Ian and his men slipped quickly through the opening. The last one through tossed a torch back into the tunnel before slamming the stone door shut.
The last thing the gold-robed knight heard was a clear voice from behind the stone: "Try some of Count Rossart's fruit. I hope you like it."
Then, his entire world was consumed by green light.
***
In the Red Keep, Lord Petyr Baelish entered the council chamber, his feet silent on the fine Myr carpet. He pulled out a chair and sat.
He was a man of short stature but handsome features. His grey-green eyes, alight with cunning, studied the portly, bald man seated across from him.
"No need to look," Varys said with a placid smile. "It is just the two of us today. Grand Maester Pycelle is feeling unwell, Lord Renly prefers a ball to the council, and Prince Stannis has returned to Dragonstone. As for His Grace the King, he went north and took half the court—and the other half of the Royal Council—with him."
"So, Lord Varys, why did you wish to see me today?" Petyr rose from the table and ambled to the corner of the room, where a wooden screen from the Summer Islands stood, intricately carved with a hundred lifelike and colorful birds.
"Why else would an intelligence chief seek out a Master of Coin?" Varys watched Baelish with a meaningful gaze.
"Oh, seven hells," Petyr sighed, gently stroking an exquisite tapestry from Norvos. "Don't tell me you need money." He gestured to the lavish decorations around them—another tapestry from Qohor, a third from Lys. "Look at all this. This is all coin, and our king has a rare talent for spending it."
"Not the sort of thing a good Master of Coin should say," Varys jested.
"Very well," Petyr said, spreading his hands. "I assume you are gathering a cadre of assassins to deal with the two children."
"Two young dragons," Varys corrected softly. "I asked our dear Lord Robert about it. He told me, and I quote, 'I will kill every Targaryen I can get my hands on. I'll kill them root and stem. I'll see them as dead as their dragons and piss on their graves.' His words, not mine."
"Wonderful. Allow me to guess—this will be a considerable expense, will it not?"
"Quite considerable," Varys nodded. "But a pittance compared to the crown's debt. I require only two thousand gold dragons. A trifle you could easily acquire from the generous Lord Tywin, Lord Tyrell, or even the Iron Bank of Braavos."
"You will have what you need," Petyr said without hesitation. "I only hope you can handle it all cleanly. Is there anything else?"
"Yes," the eunuch nodded. "Last night, there was a violent clash in Flea Bottom. More than forty corpses were found laid out before an abandoned underground sept."
"How interesting. But surely you should report such matters to our Master of Laws, Lord Renly. That is, if he weren't already at the Tyrells' ball. Of course," Petyr added, showing no particular interest, "he wouldn't care even if he were here. His title is purely nominal. Lord Arryn used to handle such affairs. But Lord Arryn is no longer with us."
"Half of the dead were gold-robes," Varys added.
"Oh?" Now Petyr's interest was piqued. "What happened?"
"You've truly heard nothing?" Varys cast a meaningful glance at his colleague, whose own information network in King's Landing was second only to his own.
"What news?" Petyr frowned. "Flea Bottom... Gold-robes... Does this have something to do with the brother of Janos Slynt's mistress?"
Petyr recalled the man. He had become a captain of the City Watch through connections, but his fighting prowess was surprisingly formidable, and he had quickly won the loyalty of his men. Not long after, his brigade commander had gotten drunk and fallen to his death from the city wall, and Janos had promptly promoted the man to fill the vacancy.
"If I remember correctly," Petyr added, "that fellow took the initiative to request a posting in Flea Bottom during Lord Arryn's funeral."
"He is undoubtedly involved," Varys confirmed. "According to the gold-robes who survived, their captain pursued a group of enemies into a tunnel beneath the Stranger's Temple. He never came back out."
"That tunnel didn't lead to the Dragonpit, did it?"
"So, you also heard about the explosion at the Dragonpit this morning?"
"A prostitute taking clients nearby claimed the fire was green," Petyr mused. "I simply assumed a drunken customer accidentally ignited one of the wildfire jars that the Mad King's pyromancer, Count Rossart, buried there. Is there more to the story?"
"The surviving gold-robes said their captain promised them the operation would make them all rich men. And since nearly every profitable venture in King's Landing has some connection to you, I thought I would ask if you knew anything of the matter."
"Unfortunately, I know nothing about it. It would seem, then, that something has happened in this city that neither you nor I are aware of."
"There are a great many things in King's Landing that I do not know," Varys demurred with a smile, shaking his head to dismiss the compliment. "For example, I do not know how Lord Arryn died."
"Thank you for the story," Petyr said, his expression unchanging, refusing to take the eunuch's bait. "I will make some inquiries. If I learn anything, I will be sure to share it with you."
With that, Petyr Baelish offered a slight bow and departed, a trademark smile fixed upon his face.
---
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