Chapter 51
"A Dragon Egg?" Daenerys asked, troubled by the price of her freedom.
"Yes, princess," Ser Jorah answered, and she seemed just as worried as she was.
She wanted to be free. She wanted her child to live, but this was a steep price to pay for this freedom. These eggs were all she had of her House, and now this man was demanding that she hand over one of them to him.
"Can we trust him?" she asked, and Ser Jorah took a second to answer.
"Not any more than we can any other merchant," and that was not encouraging.
"Still, from what I was able to gather, the man does have the means to take us away." Perhaps it was all that mattered. Still, to part with even one of those treasures was a great burden, but was it worth more than the life blooming inside her?
"How long will this take?"
"Seven days," Ser Jorah answered, and he had asked the former sell-sword the details, but he had been rather reluctant to divulge them.
"The eggs buy us safe passage to Braavos, where he has a small House prepared for us," and she had lived in Braavos before. A long time ago, and she remembered only a small red gate from that time in her life.
"Do it," she commanded, and the eggs were hers to give, and to their House they may as well be the symbols of a bygone era, but to her they were nothing more than relics of glory long gone.
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The King's solar was filled with tension.The castle was not mourning, but whispers of treason and treachery filled the air on a day meant for celebrations. The Lannisters, or at least those gathered in the King's chambers, where the young King paced with absolute fury.
"You did this," Steffon accused his mother, who seemed taken aback by the accusation.
"Me?" she asked in surprise.
"Of course, you. Who else but you in this place holds any sympathy for my wretched brother?" the King accused his own mother of treachery.
"I did no such thing," she defended herself and denied the accusations. But the King was not convinced.
"I don't care," he declared.
"I want you to leave the castle at once," he announced his decision.
"Steffon," she gasped, aghast at his decision.
"I will hear no more of it. You will leave for Casterly Rock, and help Uncle Jaime in ruling the Westerlands," and then he turned towards his grandfather.
"I want him found. I want him found, and brought to my feet," and the Old Lion took a second before he nodded.
"As you wish," and the King paced, and then dismissed them all. Each of them got up and left except for the smallest of the Lannisters, who had been watching the entire proceedings with a rather piercing gaze.
"This is not good," and for the first time in a long time, Tyrion spotted a hint of fear in his eyes.
"I know," Tyrion answered.
"Just when I had sorted out the mess in Essos, I find myself facing new trouble back home," and Tyrion picked up a glass and began pouring himself some wine.
"Still, I think that you are worrying too much over this," and the King seemed taken aback by those words.
"Joffrey is still Joffrey," and there was some truth to that.
"I should have killed him," the King uttered in frustration.
"He is your brother," Tyrion Lannister pointed out.
"That did not stop him," the young King's counter was sharp.
"Fair enough," the little man relented as he sipped his wine.
"We will find him," Tyrion assured his nephew.
"I will have my men scour the streets," and the young King met his gaze.
"Have them look into the new High Septon?" and that took Tyrion by surprise.
"Why?" and Steffon simply answered with a shrug.
"Just a hunch," he answered.
"Tell me about your plans in Essos?" and in this entire castle, Tyrion was amongst the only few who knew of the King's true plans in Essos.
"The Black Dragon is dead," and he would never understand how his nephew was able to spot Varys' plot so easily. He refused to divulge on how he had gotten rid of the pretender.
"That is one less dragon for us to worry about," and now they only had the Beggar Prince and his sister to worry about.
"Maybe," and now Steffon leaned.
"I was thinking about how we can use this to our advantage," and now Tyrion was intrigued.
"How?" he questioned.
"We know well that Varys and Illyrio were working together in this plot, and kept it a secret from Viserys and his sister," and Tyrion knew that, and he quickly understood his intentions.
"You want to turn Viserys and Illyrio against one another," Tyrion realized, and Steffon Baratheon, and it was a brilliant plan.
"The weaker Viserys and his forces are, the greater our chances of victory," and it was all that mattered in the end.
"It is a great plan, but how do you intend to do such a thing?" Steffon's eyes lit up at that.
"Bron is Pentosh, and Qyburn has many contacts in the Disputed Lands," so he had access to the Golden Company.
"We can use them," and it was a sound plan. No. It was more than sound. It was brilliant.
"Remind me to never make an enemy out of you," Tyrion added, and he was not even joking. He had seen how his nephew had dismantled nearly a dozen enemies with nothing but the power of his mind.
No wonder his father held him in such High regard. Steffon was happy to let his father manage the more menial aspects of ruling, yet when it came to war and treachery, he never hesitated to take charge himself.
He was, in many ways, the perfect combination of the Old Lion's mind and Robert's charisma, though they both knew that he had none of the latter's blood running through his veins.
He was Lannister through and through.
"I could say the same of you, uncle," Steffon answered.
"Even I would not be dull enough to plot a war on the second day of my marriage," and Steffon gave a resigned sigh.
"I will rest easy when my enemies are dead, and I have no wars to fight," and the boy still did not understand that such a day would never come.
"I am afraid you are mistaken here my nephew," Tyrion added somberly.
"A King never runs out of enemies," and the weight of his words landed.
"Then this shall be my fate until I draw breath...."
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Miles away, Ser Jorah walked into the alley once more, and found the sell sword smuggler waiting for him.
"We accept," he told the brown eyed man who smirked.
"Good," he answered, and the older northman ground his teeth as he questioned.
"The Prince has his sister under lock and guard," he added.
"I know," the man answered gruffly.
"I will need your help to get her out of the manse," and the man looked into his eyes.
"So be it, but you will have to help me with that," and the man motioned for him to follow after him.
"How?" Jorah questioned.
"Tell me, what do you truly know about the Magister...."
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In Kingslanding, Qyburn bowed his head as the young King walked into his chambers. The dark and damp place was unworthy of the presence of a King, yet he had begun to realize that there was more to the young King than he had initially realized.
They were very similar in their hunger for knowledge and their disregard for the norms of their times. While other men would shy away from his methods, the King had encouraged his experiments and had even offered him his own insights about many subjects.
"Have you found him?" the King questioned, and Qyburn nodded.
"I have, your grace," and it had been some time since Prince Joffrey had escaped from his prison, and the entire realm was still reeling from the shock of it all. But the King had been quick to recognize the culprits.
"It was just as you suspected. It was indeed the High Septon who had your brother taken from the castle," and the young King's lips thinned as he heard those words.
The Old High Septon had just died recently, and the clergy had just selected a new man to replace him. Qyburn had not met the man himself, but by all the rumors he had heard of him, the man was a fanatic.
"Did they act alone?" the King questioned, and Qyburn shook his head in remorse.
"I am afraid I have no answer for you about this, my Prince," and he could see the King's mind racing now.
"If this new High Septon has made his mind to go against me, then I shall respond in kind," and then he looked into his eyes.
"You will never speak about what I am about to order you, Qyburn. You will never write of it. Better yet, you shall cast it out of your head the second I utter these words," and Qyburn would never dare betray the young man in front of him, for he wished to see just what kind of a world he would make for himself with that untamed wit of his.
"As you wish, my lord," he bowed his head in duty and reverence.
"I mentioned the wildfyre hidden underneath the city, didn't I?" and Qyburn nodded, and he was aware of it.
"Yes, my lord," and the King nodded.
"I want you to move a hundred caches of it to the Great Sept...."
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Baelish had often wondered about the reason behind Illyrio and Varys' devotion to the Targaryens. The Chessemonger was a merchant, and a rich one at that. He had little to gain by supporting a Prince, and even then one could argue that he had been rather tame and insincere in his support even then.
The marriage pact with the Khal was a farce, and he refused to believe that a man of Illyrio's stature and wealth did not see that. Yet he had insisted on it regardless.
He had tried to search for his reasons, but had found no answer. At least not until now.
For the last few days, they had seen very little of the man, who had now holed himself in his solar in mourning for some reason, which was strange given that nearly all of Pentosh was basking them with gifts and tributes for their favor.
Still, if the whisper he had heard was true, then there was more to the man than he had let on. So, Petyr sought an old magister, one who had witnessed the rise of Illyrio through the years.
"You want to know about Illyrio's past?" the old magister questioned, and Petyr nodded.
"Yes," he answered easily.
"The magister has been a great friend to the Prince and his cause, and he wishes to see him rewarded," Petyr lied, just as Illyrio had lied to them all.
"I simply wish to know more about him so we can offer him the most suitable reward," and the old magister nodded.
"Ask away then?" and none would dare defy Viserys in Pentosh now.
"What do you know of his second wife?" Petyr questioned.
"Serra..."
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Illyrio stared at the stone hands of his late wife and cried in grief for the son he had lost. None could mourn with him, for no one knew about his loss. He had not just lost a son.
No. He had just lost the greatest treasure she had left for him.
"I have failed you," he cried, as he looked down at her face, painted onto the locket in his hand.
"I knew that you wished to make him King, but our child is gone now," and with that, years of plans and plots had been destroyed in one single motion.
"But I promise you this, my dear. I shall find the one's responsible for his demise," he vowed to her.
"I shall find them, and make them pay. I shall avenge my son..."
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