Heaven really did have a plan. Joffrey hadn't carried that wineskin for nothing.
He unhooked it from his belt, pulled the stopper, and drank half the bag straight in front of Varys.
"Thirsty, my lord?"
He stepped closer and poured the rest down the eunuch's throat with almost gentle care.
Purple wine gurgled in, then spilled back out the corners of his mouth, running down his chin and soaking the expensive violet robe.
A strangled scream tried to claw its way out of Varys's throat, but the terror in his wide eyes was even bigger.
"You—cough—you how—"
His voice grew smaller. His face grew darker.
In the end, only a corpse slumped in the chair.
Joffrey carefully emptied a small jar of wildfire over the body, walked out of the cell, and picked up a torch.
"You go first?"
The Hound said nothing. He turned and strode away. His heavy footsteps faded quickly into the black mouth of the passage.
Joffrey glanced back one last time at the outline slumped in the chair.
He let the torch fall.
A wave of heat slammed into his face. He slammed the door shut, sealing the fierce green glare behind the stone.
The spiral stairs were long. They climbed forever.
When he finally stepped out under the night sky, the stars were sharp and cold.
The next morning Joffrey yawned as he left his chambers.
Guards clustered in the corridor in twos and threes, whispering. The second he appeared they scattered, trying to look innocent.
"Hey, Joff, did you hear? Something happened down in the black cells—"
"What happened? White Walkers? Demons?"
A hand clamped over the speaker's mouth, but the words were already out.
"Idiot!" Cersei hissed. "If there wasn't anything before, you just invited them here!"
A strange flicker of memory brushed through Joffrey's mind, but he wasn't in the mood to mess with anyone—especially not his already paranoid mother.
The biggest ghost, of course, was the Hound.
Late last night he had carried a large sack down to the dungeons, told the guards it was official business, and ordered them not to ask questions. Joffrey had followed a few paces behind, face hidden under a cloak like any ordinary squire.
When they came back up, the sack was gone.
No one asked a single thing.
Don't see what you shouldn't see. Don't ask what you shouldn't ask. That had been the Red Keep's unwritten rule for centuries.
Besides, that level of the black cells was almost never used. The few gaolers left were rarely around, and one of them had been Varys himself wearing the face of a man named Rugen.
In recent months the only other prisoners had been Jaqen and his two friends who were now safely on their way to the Wall.
So a small fire hot enough to burn a man to ash? Just another ghost story for the dungeons.
Varys had always been the kind of man who came and went like smoke. By the time anyone really noticed he was missing, the Others would already be marching south.
The only annoying part was that the quickest route to the deep cells ran straight through the Traitor's Walk.
Or you could use the secret passages.
If hot water was the blood running inside Winterfell's walls, then the passages were the Red Keep's veins. They twisted and branched everywhere, reaching every corner of the castle. One of them connected the fourth level beneath the black cells—the interrogation chambers.
But if you didn't know the way, you could wander down there forever.
The one man who knew every tunnel best was now gone for good.
Better to use the front door.
Still, Varys's threat had done its job. Back in his chambers Joffrey couldn't sleep no matter how hard he tried.
He moved the wardrobe, rolled up the rug, tapped every brick in the walls, and tore the room apart looking for any hidden entrance.
He found nothing.
He wasn't afraid of poison, but the idea of a little man crawling out of the wall in the middle of the night and putting a crossbow bolt through his skull while he slept wasn't exactly comforting.
Joffrey was sentimental about this bedroom—he'd grown used to it—so Robert's old royal suite sat empty for now.
None of that would matter in a few days.
They were marching out.
And before they marched, they needed to settle on a battle plan.
Every tactic is a gamble.
"I intend to split the army and lay siege to Storm's End," Eddard said.
Joffrey stared at the map on the table, frowning slightly.
Splitting the army was usually suicide—especially when the target was Storm's End, the castle that had never been taken.
Stannis had once held it with only a few hundred men against tens of thousands from the Reach.
The man currently in command was Ser Cortnay Penrose, Renly's castellan—experienced, stubborn as a mule, and sitting on plenty of stored grain.
Without some clever trick, the place was impossible to crack.
The older the castle, the stronger it got. Westeros was no exception.
Storm's End had ties to "Brandon the Builder." There was old magic worked into its walls. It made the Red Keep—with its thousand holes and secret passages—look like a sieve.
The curtain wall was said to be thirty feet high and twelve feet thick, wide enough on top for a warhorse to gallop. The seaward side was a ridiculous twenty-four feet thick, built to laugh off tsunamis. Even if someone could summon a flood from the sky, the castle would still stand.
Attacking Storm's End was just asking for trouble.
Had the Hand started believing their own numbers after Tywin's recent beating? Did he think the advantage was theirs now?
Joffrey glanced at Eddard, who was deep in thought, and kept his mouth shut.
Someone would object soon enough.
"I disagree," Jaime said.
"Renly is already marching west along the Goldroad, cutting down every tree he can find to build siege engines. Scouts report two trebuchets are finished and being dragged toward Deep Den. That castle won't hold long. Once it falls, Renly can push straight into the Westerlands and threaten Casterly Rock itself. We should march the entire army west and relieve them!"
Someone's homeland was under the axe and he was starting to panic.
"Ser Stevron Lannister has already raised a fresh host," Eddard replied calmly, eyes steady on the map. "Lord Tywin has withdrawn with the survivors. They can hold Casterly Rock."
"What about Lannisport?" Jaime shot back.
"There aren't enough men to defend it properly. Raw recruits won't stand and fight. The second Renly appears they'll pull back. A city guard—even if every man is worth ten Gold Cloaks—can't stop Renly's army!"
Jaime wasn't wrong. Lannisport's record spoke for itself.
The largest city in the Westerlands, the third-busiest port in Westeros, had been burned to the ground three times and sacked more than twenty. Even under Tywin's iron rule it had never caught a break. The fleet he spent years building was destroyed at anchor during the Greyjoy Rebellion before it ever saw real action.
"And the gold," Jaime added. "Most of the Westerlands gold is in Casterly Rock, but Lannisport still holds plenty. If Renly gets his hands on that coin and the Reach behind him, he'll raise another hundred thousand men overnight!"
"Plus the south is already whispering that Renly is Robert come again—handsome, generous, a warrior. Keep letting him win and the fence-sitters will start swinging back and forth again."
Jaime had even dragged out Robert—the man he hated most—just to try to sway the Hand.
Eddard didn't budge. His finger stayed pressed on the map.
"That is exactly why we must send men to Storm's End. It lifts the siege of Deep Den and forces Renly to come to us for a decisive battle."
Joffrey studied the map more closely.
Maybe the old wolf really did have a plan.
Or was this just because Tywin had taken a beating and Eddard thought their side was now the desperate one—the kind that always wins?