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Margery's sailing ship had shrunk to a white speck on the horizon. Then it was gone.
Miranda stood behind Lynn and adjusted the heavy bearskin cloak across his shoulders.
"My lord, will she deliver your message?"
"She will."
Lynn was certain of it.
"She's a clever woman. She knows how to choose."
"A woman who knows when to bend is worth more than a hundred knights."
"That said, the Tyrells won't be so easily persuaded."
Miranda nodded, though she only half understood.
What she did understand was the way that woman from Highgarden had looked at him. It made her skin crawl.
Lynn said nothing more. His gaze drifted past White Harbor, out toward the distant south.
...
King's Landing. The Red Keep.
Varys moved through a lightless secret passage with a small oil lamp held before him, his footsteps making no sound at all. A ghost in silk.
He stopped outside a hidden chamber, pushed the door open, and entered.
On the stone table inside sat a rough clay jar.
Lynn's "canned goods."
A boy in ragged clothes stepped out of the shadows and bowed.
"Grand Maester Pycelle has examined it." His voice was thin and high. "He says it's ordinary salted meat. Nothing special. He even tasted some — said it was too salty. Only northern Wildlings would eat something like that."
"Heh heh heh..."
Varys chuckled softly, his plump body trembling with it.
"Pycelle is old. His mind has gone to rust." He walked to the stone table and ran his powdered fingers across the jar's rough surface. "What would he know."
He had been studying this thing for days. In the end it had taken an iron pry bar and considerable effort just to open it.
Inside: dried venison, packed in rendered fat, smelling of rich, dark meat.
And not a trace of spoilage.
"How many times have I told you — nothing goes to waste." Varys picked up a piece of the venison and pushed it into the boy's mouth. "How can we afford to waste food."
The boy resisted for half a second. Then his eyes went wide. He swallowed it in two bites and reached for more.
"Good?"
"Good!" The boy nodded hard.
Varys smiled. It was an odd smile for an odd face.
He understood exactly what this jar represented.
Not food.
Survival.
When the Long Night came and famine swept the Seven Kingdoms, this would be the only hope left for anyone still breathing.
And right now, that hope belonged entirely to one man in the North.
"The Lannister lion. The Tyrell rose. The Baratheon crowned stag..."
Varys murmured to himself.
"You're still tearing each other apart over that wretched iron seat, and none of you have noticed , the true king has already laid in enough food for winter."
He could see it clearly.
The Long Night descending. Famine swallowing the South whole. Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms on his knees before that man, begging for a crust of bread.
When that day came, who would be the true master of Westeros?
"No..."
Varys's eyes sharpened.
"We cannot let things stay this settled."
"Peace only wastes time."
"Lynn must unite Westeros. Soon."
He needed chaos. A chaos vast enough to swallow the entire South.
Only in chaos would he find any chance, any sliver of hope, for the kingdom he truly served.
"How has His Grace King Joffrey's mood been lately?"
The boy's answer came flat and immediate. "Not good."
"He smashed his mother's favorite vase. Whipped a guard who said he wasn't as brave as Stannis." The boy paused. "He says Lord Tywin treats him like a puppet. That the Tyrells look down on him."
"Is that so."
A satisfied smile spread across Varys's face.
A foolish king. An arrogant king. A king drowning in resentment.
The finest pawn imaginable.
"Go, my lovely little bird." Varys leaned close to the boy's ear, his voice dropping to something soft and coaxing. "Go tell our king."
"Tell him that people in King's Landing are singing songs about Renly Baratheon's romantic adventures , and no one remembers Joffrey's courage."
"Tell him the Tyrells' Knight of Flowers is nothing but a man who loves other men, and that this same man is about to marry his mother Cersei."
"And tell him that a true king never fears war."
The boy nodded, not entirely understanding.
"Go." Varys patted his shoulder. "Let our king remember what it means to have Baratheon blood."
The boy turned and vanished into the dark passage without a sound.
Varys watched the darkness where he had gone, his smile shifting into something stranger.
Go, my poor little king.
Go prove your "valor" , to your grandfather, to your uncle, to every last person who has ever looked down on you.
Take that fury of yours and stir this stagnant water until it boils.
...
One month later. Dragonstone.
Lynn's bedchamber was warm, as it always was.
He had just finished his daily meditation. In a short while, twenty thousand more undead soldiers would answer his call.
Knock. Knock.
Two quiet raps at the door.
Not Miranda. Her knock was heavier.
"Who is it?"
"A friend." The voice from outside was faintly hoarse , impossible to say whether it belonged to a man or a woman.
Lynn rose and opened the door.
No one.
Only a breeze carrying the bite of snow.
He smiled to himself, closed the door, and turned around.
Someone in a gray cloak was standing in the center of the room. He hadn't been there a moment ago.
Jaqen H'ghar.
"You've come," Lynn said, moving to the table.
"A man has come." Jaqen set a burlap sack on the table. "And completed a task."
The sack fell open. A head rolled out.
Balon Greyjoy. Lord of the Iron Islands.
His eyes were wide and fixed, his face locked in the terror and bewilderment of his final moment.
Lynn looked at the head and nodded once.
"Seems the task was successful."
"A man only took back what did not belong to him."
Jaqen's gaze drifted to the open clay jar sitting on the far end of the table. He was quiet for a moment.
"A man has walked through Volantis. Crossed Pentos. Passed through the shadows of Braavos." His voice carried something that wasn't quite confusion, but was close. "A man has seen the wealth of kings and the misery of slaves."
"But a man has never seen anyone conquer hunger."
He looked up at Lynn.
"You have done it."
"A man now believes you may truly be the one the prophecy speaks of."
Lynn smiled and said nothing.
He could tell Jaqen wasn't finished.
"A man is returning to Braavos." Jaqen straightened. "A man came to say farewell. And to ask one question."
"What question?"
"What does a man , what do you — want?"
Jaqen's eyes held Lynn's.
"Wealth? Power? Or... the power of gods?"
Lynn set down his cup.
"Everything."
"Everything?"
Lynn's answer was unguarded. The greed behind it was absolute and unconcealed.
Jaqen went still.
"I've heard the House of Black and White keeps certain kinds of knowledge." Lynn's voice was quiet. "Blood magic. Dark magic. Powers that the followers of every god consider forbidden."
Beneath his cloak, Jaqen shifted , barely.
"The House of Black and White does hold what you seek." His voice returned to its usual flatness. "But those things do not belong to mortals. To obtain them, a price must be paid."
"A price."
Lynn smiled. "I've never been stingy when it comes to paying."
"No."
Jaqen shook his head.
"Not a price measured in gold. The followers of the House serve death. What they seek is the balance of the world." His gaze seemed to pass through the castle walls entirely, settling on something far above , a dragon threading through cloud. "Your existence alone is an imbalance. And your dragon is a tool that breaks it further."
The air in the room felt several degrees colder.
"The House is wary of you. They believe the fire of dragons will burn away death's peace." Jaqen met his eyes again. "You are already strong enough. To give you those things as well would unmake the balance of the entire world. They will not do it."
"So you're telling me I can't have them." Lynn's tone didn't shift.
"No." Another small shake of the head. "A man is stating a fact. If you wish to gain that knowledge, you must prove to them that you are no threat."
Jaqen's voice dropped lower. His eyes moved to the clay jars on the table.
"Or... offer them a gift even the gods cannot refuse."
He said nothing more after that. He looked at the jars for a moment, then turned and gave Lynn a slight bow.
Then he walked to the door, and left behind only a handful of words still hanging in the cold air.
"A man must go."
"A man hopes you will let more people live."
➤ Next: Stirring Trouble
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