Harrenhal, which had been silent for only a few days following the return from the capital, erupted into a hive of frantic activity once more.
The stables were the heart of the chaos. Stallions and garrons, well-fed and rested after a week of luxury, were led out by soot-stained stable boys. The rhythmic clink-clink of the farriers' hammers echoed through the yards as they inspected every horseshoe for the long march ahead. On the training grounds, soldiers huddled around whetstones, the grating sound of steel on stone providing a constant backdrop to their idle chatter.
Veterans who had followed Eddard to the Westerlands during the first campaign boasted to the green recruits, telling tall tales of the riches they had plundered from Lannister manors in Oxcross. They spoke of golden goblets and fine silks as if they were bards, while around them, the logistics of a kingdom moved with mechanical precision. Sacks of grain were hoisted onto heavy wains; canvas bags were stuffed with sausages and cured meats; and salt-cured fish, their eyes cloudy and glazed, hung in silver-grey rows from the cart frames alongside baskets of onions, turnips, and winter potatoes.
Eddard walked alone along the flagstone paths. The snow from the previous night had already begun to melt, the dark stones retaining enough of the earth's residual warmth to turn the white powder into a slick, black slush.
He made his way toward the remains of the Widow's Tower. It was a lonely, jagged structure, its base housing a dungeon carved deep into the granite foundations. Two guards in silver scale armor and heavy black cloaks stood at the entrance, their breath misting in the air. They snapped to attention, their spears crossing for a brief heartbeat before they pushed open the heavy wooden door.
"Your Grace," they murmured in unison.
Eddard took an oil lamp from a wall bracket and descended the steep granite steps. The air grew colder and damper with every turn. He stopped before a pitch-black cell, no more than six square meters of stone and shadow. Within, a bed, a table, and a single chair sat in pristine, almost obsessive order.
Varys, the Master of Whisperers, was hunched over a flickering candle, his magnificent purple silks now dusty and frayed. He was reading from a copy of The Seven-Pointed Star.
"Varys," Eddard said, hanging the lamp on the bars. "Sitting in a hole like this and reading scripture? I didn't take you for a man of the cloth."
Varys looked up, his bright eyes reflecting the lantern light. He wore a mask of humble tragedy. "'The Maiden brought a lady as supple as a weeping willow... the Mother made her fertile... the Smith forged each of them a steel armor,'" he recited softly. "I was merely praying for your future, Your Grace. That you might establish a foundation that lasts a thousand years."
"Save your prayers," Eddard laughed, the sound sharp and echoing in the damp air. "I extorted three million dragons from the High Septon and handed the city to Stannis, who worships a fire-god. If the Seven were going to strike me down, they've missed their chance. Perhaps they simply don't exist."
"How can mortals presume to fathom the shifting winds of fate?" Varys closed the book, a sickly sweet smile appearing on his face. "You didn't come to discuss theology, Eddard. You came to decide my fate."
"True," Eddard admitted. "I am marching for the West at dawn. I've been debating what to do with a man who has served Aerys, Robert, Joffrey, and Tommen. If I kill you, I lose a unique mind. If I keep you, I feel a thorn in my throat."
Varys stood, hiding his hands in his wide sleeves. "And why the hesitation? A wizard should have no fear of a spider."
"I have taken the Northern Westerlands, but ruling them is a different matter," Eddard explained. "The Northmen are too blunt for intrigue, and the Riverlords hate the West too much to be objective. I need an intelligence agency eyes and ears that report the truth, not their feelings. I need a spy instructor."
Varys's eyes narrowed. "You don't trust me."
"Of course not," Eddard said. "I'm not a fool. But I trust your ability to train others. I don't want 'Little Birds' with no tongues, Varys. I want children with families, with roots in Harrenhal and the Crossing. I want you to teach them how to listen, how to steal a letter without breaking the seal, and how to identify the pulse of a city. I want a school of espionage."
Varys looked surprised, a genuine emotion for once. "You want to turn my art into a curriculum?"
"I want a system, not a puppet-master," Eddard replied. "If you want to keep breathing this cold air, you'll teach my people. If not, the gallows are being prepped for the morning."
Varys bowed his head, his voice deep and respectful. "To continue breathing is always the preferred choice. I am at your service, Eddard."
As Eddard emerged from the dungeon, he found a man waiting in the courtyard, a man whose presence was as restless as a desert storm. Prince Oberyn Martell no longer wore his silk robes open to the wind. He was wrapped in mink-lined velvet, the silver threads of his garment highlighting the golden sunbursts of his house.
"Eddard! I've been looking for you," Oberyn called out, his laughter bright despite the chill.
"Prince Oberyn," Eddard noted with surprise. "Is something wrong?"
"Everything is wrong as long as Tywin Lannister draws breath," Oberyn said, his cynical mask slipping for a moment to reveal the white-hot rage beneath. "I heard you march for the West. I want to go with you."
"I have plenty of generals, Prince. Why risk your life for my war?"
Oberyn stepped closer, his voice dropping to a hiss. "I traveled the Free Cities, fought with the Second Sons, and learned every trick of the blade and the poisoner's craft. Since you sent me Gregor Clegane's head, you know I seek justice. Elia, Aegon, Rhaenys... their blood is still wet on the stones of the Red Keep in my mind. Tywin is gathering his strength at Crakehall. I want to kill him myself."
Eddard looked at the Red Viper. "Why not call Dorne to arms? Why go as a single knight?"
Oberyn sneered, his frustration palpable. "I sent a raven to Sunspear. My brother Doran... he is a man who measures his steps ten times before taking one. He says the Marches are too heavily guarded. He says he needs a 'legitimate' reason to break the peace now that Myrcella is his ward. He takes years to prepare what I want to do in a day."
Oberyn's eyes burned with a dark light. "Let me be your sworn shield. Let us find the Old Lion together."
Eddard considered it. Having a Prince of Dorne on his front lines was a powerful political statement, and Oberyn's lethal skills were undeniable. "Fine. But write to Doran. Tell him you go of your own accord. I won't have the Sun and Spear declaring war on me if you fall."
"He already knows I'm mad," Oberyn laughed, satisfied.
As the Prince strode away, Eddard saw another carriage departing the main yard. It was Maester Bennett, traveling in plain clothes under the guard of a few discreet knights. He was headed for Maidenpool, then south toward Oldtown. His mission: to "rescue" those acolytes and maesters who preferred the pursuit of magic over the Citadel's grey stagnation.
The foundations were being laid. Steel, spies, and sorcery, the three pillars of the Karstark throne were finally coming together.
[System Notification: Espionage Instructor Recruited: Varys.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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