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Game of Thrones: The Giant Crab of the Narrow Sea
Game of Thrones: The Sword King
Game of Thrones: From Bastard to Emperor
Illyrio could not contain his rage.
The original plan had been flawless.
Viserys Targaryen the Third was supposed to die in that carefully orchestrated Dothraki war.
His sister Daenerys would become his honored guest, waiting patiently until she came of marriageable age.
The dragon eggs would be sent as gifts to help the exiled prince win allies and sellswords.
Instead?
This false descendant of Daeron had not only crushed the barbarians—he had seized the Triarchy of Volantis.
He had executed two elephant-party leaders, purged their inner circle, installed Varyon Dortalos's nephew as co-ruler, and was already courting the surviving tiger faction.
Daenerys Targaryen had slipped her chains and reunited with her brother.
And the ship meant to carry the dragon eggs to Pentos had stopped for resupply in Tolos—exactly where the khalasar struck before it could sail.
His own expedition into the Shadow Lands had ended in humiliation. The captain and crew had survived foreign demons and lethal plague, only to die in some backwater port on the way home.
But his old friend was right.
The milk was already spilled. All they could do now was grip the cards they still held and play the next move.
"Does King's Landing know yet? What about the Red Keep?" the Magister asked, forcing himself to accept the new reality.
"I have done everything possible to suppress the rumors and messages," Varys sighed. "Tonight, when Robert goes to bed, he will still be ignorant. Littlefinger has kept silent as well… but by tomorrow morning—at latest by noon—the entire city will be talking of nothing else but the upheaval in Volantis."
There was no need to ask how Robert Baratheon would react once he learned a Targaryen now ruled a Free City.
His bone-deep hatred of the dragon blood was known even to the street whores of Pentos. Illyrio knew it better than most.
So the Magister asked only the question that mattered most. "Will the king decide to go to war?"
"Almost certainly," Varys shrugged, as if stating the obvious. "These past years Robert has forgiven almost everyone—except Rhaegar's kin. He will never tolerate a Targaryen ruling even a single village, let alone the richest and most powerful Free City in the world. The moment the news reaches him he will summon the small council and publicly announce the mustering of his banners for an eastern campaign. Some may try to talk him out of the gamble, but our soft-eared king becomes strangely stubborn the instant dragons are involved."
Illyrio stroked his beard, weighing every risk the new situation carried.
In war, Westerosi lords often forged brotherly bonds and unbreakable military alliances, forgetting old grudges.
But the Reach had once fought for the Targaryens. So had Dorne.
The Westerlands and the Iron Islands hated both Baratheon and Targaryen in equal measure.
When Robert—this king who had never done anything to earn their love—demanded they sail across the sea, bleed, and die chasing a ghost most commoners had already forgotten, would those lords, knights, and captains truly follow willingly?
Besides, the war itself would be anything but easy.
They would have to secure the Stepstones from pirates and privateers, negotiate with the Three Whores—and even if those cities hated Volantis, they would never willingly help the King of the Sunset Kingdoms, let alone submit to his command.
And finally, one had to admit it: the exiled prince had already proven himself a competent commander and a natural leader.
If he fought Robert, he could draw on the endless wealth of the First Daughter and on an army of battle-hardened sellswords who were fiercely loyal to him.
If Robert let rage cloud his judgment, he would walk straight into a long, brutal, grinding campaign.
Far from home, without reliable supply lines, bleeding in a hostile, alien land full of pitfalls.
Only the demons knew how many Westerosi and Volantene men would die in that meat-grinder.
And when the gods—and the two schemers—were finished, both the Usurper king and the self-proclaimed Triarch should perish in the flames.
Then the dry tinder spread across the Seven Kingdoms could be lit at last, and when the moment was perfect, Aegon would step forward.
The handsome prince, sword in hand, leading a hardened sellsword army bound by blood and contract, would appear as if from nowhere.
Only…
"The last time we met," Illyrio said slowly, "you warned me that Stark and Lannister were ready to tear each other apart."
"They have already drawn blood," Varys stressed the word with care. "Today, Jaime Lannister—our queen's dearest brother—attacked Eddard Stark in the streets of King's Landing. He killed several of the Northman's men, wounded Stark himself, and tried to flee the city."
"Tried?"
"As soon as I learned Jaime meant to escape, I informed the king. Robert ordered every gate sealed and the lion dragged back to the Red Keep. Lannister men were stopped at the Gate of the Gods. Fighting broke out. Heavy casualties. Ser Jaime was taken back to the Red Keep, but Ser Jacelyn Bywater was mortally wounded by the lion and died an hour ago. In total, three Northerners, five Gold Cloaks, and seven Lannister men-at-arms are dead."
Illyrio barely managed to stop himself from spitting.
Was yet another promising scheme about to be dragged into the seventh hell because of a handful of hot-headed strangers?
"We cannot allow a civil war to break out in Westeros right now," the Magister stated, not asked. "Aegon is not ready to play his part, and our allies are still far too few. But Viserys has already gathered more than fifty thousand warriors and seized Volantis's fleet intact. You are right—if civil war erupts now, it gives the Targaryen a golden opportunity. That born leader who defeated the Dothraki and now wears the cloak of glory will double his support the moment he lands in Dorne or the Reach with the red dragon banner. He could take the throne with almost no effort."
"I still doubt he can hold Volantis," Illyrio said, thinking aloud. "He has spears and swords, true, but to the Black Wall, the merchant districts, the harbor, and the priesthood he will always be an outsider. How long will Volantis tolerate a foreign tyrant—especially one who has brought the threat of war from the west down upon the city once more?"
Varys nodded in agreement.
"But we must prepare for the worst, mustn't we? If the old-blood nobles can poison Viserys, or put a knife in his heart… we return to the original plan."
"I will do everything in my power to ensure the Targaryen does not win this war," Illyrio said thoughtfully, already running through his web of contacts. "I have many favors owed to me in the Three Whores—especially Lys—and I have dealt with some of the old-blood families. When the red dragon sleeps, a hundred daggers will be aimed at his heart. Even if Volantis beats back Baratheon, he will never enjoy the fruits of victory."
"An excellent plan, but do not rush to kill him. There is no need to lighten Robert's burden by spoiling his eastern campaign, is there?"
"No, there is not."
In any case, that was a matter for the coming years.
Right now they had to discuss the immediate problem.
"Can you keep the direwolf and the lion from ripping each other apart for the time being?"
"I never said it would be easy," Varys replied with a self-mocking smile. "But I will do my best."
"As you always do, my dear friend. What Serala said on her deathbed was true—she never misjudged a man."
"Nothing irreparable has happened yet. Noble blood has been spilled, but only a little… like drawing bad blood with leeches. Nothing fatal. As long as Robert lives, no one dares overturn the board in the open." Varys continued, "Robert will threaten the Lannisters, plead with his friend Eddard, promise glory to his brother Renly, and remind Stannis of his duty. The king has many enemies, but while he breathes, none will dare flip the table outright."
Having spent years in the political snake-pits of the Free Cities—and masterminding a conspiracy that spanned the known world—Illyrio had learned to read every hint and the smallest shift in tone, especially from this friend he had known since they were young men.
"Outright?"
Varys paused—an extremely rare thing. Illyrio's ears pricked up at once.
"Petyr Baelish, Lord Eddard's former ward and now Master of Coin… he is the one quietly stoking the fire, trying to ignite open war between Stark and Lannister. He used childhood grudges and that damned charm of his to lure Catelyn Stark toward Tyrion. He led Eddard Stark to his brothel and warned Jaime Lannister in advance. I still do not know his final goal, but it is clear he needs a realm-wide war right now."
"Men die," the Magister offered, the implication plain.
"Ordinary men… yes. Littlefinger? I would not be so sure." Varys shrugged. "He is devilishly clever. He has slipped every trap I set, just as I have slipped every snare he laid for me. To move against him openly would be to declare war—and very likely drag myself down with him.
I am certain he holds enough secrets to put me on the king's scaffold.
We cannot remove Petyr so recklessly. Besides, his talent for scheming and stirring trouble is second to none.
Every night, Illyrio, I watch the candle in his chamber burn until dawn, and every night I fight the urge to turn that single spark into a raging inferno… but his time has not yet come.
The worst of it is, I still do not know what he truly wants.
A real lordship?
A castle?
Who knows—perhaps the Iron Throne itself.
I suspect only Petyr knows the answer, and he will never speak it lightly."
At this point Illyrio could only offer the safest counsel.
"You said yourself that as long as Robert lives, war will not erupt."
"Yes, and I intend to do everything in my power to keep Robert alive…" Varys promised his friend, "because the moment he dies, Littlefinger moves infinitely closer to his goal—and we move infinitely farther from ours."
After a short silence, Illyrio Mopatis summed up the situation.
"Then you will keep Robert breathing and push him to prepare the eastern campaign. I will watch over Aegon and weave a net around Viserys. The war between Volantis and the Seven Kingdoms must be delayed as long as possible—until both false kings destroy each other."
"Exactly. It will cost us years… but from the beginning, we always planned to play a long game, did we not?"
They had.
Their game had begun the day Serala died, leaving behind her deathbed oath.
It would only end on the day Aegon— Aegon the Sixth, rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, true heir of the Sword King Daemon Blackfyre—took the crown.
(End of Volume One: The Exile)
(Volume Two: Blood and Fire—please review, vote, and keep reading!)