Aegon leaned back, his initial surprise at Larys's strategic depth giving way to a cold, calculating appreciation. He had known the "Clubfoot" was a master of whispers, but today he had proven himself a master of maps and men.
"Your idea is sound, Larys," Aegon admitted, "but it carries a risk. If my father exiles me to the Stepstones, what stops him from bringing Rhaenyra back to King's Landing? My mother is strong, but she cannot stand alone against the King if he decides to strip the Greens of their offices while I am across the sea."
Larys offered a thin, confident smile. "Forgive me, Highness, but your father has the courage to transfer you, but he lacks the stomach to push the Greens to the brink. To move against the Queen and the Hand simultaneously would mean open war, and Viserys loves his 'peace' more than he loves his heir. I would stake my head on it."
Aegon tapped his index finger against the dark wood of the desk. Larys was right. Viserys was a man of half-measures. He would push Aegon away to clear a path for Rhaenyra, but he wouldn't dare tear down the Hightower scaffolding that held up the Red Keep.
"And the Triarchy?" Aegon asked, testing the limits of Larys's vision. "How do we break a 'Perpetual Alliance'?"
Larys didn't hesitate. He pulled a small parchment map from his sleeve, pointing to the island fortress of Tyrosh. "The Tyroshi are noisy, gaudy, and pathologically greedy. To break the Triarchy, you must feed that greed until it chokes them."
"Go on," Aegon prompted.
"You use the Rogare alliance in Lys to ensure their neutrality," Larys explained. "Then, you strike Myr—but only lightly. Meanwhile, you burn the harbor of Tyrosh using your dragons. Then, you let the 'mice' work. Spread rumors that Myr has sold Tyrosh out to you. Don't give details; let their own suspicious minds fill in the blanks. When the Tyroshi go to Myr to complain, you have your own agents disguised as Myrish merchants 'accidentally' redirect Tyroshi trade ships to your own ports. Within three months, the alliance will be a nest of vipers biting one another. A divided Triarchy is just a collection of islands waiting to be harvested."
Aegon's eyes gleamed. This was a mirror of his own thoughts—sowing discord through misinformation before delivering the killing blow. He turned the conversation toward the personal.
"Do you want to save Harwin?"
The room went silent. The crackle of the hearth was the only sound.
"I cannot save him," Larys said, his voice devoid of emotion. "When he chose the Princess's bed over his duty to our House, he wrote his own death warrant. My father may try to protect him, but Harrenhal needs a lord who isn't a walking scandal."
"And you want Harrenhal," Aegon stated. It wasn't a question.
"I want to serve the true King," Larys replied, bowing his head. "But yes, Harrenhal is the greatest fortress in the realm. In the wars to come, whoever holds the Gods Eye holds the heart of Westeros."
"I agree," Aegon said. "But you mentioned someone earlier. A 'bastard girl'?"
Larys's face soured. "Alys. Alys Rivers. A byproduct of my father's youth. She lives in the shadows of Harrenhal, talking to flames and brewing potions that smell of death. She claims to see things."
Aegon's expression shifted, becoming intensely serious. "Alys Rivers... how old is she?"
"Born around 87 AC, I believe," Larys said, surprised by the Prince's sudden interest. "She's decades older than she looks. My father and brother ignore her, but I find her... unsettling."
"If she can see the future," Aegon mused, thinking of Helaena's own cryptic warnings, "she is too valuable to leave in a burning castle. Helaena sees the world in riddles; perhaps this Alys sees it in blood."
He stood up, signaling the end of the meeting. "Follow Harwin when he departs for Harrenhal. What happens to him is between you and the Stranger. But bring Alys Rivers to me. I want to see what the flames have told her."