chapter 149 part 2
The plan seemed seamless… yet Glynn sighed helplessly to himself. It seemed Queen Cersei had completely overlooked the possibility of him staging a second coup.
The old wolf might submit for the sake of his pups, but would Lord Glynn, who held military power, obediently allow his hands to be tied as Cersei expected?
Lord Glynn, currently without a wife or children, could be said to have no weaknesses… An arrogant scheme. That was very Cersei.
Had he acted his part too well? Had Queen Cersei not considered the consequences if Glynn, commander of a formidable force, decided to resist?
She even planned to use the Gold Cloaks' equipment to arm the Clegane soldiers. Indeed, very Cersei.
Perhaps she had considered it, but a young man who secretly admired her could be summoned alone at any time… and with the crash of a cup as the signal, well, cough.
Glynn sighed inwardly. Cersei was truly fortunate. And this was a game of thrones… His lordship was not angry at all.
Glynn then thought of the stubbornly principled Lord Eddard. He ran a hand through his hair, a headache coming on. Perhaps a slower path was a steadier one.
***
In a pavilion near the Small Council Chambers.
Glynn did not wait long before Varys approached with light, nimble steps.
Varys clasped his hands together. "Good day, Lord Glynn."
In the presence of others, Varys's behavior was somewhat exaggerated, his emotions volatile, as if he were easily startled. But when he met with Glynn in private, he always appeared amiable and approachable.
Glynn knew well that these were the various "disguises" Varys deliberately presented. His outward harmlessness was one of the reasons he held his seat on the Small Council in the Red Keep so securely.
Varys had previously taken the initiative to propose an alliance (Chapter 124), and Glynn, after a period of "deep thought and deliberation," had cautiously chosen to accept.
Subsequently, both parties agreed that Littlefinger was a troublemaker who could easily cause unexpected turns of events. To show his sincerity, Varys had taken on the task of delivering the finishing blow.
Glynn's former secret ally, Petyr Baelish, had been sent to the black cells through his and Varys's combined efforts. In his place, a new secret alliance was born: Glynn and Varys.
The political aims of their alliance were selfless; they sought to welcome a truly good king for the long-suffering people of the Seven Kingdoms.
Their chosen candidate for the new king was none other than Viserys Targaryen, the man the people yearned for, one who understood their hardships, and the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.
In short, after his discussion with Varys, Lord Glynn felt his whole person had been elevated.
On the surface, they were joining forces to welcome the new king, Viserys. As for Varys's true motives… they were unimportant. For now, they simply had need of each other.
It was just a matter of who would use the other to achieve their goals first.
***
Glynn gave Varys a slight nod. "Good day, Lord Varys."
A faint smile played on Varys's plump face. "My little birds have just brought me some startling news."
After a pause, Glynn's eyes flickered. "Could it be… about the Tyrells?"
"More than just the Tyrells…"
"Yesterday, during the tourney melee, the Mountain, who had grievously wounded Ser Loras Tyrell, was set upon by Lord Renly and the Tyrell household guards. He fell into a pool of his own blood, but survived thanks to the ministrations of Grand Maester Pycelle."
"When the news spread, Ser Garlan, Lord Mace's second son, and Lord Renly, their eyes red with fury, arrived with their guards as if by some unspoken pact."
Varys sighed. "The Mountain is truly fearsome. More than a dozen men on both sides were killed or wounded. Even as he lost consciousness, the Mountain managed to sever Ser Garlan Tyrell's right arm."
"Can it be healed?"
Varys shook his head. "The Lord of Highgarden's eldest son was crippled in one leg during his first tourney, and now his second son has lost an arm. Add to that the death of his third son in this tourney… Alas!"
Glynn raised an eyebrow. "It seems there is some good news as well?"
Varys sighed again. "An unprovoked disaster… The Lannister Imp, on his way home from a brothel, was caught up in the conflict. Someone slashed his face with a sword. They say the wound runs from below his left eye down to his right jaw. Half his nose is gone, and a piece of his lip is missing… He left a trail of fresh blood as he was carried away. Grand Maester Pycelle must be overwhelmed."
Glynn frowned slightly, his long fingers tapping the railing of the pavilion.
He turned his head to look at Varys, his gaze tinged with concern. "Lord Varys, is Tyrion's injury very serious?"
"I do not think it will be life-threatening…"
Varys's eyes flickered. "I heard the wound was too painful for the maesters to even clean. They say he was given a great deal of milk of the poppy to grant him a temporary reprieve from his suffering."
Glynn closed his eyes.
After a moment, he opened them, his voice calm. "Lord Varys, the situation in the south of the realm grows more severe. Is this beneficial to His Grace?"
The "His Grace" Glynn spoke of was Viserys in Essos, a code understood only by the two of them.
Varys nodded slightly. "That year, Lord Tywin ignored the commands of Aerys II for nearly a year, then suddenly appeared outside King's Landing with a Lannister army twelve thousand strong and requested entry."
"Although I strongly advised against allowing the Lannister army into the city, His Grace accepted Grand Maester Pycelle's counsel and opened the gates… Heh. King's Landing, with its tall walls, fell in an instant. After that, the Targaryen hold on the Iron Throne was beyond saving."
After a moment of silence, he added, "The traitors from that great war, and those who profited most from it, will be the greatest obstacles to His Grace reclaiming the Iron Throne."
Glynn spoke up, "It seems Tyrion's injury is good news for His Grace, because…"
Varys finished the thought. "A Lannister always pays his debts."
He smiled, his eyes crinkling. "Such a troublesome principle to live by."
***
***
The Tower of the Hand.
Jon Snow, his face somewhat pale, lay on a couch. The portly Monton Waters sat in a chair beside him.
Jon had injured a leg in the tourney melee and was recuperating.
He shifted his injured leg slightly and could not help but groan in pain.
Monton said clumsily, "Jon, the maester said feeling pain is a blessing from the gods. It means the bone is mending, and the wound will heal quickly."
"Damn it…"
Jon first cursed under his breath, then said, "Monton, it will be soon enough to thank the gods when my leg no longer hurts."
Monton pointed to a pot on the table. "That's the milk of the poppy the maester left for you. Drink it when the pain becomes too great."
"I don't want to sleep anymore…"
*Bang!* The door to the room was suddenly thrown open, and Arya, her face streaked with tears, rushed in.
"Brother, Bran… Bran, he…"
Black wings, bearing dark tidings.
(end of chapter)