The Red Keep, Tower of the Hand
King's Landing had become a city drowning in fear, hunger, and anger.
The streets were packed with restless commoners whose patience had long since worn thin. Bread prices rose every day, while rumors spread faster than wildfire through taverns, markets, and Flea Bottom alleys. Everywhere people whispered of war, defeat, and disaster.
Tyrion Lannister had tried everything possible to suppress news that could damage the morale of the capital, but the results were pitiful.
The fall of Rosby and the raids along the Crownlands coast had already pushed the city toward panic. If the situation worsened any further, King's Landing itself might erupt before the enemy armies even arrived.
To keep the city under control, Tyrion worked himself nearly to death.
Recently, the acting Hand of the King barely slept.
Night after night, he remained awake in the Tower of the Hand, surrounded by scrolls, ledgers, letters, and reports. Even after retiring to his chambers, he continued reading by candlelight until dawn crept over the horizon.
Under the flickering glow of the lamps, Tyrion reviewed Varys's secret intelligence reports while cross-checking Littlefinger's financial ledgers. His eyes burned constantly from exhaustion, and the endless columns of numbers blurred together until he could hardly distinguish words from ink stains.
"Why does everything keep getting worse?" Tyrion thought bitterly.
Sometimes the pressure became so intense that it left him nauseous.
Allowing Petyr Baelish to leave King's Landing had been one of Tyrion's greatest mistakes, but at the time he had little choice. Besides, Littlefinger had always depended heavily on the Vale's support. Tyrion never imagined the man would end up shattered against the mountains like a broken bird.
A knock came at the door.
"Lord Varys has arrived," Podrick Payne announced carefully.
Tyrion rubbed his tired eyes and sighed.
"Lead him to the dining hall, Pod. I'll join him shortly."
Varys entered the small banquet hall with soft, almost silent steps.
The Master of Whisperers wore flowing purple robes and smelled faintly of lavender perfume. His calm smile remained as unreadable as ever.
Tyrion gestured apologetically toward the table.
"Lord Varys, these are difficult times. We cannot afford extravagance anymore, so I hope you'll forgive the simplicity of tonight's meal."
Despite Tyrion's modest words, the meal would still have seemed luxurious to most of King's Landing.
There was roasted trout glazed with herbs, creamed quail, spiced pumpkin, mushroom soup rich with butter, fresh vegetables, and several bottles of fine Arbor wine.
Food had become scarce within the city walls, but wine still flowed freely.
In a starving city, even a modest noble dinner appeared priceless.
Varys smiled warmly as he lifted his wine cup.
"A marvelous meal, my lord. You are truly generous."
He glanced at the table thoughtfully.
"Many people in Flea Bottom would sell their own children for a single bowl of soup or a cup of this wine."
The two men ate quietly for a while, discussing minor matters of governance. Outwardly, the atmosphere remained calm and pleasant.
But beneath the surface, both men understood the danger surrounding them.
Finally, Varys spoke.
"My lord, what troubles you most?"
Tyrion snorted softly.
"War."
"The thought of the coming battle makes sleep impossible."
Varys placed a hand dramatically against his chest.
"And you think I do not fear it as well?"
His voice lowered.
"Littlefinger flew too close to the sky and ended as shattered bones in the mountains. I have no desire to share such a fate."
Tyrion drank deeply before replying.
"Although Petyr and I were never truly friends, I confess… his death unsettles me."
Poor Littlefinger.
Ambitious to the very end.
Tyrion stared at Varys carefully.
"Tell me honestly. Why are you so loyal to me?"
Varys smiled politely.
"You are the Hand of the King. I serve the realm, the crown, and therefore you."
Tyrion waved dismissively.
"That sounds rehearsed."
"Did you speak those same words to Jon Arryn? To Eddard Stark?"
For a moment, silence filled the hall.
Then Varys slowly lowered his wine cup.
"Very well, my lord. Let us speak honestly."
He leaned slightly closer.
"I fear death."
"The storm sweeping across Westeros leaves little room for creatures like me to survive."
His voice remained calm, but his eyes sharpened.
"King Robert was like the wind. Loud, violent, unpredictable."
"But his bastard…"
Varys paused.
"He is like iron."
"A blacksmith's hammer. Strong. Steady. Relentless."
"A spider may survive beneath the wind. But beneath a hammer… it is crushed."
Tyrion chuckled darkly.
"So the famous Varys serves survival above all else?"
"Survival is wisdom," Varys replied smoothly.
"The bastard king already views men like us as corrupt parasites who poisoned the realm. Should he triumph, mercy is unlikely."
Tyrion poured more wine into Varys's cup.
"You know, Lord Varys, I think I like you more after hearing that."
"At least your lies are becoming more entertaining."
Varys smiled faintly.
"I merely speak the truth."
He studied Tyrion carefully.
"My lord, I have watched you struggle to hold this city together. Few men could have done as much."
Tyrion laughed bitterly.
"And yet the city still collapses around me."
"Because fortune rises and falls," Varys said calmly.
"What matters most now is perseverance."
Tyrion leaned back in his chair.
"I am persevering."
"I control the Gold Cloaks thanks to your intelligence network. Bronn commands my sellswords and clansmen. The Alchemists' Guild has prepared large stores of wildfire."
His eyes hardened.
"And my father sent me here with authority from Casterly Rock itself."
Varys bowed his head slightly.
"Power belongs in the hands of the capable."
"Surely it is better for you to lead than a boy like Joffrey, a grieving queen, or a drunken lord."
Tyrion sighed.
"Even so… it isn't enough."
He spread several reports across the table.
"Every day brings more terrible news."
"Maidenpool. Rosby. Stokeworth. Coastal villages burned. Grain shipments seized."
"The enemy raids the shoreline, steals supplies, then retreats before we can retaliate."
He rubbed his temples.
"And now reports claim the storm marches toward Storm's End itself."
"If Renly and Stannis fall…"
"King's Landing will stand alone."
Varys remained silent for several seconds.
"If the storm truly comes here," he finally said, "then everything will depend upon this city."
"Exactly," Tyrion replied.
"We lack grain. We lack ships. Stannis controls most of the royal fleet."
He stared toward the dark window overlooking the city.
"Once I hoped our enemies would move slowly."
"Now I pray the war begins quickly."
"At least soldiers kill faster than starving mobs."
Varys chuckled softly.
"That sounds unlike you, my lord."
Tyrion's expression darkened.
"You think I exaggerate?"
"The nobles demand soldiers. The people demand food. The city demands miracles."
"But I have no reinforcements to send."
"The Gold Cloaks only fight bravely when standing behind walls."
"And if my father marches carelessly into battle, he may walk directly into a trap."
Varys folded his hands together thoughtfully.
"Before dawn, the night is always darkest."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow.
"And your advice?"
Varys smiled slightly.
"Young men are proud creatures."
"Victory intoxicates them."
"Success convinces them they are chosen by destiny itself."
He leaned closer.
"That pride may become our greatest weapon."
Tyrion nodded slowly as understanding dawned upon him.
"Yes…"
"The storm's victories may blind him."
"Every triumph convinces him further that King's Landing is already within reach."
"And the young lords around him will encourage his ambition."
"They will call him a conqueror greater than Aegon himself."
Varys chuckled.
"My lord understands human nature remarkably well."
Tyrion smirked faintly.
"That compliment sounds suspicious coming from you."
Still, he understood the point.
The more successful the enemy became, the more reckless they might grow.
And reckless commanders made mistakes.
Varys continued calmly.
"The storm's empire is built upon uninterrupted victories."
"But if he suffers even a single crushing defeat…"
"His legend will crack."
"Fear and doubt will spread among his allies."
"And then our opportunity will come."
Tyrion's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"So everything depends on the defense of King's Landing."
"Precisely."
Tyrion slowly clenched his wine cup.
Wildfire.
That was his greatest weapon.
If the enemy fleet entered Blackwater Bay, he could transform the river itself into an inferno.
The thought brought him grim satisfaction.
"I must win this battle," Tyrion thought.
"No matter the cost."
The city's grain supplies were still disastrous, however.
There was little hope of improving them anytime soon. The only solution was rationing.
The soldiers' food could not be reduced significantly, which meant the common people would suffer even more.
As for politics within the capital, Tyrion's position had improved slightly since Littlefinger's death.
Varys supported him secretly.
Joffrey spent most of his time hunting rabbits and tormenting servants after Sansa's disappearance.
Cersei remained dangerous, but isolated.
Then another thought struck Tyrion.
A final card.
Myrcella and Tommen.
Jaime's children.
Cersei's weakness.
"I should send Myrcella to Braavos," Tyrion thought.
"And Tommen to my father."
"If King's Landing falls, at least they may survive."
Meanwhile, Varys calmly emptied another cup of wine.
"My lord, our cooperation has been most productive thus far. I hope it continues."
"The intelligence you provided has been invaluable," Tyrion admitted.
"The defections we intercepted could have destroyed us from within."
Varys bowed politely.
"That is merely the duty of a loyal servant."
Then his expression grew serious.
"There is another danger emerging inside the city."
"The religious zealots?" Tyrion guessed immediately.
Varys smiled approvingly.
"Indeed."
"The Red Comet has filled King's Landing with prophets, priests, fanatics, and wandering holy men."
"They preach doom in taverns and markets. They speak of divine punishment and the end of days."
"And hungry people listen very carefully to such words."
Tyrion grimaced.
He feared starving mobs far more than scheming nobles.
Nobles valued comfort and wealth.
Mobs valued revenge.
Varys continued calmly.
"The royal family must be careful."
"Every display of luxury fuels resentment."
"The more extravagantly the nobles behave, the more hatred grows among the poor."
Tyrion nodded reluctantly.
"I understand."
"You always understand, my lord," Varys replied.
After finishing the meal, Varys rose quietly.
"We both have much work ahead of us."
Tyrion escorted him toward the door.
Once outside, Varys walked through the corridors of the Red Keep with light, silent footsteps.
His expression slowly changed.
"The storm truly is extraordinary," he thought.
"Even Tyrion struggles to face him calmly."
But admiration meant nothing.
Varys could not allow the storm to succeed.
If the man united Westeros, destroyed the Lannisters, and gained the Faith's support, then all of Varys's years of planning would collapse.
No.
The storm had to die.
Only then could the true game begin again.
Only then could Aegon rise.
"The Dragon Queen will choose Aegon."
"The great houses will support Aegon."
"But only if the storm disappears."
Varys's eyes turned cold.
"My gift will arrive soon."
"And if the first gift fails…"
"There will be many more."
"As long as the storm dares to come to King's Landing."
He continued walking silently through the dark halls of the Red Keep.
"Everything I do…"
"Is for Aegon."
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