Aegon had expected little from Larys Strong beyond whispers and secrets. Yet today, the clubfoot had surprised him.
"Your idea has merit," Aegon admitted, leaning back in his chair. "But what if His Majesty summons Rhaenyra to King's Landing and aids her without restraint?
The Greens may hold much of the court now, but if Viserys truly throws his weight behind her, my mother may find her grasp slipping."
Larys only smiled, calm and assured."Forgive my bluntness, Your Highness. His Majesty may have the courage to send you from King's Landing, but he will never have the courage to drive the Greens to the edge."
Aegon frowned slightly. "Don't speak so absolutely. No one can say how far His Majesty will go for Rhaenyra."
"On my head, I can guarantee it," Larys said softly, his smile unwavering.
Aegon tapped the table with his forefinger, studying the man before him. Larys knew Viserys too well.
The King might grow firm when Rhaenyra was involved, but even his resolve had limits. He was decisive, just not decisive enough.
"If I am granted land in the Stepstones," Aegon mused, "how would you have me sow discord within the Triarchy?"
He already had a plan of his own, Daeron's marriage alliance was part of it—but he wanted to test the reach of Larys Strong's cunning. How deep did the man's foresight truly run?
Larys's smile never wavered. Clearly, he had come prepared.Unfolding a map across the table, he pointed toward a speck on the Narrow Sea.
"Tyrosh," he said. "A port among the Nine Free Cities, an island north of the Stepstones, near the coast of the Disputed Lands."
Aegon inclined his head. "I know it. Tyrosh is a fortress city ringed with high walls, standing at the northeast tip of the Stepstones."
Larys nodded. "Precisely. A place of gaudy color and ceaseless noise. The Bloody Tower guards its harbor, and the Fountain of the Drunken God lies within its heart. Temples and shrines crowd every street, each louder than the last. The Tyroshi are a proud and grasping people, loud in their dress and louder still in their greed."
Aegon raised an eyebrow. "So?"
Larys's gaze sharpened. "I hear Prince Daeron is to wed into House Rogare of Lys?"
"That is my intent," Aegon said without hesitation. "Though I have yet to approach them formally."
At that, Larys's confidence seemed to deepen. "Then let us assume Lys, under the Rogares' influence, remains neutral. That leaves us two foes to divide.
We begin with Tyrosh. You must provoke discord with Myr, stir conflict between them. Then send your dragons to strike Tyrosh, but burn only its harbor.
Afterward, spread whispers throughout the ports- that you have forged a secret pact with Myr. Do not name the terms, let rumor do the work. Let imagination rot their trust."
He leaned closer, voice low and deliberate. "With Tyroshi pride and greed, they will rush to Myr seeking answers. Meanwhile, you arrange for agents disguised as Myrish merchants to mislead passing ships, drawing them to Myr's docks instead of Tyrosh.
Rumor travels faster than ravens, and it changes as it runs. Within three moons, chaos will root itself in every corner of Tyrosh. Once isolated, they will fall easily."
Aegon's surprise was harder to mask now. Larys had thought nearly the same as he. His own plan had been more direct, a union with the Rogares, followed by an assault on Tyrosh itself, and a slave uprising in Myr to shatter the Triarchy from within.
Larys had reached a similar end by subtler means.
But Aegon did not linger on that. He turned the conversation. "Tell me, Lord Larys, do you wish to save your brother?"
The question hung between them. Larys said nothing at first.
Aegon waited, unhurried.
At length, Larys replied, quiet but firm. "I cannot save him, nor do I wish to. When Harwin chose to climb into the princess's bed, his fate was sealed."
Aegon studied him. "And your father, Lord Lyonel, do you believe he would name you heir to Harrenhal?"
"No," Larys said at once. "Not unless every other Strong were gone. My father still has years yet to sire sons."
"Do you not desire Harrenhal?" Aegon pressed.
Larys's smile returned, faint and cold. "Of course I do. But I believe I can gain more by serving Your Highness. Allow me to give you my loyalty, wholly and without reservation."
Aegon inclined his head in acknowledgment, though his thoughts turned elsewhere. "I would still have you claim Harrenhal," he said. "Strengthen your hold there. When war comes, and it will- the castle's position will matter greatly."
Harrenhal, vast and ruined, loomed large in his mind: the greatest fortress in the Seven Kingdoms, built before the Conquest and cursed ever since. Yet for war, there was no better seat from which to command.
"My standing is little better than that of a bastard girl," Larys said dryly. "I've no illusions that my father will pass it to me."
"You do yourself a disservice," Aegon replied. "You are far above any-"
He stopped suddenly, as a thought struck him. Aegon's expression shifted, sharpened. "Wait. What bastard girl?"
Larys hesitated. "Alys. Her name is Alys Rivers. My father's sin of youth. I've no fondness for her, she speaks to flames and brews her little potions in secret."
Aegon's lips curved. "What if she truly sees the future?"
The clubfoot froze. His gaze flicked, unconsciously, toward the chamber to his right. Helena's chamber.
"There's no need to look," Aegon said quietly. "Helena is… special. But her sight is not the same as Alys Rivers's."
Larys inclined his head, chastened. "Alys was born in 87 AC, I believe. My father and brother ignore her existence, and truth be told, so do I, though I have watched her more closely than they know."
"You claimed not to like her," Aegon noted.
"That remains true," Larys murmured. "But dislike does not dull curiosity."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the crackle of the fire.
At last, Aegon said, "When Harwin departs, follow him. Whether you save him or not is your choice. But afterward… bring Alys Rivers to me."
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