King's Landing—The Red Keep—The Iron Throne Hall.
The feast had begun hours earlier, yet the heat and fragrance of it still clung to the air like a heavy cloak. Roasted boar, honeyed duck, and thick Dornish wine mingled with the perfume of lords' daughters and the sweat of courtiers who had danced too much and eaten far more. Musicians played from the gallery above, plucking their strings with drunken enthusiasm, their melodies swallowed by laughter, clattering goblets, and the endless chatter of nobles seeking attention.
At the center of it all sat King Robert Baratheon—massive, red-faced, and thoroughly drunk—leaning heavily against the gilded arm of his seat. Tonight, he was the embodiment of his reputation: a man who lived only for feasts, hunts, and the fleeting thrill of beauty. Ruling a kingdom came somewhere far below on his list of priorities.
Robert slammed his goblet on the table, splashing wine across the nearby plates. His laughter echoed like a drumbeat—until suddenly, it stopped. His face hardened with drunken irritation as he glared at Queen Cersei across the table.
"You stinking woman," he barked, rising unsteadily to his feet. "Don't you dare tell me what to do! I am the King—do you understand? If I say I'm going to hunt boars alone, then I will hunt boars alone!"
A stunned hush fell over the hall. Conversations froze. Laughter died mid-breath.
Ser Barristan Selmy stiffened at the King's right. Renly Baratheon blinked, his smile faltering. Stannis Baratheon clenched his jaw, his face tightening. Littlefinger watched with an unreadable smirk, always quick to observe the cracks in the kingdom's foundations.
Cersei's expression did not change, but the color drained from her cheeks. She looked like a marble statue carved from winter ice—beautiful, cold, unyielding. She said not a word. Instead, she rose, gathered her skirts, and walked out of the hall with her attendants scrambling behind her. The Queen never fled, but she certainly knew when to withdraw.
Jaime Lannister moved to steady the swaying King. "Your Grace, perhaps—"
Robert shoved him so violently that Jaime stumbled back and crashed into a long feast table, scattering fruit and silver cups.
"A fine knight indeed," Robert snarled. "Remember your place, Kingslayer—you are my servant."
Jaime straightened, expression smooth but eyes burning behind their practiced calm. Golden hair glimmered in the torchlight, and though his smile was razor-sharp, the insult tightened the air around him like a vise. No matter his prowess, no matter his lineage, the name Kingslayer clung to him like a curse.
"Of course, Your Majesty," Jaime replied coolly.
Renly stepped forward, flashing a lighthearted grin. "Brother, you've spilled your wine. Let me pour you a fresh cup."
Stannis shot Renly a look of barely concealed resentment. His younger brother's easy charm and popularity grated on him—Renly was everything Stannis was not: handsome, well-liked, and overflowing with charisma.
Joffrey Baratheon, meanwhile, said nothing. He stood stiffly beside the Hound, who lingered like a silent shadow with a face half-lost to flames. The boy watched the spectacle with an expression that mixed discomfort, irritation, and perhaps a spark of admiration for his father's explosive temper.
Stannis observed Jaime again. Why did the Kingslayer remain shackled to the White Cloak when he could rule the Westerlands as heir? Was honor truly worth more than gold, power, and freedom?
But Stannis's thoughts shifted abruptly when Robert roared again.
"Where is my good friend Lord Jon? Does no one think to bring the Hand to the feast?"
Lancel Lannister, one of the Queen's lean and nervous cousins, stepped forward at once. "Lord Jon is with his son, Your Grace. Young Robin is ill."
A rare softness flickered across Robert's face. "Poor little Robin…" he muttered, though he did not decline the new cup Renly handed him. He drained it eagerly.
Stannis's mind churned. Something was wrong in King's Landing. Secrets, whispers, rumors of bastards… and Jon Arryn—honorable, meticulous Jon—searching for them before his death. If Stannis wanted an ally, Ned Stark was too new to the capital. Renly had his own ambitions. The Lannisters were snakes in golden armor. Jon Arryn alone would have listened.
If only he were still alive.
Beneath the Red Keep, deep in its dark belly where secrets clung to the stones, two figures moved through the underground tunnels—footsteps echoing faintly in the oppressive silence.
These were no ordinary corridors. Maegor the Cruel had designed them like a spider's web, filled with hidden paths, false walls, and deadly traps. After constructing them, he had executed the builders to guard the maze's secrets. Only the Master of Whisperers traditionally knew every twist and turn.
Tonight, that master was Varys.
The eunuch's steps were shockingly silent for a man of his size. He wore a half-cloak of leather, heavy boots, and a steel helmet that concealed part of his scarred face. Beneath the armor, he carried a dagger and short sword—rare sights on him, but necessary in the tunnels.
Beside him waddled Illyrio Mopatis, his enormous belly straining his ornate robes. His yellow moustache curled like a pair of oily snakes. Each of his fingers glittered with gemstones, some sporting two rings instead of one.
Varys lifted his torch to illuminate the darkness.
"Stannis is investigating the King's bastards," Varys murmured. "He may have stumbled upon the truth."
Illyrio raised a brow. "And what will Stannis do with that truth?"
"Start a war, perhaps." Varys sighed. "He has no allies. The lion, the wolf, the rose—even his own stormlords do not care for him. Poor Stannis."
Illyrio rubbed his fingers together anxiously. "Too early, my old friend. If the lion and the deer clash now, it will ruin everything. We are not ready."
"One of our greatest problems remains the same," Varys said. "We have no army."
"Perhaps the Dothraki?" Illyrio suggested. "Tens of thousands of screaming warriors."
"The Dothraki fear the sea," Varys reminded him. "And they have no ships. Worse still, gifts and promises mean little to them. They ride only for conquest."
Illyrio nodded. "Still, the marriage between the Khal and the true dragon… if the princess becomes pregnant, we might have a new dragon prince. That could sway Khal Drogo."
"Perhaps," Varys said softly. "But storms rise quickly. We must consider other options as well."
"Ah…" Illyrio muttered, catching the implication. "You speak of the mysterious Butter-King?"
Varys stopped walking. "Do you remember the blacksmith I once placed a certain child with? Black hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders?"
Illyrio's eyes widened. "You think he is that child?"
"I do," Varys said. "Based on his strength and deeds… and the fact that he has escaped my control. If he learns the truth of his parentage, he will challenge the Lannisters without hesitation."
Illyrio frowned deeply. "My friend, we cannot rely on outsiders. The Butter-King has disrupted the slave trade—he turns the world upside down. Our cooperation with him is too uncertain, and he lacks an army. Let him deal with the Myrish invasion first. If he survives, then we may consider him."
Varys resumed walking, torchlight dancing across the walls. "And what of our lovely Rose and Renly?"
Illyrio chuckled. "Ah, yes. What schemes are the Tyrells hatching?"
Varys explained, "Ser Loras sends letters home, urging his father to offer Margaery as a new queen for Robert. Beautiful, gentle, and young—everything Cersei is not. Renly and Loras believe Robert could be swayed. As for Littlefinger… well, his thoughts are his own. And Lord Stark remains patient, though the North does not forgive forever."
Illyrio exhaled heavily. "The court grows more dangerous by the day. Too many factions. Too many players. My friend, we need more time."
"I know," Varys whispered. "But time is expensive. I will require more funds—and thirty new birds."
"Thirty?" Illyrio almost choked. "That many?"
"Young ones," Varys insisted. "Intelligent, quiet, able to read… and less likely to die."
"Young ones are safer," Illyrio agreed reluctantly. "But treat them well. They are valuable."
Varys offered a rare, weary smile. "Of course. But we must prepare for any outcome. If the Butter-King survives Myr's assault, he may become another piece on our board."
"And if he fails?"
"Then we return to dragons," Varys said. "To the sea of grass. To fire and blood."
Their shadows stretched long across the damp stone floors as they disappeared deeper into the maze—spiders weaving schemes in the dark while the lions roared, the deer drank, and the realm unwittingly marched toward chaos.
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