The Red Keep's throne room was a cacophony of sound and smell: roasted meat, cloying perfume, and the decadent music of the court. King Robert, a man devoted to pleasure, presided over the feast, his roar drowning out all other sounds. He stood swaying, red-faced and drunk, and screamed at his queen.
"You stinking woman, don't you dare tell me what to do! I am the king here! If I say I will hunt boar alone, then I will hunt boar alone!"
A stunned silence fell over the room. Ser Barristan, the king's brothers, even Littlefinger were frozen. The queen's cheeks were pale as ice. She turned without a word and swept from the room, her ladies scurrying after her. Jaime Lannister moved to steady his king, but Robert shoved him away with such force that the Kingslayer stumbled and crashed into a long table, spilling wine and food.
"A fine knight you are," the king sneered. "You are just my servant. Remember that, Kingslayer."
"Yes, Your Grace," Jaime replied, his voice cold and stiff. His golden hair gleamed in the torchlight, his smile as sharp as a blade, but the name "Kingslayer" was a suffocating shroud.
Lord Renly stepped forward with a practiced smile. "Robert, you've spilled your wine. Let me pour you another." Stannis watched his younger brother with open resentment. Renly was richer, more popular, and more beloved than he would ever be. Prince Joffrey looked on, his face a mask of bored indifference, with the Hound lurking like a shadow at his back.
Stannis wondered, not for the first time, why the Kingslayer endured such humiliation. Was the honor of a knight's white cloak truly worth more than being the heir to Casterly Rock? Jaime's golden curls shone, and Joffrey's hair was the same. A seed of suspicion, planted long ago, stirred in Stannis's mind.
"Where is my foster father?" Robert bellowed. "Has no one asked Lord Arryn to the feast?" His squire, Lancel Lannister, scurried forward. "Lord Arryn's son is ill, Your Grace," he whispered. "He is with the boy." A look of dejection crossed the king's face, but he still drank down the fresh cup of wine in a single gulp. Stannis knew then that if he was to find an ally at court, it would have to be Jon Arryn.
***
Deep in the secret tunnels beneath the Red Keep, two men conversed in the shadows, their faces illuminated only by the flickering light of a single torch. Varys the Spider, disguised in the armor of a common guardsman, moved with a silent grace that belied his stout frame.
"Stannis is searching for the king's bastards," Varys said, his voice a soft murmur. "Perhaps he has a theory. The king certainly has enough of them. There are some in the Stormlands and the Vale, and several here in the city."
"What will he do?" his companion, Illyrio Mopatis, asked. The magister's yellow handlebar mustache looked obscene in the dim light, and his many rings—ruby, sapphire, and tiger's eye—glittered like a dragon's hoard.
"I do not know," Varys replied. "It may provoke a war. I think he will share his secret with Lord Arryn. Stannis has no other allies. The lion, the wolf, the rose—even the knights of his own Stormlands do not love him."
"Too fast, my old friend," Illyrio said, a worried look on his face. "If the lion and the stag go to war now, it will do us little good. We are not ready."
"We have no army," Varys sighed. "That is the fatal problem."
"Perhaps we should consider the savages," Illyrio suggested. "The Dothraki. They hate the sea and lack culture, but there are tens of thousands of them."
"The Dothraki have no ships," Varys countered. "And we do not know when our 'gift' to them will bear fruit. It would be better if the princess were with child. Only then might the Khal be moved to act."
"Perhaps," Varys mused, "we have a new option."
"You refer to the mysterious Butter-King?" Illyrio asked.
"Do you remember the blacksmith to whom I gave one of the king's bastards?" Varys said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Black hair, blue eyes, and a strong physique. Based on his deeds, I suspect it is the same boy. But he has escaped my control. If he learns of his lineage, he will surely attack House Lannister."
"We cannot place our faith in outsiders," Illyrio cautioned. "And this Butter-King has challenged the institution of slavery itself. To cooperate with him would be to turn the world upside down. Let us wait until he has withstood Myr's next attack." He changed the subject. "And what of the rose and our lovely Renly?"
"They scheme," Varys said. "Lord Renly and the Knight of Flowers plan to have the king take a liking to the Tyrell girl, then marry her and make her the new queen. As for Littlefinger… who knows what he is thinking? And Lord Stark, in the North, remains patient."
"The situation is complex, my old friend," Illyrio said. "We need more time."
"Whatever I can do, I will," Varys whispered, holding the torch aloft. "But I will need funds. And thirty more of my little birds."
"That many?" Illyrio's voice grew faint as the light ahead dimmed.
"The kind you want are hard to find… young and literate… and not so easy to kill…"
"No," Illyrio's voice echoed from the darkness. "The young ones are safer… Be good to them."
"We need an army," Illyrio's voice faded to a whisper. "No matter which one. If the Butter-King breaks through… that could also be an option."
The two shadows stretched long in the darkness, then disappeared.