Because the army was gathering in King's Landing, violent crime in the city began to rise.
The flesh trade rose with it. Even if Stannis wanted to wipe out every whore and shutter every brothel, now was not the time. He saw what he saw and looked the other way.
To bring some order to the chaos, Petyr Baelish stepped forward and showed his worth. The result was that he regained the freedom to move through the court once more.
A man who climbed by turning disorder into opportunity was never going to waste the chance.
He went looking for Varys.
The two of them met in a quiet corner of the Red Keep gardens. Thick bushes and flowering shrubs hid them from sight.
"Remarkable, isn't it?" Petyr said with a sigh. "Eddard Stark, the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms, lied to the entire realm."
"Oh?" Varys said. "So you believe this Jon truly is the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna?"
"Isn't he?" Petyr answered, as if the question were beneath him.
His reasoning matched everyone else's. Jon would never have gambled everything on a claim to the Iron Throne simply because his son had silver hair and purple eyes. The situation had grown too dangerous, and with Melisandre, Davos, and the Florents all inside Casterly Rock, he could no longer keep the secret buried.
More than that, while there was still no ironclad proof, the logic fit together too cleanly to ignore.
How could a man who prized honor above all else get a woman from some fishing village with child? Why had he forbidden anyone in Winterfell from speaking of Jon's mother? Why had Rhaegar left the Sword of the Morning, Arthur Dayne, behind instead of bringing him to face Robert? If Dayne had stood in that final battle, would the outcome have been the same?
And Rhaegar had clearly cared enough about the child he fathered with Lyanna to leave three Kingsguard to guard her while she gave birth. Had he already known his son would be something extraordinary? That question alone was worth asking.
Varys did not rise to the bait. Instead he asked what Petyr wanted.
"Lord Varys, you've changed," Petyr said, leaning on his cane as he took another step closer. "You're not as calm as you used to be."
Petyr no longer bothered hiding his missing hand inside his sleeve. He wore a carved wooden prosthetic coated in gold dust instead.
"I know it was you who let slip that I was serving Queen Selyse. There has to be power behind you that I can't even imagine—"
"I am only a merchant who trades in information, Lord Petyr. You give me too much credit." Varys denied it without hesitation.
Their own plan was reaching a delicate stage.
Word from across the Narrow Sea said that Jon Connington and his party were still in Slaver's Bay, helping Daenerys crush the Sons of the Harpy. Once that rebellion was finished, Young Aegon would wed the Dragon Queen and return with three living dragons to sweep the Seven Kingdoms clean.
"It makes no difference, Lord Varys," Petyr said. "As I told you before, if you ever need me, I am happy to serve."
Wariness flickered in Varys's pale purple eyes.
He knew exactly how dangerous Petyr could be when the man cared only for himself.
Varys had no intention of letting Petyr anywhere near Young Aegon's cause. That would be inviting a viper into the bedchamber.
So he offered only a polite thanks and nothing more. No deeper alliance. No promises.
Petyr was not discouraged. He simply repeated that he remained available whenever Varys chose to call on him.
When their conversation ended, Petyr used his new court access to arrange a meeting with Selyse.
Brightwater Keep had fallen. Every Florent except the queen herself was now held under guard in Highgarden. Selyse had not slept through the night since she heard the news. Her already thin frame had grown even gaunter, the bones sharp beneath her skin.
In her current state she could never carry a healthy heir to term.
Shireen had been kept close to her these past days, the only thing that seemed to steady her at all.
Selyse sat now in a wide, padded chair that looked more like a broken shell than a throne—something that offered the illusion of safety and nothing else.
"Ser Petyr," she said when he entered, "how is your leg?"
She glanced at the cane and the way he favored his right side. A flicker of guilt crossed her face.
How do you think it is? Petyr thought bitterly. But he smiled instead, warm and easy. "Your Grace is kind to ask. Most of the work is done by others these days. A lame leg is hardly the end of the world."
She nodded, seeming to accept the answer.
Petyr felt his dislike for her sharpen. Loyalty to anyone but yourself was a fool's game.
He took a step closer, schooling his face into grave concern. "Your Grace, might I speak with you alone?"
Confusion touched her eyes, but guilt and that strange, misplaced trust she had in him won out. She dismissed her maids and sent Shireen with them.
"Your Grace," Petyr began once they were alone, "I've noticed His Grace keeps the two bastard sons of King Robert close by his side."
Selyse gave a small shrug. "They're strong, like their father. The king uses them as guards and is training them for greater things."
Petyr let his eyes widen in sudden understanding. He pressed a hand to his chest. "Well, that's a relief. I was worried it might be something else entirely—"
He let the sentence hang.
"Something else?" Selyse asked.
Petyr lowered his voice. "I feared His Grace might be considering a change of heir."
"That is impossible," Selyse snapped. Her voice cracked like a whip. She sat up straighter, eyes flashing. "Shireen is his daughter. His own blood."
She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself as much as him.
"Before Jon's rebellion," Petyr said carefully, "His Grace even had Shireen serve as cupbearer so she could learn to rule. But things have changed. Jon is the most dangerous enemy Stannis has ever faced, and now he claims Targaryen blood. The throne itself is at risk. In such times, a frail daughter may not be enough to steady the realm. Robert's bastards, on the other hand… they remind men of past victories."
Selyse's fingers tightened on the arm of her chair.
Petyr pressed on, gentle but relentless. "And then there is your own family, Your Grace. What if—only what if—His Grace decides he needs a stronger alliance and looks elsewhere for a new queen?"
The words hit her like a physical blow. Selyse jerked in her seat, one hand flying to her throat. For a moment she looked as though the floor had dropped away beneath her.
"Your Grace!" Petyr dropped his cane and went to his knees beside her chair, all frantic concern. "Forgive me. I only speak from worry. His Grace values honor above all things. He would never cast you and your daughter aside. Never."
Tears welled in Selyse's eyes. She stared at him, searching his face for reassurance.
"Yes," Petyr said softly. "He would never do such a thing."
It took her a long time to steady herself. When she finally spoke again, her voice was small. "You are certain?"
"I am certain, Your Grace."
Petyr stayed on his knees a moment longer, then rose and retrieved his cane. He stepped back several paces, restoring the proper distance.
"I should take my leave."
Selyse nodded, then suddenly reached into her bodice and drew out a small handkerchief. She held it out to him.
"Keep this," she said. "With it, you may come to me whenever you wish."
Petyr accepted the token as though it were a rope thrown to a drowning man.
A few days later Stannis marched. More than fifty thousand men poured out of King's Landing and turned their faces toward Harrenhal.
Harrenhal was the shield of the capital and the Crownlands both. Grain could flow down the Trident to feed an army there, and the castle itself was large enough to hold the supplies and men needed for any campaign that followed.
Before he left, Stannis took Thoros of Myr with him and left Davos Seaworth to hold King's Landing.
Petyr's experience as Master of Coin made him the obvious choice to oversee supplies, but Stannis did not trust him completely. He set Davos to watch over every decision. Varys remained where he had always been—watching the east.