Littlefinger led the inexplicably irritable Eight-Legged Spider into an office. After dismissing everyone else, only the two of them remained in the room.
"There are only so many seats at the gambling table, yet Lord Petyr just watches as another person takes a seat."
Varys kept both hands tucked into his gray robe as he paced around the room, occasionally darting over to yank open a curtain or window to check for any spies that might be lurking.
"To sit at the gambling table, one must have enough chips—and must also understand the rules of the game."
Littlefinger watched Varys's excessive caution, a trace of mockery flashing at the corner of his mouth. "The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. My lord, have you ever seen two suns or two moons rising at the same time?"
"Lord Petyr, at the very least, they are qualified to sit at the table. But our key chips were taken away at a whim. We no longer have any leverage against them."
"Chaos is a ladder, Lord Steward!"
Littlefinger spoke the classic line. He hoped King's Landing would grow weaker and weaker—only then could it reach a balance with Tarth Island!
"Anyone who wants to sit at the table must first knock down those already seated."
Only the chaos born of such struggles would give people like them—who hid beneath the table and manipulated the game in secret—a chance to profit.
Varys tacitly agreed with Littlefinger's words. After pondering for a moment, he asked tentatively, "The key still lies in the situation within the island. The strength they've already revealed is enough to protect themselves from harm."
If the power hidden within the island was even more astonishing, then they would have to act according to circumstances and weaken the other party.
Of course, both men believed that relying on a single small island, it was impossible to possess the power to contend with the Seven Kingdoms.
That would be even more unbelievable than the Seven Gods' whore revealing a miracle!
For now, the Seven Kingdoms were dominant, and Tarth was weak!
"I don't have any news from inside the island either." Littlefinger shook his head, unable to help but marvel. "Now we all know—the sea monster may be young, but it might not be inferior to a cunning, slippery lion."
The two fell into a brief silence. Turning Tarth Island into something as impenetrable as an iron barrel—such extraordinary methods—made it hard for them to imagine that it all came from the hands of a youth who had only just come of age.
"If my lord can provide intelligence of sufficient value, I'm willing to tell you a rumor."
After a long while, Varys once again proposed an exchange of information.
Littlefinger was tempted. He relied solely on smuggling and brothels to maintain his intelligence network.
Varys had at least three great financiers behind him, supporting the care and feeding of his little birds. All Littlefinger had… were women.
Behind a successful Littlefinger stood countless women conquered by "Littlefinger."
"There are his people in Oldtown as well. A maiden of Tarth has feelings for Renly."
Littlefinger didn't know what he had thought of, but his lips curled with undisguised sarcasm.
"There's a rumor," Varys continued without taking advantage of him, "that a Westerosi purchased three thousand Unsullied and two thousand slave sailors from Slaver's Bay. That person has also made contact with the remnants of the Targaryens."
The hot, humid sea breeze from Blackwater Bay blew in through the window. The two chess players stared at each other in silence, each gaze heavier than the last.
The other party's strength was growing day by day, yet they still hadn't grasped the depth of his background—
Nor could they comprehend his layout or his purpose!
"If Lord Selwyn refuses the invitation, then send word for the Arbor fleet to sail north and station at Greenstone of House Estermont," Littlefinger spoke first. "Then have Stannis's Dragonstone fleet and the Gulltown fleet sail south and station at Harvest Hall."
Harvest Hall lay directly opposite Tarth Island, able to control the Tarth Strait.
"No—the disappearance of nearly a hundred royal ships was far too clean," Varys said after some thought, shaking his head. "Be cautious. The Arbor fleet should be stationed at Sunspear instead."
Sunspear was the direct domain of House Martell, Princes of Dorne. It lay even farther south than Estermont Island, in the Summer Sea, and would still have to bypass the Broken Arm and the Stepstones.
"Then have the Fearless Barristan return to Harvest Hall to stabilize the Stormlands," Littlefinger added.
Barristan the Bold, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, hailed from House Selmy of Harvest Hall. He had deep ties with many Stormlands nobles and could steady some of the more restless lords.
"No direct attack?"
Varys asked immediately. Though it looked as if they had neatly arranged the main naval forces of the Seven Kingdoms,
In reality, fleets attacking from both sides could only serve as a deterrent, a way to apply pressure on Tarth.
Neither the Small Council nor the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms would allow the main force of over two hundred ships to vanish into the Narrow Sea again!
Otherwise, the Iron Islands and the pirates of the Stepstones would seize the opportunity. Even merchants from the Free Cities wouldn't mind playing pirate for a while and making a risk-free profit.
If that happened, the coasts of the Seven Kingdoms would spiral out of control, triggering chaos across the realm. The Baratheons would very likely be driven from the Iron Throne.
This was also why Robert did not directly strip House Tarth of its lands and call upon the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms to launch a punitive campaign.
One reason was that House Tarth had not openly declared rebellion, nor had any concrete evidence been found against them.
Another was that the Baratheons could not bear the consequences of losing a naval war. More importantly, they couldn't see through Tarth's true strength and dared not act rashly.
From the moment King's Landing lost the royal fleet, the initiative—whether to fight or not—had shifted into Tarth's hands.
"Tarth is siphoning off too much of the profits from maritime trade. Oldtown and Lannisport look more prosperous on the surface, but in reality vast amounts of gold dragons and resources are steadily draining away."
Littlefinger stared deeply at Varys. He didn't believe for a second that this sly spider couldn't see it.
"House Hightower of Oldtown and the Citadel are wary of their reputations and are secretly watching. That lion—even if he isn't in a hurry—won't just sit back and enjoy the show!"
"A Lannister always pays his debts. Isn't that right?"
...
Jialedun had no idea what was happening in King's Landing. Otherwise, he would have burst out laughing.
"You're really overthinking it!"
He truly had zero interest in Westeros!
Westeros had White Walkers, the Three-Eyed Crow, and all sorts of "local specialties." Unless his brain short-circuited, he had no intention of wading into this cesspool.
Morninglight Commercial Street lay at the heart of Tarth Island. It was the place Tarth's people loved to linger the most.
Every seventh-day afternoon, when the factories were closed, countless residents would pour into this area—no larger than a few training grounds—waving their "banknotes" to buy everything they needed at low prices.
Even more people either gathered around the notice boards to read newspapers or clustered before the street theater plaza to watch performances.
Today was especially lively. The streets were packed shoulder to shoulder, so crowded that it was hard to stand. Many children clung tightly to their parents' heads, riding on their shoulders.
Everyone was looking toward the street. Everyone was waiting for something.
Those in the theater plaza were even more excited, because today their future lord—Lord Jialedun—would formally grant them the status of Tarth's people.
Simon had once been a slave in Astapor of Slaver's Bay. The scars left by the Good Masters' whips across his back meant that for a long time he couldn't even wear a linen shirt.
Of course, that was assuming he could get his hands on one. If not, the nickname "Scarback" naturally followed.
In truth, whether it was the narrow, worm-like scars coiling around his spine and hanging across his shoulder blades from his master's lashes—
Or being clothed in nothing but a tattered pair of underpants, mocked maliciously by fellow slaves—
All these things that ordinary people couldn't endure failed to stir even the slightest ripple in his frozen, congealed thoughts.
If chewing on grass roots to fill his stomach could still prove that he was human, then that was his only remaining proof of humanity.
When he was transported to Tarth Island, he was like the iron ore stacked in the cargo hold—devoid of thought, devoid of emotion, with no concept of the future.
Because he was no different from that iron ore, no different from the hundred-plus slaves on the same ship—
All of them were commodities, bought and sold at will!
Within the sunken eye sockets of every slave there was not a desire for death, but hollow numbness.
But on the day they stepped onto Tarth Island, everything changed!
It was as if he heard the most benevolent god in the world shouting for them—encouraging them—sincerely blessing them!
Even now, the sincere and sacred words of that Lord of Morninglight still echoed in his ears:
"Future compatriots, let me make one thing clear first—there are no slaves here!"
"Yes, congratulations! From the moment you set foot on Tarth Island, you have obtained freedom!"
"On this island, there are only free folk—my people, the people of Tarth!"
"Congratulations! You will live again as human beings. You will be respected, protected, and able to imagine the future—to possess a future!"
For the first time, including himself, all the slaves' eyes gained color—a desire to live!
On that same small plaza, more than three thousand Unsullied—who had long since gained their freedom—roared "Freedom!" at the top of their lungs.
"But you must also understand: absolute freedom brings only chaos! Freedom has a price, and you still need to earn your status as people of Tarth!"
"For two years, you will be assigned to work in factories. You will receive only one-tenth of a normal citizen's monthly pay. The rest will be collected as your passage fare, food, and housing costs."
"Only after two years will you obtain official identification as people of Tarth!"
"This is fair, because every portion of food you now receive, and every dormitory you will live in, are the fruits of four years of blood-and-sweat labor from a hundred thousand citizens."
"You have one more choice—to join the army. Swear to protect the people of Tarth. You will pay no cost at all and automatically gain the status of a Tarth citizen!"
Simon dreamed of joining the army—especially the 'Demon-Slaying Army' reformed from the Unsullied.
But he was simply too skinny. His body felt so light that it seemed a gust of sea wind could blow him away.