Chapter 32 – The Call to Arms
Standing in the middle of the council chamber, under the weight of countless eyes boring into him, Varys felt a cold chill seep through his heart.
Who had betrayed him?
He had crossed the Narrow Sea from Pentos to Westeros, built his web in King's Landing over the months of the Duskendale Rebellion, and earned the king's trust by revealing Ser Ilyn Payne's secret at a critical moment. His plan was simple—wait patiently until his "little birds" had taken root across the realm, then reveal his worth to the king in exchange for true power.
But instead, today, while dining on roast meat in his own quarters, two gold cloaks had come knocking—dragging him before the Iron Throne.
"Speak, Varys."
The king's tone was sharp, his violet eyes filled with impatience. Aerys II Targaryen had never wanted Princess Elia in King's Landing. He knew all too well that Prince Doran's sister had been sent with an ulterior motive. Marriage alliances, nothing more—schemes no different from Tywin's.
But Aerys had no intention of letting Rhaegar wed now, let alone tie himself to some great noble house. His throne was precarious enough after his long captivity; he would not give his heir a wife whose powerful kin might overshadow his own authority.
Yet the truth was undeniable—House Martell, and Dorne as a whole, were not to be trifled with. Should Princess Elia come to harm in the crownlands, what excuse could he offer Prince Doran?
Damnation.
How had his return to the city less than a month ago already spawned so many crises?
His violet gaze flickered with irritation. He thought bitterly of Queen Rhaella—of that long night they had spent in bed, when not even hours of effort could awaken the dormant "dragon's fire." Perhaps half a year in a cell had broken more than his body. Perhaps age itself had betrayed him. One way or another, Aerys had quietly slipped into a shameful impotence.
A weary sigh escaped his lips. Once, he had dreamed of giving Rhaegar another brother or sister. Now, even that seemed beyond him.
"Your Grace…"
The king's brooding thoughts were lost on Varys. He only knew that his careful plans were about to be upended. Still, he could not feign ignorance now. Bowing deeply, he said, "It so happens my little birds have gathered whispers about these outlaws. Even in the Kingswood, they manage to bring me word."
"Excellent!"
Before the king could respond, Ser Arthur Dayne surged forward, his voice thunderous: "Then tell us where they are! I'll cut down every last one of those curs!"
"Peace, Ser Arthur."
Rhaegar, ever the picture of grace, placed a calming hand on his friend's shoulder. He turned to the bald eunuch with a princely smile. "Share your knowledge, and I, Rhaegar Targaryen, give you my word—you will be richly rewarded."
Varys merely licked his lips and smiled faintly.
From the Iron Throne, Aerys narrowed his eyes at his son, then let out a disdainful hum. "Speak, Varys. If your intelligence proves true, once the princess is safe, I shall name you Master of Whisperers—and grant you a seat upon my council."
At that, the eunuch's smile widened. This was more to his liking.
"My little birds know little of their exact whereabouts. These men are cautious—never lingering in one place more than three days."
"You mock us, eunuch!"
Once again, Symond leapt to his feet, pointing at Varys with scorn. "This one speaks in riddles! A braggart with no substance, daring to dream of council seats and lofty titles!"
He turned toward the king, his voice rising. "Your Grace, he dares to deceive you! I say hang him as a—"
"Enough!"
Before he could finish, Qarlton strode forward, clapping a hand over the man's mouth. "By the gods, be silent!" he hissed in Symond's ear. "Can you not see the king's eyes upon you? Keep talking, and you'll be stripped of your chain before the hour is out!"
Symond froze, his face paling as he caught the king's hooded stare from the throne. His heart lurched. At last he sagged back, chastened, muttering no more.
For all their petty rivalries, he and Qarlton both knew the truth—if they quarreled too openly, Tywin Lannister would seize every scrap of power for himself.
"Your Grace."
Varys cast a fleeting glance at the Symond, a shadow of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips before vanishing as quickly as it came.
"I cannot give you their exact location," the eunuch admitted smoothly, "but I can strip them of the common folk's trust. Without that shelter, the outlaws will find no refuge in the Kingswood. Still… though their numbers are not great, they boast several dangerous fighters. To seize them without rousing the entire forest, you will need a company of the finest knights."
"I'll go!"
The words burst from Ser Arthur Dayne before anyone else could speak. He strode forward, dropped to one knee before the Iron Throne, and declared, "Grant me ten men, Your Grace. I swear, within three days I shall cut them down to the last!"
This time, even Rhaegar did not attempt to restrain him. For who among them, save perhaps Ser Barristan, could rival the peerless sword of Dawn?
The council murmured approval. Even Symond, who not long ago had been the target of Arthur's scorn, dared not raise objection. Prideful and aloof though he might be, Arthur Dayne's strength was beyond dispute.
Aerys leaned back against the throne, tapping a long finger against the armrest as he pondered. At last his eyes sought Ser Lance's, and in that steady, loyal gaze he found the answer he wanted. A slow smile spread across the king's lips.
To command the Kingsguard, one needed more than white cloaks and vows—one needed glory.
"Ser Lance!"
The king's voice rang through the hall. The young knight dropped to one knee without hesitation. "Your Grace."
Aerys descended the throne, laid his pale hand upon the knight's bowed head, and proclaimed, "In the name of the Seven, I name you commander of this expedition. You may choose any men you require. Do you have the courage to sweep away these villains who dare defy their king, and at last mend the failures of Lord Tywin?"
At those words, Tywin's golden eyes dropped, his expression carved from stone. He said nothing, but the grim set of his jaw was answer enough. Aerys's smile widened. To humble the mighty Lord of Casterly Rock—what sweeter pleasure for a king?
Arthur Dayne, however, stiffened, his eyes wide with disbelief. That such a charge had been entrusted not to him—the Sword of the Morning—but to a newly sworn brother of the Kingsguard? He almost spoke in protest, but then remembered how Lance had defended him earlier. Grinding his teeth, he held his tongue.
"My blade shall ever serve you, my king," Lance swore, his voice fierce and proud. "I will cut down all who dare defy your reign, every last traitor and outlaw!"
Rising, he turned to face the assembled court. In one fluid motion he drew his longsword, steel gleaming in the torchlight. His gaze swept across the lords, lingering for a heartbeat on Prince Rhaegar's disapproving face. Then his lips curled into a smile as he raised his voice in a ringing cry:
"For Princess Elia, stolen by villains!"
"For the honor of the Kingsguard!"
"For the glory of King Aerys II Targaryen!"
He lifted his sword high.
"Knights—let us bathe the forest in blood!"