Dragonstone, the Map Room.
A cold sea wind swept through the tall arched windows, making the fire in the hearth flicker and casting restless shadows across the massive stone table carved with the entire map of Westeros.
Stannis Baratheon stood over the spot that marked King's Landing.
His fist came crashing down onto the table with a heavy thud that echoed through the chamber, his knuckles turning red from the blow.
"Eddard Stark!"
He ground his teeth, every word dripping with restrained fury. "That sanctimonious Northman! He pretended to seek an alliance, pretended to warn me—but all along, he meant to use me as a stepping stone for his own ambitions. I underestimated that wolf's cunning. To think he hid the Targaryen bastard in Winterfell for more than ten years, sitting in silence while my brothers tore each other apart, waiting to pick the bones when we were both spent. So much for Stark honor!"
Davos Seaworth stood nearby, brow furrowed, confusion and concern etched into his weathered face.
"My lord," he said carefully, "then... the clues about the prince and princess—their parentage... were they false? Was it all a trap set by the Stark?"
Stannis turned sharply. His gaunt face tightened with anger, and his eyes gleamed coldly.
"No, Davos. Jon Arryn confirmed the truth to me before he died—the secret of those children's hair. Those three are not of Robert's blood."
He paused, his voice sinking into a hard, bitter tone.
"But Eddard Stark's actions... that's where the true poison lies. He didn't tell the King. He didn't tell the Hand. No—he chose to tell me, and only me, in Tyrosh of all places. He wanted me to be the one to burst the abscess, to set myself against Robert and the Lannisters. Meanwhile, he could sit safely in the North with the Targaryen's true-born prince in his care, watching as House Baratheon tore itself apart. Once we'd both bled each other dry, he'd step in and claim victory, cloaked in righteousness. Such cunning. Such depth."
Davos listened in silence, unease crawling up his spine.
The pieces began to fit together—the secret meeting in Tyrosh, the cryptic "alliance" letter that followed, and now the explosive truth shaking the realm. It all connected seamlessly, painting a chillingly clear picture of Eddard Stark's intent.
He nodded grimly. "If that's true, my lord, then Stark truly hid a serpent's heart beneath his honor. But... what do we do now? Eddard Stark's been thrown in chains, Renly's been driven from power... King's Landing is caught between Robert and the Lannisters."
Stannis moved to the window, staring out over the gray, churning sea and the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone. His expression was dark and heavy, his voice measured when he finally spoke.
"Then we wait. King's Landing is a pit of snakes. I won't walk into it and hand them my head. Let Robert deal with his 'good brother.' Let him smother the fires his queen's kin have lit in the Riverlands. We'll wait... until the time is right."
His gaze fell back to the stone table—first to the carved outline of the North, then sweeping across the Stormlands and the Reach.
In the depths of his icy blue eyes glimmered a cold, relentless determination.
Finally, his stare settled on King's Landing.
When it came to his brother Robert, Stannis felt nothing but resentment.
That man—a drunkard, a womanizer, a fool of a king—had brought nothing but decay to the realm.
Letting Robert sit the Iron Throne would only drag the Seven Kingdoms further into ruin.
And yet, beneath Stannis's bitterness burned a grim sense of duty—a conviction that it was his destiny to save the realm, even if no one else believed it.
So he made his decision.
He would not reveal the truth about those three children. Not yet.
He would wait for the right moment—ideally, the day Robert Baratheon fell victim to the Lannisters' own schemes.
When that day came, Stannis Baratheon would stand as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.
...
Beneath the Red Keep, in a damp, shadowed passage thick with the stench of mold and dust.
Magister Illyrio no longer bothered to twirl his carefully groomed mustache. His round, plump face was as dark as the sky before a storm.
"Rhaegar... he actually left behind a legitimate son?!"
Illyrio's voice trembled with disbelief and fury. "Lyanna Stark's seed?! That's impossible! He was supposed to have—"
Varys's tone was calm but heavy. "Compose yourself. For now, it's still only rumor—loud and wild. Robert has already commanded the Citadel to verify Septon Maynard's journal. But whether it proves true or false, the appearance of this 'Jon Snow' has already thrown all our plans into chaos."
Inside, Varys was seething. Years of careful plotting now lay in disarray, upended by some unseen hand.
Illyrio rubbed his thick palms together anxiously as he paced the narrow tunnel, his expensive silk robes brushing the filthy stone walls. "Even if it's true, their marriage would be invalid. Bigamy was permitted only once in history—Rhaegar could never have married again."
Varys's voice dropped lower, his eyes glinting in the torchlight. "But if Septon Maynard's diary records the marriage, it means the Faith sanctioned it. Either way, his existence puts us at a disadvantage. We need a countermeasure."
Illyrio stopped pacing, spreading his hands in exasperation. "Viserys and Daenerys are both in that Easterner's hands—what options do we have? Unless we strike now. The Golden Company is eager and ready to sail."
Varys shook his head slowly. "But Young Griff isn't ready yet. If we land now, we'll be crushed before we can act. What I'm suggesting is... we use Dorne."
Illyrio's eyes narrowed, a calculating gleam flashing in their depths. "Dorne? That prince who spends his days scheming in the Water Gardens is more cautious than any fox alive. Without absolute assurance—without a legitimate Targaryen heir to fulfill the betrothal to Princess Arianne—he'll never show his fangs. And now that Viserys is no longer in our hands, you expect him to risk Dorne's wrath against the Iron Throne... for some Targaryen bastard in the North? Impossible."
Varys let out a faint, knowing chuckle. "He still has a rebellious daughter. Send her to bring that Snow to Dorne. Once she acts openly, it will be a declaration of defiance. Dorne's hidden strength will have no choice but to rise."
Illyrio's eyes brightened suddenly. He clapped his hands together, excitement replacing his gloom. "My friend, you truly are the greatest artist when it comes to the art of hearts and desires. Ah—there's something else I must tell you."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Last month, I traveled to Braavos myself. I had a rather... thorough discussion with the Sealord. In the end, we reached an understanding. The Sealord has since written to Volantis, convincing those damned Triarchs to prepare—jointly—a very special 'gift' for that Easterner who's besieging Myr."
A faint, expectant smile curved Varys's lips. "Then let us hope your 'gift' finds its mark... and kills that Easterner."