Jaime spoke at once. "Someone is trying to harm us."
Tywin's gaze swept over them both. "If their goal was simply to kill you, one letter to Robert would have sufficed. But three letters, sent in three different ways—there's only one purpose behind that. To force me to rush here to King's Landing, to use my hand to kill Robert, so that the Lannisters and Baratheons turn on each other and all of Westeros is thrown into war."
His voice trembled with fury at having been used.
Cersei's venom found an instant outlet. "It must be Renly!" she hissed. "That smiling snake wears a mask of charm while plotting against us in secret. If Robert were dead, it would only serve his ambition!"
Her hatred for Renly and House Tyrell had burned deep ever since she learned of their plot to replace her.
Jaime, calmer now, analyzed, "Renly has the strongest motive. But Stannis has cause as well. Robert was cold toward his brothers and closer than kin to Eddard Stark. Both of them might wish him dead—to clear their path."
He thought of Renly's ever-smiling, unreadable face.
Tywin took a fresh goblet from the servant and sipped the dark red wine, his eyes deep and unreadable. "It's not just the two of them. Renly and Stannis are obvious suspects—but there were three letters."
Jaime's pupils narrowed. "Father… you mean there's another force at work? Someone hidden, waiting in the shadows?"
"It's too soon to be certain," Tywin said coldly. "But vigilance is essential—especially from you, Cersei."
His gaze fixed sternly on her. "Jaime and I depart for the Riverlands today. Until the man I send returns to take command of King's Landing, you will keep a close watch on every member of the Small Council. Any unrest, any sign of suspicion—report it to me immediately, and only through channels you trust."
A spark of pride flashed in Cersei's eyes at being entrusted with power. "You can rely on me, Father," she said eagerly. "I'm not a fool like Tyrion. I won't fail you."
Jaime hesitated, then asked, "Father, shouldn't we wait for Joffrey's coronation first? After all—"
"The coronation?"
Tywin's laugh was cold. "To watch a boy play at kingship? No. Better to march to the Riverlands, take a castle by force, or crush the Stark army. Remember this, Jaime—if we lose the war, whatever crown they place on Joffrey's head won't be worth the metal it's made from. A king's title is secured only through victory."
Jaime gave a short, wry laugh. "Robb Stark is just a boy. Must we take him so seriously?"
Tywin's eyes hardened. "The king you served was a drunkard. And that drunken fool felled Rhaegar Targaryen with a single swing of his hammer."
Jaime fell silent, the mockery leaving his voice. "I understand, Father," he said quietly.
Tywin looked at them one last time, his expression unreadable.
"Prepare to depart."
He rose, his broad back cutting a sharp line through the light as he turned toward the door.
...
Red Keep, secret passage.
Torchlight flickered against the narrow, damp stone walls, casting two distorted shadows that stretched and twisted across the passage. The air was thick with the stench of old dust and decay.
Magister Illyrio struggled to maneuver his enormous, rounded frame through the confined space, oblivious to his fine brocade robes brushing against the wet stone and grime. The habitual warmth on his plump face was gone, replaced by an uncharacteristic gravity.
"The King is truly dead?" he whispered, his voice low and heavy with disbelief.
Varys held the torch higher. The flickering flame made his face look even rounder and paler, and his expression carried a weight of somber reflection.
"Beyond doubt, my old friend," he murmured. "Someone was pulling the strings. The King uncovered the Queen's secret, and his fury nearly consumed the Red Keep. Then, at that very moment, Lord Tywin's army arrived... and tragedy became inevitable."
Illyrio's small eyes gleamed with sharp light beneath the fire's glow. "And you—had no inkling of it beforehand?"
Varys shook his head slowly. "Their methods were exceedingly subtle. My little birds were deaf this time—utterly silent. I only learned what had happened when the King rode back from the Kingswood in a rage."
He glanced sidelong at Illyrio, already anticipating the question. "I acted quickly enough. I hid the terrified twins, hoping to use them as leverage to win some measure of Lannister trust. But I underestimated Robert's madness. I thought he would simply hunt for his bastards—yet instead he legitimized them all, just like that fool Aegon the Fourth."
He paused, the torchlight glinting in his eyes. "Still, that may serve us better. Ravens carrying his decrees have already flown across the Seven Kingdoms. Now everyone knows of Cersei's scandal—and of Robert's legitimization of every bastard. Soon enough, Westeros will have more kings than fleas."
Illyrio frowned, his thick brows knotting together. "So you deliberately guided the guards to find them? What if Tywin hadn't arrived in time—or if the guards struck first?"
Varys's lips curved into a thin, cold smile. "I already had word that Tywin's army had entered the city and secured it. The timing was perfect. They were discovered at the height of their despair—just as Robert's sword was about to fall. That is when conflict reaches its breaking point, when hatred carves itself into the bone. The deeper the hatred, the fiercer and longer the war will burn."
Illyrio exhaled heavily, the folds of flesh on his face trembling. "Perhaps. But our plan... Little Griff is not yet ready. By fanning the flames, you risk letting everything spin beyond control."
"I know, my friend," Varys said gently. "I know. But this storm came sooner than either of us foresaw—and beyond our full command. Since it's already raging, why waste strength trying to stop it? Better to guide its winds, let its destruction serve us. The war will not end quickly. It will spread like a plague—and in that chaos, our young Griffin will have the time he needs to prepare."
Varys had accepted it fully now. After failing time and again to contain events, he had abandoned restraint. Instead, he would feed the chaos, let the storm grow, and turn it to their advantage.
Illyrio still looked troubled. "Perhaps so, but we must be careful. Can you find out who set all this in motion? The one who sent those letters and sparked the storm?"
Varys shook his head, the torchlight flickering across his smooth chin. "No proof. Only threads and shadows. But I have my suspicions. Do you recall that sensational revelation about Jon Snow's parentage? I saw Littlefinger and Renly exchange a knowing glance at that Small Council meeting. And now—the open gates, Janos Slynt's betrayal—that, too, was Littlefinger's work, paved with gold dragons."
Illyrio twirled his waxed mustache thoughtfully, eyes narrowing with unease. "What does Littlefinger gain from sowing such chaos? What profit is there in tearing the realm apart?"
Varys sighed. "Only the gods themselves might know what game Littlefinger is playing."
He thought of Tywin's promised castle and title. Could that truly be what the man sought? Varys doubted it.
His instincts warned him that Littlefinger's designs were far more intricate—and far more dangerous.
Illyrio's frown deepened. "Then you must stop him. You cannot let him continue lighting fires across the realm, undoing years of our careful preparation."
Varys gave a helpless shrug. "My dear Magister, I am no sorcerer. I cannot conjure miracles."
Illyrio fell silent for a moment, then changed the subject. "Speaking of sorcerers—what of that man from the East? He shattered Khal Drogo's army, left the mighty Horselord dead outside Myr. The Myrmen claimed they saw three dragons—each thirty feet long—when the city fell. And together with the golden dragon that destroyed the royal fleet... that Easterner now commands four dragons."
His voice was heavy with dread.
For a long time, Varys said nothing. Only the crackle of the torch and the faint drip of water echoed in the tunnel.
At last, he spoke. "Your earlier idea has merit. If we're to pay to avoid disaster, then we must pay enough—and wisely. If we hire, we hire the best."
Illyrio's eyes gleamed. "Then I'll sail for Braavos at once?"
Varys lifted a hand. "Not yet. That Easterner poses no immediate threat. A young conqueror with such power is bound to be drawn to our radiant Princess. My little birds in Tyrosh whisper that he's surrounded by beautiful women. When the day comes that he weds the Princess—when he bares his fangs toward Westeros—that will be our moment to strike."
Illyrio pondered his words. Slowly, a familiar smile crept back onto his round, oily face.
He nodded. "Very well. We'll wait. As you say, my friend—we wait."
...
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