His laughter echoed through the hall, yet no one joined in. The members of the Small Council wore grave faces. Robert laughed for a moment longer, then, seeing their expressions, lost interest.
Only when the king's mirth had faded did Varys continue. "Dragons may be tales, Your Grace, but the Unsullied are not. The finest thirteen thousand Unsullied in all of Slavers Bay now obey him. The Second Sons Company and the Stormcrow Company—famous sellsword bands in the Disputed Lands—are likewise under his banner. And…
He paused, a glimmer of cunning in his eyes. "A Khalasar of nearly forty thousand Dothraki was defeated outside Meereen. Tens of thousands of survivors bent the knee to him. None of that can be dismissed as 'storytelling'."
A flush of affronted rage—and a deeper, unwilling fear—crossed Robert's face. "So? What are you saying? That silver-haired, purple-eyed pretty-boy, leading a pack of eunuchs, Mercenaries, and surrendered savages, plus a few fire-breathing lizards dug up from who-knows-where, means to cross The Narrow Sea and reclaim 'his' throne?"
He slammed the table with a heavy thud. "Let him come. When he does, I'll smash his head with my warhammer, same as I smashed that fool brother of his, Rhaegar."
"Your Grace, be calm," Jon Arryn urged. "Lord Varys speaks no idle alarm. Even if the dragons remain doubtful, Viserys Targaryen has become a power in Essos—this is undeniable. He controls Slavers Bay, commands a vast army, and possesses immeasurable wealth. More importantly, he flies the banner of the breaker of chains—a flag that carries great appeal among the poor and the slaves of Essos. Should he choose to march west, many cities will waver and fresh support will flock to him."
Littlefinger picked up the thread. "And Dornish intentions remain… murky. Prince Doran Martell has not forgotten the blood-debt owed for Princess Elia and Prince Aegon. If Viserys shows enough strength, who can say Sunspear will not raise the Targaryen banner once more?"
Dorne. The word struck Robert like a thorn in the heart. He could never truly conquer that hot, stubborn land, never erase that blood-feud. If the Targaryens returned, Dorne would be the first to welcome them.
"Lord Tywin has said that Balon Greyjoy will never stay quiet," Grand Maester Pycelle quavered. "Though newly defeated, he still preaches the Old Way and covets the green lands. If Westeros stirs, he will rebel again."
Robert felt a suffocating irritation. The crown had never weighed heavier. Debts, revolts, looming threats—he yearned for the simple, brutal battlefield, for the satisfying crunch of hammer on mail and bone. He drew a deep breath, swallowed rage and wine, and turned to the man he trusted most. "Jon, your counsel?"
Jon Arryn considered. "We must not panic, yet we must prepare. First, confirm the eastern rumors—especially about dragons. Dispatch a reliable man, a knowledgeable knight or learned master, to Slavers Bay. Let him see with his own eyes.
"Second, strengthen our fleets. Command Lord Stannis's Dragonstone fleet, Lord Redwyne's Arbor fleet, and the Royal Navy at King's Landing to stand ready and patrol The Narrow Sea—especially the approaches to Dragonstone and Dorne.
"Third, placate Dorne. Invite Prince Doran to send an envoy—perhaps Prince Oberyn—to King's Landing to discuss 'matters of mutual concern.' Better yet, propose a marriage alliance. I hear Prince Doran's daughter is unwed; perhaps Lord Renly might seek her hand."
Robert's face eased. These were prudent steps. "Do it, then. Who shall go east? Varys, you're the spymaster—your thought?"
The Spider glided forward, hands tucked in his sleeves, worry flickering across his smooth face. "Your trust humbles me, Your Grace. Every 'little bird' will sing for you. Yet to slip into tightly guarded Slavers Bay we'll need a man of action more than a maester. Send a knight in the guise of a merchant or hired sword."
In the end the task fell to Ser Ralph Royce of the Vale, a seasoned knight who had fought in the Greyjoy Rebellion, cautious and loyal. He would sail first to Pentos, then find a way into Slavers Bay with a handful of picked men.
The council ended in gloom. Robert called at once for more wine, hoping to drown the fresh shadows of dragons and silver-haired foes.
Sunspear
Prince Doran Martell sat in the shade of the Water Gardens, listening calmly as Arianne relayed fuller tidings from Norvos—the Martells enjoyed good relations there. Gout-swollen fingers drummed on his wheelchair's arm.
"Where is Oberyn now?" he asked.
"Last word, Uncle was still 'touring' in Lys," said Arianne Martell, daughter of sand and sun, eyes bright with wild curiosity. "Father… if the dragons truly return—"
Prince Doran raised a hand, stilling her. "Dornish blood runs hot with vengeance, yet also with patience. The dragon's bastard daughters will not welcome a true dragon king. Let the viper keep roaming while we watch and wait, my daughter."
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