It was the same familiar chamber where the Small Council convened. Tyrion Lannister was the last to arrive. Behind him, a member of the Kingsguard pulled the door shut, sealing it completely.
The dwarf looked worn and haggard, his hair a mess. Clutched in his arms was a thick tome as he trudged forward with heavy steps toward his seat.
As he climbed onto the chair, he turned his head and glanced at the Varys, who had already been waiting there, hands tucked into his sleeves, watching him with a faint smile.
"I hear the savages of the Dothraki Sea have gone to war with the Free Cities. Lord Varys, have you heard anything?"
At Tyrion's question, Varys gave a small shrug. In his usual syrupy tone, he replied: "Some things, yes—but not the full picture. After all, it is far from here, and news takes time to travel…"
As he spoke, Varys nodded, then shook his head.
Everyone at the table turned their gaze toward him, including Oberyn Martell, who had come to attend the meeting that day as well.
Ever since Dorne had established friendly relations with the Iron Throne, Prince Oberyn had come to King's Landing in place of his brother and taken a seat at the Small Council—
Of course, only as an advisor.
"This war, stirred up by the Dothraki, has wide-reaching consequences. And now, with winter setting in, storms in the Narrow Sea grow ever more violent. Save for madmen, most merchant ships have already abandoned their former routes."
"As a result, both the Stepstones and the Disputed Lands—those regions that sustain trade between both sides—have seen considerable upheaval. Skirmishes break out daily."
"At the same time, taking advantage of the chaos caused by the Dothraki, the Golden Company has once again attempted to seize the Stepstones. And they are not alone in this ambition. The entire region has descended into utter disorder."
"I would even wager that the Free Cities—Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh—may soon go to war over the Stepstones themselves. After all, compared to fighting the Dothraki, seizing those islands is far easier."
"And to prepare for what may come, Doran Martell has sent both his daughter and his son to the Free Cities to gather intelligence."
As Varys finished speaking, Oberyn—who had been lounging in his chair—added what Dorne had learned, placing particular emphasis on their own preparations.
During the exchange, Varys's gaze drifted over casually. Oberyn met his eyes without a trace of emotion, then both looked away as if nothing had happened.
Hearing them, Tyrion—now seated, the heavy book resting on the table—furrowed his brow deeply.
After a moment of silence, he looked up at the two men.
"These Dothraki armies… are they truly such a threat?"
Varys had grown up in the Free Cities and had only come to Westeros a little over a decade ago, later becoming the mysterious Master of Whisperers who served the Iron Throne.
In truth, even before coming to Westeros, he had already earned fame through his intelligence network—along with the wealth he and Illyrio amassed, which multiplied many times over. His name eventually reached the ears of Aerys II Targaryen.
And at the time, the king trusted no one—neither his son, nor his wife, nor even his Hand.
As for what followed… well.
As for Oberyn Martell, he had been wild and unrestrained in his youth, traveling across the Free Cities. There, he learned much—especially about poisons—and even founded a mercenary company across the Narrow Sea.
Thus, given the current composition of the Small Council, if Tyrion wanted the quickest and most direct understanding of that distant land, these two were the best people to ask.
Though he remained wary of both—and would not necessarily believe everything they said—that was enough for him.
"At least for the Free Cities, the Dothraki are indeed a considerable threat."
This time, it was not Oberyn who spoke. Clearly, Varys was the one more knowledgeable on the matter.
"The Dothraki have no permanent settlements. Their economy relies heavily on raiding neighboring lands. At times, even survival drives them to fight among themselves."
"They are raised in war and blood. Coupled with their beliefs and customs, this makes them natural warriors—natural horsemen. In fact, their horsemanship surpasses that of any knight."
"So…"
Varys spread his hands.
Tyrion frowned, finishing the thought for him: "So to the nobles and merchants of the Free Cities, such a threat is beyond measure."
As he spoke, Tyrion lifted his gaze, letting it rest deliberately on Varys.
"But if I recall correctly, in recent years they've coexisted peacefully—there's even been relatively amicable trade between them. Take slavery, for instance."
It was a good question—and a crucial one.
Varys nodded and continued: "The last time they went to war was four hundred years ago. The Dothraki advanced westward from the east, sacking and burning every town and city in their path."
"This included the Kingdom of Sarnor, the Qaathi cities in the Red Waste, and the Ibbenese settlements of the Kingdom of Ifequevron."
"The war only ended when Khal Temmo—leading at least fifty thousand riders—was stopped by the three thousand of Qohor."
"By then, Qohor's forces were already shattered. The Dothraki withdrew to their camp at night, intending to finish the assault at dawn."
"But when they returned at first light, they found that three thousand Unsullied had arrived and formed ranks before the gates."
"The Dothraki charged eighteen times and still failed to break them. By the end of the battle, more than twelve thousand Dothraki—including Khal Temmo—had fallen."
"The survivors cut off their braids one by one and laid them at the feet of the six hundred Unsullied who remained, then departed—thus ending the war."
"But their enmity did not end there. During the Century of Blood following the Doom of Valyria, the Dothraki rose again. This time, they drove peasants from their homes, nobles from their estates, and left nothing but grass and ruins from the Forest of Qohor to the headwaters of the Sarne."
"As for more recent times… every three or four years, a khal named Zhekko brings his khalasar to the outskirts of Qohor. The Qohorik pay him gold to send him away."
"After taking the gold, he spares the city."
"But this time, the khalasar led by Drogo clearly has no intention of accepting such arrangements."
Varys's voice remained soft and smooth, as though he were telling a bedtime story.
Yet to Tyrion, the more he listened, the stranger his expression became.
"Why?"
"If what you say is true, then since that battle, the two sides have reached a kind of understanding. So why break it now and plunge into war again?"
Tyrion truly could not understand. Why abandon a stable situation to provoke a powerful enemy? It made no sense.
At that, Varys withdrew two letters from his sleeve, placing them on the long table and gently pushing them toward Tyrion.
Tyrion glanced at them in confusion, then picked them up and unfolded them.
Varys continued: "Because, it is said that this army belongs to Khal Drogo's khalasar. Ah… some of you may not know who that is."
He was about to elaborate, but after glancing at the attendees—Grand Maester Peyton, Lord Randyll Tarly, and the others—he suddenly remembered that what had once been common knowledge in the Small Council had been lost after "a few small incidents" nearly replaced its entire membership.
Tyrion, too, instinctively looked up.
"Khal Drogo? The Dothraki?"
"What's the story there?"
Unlike in the original timeline—where, after Robert Baratheon learned that Daenerys Targaryen had married the Dothraki warlord, the matter caused a great stir in King's Landing and eventually led to Eddard Stark being wounded by Jaime Lannister—
This time, however, because of what Kal had done at Winterfell, a war between the Iron Throne and House Lannister had overshadowed these smaller matters.
So now, when the name was mentioned, only Varys himself seemed to fully grasp it. Had Eddard Stark still been Hand of the King, there would have been no need for further explanation.
Varys nodded.
"Because Daenerys Targaryen married him—and has borne him a son."
"Who is Daenerys Targaryen? She is the last remnant of House Targaryen to escape. Back when King Robert Baratheon still lived, he even sought to have her assassinated—but was stopped by Lord Eddard Stark."
"She should be the only surviving child of the 'Mad King,' Aerys II Targaryen, for his son Viserys Targaryen was killed by Drogo in the Dothraki holy city of Vaes Dothrak."
"So… I believe what I mean to say is already clear to all of you."
At this point, Varys spread his hands.
Just as the gathered lords were beginning to nod in understanding—yet still somewhat at a loss and ready to ask further questions—Varys abruptly shifted the topic and continued: "However… this is not the true crux of the matter."
"Because so long as Drogo is not a fool, there is no reason for him to stake the future of his khalasar on a war merely for the sake of a so-called princess of a fallen house—a woman."
"So the key lies in this: the cause of this war is tied to the child Daenerys Targaryen has borne."
"It is said that a wealthy magister of the Free Cities insulted them, and even committed an unforgivable offense within their sacred lands."
"And unfortunately, the man they accuse… happens to be a friend of mine."
"Your friend?" Tyrion Lannister paused slightly, a hint of confusion crossing his face as he looked at Varys. The sense of something being off grew stronger—yet he could not quite grasp what it was.
After a moment's thought, he said, "You mean the wealthy magister of Pentos… what was his name, Il—?"
"Illyrio Mopatis," Varys supplied at once.
Tyrion paid it little mind. He merely rubbed the letter between his fingers, narrowing his eyes slightly. "So why would he do such a thing?"
At this, Varys looked at Tyrion as though gravely wronged.
"How could he possibly do such a thing? Has he lost his wits?"
"Pentos, ever since its war and subsequent treaty with Braavos, has had no means whatsoever to resist a Dothraki invasion. And for years, their way of dealing with the Dothraki has been to pay tribute and be done with it."
"So unless his brains have been flattened beneath a woman, how could he have done something like this?"
"You mean… this is nothing more than a pretext conjured out of thin air?" Randyll Tarly interjected from the side.
"Of course." Varys shrugged.
Then he pointed at the two letters he had just handed Tyrion.
"Because this matter itself is but a pretext—and even revenge is merely a pretext for a pretext. There was no insult, no real cause at all."
"For according to a certain rumor, the child born to Daenerys Targaryen is the prophesied hero destined to unite the world. What Drogo is doing now is merely laying the groundwork for his son's future."
"So they intend to help Daenerys Targaryen reclaim the Iron Throne and help her son unite the world. But relying on the horses beneath them will not suffice."
"They need wealth, they need food, and above all, they need ships to cross the sea. And those things… can only be provided by the Free Cities."
"So they found such a clumsy excuse to attack the Free Cities?" Tyrion finished reading the letter and looked up again.
"Of course. Surely you do not believe my friend would travel thousands of miles just to steal so-called dragon eggs?"
"After all, those three dragon eggs were a wedding gift from Illyrio Mopatis to Daenerys Targaryen and Khal Drogo."
Varys spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Tyrion watched him, his eyes narrowing further.
He placed the letter back on the table, his fingers lightly tapping the parchment, producing an irregular rhythm.
"Does the king know of this? And what is his view?"
"I sent word to His Grace at the very first moment I received the news. However… His Grace offered no particular response. He merely nodded and said he understood."
Tyrion nodded as well.
"No matter their purpose, the remnants of House Targaryen seek restoration—and now they have gained support. This is something we cannot ignore."
"Or rather… should we involve ourselves in this war?"
As he spoke, Tyrion looked toward the others.
The moment the words left his mouth, Grand Maester Peyton stepped forward first.
"But do we even have the strength left to involve ourselves in such a war?"
"The threat beyond the Wall still remains. For nearly a year now, there has not been the slightest word regarding the Others. This cannot continue."
Peyton—who had long been reluctant to involve himself in affairs—seemed to have finally begun accepting the weight of his duties.
In response, Tyrion spoke of the conclusion he had reached in his last private discussion with Kal: "His Grace is already preparing an expeditionary force. This time, we must achieve results beyond the Wall. Otherwise, with such a threat hanging over our heads, we cannot rest easy."
"And besides, we cannot simply withdraw our forces again and expand the Night's Watch to deal with it."
"You must understand—the Long Night is coming. What happened in the Age of Heroes is not merely legend. If we do not act, what awaits us is destruction."
"Our enemy can afford to wait—to let the long winter wear us down. But we cannot afford such a luxury. We do not have that right."
"This is a war of life and death. There can be no negotiation."
In one breath, Tyrion laid out Kal's thinking to the assembled lords, making clear the kingdom's current stance.
At this, Randyll Tarly frowned and could not help but interject: "So that means… we are to ignore what is happening in the east?"
"How are we supposed to intervene?" Tyrion replied, turning to him. "Leaving aside the fact that His Grace has refused to repay the Iron Bank—Braavos already regards us as an enemy, and their methods have grown ever more insidious of late. Where would we even find the strength?"
"Moreover, we cannot even insert ourselves into the affairs of the eastern continent. With winter upon us, the Narrow Sea can no longer carry ships as it once did."
"What—do you propose we send an army by sea from the Stepstones to wage war? Don't be absurd."
Tyrion's words dispelled much of the unease in the chamber.
The resurgence of a fallen dynasty never sat well with anyone.
After all, none present were men like Eddard Stark. Whether it was Tyrion, Randyll Tarly, Oberyn Martell, or even Peyton—they were not soft-hearted men.
They understood what mattered, and what did not.
One by one, those present shook their heads.
Suddenly, Peyton seemed to recall something. He turned to the others.
"Do you suppose… the Iron Bank of Braavos might also be meddling in this?"
"Whether they are or not, matters there have already reached such a state. We simply do not have the strength to do anything else."
"And if our war against the Others drags on for years… and both sides are left weakened…"
The moment those words were spoken, silence fell over the Small Council.
Everyone understood the implication behind them.
One could only say—House Targaryen's remnants had chosen their moment exceedingly well.