Robert's face darkened. "Jon, have you gone mad? Parley with an Eastern pirate?"
Jon met Robert's furious, incredulous glare with steady resolve. "Your Grace, we have no fleet, too few scorpions to bring down a dragon, and the treasury is bare. We need time—time to restore our coffers, build ships, and forge weapons. Without it, we are helpless."
Robert turned to his dearest friend. "Ned, do you agree with this?"
Eddard Stark nodded gravely. "The Hand speaks truly. If war breaks out again, the captured lords may suffer at the hands of the Easterner. Unlike the Seven Kingdoms, he does not hold to honor."
Robert's chest heaved, his harsh breaths echoing through the hushed chamber.
He swept his gaze over the council—faces tight with worry, fear, and sorrow.
At last, like a punctured wineskin, he sagged into his chair and growled like a beast. "Damn it... Jon! Find someone! Someone who can face that Eastern bastard on the Stepstones. Stall him, deceive him, do whatever it takes—but bring our lords back. All of them!"
He rose suddenly and stormed out, Ser Barristan's white cloak trailing close behind, their footsteps fading into the depths of the corridor.
Jon Arryn looked over the senior lords of the Small Council, his expression heavy.
"My lords, we must name an envoy worthy of this task. He will bear the dignity and honor of the Seven Kingdoms to the Stepstones, to bargain with that Easterner and ransom back our captive nobles."
His words fell into a silence so deep it seemed to swallow the chamber whole.
Renly Baratheon turned his eyes away. With most of his Stormlords already back in King's Landing, he was little more than a bystander.
Grand Maester Pycelle closed his eyes, nodding off in a heavy stupor.
Varys sat with his same cloying smile.
Jon sighed inwardly. Perhaps the only choice was Petyr Baelish, absent from the meeting, to act as envoy to the Stepstones.
Then Eddard Stark spoke. "My lord Hand. Send me."
Every eye turned to him.
Jon opened his mouth to object, but Eddard pressed on. "Many Northmen remain on the Stepstones. If I do not go to ransom them, how can I face my bannermen when I return?"
Jon fell silent, then looked up sharply. "Ned, you will go with Petyr. He is skilled in debate, and you may seek out the captive nobles of the Seven Kingdoms, learn their condition..."
Eddard Stark frowned at the mention of Petyr, but gave a reluctant nod.
...
The Red Keep, a hidden passage.
A maze of cold, rough-hewn stone, damp arches, and endless dark.
In the silence, two pinpricks of light crept forward.
The lead figure, stooped and cloaked in a battered dark brown mantle, kept his hood low.
He gripped a torch tightly, its wavering flame casting twisted shadows across his face.
Closer now—the sight was ghastly. His skin was a ruin of scars, slashed and hacked as though by countless brutal blades. Flesh hung in ridges, pale and dark in uneven patches.
In some places, the skin was charred black, leaving his features horribly warped beyond recognition.
Only his eyes, gleaming sharp and steady through the lattice of scars, betrayed a shrewdness utterly at odds with the ghastly disguise.
The "Spider" Varys moved like a ghost beneath the earth.
Trailing behind was a man of an entirely different sort—the Magister of Pentos, Illyrio Mopatis.
Where Varys was subtle and shadowed, Illyrio exuded flamboyant wealth, even in these lightless tunnels. His costly Pentoshi silk robe, embroidered in gold and silver thread, was stretched tight across his swollen belly, as though it might split at any moment. His meticulously combed blond hair gleamed in the torchlight, absurdly out of place in the gloom.
His round face was fixed in its habitual smile, beneath which a carefully groomed, oily golden mustache curled. With a plump hand heavy with gem-studded rings, he lazily stroked his lip, as if he were merely strolling on some ordinary afternoon.
The two walked on in silence for a long time, the only sound the hollow echo of boots striking gravel and puddles.
At last they stopped before a steep flight of rough stone steps. The stairs climbed into deeper darkness, leading to some unknown corner of the Red Keep.
It was a hub in the warren of secret passages, the space a little wider—but all the more oppressive for it.
Varys broke the silence, his voice pitched low. "So... Tyrosh has truly fallen?"
Torchlight flickered across the furrows of his scarred face, making his expression unreadable.
"As true as gold, my dear friend..."
Illyrio bared yellowed teeth in a grin, the firelight flashing unpleasantly on them. "Your birds seem to have met with difficulties... Not a single one flew out of Tyrosh. Fortunately, as I departed Pentos, I came across a merchantman that had slipped out just before the city fell.
The captain was a clever, craven fellow. When he saw the battle erupting in the harbor from afar, he cut his anchor and fled without pause, bearing the news back to Pentos. Tsk, tsk. By his account, the cries of battle could be heard clear across the sea."
Varys said nothing, but his cloaked frame seemed to stiffen.
His "little birds"—they were his eyes and ears across the Seven Kingdoms and the Free Cities. Not true birds, but orphans, boys and girls he had carefully chosen and trained.
The younger, the better: small bodies, quick and unnoticed, minds still blank enough to be shaped. Varys had poured endless care into them, dragging them from the mud, giving them food, shelter, and more importantly, the skills to live.
He taught them to scale walls like lizards, to slip down narrow chimneys like shadows, to vanish in crowds and darkness. He even taught them letters, so they could read, write, and record what they saw.
His children were everywhere in Westeros. And abroad—in great trading ports like Tyrosh—they were no less vital.
They should have been the first to send word when the city fell.
Yet when Tyrosh was taken, every one of his birds fell silent. That was no coincidence.
Unease coiled in Varys's chest. He sighed softly, his voice weighted with concern. "It seems our guest from the East is far more dangerous than we ever imagined. The game has grown... more complicated. And he has a dragon."
"A dragon?"
...
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