Illyrio burst out laughing, as if he had just heard the most ridiculous jest in the world. His deep laughter boomed through the empty, shadowed passageway, echoing in strange tones that seemed like a chorus of ghosts wailing and shrieking along the stone walls.
"Hahaha... My dear friend, they vanished a century ago! Their very bones have long since turned to ash! That's even less believable than a Myrish merchant's oath."
His laughter shook his flabby flesh, gemstone rings flashing wildly in the gloom.
But the eyes beneath Varys's scars did not waver. "Those were Eddard Stark's very words. Spoken before His Grace and every great lord."
Illyrio's jowls quivered, his small eyes flickering with doubt. His plump hand went again to his golden mustache, twirling unconsciously as he searched for some plausible explanation. "Hmm... Even Stark, crushed beneath the weight of such a calamity—his fleet destroyed, lords drowned or captured—might have invented a dragon as an excuse. Perhaps to shift the blame, or to steady the shattering morale. It is not beyond possibility."
Varys's gaze cut through the gaps of his scarred disguise, stabbing at his old friend as his voice dropped to a whisper.
"Set aside your Pentoshi merchant's logic, old friend. Only the Others would believe Eddard Stark would lie to avoid blame. He values honor more than life itself. If that cursed dragon did not truly exist, then tell me—how could four hundred ships, the mightiest fleet the Seven Kingdoms have ever assembled, and tens of thousands of soldiers be utterly destroyed in a single night on the open sea by some nameless Easterner? How could even the king return broken and in flight?"
He paused, torchlight glinting in his eyes. "That Easterner brought more than strange sorcery and an army of corpses immune to steel. He brought a dragon—something that can burn all to ash, something that threatens our entire design."
When Varys first received Jorah Mormont's report that the man from the East intended to invade Westeros, he had prized it as if it were a jewel.
He had fanned the flames quietly in the Small Council, nudging Jon Arryn and King Robert toward sending the Seven Kingdoms' host across the Narrow Sea to the Stepstones.
His aim was simple: to bleed away the realm's finest soldiers and its royal fleet in advance, so that the path would be clear for his true "prince" to return.
It had been a masterstroke, a perfect play of letting others wield the blade.
But in all his calculations, he had never foreseen that the blade would be sharper than any could imagine.
It had not only cut off the reach of the Seven Kingdoms—it had bared its own monstrous fangs.
The undead army was nightmare enough. But now, with a living dragon added to the board?
This had become a disaster that could overturn the game entirely.
The man from the East was no longer a pawn for Varys to use. He had become a colossal, uncontrollable force—one that could consume everything.
The smile slid from Illyrio's face at last.
The fat of his cheeks drew tight, and his small eyes glinted with a weight of fear and gravity they had never shown before.
He licked his dry lips, speaking with a rasp. "If this is true... then the Prince, the Princess... and young Griff..."
He left the thought unfinished, but the meaning was plain.
The Prince and Princess—those were the Targaryen siblings who had fled to Essos more than a decade ago.
But they were not the true hope Illyrio and Varys had nurtured.
That role belonged to young Griff.
The boy they had sheltered and raised in secret for over ten years.
Their plan was simple: let the dragon siblings draw the Iron Throne's fury, while young Griff would emerge as Aegon Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia, to claim the final prize.
Varys would proclaim that the infant Aegon slain in the Red Keep had been a peasant's child switched in his place, while the trueborn dragon prince had been hidden and safeguarded by him, growing strong under his protection.
Then he would lead a great host across the sea, land in Westeros, and restore the Targaryen dynasty.
But now, all those careful designs faced a new, deadly uncertainty—
A sorcerer from the East, commanding both the dead and a living dragon, his intentions still a mystery.
Varys gave a heavy nod, the shadow of his hood hiding the turmoil in his eyes. "The prince and princess are in Tyrosh now, right under that Easterner's nose. Our plan must change—at the very least..."
He raised his head. "At the very least, we cannot allow that man's attention to fall on Westeros too soon. If it does, the Seven Kingdoms may slip beyond our control."
In the suffocating silence that followed, a sudden spark lit in Illyrio's mind.
A thought—bold to the point of madness—came to him.
Drawing out his words, he said, "What if our princess... once she comes of age... were to wed the Easterner?"
"What?!"
Varys's pupils shrank in shock, the torch in his hand jerking violently. He glared at Illyrio.
But Illyrio ignored his outrage. Leaning forward, his heavy body casting deeper shadows, he spoke in a low, steady voice. "Think on it. That man craves Westeros, does he not? Then give him the chance. Let him wed into House Targaryen and lead the attack himself. Let him march with his dragon, his army of the dead, his fleet of hundreds of ships. Let him draw down the full fury of the Iron Throne—Robert, Tywin, Jon Arryn—let him sweep them aside for us. We needn't wait on those unreliable barbarians. They fear the poisoned waters, but the Easterner has ships. He could strike at once."
Varys understood at once. The shock in his gaze ebbed away, replaced by cold, sharp calculation.
"You would use the princess as bait," he said softly. "Bind the Easterner to House Targaryen's cause, and make him charge at the fore?"
"Exactly so, my dear friend!"
Illyrio's smile crept back across his face. "Our plan could be hastened by years... The Easterner wishes to fulfill his ambitions? All the better. Let him draw every eye, let him bleed for every loss. And when the time is ripe—when the Iron Throne's strength is spent, when Westeros lies in chaos and exhaustion...
The prince and the Easterner will 'conveniently' vanish.
Then our little Griff, as the true Targaryen heir, will make his entrance. He will wed the princess, left a widow and drowning in grief... and the richest dowry she will bring is the dragon itself. At the smallest cost, we will claim the greatest prize. The Iron Throne, the dragon—both returned to the hands of the true House of the Dragon."
Varys was silent for a long while.
Only the crackle of torchfire broke the stillness of the hidden passage.
He weighed Illyrio's scheme carefully—madness, yes, but seductive. To place Daenerys at the Easterner's side was like sending a lamb into the jaws of a wolf. One mistake, and they could be destroyed.
Yet the gain, if it worked... the gain was immeasurable.
His scarred eyes narrowed. "And our allies? They expect a prince's betrothal. If the prince is... delayed, they may grow suspicious."
Illyrio gave a sly smile, shrugging, his silk robes straining over his girth. "The betrothal can go forward. Let them take the stage while we remain behind the curtain. What matters is that the game grows ever more chaotic. This storm will rage for years—we must churn the waters of Westeros darker still. And in the calm at the storm's eye, we will wait... and harvest."
Varys breathed deep of the damp, cold air underground.
Events had already spun far beyond his careful expectations. The Easterner's sudden rise had struck their chessboard like a stone hurled into glass.
What had been a slow, secret plan would now need ruthless change.
He lifted his gaze, the scarred eyes meeting Illyrio's shrewd, glinting ones.
No words were needed. Years of silent understanding told each of them the other's resolve.
And then, the same cold, calculating smile spread across two very different faces.
In the flicker of torchlight, it looked haunting.