Lynn looked calmly at the Spider famed across the Seven Kingdoms.
Varys's gentle smile flickered in candlelight—inscrutable.
"Lord Varys. What you see is what matters."
Lynn didn't answer his question.
Pushed a wine cup toward him instead.
"You've woven your web in King's Landing for over a decade. Surely not just to catch flies."
Varys's hands—tucked in his sleeves—paused slightly.
His bottomless eyes flashed with surprise.
He took the cup. Didn't drink.
Just sniffed lightly at the rim.
"Good wine."
He praised.
"Arbor gold. But with a scent not from Westeros."
"Like you, Ser. Full of secrets."
Lynn didn't respond.
Just continued on his own.
"Lannister. Stark. Baratheon..."
"These great houses are chess pieces. Fighting to the death over a rusted iron chair."
"They only see victory or defeat."
"No one notices—the board itself is rotting."
Varys's smile faded.
His expression turned serious.
"The treasury's ledgers are a joke."
"Nobles drown in excess. Smallfolk starve."
"And worse..."
Lynn's gaze pierced the walls. Looked north.
"The Long Summer is over."
"A winter that will consume everything is coming."
"When the Long Night falls—crops fail, people suffer, corpses pile—"
"—what does it matter who sits the Iron Throne?"
Varys fell completely silent.
He stared at Lynn—this impossibly young Black Knight.
His eyes held unprecedented shock.
This is exactly what I believe.
Westeros's Long Night will be endless.
I need to serve a wise king.
Only such a king can lead his people through the long winter—
—not Robert, that drunken sack of wine.
He'll drag the Seven Kingdoms into the abyss.
Varys had thought Lynn was another Littlefinger.
Smarter. More ruthless.
But I was wrong.
Lynn's goal has always been beyond my imagination.
"You serve the realm, Lord Varys."
Lynn's voice struck Varys's heart.
"So do I."
"Our goals have always been the same."
"To keep this kingdom alive."
"His Grace's illness—perhaps a lion's plot. Perhaps the gods' will."
"But that doesn't matter."
Lynn spoke deliberately.
"What matters is—after he falls, Westeros cannot collapse."
"A king's death is a tragedy."
"But a realm-wide civil war is a catastrophe."
Varys finally understood.
Lynn has accepted the king's death.
He won't warn Robert.
What he wants—is to maintain a delicate balance after Robert dies.
Prevent total chaos.
What ambition!
What audacity!
"In the forest, some old trees are destined to fall."
After a long pause, Varys spoke softly. A sigh in his voice.
"A wise gardener doesn't waste effort propping them up."
"He ensures the soil is fertile enough—"
"—to grow new, stronger saplings."
He looked deeply at Lynn.
Drained his cup.
"Farewell, Ser Lynn."
"If you need anything—come find me."
"My little birds will serve you gladly."
Varys's figure melted into the darkness beyond the door.
As if he'd never been there.
Lynn watched where he'd disappeared.
Said nothing.
What I said was what Varys wanted to hear.
But I can't deny—it overlaps with my own thoughts.
Now, the Spider and I have a fragile understanding.
Varys won't help Robert. But he won't interfere either.
He wants Robert dead.
That's enough.
Tywin's poison buys me two years.
Two precious years to grow.
The Scent Storm
A fragrant wind swept through King's Landing.
Roses. Lavender. Mint.
It pried open the Red Keep's sturdiest doors.
Slipped into every noblewoman's nose.
Princess Myrcella was a golden butterfly learning to fly.
Following Lynn's instructions, she bathed herself in fragrance every day.
Then—with Sansa and Arya—fluttered through the Red Keep's courtyards and parlors.
"Myrcella, darling, what is that scent? Better than the garden roses!"
"Gods, your skin... how is it so smooth?"
At first, noble ladies were just curious.
But when Myrcella gifted a silk-boxed "Stormlands Rhapsody" soap to one lady—
—the entire noblewoman circle exploded.
This wasn't just soap.
This was a princess's gift.
A symbol of status.
A ticket to a more elegant, cleaner, respectable "high society."
Lynn's estate was mobbed.
Noblewomen and their servants nearly broke down the door.
Steward Rob's smile never faded.
His favorite daily task—counting the flood of gold dragons.
"My lord!"
Rob presented a gold-embossed ledger.
"Only three days!"
"All three hundred bars of our limited-edition noblewoman soaps—sold out!"
"Each sold for over fifty gold dragons!"
"After costs, we netted fifteen thousand gold dragons!"
Lynn had underestimated noblewomen's purchasing power.
He'd hoped for one gold dragon per bar.
The result far exceeded expectations.
Much of it thanks to Myrcella's influence.
Though once the novelty fades, prices will stabilize.
Fifteen thousand gold dragons.
Sansa sat nearby. Holding a small vial of jasmine oil.
Hearing the number, her hand trembled.
Nearly dropped the vial.
Her mind went blank.
Months ago, Father spending tens of thousands on a castle seemed astronomical.
Now Lynn earned nearly that much in days—with soap I helped create?
More shocking than any heroic epic.
She looked at Lynn.
He calmly flipped through the ledger.
As if fifteen thousand gold dragons were four copper stars.
As if he'd expected it all along.
"Well done, Sansa."
Lynn's gaze lifted from the ledger. Landed on her.
His deep eyes held a trace of approval.
Sansa may be naive, but her contribution is undeniable.
I couldn't write prose like hers.
"I like the name 'Winter Rose.'"
Sansa's cheeks flushed.
Her heart pounded.
Better than any praise.
She realized—
—she was starting to enjoy this.
Creating wealth with wit and creativity.
Far better than being some prince's ornament. Competing at dull feasts.
The Soap Craze
The entire noblewoman circle was stirred by a tiny bar of soap.
The princess's gift became every noble lady's bragging right.
That gentle, clean touch.
That lingering fragrance on the skin.
A joy they'd never known.
Countless noblewomen sent servants to Lynn's estate.
Hinting. Begging to buy this "alchemical wonder."
But Rob—following Lynn's orders—smiled and refused them all.
"Apologies, my lady."
"This soap is Ser Lynn's exclusive secret. Limited production. Gifts for friends only. Not for sale."
The harder to get, the more precious.
Scarcity breeds value.
Soon, a small bar of soap became more coveted than jewels or silk.
Lynn's estate—flooded with visitors.
Lower-status noblewomen offered hundreds of gold dragons—
—just for one limited-edition "Highgarden Love."
Sansa was swamped.
No longer just a lady who sang songs.
Now a true perfumer and brand strategist.
She gave every soap a story. A name.
"Winter Rose."
"Starfall Night."
"Stormlands Rhapsody."
These imaginative names drove noblewomen mad.
They emptied their husbands' purses.
Men groaned. But paid.
They couldn't tolerate the old scents anymore.
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