Chapter 55 — A Brother's Conversation
Tyrion's mind drifted to the other families who might have reason to murder Joffrey.
Prince Oberyn of Dorne had always nursed a deep hatred for the Lannisters—and he was a master of poisons. His involvement was certainly possible.
The Queen of Thorns in Highgarden could also have her motives. Perhaps she wished to spare her granddaughter Margaery from marrying Joffrey—and considered the more pliable Tommen a better match.
As for himself… yes, he loathed the boy and had slapped him more than once, but never—not once—had he seriously contemplated killing him.
He was still sifting through possibilities when the cell door swung open.
Tall, handsome, and carrying at his hip a Valyrian steel sword, Jaime Lannister stepped inside.
The blade was one of the two forged from Ice, the ancestral greatsword of House Stark.
Tywin had scoured the continent to find a smith capable of reworking Valyrian steel. At last he found Tobho Mott. Ice was melted down and reforged into two blades: the larger given to Jaime, the smaller to King Joffrey.
Tywin had always lamented that the Lannisters lacked a Valyrian steel sword.
By executing Eddard Stark and claiming Ice, he had fulfilled that long-cherished wish.
"Cersei and Father mean to put you on trial for regicide," Jaime said, looking at Tyrion—hair tangled, beard unkempt, a shadow of the man he had been.
"They know I'd never kill Joffrey!" Tyrion snapped, his mismatched eyes flaring with anger.
"I told them as much," Jaime replied with a helpless shrug, "but they wouldn't listen."
Tyrion clenched his jaw, bitterness rising like bile.
"They've always wanted me dead. Now they finally have an excuse—they won't waste it."
His thoughts returned to that conversation not long ago, when he had dared ask Tywin for land and titles, only to be reminded—coldly and cruelly—of his place.
How naive he had been, thinking his position as Master of Coin would restore him to influence in King's Landing. He'd begged favors, scraped together gold for Joffrey's wedding… and in the end, his reward was a cell.
"By the way," Jaime continued, "Sansa is gone. No one knows where she went."
"Sansa… gone?"
Tyrion felt a chill run through him.
Joffrey dies, Sansa vanishes the same night—how could anyone not connect the two?
And he, her husband, the man who poured the wine—his innocence would be harder than ever to prove.
"I'll speak to Father," Jaime said gently. "I'll try to persuade him. Don't give up hope just yet."
But Tyrion could not summon optimism. If Tywin Lannister could be swayed so easily, he would not be Tywin Lannister.
The Head of House Lannister had always seen his youngest son as the family's shame.
Now, at last, he had a chance to be rid of him—for good.
Tyrion could already picture the trial… and its grim conclusion.
And then there was Shae.
Locked away in the dungeon, Tyrion worried far more for her safety than for Sansa's.
Without him to shield her, Cersei would certainly move against Shae.
He could only hope Varys had convinced her to flee.
Seeing Tyrion sink into troubled silence, Jaime rested a hand on his shoulder and told him to wait for news. Then he turned and left the cell.
---
The very same day Drogon departed, Varys made his way to Flea Bottom.
On the road, a little bird brought word from Yunkai—news that stunned him:
Queen Daenerys Targaryen intended to found a university.
And unlike the Citadel of Oldtown, this Academy would demand no oaths.
Noble or commoner, man or woman, young or old—anyone who met the requirements could join.
Varys could hardly believe this was the same timid, exiled princess he had once known.
Now she moved with vision and conviction—and in her, Varys saw a glimmer of the world he dreamed of.
He found himself walking with a spring in his step.
The update carried only one disappointment: still no trace of the mysterious benefactor—the one Varys feared and respected in equal measure.
Daenerys's circle remained unchanged: Jorah, Barristan, Grey Worm, and now daren.
Varys knew these men well; none of them matched the shadowy figure he sought.
Back in his chambers, Varys at last opened Drogon's message.
The names hit him like a hammer: the true masterminds behind Joffrey's poisoning were Olenna Tyrell—the Queen of Thorns—and Petyr Baelish.
He had warned Olenna once that Littlefinger was treacherous beyond measure.
Yet she had allied with him anyway.
Turning over the note in his hand, Varys sank into contemplation.
Olenna's motives were simple enough: she would not allow her beloved granddaughter to wed that cruel, unpredictable boy.
With Joffrey dead, gentle Tommen would marry Margaery instead—Tommen, who was easier to guide and infinitely kinder.
But Littlefinger… what of him?
Varys loathed delving into Baelish's schemes, but he couldn't avoid it.
Since Eddard Stark's arrival in King's Landing, Baelish's hand had moved behind every disaster.
Some called the war of the Five Kings his doing—and Varys could not disagree.
Just as no one fully understood Varys's intentions, neither did he truly grasp Baelish's.
But the man's shadow fell across every plot in King's Landing.
His grudge against House Stark—rooted in Cat Stark's rejection—had sparked a chain of revenge that engulfed the realm in fire.
And now he had conspired with Olenna to murder Joffrey.
But to what end?
Varys had seen him stare at the Iron Throne in silence more than once.
Did Petyr Baelish truly desire the throne?
Impossible, he told himself.
Littlefinger held a council seat as Master of Coin—but beneath that veneer lay little more than the same humble origins as Varys… with one noteworthy difference.
Even if chaos consumed the Seven Kingdoms, could any of the great houses ever bow to a minor lord from the Fingers?
Varys had spent a lifetime dreaming of a realm at peace—people safe, well-fed, and free.
Yet he had never imagined himself sitting the Iron Throne.
He knew his limits—and sought instead a ruler worthy of his dream.
Whatever Baelish's aims, this revelation was a weapon—a valuable piece of leverage Varys would not squander.
As for Sansa's disappearance…
The Riverlands burned, Riverrun was besieged.
If Baelish had spirited her away, he would not take her to her mother's homeland.
The Vale—the Eyrie—was the most likely refuge.
But why Sansa?
Varys frowned deeply, troubled.
---
The road from Yunkai to Meereen was barely half the distance from Astapor to Yunkai, yet progress was just as slow.
The terrain was rough, little more than winding mountain paths.
Nearly ten thousand soldiers could march only three abreast.
Though Astapor's fleet—over thirty captured ships—had sailed to Yunkai, even combined with Yunkai's twenty vessels they could not carry the full host.
Each ship, once sailors and crew were accounted for, could hold barely a hundred soldiers.
When Drogon returned to the army, they were winding through narrow trails between stony ridges.
The column stretched for miles—five to six kilometers from van to rear.
At some bottlenecks even horses struggled to pass.
The baggage trains fared worst.
Some trebuchets required more than a dozen men just to inch them forward.
---