The atmosphere in the Small Council chamber was far from lively. Young Stannis, standing guard at the door as a cupbearer, had a visibly swollen face from the slap he'd taken earlier.
Many of the lords seated around the table wore grim, worried expressions. Alester Florent, for one, had watched his kin in Casterly Rock placed under house arrest the moment word of Jon's true identity reached them. Now only Alester himself remained free among the Florents.
Queen Selyse had been sent from the room. Stannis had no patience for her presence today. In truth, several of the councilors had grown used to the shy but clever girl and her veil. Even with the scars hidden, she had a quiet steadiness they'd come to appreciate.
Ser Adrian, true to form, kept muttering about the wrongness of tearing children from their fathers. Stannis looked ready to have the man dragged out.
Finally the king turned to the Grand Maester. "Pycelle."
"Your Grace," the old man wheezed, rising unsteadily. The loose folds of pale flesh at his neck sagged; one strand had caught in his collar and he hadn't noticed.
"I want you to send a command from the Iron Throne to the Citadel. Tell them the silver-haired, purple-eyed child in Casterly Rock is the product of Margaery's adultery. Jon Stark has no Targaryen blood in him at all. Every claim he makes is the ravings of a madman."
"As you command, Your Grace," Pycelle answered.
The old man understood perfectly. This was a war of words. Stannis would brand Margaery a whore and Jon a cuckold. When Jon struck back, the Citadel could serve as the messenger.
Next the king looked to Varys. "Spider. I want you to find out where that dragon egg truly came from. Euron's gift was blue. The reports from Casterly Rock say it's white. I want answers."
Varys bowed smoothly. "At once, Your Grace."
He accepted the task with genuine interest. Jon's sudden claim to be Rhaegar's son had shattered every plan he and Illyrio had laid. Originally they had counted on Young Griff marrying Daenerys and returning with dragons while Stannis's throne crumbled. Now a living, breathing rival had stepped onto the board.
Stannis's order to summon Jon to King's Landing still stood, but Varys already had contingencies. At the right moment they would spirit Jon to Pentos. Once free of Stannis's eye, the man could sail north to White Harbor or south through Dorne and return to the West with his army intact.
Varys believed this was the perfect window to bring Jon into their fold. Illyrio was already in the city. If they moved carefully, they could still turn the situation to their advantage—let Jon and Stannis bleed each other first.
After the council dispersed, Varys made his way to the hidden chamber beneath the Red Keep where he and Illyrio met in secret. The stone table was crusted with years of melted wax.
Illyrio sat heavily, thick fingers stroking his yellow beard. "I had hoped to tell Jon our true purpose once he arrived. I never imagined the boy would move this fast."
Varys's purple eyes gleamed in the candlelight. "His claim may be genuine. A bastard would never risk everything by declaring himself openly unless he had proof. And that silver-haired child changes everything."
Illyrio grunted. "So what do we do now?"
"We keep our distance for the moment," Varys said. "Let Jon and Stannis trade blows. The louder the quarrel, the bloodier the fight will be. When both sides are exhausted, Young Griff and the Golden Company will arrive to finish what they started. Oberyn will keep Dorne in play. We still have time."
Illyrio nodded slowly, eyes on the flickering flame. "Our greatest advantage remains that no one knows we exist. We strike only when the moment is perfect."
Varys did not smile. "That advantage will not last. Clever men are already asking questions. We must move before they find the answers."