King's Landing, the Red Keep, the Great Hall. The scent of roasted meat mingled with perfume and the press of the crowd. Languid music drifted through the brightly lit hall.
At the feast, finely dressed lords and ladies moved constantly through the throng. King Robert was a man given over to pleasure—hunting, feasts, tournaments, and beautiful women were the whole of his world.
His roar cut through every other sound. Red-faced and swaying, he lurched to his feet, a jeweled goblet clutched in one hand, drunk beyond measure.
"You bitch! Don't think you can order me around!" King Robert shouted at Queen Cersei. "I am the king here, do you understand? If I say I'll hunt the boar alone, then I'll hunt the boar alone!"
The hall fell into stunned silence. Barristan of the Kingsguard stood rigid. The king's two brothers watched. Littlefinger observed with narrowed eyes.
The queen's face turned white as carved ice, bloodless and cold. Without a word, she gathered her skirts and walked out. Her attendants hurried after her.
Jaime reached to steady the king, but Robert shoved him away with sudden force. The Kingslayer stumbled and crashed into a long table.
"Some great knight you are. You're nothing but my servant. Remember that, Kingslayer."
The king slammed his jewel-encrusted goblet onto the table, wine sloshing over the rim.
"Yes, Your Grace." The Kingslayer straightened himself, his voice stiff and cold.
Golden hair framed a handsome face, bright green eyes sharp as drawn steel, a smile that could cut. Yet the name "Kingslayer" hung on him like a chain, heavy enough to make breathing difficult.
Great Lord Renly stepped forward with an easy smile. "Robert, you've spilled your wine. Let me pour you another."
Stannis shot Renly a resentful look. Renly was richer than he was, and far better loved.
Joffrey seemed long accustomed to scenes like this, remaining silent. The Hound stood not far behind him, like a dark envoy from the night.
Stannis studied the scene in silence. Why did the Kingslayer refuse to take off the white cloak? Why remain in King's Landing to endure such humiliation?
Was the hollow honor of knighthood truly more tempting than becoming heir to the wealthy Westerlands? Ser Jaime's golden curls shone brilliantly in the light. Joffrey's hair gleamed the same way.
Stannis looked from one to the other, unease rising in his chest.
"Where is my foster father, Lord Jon? Has no one summoned the Hand of the King to the feast?" King Robert bellowed.
Behind him, the Lannister squire Lancel hurried forward.
"The Hand of the King's son has fallen ill. Lord Jon is with the child," Lancel said quietly.
"Poor Robin." A trace of regret crossed the king's face, but he did not refuse the fresh wine. He drained the cup in a single swallow.
Stannis weighed his suspicions. If he were to find an ally in King's Landing, Great Lord Jon might be the only one.
...
Beneath the Red Keep lay secret passages woven like a spider's web. Maegor the Cruel believed only a true dragon should command such secrets, and so he had every craftsman who built the Red Keep put to death.
House Targaryen had always guarded the tunnels as a matter of highest secrecy. Among outsiders, often only the Master of Whisperers knew of their existence.
Deep within the shadowed corridors, Varys and Illyrio spoke in hushed tones. The light was dim, torches flickering weakly against the darkness.
Varys was broad by build, yet a master of disguise. He wore a leather half-cloak over hard leather armor. Heavy boots covered his feet, but he moved without a sound, gliding across the stone. Beneath a steel helmet sat a round, scarred face, marked by a short bristling beard. A dagger and a short sword hung at his waist.
"Stannis is secretly searching for those bastards. Perhaps he's formed some private suspicion," Varys said. "By the gods, the king truly has far too many bastards. There are ready-made ones in the Stormlands, the Vale, and here in King's Landing."
"And what will Stannis do?" Illyrio's thin yellow mustache twitched above his lips, giving him a faintly unsavory look. Rings glittered on every finger in the torchlight—red gold and pale silver, rubies and sapphires, even striped tiger's eye. Some fingers bore two rings apiece.
"No telling. He may well spark a war. I imagine he'll share this secret with old Jon. Stannis has no allies, after all. Few people care for him. Lions, wolves, roses—even the knights of the Stormlands. Poor Stannis."
"Too soon, my old friend. If lion and stag tear at each other now, it gains us little. We're not ready," Illyrio said, unease creeping into his voice. "The timing is wrong."
"We have no army. That's the fatal problem," Varys sighed.
"Perhaps we must consider those savages. They hate the sea and lack refinement, but they command tens of thousands of screamers warriors."
"Truly consider them? The Dothraki despise the sea and have no ships. And even if we shower them with gifts, who can say in which year their repayment would come?" Varys replied, displeased. They understood the savages well enough.
"We can only trust in that possibility. The Magisters have no such army and no intention of marching. A marriage between the Horselord and the True Dragon. If the Princess conceives, the situation improves. Only after the child is born might the Khal act."
"Perhaps we have another option," Varys said quietly.
"You mean that mysterious Fire Herb King?" Illyrio murmured. Though immensely fat, he moved with surprising grace, his weight set on his heels, walking with the lightness of a water dancer.
"Do you remember? I once gave the smith a king's bastard. Black hair, blue eyes, strong build."
"You mean—"
"Just so. Judging by his stature and what he's done, I suspect it's that boy. But he has slipped beyond my control," Varys said pointedly. "If that bastard learns his true parentage, he will certainly turn his blade against House Lannister."
"My friend, we cannot place our hopes in outsiders. The Fire Herb King has already challenged slavery itself. That threatens to overturn the world. Cooperation with him carries too many uncertainties. And he does not command tens of thousands of warriors. Better to wait and see whether he can withstand Myr's attack first."
"My old friend, what of the Rose and our dear Renly?" Illyrio asked.
"The King and Queen's quarrels have not gone unnoticed. The Rose and Renly are making their moves. The Knight of Flowers has been writing letters, urging his father. A maiden in her early teens, lovely and obedient. Lord Renly and Ser Loras intend to make Robert favor her, then wed her and set up a new queen. As for Littlefinger, who can say what he's thinking? And Lord Stark… the northerners are still holding their ground."
"My friend, the situation is tangled. We need time. Too many pieces are in motion. I wish you were a true sorcerer and could buy us more of it."
"I will do whatever I can," Varys said softly, holding the torch. "But I require funds. And thirty more birds."
"That many?" The light ahead dimmed, and Illyrio's voice grew fainter.
"The kind you want are not easy to find… young, yet literate… if they're a little older… they're less likely to die…"
"No. Younger is safer… treat them well…"
"…provided they keep their tongues…"
"…there are risks…"
"We wait for the right moment. Wait until we can sell the Princess for a very good price."
"We need an army, whichever banner it comes under. If the Fire Herb King breaks out of his predicament, we may consider him as well."
In the darkness, their shadows stretched longer and longer along the walls.