In King's Landing, Varys sat alone in his chambers, turning a crossbow over in his soft hands.
It was not a beautiful weapon. There was no elegance in its design, no glory in the way a sword shone beneath sunlight. Yet it was efficient, practical, and deadly.
Most warriors considered the crossbow a coward's tool.
And most people considered fat men and eunuchs cowards as well.
Varys smiled faintly at the thought.
A crossbow was not only a coward's weapon—it was a devil's weapon. It killed quickly, cleanly, and from a safe distance.
Recently, the man in King's Landing most fond of using such a weapon was Joffrey Baratheon. The young king liked crossbows because they allowed him to pretend at strength while hiding his lack of real martial skill.
Varys set the weapon aside and withdrew a folded map from his sleeve.
He spread it across the table.
The map of Westeros was marked with colored lines and arrows representing the movement of armies and factions.
A black-and-red arrow marked the advance of Gendry. It had moved steadily and now rested at Riverrun.
A white line marked the advance of the House Stark forces.
A crimson line represented the retreating House Lannister armies.
Meanwhile, the Iron Islands, House Arryn, House Tyrell, and House Martell remained silent observers.
"Fate truly is amusing," Varys murmured.
"A boy I once saved casually now threatens to ruin years of work."
He still remembered Gendry as nothing more than a useful bastard child—one of King Robert's many illegitimate sons. At the time, Varys had invested more effort into another candidate, but fortune had favored the blacksmith's apprentice instead.
Originally, Varys only wanted to create problems for Queen Cersei. His little birds had long known of the incest between the Lannister twins. A few surviving royal bastards could one day become dangerous pieces on the board.
Now one of those pieces had become a storm.
Varys leaned back and clasped his hands.
"I want the lords divided," he thought.
"I want Cersei and Joffrey to run wild."
"I want the Seven Kingdoms weakened, bleeding, exhausted."
He had no intention of allowing anyone to claim an easy victory. Whoever rose next should inherit a broken realm—one that could be reshaped.
From the North, wolves, trout, and Gendry's banners moved southward.
The Baratheon brothers still contested one another.
The Reach waited.
Dorne watched.
Every power was circling every other.
Yet one truth troubled him.
"I cannot allow the Storm to become king."
His eyes narrowed.
"I want Aegon."
To Varys, the rightful future ruler was not Gendry, nor Joffrey, nor Stannis. It was the boy he had secretly prepared.
Young Aegon had been groomed for kingship since infancy.
Trained to listen.
Taught to rule.
Shaped into the perfect monarch.
The others were merely tools—or sacrifices.
Varys had once considered using Daenerys Targaryen and her marriage as part of that design. Let another man build an army, then remove him. Let Aegon arrive at the perfect moment and inherit everything.
Whether the husband was Khal Drogo or Gendry made little difference.
Only the final result mattered.
Still, Gendry's recent caution confused him.
"Why is he waiting?" Varys muttered.
Perhaps the young man intended to let his uncles weaken each other first.
If so, he was smarter than expected.
That possibility annoyed Varys.
His intelligence network was vast, but not limitless. Inside the tunnels and hidden corners of the Red Keep, his little birds knew nearly everything.
Beyond that, information became less reliable.
The more distant and isolated the region, the weaker his grasp became.
The Eyrie was difficult to penetrate.
Dragonstone remained uncertain.
Even Riverrun was cloudy.
And then there was Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger.
He maintained his own web of influence through tax collectors, customs officers, merchants, and clerks who still sought his favor.
Enemy and ally.
Dangerous and useful.
Fortunately, Littlefinger's ambitions stretched beyond King's Landing, which kept open conflict between them at bay.
Suddenly, movement stirred in the shadows.
A child stepped forward.
Thin, pale, dressed in ragged robes, no older than ten in appearance.
One of the little birds.
He pointed toward the window, then silently handed Varys a folded note.
The boy's tongue had been cut out long ago.
All of Varys's little birds were mute.
They could hear, move, and kill—but never speak.
Varys accepted the message and rewarded the child with a sweet.
The child's face lit up before vanishing back into darkness.
Varys opened the note.
The mob gathers again tonight. Rumors spread through Flea Bottom that Rosby has been plundered.
He frowned.
"Another riot?"
He crossed to the window.
Outside, footsteps thundered through the streets.
Shouting rose like smoke.
Then flames appeared in the distance.
King's Landing was boiling once more.
Near The Red Keep, a vast crowd of ragged, starving people had gathered.
This mob was larger than the last.
Denser.
Angrier.
It looked less like a crowd and more like a wall of flesh.
They stared upward at the castle battlements with hatred burning in hollow eyes.
Above them, crossbowmen lined the pale red walls.
"Bread!" a starving mother screamed.
"We want bread, Your Grace!"
Her arms were so thin they looked like bones wrapped in skin.
King Joffrey stepped forward in gleaming red armor.
"Do I owe you bread?" he shouted back.
That single sentence shattered the last thread of restraint.
A stone flew from the crowd.
Then another.
Then dozens.
One woman screamed:
"Bastard!"
"The Kingslayer's bastard!"
"Incest spawn!"
The words spread like fire.
"Bastard!"
"Monster!"
"Whore's son!"
Stones rained upward. Rotting food, torn clothes, even filth splattered against the walls.
One rock struck Joffrey's armor with a sharp clang.
The king's face twisted in rage.
"Who threw that?"
"Hound! Kill them!"
Sandor Clegane stepped forward, hand moving to his sword. He glanced at the thousands below and paused.
A Kingsguard knight spoke carefully.
"Your Grace… that one stone-thrower may already be gone."
"There are thousands down there."
Joffrey snarled.
Then screamed:
"Loose arrows!"
Crossbow strings snapped in unison.
Bolts rained into the crowd.
Several starving people dropped instantly.
But death did not silence them.
It enraged them.
"Bastard!"
"Beast!"
"Long live Gendry!"
"Long live King Gendry!"
"Long live Stannis!"
Even some shouted:
"Long live Renly!"
The castle walls shook with fury.
Joffrey trembled with rage.
"Traitors! Kill them all!"
More bolts flew.
Bodies fell.
Still the crowd surged.
At that moment, Tyrion Lannister hurried onto the battlements.
He took one look at the sea of people below and cursed inwardly.
Beside him came Cersei Lannister, pale with panic.
The mob recognized them immediately.
"Whore!"
"Kingslayer's whore!"
"Half-man!"
"Starver!"
Tyrion's temples pounded.
"Who started the Rosby rumor?" he snapped.
That lie was too perfectly timed.
Too malicious.
Joffrey pointed wildly.
"I want cavalry! I want them butchered!"
"Shut up," Tyrion said coldly.
He dragged the king out of sight and slapped him hard across the face.
Joffrey stared in disbelief.
"They insulted me!"
"They attacked me!"
"And you answered starving people with bolts," Tyrion hissed.
"Do you think they'll wait politely to die one by one?"
He turned immediately.
"Sound the war horn!"
"Announce this: anyone remaining before the Red Keep after three blasts will be treated as rebels."
Then he pointed at several guards and knights.
"If they do not disperse, you march out and clear them."
Some of the Kingsguard hesitated.
Ser Boros muttered nervously, "There are… many of them."
Tyrion stared at him in disgust.
"You wear white armor but lack the courage to dirty it."
Cersei stepped in sharply.
"Obey the Hand."
The horn sounded.
Its mournful cry rolled across King's Landing.
A herald shouted:
"By command of King Joffrey Baratheon and the Hand of the King, disperse at once! Food will be secured for the city!"
The answer came instantly.
"Liar!"
"Bastard!"
"Half-man!"
Tyrion clenched his jaw.
He had tried reason.
Now only force remained.
Then another scream rose from the city.
"Fire!"
"Someone is setting fires!"
Tyrion froze.
His blood turned cold.
Wildfire still existed in hidden caches beneath King's Landing.
If flames spread…
If even one spark reached those stores…
The city could become a funeral pyre.
Elsewhere in the castle, Sansa Stark listened to the chaos outside.
Shouting.
Horns.
Screams.
Running footsteps.
The castle guards had rushed to protect the king and queen.
Even the drawbridge had not yet been raised.
She touched the wound on her hand and looked toward the corridor.
Was this her chance?
As her brother Robb's victories grew, so too had the cruelty inflicted upon her.
Every day had become harder.
Every bruise deeper.
Every humiliation sharper.
And now, in the middle of riot and fire—
Opportunity had finally arrived.
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