The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a sensory assault of roasting meat, heavy perfumes, and the relentless, decadent pulse of high-born chatter. Torches guttered in their brackets, casting long, flickering shadows across the vaulted ceiling.
King Robert Baratheon sat at the center of the high table, a crimson-faced titan of a man who seemed to be consuming his own kingdom one goblet at a time. He swayed in his seat, his laughter a thunderous roar that drowned out the musicians' flutes.
"You will not command me, woman!" Robert bellowed, his voice cracking like a whip. He stood, nearly upending a silver platter of lampreys. His eyes were bloodshot, fixed on Cersei Lannister with a raw, drunken contempt. "I am the King. If I say I go to the Kingswood to hunt the boar alone, then I go alone. Do you hear me?"
A suffocating silence fell over the hall. Ser Barristan Selmy stood like a statue in white. Renly and Stannis watched from their places, their expressions as different as night and day. The Queen's face turned into a mask of pale ice, her lips a thin, bloodless line. Without a word, she gathered her silk skirts and turned, sweeping out of the hall with her attendants trailing behind her like a wake.
Jaime Lannister stepped forward, reaching out a gold-clad hand to steady his king.
"Hands off, Kingslayer!" Robert barked, shoving Jaime back with a strength that sent the knight stumbling into a long table of tiered cakes. Jaime's emerald eyes flashed, his hand twitching toward his side, but the "Kingslayer" nickname hung around his neck like a millstone. He steadied himself, his face a neutral, dangerous blank.
"As you command, Your Grace," Jaime said, his voice as cold as the North.
"Renly!" Robert shouted, ignoring the tension. "Your brother's glass is empty. Fix it!"
Renly Baratheon stepped forward with a charming, practiced smile, filling a fresh goblet while Stannis watched with a deepening scowl. To Stannis, the room felt like a lion's den. He counted the Lannisters—Lancel at the King's shoulder, Jaime in his white cloak, the Hound lurking in the shadows, and Joffrey watching the humiliation with a look of bored entitlement.
Stannis's eyes drifted to Joffrey's golden curls, then back to the King's black beard. He thought of Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, who was currently missing the feast to tend to his sickly son, Robert Arryn. The seed is strong, Stannis thought, a cold vibration of dread beginning in his marrow. The gold always drowns the black in this house.
Deep beneath the floorboards of the Throne Room, the world was silent and smelled of damp earth.
Maegor the Cruel had built these tunnels to ensure only a dragon could know the Red Keep's secrets. He had murdered the stonemasons to keep the silence, and for three hundred years, the Targaryens had guarded these paths as their most private sanctuary.
Varys moved through the dark, but he was not the perfumed eunuch of the Small Council. He wore a rugged leather half-cape and heavy boots that moved across the stone without making a sound. A steel cap covered his head, shading a round, scarred face and a stubble-covered jaw.
"Stannis is sniffing around the bastards," Varys said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "He's looking for the ghosts Robert left in the gutters. Storm's End, the Vale, even here in the city. The King has been prolific."
"And what will the Lord of Dragonstone do?" Illyrio Mopatis asked. His yellow fork-beard twitched as he spoke. He walked with a surprising lightness for a man of his immense bulk, his rings—ruby, sapphire, and tiger-eye—shimmering in the faint torchlight.
"He'll take it to Jon Arryn," Varys said. "Stannis has no friends and fewer allies. He needs the Hand to strike the blow. If they reveal the secret, it will be war. The Lion and the Stag will tear each other apart before we are ready."
"Too soon," Illyrio sighed. "We have no army on the ground. The Princess is with the Dothraki, but the marriage to the Khal... it takes time. The horse-lords will not cross the poison water until a son is born."
"We need a variable," Varys noted, stopping at a junction.
"You mean the boy?" Illyrio asked. "The smith's apprentice you sent across the sea?"
"The black-haired boy with the blue eyes," Varys confirmed. "I sent him to the Wolf Pack to keep him hidden from the Queen's knives. But he has... evolved. He is the 'Hammer King' everyone is talking about in the Disputed Lands. He has seized the fire-weed harvest and liberated seven estates."
"He is out of your control, then," Illyrio said, his tone turning sharp.
"Completely. If he learns who he is, he will be a lightning rod for every rebel in the Seven Kingdoms. He challenges the foundation of the world by breaking the chains. It is a dangerous heresy."
"We cannot trust a rogue piece," Illyrio warned. "Let the Myrmen deal with him. If he survives the mercenary host they've sent, perhaps we reconsider. But for now, we focus on the True Dragon. We focus on the beggar king and his sister."
"And Renly?" Illyrio asked. "The Spider has many eyes on the Rose."
"Renly and the Knight of Flowers are plotting to replace the Queen with Margaery Tyrell," Varys whispered, the torchlight dancing in his dark eyes. "They want to turn Robert's eyes toward a new rose and cast the lioness out. Littlefinger watches them all, smiling while he counts his coins. And in the North, the wolf still waits."
"Time is a thief," Illyrio said, his voice fading as they moved deeper into the shadows. "We must find a way to buy more of it."
"I will do what I can," Varys said. "But I need thirty more 'birds'. The young ones... the ones who can read and write but know how to keep their mouths shut."
"I will find them," Illyrio promised. "Until then, we let the Hammer King bleed. We see if the blacksmith's boy can withstand the fire."
The two shadows stretched long against the stone walls, merging into the darkness as the music of the feast echoed faintly from far above.