Varys VII
Varys hadn't slept well the previous night but he didn't think Illyrio would be able to detect that. "While Maester Pycelle has managed to disgrace himself, it seems that Pentos has little to concern itself with in Westeros. The Great Council was entirely concerned with Westerosi matters - preparations for winter and the possibility of conflict with the savages north of the Wall."
"Hmm. The Baratheon's reign seems stable. That is always a concern for us."
Varys moved his hand, conceding the point. A united Westeros was one that might turn its lords towards expanding into the Stepstones or further north. Even the Braavosi didn't want that.
"Not entirely stable. House Martell's hatred of the Lannister's for the death of Prince Rhaegar's family boiled over. While his grace managed to settle the matter, Lord Tywin of Casterly Rock and Prince Quentyn, second in line to Sunspear, are dead."
"Hmm. Dorne and the Westerlands... it's unfortunate that they don't share a border or there could be something there to keep them busy. Are there any other conflicts that we can rely upon?"
"King Robert has strong personal ties to the Prince of the North and the Prince of the Vale. The North's power is hard to gauge but they appeared to turn the tide against the Targaryen loyalists ten years ago. The Vale aren't the strongest kingdom but they control a significant amount of trade with Braavosi and between them House Arryn and the Manderlys of White Harbour can field considerable fleets." Varys ticked off two fingers. "House Tully aren't great admirers of the Baratheons but any war between the kingdoms would almost inevitably ravage their lands so they're unlikely to risk open war." One more finger. "Even with Tywin Lannister gone, the new Prince of the Rock -"
"I thought their title was Lord?"
"King Robert elevated them to a Princely House at the Great Council in honour of Jaime Lannister having slain King Aerys. A sensible move as it offsets any resentment at Lord Tywin dying while his guest, and it would remain impossible for the Lannisters to reconcile with any movement to restore House Targaryen." Varys ticked off the last finger on that hand and then added his thumb. "Combined with the Easterlands, the Baratheons can reasonably rely on five kingdoms out of the seven."
Illyrio sighed. "And Prince Martell is not so foolish as to begin a war that would be so one-sided."
"Indeed. He would need an alliance and his only option would be the Reach."
"The Reach is a wealthy kingdom."
"A wealthy kingdom, yes." Varys picked up a goblet and sipped on it. "And Lord Tyrell has thus far failed to win back royal favour. It's difficult to say if his actions are poorly thought out or deliberately provocative. However, his sons are on good terms with Prince Renly Baratheon and the military leadership of the Reach has been entrusted to Lord Tarly."
Illyrio frowned. "I don't recall the name."
"His lands are near to Dorne and they have a long and bloody history across the border. Not only did King Robert entrust him with the Wardenship of the South, a little flower in Oldtown advises me that he's recently offered to take Tarly's heir as his squire. The Reach has been neatly neutralised."
"And if there were a Targaryen successor? One whose legitimacy is in no doubt?"
"Such as the young man who made such a creditable effort to pass through Tyrosh and cast aside those who marked his arrival and departure?"
"Quite so. For example, you named the Easterlands as the Baratheon's kingdom but that is surely an over-simplification. Many houses in the Crownlands must still favour their traditional overlords."
"Some, yes. The Narrow Sea Houses who tread lightly when it comes to the matter of our merchant's bond-servants, to give one example. And there were lords in both the Vale and the Stormlands that stood for the Dragon when their overlords chose to overthrow the Targaryens. The principle concern would be that such lords are scattered and represent small factions within their kingdoms. It would take more than one unproven leader to bring those sparks into the sort of flame you envisage."
Illyrio smiled - a smile Varys knew of old, one that suggested the man thought he knew more than Varys did. And at times he had been right. "We shall see."
After they had finished their drinks and exchanged further pleasantries, the magister made his exit and Varys withdrew to his bedchamber. Not however, to go to sleep.
Instead he drew out one of the several cases he had stacked beneath his bed. Most contained little of importance - winter garments that had been set aside for years, for example. One contained a modest fortune in jewels and coins. If he had need to flee the city, this would hopefully be enough to bribe his way through the gates and pay his way to a place of safety. There was a heavy dagger in the case too.
That case was a secondary security for the real treasure though. Anyone who was looking for hidden wealth might well decide they'd found what they wanted and ignore a smaller, more humble casket tucked behind the jewellery case.
There was no lock, just a catch that was purposefully stiff to open. Varys had to work at it gently with a letter opener to open the casket.
Within, just as it had been when he last examined it, lay the dragon egg.
Robert's gift to him and worth more to the discriminating than three cases of jewels such as that which it was hidden behind. Varys reached into the casket and lifted it out with both hands. It was as hard as stone and - perhaps his imagination - as warm as stone that had been warmed by the sun for all of a long summer day.
Are you to blame? he wondered. You're a strange little mystery, almost as curious as the question of why Robert Baratheon chose to give you to me. Are you the cause of my dreams?
He'd dreamed of scouring houses and mansions he remembered from his youth as a thief, and of doing the same to the Red Keep and other Westerosi castles he'd visited as Aerys' Master of Whispers. Everywhere he could see wealth and secrets, but never that which he had sought.
And always behind him, as if stalking him, the flutter of wings.
"What was I seeking?" he mused out loud and then caught himsellf. It was a poor habit for a man who concerned himself with secrets to fall into.
Were those wings... he cradled the egg cautiously to his chest as if it was infinitely delicate. After all these years, why now would he dream of dragons?
Sansa I
Sansa wore her best dress as she and her brothers and cousins stood on the steps of the Keep to greet their guests. She'd combed her hair carefully and plaited it herself while Septa Mordane had to chase Robb, Rick, Bran and Joff to make sure they didn't dirty their own finery and that their hair was tidy.
The littles - Jon and Joanna - had their hands firmly secured in Aunt Lyanna's as she stood at the bottom of the steps. They had only just arrived in time because no sooner had her aunt approved that the boys were presentable than Ser Rodrik had waved for the gates to be opened by Jorey and Walder.
The riders poured through the castle gates like a spring torrent breaking through the ice of a winter stream. To Sansa disappointment most of the men wore steel and wool, just like any of the lords who sometimes visited Winterfell. But the banners that the wind tugged at weren't those of the north.
"Father! Mother!" Joffwyn called out and pointed to a crimson banner. He was right, for beneath the banner rode his parents, quiet Uncle Benjen and the golden-haired Aunt Cersei. Both wore mail polished until it shone like silver and long crimson cloaks trimmed with silver furs.
Sansa heard her aunt Lyanna take a deep breath and saw that her eyes were fixed on the head of the column. The man in the lead was larger than Walder, almost the size of Lord Umber, and over his riding leathers his surcoat was finer than that of those around him, though it was the same black stag on a field of gold. He did not dismount at first, for he was staring back at Lyanna with striking blue eyes, face very still.
He didn't ride alone. Two of his companions had the same raven-dark hair, save that theirs wasn't touched by grey. One was a very handsome young man, older than Robb or Rick but not quite full grown, and the other was a girl of around Sansa's age, astride a black pony. It had to be the king and one of his daughters, but she wasn't sure about the young man. Prince Eddard perhaps? That always confused her that the crown prince had the same name as her father.
"Robert," murmured Aunt Lyanna.
Robb looked around and then moved down the stairs, having to hop off the edge to avoid knocking down Joanna and Jon. He bowed deeply before the king. "Your grace," he said clearly. "Winterfell is yours."
The words seemed to break whatever mood had taken the king and he swung himself down from his saddle. "Well now, if you are Robb Stark then I would say that Winterfell is yours - at least until your parents return."
"Thank you, your grace."
Aunt Lyanna led the other children down as King Robert helped the other girl down and a pudgy boy clambered down from his pony to take the reins. "Your grace." She released the children's hands and curtseyed.
"Lyanna." The king reached down, took Lyanna's hands and drew her up. "I told you this when we last spoke. Consider me another brother. Do you kneel to Ned or Benjen?"
"She doesn't," Benjen confirmed, approaching and lifting Joff up. "My gods, you've grown." The boy wrapped his arms around his father's neck while Cersei scooped up Joanna.
Sansa looked away, missing her own parents. A hand touched her head and she turned back and saw it was the king. "You must be Sansa," he told her. "You look just like your aunt when she was younger."
"Because now I'm an old woman?" asked her aunt, her sharp tone offset by a smile.
"Well you're a little taller than when we first met." He smiled down at Sansa. "Would you like to know a secret?"
She nodded, curiously, and then shrieked in surprise as he put his hands around her waist and lifted her up so he could whisper into her ear.
"Really?"
King Robert laughed and put her down then placed one hand over his heart. "Would I lie?"
"Robb, Robb!" she grabbed her big brother's hand.
"What?"
"We're going to have a little sister. Or a brother."
The king laughed again. He seemed to do that a lot. "Now, introductions. This is my daughter Cassana. I hope you'll be a good friend to her, Sansa."
Sansa curtseyed to Princess Cassana, who did the same.
"My brother Renly." The king patted the handsome young man on the shoulder and then looked over to the boy holding the horses. "And my squire, Sam Tarly."
"My ladies," the pudgy boy said shyly and bowed."
Aunt Lyanna smiled at him. "You have my sympathies, young Sam. Didn't your last squire run away to Essos, Robert?"
"Oh he hadn't beeny my squire for a few years. You've heard from Ned, then."
"There have been a few ravens." She smiled. "He had several questions for Maester Luwin about how we can make paper out of wood instead of rags."
The king blinked. "Rags?"
"Yes, Robert. How did you think it was made."
"Uh... wood pulp, soaked somehow and..." He looked at her and sighed. "No?"
"Well Luwin has a whole shed of pots of wood shavings so I hope he hasn't been wasting his time."
Sansa looked over at Cassana who giggled. "Prince Jon says father is very eccentric."