"I rather like all of the 'white'."
"Hmph."
"It's a beautiful city. Shame it's the only one in the North."
"Hnn."
"Severus, are you still cross about the brooms? It's hardly my fault that you have two left bristles."
"It is not. About the brooms. Damned things that they are."
"Then perk up, yes! We're in a beautiful city! Primitive though it may be…"
"And why, Pomona? Why are we here?"
"Eheheh… Yes, I suppose the reason does put a damper on the beauty."
"Yet the puttering pillocks won't survive a month outside without our interference here."
"Oh, the students aren't nearly that bad, Severus."
"Hm, we shall see."
'What a strange conversation…' Wylis Manderly mused to himself.
His eyes examined the source. A man and a woman, both as old or older than him. The man was tall and slender, with a hooked nose and slicked-back hair. The woman was short and squat. Not quite round as she still had surprisingly pleasant and womanly curves. But with her diminutive stature and completely grayed hair, she looked like a kindly young grandmother.
Wylis had merely overheard them as he rode past with his retinue. The praise for his family's city drew his ear and marked the odd couple as visitors. Something White Harbor was no stranger to. Something about them kept Wylis' attention beyond that. The pair held themselves oddly. Not quite like Lords but certainly not like Smallfolk either. They were assured and confident in themselves. An odd sort of all-encompassing confidence that left them more at ease than Wylis usually saw from strangers in a strange city.
"What say you, Severus? Where shall we start?"
"Hng. Miss Granger's admittedly brilliant spell, of course. Point me: Smuggler's Ring."
With a fancy stick in his hand, the man spun in place. Seemingly not of his own accord. It was an undeniably odd sight. Wylis knew he couldn't have spun like that. He was made for strength and brawn and not a little rotundness. Not agility. Yet the man spun as if dragged by the stick in his hand until the spin settled. The stick pointed somewhere toward the city's inner harbor.
"And we follow," The man said curtly.
"Away! Away! To the Smuggler's Ring!" The little (and not-so-little) old Lady cheered. "Oh, this reminds me of a song, Severus."
"Don't sing, you damn Puff."
"Oooooh~, I went down to the water's edge~, where the fellows oft end up dead~! There, I found myself a rowboat~, and a couple o' crates and dark-hood cloaks~…"
"Bloody delinquent badgers…"
The man stalked off like a fuming wraith, his cloak billowing behind him. The woman followed, humming and singing verses Wylis had never heard. To say the pair were odd would be putting it lightly, in Wylis' mind. Yet they spoke of something rather pressing. Wylis spurred his horse to follow at what he hoped was a discreet distance.
"My Lord?" One of the men with Wylis asked.
"Humor me, Ser Kycht, for they speak of intriguing things," Wylis said, his voice quiet, humble, and completely unlike his younger brother's boisterousness. "My Lord Father will be ill-pleased by news of smugglers in the inner harbor. I feel it is my duty to investigate further."
"Of course, my Lord," Ser Kycht nodded. "The men are with you."
"You have my thanks, as always," Wylis nodded back. "I have a feeling the odd couple is even more odd than they appear…"
"A feat if there ever was one, my Lord," Ser Kycht jested to keep the mood up. "A pair of the Wizards from Castle Hogwarts, do you think?"
"If they are, they are allies. Even if it is strange for them to enter the city unannounced," Wylis replied. "I shall endeavor to give them the benefit of my faith, for Castle Hogwarts has become a close partner of White Harbor and House Manderly since my father first entreated with them."
"With a spin like that, I reckon it has to be magic," One of the men-at-arms commented, half in jest and half seriously.
Wylis let a small smile spread below his bushy walrus mustache, "Aye, I couldn't do the same."
Good-natured laughter filled the party of men. Most Lords would never self-deprecate in such a way, even if their faults were blindingly obvious. But Wylis liked to think of himself as a humble man. A very big humble man. He also liked to keep the morale of his men high. A jape at his own expense was a small price to pay for that.
They followed the odd couple through the streets of White Harbor, heading for the inner harbor that gave the city its name. As they did, Wylis witnessed things he couldn't explain. Nothing majorly strange. But people unconsciously parted before the tall man's path. And how much his cloak fluttered in the wind couldn't be natural. Wylis quickly came to the conclusion that the odd couple were, in fact, Wizards of Hogwarts.
His father had spoken at length about the wonders of the Wizards and their magic. Their castle to rival any he'd seen. And the food. Oh, the food… Father said it appeared without end. Dish after dish of whatever he asked for, called into existence just as he finished the last. That Wylis very much wished to see.
Perhaps he would get the chance soon enough. Once he discerned the Wizard's intentions in his family's city, he would ask to visit Castle Hogwarts. As his father's heir, it was only right to visit House Manderly's newest, nearest allies. But his duty to White Harbor came first.
Wylis hoped his targets' intentions were good and true. But there was already a shred of doubt in his mind. What did Wizards need with smugglers? And why had they not announced themselves? Those were questions that needed answering. Wylis followed on.
"You buy 'em, we hide 'em~, no tariff to pay 'em~! Rum or spice or tea~, it's no trouble for a blockade runner like me~! Yes, my friend was a smuggler~! My brother~! My grandmother~! It's all I know, this life of treachery~!"
The unassuming Lady continued to sing all through the trek to the docks. It was a strangely common song. Something one might expect to hear in a tavern full of Smallfolk deep in their cups. Or aboard a ship, sung by hardy sailors. Hearing it from the little old noble Witch was a curious and amusing scene, indeed.
The hook-nosed man came to a stop before a warehouse in the inner harbor. One with nothing out of the ordinary except for it being particularly far from the custom's office, Wylis noted. The man nodded at his companion. The squat Witch grinned and belted out one more line from her strange song.
"Oh, oh~! A smuggler's life for me~!"
She waved the stick in her hand at the door to the warehouse. Then came a cacophonous crash. A truly tremendous thud. A bang that startled all of Wylis' men and likely deafened any inside the warehouse. The door of solid oak flew off its hinges like it was nothing more than a thin sheet on a clothesline. And the little old woman responsible marched forward with that same grin — now looking as wild and wicked as any hedge witch — as if she hadn't just done the impossible.
Wylis watched, dumbfounded. Then the screams started from within the warehouse. Horrible sounds. As if the Stranger itself had descended upon the mortal world. The hook-nosed man followed his companion into the building, seemingly unconcerned by the screams and cries of men inside. Barely comprehending the scene, Wylis dismounted with a heavy grunt and followed as well.
His men shifted nervously as they took up places at Wylis' back. Their hands were already drifting to the sheathed swords at their sides. Stopping at the blown-open doorway, Wylis couldn't help but notice that the door's hinges were just… gone. He scarcely wished to think of the force such a feat would take. Or that all of it came from a little old woman who was barely half his size…
Inside the warehouse, men were strung up like decorations at a feast. They were the ones screaming. A few were even crying like babes. Strange vines held them up by their ankles, moving as if they were much more alive than they should've been. The men's furs and leathers were torn. Their flesh was already red and raw where the demonic vines touched. And in the middle of it, the little Lady stood casually, caressing one of the vines with the stick in her hand.
"Alright, boys," She said. "Here's how things are going to be from now on~… You work for us. We need a place to start. And you were lucky enough to volunteer yourselves. If you don't comply, you'll be removed, of course. But I'd rather if we can solve this little tussle as amicably as possible. Don't you feel the same~?"
Wylis had never seen men nod faster.
"Wonderful!" The Witch beamed. "I would hate to have to turn the matter of convincing you over to my good friend Severus here. He's not as nice as me. Troubled youth, and all. He learned quite a few things when he fell in with the wrong crowd and I'd hate to make him relive those days. I'm sure you all understand."
The man next to her had a look of disdain on his face that would have melted glass. Wylis felt a shiver run down his spine and couldn't quite identify why. That sneer was deadly. Yet the way it disappeared as he noticed their presence and turned into a look of assessment was even more so, in Wylis' mind. He gave the man a shaky nod and was relieved to receive one in turn.
"Now, there will be some changes to this operation," The Witch continued with a surprisingly kind smile. "We have no interest in smuggling. No more risking your hands for coppers, boys. But we could use your muscles and connections. You'll be compensated for your work and we'll have you serve a better purpose. All who enter my service are considered family. It's the 'Puff way."
Wylis stared at the blunt and only somewhat hostile takeover in shock. He was so absorbed by the scene that he didn't even notice the man and two guards who came up behind him and peeked around into the warehouse. The man choked at the scene inside, drawing Wylis' attention as he tried to barge past.
"W-What in the Seven Hells is going on here?!" The man demanded.
"Nothing of interest," The Witch casually dismissed.
"Nothing of interest?!" The newcomer blustered. "This is my warehouse! These are my men! You have them strung up in some demonic Old God ritual!"
The guards with the man shifted anxiously, their hands on the hilts of their swords. They were understandably hesitant to draw down on the Witch. Wylis took note of the man's words. And the man himself. Wylis vaguely recognized him as a Lord from the Vale. Lord Someone Upcliff.
The Wizard inside met Wylis' gaze discreetly for a moment before turning back to Lord Upcliff, "This is your operation?"
"Yes!" Lord Upcliff declared, incensed. "I-I shall have your heads!"
Giving the Lord a scathingly unimpressed look, the Wizard tried again, "This smuggling warehouse. In the inner harbor of White Harbor. Full of contraband and untaxed goods. Is your operation?"
"Are you deaf?!" Lord Upcliff demanded. "I did not misspeak! These, These men you're accosting are mine!"
Much quicker on the uptake than Lord Upcliff, Wylis cleared his throat, "Ahem…"
Lord Upcliff turned and paled abruptly as he noticed Wylis and his men (perhaps understandably) for the first time, "M-Manderly-!"
"Perhaps it would be best if you came with me to have a conversation with my father, Lord Upcliff," Wylis suggested quietly but firmly. "Or would you rather I leave you in… other, capable hands?"
The Witch in the room grinned and waved her stick with a flourish, directing the Stranger's vine around her to grow and reach for Lord Upcliff, "I'd take him if you don't need him, Lord Manderly. My Devil's Snare never turns up a free meal~…"
Lord Upcliff staggered and quite literally stumbled in place, soon falling over entirely as consciousness fled his body. His guards were smarter, dropping their swords and raising their hands immediately. Wylis could have pity for them. They were merely doing their jobs. But the Lord who tried to circumvent his family's domain? Why, Wylis was half-tempted to throw him to the Witch's 'Devil's Snare' anyway. Pity that his involuntary surrender had to be at least mostly honored…
IIIII
Goldtooth loved one thing above all others. It was the only thing that mattered in this cruel, uncaring world. Enough of it could grant happiness, luxury, and even love. It alone ruled the world, in Goldtooth's mind. Not Lords, nor Kings. Only gold.
His philosophy wasn't a rare one, Goldtooth knew, especially not in Lannisport and the Westerlands. They were the Kingdom of Gold and Lannisport was its capital. All gold flowed to Lannisport. And there, Goldtooth made sure to take his cut.
In the wealthiest city of Westeros, Goldtooth just about ruled. He owned jewelers and smiths and brothels and fisheries. He even owned a stake in the Lannisport Goldsmith Guild. Because in the end, they all dealt in gold. And where gold flowed, Goldtooth would take a bite.
He grinned, reveling in his life's success. He'd worked hard to get this far and he felt he deserved the confidence that came with it. His trademark gold tooth sat front and center in his maw, something he never hesitated to show off. He wore nothing but silk and polished metal. When he walked down the street, people noticed. Smallfolk and Lordling alike, Goldtooth made himself useful to all. If there was a brothel or tavern in Lannisport that didn't know his name, Goldtooth hadn't found it yet.
Not a bad result for the third son of a minor Lord. Technically, his House — House Lannett — was tied to House Lannister. But the relation was so distant that it might as well not matter at this point. They'd split off from Casterly Rock during the Age of Heroes to found Lannisport. 8,000 years later, House Lannett and the other branch families were confined almost entirely to the city they'd settled.
The real Lannisters wouldn't dream of lowering themselves to look at their ancient branch families. Certainly not for anything as grand and elevating as marriage. The branches were given Lannisport — the mundane runnings of the city — and were left to be happy with that. Competition in Lannisport was fierce for the branch families, yet the highest they could hope to naturally rise was bureaucrat or guildmaster or judge or captain of the City Watch. Higher positions like mayor or magistrate were still favored for members of House Lannister who were much closer to the main line.
That was the world Goldtooth — Theo Lannett — had been born into. Fate saw fit to limit him to a paltry position in the best of cases. So he'd set out on a different path. One still confined to Lannisport, yes, but also one with fewer limits on how high he could rise. Nobility of blood hardly mattered for a man who made his living on the edge of the law.
A ruthless and sharp mind saw him carving out a fiefdom for himself in the less glimmering side of Lannisport. A gang of cutpurses at first. Then territory to call his own. Protection and blood money bought more swords and daggers. He was clever enough to limit himself to the city of his birth. Ships meant taxes and tariffs. Brigands and bandits on the roads meant attention from Lords. So long as he kept to himself and within Lannisport's sprawl, Goldtooth was allowed to grow unnoticed. Until he began investing in legal ventures. Then, he was unstoppable and unimpeachable as they came.
Still, he didn't dare call his slice of the pie an 'empire' — criminal or otherwise. There would always be one man to whom Goldtooth paid tribute. As did his rivals — dirty and clean alike. Lord Tywin Lannister. The Old Lion knew everything that happened in his territory. And he was a smarter Lord than other cities and criminals could claim. Lord Tywin knew the necessity of Goldtooth's line of work. As such, instead of stamping them out, he merely taxed the crime lords of Lannisport and beyond just the same as he taxed his legal Lords.
Goldtooth didn't bristle overly much under the Old Lion's claws. It was just the price of doing business in the wealthiest city of Westeros. Even with the tax, Goldtooth knew he was richer than the 'lords' of other cities. Gulltown, Maidenpool, even King's Landing. The only city that could compare to Lannisport was perhaps Oldtown.
In Lannisport, Goldtooth had a manse. And another set of apartments he rented out. And pieces of art to make himself seem more cultured. And servants on call — from the burliest of guards to the softest of maids. And silks and delicacies enough to satisfy the Lannister Queen. Even with the Old Lion marking his territory, Goldtooth was living the high life, better than his birth House could ever hope to offer him.
Late one night, Goldtooth lounged on the balcony of his manse, enjoying the warm Lannisport night's air. The city sprawled out beneath him, its many bell towers thankfully silent. In the distance, Casterly Rock could be seen looming above it all, just another way for the Old Lion to show his power. Goldtooth sighed to himself, content, and reached for the sweet pears he'd imported from the Reach.
"Mmm~! These are good! Can I get the name of your supplier?"
Goldtooth just about jumped out of his skin. Turning like a snapping string, he saw two people on his balcony. Two people who couldn't have been there. The balcony was on the third floor of his manse and he hadn't heard a whisper. Yet somehow, an utterly unassuming, smiling older woman and a darkly imposing, sneering man looked back at him.
"Wha-!? Guar-!"
"Silencio."
The sneering man's strange foreign word was barely a whisper. It silenced Goldtooth completely. So completely that he choked on his own voice. No matter how he screamed, no sound came out. Panic quickly set in. W-What cruel magic was this?! Assassins?! Had he forgotten his tribute to the Old Lion? Lannister gold was the only thing that could buy skills — and gods, even magic! — like this.
"Sorry about this," The Lady beamed a friendly smile. "We just need some starting capital. No hard feelings?"
Goldtooth felt like crying, 'Yes! Yes, hard feelings!' yet still, no sound escaped him, "…"
"Pomona," The man said. "Stop playing with your food. Let me work."
"Okay, okay," She — Pomona, a name so deceptively sweet —chuckled. "I'll get to looting the place to the ground. Why, it's like I'm a little Firstie again~! Oh, and make sure you pull his pear supplier from his mind, Severus! They really are very good."
"Hng," The man — Severus, an ominous name in Goldtooth's mind — simply grunted in reply.
Pomona brushed past Goldtooth on her way inside. She barely moved but he felt weights lift off his neck, wrists, and fingers. He didn't even have to look down to know his jewelry had suddenly disappeared. He recognized the tricks of the trade. And this little old lady pulled them off better than his best cutpurses.
Goldtooth was left with the sneering Severus — somehow the less terrifying of the two. He looked the dark assassin in the eye. His mind ran wild with horrors he might experience before he finally passed.
"Hold still," Sneering Severus said bluntly. "This will hurt. Quite a bit."
A pain suddenly shot through Goldtooth's head. As if Severus had plunged a red-hot dagger through his eye. Panic and peace warred in his mind. This was how he died! This was how he died…Thankfully, blissful numbness soon claimed him. He was shocked to awake the next morning. Alive. But lying in a bare dirt pit. Memories surfaced like broken glass in his mind. 'Loot the place to the ground'… She hadn't exaggerated in the slightest.
"My gold, my art, my servants, even the walls and the roof over my head…" Goldtooth laughed incredulously to himself as he looked up at the bright sky of another day. "Now, that is some thievery to aspire to."
IIIII
The damn city stunk. It always had, and it likely always would. Supposedly, there was a time when it was better. When the streets didn't run with shit like an allegory for the current state of the realm. Varys had never seen King's Landing like that. Not under the Mad King Aerys. And certainly not under the new King.
King Robert Baratheon wasn't what one would call a 'good ruler'. Not in Varys' definition of the word at least. He could recognize that the King was good at what he did. And Varys wasn't simply referring to the drinking and whoring that plagued so much of his reign.
King Robert was a figurehead. A damn good one, at that. He was someone for the majority of the realm's Highborn to rally behind. A strong man, with proven martial prowess and a cause that just happened to be 'noble enough'. While he had his enemies, the Mad King before him had had more. And that was enough to see him into power, then keep him there for five and ten years.
But in the same way, that was all King Robert was good for. He cared little for the vaunted responsibilities of kingship. He cared even less for the mundanities of rule. He was not a mad or cruel King. But he was a frivolous one. The realm suffered under his rule, just as readily as it prospered. The balance was stable but behind the scenes, tension lurked as a taut bowstring, waiting to loose an arrow of chaos upon the realm and its Smallfolk.
Such was Varys' life's work. The prevention of chaos. The insurance of stability. The whisper in dark rooms that spoke for those who couldn't. None of the people in power held the Smallfolk in their hearts. They were kept in the back of noble minds. A necessity to be ignored until they became inconvenient. Or nothing more than animals before Highborn depredations. Few Lords and Ladies knew the struggles and realities of their constituents. Or just how fragile their games of nobility truly were before the combined weight of the masses.
Recently though, much had changed. The realm was undergoing a new revolution, so different from Robert's Rebellion before. Something novel and unique in history. Only the Age of Heroes could claim the same concentration of interesting events as the most recent years.
Magic had returned to the world. The Citadel had confirmed as much, sending out ravens that told of their Black Candles reigniting. Varys knew the admittance pained many in the order of Maesters. But it was impossible to ignore and deny. Varys himself was no ready fan of magic. But he also didn't loathe it as many might think he should. If anything, he was largely ambivalent. In the end, a spider survived the brightest days and the darkest corners. Varys pragmatically weaved his web around these new events.
Magic manifested in unique, paradigm-shifting ways. Miracles were many. Old Blood awakened. Smallfolk and noble alike experienced the change. Not all of them, not everyone. But enough. More than enough to shake the foundation. The flames of ambition were fanned by new power. Greatness had never seemed closer for the taking. Some worked with the change within the existing system and structure. Others…
"He should be put to the sword!" Renly Baratheon — Master of Laws on the King's Small Council — roared. "The damned upstart dares challenge your authority, Brother! He throws his lands into chaos for his own gain! How long until he rises up against you directly?!"
Those who awakened magic of their own were open secrets in King's Landing, especially to Varys' many open eyes and ears. And Renly Baratheon… Magic had done him no favors. He'd always been arrogant and spoiled. Even his charisma couldn't cover it all, though it did fool most. He seemed a good man. Seemed. Varys knew he was scarcely more than a child.
'The second coming of Robert,' some called him. Renly was a large and handsome man — like his brother. He had the charm to match his stature — like his brother. But it was hollow without the deeds that had made his eldest brother great. Even Varys held a certain respect for King Robert, begrudging though it may have been. Renly had none of the feats that won Robert his crown.
Like so many young Lords, he'd never been told no in his life. Even more so as the favored brother of the King. As such, the awakened power of his ancestors had gone straight to his head and stayed there.
The Baratheons were descended from the Durrandon line just as they were from the Targaryens. Legend held that the ancient Durran Godsgrief — the original Storm King — wed a sea god's daughter. From then on, their line was one of Storm and Fury. If the legend was true, Renly roared with almost literal thunder in the Small Council chambers and raged like the rains of his homeland.
In comparison, his eldest brother stared mournfully and longingly at the goblet of wine in front of him. He was calm. And sober. More sober than he'd likely ever been. But this Small Council meeting wasn't a special occasion. It was merely the new normal forced upon King Robert since he too awakened the blood of the Storm Kings.
Robert's magic was the same as Renly's in expression, as far as Varys could gather — lightning-cloaked weapons and strength and speed to make them tyrants of any melee — but very different in nature. Renly brought the wild, uncontrollable wrath of a storm's lightning. He'd only grown more hot-headed, arrogant, and furious. But the wrath of lightning was rarely felt or seen, and as such, mirrored Renly's unproven track record.
Robert's magic was almost contemplative, tempering his temper instead of inflaming it. He was miles upon miles of rolling and roiling thunderclouds. A proven threat and strength, for everyone knew to get inside when such clouds were overhead.
"I must concur with your brother, Your Grace. His actions could serve to further sour the relations between Dorne and the crown," Petyr Baelish — Master of Coin — put in. He hadn't gained magic and Varys could only thank all of the gods for that. Littlefinger was a formidable enough opponent without it.
"Oh, shut up, the both of ya," Robert scoffed harshly. "Look what ya've done, Renly. You're agreeing with the slick little weasel now. What's the Dayne even done?"
"Gerold 'Darkstar' Dayne of High Hermitage," Varys began, sharing what he knew of the rising situation in Western Dorne. "Has come into open and direct conflict with the Daynes of the main line. He aims for the sword Dawn and the title of 'Sword of the Morning', or so I have heard. But who knows if his ambitions end there. "
"All I'm hearing is 'family dispute'," Robert grunted. "On what grounds are we supposed to interfere?"
"You are the King," Grand Maester Pycelle insisted.
"No shit? I hadn't fucking realized!" Robert snapped back. "Keep that maw of yours shut if you're just going to point at the obvious. You're going soft in the head with your old age."
Varys wore an ever-present, peaceful half-smile as Pycelle sputtered to himself at the indignity he'd been paid. Such was one of the new challenges of the changed King. With Robert sober, he'd taken a much sterner hand to his advisors. While always a figurehead, he was now becoming a distinctively fearsome, effective, and independent one. He was also quickly putting himself back into fighting shape.
"I'm itching for a fight more than anyone, but I can't just go marching off down to Dorne for a family I've never given a flying fuck about," Robert finished with a grumble.
"I'm glad to see your cooler head prevailing, Robert," Jon Arryn — Hand of the King and Robert's foster father — nodded. "The Daynes of High Hermitage have as much right to Dawn as the Daynes of Starfall. Unless Gerold Dayne raises his banner against us, it's hardly the duty of the crown to intercede there."
"Another point, Your Grace," Varys raised. "There are also claims of Darkstar wielding swords of shadow in invisible arms as if they were his own. A magic most cursed, some say…"
"I know how he feels…" Robert went back to glaring at his wine cup. "At least the little shit will put up a good fight if he does raise his banner."
"But until then, the dispute will be left to their House," Jon verbally put his foot down. "Varys? Any other news of note?"
Varys shook his head unassumingly, "Many fiefs are in turmoil and tales of magic continue to rise. Smallfolk who are affected continue to flock Northward to the city at the center of it all."
'Under my subtle direction,' Varys didn't say.
"But nothing else has escalated to direct conflict yet. At least, not in the light of day…" He continued.
"Speak clearly, Spider. Some of us have little patience for words of smoke and mirror," Stannis Baratheon — Master of Ships — sternly requested.
"Of course, my Lord," Varys inclined his head in the deferential manner he had so much practice with. "I shall be blunt then. The Cartel."
"Oh," Petyr's expression twisted into a surprisingly honest scowl. "Them…"
"Oh, this should be good then," Robert chuckled.
Jon frowned slightly, "What has this… 'Cartel' done to get on your bad side, Petry?"
"Stole my damned brothel in Gulltown, dammit!" Petyr swore, uncharacteristically passionate about something for once.
Varys tittered behind his sleeve, "Part of the recently named Purge of Gulltown, I assume?"
"Good men, good whores, and good coin! I should see them brought to ruin!" Petyr continued before finally bringing himself back under control. "Whomever they are, they're a menace, Your Grace."
"I must admit to some confusion," Renly raised with a furrowed brow. "What is a… cartel?"
"A new criminal organization that likes of which Westeros has never seen," Varys dutifully informed. "They've swept through the realm, bringing change to everything they touch. The Purge of Gulltown is their most famous claim so far."
"Go on then. Tell us what this 'Purge' is all about," Robert encouraged, sounding strangely amused and intrigued by the topic at hand.
"They came like a storm in the night, Your Grace," Varys said. "No warning or attempt at parlay. Their targets — the criminals of Gulltown — wouldn't honor such mercies anyway. My little birds report that there were only two. A squat and friendly-seeming older Lady and a younger, menacing Lord. Yet they swept through the whole of Gulltown.
"Those beyond saving were… removed. Slaughtered to a man as a bloody example. Not a single bandit or street-tough escaped from their irredeemable number. Yet the Cartel was not without mercy. They seemed to have an uncanny sense for those whose loyalty could be won through fear, gratitude, or coin. Many were spared to flock to their new 'banner'."
"Only two?" Robert guffawed. "Ha! A strange tale but one worthy of song all the same! How'd they do it?"
"Magic, Your Grace. How else? My little birds sing that it was magic — more versatile and fearsome than any we've seen so far — that purged Gulltown," Varys answered, taking note that Stannis frowned thoughtfully at his description.
"Why am I just now hearing of such a thing in my own Kingdom?" Jon asked with worry in his voice.
Stannis answered his question with a rhetorical question of his own, "Do you tend to keep your finger on the pulse of the Vale's criminal underworld? Of course not. No Lord does. Yet lowlives are everywhere. From street gangs to brigands to smugglers. And they can claim more power over the Smallfolk than most realize…"
"Aptly put, Lord Stannis," Varys nodded. "And by all accounts, the Cartel have been good lords to their new criminal fiefdoms. Better even than our venerable Master of Coin… They're kind to the little ones and the whores. New rules have been put in place to ensure the new Cartel members don't harm their neighbors. And though they could, they don't rule through fear. Not entirely, at least. They've brought life back to communities that had been downtrodden by those who skirted the law."
"I can't help but think all of this sounds like an improvement," Renly smirked. "A hilarious improvement."
"Of course, my Lord," Petyr sneered without sneering. "It's not as if it's your duty to make and uphold the laws of the realm."
"Meh," Renly shrugged. "Semantics."
"They're still criminals, my Lords!" Pycelle exclaimed.
"Pycelle!" Robert boomed. "What did I say about opening that damned maw of yours for things even my shitheel son could understand?!"
"Robert," Jon gently chided.
"Don't start, Jon," Robert glowered. "He's been bloody useless for years now. Some of my whores give better counsel."
"In this, at least, he is correct," Jon continued, unswayed. "The criminals cannot be allowed to go unpunished. Justice must prevail, for the sake of the realm."
"Perhaps not in this case, Lord Hand," Varys put forth. "The Cartel has gifted us a boon to go along with their debut. They've submitted a report to the crown detailing the full extent of crime in the realm as they've found it."
"A… report…?" Jon was taken aback by the news, and for good reason.
Even Varys hadn't completely believed it at first, "Yes, my Lord. A rather comprehensive and professional report, at that. Easily up to par with the Small Council's usual dealings. The information within could be a great boon to Lord Renly's duties as Master of Law, and even yours as Hand of the King."
Stannis snorted in humor, his laughter a rare sight, "What is the world coming to when new criminals are more dutiful and respectful of lawful proceedings than some of our greatest merchants?"
"Aye, it's a strange thing," Robert laughed along with his middle brother.
Varys laid the original report on the Small Council table. Petyr greedily reached for it but Stannis beat him, taking the parchment for himself. He casually perused its contents, snorting in more humor here and there. Varys could understand, having read and even copied the report for himself. The author of the report was particularly entertaining with her ridiculous deeds. But it also detailed competence and a surprising lack of greed. Truly, it seemed that its writers could eventually become a blessing for the realm and its Smallfolk, unconcerned with Lords and laws as they were.
Though he would never voice it here, Varys had even considered aiding the Cartel. His little birds reported only good things where they were concerned. The Smallfolk communities around the Cartel were thriving. Dangerous elements were being removed. And the Cartel even employed the services of a healer more effective than Varys had ever heard of. If the crown made moves against the burgeoning organization, the actions would not be well-received.
Varys, of course, kept such thoughts to himself…
IIIII
Rumors spread like seeds on the wind. Tales and stories by Smallfolk, for Smallfolk. From the Vale to Dorne, the new crime lords of Westeros became known. As did the peace they brought once the native gangs were… dealt with. But nothing captured the people's attention like the terrifying stories of an unassuming woman who conquered even the most vicious bandits and street toughs.
"Devil's Snare…" The name was whispered in taverns and inns across the realm.
The most grizzled men paled at her name. Her deeds quickly became modern legend. And songs of fear to rival the Rains of Castamere. Her most creative punishments spread the quickest. The brutality. The skill. That cheerful grin that was always on her face.
"I hear her plants love her. That they'd kill for her… That they have…"
"I hear she lashed a man with thorned vines!"
"I hear she grew a flower in a mercenary captain's ear. Killed him on the spot. Even his death rattle wasn't all there as roots grew into his head."
"I hear she stole ol' Bronze Hand's hand right off his arm! He didn't even notice until she started beating him in the face with it!"
"I hear she never stops smiling… So cheerful… So deadly…"
"I hear she made a Weirwood tree weep blood. Not sap. Real blood."
"I hear she chews Belladonna Nightshade. Just for the kick it gives her."
I hear she poisoned a whole gang in Planky Town. Just a leaf in each of their mugs. They choked on their own ale."
"I fuckin' heard she killed three toughs in a tavern with a bit of writing charcoal. Writing charcoal! W-Who fucking does that?!"
"They call her the Devil's Snare… I say call 'er the Stranger itself. Once she has ya, ya ain't gettin' away. And ya'll pray for death to be free of her snare…"
The tales spread far and wide. Yet they were rarely exaggerated for effect. They didn't have to be. The little old lady — the Devil's Snare — was as fearsome as any city ganger or wandering brigand. And with those roots of blood and terror, the Cartel spread. White Harbor, Lannisport, Gulltown, Maidenpool, King's Landing, Oldtown, Planky Town, in city after city across Westeros, a portion of the criminal underworld fell to the Devil's Snare.
Yet not all stories were terrible and bloody. Not everything about the Cartel was to be feared. Vicious gangs and organizations were removed and replaced by something kinder. Something that didn't prey upon the Smallfolk. The worst of the worst were culled — rapists and murderers trapped without escape in tangling vines and choking roots.
Life in the slums and gutters of the cities began to change. Whores and street children were taken under the Cartel's protection. Smugglers found themselves serving their neighbors instead of distant Lords who only cared for shady profits. Bandits and brigands who'd been forced into their roles began to see opportunities for a slightly more moral source of income. Unaffiliated sellswords found a cause that paid well and didn't leave them tormented by nightmares.
Then the flood of Cartel goods came rushing in wherever they claimed a foothold. Strange drinks, stranger herbs, and even stranger still miracle medicines. The drinks held even the drunkest drunkard's attention. The herbs soothed and eased the mind, body, and soul. And the medicines… The medicines saved lives thought lost, cured illnesses thought inevitable, and restored even the most wretched inhabitants of the slums.
Fear began to war with goodwill. Goodwill easily won out. The Cartel flourished and grew, gaining no small amount of undying loyalty from those they saved and helped. Crime lords were always closer to the Smallfolk than the true Highborn. The City Smallfolk had no choice but to deal with them to survive. But now, benevolent options emerged where there previously weren't any. The Smallfolk grasped at the change in fortune like men, women, and children desperate for any hope in a cruel world.
In the end, it wasn't merely the Cartel that grew. The Head of Hufflepuff House opened her arms in welcome to the weary, downtrodden, and hopeless masses of Westeros. Smallfolk who would dedicate themselves entirely to the only 'noble' House they'd ever know, the only one who would freely share its name with all loyal comers. And the House of Badgers, loyalty, and hard work gained many an honorary 'Puff in the moons to come.