In the pitch-black passageway, Petyr Baelish and Varys walked slowly, relying on the faint glow of a torch. As they passed the corridor where the dragon skulls were stored, Petyr couldn't resist gazing at the onyx-like remains.
He knew that, originally, these skulls had been displayed in the throne room itself. But after the Rebellion, King Robert, unnerved by their hollow, glaring eyes, had ordered them removed and treated as trash, replacing them with tapestries.
Staring at the dragon bones, Petyr couldn't help but ask, "Varys, you're sending me across the Narrow Sea to serve those Targaryen siblings, aren't you?"
Varys turned his head, giving him a mysterious smile but did not answer directly. "You'll understand when you get there."
Petyr frowned, dissatisfied. "But as far as I know, those siblings are wandering around the Free Cities, practically like beggars. They have no forces, barely any followers to speak of. You say you're planning to help them reclaim the Iron Throne, but what have you actually done in all these years? You let them roam like vagrants while waiting to pounce?"
Varys countered, "Who says I've done nothing?" Then, he fell silent, leaving the question open-ended.
"Varys," Petyr pressed, "I've already agreed to join your cause. So why keep so much hidden? Do you still think I might back out? Or do you still not trust me as one of your own?"
With a sigh, Varys relented slightly, saying, "Lord Baelish, I do trust you. However, plans are rarely set in stone. I could tell you one thing now, only for us to have to change course later. Then you'd accuse me of lying."
"Then tell me all the plans," Petyr urged, "and I can help you refine them."
Varys chuckled, shaking his head. "Thank you, Lord Baelish, but our plans are already quite complete. The truth is, we've never relied solely on one contingency."
Petyr's eyes narrowed. "So besides those siblings, where else are you placing your bets?"
"When we reach Pentos, all will be clear." Varys's lips remained sealed on that matter.
Swearing under his breath, Petyr knew he couldn't extract more from him.
Perhaps sensing that his ally's faith might be wavering, Varys added, "The Dothraki aren't exactly helpless. Without a unified Seven Kingdoms to stand against them, chaos could give us a considerable advantage."
Petyr wasn't convinced by this reasoning. In his gut, he suspected that the Targaryen siblings were merely a diversion, something to keep eyes away from Varys's true schemes. But with no choice, he could only press on.
Due to the pain of his recent wound, Petyr was weak, needing to stop and catch his breath every few paces.
"Take another sip, Lord Baelish. It'll ease the pain," Varys said, handing him a wine skin.
Petyr gulped down several mouthfuls, though his haste to drink caused him to cough.
As he leaned against the wall, trying to steady himself, he switched topics.
"Did the Tyrell siblings meet with Renly today?"
Varys chuckled and nodded. "Yes, all three of them. They spent hours in conversation with him."
"Curse the Tyrells! And curse Renly!" Petyr spat, his eyes narrowing. "That fool has probably already tampered with Robert's will. He's lost control of his ambitions! Varys, leak that secret to Cersei for me!"
"Lord Baelish, you're about to set off for Essos. Is there any point in meddling further in King's Landing's affairs?"
"Just this once, Varys! It will serve you, too. Trust me, the Lannisters are about to seize control of the city. If you want to survive, you should ally with the queen."
Varys responded with a slippery smile. "I'll take your suggestion under consideration."
Satisfied, Petyr nodded. Then he added, "One more thing—drop a hint to the Red Viper, let him know he's been a pawn for the Tyrells."
Varys's response was firm. "That's for you to deal with in the future, Lord Baelish."
"Varys, think about it. The Reach and Dorne have been at odds for ages. If the Red Viper realizes those roses were plotting behind his back, he won't let them off lightly. Help me, and you'll only be advancing your own plans."
"I'll consider it," Varys said with a shrug, declining to commit.
Petyr let the matter drop, and silence fell over them as they walked. Only the muffled sound of their footsteps echoed through the dark passage.
After what felt like half an hour, they finally emerged from the tunnel, stepping into the open air.
The sun was setting over Blackwater Bay, casting a quiet beauty over the waves, like a sleeping maiden bathed in twilight's glow.
Varys handed Petyr a small purse of coins.
Petyr opened it and frowned. "Is that all?"
Varys shrugged, nonchalant. "Lord Baelish, I'm hardly in your league when it comes to gold. Besides, with the state you're in, too much coin could invite trouble. Rest assured, this is enough to see you to Pentos, and once there, Governor Illyrio will take good care of you."
With no choice, Petyr tucked the money away and let Varys disguise him in a simple manner, just enough to pass unnoticed.
"Farewell, Varys."
They exchanged a quick wave before Petyr turned toward the port. But after a few steps, he turned back, unable to contain himself.
"One day I'll return…"
But he saw that Varys was already gone.
One day, I'll come back and reclaim what's mine, Petyr thought.
Resolute, he gritted his teeth and made his way toward the dock.
Unbeknownst to him, a hawk circled high above, silently observing his every move with an unsettlingly human gaze.
As darkness settled over the port, Petyr trudged on, finally reaching the ship, The Lightchaser.
A sailor was waiting on the deck, and upon spotting Petyr, he lowered the gangplank to let him board.
"You must be Ser Silava, correct? A pleasure to be of service."
Petyr recognized the name as an alias Varys had provided. He nodded. "When do we set sail?"
"Soon, my lord. The wind is favorable, and the tide is rising. We'll be on our way shortly."
"Good," Petyr replied, feeling an immense relief at the thought of leaving this nightmare of a city behind.
The sailor led him to a cramped cabin below deck.
"Here's your room, my lord. Make yourself comfortable."
"Thank you."
The cabin was small, furnished with only a tiny bed and a simple table. But Petyr could hardly complain. He was no longer a lord of King's Landing, merely a fugitive fleeing in disgrace.
Sinking down onto the bed, a wave of bitter anguish washed over him as he considered all he had lost—the years of careful maneuvering, his political foothold, everything he'd worked for, reduced to ashes.
Lost in gloomy thoughts, he heard a knock at the door.
Forcing himself to stand, Petyr opened it.
A crewman handed him a tray of food. "Here's venison, potatoes, and some wine, my lord."
"Thank you. Leave it here."
"Of course, my lord."
Alone with his meal, Petyr awkwardly ate with his remaining hand. He hated the difficulty of doing things without his left hand but reminded himself it could be worse. At least he still had his right hand—if he'd lost that, he'd have to learn to eat left-handed.
Trying to reassure himself, he let his mind drift back to thoughts of revenge—against the Tyrells, against Renly.
Though Varys had promised to consider his suggestions, Petyr doubted the eunuch would carry them out. This revenge would likely be his burden to bear.
Revenge…
Despite the dull pain in his arm and his exhaustion, Petyr tried to plot his vengeance. But his mind was sluggish, clouded by fatigue, and eventually, he could barely keep his eyes open.
Finishing his meal, he was just about to lie down when a knock sounded at the door again.
Petyr groaned, frustrated by yet another interruption. Still, he dragged his tired, weakened body to the door and opened it.
"Who are you?" he asked, frowning as he tried to make out the figure in the dim light.
The man stood with his head bowed, face obscured by shadows.
"Lord Baelish."
Hearing his real name uttered, Petyr's eyes widened in terror. He tried to slam the door shut, but a hand clamped around his throat, choking him.
He gasped, his voice a mere whimper as the grip tightened, cutting off his air.
Struggling for breath, Petyr finally saw his assailant's face.
It was Samwell Caesar.
How could it be him? Could he have been the one?
In that last desperate instant, Petyr understood. The person scheming against him all along had been this young lord he had so carelessly overlooked.
Yes, the Tyrells wouldn't have acted alone, not without their matriarch, the "Queen of Thorns", leading them.
He'd been outwitted.
Varys had played him.
Varys!
"The Mountain..." Petyr tried to speak, but the hand around his neck tightened like an iron clamp, making it hard for him to breathe.
Let me go! Let me go!
He could only beg for mercy with his eyes, begging for mercy with all sincerity.
Unfortunately, the lord of Eagle's Nest opposite was like an iceberg, with no sympathy in his eyes, but an extremely familiar smile on his lips——
It was Petyr's own trademark smile, full of mischief and mockery.
Petyr tried to use his remaining right hand and the last bit of his strength to beat against the iron-like hand, but it seemed extremely futile.
His vision began to blur and his consciousness gradually faded. Before he completely passed out, Petyr heard Samwell whisper in his ear:
"I bring you greetings from Lord Jon Arryn."
(End of this chapter)