When the topic of war arose, Robert's enthusiasm ignited.
"This isn't something we can finalize today. Each lord must calculate their available forces and the resources needed. Once we begin, it's victory or nothing! Those who participate will share the spoils; those who don't will have no claims later."
Stannis spoke pragmatically. "Mobilizing the manpower and resources of the entire realm will take time. By the time our forces are assembled and supplies secured, it will be at least six moons."
Jon Arryn turned to Grand Maester Pycelle. "Send letters to the Westerlands, the North, and Dorne, particularly to the Westerlands and Dorne. Let's first gauge their stance."
"As you command, my lord."
Jon continued, "The Stormlands and the Reach are clear in their support for this campaign. Lords Renly and Tyrell, I'll need you both to calculate the forces and supplies from your regions. The Vale, which I represent, has little sea trade and has suffered no losses in the Stepstones. For now, I'll remain neutral on the matter."
Looking at Robert, he added, "The Vale's forces consist primarily of knights, much like the North's men-at-arms, and are not adept at naval warfare. While we can't contribute much to a sea campaign, we can garrison the Crownlands to maintain order."
Robert, who trusted his foster father deeply, had already confided in him about his disputes with Tywin Lannister.
"Stannis, intensify the training of the royal fleet. Varys, focus on gathering intelligence from the Stepstones and Dorne. Renly and Lord Tyrell, you two have suffered the brunt of piracy — your forces will form the backbone of this campaign."
"As you command, Your Grace," they replied in unison.
Varys added, "Even the nobles of the Crownlands and the Lannisters of the Westerlands have faced pirate interference in their sea trade. They'll likely support a united campaign."
Robert pondered this before deciding, "Let's set our preparations for six moons from now, with the campaign beginning after my wedding. However, until we receive responses from the Westerlands, the North, and Dorne, this plan remains confidential. Grand Maester, expedite those letters."
"As you command, Your Grace."
Robert continued, "Even if we reclaim the Stepstones, the real goal is to weaken Dorne, the lingering thorn in our side. During the campaign, we must ensure their forces are heavily depleted."
Renly chuckled, "The Dornish being both pirates and the ones sent to fight them — how ironic. But they might turn this against us."
Robert grinned. "Which is why each of you must prepare contingency plans. If the Dornish join the pirates against us, we need a response."
By dusk, ravens flew from the Red Keep to all corners of the realm. Meanwhile, Robert and his eight councilors began their secret preparations, tallying soldiers and supplies. Yet, with so many aware of the plan, leaks were inevitable.
Later that evening, Varys met Petyr Baelish at a certain establishment.
"Lord Varys, I paid you handsomely. Now tell me, why is the new Master of Coin that bloated fish?" Petyr Baelish, for once, refrained from pouring Varys a drink.
"I vouched for you alongside the Hand of the King, and we both cast our votes in your favor. Didn't you realize, though? This was orchestrated by the Baratheon brothers from the start — even the Hand may have been unaware."
Petyr Baelish was furious, but his face maintained its usual fake smile. "So, Master of Whisperers, what urgent matter brings you to me right after the Small Council meeting?"
Varys held a high opinion of Baelish — bold yet meticulous, glib-tongued, and opportunistic. But his ambition was immense. In just a few years at King's Landing, Baelish dared to scheme for the position of Master of Coin. A man like him required constant vigilance, though certain shared interests could still make cooperation worthwhile.
"A highly confidential piece of information," Varys said, "consider it a favor repaid."
"Oh?" Baelish finally poured Varys a glass of sweet wine.
Varys took the wine, drank it in one gulp, and sighed with exaggerated relief. "Pirate attacks are growing more frequent. The King plans to launch a campaign against the Stepstones. If the goal is to fully reclaim the islands, preparations will take about six moons. All seven great houses will be involved."
"This is major news! My esteemed Lord Varys, thank you for this invaluable information!" Baelish's excitement was evident.
"But don't get any foolish ideas. Use this opportunity wisely."
"Chaos is a ladder, my friend! War brings death but also opportunity."
"See that you tread carefully," Varys said as he stood to leave.
Varys had always believed that possessing knowledge others lacked placed him above the rest on the metaphorical ladder. Yet in some ways, Baelish was very much like him. Dealing with such a man could sometimes place Varys at a disadvantage. Today's meeting was his way of settling their accounts, ensuring he wouldn't owe Baelish anything in the future—avoiding potential losses down the line.
Varys returned to his quarters, a lavishly decorated space filled with various exotic fragrances.
In a small room adjacent to the kitchen, two wooden crates were placed on the floor.
Hearing someone enter, a knocking sound came from inside the crates.
Using a crowbar, Varys pried open one of the crates, revealing the merchant who had bought his manhood as a child and used it to perform blood magic.
Months of sea transport had left the merchant emaciated, reduced to skin and bones. The sailors tasked with transporting such cargo barely ensured its survival. Yet, Varys recognized him immediately.
Varys had long uncovered the identities of both the merchant and the Warlock from back then. Now possessing both wealth and power, he could end their lives at any time. Perhaps unsure of how best to torment his enemies or savoring their descent into despair, he had yet to act.
Grabbing the merchant's hand, Varys pressed it against the side of the crate and took a nail, hammering it through the man's palm before resealing the crate.
The merchant, poisoned by Tyene to ensure his silence and robbed of the strength to resist or even stand, could only shed tears as he watched his hand be nailed and himself sealed once more in the dark confines of the crate.
Varys approached the second crate. Peering through its air holes, he saw a bald Warlock inside. Though his skin tone differed from the man who had performed the ritual all those years ago, Varys had learned from his little birds that Wright had already killed the other two Warlocks of Myr.
"Summon someone!"
"My lord, what are your orders?" A servant approached.
"Go to Flea Bottom and find the cook, Layton. Tell him to buy some meat," Varys said, rubbing his fingers together lightly.
Flea Bottom, the slums of King's Landing, was home to the city's poorest: thieves, beggars, whores working the lowest rungs, and bastards. The city's outcasts eked out their meager lives here.
One of Flea Bottom's infamous offerings was Bowl of brown, a street-side broth. It was made by boiling all manner of vegetables and meat—discarded greens salvaged from markets, stolen produce from outside the city, and any meat that could be found.
The meats used were as diverse as the stew's makers: rats, bats, pigeons, fish — anything edible was thrown into the pot.
Today, chef Layton's stew had an unusually rich aroma. A single ladleful revealed several chunks of meat, drawing a steady stream of customers with wooden bowls eager to partake.
A bandit who had recently arrived from the countryside bought a bowl. Savoring the flavorful broth, he eventually spat out a blue-skinned human finger with the skin still attached. Unfazed, he casually tossed the finger to a nearby dog and continued eating.