Dawn broke cold and gray over Winterfell's ancient stones.
The East Gate teemed with armored knights astride destriers, their lances adorned with the direwolf banners of House Stark that snapped and fluttered in the morning breeze. Rain and Snowball—massive beasts bearing their riders—plodded deliberately to the vanguard of the knightly procession.
Theon Greyjoy led the column, resplendent in gleaming black plate. His helm was a masterwork of the armorer's craft, with the kraken of his house subtly etched into the center of his breastplate. Yet it was the silver-gray cloak upon his shoulders—embroidered with the fierce direwolf of House Stark—that drew the eye. Joffrey could sense the turmoil in the ironborn's heart, caught between the house of his birth and the house that had raised him.
"Rain won't slow his pace," Joffrey called out. "Theon, do your utmost to keep up. With luck, we'll reach our destination before the Bloodraven makes his move." He raised his hand in farewell. "I'll take the lead!"
Rain tossed his thick mane and bolted through the city gate like a quarrel loosed from a crossbow. Snowball rumbled a discontented sound from deep in his throat before following close behind.
Theon watched silently as the enormous creatures swiftly vanished from sight. He turned to survey the hundred knights in their burnished armor, unable to quell the stirring of excitement and pride that rose within him. Then he lifted his gaze toward the battlements.
Robb Stark stood upon the city gate tower, offering a firm, emphatic nod, while Lady Catelyn fixed Theon with a stare laden with expectation.
Theon raised his right arm and swept it forward with conviction. "We ride!"
The iron-clad knights filed out in disciplined formation, the thunder of hooves gradually fading until Winterfell lapsed into silence.
But for a castle in the daylight hours, the silence hung too heavy in the air.
Winterfell had witnessed much through the ages. Since the end of Robert's Rebellion, never had the ancient stronghold seen those who dwelled within its walls so quiet, so fraught with unease.
Gods willing, the old stones seemed to whisper, no ill shall befall them.
More than two days had passed since they departed Winterfell.
Tyrion Lannister's thoughts still lingered on the slippery Ros, marveling that a person's body could produce such abundant wetness.
Praise the gods, he mused. To create women with pure water—what divine inspiration! Absolute genius!
He found himself increasingly enamored with that wondrous power known as "recovery magic." What man of flesh and blood could possibly resist its allure?
With each passing hour, his curiosity deepened regarding the extent of Joffrey's arcane abilities. Surely they far exceeded what had already been revealed. Small wonder the boy acted with such aggression and recklessness.
"Good nephew," Tyrion ventured, "will His Grace see the contents of that letter?"
Joffrey's lips curved into an inscrutable smile.
He knew precisely what he was doing.
A raven's long-distance flight averaged merely four to five hundred kilometers per day. The missive would take four or five days to arrive—just after the King's Landing operation, when Robert and his entourage would remain utterly oblivious to the unfolding events.
This afforded ample room to maneuver.
After conducting a routine reconnaissance of the king's convoy and confirming that all proceeded normally, Joffrey bent his full attention toward the Red Keep.
Remotely orchestrating affairs in King's Landing proved no simple task and demanded constant vigilance.
He activated the runes, and his "eyes" darted between the countless chambers and corridors within the Red Keep where he had once trod, searching for valuable targets.
Ha! Joffrey's eyes narrowed as his lips curled upward. Fortune favored him today.
He had caught the rat.
Within the sealed Throne Room, the Spider and the Mockingbird whispered their secrets before the Iron Throne.
Petyr Baelish toyed idly with a silver mockingbird pin, his shrewd gray-green eyes fixed upon the somber, imposing seat of kings.
"Varys, after dancing around matters for so long, perhaps the time has come for plain speaking between us."
The Spider followed the Mockingbird's gaze. In the dimness, the cold throne seemed to transform into a crouching beast, poised to devour the flesh and blood of all those who coveted its barbed embrace.
"Power," the Spider sighed, "so alluring, yet forever fraught with peril. It truly inspires both devotion and dread in equal measure."
The Mockingbird's laugh was soft as silk. "My dear Lord Varys, what cause have you for fear? In the great game, you have long proven indomitable."
The Spider remained humble. "No matter how intricately the web is spun, it shall crumble at the touch of a lion's paw or a dragon's flame."
"Speaking of dragons," the Mockingbird said with a shake of his head, "it seems Lord Varys's intelligence proved false. The male and female dragons are nowhere to be found. Everyone's anticipation was for naught."
The Spider shifted his weight, at last approaching the true matter at hand. "Was this not your doing, my lord?"
The Mockingbird's eyes widened in feigned shock. "How could you suggest such a thing? This is the most absurd allegation! I cannot abide it!"
It was entirely reasonable to suspect Littlefinger.
The Spider exhaled slowly. "If truly it was not your hand at work, then I fear we all stand in grave danger."
"How so?"
"My dear Lord Petyr, consider this. Who requested that you dispatch men to Pentos to acquire dragon eggs? Who sent a servant to accompany them, only for both servant and eggs to vanish along with two fire dragons? Who left a paramour in the Red Keep, inexplicably causing the Hound to return to King's Landing ahead of schedule?"
The Spider added, voice soft as a summer breeze, "Surely you are not unaware of who currently holds the title of Prince of Dragonstone?"
The Mockingbird fell silent.
Joffrey Baratheon. Had the boy grown cunning? Was it he who intercepted Lysa's secret missive? Had he uncovered my schemes?
The Spider appeared distinctly uneasy. "If he can accomplish these feats, how much do you suppose he knows? How much power has he amassed? And how might he regard us, two such... diligent public servants beneath the throne?"
The Mockingbird murmured, "Could those unfamiliar faces recently active throughout the city be his agents?"
He had assumed it was Tyrion's handiwork, a clandestine gambit by House Lannister, but the architect behind it all was actually Joffrey?
The Spider's tone grew urgent. "More than that, many of my little birds have already sensed the gathering storm. Those people are poised to take decisive action."
Who else in King's Landing might they move against? Both men understood without need for elaboration.
Silence descended between them.
The Spider and the Mockingbird each calculated their positions and resources, attempting to convince themselves to place trust in the serpent beside them.
Trust—who would have imagined such a day would come? Yet the looming threat compelled them to endure one another, to weather the risks inherent in this fragile alliance.
The Mockingbird spoke first. "He is not a true prince."
The Spider smiled thinly. He knew Petyr believed his warnings, which confirmed his suspicions. The events in Pentos likely bore no connection to Petyr's schemes.
"He is no prince," the Spider whispered. "We have a duty. The king should learn the truth within a sennight."
The Mockingbird, born and bred for the pursuit of power, calmly shook his head.
"It is too late."
Having identified the enemy, Littlefinger grasped the primary threads of the plot within mere moments.
To dare execute a member of the Small Council in King's Landing—could the prince's true nature withstand such scrutiny? The king would likely never live long enough to learn the truth.
The Mockingbird could not help but admire the stratagem. "A meticulous design. An attack in King's Landing, followed by a tragic accident befalling His Grace while he remains far in the North. According to His Majesty's itinerary, it shall occur within these next two days!"
The Spider appeared incredulous. "So soon?"
The Mockingbird affected an air of calm. "There remains sufficient time to prepare. If you and I combine our resources, what threat could these naive upstarts in the city truly pose?"
"As for what follows," the Mockingbird sighed, "we shall navigate those waters when we reach them."
The king was beyond salvation, but Baelish felt confident he could exploit the ensuing chaos, using it as yet another rung in his inexorable climb.
The Mockingbird cast a covetous gaze toward the throne that loomed before them, seemingly within his grasp at last.
The Spider frowned. "There remain the Lannister guards. Not all of the gold cloaks are amenable to our cause."
The Mockingbird ascended the steps of the Iron Throne. One step. Two.
He halted before the seat of power at the summit, turned, and gazed down upon the Spider. "Little birds may lack skill in combat, but I possess certain... valiant friends."
The Spider smiled obsequiously. "That would be most fortuitous."
Neither player showed any sign of yielding.
What could Joffrey say as he observed this exchange? Indeed, ignorance is bliss—for them.
...
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