While the roar of the Tourney at Harrenhal echoed through the castle grounds, a far gloomier scene was unfolding deep within the fortress.
The Mad King, Aerys II, sat in a dim stone chamber, huddled with the few members of the Small Council who hadn't yet abandoned him: the "Spider" Varys, Master of Coin Qarlton Chelsted, Master of Laws Symond Staunton, and the Hand of the King, Lord Merryweather. Under the flickering candlelight, they conspired.
Varys, the Master of Whisperers, spoke in a voice as soft as spun silk, yet his words carried enough heat to ignite the King's fury.
"Your Grace," Varys began, "through the bonds of marriage, they have quietly spun a web against you. Lord Tywin, House Stark, House Arryn, and House Tully... they intend to use the conclusion of this tourney to publicly back Prince Rhaegar and replace you on the throne."
Aerys's breathing grew heavy and ragged. His yellowed fingernails dug into the armrests of his chair, and a manic green fire danced in his eyes. "Traitors! A pack of ungrateful curs! I'll burn them all! I'll use wildfire and burn them to ash!"
"Your Grace!" Symond Staunton's voice was hard as iron, cutting through the King's rant. "Please, calm yourself. We are at Harrenhal; their numbers far exceed our loyal guards. Rage will not save us. We need a plan."
"A plan?" Aerys hissed, his gaze darting feverishly among his ministers. "What plan?!"
Lord Merryweather, the Hand of the King, pressed his hands flat against the table. The candlelight reflected coldly in his deep green eyes. "Since they have formed this alliance through marriage, then we shall use marriage to tear them apart."
Varys laid out the poison pill with terrifying clarity. "First, regarding the union between House Lannister and House Tully."
His voice remained gentle, as if discussing the weather. "Ser Jaime Lannister desperately desires to join the Kingsguard; he views that white cloak as the highest honor. We should grant him his wish. Your Grace need only generously bestow this glory upon him. This kills two birds with one stone: it keeps Casterly Rock's heir firmly under your control in the Red Keep as a hostage, and it completely shatters his betrothal to Lysa Tully. And consequently..."
Varys paused, his tone flattening. "The legal heir to House Lannister would then default to young Tyrion."
Aerys narrowed his manic eyes, suspicion warring with intrigue. "Will Jaime agree? And more importantly, Tywin—will he tolerate us toying with his legacy like this?"
"Ser Jaime will accept with joy," Varys replied with a certainty that bordered on amusement. "Young men yearn for shining armor and songs; he wants to be a legend. My little birds tell me he is... dissatisfied with Lysa Tully's appearance and has already argued fiercely with Lord Tywin about it. If Your Grace grants him his dream now, he will weep with gratitude."
"As for Lord Tywin," Varys added, a trace of mockery slipping into his voice, "he will certainly object. His loathing for this situation—and his opinion of the dwarf, Tyrion—is no secret in King's Landing."
Hearing this, Aerys threw his head back and let out a sharp, vindictive cackle. "Good! Good! Do it! I want to see the look on Tywin's face when he realizes his precious legacy belongs to that little monster he wishes he'd strangled at birth! His face will look sourer than if he'd swallowed shit! Hahahaha!"
Varys continued, his voice echoing in the stone room like a serpent hissing in the dark. "Next, Dorne. They support Prince Rhaegar because of his marriage to Princess Elia. The most direct way to dismantle that support is to have Rhaegar annul the marriage."
He opened his soft hands, as if presenting a simple truth. "Once the marriage is gone, the Dornish will feel not just a broken alliance, but a naked insult. They will have nothing left for Rhaegar but hatred."
Lord Merryweather frowned, raising a legal and religious objection. "Divorce? They swore sacred vows before the Seven. We cannot treat it as a trifle."
"It is no trifle, my Lord," Varys replied smoothly. "But we need a just cause. Princess Elia Martell has only produced a daughter and is currently frail. Grand Maester Pycelle has diagnosed her..." Varys emphasized the Maester's authority, "...as having a ruined constitution, unlikely to bear more children."
He let the cruel fact hang in the air before concluding, "The King needs a healthy male heir. The Iron Throne needs a secure future. The Seven Kingdoms need a true Prince. That is reason enough."
On the throne, Aerys let out a snort of disgust. "Right! Besides, that woman always smells of Dorne. I can smell it from across the hall. It makes me sick!"
Varys smiled a shadowy smile. "Then, the North. We must do everything in our power to arrange a match between Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark."
He wiggled his fingers in the air as if pulling invisible strings. "This will not only redirect the North's potential goodwill toward the Crown, but it will also permanently sever the strong alliance between the Starks and Baratheons. We will turn their own marriage pacts into a weapon against them."
Merryweather looked even more doubtful. "The little she-wolf of the North? How do we manage that? Marriage isn't a game."
"Heh heh heh," Varys chuckled low and knowing. "I may not experience desire, but my eyes see clearly. At the feast, the way Lyanna Stark looked at Prince Rhaegar... that was no ordinary admiration. And the way our Prince looked back..." He paused for effect. "The heat in that gaze could melt the Wall. It is a flame that burns away all reason."
"But Rhaegar's character..." Merryweather persisted. "He is obsessed with honor and duty. Will he agree? To divorce a Dornish princess and immediately pursue a woman betrothed to the Lord of Storm's End? It's... it's too much."
Aerys waved his hand impatiently, his voice dripping with tyranny. "He will agree. I will personally persuade him. It is decided."
Varys moved on, his voice cutting to the next topic like a cold dagger. "The Iron Islands. Lord Quellon is old, and his eldest, Balon, is brave but lacks cunning. We can secretly extend an olive branch to the second son, Euron Greyjoy. Promise him the Crown's support to replace his brother as heir."
Varys leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "The Greyjoy fleet would be a deadly blade to strike at the rear of any rebellion. Even if Euron refuses, the offer alone will plant seeds of suspicion and ambition between the brothers, sparking civil war in the Iron Islands. Either way, we profit."
"Euron... the Crow's Eye?" Merryweather mused. "I saw him at the tourney. A clever man, yes. And ambitious. He is not one to serve others."
Aerys sneered. "Those sea-rats? Savage brutes! I say we send the Royal Fleet to crush those dreary rocks and be done with it!"
"Patience, Your Grace," Varys bowed low. "Your wrath could boil the seas, but let us wait. Once your power is absolute, we can deal with the Ironborn properly. For now, let their chaos serve us."
"Finally, Highgarden," Varys said, his finger resting on a name on the parchment. "The heir, Willas Tyrell. He is scheduled to joust against Prince Oberyn Martell tomorrow. We need only arrange a slight... malfunction with his saddle or tamper with his horse's feed. If he were to suffer a tragic fall..."
"The Tyrells would be thrown into a succession crisis," Varys concluded. "Even the Queen of Thorns, Olenna, would be too busy dealing with the grief and internal strife to plot against us."
The Master of Coin, Qarlton Chelsted, stepped forward. "I can handle that. I have men in the stables whose loyalty can be bought."
Varys nodded, then added a layer of sophistication to the plan. "Of course, removing an heir is a blunt instrument. We should also try a softer touch. Highgarden is wealthy but wavering; they are like reeds in the wind. We might win them over."
"Win them over?" Aerys snapped. "They have all the gold in the world. What do they want?"
"They want back what was stolen, Your Grace," Varys purred. "Didn't the Ironborn seize the Arbor wine trade routes by force? We can use the King's justice to officially return those lucrative rights to Highgarden. Even if we can't fully enforce it, the decree alone will drive a wedge of hatred between the Reach and the Iron Islands."
Aerys laughed loudly. "Good! I hate that 'Kraken Red' swill anyway. Tastes like salt and piss! Arbor Gold sounds much better!"
"And lastly, the Vale," Varys said smoothly. "Jon Arryn is old and has no heir. This is a perfect weakness. We can secretly back a distant cousin from the Gulltown branch—Ser Ethan Arryn—as the rightful successor to the East."
Aerys scoffed. "Ethan Arryn? A nobody from a branch family? His influence compared to the Lord of the Eyrie is like a firefly next to the moon!"
"True, Your Grace," Varys agreed. "But that is exactly why he needs us. He will be dependent on the Iron Throne. We don't need him to actually replace Jon Arryn immediately; we just need to cast a stone to cause ripples. Once we announce support for Ser Ethan, the Vale lords will fracture. Jon Arryn will be too busy securing his own seat to threaten yours."
Varys finished with a satisfied, chilly tone. "When the Vale is tearing itself apart over succession, they won't have the time or energy to cause trouble for you."
One by one, the cold calculations were laid out under the candlelight, a poisonous net tightening around the conspirators outside.
Lord Merryweather looked at the King with lingering worry. "Your Grace, the plan is sound, but the keystone remains Prince Rhaegar. If he refuses to cooperate, or if..." He hesitated, not daring to voice the worst outcome. "...then all our planning may be for nothing."
Aerys's eyes flashed with an unreadable light. He waved his yellowed hand dismissively, his voice filled with an absolute, delusional confidence.
"He is my son. I know him."
His voice hardened, ending the meeting. "Leave me. Proceed as we discussed. And Varys... tell your little birds to watch those traitorous dogs closely. I want to know their every move!"
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