Jon
He had left the cave of the 3-eyed-raven a few moons ago
.
Jon silently mused about all the possibilities that were now open to him, after he had spent the last two years in the cave, learning from Brynden Rivers, the famous Bloodraven himself.
He wondered to himself, what the trout of Winterfell would think of him, should she see him now. Likely she would be scared and disgusted at the powers he possessed now and the knowledge he had connected in two years of travelling through the past and present.
She would likely suspect he would use them to take Winterfell from his siblings.
He still remembered a conversation he had had with her, just a few days before he had left his childhood home. Catelyn Tully, not Catelyn Stark he had decided, had taken offence in some game he had been playing with Robb and Arya, therefore like so often, she had started her usual, very long monologue about the southern views of bastards.
She had ranted over an hour about their sinful birth, their cruel tendencies and how he was fated to usurp Winterfell and try to take what rightfully belonged to his siblings.
Jon, of course, had almost completely ignored her, still lost in his dreams from last night. Besides Lady Catelyn's views were as he had learned during the last years complete and utterly wrong, something that Bloodraven and Ramsay had quickly taught him.
Lady Catelyn seemed to believe that the entire world was evil, filled by criminals, vile bastards and other horrible creatures, which was true, however where she was wrong was, that it was only held together by the honourable and rightful lords and beautiful ladies, as well as their noble knights and bannermen.
As he had travelled through the history of the world, together with his mentor, he had indeed seen many bastards rise up to try to usurp their siblings, but these uprisings were always the end result of long-lasting hatred between the bastard and his half-siblings.
Yet there were exceptions, one of them his mentor Bloodraven himself. He had been one of the Great Bastards, but other than the other Great Bastards Bittersteel and Daemon Blackfyre, he and his lover Shiera Seastar had stuck faithfully to their trueborn sibling and king, sacrificing their honour and time to keep the peace in the Seven Kingdoms.
So, he had spent the years learning from Lord Bloodraven himself, the hand of the King Daeron and former master of whisperers.
He learned quickly and Brynden was a good teacher, showing him his victories and defeats, teaching him his strategies and how others tried to circumvent them, and then yet again how he would be able to avoid these circumventions.
During the years in his company, Jon started to admire the old man, his achievements and his powers, so much that he started to try to emulate him, tried to be him.
Bloodraven showed him a few glyphs, carved in stone from ancient Valyrian runes, that he had used a long time ago to take control of more animals at once. This had been an efficient method of gathering information, that had led to people saying he had a thousand eyes and one, for he saw everything.
Jon himself started to practice under his guidance, with varying degrees of failure.
Runes and the tips from Bloodraven didn't help much. The sensation of using magic, to fully control it and use it as a weapon could not be translated into words or writings. He had to learn it himself, discover and understand what he felt.
Learning the rituals, runes, spells and other components of magic were just words on paper, he had to truly understand and own them for them to fully unfold their potential.
But he kept trying and eventually saw progress. Oh, it wasn't anything groundbreaking or especially destructible, only a bit of warging into a flock of ravens that had circled in the clear, cold, blue sky.
Becoming a raven felt weird, felt wrong, but at the same time, it was the greatest thing he ever felt. He flew freely through the cold winds of the far north, over the Frostfangs and frozen lakes, and for a moment he felt truly free, with all of his problems left behind.
Finally, he started to have a true realisation of what it meant to have a thousand eyes and one.
At times he could see through multiple eyes at once, those of his Direwolf Frost and those of a dozen ravens that circled above him.
He saw everything, every corner, something he struggled to truly handle.
Still, he couldn't control an animal over a larger distance, something that didn't pose the slightest problem to Brynden.
But magic wasn't the only thing he learned. He briefly looked into the known poisons, every single one that had been known in the world, from the Tears of Lys, to the Strangler or the rare poisons that were made from the wildlife plants of Sothoryos. But it didn't take too long before he gave up poisons to due their inefficiency. All poisons besides the Tears of Lys, which were way too expensive could be traced back and almost all of the time the poisoner could be identified. Even if a person used some commoner to poison the person who's death they desired for them, if they were caught they would under torture always reveal on whose orders they had acted, or provided enough clues for the interrogators to find the answers themselves.
Other methods were way more efficient, namely the use of animals. But, well, you had to be a warg to use them. Using ravens whose Talons were infested with Greyscale or simply the sharp teeth of a wolf. No One suspected the animal of being controlled by a human, so all those deaths were played off as accidents.
Brynden himself had, the day they had parted, given him a box of greyscale powder, the contagious skin of a greyscale patient cut into tiny pieces so that it created a soft, grey powder. No One who saw it would know what it was, yet still, it was as deadly as the sharpest blade.
For a moment, when Brynden had given the bag of greyscale, a well-crafted leather bag, he had considered giving it to Lady Stark for being such an annoying cunt, however, while it would have amused him and even Brynden seemed okay with it, he knew that his siblings would be left heartbroken at seeing their mother slowly turn into a mindless beast, no better than an animal.
Still, reflecting on the months in the dark cave, he knew his journey had definitely been worth it. Ramsay had left the cave just a few months after their arrival, claiming that he wasn't going to stay there forever and needed something to hunt and kill. Jon was quite certain however that Ramsay wanted humans to hunt and kill, as there were deer, bears and wolves aplenty in the area around them.
Still, despite his journey's many advantages, it had also taken its toll. When Jon looked upon the perfectly even surface of a lake and saw his reflection, he barely recognized himself.
His beard had grown, his left eye was covered by an eye-patch and his black hair had partly turned pale, so that it now shined akin to the colour of moonlight. When he walked through the soft snows, the snowflakes falling on his head, many had mistaken his hair for white.
He wore his sword on his belt. The hilt was exquisitely crafted, forged from gold and silver than flowed into each other, creating a mixture of the shiny metals, that made the hilt glow, even in the dimmest light.
The blade was as dark as the sky in the winter that had lasted an entire generation, with soft grey ripples running through the black blade, like worms crawling through dirt. Orphan-Maker it was called, a blade lost shortly after the Dance of the Dragons, formerly the ancestral sword of House Roxton.
He pondered silently on whether or not he should rename the old sword,
as he rode through the snows of the far North on the back of his stallion, further and further east, hoping to find the settlement called Hardhome, where Ramsay had been recently located.
He broke his fast on dried, salted bacon, and a turnip he had been given by the Wildlings as food. Hardly the feast of kings, but it that was available and Jon took whatever he got. Food was valuable north of the wall and the taste of meat was almost all you could get.
Suddenly a man burst into the tent, he and Ramsay were located in, staring at Ramsay furiously. The man that had burst into the tent was not larger than the average man, but that didn't make him look any less dangerous.
His armour was made from bones, the bones of the people that he'd killed. He wore a huge giant's skull instead of a helmet and Jon could see ribcages and other bones hanging around his neck as a necklace.
"Lord of Bones," Ramsay greeted happily, while he picked on the piece of meat he was holding in his hands. The Lord of Bones, also known as Rattleshirt, was a notorious leader among the Free Folk and a well-known raider.
Rattleshirt walked towards Ramsay, snow coating his furs and raised his staff as a threat.
"Snow," he spat angrily. "What the fuck is your problem?!"
"I don't know what you mean," Ramsay responded happily while continuing to eat his meal. Still, Jon could see a glint in his eyes, showing him that he knew exactly what Rattleshirt meant.
"You murdered Mance," Rattleshirt spat. Jon was confused however, who this Mance was. He had arrived merely a few days ago and barely knew any names.
"Oh fuck off, Rattleshit," Ramsay laughed with the classic psychopathic grin that Jon knew so well.
"Do you deny it?" The Lord of Bones asked, his face behind the giant helmet red and shaking with anger. "You killed him in his own tent, in cold blood."
"I killed a lotta people, Rattleshit," Ramsay said, as if he were talking to a child. He drew his own knives in a fluid motion, holding one directly to the Lord of Bones crouch while smiling widely. "Now put that staff down, or I'll make you my new Reek."
Slowly, Rattleshirt lowered the staff, looking slightly nervously at Ramsay's knife. "There is killing, Ramsay," he said. "And then there is murder."
Still, it was true. During his time with the Wildlings, Ramsay had more than distinguished himself as a fighter. Jon had learned that Ramsay had played a major role in breaking a ranging of the black brothers, killing lots of men and even slaying Lord Commander Qorgyle himself. Another thing that had gotten him famous among the wildlings was his 'Reek', a black brother that he had tortured for months and now kept him as his pet, so that he would be able to use him to open the Black Gate again later. -And his personal fun of course.
"You killed Mance," the Lord of Bones said slowly and silently, his voice dangerous. "He was our best chance of getting south of the bloody wall and you fooking killed him."
"Could have killed you too, Rattleshit," Ramsay answered, sounding bored and annoyed. "You're starting to make me regret that."
"Why, Snow?" the wildling raider asked Ramsay. "Explain this to me."
Ramsay shrugged, showing not the slightest bit of remorse or guilt. "He insulted me. Called me a bastard."
"You are a bastard, are you not?"
"I think you'll be next."
"Pretty sure that many have called you a bastard in your life. Both literally and regarding yer birth. Doesn't mean you gotta fookin' kill them."
Ramsay's lips twisted. The room was tense with Jon watching the interaction between the two men closely. "It was a bloody heated discussion, Rattleshit," he said after a pause, while his lips slowly twisted into a small smile. "Some men stole my food so I marched to the tent of that king of yours and demanded to know what's going on."
Rattleshirt and Jon remained silent, waiting for Ramsay to continue. "That ugly king of yours was there, with his blonde bitch next to him. That girl drew her dagger when she saw me, but I didn't even kill her for it. I asked him who the fuck took my food and I want it back, but that man only gives me his bloody smug, smartass reply, that that wasn't his problem and his girlfriend even said that the ugly bastard should leave." Ramsay smiled widely now. "Figured that since I'm not ugly, she gotta mean her friend, your king, so I did throw him out." He shrugged nonchalantly. "Escalated a bit from there."
"So he said that your food ain't his concern," The Lord of Bones demanded. "And you decided that you should kill him for it, ruining our chances of going south. Already now, the camp is falling apart."
"You killed the King-beyond-the-wall?" Jon finally intervened, looking at Ramsay in shock and surprise. "For that?"
"Yeah, he died really quick," Ramsay said. "Such a shame, could have made a great Reek out of him."
"Ramsay…" Jon said blankly, almost disbelieving. The bloody king…? "Can you truly not see how much of a problem this is? You've seen the men flee south, running from the Frostfangs, abandoning the villages further north."
"Because of White Walkers?" Ramsay asked annoyed. "Probably just the Weeper and his Warband, raiding the villages."
Jon shook his head slowly. "I've seen these things. Bloodraven showed me what is out there. What is north."
"I don't see a problem at all," Ramsay grunted. "They can try to get south themselves, don't need that deserter-fool for that."
"Aye, but they don't have a damn Black Gate that they can pass through, do they?" Jon asked, making Rattleshirt frown.
"Pff..." Ramsay snorted like a petulant child. "Everybody fights for himself."
Jon turned to him. "Ramsay," he warned. "You are not helping your case here. You could have more respect, show a bit more remorse for probably giving the army of the dead a few hundred thousands soldiers."
Ramsay spat on the floor before him, a dangerous glint in his pale eyes. Jon twitched ever so slightly, but willed himself to stay strong and meet Ramsay's empty gaze. "Remorse? Respect?" he asked, laughing, before suddenly turning serious once more. "I've been real good to you, Bastard. I've been loyal, I've fought for you. Ever since you beat the shit out of me all those years ago. I've been working with you and I saved your life far more than once – you owe me for that. I did that because I wanted an adventure and fun - and because I thought you weren't one of these shitty noble lords, that look down on everyone they meet except the damn King himself" He stepped forward. "Was I wrong?"
"What Black Gate do you mean?" Rattleshirt spoke up, looking at the two of them.
"A gate beneath an abandoned castle of the Watch," Jon said. "A black brother can open the gate by reciting his vows before it."
"But where do ya get a crow from?" the Lord of Bones frowned, before he finally came to a realization. "Your pet crow," he stated, receiving a nod from Jon.
"Come with us," Jon finally offered slowly. "Come with us south, when we return to our home. Pick a few men you want to take with you and we'll go south."
"How many?" Rattleshirt grunted, while Ramsay looked disgusted at Jon's offer.
"A dozen? Less?" Nobody must notice you in the south. If any Lord spots you, it's a death sentence."
Rattleshirt seemed to contemplate the offer. "Fine, we go. Ain't gonna kneel to no fucking king or lord though," he stated brusquely.
"Not necessary," Jon said slowly, while the freefolk leader merely nodded.
The wildling raider turned to leave, just as a blade pierced the back of his skull, making him drop dead to the floor. The knife that had embedded itself in his skull was rusty and dirty, a common weapon amongst wildlings, but it had not been thrown from the outside, but from next to him. Jon quickly turned to look at Ramsay. "The fuck was that for?"
"Would have been an annoying little fuck," Ramsay replied simply. "Trust me on this one, Snow, he would have been a liability far more than he would have been any help."
Jon sighed and made to move the Lord of Bones corpse away from the entrance of the tent.
When he was done, Jon slowly opened his third eye once more and just a moment later he found himself looking through a raven's eyes, the bird sailing silently above the dark forests, west of the wildling encampment. Finally, he turned his eyes further south, pushing further and further south. -Towards Winterfell.
Where his mother laid buried, unknown to the seven kingdoms. A secret Howland Reed and Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell had kept from everyone. - Everyone except for Brynden Rivers and Jon Snow.
Bran
Ice's sharp blade came down quickly, cutting through the deserter's flesh and bones, like piss through snow, as Theon would have said. The wards from lots of other great northern families are standing around the stump, where the man had just lost his life, looking on in silence.
To Bran's left stood Robb and Theon, while Torrhen Karstark and Daryn Hornwood stood to his left. On the other side of the small hill, were Smalljon Umber and Cley Cerwyn.
The many wards had brought life to Winterfell and had made the life quite exciting. Bran could barely remember a time where they had not been there, always present and always great company. Smalljon was a boisterous man, well over six foot in height, but that was no wonder, given the size of his father, the Greatjon. Just like most Umbers he could drink anyone under the table and was always the first to loudly proclaim his opinion on a subject. Cley Cerwyn, on the other hand, was more quiet and reserved, as silent as a wolf but also had a temper once provoked. He and Bran had quickly become friends, since they shared their passion for climbing things, something that drove Bran's mother to insanity.
Torrhen Karstark and Daryn Hornwood were rather boring in the young boy's opinion, they never talked much and behaved like any other northerner he had seen in his life. But despite all of their differences, all of them had one thing in common - They were all true northerners in their hearts.
Bran rode through the wolfswood on his horse, still slightly smaller than those of the other boys, bread to match his size for now. He silently pondered on the words of the deserter before Bran's father had taken his life. I saw them, m'lord, I ain't no liar the man had stuttered helplessly. He had been dressed in a ripped black cloak, torn open and ripped apart at many places. I saw them, the bloody Others. I swear it on all I own, on all I've ever known. Shouldn't have aband'ned my post, m'lord, I accept my punishment for desertion. But I saw them. They're back.
Bran had immediately asked his father about the White Walkers, the Others that were a famous legend in the North. He had wanted to know if there was a chance that this was real, that the old, shaggy man had truly seen a White Walker north of the wall.
But father had remained steadfast, insisting that the mad had been mad with fear and hallucinated. That he had merely imagined, that he had seen a Walker.
Bran noticed himself brooding silently on his horse, like his brother Jon had always done all those years ago. His disappearance had been a shock to everyone, even more so after Ramsay seemed to have left with him. No one had seen it coming, one day Jon was normal, maybe a bit more silent than usual, and the next day he and Ramsay were gone, gone from Winterfell with barely a trace. Only the fresh corpse of a Shadowcat had been found a few leagues north of Winterfell.
Father had immediately sent out men to search for the two boys, searching all of the north from top to bottom. But no one ever found them again, no trace remained. But even though they were never found, even after three years they had been gone now, neither had any corpses been found, so Bran and many others still clung to the belief, that the two boys were still alive. Father had sent word to the Dreadfort, telling Lord Bolton about the disappearance of his son, however, the Lord of the Dreadfort had not cared at all, disregarding his natural son completely.
Bran really hoped, that his older brother would still be alive, the boy, now man, that would always support him and help him whenever he asked and even if he didn't. Jon had always been the kindest of all and he truly hoped that he would get him back soon.
Ramsay however, was a different story. Many in Winterfell didn't know how to feel about the Bolton Bastard. The boy was often cruel, even mad, with tendencies to violence. He seemed to rejoice in the pain and torment of others, while he still managed to keep those traits hidden well enough, that no one could punish him for them. Still, while Ramsay was a mad dog, he had still saved Bran's life in that fateful day in the Wolfswood - And for that Bran knew, just like the rest of his family did, that they owed him.
"Stop!" Lord Stark's voice suddenly called out, making the entire group stop. Lord Stark slowly got off his huge horse and the others followed. Even Bran swiftly climbed from his horse, wanting to take a look at what had made his father stop them.
He tripped over a tree root, walking towards his father. He ducked to avoid a low-hanging branch until he came face to face with what had startles his father so much.
Lots of snow had fallen during the last days and the white carpet was high enough, that Bran stood knee-deep in white. At first, he struggled to stand, groping for solid footing on the hidden, uneven ground. Yet finally he waled forwards and quickly took a step back. The huge corpse of a direwolf was laying in front of them, a giant antler sticking from her chest. Half-buried in bloodstained snow, it's huge dark shape slumped in the white snow. Ice had formed in its shaggy grey fur, while bugs and worms were crawling over the she-wolf's corpse, feasting on her flesh. They left an awful stench that filled the air, a stinging smell that almost made Bran vomit.
Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy were the next to reach the boys. Greyjoy was laughing and joing as he rode. Bran heard the breath go out of him. "Gods!" he exclaimed loudly, all smugness and calmness gone, as he struggled to keep control of his horse as he reached for his sword.
Jory's sword was already out. "Lord Stark, please my lord, get away from it!" he called as his horse reared under him, shocked at the sight of the great beast before them.
"She can't hurt us," Bran's father bluntly observed, looking at the giant dead wolf before them in pity. "She's dead, Jory."
Bran was afire with curiosity by then. He quickly used a bit of rope to tie his horse to a nearby pole, belonging to a small bridge and made to follow his father to the huge dead wolf.
By then the other boys had all dismounted as well. "What the fuck is that thing?" Smalljon exclaimed loudly as they approached. "A wolf," deadpanned back, a tiny smile on his lips. "A damn freak," Greyjoy said. "Look at the size of it."
"A direwolf," Lord Stark said slowly and Bran felt his heartbeat speed up. A Direwolf? Here? "And you ought to be a bit quieter, Smalljon," he added as an afterthought. "The last thing we need now is her huge, angry mating partner coming after us."
Just as he said it, what he predicted came true. A humongous direwolf, with light-grey fur and blue eyes that shined with a piercing intensity.
"Ah for fuck's sake," one of the guards that had come with them proclaimed loudly and drew his sword, raising it so that the tip of the shining blade pointed towards the wolf.
Suddenly two figures emerged from the shadows of the wolfswood, both of them wearing shaggy white furs and dark, boiled leathers with weapons by their sides.
The smaller one of them had two savage-looking blades on each side of his belt. His hands hovered over them, ready to draw them at any moment. The second man, that stood next to him wore a dark cloak, making him stand out from the snowy-white woods. He had curly, pale white hair with streaks of black and a large sword with a pommel of a silver and gold strapped to his hip and a short dagger at his side. This man had a look of confidence and skill to him and held himself with strength and authority.
The giant wolf, nimble and quick moved to his side, barely more than a shadow in the white snow.
The man slowly extended a hand to ruffle the giant wolf's fur, an action that made Bran speechless. I want to be able to do that, too.
"State your reason for passing through these lands," Robb shouted at the men. The guards behind them slowly moved forwards, ready to draw their swords and fight the other men at a moment's notice.
"I am disappointed, I must admit," the man in black sighed and moved forwards. The guards tensed and drew their swords slightly and received a threatening growl from the direwolf companion of the man in return.
Bran watched with anxiety as the man approached and finally was close enough so that he could see his face. "Forgot me so quick?" he asked, his two grey eyes shining at them and finally recognition flashed on their faces.
"Jon?" he slowly asked, while the figure behind his half-brother stepped forwards. Finally, Bran could see his pale blue eyes. "Ramsay?"
Jon nodded in confirmation and moved closer. "There is something that might interest you," he stated, pointing towards the dead she-wolf, that layed motionless in the snow.
Lord Stark quickly moved towards Jon and embraced him quickly, looking at him in silence. "We will have words about this," he said harshly, looking at his son with a mix of anger, joy and relief.
"We will," Jon replied, seemingly unbothered. "But now take a look, will ya?" he said, pointing to the bundle of fur, that was directly next to the dead mother wolf.
"She bore pups before she died," Lord Stark stated slowly. Jon's own direwolf moved towards the tiny wolves that nestled close to their mother's dead body, trying to use each other's warmth to avoid the cold better.
"Five of them," Jon noted. "3 male and two female. Your children were meant to have them. They are the sigil of your house and should belong to you."
"What about you, Jon?" Robb asked, still obviously distraught by his brother's sudden appearance, especially with a huge direwolf by his side.
"Frost is mine," Jon replied, petting the wolf tenderly. He then pointed to the pups on the ground. "Those shall be yours."
"And the Father?" Ned asked, looking around wearily. "A Direwolf's wrath should not be provoked."
"The father is fine with it," Jon deadpanned, looking at his own wolf. "You are fine with it, aren't ya?" He asked the giant wolf as if he could understand him.
"He is the father?" Robb asked incredulously, looking at the wolf, Jon had dubbed Frost and received a curt nod.
"Shouldn't be surprised," he mumbled. "Not like there were many direwolves south of the wall."
He, just like father, quickly embraced Jon.
There was something weird about Jon. He was still Jon, but at the time he was so very different. The way he held himself, the way he talked, the expression he wore on his face. They were almost wolf-like at times, his mouth looked ready to give a snarl. With the giant wolf on his side and the sword strapped to his hip, he looked so much like a Stark Lord, It was the same look like Father, just different. He didn't look honourable or calm. He looked like a wolf.
"Hello, Greyjoy," Ramsay said, as he moved towards Theon. "It's been a long time, no? We have so much to talk about." He smiled widely at Theon, who did not nearly share his enthusiasm.
Lord Stark picked up all 5 of the pups and handed them to his children, but Jon walked to the corpse once more.
"What is it, Jon?" their lord father asked.
"Can't you hear it?" he asked them, but Bran could hear nothing but the wind in the trees, the clatter of their hooves and the whimpering of his hungry pup, but Jon was listening to something else.
"There," Jon said, kneeling down a few feet away from the mother wolf.
"He must have crawled away from the others," Jon said, as he held up another pup, snow-white with dark red eyes.
"An albino," Robb noted, looking at the pup.
"Like Brynden," Jon muttered, earning confused looks from everyone. "Who is Brynden?" their lord father asked, but Jon just shrugged it off. "Nevermind."
"The runt of the litter," Theon said with wry amusement. "This one will die even faster than the others," he said, earning glares from both Bran and Robb, while Jon gazed at him emptily, eyes devoid of emotion. Bran noticed the Greyjoy ward shift uncomfortably in his saddle, but then Jon turned away and the moment was over.
"I'll take this one;" he proclaimed. "Or do you want it?" He asked Ramsay, who shook his head.
"I prefer my bitches," he replied. "Easier trained, but just as deadly in a pack."
Lord Stark gave the Bolton Bastard a chilling look, before turning his horse around.
"Take care of them," he spoke to his sons. "I'll allow you to keep them, but you'll feed them yourselves, you'll train them yourselves and if they die, you'll bury them yourselves, you understand me?" he asked, receiving nods from his children. "Tell the girls and Rickon the same thing."
They started to ride off when he turned once more. "And Jon?" he said, looking at his sister's son. "Welcome home."
Varys
For a long, long time, Varys had plotted to put Aegon Targaryen, the sixth of his name on the Iron Throne. Or at least the boy that he and Illyrio had raised to believe himself as such.
He had made an impressive climb in his life. He had gone from a slave boy, born in Lys and who grew up in the slums of Myr, to the Master of Whisperers, that had already been a close advisor to two Kings. Kings that had reigned for many years.
When he was a young boy, before he was cut by the vile sorcerer, he had travelled with a group of mummers. They had taught him their skills, taught him to keep emotions tucked away and keep his enemies guessing. No One was able to read him, to understand what he wanted and for that he was grateful.
Many believed, that he fought for the good of the realm, a noble goal, but still quite foolish. He had his own ambitions, his own goals he wanted to see come true, the good of the realm was a mere side effect.
The boy. Illyrio's son. A Blackfyre.
The Blackfyres were always a threat to Westeros, a liability that had plagued the country since Bittersteel fled the Battle of Redgrass field and swore he would return to place a son Daemon Blackfyre upon the Iron Throne. Four more Blackfyre Rebellions had arisen since then, yet all had failed. The male Blackfyre line had ended, when Ser Barristan Selmy slew Maelys the Monstrous on the Stepstones, ending the War of the Ninepenny Kings and returning peace to the realm.
But the female line continued to exist, as many female descendants that still bore Daemon's name lived on in Essos, married and had children, though few of them were aware of their true heritage.
One of them was Sarella Blackfyre, a beautiful young girl that Varys's friend and co-conspirator Illyrio Mopatis had married and sired a boy with. - Aegon Blackfyre, the boy that now thought himself to be Aegon Targaryen, the son of Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen.
Varys loved to think of this, like the story of the Crossroad Inn.
The famous Inn had belonged to an old, crippled knight called Long John Heddle, who took up iron working when he grew too old to fight. He forged a new sign for the yard, a three-headed dragon of black iron that he hung from a wooden post. Years later, a bastard son of the fourth Aegon rose up in rebellion against his trueborn brother and took for his sigil a black dragon. These lands belonged to Lord Darry then, and his lordship was fiercely loyal to the king. The sight of the black iron dragon made him wroth, so he cut down the post, hacked the sign into pieces, and cast them into the river. One of the dragon's heads washed up on the Quiet Isle many years later, though by that time it was red with rust."
It was too fitting. The Black Dragon, Aegon Blackfyre who vanished and slowly with time became something else, a red dragon, one that all the world would look up to. A warrior that would inspire both awe and fear. One that would rule fairly and justly, while also being harsh when need be.
It would be the sixth Blackfyre Rebellion, but no one would know it. They would support Aegon Targaryen, unknowing that in truth it was a Black Dragon that stood before them.
Varys and Illyrio's plan had been perfect, they had considered every possible event, had mapped out and planned everything that they would do, every possibility. But it hadn't been enough. They had always known that one could not predict everything, no matter how carefully it was planned and executed.
Daenerys Targaryen hatching a Dragon was one of those unpredicted events. It had been simple. They would keep out an eye for the last two Targaryens and when they were in dire need, Illyrio would offer them his hospitality. He would allow them to live in his giant mansion in Pentos and earn their trust. He would give them anything they wanted until they would never doubt his advice.
That's when he would convince Viserys to marry his sister to a Dothraki warlord and they would invade Westeros with his Khalasar, to crown him King. But of course, that wouldn't happen. The Dothraki would become hated and feared throughout Westeros, so much that even the Targaryen loyalists would turn against them if only in fear that their lands would be pillaged and burned, their women and children raped and murdered.
And in this conflict, Aegon would emerge with the Golden Company, men absolutely loyal to any Black Dragon and would present himself as a saviour, a man that was charismatic and powerful, the perfect King.
The Targaryen loyalists and anyone searching for protection would flock to his side and they would be easily able to defeat the forces of any lords or king's that tried to fight them. With a marriage to a Great House, they would be able to gather more allies and outmanoeuvre King Robert, due to Varys spying on him.
And then, finally, the Black Dragon would sit on the Iron Throne, ending the Targaryen line and finally placing a descendant of Daemon Blackfyre on the Iron Throne, unknown to everyone.
But that didn't happen. Viserys died despite Varys's best efforts to protect him, and the girl hatched dragons, before fleeing to Asshai, where not even Varys' little birds could reach her.
Dragons. Living, breathing, massive, dragons.
Dragons were powerful weapons, unmatched on the battlefield and if properly used could not be defeated.
Not even ballistas or powerful siege machines could hope to hurt a fully grown dragon, unless they got extremely lucky, like the Dornish had been when they killed Meraxes, and Queen Rhaenys with him.
If there was anything, Varys was truly thankful for, then it was that the Mad King had never been in control of the powers, his daughter now possessed. Had Aerys the Second had Dragons at his command, the country would have burned to cinders, with nothing left to rule.
Of course, having these Dragons under their own control would have been a huge boon to them. Noone would be able to stand against them and the success of their invasion would have been guaranteed. But Connington was unable to swallow his pride and seek out Daenerys Targaryen, who had conquered half of Essos in the last few years.
At first, the girl had gone to Astapor, where she had tricked the wise masters into believing that she would trade one of her dragons, for all of the Unsullied warriors in the city, both 'complete' ones and the boys that were still being trained to become true Unsullied.
It would have been a bad trade for Queen Daenerys, however the Unsullied were still a force to be reckoned with. They were nearly unstoppable in close combat and fought with Iron discipline and resistance. They never faltered and never gave up and fought to obey their master's orders until they died or succeeded.
The Masters silently thought the girl a fool, when she promised to use her Bloodmagic to make them bond with the smallest of her beasts, but still a Dragon as large as Vhagar had been.
That is where Varys himself was not quite sure what had happened since none of his little birds in Astapor had lived to tell the tale. However, it was said that the girl had betrayed them, burning them to Ashes with her magic, before taking the whip of the master's dead corpse and assuming command over the Unsullied. Another rumour had said, that a master had stabbed his sword right through her chest, only to find that it did not affect her. The sword had cut through her cleanly, without any resistance, but without causing any damage either. And Illusion, they had called it.
But no matter what had truly happened, by the next day Astapor layed almost completely in ashes and almost everyone who had been at the Plaza of Pride, where the transaction had happened were dead.
Yunkai fell quickly after that. Its yellow walls were blasted away by the sheer power of Dragonfire and the Unsullied took the city easily. The sellswords hired to protect the city quickly turned cloak once they saw the dragons burn a hundred men to ashes, an imposing sight.
And Meereen... Well, Meereen was already taken by the time she arrived. The Masters were slain, the gates opened, welcoming her into the city like an old friend.
The Masters had tried to rise once more, to try to reassert their control over Slaver's Bay, however, every Rebellion that had arisen was quickly put down. The now self-proclaimed Queen Daenerys had suppressed all of them immediately, spied out the leaders and had them publicly executed. Within 6 moons, no one was left to question her authority and rule over Slaver's Bay.
That's when she moved on. Moved on to Bloodstone, what had become her base of operations.
She had left not much behind in Slaver's Bay, just a thousand Unsullied and a small council to rule the 3 cities, however with all her rivals dead, either rotting in the streets of her cities or with their heads thrown into the ocean, they did a fine job keeping the peace. One of her advisors and teachers came from Qarth himself and was a well-respected figure amongst the people there. Therefore, he had been able to make a deal with the city to grant her newly founded Empire their protection, while she, her fleet and her dragons were gone. And so, she founded the Draconian Dynasty, her very own empire that she ruled over as Empress Daenerys Targaryen.
But then she disappeared to Bloodstone, the Island that she had proclaimed would be the centre of her new dynasty, the capital city of her empire.
She, and over a hundred ships she had acquired from the wise masters, had disappeared into the mysterious Island, where the King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea had once ruled. No one knew, not even Varys himself what she had been doing there for the last year. Thick, dark fog surrounded the Island and every boat send there, vanished into the mist, never to return.
At one point, Robert Baratheon had commanded the royal fleet to go and investigate the Island, as well as find and kill the empress, however, all 15 ships send into the fog disappeared without a trace, just like all their predecessors.
Over time, Bloodstone became a constant threat that loomed over Westeros, however, no one could do anything about it, so it remained untouched.
The girl could become a problem in Aegon's quest for the throne. A truce would have to be negotiated, perhaps Aegon could marry her. If that would prove to be impossible... -Well, Varys always managed to make... problems disappear.
Slowly Varys paced through the great stone hall in the Red Keep, where the Iron Throne stood. A great, twisted monstrosity, yet still a symbol of power and supremacy.
"I do wonder, my dear Varys, who you truly serve," Littlefinger suddenly spoke up from behind him, approaching him as silent as always. Baelish had sharp features, a small, neatly trimmed pointed beard on his chin, and dark hair with threads of grey running through it.
Littlefinger wore a slashed velvet doublet in cream-and-silver, with a small silver mockingbird embroidered just over his heart.
"The realm, old friend," Varys replied, with his usual sulky, high voice.
"Don't we all," Littlefinger said quietly, as he moved closer to the eunuch, though his grin belied his incredulity. "You are such a selfless man, my friend. The realm could use more men like you. Men without any ambitions or goals... who only want the best for the people of Westeros..."
He sighed dramatically while looking at Varys mockingly. "I'm not entirely sure I trust your answer. Every man wants something. Wealth... Power... Women..." He took a look at Varys crotch. "Oh my bad, I forgot."
Varys ignored him, continuing to look forwards towards the Iron Throne.
"I'm not entirely sure you should trust me at all, old friend. I'm not such a noble lord like you, my dear Lord Baelish. What a blessed world it would be if all men were. If all men had your standards and your noble principles," he replied, tempering the compliment with a quirk of his eyebrow. "Such a noble man, selflessly serving the king, without any second thoughts, putting the welldoing of the royal family above everything."
The lie could hardly have been more blatant. Varys knew himself to be no saint, where other men fought like the warrior or were as merciful as the mother, he was the stranger, observing and killing from the shadows. However, Littlefinger had already driven the realm into great debt to both the Iron Bank, the Lannisters, the Tyrells and the Faith. And Varys knew that that would not be enough to satisfy Baelish. Chaos is a ladder, he had often told him and Littlefinger would ensure, that chaos would reign supreme.
For now, that was no problem for Varys, a weakened realm was easier to take after all. However, in time, he would have to deal with Baelish. Aegon was now old enough to marry for an alliance and soon his plans would become reality. Until then Baelish's schemes would be good for their cause, however, they would have to be stopped shortly after. He would not be allowed to threaten the reign of Aegon Blackfyre.
Littlefinger had become indispensable to King Robert, the old falcon had vouched for him and therefore he had the king's trust. Still, Varys wondered how long it would be before he tired of the king and conspired to replace him with one that suited his needs better. It wouldn't be long before he would do just that. To Littlefinger the politics of Westeros were a game, with the nobles just figures that he manoeuvred around the map, just like a cyvasse player would move his figures around.
It was all a giant game, the Game of Thrones.
"It must be difficult," Baelish told Varys with a grin, "to see the world, all the great events from the tiny eyes of a mere spider. Such small creatures, poisonous at times, but still helpless against all the large predators. You must feel rather… impotent." Littlefinger let his eyes trail down suggestively. Varys suppressed a sigh. For all his unpredictability, Littlefinger was surprisingly consistent in his humour. He could not recall a conversation, in which Littlefinger had not cracked a joke about his manly parts.
"You underestimate Spiders, my friend," he said, refusing to rise to the bait. He wouldn't give Baelish the satisfaction of successfully provoking him. "Some Spiders are very dangerous," he said. "In Sothoryos I was told there are some the size of horses. Even the White Walkers were said to have ridden on the backs of giant Ice Spiders."
He sighed loudly. "They are so large, that they can catch almost everything in their webs... Insects, birds, large birds, mockingbirds..."
he said, looking pointedly at the mockingbird stitched on Petyr's clothing.
Petyr smiled. "What a shame then, that we aren't in Sothoryos. Our Westerosi spiders must feel very small indeed, compared to such creatures. I have my doubts about those northern Ice-spiders... Unless you could find me one? You would have my eternal gratitude."
"Size isn't everything, my friend."
"Oh dear, I suppose you'd know all about that." Littlefinger grinned, raising an eyebrow lasciviously. "But are you quite sure we're still discussing insects?"
Varys shrugged and walked away, letting Littlefinger win the round. Soon, he would bring Aegon to Westeros and they would see who had the last laugh. Westerosi politics were already unpredictable at best. What would happen if dragons were brought into play was anyone's guess. But at the same time, his plan had to succeed. The realm needed Aegon. A ruler that could rule in his own name, not as a puppet of manipulators like Littlefinger.
Though it would be a shame when Littlefinger would finally die and return to the dirt. There was a certain joy to be found in their quarrels, and not for the first time Varys didn't like the thought of their eternal battle of wits coming to an end. He was the only worthy opponent Varys had known in a long time.
"It's nothing personal, old friend," he muttered under his breath as he turned to leave, the words he had spoken a few minutes ago, still echoing in his head. "But I did warn you not to trust me."