It felt good to be Lord again.

He admired the looking glass silently. It was the most ornate and intricate thing he had ever owned in his life. He didn't recall ever seeing himself quite so cleanly before it, and was ever glad for the chance to straighten his back and regard himself in it, upright and proud, a right proper lord. Most days he had one of the serving boys wheel it out as his bath was being poured; other times he would position it himself, in front of the fireplace and across from his bed. It was good for watching himself with women, too, especially comely ones. When he'd first arrived at the castle he'd wondered aloud if there was some magic or queer craft in it, that it should show a man his living shade so perfectly. The old man had laughed then, right in his face.

Ain't laughing now.

Some days he barely recognised the wolfish bastard gazing back at him. Even naked he looked half a prince now, with his every part scrubbed free of dirt and his every hair well trimmed. The whiskers made him look half wolf, in truth, but they added a welcome gravity to his ill-bred visage and framed his long face rather nicely. His formerly gaunt cheeks had filled out somewhat, and the rest of his frame too. It was not all bad - he no longer looked the part of starving mongrel, that was for certain. His black eyes looked lighter than their usual, or what he had always taken for their usual, a striking grey in the right light.

This last visit to King's Landing had been more unpleasant than the last, but such was a Lord's lofty burden. He could hardly leave it to his lackwit wife to sell off all they didn't need and make sure their wares all fetched the best possible price. Her mother's finery, her father's trinkets, her sister's gowns - he'd sold them all for coin. Cold, hard silver, and gold too. Folks born with money were shit with it, he well knew, even when they had all their wits about them. Most of them would rather let something rot or go to waste then take it to market and haggle with the lowborn. The new Lord Stokeworth did not share any such qualms. Nor was he prone to hold onto chests upon chests of things he neither needed nor wanted. The castle was better off without all the clutter, as were his pockets. Autumn was here and banditry was everywhere, with winter and war fast approaching on all sides. In the capital the lions and roses and sparrows were all at each other's throats, and might be a queen or two would fall soon...

Gold was worth more to him than a dead woman's fine fabrics and soon enough food would be worth more than gold. Best thing he could do now was gather all the gold he could get his hands on and turn it into armed men and stocked food.

Castle Stokeworth enjoyed a privileged position straddling the Kingsroad up from the royal capital northward. Its lands had been left untouched by the war and were one of the capital's few potential sources of food whenever the bounty of the Mander and Riverlands grew scarce or unavailable. Before her death the Lady Tanda had laboured to keep the Red Keep well supplied, but the new Lord Stokeworth suffered from no such madness. The bitch Queen had asked his head of Ser Balman and would contrive to strike him down at the earliest opportunity. Let her and her garrison starve to death, for all he cared. Her wanting him dead was to be expected, really, but he found the matter weighing down on him more than it should. Some days he thought about gathering all his gold, all his silver, all his jewels and darting across the sea to a new life in the Free Cities. More often he'd content himself with cursing the whore and drinking himself into a stupor where defeating the might of House Lannister was actually imaginable to him.

For now, at least, the Lioness sat declawed and defanged, a prisoner in her own castle. Her sun was setting and the rose of Highgarden rising...though he wasn't ready to count her out just yet, not when her son was still King and the High Sparrow still had the Rose Lord's daughter on trial. Let them rot for all I care. He had diminished Stokeworth's provision of the Red Keep almost immediately, sending on produce of increasingly lower quality and citing the mismanagement of the aged Lady Tanda for having put undue strain on Stokeworth's granaries. When no complaint came, and the new Master of Coin refused him audience, he had counted himself at full liberty to ply his wares elsewhere.

A couple of clipped coppers in the right hands had helped him root out what good business there was to be had. He had chanced upon the Bastard of Driftmark flashing hefty amounts of Lannister gold at anyone who had so much as a loaf of bread he could take out to sea. A slippery, slippery man was Aurane Waters, but Bronn had been glad for the coin. Aurane meant to take his little fleet and put it out to sea. From what Bronn gathered, he could not readily turn to the roses and there was not much in the Red Keep that could be spared for his men. No wonder - the Queen who had raised him up and commissioned the ships was no longer in power and the Tyrells had no need of him when they could still call upon the maritime might of the Arbor. Nor could a proud and right-born man such as was Ser Kevan of the House Lannister be thought likely to suffer the presence of an inexperienced bastard on the Council as Cersei had done. No, Aurane's time in the capital was done, Bronn wagered, so long as he could stock up food enough. Stokeworth was happy to oblige. Unsurprisingly the bastard was not at all squeamish about spending the Queen's gold. And so the finest pigs and venison and geese and roots and flour of Stokeworth had been carted away under guard, to Bronn's great glee and even greater profit.

When word came that the man had turned pirate and abandoned the Queen, Bronn nearly shat himself laughing.

He was still chuckling at the memory when the washerwoman traipsed in with a silver platter and a flagon of wine.

"M'lord," the plump matron curtsied briefly and shuffled over to his great oak desk, where he liked to count his coin or collect his Lordly dues from comelier fare than her.

"Bring it here," he scowled, wondering if the hag was some baseborn sister of his lackwit wife. "Where's Brella?"

He'd found the poor maid scrubbing for whores in a brothel and promptly fetched her back to Stokeworth. The Imp had not chosen her for no reason - service in Renly Baratheon's household had taught her how to be blind, deaf and mute, and could be he'd need well-trained servants about when highborn guests came calling. Better yet, poverty had done her figure a world of service and left her more receptive than ever. Even now his bastard grew inside her, and he'd been eager to spill his seed inside her a few more times for good measure.

"Brella's resting her feet, m'lord," said the woman.

"Rohanne, is it?" He reached out and gave a good squeeze inbetween her legs, but all he could feel was wool over wool. She smelt of lilacs and was almost attractive in the right light, with her dark curls and shamefaced blushing. He fumbled a bit before seizing her hand instead and directing it to his sex.

"Awful long name for a common girl. Don't suppose t'was old Lord Stokeworth fathered you, eh?"

"I'm no girl, m'lord, and no, not him." She flushed crimson now. "Name was given me long ago, and I kept it ever since. M'lord."

He nodded halfheartedly and jerked her away, standing. She didn't seem perturbed at the sight of all of him, making him question all this apparent innocence. A clever game to play, for an ugly old matron.

"I see. Right lordly that, a good name. Per'aps I'll squirt my seed in you and if it's a girl, you can call it that proper."

He made to draw her nearer, but she flinched slightly. After dithering a moment she looked up to meet his eyes with her own. Her expression was curious, and he shifted uncomfortably beneath her gaze.

"Perhaps m'lord would allow me to entertain you otherwise?"

He did not need long to ponder that - life as Lord of Stokeworth was boring as chicken shit most of the time, and he was always in the mood for some excitement. Might be she'd learned something entertaining from some passing traveller and thought to ensnare her Lord with it now. Fat chance he'd ever have her again, but it was only proper he bestow his Lordly blessing on all the castle's womenfolk before winter was through.

"Go on then, I'm all ears. In for a dance, am I? Some singing maybe?"

She shook her head and looked down, crestfallen, almost child-like, a right plump ol' lamb ripe for the slaughterin'.

"There's a boy, m'lord..." She seemed almost on the verge of tears, her lips all aquiver. "A boy in need of hiding, you see? I don't s'pose...if m'lord would take him in a while...I could reward you well, I swear it, m'lord would...it'd be worth it, m'lord.."

Oh, so that's the game, eh?

For the better part of the year he had been carefully gathering a force. He began by hiring four swords, men such as himself...well, not quite like himself, but apt for any service he might ask of them. He'd knighted them all and promised each a squire and a wench if they served him well. He did not have to look far. Everywhere people were starving and every week some orphan or other was brought to the village below seeking food and shelter - that is, when they weren't found huddled beneath some loose plank with the left overs of someone else's supper. He preferred the thieves, every time - the innocent ones were more prone to have a conscience and expect payment for their work.

With the war not yet at Stokeworth's gate and the word out that the new Lord was hiring men, the sparrows and smallfolk alike had begun bringing misbegotten whelps to the castle door quite frequently. He'd taken the four sturdiest and made squires out of them. By the time he had doubled his guard and then doubled it again, he had in his service several men of quality, chief of whom was the well-storied Ser Dermot of the Rainwood, named captain of the guard by him. Squires were promptly procured from the orphans and the local boys, and he himself took the two who scrubbed up best to wait on him as pages, at least until he managed to wring a squire or two of proper breeding from some noble house for himself. Now Ser Dermot spent the better part of his days whipping the lads into shape, with bow and blade and mace besides...

Too much generosity was never a good quality in a Lord. He could not take in every boy whose mam came seeking his favours. Not ugly ones like this, at least. He shook his head and tried to imagine her without anything on.

"Sorry love, but castle's a bit full, don't you think? More swords would be welcome, aye, but there's boys enough as it is."

She straightened her back and nodded forlornly. He almost asked where the entertainment was but turned away and thought the matter done with - yet he had barely moved an inch when her matronly fingers daintily dropped a bag before him onto his desk.

He'd know that clinking anywhere.

He could smell it a mile off.

Gold.

"Where'd you..?"

The Spider gave him no time to finish. "Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. Far be it from me to waste your time, or you mine."

He looked back in silent bewilderment, and felt a brief wobble in the knee.

"Varys."

"Ser Bronn. Can you take the boy in or not?"

"Depends," he countered a half century later, moving to offer the eunuch a handshake Varys only glanced at briefly, and with genteel disdain at that. Bronn pulled his hand back and snatched up the gold instead, wondering where his nearest knife was, just in case. He enjoyed the way the coins bounced inside the bag under his grasp. "Who's the boy?"

The eunuch seemed not to hear him, producing something else from his sleeves instead - an old iron key, long and black and not a little rusted. The Spider lay it down on the table with the same delicacy as he had the gold.

"What's that?"

"The key to Rosby's postern gate," he cooed, crossing his hands in front of him in characteristic fashion. "You'll make short work of the garrison, I'm sure, and might be those who live will be glad to serve their rightful Lady Lollys...and her lord husband, of course."

There it was - that faintest of smiles.

"Who's the boy? I need to know what I'm getting into here, else.."

"You'll find out soon enough, Ser Bronn. All I need is for you to keep him safe and well hidden until he is of use. Trust me when I say our Queen shall be too distracted elsewhere to meddle in Stokeworth or Rosby anytime soon."

Bronn nodded slowly, and accepted the towel the eunuch handed him, draping it around himself.

"It's not the Imp, is it? It's him, isn't it?"

"No, I'm sorry to say. Lord Tyrion is a world away right now, but alive and well last I saw him, you'll be glad to know. The boy is someone else entirely...well, not entirely, but you have nothing to fear from him."

"When did you last see him? Where...did you...you had a hand in it all? And who the fuck is this boy?"

"A boy," soothed Varys, smiling again, "a boy it'd be best no one caught wind of until the time is ripe. Now listen to me, and listen close. You'll find the postern gate by following the brook behind the first tavern you come across from here to there. Do what you want with Lord Rosby's ward, but send no raven until...until, well, you'll know when the time is right."

"You're making no sense, eunuch. I'm not exactly Cersei Lannister's favourite person, am I? Or Ser Kevan's, for that matter. I doubt the bloody Tyrells will be glad of me becoming Lord of Rosby too either. How do I know any one of them, or all of them, won't unleash a rain of hellfire and brimstone on my head for all my presumption?"

"Trust me," insisted Varys, looking to the gold. When Bronn tightened his grip and looked to the key, the eunuch smiled and gave the Lord of Stokeworth a deliberate and obsequious nod of his head before slipping away, a half-smile still on his lips.