Religious War

Amid the sea fog of King's Landing's harbor late at night.

The air reeked of salt and rotting fish guts.

Jon Connington tugged at his hood, concealing his gray-red hair.

The dock planks gave damp groans beneath his feet.

In the distance, the city's frenzy carried through the thick fog, blurred and distant, as though it belonged to another world.

He hated this place.

He hated its smell, hated the dangers lurking within it, and hated even more the person who had sent him here.

A shadow slipped soundlessly out from behind a stack of crates.

The newcomer was wrapped in a rough burlap cloak, his body stout and bloated like that of a dockworker.

But the way he walked—the lightness hidden beneath that clumsiness—gave him away.

Jon Connington spoke in a low voice. "You're late."

Varys's voice came from beneath the hood, no longer carrying that sickly-sweet courtly tone.

"The storm came and went, great waves washed over my head, yet here I am, still rowing along just fine."

He drew closer, bringing with him the sour stench of cheap ale and sweat.

Jon Connington frowned.

"You enjoyed that storm?"

"I have never hated rain, my friend."

Varys chuckled.

"It can wash the streets clean, and it can make seeds sprout."

Jon Connington had no patience for his riddles.

"I saw what is happening in the city."

"Those septons, those fanatics—was that your doing?"

Varys shook his head, his face hidden in shadow beneath the hood.

"I merely opened the cage door. Where the birds inside wished to fly was their own choice."

"A hungry bird will peck at any grain it can find."

Jon Connington's fist clenched beneath his cloak.

"This plan is pushing the entire kingdom into the fire."

"The Faith's power cannot be controlled."

A trace