Jon Snow sometimes wished he could turn invisible, vanishing into the vastness of Winterfell to avoid so many awkward encounters.
In Winterfell, banners of three colors flew high above: white for House Stark's Icefield Running Wolf, crimson for House Lannister's Roaring Lion, and gold for House Baratheon's crowned stag.
More banners meant more people. Jon could not forget the looks those southern visitors gave him-curious, awkward, or contemptuous. The bolder ones even pointed and whispered.
People wondered who Jon's "birth mother" was. Some said Ashara Dayne, others said Wylla, and the more daring speculated that she was a fisherwoman. Whatever the truth, the bastard's existence reminded everyone that even a man as stern and rigid as Duke Eddard could be overcome by lust. Duke Eddard had done it too. It was a mistake all nobles made.
Jon stood in the covered walkway opposite Winterfell's training yard, watching two young men spar.
The taller one, with dark brown hair, was Theon, a slender, handsome nineteen-year-old. His opponent, with reddish-brown hair, blue eyes, and a robust build, was Robb, Winterfell's heir. They traded blows, their blunted swords clashing with a cold ring.
Jon loved Robb, but his relationship with Theon was hardly cordial. Most likely, Theon still considered himself an heir and could not be bothered to befriend a bastard.
"They're putting on a decent show, aren't they?" Tyrion had come up as well. He tilted his oversized head and studied Jon with his mismatched eyes.
"Not bad." Jon looked at Tyrion with an inexplicable fondness. In a sense, they shared the same plight. Bastards and dwarfs were both outsiders among the nobility.
Jon would never forget the words the dwarf had offered him after the feast. "Boy, remember this. Though every dwarf in the world may be considered a bastard, a bastard need not be considered a dwarf."
"You're Lord Stark's son too. You must be good with a sword?" Tyrion asked.
Jon liked hearing him describe him that way. "Robb is stronger with a lance, but I'm better with a sword. Hullen says my riding is among the best in Winterfell too."
"That is no easy feat. Knights like to use their swords, while I can only use my head."
"My young bastard friend, I heard you spent some time talking with your uncle Benjen at the feast," Tyrion added.
"Yes, my lord," Jon said.
"Let me guess what you're thinking, boy," Tyrion said gravely. "Lady Catelyn hardly treats you well, and Duke Eddard cannot protect you forever. Your uncle is a seasoned man of the Night's Watch, and northerners respect its duty. Do you feel you have nowhere else to go, and want to head to the Wall?"
Jon could not help admiring the dwarf's insight into people's hearts. "You are a giant, my lord. I've thought about it many times."
"Are you prepared?" Tyrion asked. He felt sorry for Jon's chosen path; it was bound to be a hard one. "The Wall is a harsh place, and men of the Night's Watch cannot marry or father children. Until you've known a woman, you probably cannot imagine what that will cost you."
"Uncle Benjen has already told me all that," Jon replied. "He told me to think it through. Once I swear those vows, there's no turning back."
"Your uncle is right," Tyrion said. "Do you know what the Night's Watch is nowadays?"
"The Night's Watch are the warriors on the Wall, the stout shield that guards the realm," Jon said. Everyone in the North knew that.
"Ha, ha, ha." Tyrion laughed. "It seems your dear uncle Benjen didn't explain it clearly. In the past, serving at the Wall was considered an honor, a sign of selfless devotion to duty. Many knights, men of standing, and nobles took the black willingly. Now the wandering crows can only recruit from dungeons. Rapists, bandits, and Brigand Knights will be your brothers."
"But..." Jon was briefly stunned by the truth Tyrion had revealed, but he thought he was ready to face the challenge, even if it meant living among such scum.
"Why must you join the Night's Watch? Becoming a crow means you can never touch another woman. Perhaps only you northerners and the men of the Vale are so rigid. I have three uncles, more than you do, but making them become crows would be worse than killing them. No women, no wandering wherever they please," Tyrion said. "Still, your uncle didn't become a crow purely for honor."
"Then why did he?" Jon could not tolerate anyone belittling his uncle.
"You need to read more, my young bastard friend. Think of the she-wolves of Winterfell. Now that was a fascinating stretch of history. There must have been a whole pack of wolves howling inside Winterfell then."
Jon paused. He accepted Tyrion's point: taking the black was also a way to secure the succession. Many years ago, Lord Belon had been badly wounded fighting the Ironborn, and House Stark had faced a succession dispute in the aftermath. Five widowed she-wolves and more than a dozen Stark children had fought over the right to inherit Winterfell.
"Still, I don't think your uncle was very wise to take the black. He's your father's only surviving brother. When it comes to family ties, who could be more useful than Benjen? A pity he went to the Wall," Tyrion reasoned.
"My uncle values honor above everything," Jon retorted.
"Indeed. Looking at Duke Eddard's face, I can believe that."
"Bastards have a sense of honor too," Jon insisted. "I've thought it over again and again. Serving in the Night's Watch is honorable work."
"You have many choices. You are your own man, my young bastard friend." Tyrion smiled, then lowered his voice. "Look at the king's bastard. He's raised the Dragon Banner across the Narrow Sea and made himself a king. That's another way to live."
"But..." Jon felt as though something had lodged in his throat. Mercenaries were not honorable; perhaps the Night's Watch suited him better. Yet someone his own age was already making waves across the Narrow Sea, and Jon felt a little envious.
"Isn't that Gendry an enemy of your family?" Jon looked curiously at Tyrion, thinking of the Lannister queen's children.
"He is, in a way, but the boy is good steel too. Aren't you envious? What could he have gained in King's Landing? My kindhearted sister might have sent him to meet his death, rather than letting him enjoy all this glory. At his age, perhaps only the Young Dragon ever looked down on the world like that. But the Young Dragon's war ended in failure too."
Jon felt lost. The Night's Watch was the answer he had reached after countless sleepless nights, his way of proving his honor. Even if someone his age had already begun to make a name for himself, could he really abandon honor for freedom, roam the world, and become a mercenary with no honor to his name, living by the blade?
"My young bastard friend, there's something else you probably don't know," Tyrion whispered mysteriously.
"What?" Jon asked.
"Lord Eddard will soon be heading south. A new war is brewing."
Jon understood at once. "You mean a war against the Mercenary King across the Narrow Sea, the king's bastard?"
"Yes. Who else but that treacherous bastard who has our fat king and queen cursing him every day?" Tyrion said. "Our realm already has a Kingslayer. We can hardly add a Kingslayer King who murders his own kin. By every consideration, Lord Eddard will be the one leading the army east."
"Just thinking about it gets my blood pumping. Three hundred warships clashing on the Narrow Sea-all those splinters and flames. It will surely be more thrilling than King Balon's downfall. With that happening, are you still determined to head north?"
"But!" Jon felt a chill stab through his entire body, and his lips parted. If war broke out, could he really go freely to the Wall?
"So I think you ought to consider it carefully. You're too young. Better to have your fill of running around out in the world before becoming a crow."
"I..." Jon felt trapped in a terrible choice. Men of the Night's Watch had no families of their own. Even if his father died in the war someday, he would be unable to leave the Wall.
"Why are you telling me so much?" Jon asked Tyrion.
"Hard to say. Perhaps I think you're a decent fellow. That sour face of Lady Catelyn's isn't so different from my sister's, really." Tyrion spread his hands and smiled, lowering his voice. This was House Stark's business, but he could not help being kindhearted. Compared with the other scowling Starks, this young bastard was rather to his liking.
Chapter 92: What is power?
Varys passed through the crowded hall. A fat woman was singing a bawdy song, while a younger, slender girl sat on a customer's shoulders.
Varys went straight up to the third floor. He already knew Petyr was waiting for him in the room. Today, Varys was dressed like a mercenary from Tyrosh, his gray leather clothes covering him completely, with mercenary-style leather boots on his feet.
"My old friend, your choice of venue is something of an insult to me," the Spider said upon entering the room, looking at the smiling Littlefinger. Littlefinger always wore a mischievous smile.
Varys removed his leather disguise, revealing the purple silk robe he often wore beneath it. His bald head looked like an egg.
"Please forgive me. After all, you know I run these establishments, and I wanted to offer you my hospitality here," Littlefinger replied, then filled a cup for Varys with a lovely Summer Red.
"Wine from the Master of Coin. What an honor," Varys said extravagantly. Unfortunately, instead of his usual heavy scent of powder and perfume, he smelled of sweat, which made Littlefinger somewhat uncomfortable.
"My old friend, when it comes to opportunities to meet women, you have more than anyone in King's Landing. Yet our Master of Coin remains unfettered by marriage. How curious."
"Perhaps no one is willing to take pity on me. I'll have to pray to the Mother a few more times..." Littlefinger said theatrically.
"I doubt that. Our Master of Coin need only reach out, and the wealthy merchants and impoverished petty nobles of King's Landing would be eager to send their daughters to your room. Alas, perhaps our Master of Coin is a devoted lover. You don't share our dear Renly's little vice. Which woman has captured your heart?"
"Enough of that subject, my old friend. Our good days are coming to an end. Once our good Robert returns, he'll have me raising money for him." Littlefinger spread his hands.
"Can the treasury afford a war? Assuming the king really intends to prepare a fleet to carry an army across the sea." Varys looked at Littlefinger.
"My old friend, don't pretend to be confused. You're not as old and feeble as Grand Maester Pycelle. We both know the treasury has been empty for years. We're now fully six million gold dragons in debt. We'll have to borrow, though I imagine House Lannister will be happy to help. After all, our good Robert is going to war for Lord Tywin's grandchildren," Littlefinger said extravagantly.
"Then thank you for your efforts. Everyone knows our good king hates counting coppers. He only likes tourneys and fine food," Varys said.
"The king handles the spending. I handle finding the money."
"Will we win, my lord Spider?" Littlefinger deliberately posed a pointed question. "The Iron Throne against the Twin Cities Alliance. Our good king, and across the sea, the Baratheon traitor and the remnants of House Targaryen."
"You ask me? That question has me stumped. After all, everyone knows I'm merely a feeble man who depends on his Little Birds." Varys giggled like a woman.
"Still, more than a century ago, the Three Daughters fought a great battle against Westeros in the Gullet. There were Magic Dragons then, but victory still came at a terrible cost. Now there are no Magic Dragons. I imagine the outcome is uncertain. The gods above will decide which side of this coin lands faceup," Varys answered softly.
"I'd better pray our good king wins. After all, that wild child of his across the Narrow Sea is both ruthless and decisive. If he wins, small men like us will be dragged out and impaled atop the walls of King's Landing."
"Who would dare harm our Master of Coin? Does the realm maintain all those generals and warships merely for show?" Varys reassured him.
"If that boy wins, life won't be pleasant for us," Littlefinger said. "Bastards can be sensitive and perceptive at heart. Perhaps full of anger too."
"You've met him. What did you think?" Varys watched Littlefinger closely.
"What else could I think?" Littlefinger toyed with his Mockingbird Pin. "A soldier, a warrior, a handsome boy, an ambitious man. Otherwise, he could never have had the ability to stir up a storm."
"I think you're afraid. The Iron Throne has a fleet, Ser Barristan Selmy, and loyal, brave ministers like Lord Eddard and Lord Tywin," Varys said dismissively.
"You've left someone out. If the king intends to deploy every warship, it seems Lord Stannis will be returning to King's Landing in triumph after all." Littlefinger brought up another name. Stannis was certainly unpopular, but no one else could command the fleet.
"I don't think Lord Stannis will return so easily. Many people don't want to see that sour face of his." Varys shook his head.
"Have another cup. A great war is a complicated undertaking. It needs gold dragons, provisions, intelligence, a fleet commander, and an army. We can hardly have our soldiers row fishing boats across the sea. It will take at least six months to a year to arrange it all." Littlefinger rose and poured Varys another cup of wine.
Varys lifted his cup with exaggerated elegance, then drained it.
"To think our good king will be fighting his own poor child, wandering far from home. How tragic." Varys looked deeply troubled. "Perhaps I should pray for them, pray that the merciless gods bring father and son back together."
"Isn't that power?" Littlefinger drank the wine in his own cup, red as blood. "Power is so wonderful. It can make insignificant men shine brilliantly, and it can make brothers and sisters slaughter one another."
"What do you think power is?" Varys asked Littlefinger.
"You. Me. Power is something you cannot see or touch, yet it determines our fates, and the fates of countless others," Littlefinger replied. "Everyone wants a sip of the wine of power, even if it means hurting their own kin."
"Indeed. Let me think how many civil conflicts that makes. Those tales of kinslaying truly are terrifying." Varys rose, then began recounting them to Littlefinger.
"The most famous belong to House Targaryen, the previous dynasty. The dance of the dragons was one, and the Blackfyre Rebellion another." Varys watched Littlefinger's face. "Oh, and there was more than one Blackfyre Rebellion. There were many. Our king's grandfather Monde died on the battlefield of the last one. The world truly is unpredictable."
"There's more than that, my old friend. Have you forgotten another, those stories from the distant North? Winterfell's civil strife, the turmoil within House Stark," Littlefinger reminded him with a smile.
Varys watched Littlefinger's face. Even when speaking of House Stark, his expression remained unchanged, that same mischievous smile.
"That truly was a savage, bloody past. House Stark is unwilling to mention it now," Varys said. "I was afraid that mentioning House Stark might hurt a certain poor old friend of mine. After all, in King's Landing, we two small men have only each other to rely on in the Small Council."
"It truly was tragic, House Stark's years of infighting. Rickon, heir to Cregan, the 'Old Man of the North,' died alongside the Young Dragon during the conquest of Dorne. His half brothers brought years of turmoil and disaster as they fought over the succession," Littlefinger agreed.
"What a stirring tale. Two of young Lord Rickon's half brothers each married one of his daughters to claim the inheritance. They say Lord Jonnel lost his eye thanks to the handiwork of one of his brothers."
"So you see how terrible power is. Even House Stark, so fond of talking about wolves gathering together, slaughtered one another."
"My old friend, I admire you more and more. Even when discussing House Stark, you remain utterly unruffled." Varys began to clap.
"Who hasn't been young? Taking a sword thrust from Wild Wolf for my devotion to a certain woman was a price I could bear." Littlefinger laughed. "But now? Look, I'm still alive. Wild Wolf has been dead for more than a decade. Even his bones are dust."
Varys searched Littlefinger's expression but found no clues. Gods above, who could understand what game Littlefinger was playing? He too was unfathomable, disguising himself as someone utterly harmless.
"Soon Lord Eddard will come here too, and join this dangerous game."
"I couldn't ask for more. I'd like to meet this new player myself." Littlefinger showed no fear.
"The game of power is so dangerous. You and I must be careful." Varys poured Littlefinger a cup of wine as well, and Littlefinger obligingly drank it.
Chapter 93: Preparing for the War of the Six Kings
Only after Littlefinger watched the eunuch's fat figure vanish into the darkness did he breathe a sigh of relief. Only in the shadows of a brothel, only on his own premises, did Littlefinger feel even a little safe.
Varys had operated in King's Landing for far too long. Who knew where the Spider's Little Birds might be? The feeling of being watched was unpleasant. Yet there was one piece of good news Littlefinger had confirmed beyond doubt: Varys, too, longed for chaos.
Those "children" born of the lions' adultery were no true stags. The secret old Jon had learned only at the end could never have escaped Varys, yet the cunning fat man never spoke of it, always pretending to know nothing.
Varys always fed the king and the Hand of the King bits of information, some true and some false, to demonstrate his loyalty and prove he was still capable. But of the real powder keg in King's Landing, Varys never breathed a word.
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