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The great hall of Storm’s End roared with the rush of boots on stone, shouted orders and the crack of timber as Baratheon antlers were pulled from the walls and flung aside. Men clambered up ladders to drape fresh Targaryen banners over the ancient battlements, the red three-headed dragon unfurling where the crowned stag had hung for centuries. Smoke from overturned braziers wavered through the air, so that the wyrm’s painted heads seemed almost to writhe.
Aegon stood in the midst of it all as though in a waking dream.
It had all happened so quickly. One moment they were camped in the relentless rain, waiting for the walls to crack or the garrison to starve. The next, the gates were thrown wide by men Varys had placed within the keep months before, perhaps even years. A storm of steel through the dark corridors and suddenly the great stronghold was his.
He still could barely grasp it. The enormity of the endeavour had left him dazed.
The noise around him swelled as his soldiers rifled through chests and stripped the hall of anything of value. But amid the chaos, one tapestry caught his eye. It was led across a toppled table and the fabric gleamed despite the grime. Aegon found himself drawn towards it. Warm, red dunes beneath a copper sun and two lithe young men locked in a struggle, caught between combat and caress.
The artistry was unmistakably Dornish, in hand and audacity. He stared longer than he meant to.
“You know,” a voice came from behind him, smooth as oil, “the Dornish have a quip about their cousins to the north.”
Aegon startled, turning to see Varys drift out of the shadowed recess between two columns. The Master of Whisperers offered a soft, amused incline of the head before continuing.
“ ‘While they were still swinging in trees, we already laid with men!’ ”
A tiny smirk touched the corners of his lips. “From Renly’s private collection, I’d wager,” the eunuch added lightly. “The poor boy. Secrets grow heavy when carried alone.”
Aegon found no words at all. A conversation with Varys often felt like playing a board game. Sensing it, his tone shifted.
“You stand well, my prince,” he said, bowing his bald head a fraction. “Victory sits handsomely upon you.”
“I’m taking it all in for a moment,” Aegon replied, though the words felt thin for the enormity swelling in his chest.
“Indeed,” Varys murmured. “One must savour such a moment. You have shown the realm that you are more than a whispered rumour across the Narrow Sea. You have set foot upon its soil, seized a fortress long thought impregnable and announced yourself upon the board.”
Aegon shook his head. “There is still so much to do.”
“Oh, certainly,” Varys agreed softly. “But all great tides begin with the first swell. And the lords will see it so. Word will spread and ravens will fly. The Stormlands will tremble with uncertainty and when you raise your banner over these walls…” His eyes drifted upward, imagining it. “Others will gather. Many others.”
A gust of wind battered the shutters, rattling them like old bones. Aegon felt the chill work through him, but Varys did not seem to notice the cold at all. He moved closer within the threshold, hands folded into his sleeves, the faint smile creasing his powdered cheeks.
“You’re a sperm, my lord,” he said.
Aegon blinked, tilting his head. “Oh. A sperm?”
“A sperm,” he repeated, his eyes glinting with intensity. “Blind and grasping, a driven, relentless force pushing through darkness with one purpose: consummation, fertilisation. The world waits, vast and ready, for that vital element to arrive. A man enforces himself, his will upon the world, impregnating it with his vision! That, young prince, is your destiny.”
Aegon shifted under the weight of his stare. Varys held his gaze a moment longer, then dipped his head and turned aside.
“Forgive me, my lord. Being denied the ordinary channels of legacy, I am known on occasion to lapse into these… surrogate flights of fancy.”
He continued, smoothing a hand along the tapestry’s edge. “What I mean to say is this: few men are granted the chance to reshape the world and fewer still grasp it with both hands. You have begun, my prince. You must only continue.”
Aegon drew a slow breath, eyes lingering on the woven figures. “You speak of reshaping the world as though it were a craft already in my hands,” he said. “But I’ve only just begun to shape myself. You’ve trained me well, Illyrio too, and I thank you both. But the lords of Westeros…” He hesitated. “They frighten me more than any garrison. I fear they will read me like a book the moment I stand before them.”
Varys gave a soft hum as he looked into the faces of the Dornish wrestlers. “Oh, my prince. Lords do love to imagine themselves keen observers of the hidden soul.” He turned to Aegon. “But we have taught you not to be one king, but many.”
Aegon offered no reply, yet the stillness of his regard beckoned Varys to continue.
“That is to say,” Varys went on, tilting his head, “that there is no book. They will read what you present to them and multiply what they have misread.” He floated across the hall, with his robes billowing like peacock feathers.
“The first half of my life was spent around mummers, the second around princes. Only, the prince can never remove his mask, only change it. What lies beneath the mask?” His eyes glimmered with knowing mirth.
“Another mask.”
He paused beside a still-burning brazier, its flames danced with exotic rhythm. He held his hands above it, fingers loose, as if coaxing some invisible pattern into being. The fire shivered, leaning towards him, and for a moment it darkened, the gold and orange curling into an inky blackness that seemed to drain the light from the hall. Shadows deepened and stretched across the walls, but Varys did not flinch.
“What others see is never the whole truth. And the clever performer…” Then, just as suddenly, the flames returned to their natural dance, bright and golden once more. Varys let his hands fall to his sides and gave a faint, enigmatic smile.
“Well, he allows them to wonder.”
With a quiet bow, he slipped back into the shadows of the hall, leaving Aegon alone to contemplate the mystery of the black fire.