Chapter 26

The seawind did a fair job concealing the smell of King's Landing as they entered the harbor. However, once they docked and the ship was still, it hit him hard, causing him to gag.

Olenna Tyrell was right. And he wasn't even miles away to smell the shit. If he had a normal sense of smell, it would still be bad. With his nose…it was all he could do just to keep a straight face. He suspected that people maintained about the same level of hygiene across Westeros. What was it about Winterfell and the North in general? Was it just the sparse population? Or was it the strong winds and the cool climate that mitigated the stink? The heat here definitely wasn't helping.

And it was warm. It wasn't unbearable. But his comfort was definitely in the cold and he hadn't felt warmth like this since he had woken up in Westeros. Not even in the Riverlands.

He shook himself. He had to get going.

Fortifying his nose, he exited the Red Turtle, pushing his way past the sailors and merchants as they unloaded their goods. Barrock was too busy to say farewell and that suited him fine. In fact, everyone ignored him.

As he stepped off the docks and onto the cobblestone, he realized that he was in a true city for the first time in years…

He stood off to the side and took it all in. When was the last time he had walked a street this crowded? When was the last time he had heard so many voices? He passed through the city gate and his eyes found red brick into the distance.

And when was the last time he'd seen a building that tall?

The Red Keep stood impressive on the hill, overlooking Blackwater Bay. Tiresias wasn't sure if the castle covered more ground than Winterfall, but from where he stood, it certainly seemed like it. The windows in the Great Hall reflected the sun. Serpentine steps linked across its base and if he focused hard enough, he could see the Baratheon colors flowing in the wind.

Aware that he resembled a tourist, gaping at the big shiny castle on the hill, he walked across the market square, and entered the main thoroughfare counting the streets he passed. Barrock was kind enough to recommend an inn and tavern that he stayed at before; the Purple Rose. It was clean enough, supposedly. Though he couldn't count for the availability of rooms or how inflated the prices were for the upcoming tourney.

Figuring he'd give it a shot, he followed Barrock's directions carefully and came to a three-leveled building with a hanging sign of a purple rose. It was squeezed between two other taverns. Resigning himself to a month with noisy neighbors, he stepped forward, slapping away a small hand reaching for his purse.

He entered the inn and a bearded man came to him.

"You got a room available?"

The innkeeper scratched his beard, rather harshly. "Aye. Two. Both on the top floor."

"Just one's fine."

"Aye, but I warn yeh," the innkeeper said, brandishing his finger. "Yeh get yehself up 'n down those steps. I ain't carryin' yeh piss-drunk at the end of the night!"

Swallowing a smartass retort, Tiresias nodded. "All right."

With that cleared up, the innkeeper brightened. But only a little. "Name's Mikal."

"Tiresias."

"And how long yeh figure on staying here, Tiresias?"

He hitched his rucksack on his shoulder. "Til the tourney, I guess. Five sennights. Maybe couple days after."

Mikal nodded. "Thirty-seven nights. Two stags a sennight at two stars a night. Run yeh ten stags and four stars."

Determined to keep a level of calm on his face, Tiresias opened his purse. Months with no income had finally caught up to him and he was too light to stay here.

Seems it's expensive to visit a city anywhere, anytime...

He looked up to see Mikal's face grow quickly suspicious at the slow payment. Handing over two stags, he nodded reassuringly.

"That's for the first sennight. By tomorrow night, I'll have the rest for yeh."

Mikal took the two stags begrudgingly, not eager to make that compromise. But it was only another night. So the old man shrugged and reached for a key.

"One sennight. The other four…we'll see." He handed the key over.

Tiresias smiled graciously as he accepted the key. "Thank you. Tomorrow night. I swear."

It wasn't a lie. He actually did have a plan to get more coin. It just wasn't something he cared for much.

However that could wait until the following day. For now, he had a bed to claim. After climbing the perilous narrow staircase to the third floor, he opened his door to see a small, but tidy room. He sniffed. It smelled like humanity. Not in the worst sense. But not in the best sense either.

Knowing that opening the window would only worsen the smell, he threw his rucksack on the floor, unbuckled his belt and fell on the bed. A fortnight of sailing had winded him.

It wasn't just in the Northern forests where Tiresias had found use for his enhanced senses. Up close, people tended to betray themselves. He saw it in Roose's eyes, despite the man's demeanor. However, under lighter circumstances, he saw it in the taverns at Wintertown and across the North. Men and women who held their cards tight and bluffed their way to the pot.

Tiresias didn't use this advantage often, stepping in for a quick game every couple of months and earning a few stars and stags. He didn't need to draw attention to himself and he made sure to lose a few times to keep the peace. However, in this new city with a draining purse, he saw no other option. He couldn't wait until the tourney to try his luck.

The next morning, he didn't enter the tavern at the Purple Rose or any of the ones beside it. There was a care to this he had to employ. Walking back down to the harbor, he entered a tavern and joined a card game, nursing a weakened ale as he did. In the end, he played four rounds and won a stag and five stars. Just enough to make the trip worthwhile, but not so much as to warrant anger from the other players when he departed with his winnings.

Strolling along the Hook, as he learned later the swindling road was called, he stopped into seven establishments all together. Spaced enough apart as to diffuse any suspicion. He laughed at the jokes. Took the insults to his accent in stride. And he watched carefully as he played. He even lost at one place.

It was a balancing act that lasted the entire day. A purple sunset colored the sky as he walked back to the inn. He entered, striding straight to Mikal the innkeeper and without a word, placed eight stags and four copper stars into his hands.

Mikal eyed the coins, before meeting his gaze. "No blood on these, eh?"

Tiresias snorted. "I'm a librarian. Not a cutthroat."

"That so? Get all these from reading, eh?" Mikal asked, but the man was smiling now at least. Tiresias felt his own grin grow.

"Something like that."

The next sennight, Tiresias prowled the city. It brought back forgotten memories from Clark backpacking across Europe. Vaguely though. This was a living city. Not a tour. And it still stank, though Tiresias swore he was getting used to it.

He tried to avoid standing and gawking at whatever caught his interest. It would be quite stupid if the locals began to recognize him. However, with the looming tourney, most of the residents were caught up in their own business, trying to prepare for it. Not that they cared much for who would win, but many more highborn would occupying King's Landing than usual. More spenders. The possibility of making more coin in a fortnight than they would all year was enough motivation to focus on one's work and ignore the clean-shaven, foreign stranger exploring the sights.

Another incentive for more highborn to attend was that the Crown had organized the tourney's start to the date that taxes were due from each of the Seven Kingdoms. Those already spending money are usually in the habit of spending a little more. Also, each kingdom would be sending their payment under guard to the Red Keep. More soldiers in the city with their own coin. It all revolved around coin.

Based on all this, Tiresias was tempted to buy a ticket to see the tourney. He didn't know how he would enjoy the joust, the melee or the archery competition. But he would see various lords from the South in the stands. Perhaps even a few that he would recognize.

The news also comforted him, knowing that a retinue from the North would be arriving shortly. He didn't expect Ned Stark to come south himself to pay taxes. However there was the guard sent to deliver the taxes south and he had grown quite friendly with a few of the Winterfell soldiers. Perhaps his trip back North would include strength in numbers and he could worry less about a waiting Bolton hunter to take him prisoner.

It was a sad moment when he realized that the North would always hold a little anxiety for him now. If he continued to travel alone and collect tomes, he was in danger. At least until Roose Bolton was dead, he would constantly be under the threat of kidnapping and interrogation about Ramsay's disappearance. At least here in King's Landing, he had anonymity. For now.

Indeed, he was left well enough alone. He explored the city at his leisure, only fending off the occasional thief who sought to lift his purse or dagger. He walked for hours, beginning at predawn and returning to the Purple Rose under a violet evening sky. And by the end of the first sennight, he felt familiar enough with King's Landing to begin his first plan.

The early morning brought the only semblance of coolness the entire day. A crisp breeze from the Blackwater which vanished by midmorning. Tiresias savored it as he walked down to the harbor. However, instead of continuing onto the docks after he passed the gate, he turned east and began to walk along the city walls.

It wasn't like he was alone. There were merchants and fishermen who couldn't afford to set up shop in the city that stuck here to the stone walls, like barnacles. They didn't even seem motivated enough to call out their goods for sale. Glancing at them, Tiresias only saw an empty weariness in their eyes.

He passed with them taking little notice and soon he was alone. He clung close to the walls. He didn't wish to be seen, though he doubted that any patrols would be looking straight down. There was still a while to go before he was below the Red Keep. The cobblestone was beginning to disappear though, to be overtaken by sand and rock.

Eventually, he was walking on the beach, bordering the city. He took care to step on the rocks though, whenever possible. He didn't care to leave a trail for others to follow or see later. Soon, a corner came up. Pausing, he peered around it. The Red Keep was just before him, towering over the water, its foundations built into the cliff. That cliff had a series of caves along the bottom…

Problem was, that to get there meant walking across a final beach that was very visible to the patrols above. And Tiresias had a very firm suspicion that trespassers were not allowed beyond his current location.

He had considered making the cross after sundown. But the night brought its own difficulties. The gates were all shut. The night brought out all the others who wished to sneak around the city. Which meant more patrols and more eyes watching where others shouldn't be walking…

There was one bit of good fortune though and that was the changing of the guard. He had come this far before during the prior sennight, hiding behind the rock and observing this wall for hours. During this scouting, in the early morning, the night's patrol was relieved by the morning patrol. It was a very casual exchange, with the night patrol seemingly eager to rest. When they saw their morning replacement approaching, they left the post prematurely. And that left a blind spot.

Due to the fact that he had no wrist-watch and he couldn't say precisely when this blind spot occurred, he had to guess an hour after dawn. However, there was no certainty. And he was left with no choice, but to never let his eyes leave the guards.

Tiresias stood still, ever ready to move quickly, praying that this blind spot came every morning, and that it wasn't just some one-off. He was placing quite a bit on everything falling into place.

He laughed softly at the thought. What else was new?

After about a half-hour or so though, his heart lifted as one guard tapped the other on the shoulder and they began to move languidly, turning their backs on the beach. Tiresias had his blind spot. He exhaled one last time, steeling himself.

Damn it all.

He walked out, moving briskly. He still kept to the rocks and the wall as best he could. But time was now an issue. He kept his eyes forward, glancing up at the retreating guards. They were far away, but he could see them chatting, exchanging yawns.

That's right. Keep chatting. Don't look back. Don't look back.

He reached the midpoint, right under where the guard was stationed. The night patrol was completely out of sight. He had only thirty or so seconds before the morning patrol took their positions.

The caves were just ahead of him…

His legs were screaming at him to run, but he refused. He must stick to the rocks. Leave no footprints in the sand.

He held out until the last twenty feet. Breaking into a run, he threw himself around the rocks, breathing, trying to calm his racing heart.

When his pulse stopped threatening to break his skin, he peered around the corner, back at the wall. The morning patrol had arrived and taken their place. They gave no indication that they had witnessed any trespassers on the beach.

Tiresias slumped back around and took a draught from his waterskin. It felt good not to carry his rucksack around anymore. His sheath was tucked behind under his trousers. He didn't want to leave his dagger behind in his room. But he also didn't want to advertise it either.

Now that he had almost entirely calmed, he turned to the caves. Which cave was the one that led to the tunnels?

Careful not to break the sand and keeping to the rocky sides, he entered the first cavern and moved on when he discovered the end of it. Thankfully they weren't too deep and the darkness didn't bother him. However, the caves were numerous and he wasn't sure how much longer he could spend exploring before he was forced to leave.

On the fifth cave, however, he paused. There was a familiarity to it that he liked. Was this where Euron died?

The water certainly came in deeper than the others. Not bad for an inner harbor…

Proceeding, he prowled the edges, quietening his step. He didn't want echoes to sound in here.

His boot felt something smooth and he looked down to see the beginnings of a stone pathway. Kicking his boots against the rock to shake off any sand, he stepped onto the pathway. A small boat was indeed harbored here, tied at the end. Though by the looks and the smell, it had been for a while.

An escape…caution from the royals…

Tearing his eyes from the boat, he peered to the end of the cavern. Stairs ascended into the darkness. Not very welcoming, but then again, no gate barred him from entering.

Minutes passed slowly as he climbed the steps. A forest masked one's footsteps. Everything in the forest lived and sang. A stone castle was silent and amplified every intruding sound. Tiresias walked more gingerly now than he ever did in the Lonely Hills.

But he wasn't here for an assassination. At least not now. So his heart didn't race and his hands didn't shake. And he snuck relatively calmly into the depths of the Red Keep.

The darkness, already kind to his eyes, seemed to lessen as he walked farther on. Which was good, as it allowed him to focus his ears even more. He kept alert, but there were no guards around, no servants bustling about. Not even the soft patter of a little bird…

Varys no doubt rules the underbelly of this castle. Unless of course, some other asshole came along to replace Littlefinger.

Whether or not any small spy reported to Varys or anyone else, he still heard nothing of them as the stone disappeared and his boots hit soft ground. He glanced down to see the dirt floor before looking back up.

The tunnels had ballooned into a small chamber, with a low ceiling, pillars spaced wide with stores and barrels to the sides. Tiresias recognized it immediately.

This is where you two died. Under the collapse…and if that's true, then you must be here as well…

He found him a few seconds later. Stepping forward, he forgot for a moment that he was an intruder…

Balerion's skull was as giant as it seemed in the show. As he stepped forward, he barely cleared the hollowed nose, suppressing some irrational fear that the big dragon will suddenly roar to life and crush him.

Well, not entirely irrational. You've seen an undead dragon before.

He ran his hand slowly down a long tooth, gently prodding the tip. It wasn't enough to break the skin, but it was still sharp. Tiresias almost whistled before stopping himself. It was beautiful.

However long he wanted to stay marveling at the Dread's skull, the rational part of his mind pushed back. He turned his back on Balerion and headed even deeper into the castle.

Yes, dragons are beautiful…but from a distance or when they're dead. Another dragon will bring this fucking castle down and the rest of the city with it.

That was for another day though. Tiresias slowed as he climbed farther up. The darkness was fading quickly and so was his cover. Soon he would be exposed and with a lot more people around to see him.

Over the last few evenings, he had donned his hooded cloak and frequented the taverns near the Red Keep. He had hoped to hear lubricated gossip from at least one inebriated servant. However, to his surprise, he heard numerous recountings. One would think that the servants in the castle would stick to the wine barrels stockpiled by the royals. But in the Red Keep, they would forever be the servants, never loose or relaxed or above anyone. When they trudged out of the castle and visited the watering holes peppered around them, they could command. Politely command, but still be a hotshot for working in the castle.

On the second night, he encountered such a man. He was young, with the stench of polish on him. Tiresias smelled it especially as the man lifted his mug to toast. It cost him a good amount of coin, but he endeared himself to the man. He even put on his German accent. He was the funny foreigner. Intrigued by the castle. By the royals. By the treasures this young man was allowed to touch and polish.

It took a little under two hours of encouragement, lightly sipping his ale; but soon the young polisher was drunk and the topics turned to his work. He weaved an elaborate description of the armory, the pantry where silverware was stored and of course, the treasure room. How he was closely guarded as he handled the valuable treasures. Tiresias pressed the man as gently as he could, for as long as he could, before he asked…

"Tell me, my friend," Tiresias said, leaning forward. "Have you ever touched Valyrian steel? In the Red Keep?"

The young man blinked, staring at Tiresias, who shrugged innocently. At this point, the man couldn't see him through the drink. Finally, the polisher shook his head, a longing in his eyes.

"No…" he slurred, murmuring in his cup. "No…there's no…there's no Valyrian steel in the castle."

"Pity," muttered Tiresias.

"I've seen it once...I have. The blade…Lady Forlorn…how I'd love…love to touch it…"

One had to admire the man's passion for beautiful steel. Tiresias quickly made his exit, but the young man was too far gone to notice. Or to remember him. The friendly funny foreigner from Myr.

His next few evenings at the taverns didn't yield nearly so bountiful a fruit. However, he did received descriptions of the Red Keep and was able to put a decent map together in his head. He was sure if he had free rein, he would be able to get around.

However, he would never have free rein. And as he neared the ground levels of the Red Keep and hiding became near impossible, he stopped. The young man's words rang in his head. There was no Valyrian steel in this castle. There was no dagger. Not yet. He'd have to wait until after the tourney was done. To see if the King received any prizes.

However if that happened, he would need to know a way in the Red Keep. To have a checkpoint to the caves and an exit from the castle.

Wincing as his boots hit the stone floor, he softened his step and crept to the end of a hallway. Sunshine shone on the ground beyond and he discerned a small courtyard as he neared. Halting at the corner, he peered around at the walkways that surrounded this courtyard. No one was coming and he could hear nothing from the staircase at the other end as well.

He prowled to the edge of the courtyard and peered up, before pulling back immediately. There was a small patrol of soldiers, marching along the walkway above. They wore Lannister red.

His heart was beating so fast, it almost hurt. But the soldiers above continued to patrol, no changes to their step or their light chatter. His quick peek was unnoticed.

Chancing another glance, he took in as much as he could about his surroundings; the small watchtower facing the Blackwater, the sheer wall of red that dwarfed the tiny courtyard, the configuration of stone in the courtyard. He tried to memorize every detail. Even the smell…he sniffed urgently. He could hear the soldiers began to walk down the staircase. Soon the patrol would be crossing paths with him.

He sniffed again. The stone here smelled differently than it did in Winterfell, but even so…it smelled like a privy was nearby. He hoped he was correct in assuming that. After smelling so much shit over the past sennight, it seemed like the whole city was a toilet. However he took another reluctant whiff to confirm that there was indeed a privy close.

The Lannister guard was about to round the corner in the stairs. Tiresias turned and strode quietly back to his hallway, trying to dampen the echo of his boots as he ventured back to the cellars. He reached his safe corner and leaned against the wall, breathing hard, his teeth chattering, his ears straining at the corridor.

No one was coming. No steel echoing off the stone. No one was yelling after him to halt. No one knew that he was here.

Perhaps. There were spies in the castle and most of them knew of the secret passages. He supposed he walked past dozens of peep holes in the walls. Maybe he was compromised.

All the more reason to leave now. The risk was great, but at least now he would not waste time trying to find his way back into the castle. He knew the entrance now. The cave would be there still when he would return.

He glanced down at himself. With some better clothes hopefully. He wouldn't pass as an anonymous servant in what he currently wore.

He took one more fortifying breath and stepped back quietly to the cellars. He'd have to wait a couple more hours by the cave entrance for the next changing of the guard.

A fortnight remained until the tourney and King's Landing seemed to grow more and more crowded by the day. None of the highborn would be arriving until another sennight, but it seemed that most merchants were following Barrock's example; arriving early and fine-tuning their wares to be sold.

Also driving up their prices. If Tiresias was ever tempted to spend any of his purse on a souvenir, he was quickly dissuaded by the haggling. He may have paid off his lodging, but he knew from experience that traveling and cities had unexpected expenses. With that knowledge, he successfully tuned out the merchants and their shouted wares.

At least on his own behalf. Inquiring quietly, he was directed to an alley stock with goods for seamstresses. Cloths, linen, silks and sewing supplies were shouted at him as he strode for his destination. He paused in front of a stall of sewing threads. A vendor appeared from his wall of many colors, his eyes assessing Tiresias quickly.

"Sewing thread for you, my friend?"

No…for the girl with brown eyes.

A part of him didn't want to admit that he had made his choice. If he even had. He was willing to admit though that he wanted to buy her something. If he arrived back at Winterfell wanting her, it would do to have a gift. If not…well, he could chuck it before entering the castle.

He didn't know how Mal would respond to this though. He eyed the rolls of thread blankly.

What the fuck do I know about sewing threads?

Directed to the higher quality of linen threads, he picked two of the hardest colors to come by, according to the vendor: purple and silver.

Third roll should be her favorite color…

With that, he completed the trio with a roll of dark green thread. Trying not to wince at the amount of coin he forked over, he packed the rolls into his rucksack and walked on. His breath was a little short and he shook his head to calm.

Best not get carried by the romance of it all, man. You still have work to do.

That night, he gambled with slightly more reckless abandon. He needed to make up for the spent coin. He left before the other players brought out their knives, but it was close.

Besides that, however, he kept his purse closed and his spending limited. There was only one item that tempted him personally and that was fruit. Having never been so far south, it had been more than five years since he had seen such a variety of produce. The square selling them was the only place so far to blot out the all-encompassing stench of shit in this city. There were bloodoranges, pears, apricots, peaches, melons that he recognized and others he didn't. However he still refused to touch his purse and only glanced at such succulence as he strode past.

He did resolve though, that should he make a successful wager at the joust, he would treat himself and purchase a little fruit. If nothing else, he was curious just what the difference was, between a Dornish plum and a regular one.

This morning, however, did not involve produce. Actually it involved much more expensive ware than fruit. Tiresias entered Fishmonger's Square in the early afternoon and turned onto the Street of Steel.

It was comforting in a way. More so than the fruit market, the multitude of forges and overbearing ironworks were powerful enough to burn away the stink. True, breathing in what the forges were emanating wasn't great, but for Tiresias, it was a relief.

An unwelcome thought that often came into his mind as he fell asleep at the Purple Rose; he had probably inhaled more microscopic fecal matter in the past fortnight here than in the past five years in Winterfell.

Thankfully sleep often interrupted that thought and the Street of Steel interrupted it now as he walked up to Visenya's Hill. He climbed and climbed, following the steady chain of hammers and heat. The shops appeared to increase in quality the farther he ventured. If he had to guess, his destination was one of the higher-end establishments on this street. He kept walking, hoping that this was a rational conclusion.

Upon asking a passerby, he found that his suspicion proved correct. He proceeded to the very last shop, easily the largest building on the Street of Steel. Its upper story dwarfed the other smithies surrounding it and it had a large workshop in the back.

And so it was time for his second plan. He braced himself and moved around to the back, stepping out of the way of the few workers and apprentices. Though none of the boys present was the one he was searching for. Tiresias halted one who was sweeping.

"Excuse me, lad," he said. "Is Tobho Mott in? I'd like to speak to him."

The boy barely glanced at him, before pointing to the back. Tiresias eyed a balding man, who was standing over an anvil, smiting a slab of iron. The echoes from the hammer were quite uncomfortable.

He turned to thank the boy, but he was already back at his task. Tiresias strode forth, but kept a safe distance from the master blacksmith. He was certainly in less of a hurry than anyone else in the shop. Finally, Tobho halted his work, wiping his brow.

Taking advantage of the pause, Tiresias called. "Hello there! Are you Tobho Mott?"

Tobho turned to him, resting his hammer at his side.

"Aye," he called. His accent was definitely Essosi, but Tiresias couldn't identify where exactly he came from. "What do you want?"

"A moment of your time. Well, actually a bit more than that."

Tobho's eyes ran over him, taking in his appearance. Despite Tiresias' best efforts, there was only so much he could do to maintain his clothes during his months in the Northern woods, a swim down the White Knife and a sail to King's Landing. Needless to say, he didn't look like a man who could afford Tobho's time.

The master blacksmith clearly saw this, picking up his hammer up and continuing to smite.

"No more orders until after the tourney," he grunted in between his strikes. "I can't spare the work."

"I don't need weapons or armor or chains," called back Tiresias, undeterred. "I simply wish to speak to you."

Tobho continued to hammer. Wondering if this would come back to bite him, Tiresias reached into his pocket and pulled out the Stark insignia.

"My name is Tiresias. I represent Lord Stark of Winterfell," he said, holding out the armband for Tobho to see. "My lord has questions and perhaps a proposition for you."

The mention of a Lord Paramount was enough to pause Tobho's hammer again. The man eyed the direwolf, mulling it over. Finally deciding it was worth investigating, he hung the hammer up.

"Farrow!" he yelled, not breaking eye contact with Tiresias. A sweating, red-faced boy came to Tobho's side. Tobho handed the tongs over to him.

"Keep this hot. I'll return shortly."

Farrow took the metal with no fear of the heat. Tobho came forward, wiping his hands on his apron. He waited until he was right in front of Tiresias to speak.

"You represent Lord Stark?"

"In a way," replied Tiresias. "Is there a place we can talk?"

Tobho nodded to the exit and they strode out of the workshop. Tiresias sighed internally in relief. It was quite noisy in there. He turned to Tobho and saw a man with limited time.

Deciding to cut to the chase, he asked, "Do you have a young apprentice here named Gendry? About twelve or thirteen years of age? Black hair?"

The blacksmith nodded slowly, suspicion creeping into his eyes. "I do. Why?"

"Lord Stark would like to take the boy to Winterfell and have him continue his apprenticeship there."

Whatever Tobho expected to say, it wasn't that. The blacksmith, to his credit, maintained his composure.

"May I see that armband of yours?"

Tiresias handed it over. Tobho felt it for all of two seconds before handing it back.

"You could have gotten that anywhere."

"I could have," said Tiresias with a shrug. "But as it so happens, Sansa Stark, his daughter, made that for me. I've carried it all over."

"Doesn't matter," said Tobho. "Without a formal request with a seal and signature from Lord Stark, my answer's no," He was already turned halfway back to the workshop. "If you'd excuse me, Tiresias, I have knights waiting for their armor."

"Master Mott," said Tiresias, determined to keep his voice calm. "Lord Stark does not wish to put this request into writing. Due to the boy's father, if Gendry decides to come to Winterfell, he will have to do so quietly."

Tobho froze and turned back to him, his face a mask.

"However, this isn't Lord Stark wishing to rob you of an apprentice. He realizes that you were paid to teach the boy and he's more than willing to recompense the Lord who patronized him. And you as well, should you seek it."

The mask on Tobho's face remained as the blacksmith stepped back to Tiresias. His eyes flitted past Tiresias to the street and then behind him.

"There's no one here with me," said Tiresias. He was confident about that. "I wasn't followed."

"You don't know that," said Tobho, his voice low. "If you assume so, you're clearly a stranger in this city."

Tiresias waited out that last comment. Finally Tobho spoke again.

"I was paid twice my usual fee to apprentice the boy. The lord who paid brought the boy along with the gold."

"Who?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. He was a highborn, hooded, a little fat. If you're seeking to repay what he did, I can't help you find him."

"Did he smell of perfume?"

Tobho thought of it. "Mayhaps. But most lords do. And if he did, it weren't stronger than the ironworks."

Tiresias had another question in mind, but kept silent as Tobho continued to speak, reserving it for later.

"I took gold to apprentice the young lad. He's been with me since he was little and his mother passed. It would be dishonorable to throw away what I promised and what I was paid for."

Tiresias took it and nodded. "I understand."

And he did. As disappointed as he was, he wasn't ready or willing to steal away a child in the night. Plus, with Gendry working in the smithy for years already, the struggle probably wasn't worth it.

And Varys did look out for him. After Robert's death, he mobilized to send Gendry out of King's Landing immediately. It was to the Wall, sure, but he could be intercepted should that occur.

Tiresias held out his hand. "Thank you for your time. I'll inform Lord Stark of your decision."

Tobho hesitated and shook the offered hand. During which, Tiresias had one more request.

"If I may, Master Mott, could I see Gendry?"

After a quick and silent debate, Tobho gestured for him to follow. They entered the shop again, walking all the way to the back. Two boys sat on a bench, hunched over finished armor, polishing it to a beautiful shine. One was blonde, the other had short black hair…

"Gendry," called Tobho. The boy immediately looked up, pausing. "Come here. There's a man who wants to see you."

Gendry nodded and immediately came over. Tiresias stuck out his hand.

"Hello Gendry, my name is Tiresias. I'm from Winterfell."

"Hello," mumbled Gendry, looking at the offered hand. He raised his own. "Sorry, m'Lord. Dirty from the polish."

Tiresias shrugged. "I don't mind. I'm not a lord."

After a bit more hesitation, Gendry took the offered hand and shook, letting go quickly. Even at twelve, he was strong and Tiresias could see how he could grow into a legitimized Baratheron, wielding the war hammer like his father.

However, that confidence wasn't there yet and Gendry, now a boy, stood before him, nervous, waiting to be spoken to.

"Your master, Tobho Mott, is considered the most talented blacksmith in the city. Do you like being his apprentice?"

Gendry nodded. "Aye, I do. I like the forge."

"Burns sometimes, doesn't it?"

He shrugged. "Get used to it. Iron-kisses."

Tiresias laughed lightly. "I like that. This is a strange question because he's standing right here, but are you treated all right?"

This time, Gendry nodded more immediately. "Aye. I'm treated good."

He wasn't lying. Being an apprentice to a blacksmith, particularly one as skilled as Tobho Mott, was not an easy life. But Tobho wasn't cruel and took his responsibilities seriously.

Tiresias nodded back. "Thank you for seeing me, Gendry. I'll let you get back to your work."

The boy looked to Tobho, who nodded and Gendry crossed back to the bench. Tiresias turned to walk back, but spun around.

"Forgive me, Gendry. I'm sorry, but one more question: what's the farthest north you've been?"

He could feel Tobho burning a glare into him, but he focused on Gendry, the boy's blue eyes staring at him.

"I've never left King's Landing," said Gendry. "Never been anywhere."

That was no surprise. Traveling for leisure was not common to the smallfolk. The farthest Gendry traveled was probably from Flea Bottom, where his mother had worked in a tavern.

"Thank you, Gendry," said Tiresias. "Have a good day."

Tobho escorted Tiresias back through the workshop. He could sense the blacksmith hammering down his words, waiting until they were alone. Finally they exited the workshop, out of earshot of all who worked there and he spoke.

"I told you, he's not going North," Tobho growled low. "I swore I'd look after him."

Tiresias cut through him, putting forth his reserved question. "Answer me this, Master Mott, do you know who the boy's father is?"

Tobho's frustration didn't lessen, but an odd look came over the man's face. Tiresias saw his eyes flicker upward. They were in the shadow of the Red Keep after all.

"No," murmured Tiresias, answering for him. "But you do have your suspicions, aye?"

The blacksmith stepped closer, his voice dropping.

"The lord who brought the lad told me to keep quiet about it."

"Is that why you were paid twice?"

Tobho didn't deem to answer that. He didn't need to. Tiresias lowered his voice as well.

"If we both know who the boy's father is, then we know the wife and their son. You live in this city. I'm sure you've heard things. Would you trust Gendry's life in their hands? Should it come to that?"

The blacksmith fixed him with a stare heavier than any hammer in his workshop. As much as he wanted to change Tobho's mind, Tiresias recognized that he had little more to gain by staying.

He nodded to the blacksmith. "I'll be in King's Landing until the end of the tourney. At the Purple Rose. I bid you only to reconsider my lord's offer. I'll come and see you before I leave for the North."

Tiresias shrugged and smiled as he left. "Who knows?" he called back. "Maybe I win a wager and actually be able to afford your wares."

He didn't have to look to feel Tobho's eyes on his back. Staring at him until he turned a corner on the Street of Steel. Tiresias pondered the encounter all the way back to his lodgings. All things considered; it wasn't the worse that it could have gone. He was glad Tobho had his suspicions. The man knew how to keep his mouth shut.

He hoped the man would reconsider his offer, but he doubted it. Gendry's apprenticeship and life were decided long before he came to King's Landing. His only hope for changing Tobho's mind and bringing the lad out of the city to Winterfell rested on higher shoulders.

However, a small part of him hoped. Tobho wasn't the only one eyeing him as he left the Street of Steel. He sensed another watching him. They continued to follow him as he traveled back through the city. Pausing at a tavern, he glanced back to see them, but they had vanished by that point. Like a ghost. He had his suspicions though, running through the possibilities as he ordered his first bowl of brown.

A part of him was glad to be snapped out of his pondering as he took his first bite. The bowl of brown was an acquired taste in King's Landing. He shuddered through the first mouthful. Despite his taste buds protesting, he continued to eat. He couldn't afford to waste food. Or anything resembling food.

In the sennight following his conversation with Tobho Mott, he was followed. Always a light patter of feet, never confronting, just observing. Tiresias resisted the urge to try and catch the onlooker. There was no need to question them. He already had a pretty good idea who was spying on him. In fact, he expected the scrutiny after inquiring about a King's bastard. It was why he snuck inside the Red Keep beforehand. It was why he bought his gift for Mal when he did. He didn't want eyes over his shoulder for that personal venture.

However, he didn't let the scrutiny deter him from wandering the city. Since he essentially had to wait for others to make a move before he could continue, he embraced his inner tourist and hiked through every nook and cranny he could find in the city. The weather was not in the dead heat of the summer, but it was still too warm for his fur jacket. He put up with the cloak, if only to shield his purse and his sheath.

There was nothing else in his rucksack to draw attention. Except maybe the threads. But he could excuse that, say they're for the Stark girls. Trusting that, he exited the Purple Rose every morning and surrendered the contents of his room to a potential search. He strode across to the square to a bakery for a quick breakfast, greeting the baker and his daughter by name at this point. Afterwards, he ventured into the city, his nose wrinkling, though the smell of shit became a little less offensive with each new day.

His exploration often led him to becoming lost, but he never worried about it. If he started to try and find his way back in the late afternoon, he was fine. By this point, he knew the basic layout of the city. He strolled through marketplaces, squares, and one morning, though completely by accident, the Street of Silk on his way to the dragonpit. Thinking that the street was home to the silk merchants of the city, he quickly realized his mistake when he witnessed the ladies outside in varying degrees of undress, calling to him and all other passing men.

Determined not to be embarrassed, he continued forward, eyes off the brothels, waving off invitations and exaggerated flatteries. He hoped he was polite about it. At the same time, he was grateful for the businesses he passed. It would do to distract any eyes that followed him from the Street of Silk on his way to the dragonpit.

It was a different route than the characters took in the show. Though he supposed that the highborn wouldn't walk through the street lined with brothels. Except perhaps Tyrion. Eventually the calls and sounds of the Street of Silk faded and for the first time since he entered the city, a silence fell. A wall of stone quickly became apparent and he found a small archway.

Walking briefly in darkness, he came upon an entrance to the pit. He stepped forward, his eyes glinting against the sun. It shone upon the centerstage, where the wight ran at Cersei, where Bran was crowned. He turned to the top of the collapsed wall, where Drogon would land and Daenerys would dismount.

His eyes scanned the rest of the pit and confirmed that he was truly alone. He didn't know whether or not to be surprised at that. On one hand, it was obviously a site deemed worthy of war councils. On the other, it was a ruin without any attempt to preserve it and Tiresias remembered how a neglected ruin was treated. It was a memory from his previous life. The same bleak, resigned sadness that accompanied him to European ruins, thousands of years old, were here now, as he took in the surrounding stone.

After standing on the stage for a while and getting nothing from it, he wandered back to the entrance archways, kicking gently, looking…

He found it shortly, a short jawbone entwined in the weeds. Leaning down to grab it, he stopped, realizing he probably shouldn't touch it without gloves. He contented him to merely gaze at it, the last of the dragons in Westeros. So far. Quite a difference between this jawbone here and Balerion's skull underneath the Red Keep.

As pitiful as it was to see how small the last dragons truly were, he couldn't help but think that these dragons, no bigger than rats, had no chance to bear down the city. He was grateful for that. He wondered how he would feel if Daenerys Targaryen should land again in these ruins for a council. Drogon with Rhaegal, and perhaps Viserion, should he not be slain. Would he be eyeing this same small jawbone in regret? Relief?

Ultimately though, there's only so much one can do in a ruin. Tiresias sat in the shade and took in the silence for as long as he could before getting up and departing. The empty silence of the dragonpit stayed with him as he wandered back into the city, welcoming the noise for the first time since he entered King's Landing.

The next night, he sat in the Purple Rose, nursing an ale. It wasn't the worse brew, truth be told. Or perhaps, he merely grew accustomed to it. He had sat in the tavern every night for the past few days, drinking at his small table. The other customers ignored him. So engrossed with the upcoming tourney, they laughed, sang, and placed a few hopeful bets on the future winners in the contests.

All in all, it was a boring scene and Tiresias found himself retiring earlier and earlier every evening. Sometimes he didn't even bother to finish his ale.

It was coming to that point too. However, tonight he figured he would finish off his drink. He tipped his mug upward and drained the last of it.

He stilled when he set it down though. A hooded figure had paused and stood before him. Portly and bearded. His nostrils wrinkled. A whiff of perfume chased his last scent of ale.

"How do you do, my good man," he said, nodding his head. "I hope you'll forgive me. May I join you?"

Tiresias glanced around the tavern. Half the tables were empty. He turned back to the man and gestured for him to sit. The man bowed and did so.

"Thank you," the portly man said, his voice light as a feather. Tiresias had to suppress a grin. He knew that light voice…

The tavern girl, Flora, came to their table.

"Another ale, Tiresias? And one for your friend?" she said, her eyes darting between them.

The man shook his head. "No, thank you, dear. I won't be long."

Tiresias waved it off. "Nonsense. Have one." He turned to Flora. "On my coin."

Flora nodded and walked off for another mug.

The man nodded to him. "Most kind of you…Tiresias, was it?"

Again, he had to suppress a grin. Granted, he knew exactly who sat in front of him, but even so, that wasn't subtle at all.

"Aye, aye, that's it," he said, sticking out his hand. The portly man took it and he couldn't help but notice how soft his hands were. "Tiresias, the librarian of Winterfell, at your service…so to speak."

He let go of the hand. "But I'm sure you already knew that."

The hooded man's eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm not sure I quite grasp your meaning."

Flora returned to their table with a second mug and a full pitcher. After she had topped them both, she departed quickly. Tiresias raised his mug.

"Please, I think you'd be a piss-poor spymaster if you approached me without already knowing my name, my work." His mug remained high. "So, am I going to be cheered or will I end this evening discovering that Varys has terrible table manners?"

To his credit, Varys didn't let his name bother him. His eyes didn't widen in shock, but it take him another few seconds to grasp his mug and raise it. They clinked and Tiresias took a long draught. He lowered it to see that Varys had barely sipped his.

He set down his mug. "To what do I owe this pleasure, Varys?"

Interest soared in Varys' eyes as he looked Tiresias over. Whatever he had expected coming into the Purple Rose, this wasn't it.

"I don't believe we met before. Am I mistaken?"

Tiresias shook his head. "Nah. But I've seen you before. Sorry about the wasted disguise. It's rather good."

"What gave it away?" The tone was light, but Varys didn't look amused.

He shrugged. "Would I be wise if I gave away my secrets?"

There was no answer to that, so Tiresias took another sip before repeating his earlier question. "So again, I ask: to what do I owe this pleasure?"

The eunuch smiled slightly. "Considering that my appearance is no surprise to you, you should be able to guess the nature of my visit."

"King Robert's bastard." Tiresias had to remind himself to add the title. It wouldn't be smart to refer to Robert Baratheron in familiar terms. Not in front of Varys. Even if he was tempted to call the fat man Bobby B. "Well, I suppose I'm glad you're still keeping an eye on the boy. It's nice to meet his patron."

Varys didn't even blink. "I don't suppose you'll be able to divulge Lord Stark's interest in the boy."

Tiresias shrugged. "I reckon it it's the same interest as yours. And mine as well. We all want to see him safe."

"You want to take him out of the city."

"Aye. Honestly, I'm surprised you haven't done so already. I know you want to keep an eye on him or any other of the King's illegitimate brood, but you have to admit King's Landing isn't the safest place for him."

"He is a boy with no name. Merely an apprentice. Learning a valuable trade, from an esteemed craftsman."

"He could be learning that trade in the North without a jealous queen and a sadistic prince breathing down his neck. Do you imagine Prince Joffrey taking kindly to his bastard half-brother?"

There was no reason to hint to Varys that he knew the truth of Joffrey's birth or the rest of Cersei's children. The spymaster and all those who knew contained the knowledge for their own benefit and purpose. If he admitted he knew the truth, he doubted he would leave King's Landing alive.

Varys didn't answer the question, but his eyes betrayed the truth. Tiresias leaned forward.

"There are already rumors leaking out of the Red Keep, Varys. Lord Stark had heard them in the North and I've heard only more since I've entered the city. You cannot say that the boy is safe here. Not in truth."

He could see the spymaster placing his suspicions to the side momentarily. Tiresias gambled that a child's safety would lead his interest and it looked to have paid off.

"When you see Lord Stark next, you may assure him that the boy's safety is well in hand. The boy's true parentage is quite hidden. I'm the only one in the Red Keep with that knowledge." He raised his mug. "In fact, despite Lord Stark's good intentions, you bring more danger to the boy than anything else. A stranger from…the North?"

Tiresias didn't answer, but Varys pressed on.

"A stranger? Foreign, waving a lord's insignia? Approaching a random bastard and bringing attention to him? For his safety, I suggest you stay away from the Street of Steel and don't contact Tobho Mott again. He will not change his mind."

"Meaning you won't change your mind," said Tiresias, his voice low.

"Precisely." Varys took a sip.

"You've taken quite an interest in the King's bastards, haven't you? You've found them, provided for them, looked to their needs…" He leaned forward. "But you're not the only man in King's Landing who's protecting them."

Varys peered at him. "Your meaning?"

"What happens to them when King Robert dies?"

The eunuch's nostrils flared gently, but Varys remained poised.

"Careful, my bookish friend. That could be construed as a treasonous statement."

Tiresias shrugged. "I doubt it. It's no crime to say a man will die one day. And as for King Robert, I fear that day will come sooner than later."

He saw Vary raising his eyebrows and amended quickly. "I make no threat or wish against the King's life, but he is killing himself slowly and eventually his body will give out. When that happens, and Joffrey is made King, what happens to Robert's bastards?"

"That would depend on the discretion of His Majesty," Varys responded lightly.

"Aye and I'm sure you've adhered strictly to the discretion of Majesties on all counts," said Tiresias, with just a little too much sarcasm in his tone. He dropped it entirely for his next question.

"You say you're the only one in the Red Keep who knows of Gendry and, I assume, the others. Does the Queen know that Robert has bastards? Even though she doesn't know where they are or how many?"

A silence filled their table. Even the dice from the gamblers seemed to be muted.

"The Queen is aware that her royal husband frequently strays from her bed," answered Varys. "She has her own ears and eyes throughout the Red Keep, but her web is rather limited to the castle. The smallfolk do not concern her."

"That's no surprise," muttered Tiresias. "That's your web, isn't it?"

"Indeed."

"But it will be hers, won't it? Your web and information belong to whomever sits the throne. So when she becomes Queen Regent and Joffrey King, and they demand an audit of the late King's bastard children, what happens to them?"

Vary regarded him serenely, but remained silent. Tiresias swallowed before continuing.

"You didn't answer my earlier question, but that's fine. I know that the Queen knows about Robert's bastards. She may not know where they are, but she knows there are many and will probably be more in the future.

"So she'll come to you for the information. Or to any others you have shared this secret with. She'll tell Joffrey. And then they will hunt them down. Kill them in the streets. They certainly are capable."

He knew that it was Joffrey who ordered the slaughter, but he was fine conflating the two for now. Tiresias paused for a beat; an image of Robert's bastard babe naked before a knife flashed through his mind. He breathed slowly.

"Now you'll probably sneak a few out before the massacre. But not all. You won't be able to and it will look very suspicious if you're asked for their whereabouts and you deny all knowledge."

He leaned forward again.

"I implore you, Varys, to please reconsider and send the boy north with me to Winterfell now. Under Lord Stark's protection. Save yourself the trouble before it's too late and he has to be smuggled out during the King's funeral. Of course, Lord Stark appreciates your concern and your investment in the boy. He is willing to recompense you for the coin you spent on the boy's apprenticeship."

He hoped Lord Stark would forgive him for that.

Vary stared at him for a solid minute and Tiresias let him. This must have been one of his strangest meetings in a while.

Then again, I'm probably giving myself too much credit. This man has led a far more dangerous life than I so far.

Finally Varys broke his silence. "And why just this one lad to Winterfell? Why not all of Robert's bastards? The North is certainly big enough to shelter them all."

Tiresias leaned back again. "Certainly, but Lord Stark needs to walk a delicate line. He may have a soft spot for bastards and for the King, but he already offended his wife when he brought back a bastard from the war. Now, Gendry may not be his, but another bastard in Winterfell is a sour thing to swallow. Even a royal bastard. They would have to be a boon to the castle and Gendry shows promise in that regard as a blacksmith. It's better than showing back up at the castle with the whole brood of screaming kids."

He took a draught of his ale. "You're certainly more clever and far-thinking than I am, but if you wouldn't take offense at a suggestion…"

Vary gestured softly. "Please. By all means."

"I would send every child away from the city. Along with the mother. And each future conquest of the King. As soon as Robert loses interest in her. I'm sure he wouldn't miss them."

"So when the King passes and the Queen demands my information…" Varys raised his eyebrows slowly. "I will look as though I've conspired to hide away Robert's blights."

Tiresias shrugged. "It's no crime to send away a child. To hide the disgrace of the Crown from the capitol. You're a clever man. I'm sure you could excuse it."

"And what of Gendry in Winterfell?" asked Varys. "The North falls under the jurisdiction of the Crown. You believe our Queen and future King wouldn't demand Gendry's life from Lord Stark?"

"The North is big as you said. Gendry can hide most anywhere. And besides, Lord Stark will refuse."

"Will the North go to war to protect a southern bastard?"

"Will the Lannisters march up through the Neck to deal with one?"

Varys smiled. "A catspaw can slip through just as well."

"Well, however they do it, it's more coin and effort to kill a boy a thousand miles from the capitol. If Gendry remains in King's Landing though…" Tiresias tapped the table gently. "It's just one simple task for the City Watch. One knife in the Street of Steel."

He matched Varys' smile. "Besides, if the children and their mothers are all out of the city, I'm certain you could forget quite a number of the bastards that the King beget."

How many children did Maggy the Frog tell a young Cersei that Robert would have? Tiresias couldn't remember the exact number, but he bet anything that Cersei did. If Varys came up short on that number, he would be placed under greater suspicion from Cersei. He hoped the Spider could survive that detail.

Something came back into Vary's face and Tiresias exhaled softly, bracing himself. It was the same curiosity that he saw on Roose Bolton's face not too long ago. Varys didn't have the same menace, but he'd be a fool to think him less of a threat.

"You could have arrived in King's Landing with the other Northerners to see to the boy," said Varys. "They're just more than a sennight out from the city. Why the early arrival?"

"I was already in White Harbor," said Tiresias, not too lightly. "Seemed easier to sail down."

"You're a foreigner."

It wasn't a question. Tiresias blinked at the sudden shift. "Bit of the pot calling the kettle black, aye?"

If the saying was lost on Varys, he didn't show it.

"Where are you from?"

It was quite warm at their little table. Tiresias forced himself not to swallow some spit.

"Essos. Same as you."

Varys shook his head slowly. "No…" he murmured. "No. I've lived in cities larger than this one. I've heard hundreds of tongues stretching from one end of the world to the other. I can hear a little of the North in your words. Which I can understand. You have resided there for quite a number of years…"

He leaned back in his chair. "But your tongue…I can't place it. Not anywhere in Essos at least."

Tiresias met his eyes. "You seem quite confident about that. Essos is a big place."

Varys smiled. "I am. So, where are you from?"

A brief silence descended on the table, with neither man in the hurry to break it. Finally Tiresias matched Varys' smile.

"How about a wager?"

Varys raised his eyebrows at the suggestion. It was his most dramatic gesture of the evening.

"Oh…and what kind of a wager do you suggest?"

Tiresias drank his ale and leaned back. Neither of them worried about being overheard. All the other patrons were focused on the dice game near the fire. Their low voices carried just fine.

"If I can guess where you're from, in one guess," said Tiresias, raising a single finger. "Then you believe me when I say I'm from Essos."

Varys smirked. "My, my, what a prize. A rather empty one, if I say so. I know you're no Essosi. Me stating otherwise to appease a wager is quite pointless."

Tiresias shrugged. "Mayhaps. But getting you to believe me would be a pain in my ass. I'd rather just win a wager and move on to the lad."

The eunuch spread his hands before resting them together on the table.

"As you wish," he said.

Allowing himself a small smile, Tiresias tapped his mug gently.

"Tell me, Varys. Was it in Lys where you were cut?"

The smirk disappeared, but to his credit, Varys hid his surprise rather well. Even Tiresias had trouble finding his true feelings. A slight tension did appear in the Spider's shoulders though. A minuscule twitch in his resting hands.

"I lost that accent years ago," he said, ignoring the question. That story was reserved for friends whom he trusted. His eyes were boring deep into Tiresias, trying to find something that he had missed.

Tiresias shrugged. "You're not the only one with a good ear, Varys."

A wild part of him wanted to drop further hints of the Spider's origin; of the sorcerer and the voice from the flames. He was always curious what Varys heard. But he decided against that. Varys was one of the most dangerous men in the city. If not the most, since Littlefinger was disposed of. And it behooved Tiresias to pretend he was only in King's Landing for Gendry's safety.

Varys stared at him for a while before sipping his ale. He didn't purse his lips at it. Tiresias supposed he had drunk far worse in his life, despite his current luxuries.

The Spider then stood, but didn't depart. They regarded each other further before Varys spoke.

"I have much to consider."

Tiresias nodded. "I bet you do. Will I hear from you before the tourney?"

Varys shrugged. "Mayhaps. If this tourney should end without a word from me, leave the city and don't enter the Street of Steel when you do."

His posture changed, his voice too as he nodded in farewell.

"Evening, Tiresias. Speaking to you has been…quite enlightening."

And with that, Varys was gone. Onto another mission, another whisper that secured his web in the city.

Tiresias stared into his ale after Varys departed. His fingers began to tremble and it took a minute for him to still them. But it wasn't out of fear. At least not the fear of what Varys could personally do to him, but the fear of this alternate Westeros. Despite the horror that befell the Seven Kingdoms before, he at least knew that story. This however…

He never regretted killing Littlefinger and pulling that weed before it could fester. However, he didn't feel too comfortable allowing Varys to have complete rein over the capitol. True, the man was better than most and he had his soft side. But he could be completely ruthless as well. Was he truly doing his best to keep the realm going or was he planning for a Targaryen restoration this time around as well? He didn't see why not.

Not like you're one to judge…it's not just the big bads whom you've killed so far, right? Rosie, the nameless woman in Gulltown, even Rickon Stark…

He had ended up with a kill list for himself and it would only grow longer. No names could be struck off. Once they were on, they remained forever.