Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 367: Shadow Assassination

"In addition to the Unsullied’s combat effectiveness being greatly diminished," Nardacgorn said, "there’s more good news."

"Help?" Jaime asked, intrigued.

"Yes," Nardacgorn continued. "There’s a significant conflict of interest between Viserys and the Iron Bank. If we can establish contact, we might gain their 'favor.'"

Jaime waved the idea aside. The news of Viserys looting Slaver's Bay had long spread across the world. Even mighty cities like Qarth had suffered from his raids. While the Iron Bank might be rich, Viserys wasn’t lacking in funds. To put it bluntly, the Iron Bank was just that—a bank. No matter how strong financially, their reach only extended so far. Without their gold, their greatest weapon, they posed no real threat.

Besides, Jaime’s mission wasn’t to stop Viserys at Maidenpool. As long as they engaged his army in battle, the forces of the Vale and the Crownlands would encircle him. Killing or capturing Viserys seemed improbable. For now, simply repelling his attack would be enough; the rest could be dealt with later.

When everyone had finished in the bath, Jaime prepared to leave first, wrapping his robe around himself. But as soon as he stepped outside, he ran into Lancel, who looked panicked.

Lancel, once Robert's squire, was clearly distressed. Robert’s current squire was now his bastard son, Gendry—the boy who loved swinging the hammer as much as his father had. Gendry had been in Ned’s care, or rather, in the care of Ned as 'guided' by Littlefinger. When Robert saw Gendry, he instantly acknowledged him as his bastard, though he never legitimized him.

The Baratheons and Lannisters were now in the same precarious boat. Despite Robert’s acknowledgment, some sense of reason still lingered.

Lancel pulled a letter from his bosom. Jaime took it without a word, slipping it into his own robe. Then he spoke loudly, "The Lords inside aren’t finished yet. Come back tonight."

With that, he put an arm around Lancel’s shoulder and walked out with him. No one behind them noticed anything unusual.

Once they were out of sight, Jaime whispered, "What's going on?"

"It's Ned Stark. He's left Bitterbridge and is preparing to return to the North with a large army!" Lancel replied, his voice trembling.

Jaime frowned, pushing his blonde hair out of his face as he looked at Lancel with disbelief. Truthfully, even if his own brother Tyrion had betrayed him, he would never have believed Ned Stark would.

Jaime pulled out the letter and opened it. The handwriting was unmistakably Tyrion’s. Inside was the original letter sent by Stafford’s men. Comparing the two, Jaime pieced together what had happened, though he couldn’t fully grasp it. Had Viserys really persuaded Ned with just one oath? And worse, Renly the Imp had been captured alive!

Jaime had never thought Renly was entirely useless, but he hadn’t expected him to be this useless. Fortunately, Storm’s End had not yet fallen, with Ser Cortnay still holding the fortress.

But Storm’s End, too, was in a precarious position against the forces of Dorne. Cortnay wasn’t another Stannis; he couldn’t defend the castle like in the legendary “Siege of Storm’s End.”

"Where will the Northern army withdraw from? Will they have to pass through our territory?" Jaime asked, his mind working quickly.

"Lord Tyrion said the Northern army plans to return via Viserys’s fleet and may leave at the Wendwater River," Lancel explained.

"Wendwater..." Jaime closed his eyes, visualizing a map of the Seven Kingdoms. The Wend River lay northeast of the Stormlands, near the border between the Crownlands and Stormlands. It was from this same river that Stannis had once launched his campaign with the Stormlands' army. From Bitterbridge, it was only about ten days to the Wendwater River—plenty of time to intercept them. But doing so would be akin to making enemies of the North.

At least Ned had kept his promise to Robert, Jaime thought with grudging respect. "Damn it! The Westerlands!" He muttered, thinking aloud. "Ned’s exchange of Renly for hostages... I didn’t even consider that, while the Reach can’t cross the Mander, they could easily turn around and attack Harrenhal, or even the Westerlands."

This so-called promise might seem disadvantageous to Viserys, but it vastly freed up the Reach’s forces.

"Does Robert know about this?" Jaime asked.

"No," Lancel shook his head. "Lord Tyrion only told you and Lord Tywin. No one has informed Robert of either of these developments. Lord Tyrion said he would leave it to Lord Tywin to decide whether to tell Robert."

Many Lannisters now referred to Robert privately by his first name, or simply as the "Fat King." Some, when drunk or reckless, even called him the usurper. Jaime nodded, knowing Robert was increasingly volatile. Telling him was inevitable, but how and when would be crucial.

In recent times, the Red Witch had been a frequent visitor to Robert’s chambers. She made no effort to hide it, and Cersei, long resigned to her husband's infidelities, had grown used to it. She had accepted that Robert would never change. Even her own brother had begun sleeping with others, and the king spent his days carousing in the brothels of King's Landing.

But recently, the Red Witch had seemingly vanished, along with her new ally, Littlefinger, who had been appointed as Robert’s right-hand man. When questioned, Robert had simply remarked that the Red Witch now carried the hope of reversing the situation. Littlefinger, for his part, had no idea what this so-called hope entailed. He didn’t understand how the Red Witch had managed to regain Robert’s trust, but he knew he needed to look out for himself.

Meanwhile, several donkey carts disguised as farm wagons had passed through Maidenpool and were nearing Rook’s Rest, Viserys's command center for the upcoming assault on Harrenhal. They traveled by night, resting by day to remain hidden. Littlefinger suspected Robert had lost his mind. Something’s wrong with that damned Iron Throne, he thought grimly. He couldn’t fathom what kind of power the Red Witch could wield to turn the world upside down.

But Littlefinger had already formed a plan: he intended to send the Red Witch directly to Viserys as a gesture of loyalty. As they neared Rook’s Rest, just a field away from the barracks, he decided it was time to warn Viserys. First, though, he needed to ensure that Melisandre was under his control.

Littlefinger surveyed the desolate landscape. The area was remote, the yellowing grass around them offering excellent cover. It was the perfect place to hide. The drugs he had secretly given the donkey had begun to take effect. The black horse  pulling the cart was now foaming at the mouth, refusing to move and pawing the ground in obvious pain.

"What’s going on?" Littlefinger demanded.

"My lord, it seems the animal is sick," one of the men replied nervously.

"You fools, can’t you handle something as simple as this?"

"We’re sorry, my lord. We’ll go find some stronger animals," they said, hurrying off.

After making a show of frustration outside the cart, Littlefinger turned to Melisandre. "Lady Melisandre, it seems our horse has fallen ill. I’ll send someone to find replacements nearby."

"Thank you, Lord Petyr," Melisandre replied smoothly. "King Robert asked me to give you something. Please, come inside."

"Something for me?" Littlefinger asked, momentarily puzzled, but he nodded, deciding to play along. Keeping Melisandre reassured was more important than questioning her now.

He was, after all, drawn to her. That fiery red hair of hers held a certain allure. Whenever he went to see Robert, he often found Melisandre already in the king’s chambers, the sounds from within making his heart race. He could almost picture what lay beyond that door, his gray-green eyes straining to pierce the barrier and glimpse the sight within.

Melisandre’s hair wasn’t the same raspberry red as Catelyn’s or Sansa’s, but a deeper, more intoxicating hue. It suited her, and she always exuded a strange warmth, enhanced by the ruby that hung around her neck. Every movement she made seemed otherworldly, her presence commanding and seductive.

Littlefinger inhaled deeply as he approached the cart, the strange scent emanating from within filling his senses. He steadied himself, then opened the door.

"Come closer," Melisandre’s voice beckoned from the shadows.

Before he could respond, her hand shot out with inhuman speed, a blur in the dim light. In a heartbeat, Littlefinger felt something cold and wet pressed against his chest. When he blinked and looked down, he saw it—a bloody heart, still beating in Melisandre’s palm.

The sudden cawing of crows broke the silence, their harsh cries filling the air as the scene around him twisted with eerie, unnatural tension. The world seemed to shift, the atmosphere becoming suffocatingly strange and terrifying.

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