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# Viserys

Viserys hated Magic.

Ever since he was a boy, when the monster who killed his father cut him and threw his flesh into the fires, the monster whom he once called Nuncle, Viserys Blackfyre, hated anything to do with magic.

All of that was before he had simply become Varys.

Varys... the nickname his twin had given him when she could not fully pronounce his name in her youth.

Those were the nicer times when they were children.

He would never have children; he would never sit on the Throne that was his by all the rules of this thrice-damned land. The line of Daeron the Falseborn was nothing, and now, the one who sat on the throne, the Fat Whoremonger even denied his own heritage that allowed him to keep the Iron Throne with a modicum of dignity.

All proving the one lesson that he had learned the hard way.

Power was an illusion... nothing more than a shadow cast by small men.

It was a lie people told themselves to make it easier for them to sleep in the night for the excuse to commit atrocities, to satisfy an unquenchable need to feel better than others.

What Varys would give to slit each of their throats or watch them drown in poison or fill them up with crossbow bolts... alas, that was not him.

Varys was to be the Spider, his role in this mummer's farce, weaving threads and intrigue, whispering poison into the ears of the right person, using the very tools of that dreaded Bloodraven, the Master of Whisperers, and bringing about the rise of a Blackfyre King through plots when force of arms had failed over and over and over again.

Unfortunately, Varys learned that power was a fickle thing... it was of no true value when a blade was all it took to take things that gave you that power.

It had been the case for his house since the Dance of the Dragons.

Had his ancestor, Daemon Blackfyre, taken the throne, it would be the line of the Falseborn who would be made exiles... as it had taken Varys years of plotting and playing this retched Game of Thrones to achieve... their exile the sweetest bit of justice in this world that lacked any form of justice.

It had taken Varys years to achieve his goals. He planted and nurtured seeds of doubt into the ear of Aerys. He had cut off the right weeds to ensure that the infestation took hold, and prevent the Silver Prince from undoing the work of his father. Oh, how he enjoyed strangling his enemies like unseen webs until they killed themselves in their foolishness.

And he was at the center of it all. Viserys was no more. He was and will always be Varys, the Spider in that garden, watching, waiting, plotting.

If gods were real they surely did love their irony.

Another Viserys had cropped up to undo all his hard work.

It had been the sweetest ironies, the boy, Viserys Targaryen in exile, with a sister that would surely be sold like some whore, the sweet ironic justice that had been a balm to his soul.

And then the boy had messed it all up.

Varys had heard rumors of the so-called Sorcerer Prince who lived in Braavos. He had not given it much credence at first. A fool making a fool of himself in search of a way to get back that which was never meant to be theirs. A fool seeking the path that looked the easiest and always ensured that the seeker died early.

Magic was for children and the foolish after all, a lesson that Varys had learned at the edge of a blade.

And the boy survived.

That was the most bizarre part.

The one person who should have not survived did.

The rumors trickled in, first slowly, then as though through a flood.

If it was anyone else, Varys would have dismissed it, but the blood of Aegon the Unlikely was the blood of the Targaryens and Blackwoods, just as that accursed Bloodraven. So Varys watched, trying his best to stop the rise of another like Brynden Rivers.

It was still not something he could afford, having seen the power men could get from such vile acts of Magic.

The Sorrowful Men had been sent by his friend in Pentos... under the guise of a Gift for the Old Lion. Illyrio had even planned to get something out of the Old Lion in favors, making himself richer through trade with Lannisport.

It had failed.

And it had cost them their ability to contract the more affordable guild of assassins to carry their less pleasant operations.

The Quarthine Assassins refused to go near the Sorcerer Prince after that. Something had scared them off... and Varys had thought it to be the Faceless Men of Braavos, who, too, refused to pick up the boy's contract.

Then the Faceless Men, too, had fallen silent.

Then came stranger and stranger news, as his spies in Braavos were countered or subverted. It was the unknown that made it worrisome.

Some said that the Prince was replaced by a Shadowbinder from Asshai, and some said that his arms had been cut off by a giant hound that haunted the night. Others claimed that he had been ensorcelled by the Black Pearl of Braavos and served at her whims.

More and more outlandish news, kept at bay by Varys for the right time from reaching the wrong ears. What little news that Varys was forced to give to appease the Fat King had him send his assassins, which suited well for Varys.

All had failed.

Then came stranger and stranger news.

The Iron Bank had been refusing to give loans to the Iron Throne... meaning they supported the Targaryens. A bank known to hold themselves neutral, the Iron Bank now supported the Targaryens in Exile, allowing them to somehow match the wealth of Illyrio, a wealth that had been in the making by generations of Blackfyres.

The House of Black and White were silent. Any attempt through any source to contact them for a contract had vanished overnight, leaving only the same means of death, burned off faces and a charred corpse.

It was not hard to conclude that the Faceless Man had all died.

It was not hard to confirm that they had died to Magic.

The shiver that ran up Varys' spine upon observing the dead

The last news was the most dire. After reading and re-reading it, Varys gave a deep sigh.

Viserys Targaryen was last seen entering the Manse of Illyrio Mophatis, and any news after that of his old friend and dear sister were gone... and the banner of House Targaryen, the red three-headed dragon was proudly displayed over the Manse that had once been gifted to Daemon Targaryen the Rogue Prince.

Had Varys been anyone else, he would have raged and thrown things around.

Instead, Varys read the news with a tired sigh once more, his attention turning to the little bird, the child that had once been a slave waiting for him expectedly for his reward.

For a brief moment, Varys considered paying this little bird by reaching for the dagger concealed up his sleeve before his hands found a silver coin instead.

It was hard to find the right types of little birds. It had to be children without tongues, so they could not talk. Yet loyalty was fickle for men, and he could not have their tongues removed themselves.

Luckily for Varys, Essosi Slave Masters were cruel, though, and there were more tongueless slaves than Varys knew what to do. Teaching them how to read and write was also another matter, as finding a boy with both features was next to impossible. Not to mention the need for their disposal once they grew too old to be able to get away from getting caught or walk through the secret passageways of the Maegor's Keep.

Varys handed the child the silver coin and dismissed him.

It would seem that they had underestimated the Targaryens.

His namesake, Viserys Targaryen, was clearly cut from the same cloth as his ancestors and had clearly made deals with the same kinds of voices that Maelys the Monstrous had spoken in those blue flames that consumed Varys' flesh.

The voice still haunted his nightmares.

Varys still remembered the stories he had heard of the Sorcerous Hand who had killed more of his kin than any other, stories told to him by his father... and this Viserys somehow turned out to be made from the same cloth.

Varys knew enough of Magic to justify his hate for it. He had given credence to some of the rumors regarding Bloodraven's powers, and even then, had he not done the same without needing vile sacrifices and treating with monsters in the dark.

All it had taken were a few boys, his little birds, in mockery of the Bloodraven. Kindness and sweetmeats earned Varys their loyalties as they passed on the secrets for him to use.

Varys did not need or want magic to work his craft. He did not need to skinchange into little boys and leave them addled like Brynden Rivers.

And now, another Targaryen had revealed their supposed gifts. Another like that monster Bloodraven was the last thing Varys could tolerate, that the Blackfyres could tolerate.

'Mayhaps it is Bloodraven haunting my family from the grave, reborn as this monster,' thought Varys as he softly walked through the hallways in soft slippers, ignoring the black cat that was lazing upon his path.

Something had happened in Pentos, and it was likely that Illyrio was dead. Their plot to pose Viserra's boy as the dead child of Prince Rhaegar was gone in smoke. There were resources that Varys had stashed away that Viserra and the boy could use, but another plot was needed, one that would not be expected by this so-called Wizard.

And Varys the Spider, the greatest Master of Whisperers in existence, was left blind.

Varys mourned for his friend.

Illyrio had been there with him since the Braavosi ship he worked on had intercepted the ship heading to Astapor from Tyrosh that fateful day, carrying the already cut Varys to be turned into one of the Unsullied.

A Brightflame and a Blackfyre. They made for strange fellows.

It was the two of them who gathered the coin needed to buy back Viserra from the Whorehouse, using the Little Mouses that would grow wings and become his Little Birds.

Aelor Brightflame became Illyrio. Viserys Blackfyre became Varys, and Viserra Blackfyre became Serra the Whore.

The three plotted... plotted to bring down the Targaryens for their crimes against their families.

All that, the peace between the two families stripped away the ambitions of one man.

And now, Illyrio was dead. Forced upon by Serra's hand by the Wizard and his vile sorceries.

The question that remained, however, was... who talked? Who helped the Sorcerer and told him the location of the one who might prove to be a challenge.

There were not many people aware of the presence of Young Aegon Targaryen. There were only three people left alive of his true origins, Illyrio, Serra, and finally, Varys.

The previous play they had made was the only other option.

Varys needed to remove the potential alliance between Dorne and the Targaryens in exile. They were the only major player who would help them in their bid to return.

What Varys and Illyrio needed was to deny the hand of Princess Arianne from Viserys Targaryen. Without at least a kingdom to support them, the Sorcerer had no way of conquering back Westeros. Even Aegon Targaryen needed three dragons for that, and Viserys Targaryen certainly did not have dragons.'

Revealing the presence of Aegon was a gambit, but with another Targaryen from a male like with a known identity and fame, against Varys' wishes, they had revealed the boy to Oberyn Martell.

The marriage would have ensured that Aegon's legitimacy could not be questioned so long as the family of Princess Elia would support his claim. Then Viserys Targaryen would look nothing more than a power-hungry uncle looking to usurp his nephew, like Maegor the Cruel. If he chose to ally with Aegon's claim however, well, there were certainly ways of ensuring that he did not wake up one day.

And now, the game has changed. Pentos had fallen to a single boy of six and ten and a handful of men of dubious quality.

The question was, what drove Viserys Targaryen to Pentos? What made him directly attack Illyrio?

Had the Martells told him of Aegon?

Anger within Varys stirred, simmering into the cold rage that allowed him to endure.

Mayhaps it was time to unleash the Demon of the Trident upon this so-called Wizard and his allies. After all, what better way of ridding himself of potential problems than by making them fight each other.

It was time for his enemies to burn through Fire and Steel.

---

# The Queen of Thorns

Olena Tyrell was old.

Old...

Wasn't that the joke in there?

Age made her bitter; others called it. Age made Olena less patient, she knew... or rather, less willing to tolerate the same song and dance that she had to endure in her youth.

Queen of Thorns, they called her. No doubt the work of her sister, who had been the one meant to wed Luthor Tyrell before Olena took her place.

It was a joke.

She was supposed to be a Princess... back when she was a maid with a head full of dreams and delusions and went by the name Olena Redwyne.

Her match had been Prince Daeron, not to be confused with the Drunken, for while Olenna was old, she was not that old. The prince was pleasant, but he was a sword swallower, through and through... utterly obsessed with that Norrige boy.

Olenna would go to her grave, still claiming that it was she who did not want to wed the boy.

As Olena looked at the letter from her grandson, Loras, she wondered if those silent gods were mocking her after so long. She loved her grandson dearly. The boy was a bit too foolish with his dreams of knighthood and another swordswallower to boot. His relations with the King's youngest brother were worth it, at least.

"Well, boy, speak," said Olenna, watching her oldest grandson read the letter.

"As pleasant as ever, grandmother," spoke Willas, leaning back and showing his relief. "Is father going to join us?"

"He is better served feasting the Lords; this is not an urgent matter for now," Olenna said, once more cursing that fool of a son of hers. Lord Mace Tyrell had once forced Willas into that joust that had him injured by the hand of Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper. The horse had fallen on the boy's leg and it would never be as it once was. 'For the better, the boy's mind is better to be used than any delusions of knighthood for this one,' she tacked on, even as she cursed Mace for his actions. Olenna may have been bitter about the Dornish but once the cow was milked, there was no squirting the cream back to the udder.

"Well, the boy hasn't sent himself the way of Summerhall; what does that tell you?" asked Olenna, referring to the latest bit of news.

Sailors from Pentos claimed that the city was now being controlled by Viserys Targaryen of all people.

"He is smart?" asked Willas, "or he is a fool."

"He is dangerous," responded Ollena. "Do you know why?"

"He claims to use magic?" asked Willas, with a raised eyebrow.

"He has the right name and the right claim, but he also acknowledges that he uses magic," countered Olena. "He is either a fool or has enough power to protect himself. Even the likes of Maegor or Visenya never spoke of using their magics."

"And he did not go the way of Summerhall," added Willas.

"And that..." smirked Olena, leaning back. "Should he arrive, it can be arranged such that Faith would be made his enemy, along with most lords, the same ones who would covet something like Magic and, because they lacked it, ensure that no one else can use it."

Willas rubbed his chin. The neatly groomed facial hair was not something Olenna cared for, but it made the boy look older and more like his father. The image was important, after all, and no, Tyrell was as big a fool as the likes of the current Queen, dressing her golden-haired children in nothing but reds and golds. Should King Robert pass early, Olenna could easily see people start claiming the children to be bastards or some tripe, like the daughter of Tywin Lannister would be such an idiot as to give horns to a King. "It would make any plan to conquer Westeros harder. The Faith would never allow it. Faith Uprising would..."

"Do not make such conclusions, boy. I said that the Targaryens are confident or arrogant enough to make the Faith their enemy, not that it would happen without prompting from the right people. That means that either Viserys Targaryen believes that the Faith would be able to do nothing, or he is too arrogant. Either way, he can be made to fight a losing battle," interrupted Olenna. "As for the smallfolk, they are a cowardly lot... but ask your mother what Hightowers are up to in their towers. Those of the Faith care about magic as much as any other person in power. Do remember your lessons, who won the Faith Uprising?"

"Maegor, even if the Faith would never admit it," said Willas. "Jaehaerys may have written the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, but it was Maegor's Ghost who won the fight. It was Maegor and Visenya who nearly burned Oldtown twice."

"Power is fickle," nodded Olenna with approval. "But there are many would-be-Lords that have vanished into thin air in Essos, pursuing the lands and titles promised to them by the Baratheons, only if they killed the Targaryens. The Dragons have something, and it might as well be Magic. That brings to question, how powerful is he really?"

"So are we to consider that the Targaryen Prince can actually use Magic?" asked Willas, "That is ridiculous."

"Let your father play the fool, boy, you are not a fine hand at it," said Olenna, taking out another letter and passing it. "Marwyn the Mage is missing."

"The Archmaester of Higher Mysteries?" asked Willas. "Was he one of ours?"

"Not one of ours... or anyone, really. The man was a no one, yet he has been sponsored by Leyton to the position," said Olenna. "He is supposedly half-Dornish, but none knows what the other half is. There are whispers of it being Ibbenese. A mongrel, but one with some skill, according to your mother's family."

"So... Magic, huh?" asked Willas, letting silence. "He has a sister."

"Now you are using your head," said Ollena, feeling pleased. "The Flower of Reach for the Queen, and a Princess for the Heir of Highgarden."

"Do not overreach, Grandmother," countered Willas. "The close nit weddings in the Reach are all that hold us in our position, now that the Crown favors us less. Should our bannerman think us overreach...."

"Bah... wouldn't work anyways," said Olenna, throwing the fig that had spoiled to the side. "Targaryens are all a strange lot, headstrong to a fault, and dangerous as both an ally or enemy, not that they would be willing to share their Magic with outside. If they are smart, they will be cautious."

"We still sided with them," countered Willas, "something that the King Robert still remembers. Would the King call the banners and sail to Pentos?"

"For riches of Pentos, if not anything else," said Olena. "This reminds me of the War of the Nine Penny Kings, this one, a Free City Sacked by one who calls himself the Rightful King. Most of Westeros will not take kindly to the foreign invasion, even if they have the right name. Soon, ravens will come, and bards will decry the foul magics of this Dark Sorcerer. We will have to play our hand very carefully, not give our full support. Dragons were easy to predict but we do not know what sort of Magic the Targaryens have had to use so openly."

"I understand, grandmother. We should not leave our flanks exposed, I understand," said Willas with a nod, his hand clutching over his bad knee. "Will it work, a token force against this Sorcerer-King? Attacking someone who may have powers you do not know about is a risk, but doing nothing sounds dishonorable."

"Bah, who cares. I told Mace the same thing when I told him to siege Storm's End. Stay away from fighting and ensure that we would not suffer any consequence if either side won," said the Queen of Thorns, "Last time Reach meddled with Dragons, Reach almost burned down."

"So we do nothing?" asked Willas, curious.

"We shall wait; give it time. We let our enemies fight their wars, and in the meantime, we grow strong," responded Olenna, "as they are, Targaryens are not worth much as conquerors of some Free City. It would not matter if they remained there. It might be in our interest to ensure it even, not have them turn their attention west."

"And if they don't?" asked Willas. "Robert will not live forever, and his heir is young. Father insists on a Royal Marriage of some sort. If the Targaryens come to Westeros again, would it be wise to bind ourselves with their enemies?"

"Eighty thousand men wins wars, better than a lone Sorcerer," countered Olenna, though there was a thoughtful frown on her face.

"That is the only certainty, then Grandmother," sighed Willas, "There will be a war."

The silence was all the answer Olenna gave.

---

# Prince of Dorne

His knees ached as he read the note.

It had been worse before, the gout acting up when he least wanted it, Prince Doran Martell could admit.

The scroll that his brother, Oberyn, had brought from Braavos had helped. The gift of Viserys Targaryen containing instructions on what to eat and what to avoid had been a balm.

At this moment, it was a curse, however. Doran desperately needed some wine so he would forget the letter that he had read.

Pentos was fallen, a three-headed dragon bannered across the sky.

The message could not be any clearer.

More than a dozen merchant ships, all telling the same story.

Just what in the seven hells was that foolish boy doing, conquering a Free City with a handful of men?

How in the seven hells had that boy conquered a Free City with so few a man?

"He has balls, that one, you have to admit," said Oberyn in front of Doran Martell. "Little Ari will love him."

"You are the one who met him, what do you make of him" countered Doran before sitting in silence, reading the note sent with the Targaryen Seal.

"He is bold and has a temper... but he has a weight to him, something that Aerys lacked," said Oberyn, looking unconcerned, reaching to take the offered wax piece.

"A brain?" suggested Doran, turning his attention to watching the children play at the water gardens. He passed the letter to Oberyn.

"He is calmer, but meeting him was like looking into the mouth of an angry dragon. You do not want his attention," added Oberyn, taking the letter. "His eyes hold a form of cunning. He watches you and studies you. It is as though he sees into your mind and soul. He is a dangerous foe to cross."

"Like a viper then, baring his teeth," said Doran, looking at the seal once more, an intricate design of a red dragon holding a stick in one hand, with Valyrian Runes around it forming a circle that reminded Doran of a sun.

Spoiler: Seal of the Wizard

Just looking at it made his knees ache for some reason.

The man who delivered it looked relieved upon presenting the letter after mumbling something about not wanting to be melted from the inside out.

"What does a letter have to do with melting one's insides?" Doran mused out loud, passing the seal.

"I am the Fire of the Sun," Oberyn read the Valyrian Script, being more versed in the language. "The Chosen of Death, The Reborn Dragon. Slayer of Divine. Open if I named you, burn if I have not."

Under the seal was the name of Doran Martell, along with his list of titles.

The Prince was mocking them, certainly.

The Fire of the Sun...

"Seems the Prince is playing into his reputation," said Doran, "It is a letter that claims the Aegon that the Spider produced was a Blackfyre son of a Pentoshi Merchant and a Whore," said Doran, reading the letter carefully, over and over again. "And he claims to have found evidence of a betrothal between the boy and Arianne Martell."

"So, did he offer his own hand instead?" asked Oberyn, "given that he more likely killed the boy."

"He did not," said Doran, watching children of the same age running around in the Water Gardens. All it took was a single man to be fooled, and any boy with silver hair could be passed on to Rhaegar's Child... Elia's Child. "And he claims to have ensured that the boy can never be king."

"Gelded then?" asked Oberyn, grimacing. "We both knew that the boy was not Elia's. We wanted our revenge, and the boy was just another means."

"It does not say what was done to the boy, but you are right all the same. The boy is now worthless, yet his life goaded a better option to stir" Doran responded in turn, his eyes catching a particularly ripe Blood Orange on one of the branches. "He still has a year to meet us in Norvos."

"Pentos is closer," countered Oberyn. "Baratheon might decide to sail."

"It is the Spider that worries me more," whispered Doran, "I may need you exiled once more, should knowledge of the contract be known to Robert."

"The boy has made a right mess of your plans, hasn't he?" asked Oberyn, drinking deeply from his cup. "Would you be hurt if I said I liked him for it?"

Doran rolled his eyes. Oberyn lacked patience and liked to rush into things. Given that one of his chains from the Citadel that he forged was of Valyrian Steel, he had long been fascinated by the Wizard of Westeros who lived in Braavos. It was likely that he would do something rash and sail to join the Targaryen soon if something was not done.

"We must not rush this; Melora is strangely agreeable to the plan of visiting her family. It is better than when she threatened to leave for Norvos. We might be able to salvage a marriage to the dragons and get our revenge at once," said Doran, his eyes focusing on an orange hanging from one of the trees.

"Salvage your marriage more likely," grumbled Oberyn, drinking from his cup of Dornish Wine. "We shall follow this path for now. Let us see where we end up."

"We will move with caution," agreed Doran. The orange fell, splitting in two.

Pity that there were other oranges he would wait for.

---

# The Grandmaester

The letter from Oldtown was concerning; Pycelle would have to agree.

It was also bloody late, is what it was.

As he entered the Chamber of the Small Council, Pycelle saw the King sitting at the head of it, a goblet in hand.

"Finally, the old fuck is here as well. Come on then, what is this important news?" roared King Robert, taking another large gulp of the wine.

Pycelle was old... he had seen kings rage, the Madness of Aerys as he gave men to the Wildfire... he had seen Lord Tywin's wrath, the bloody cloaks that held the Dornish Princess and her children. Never had he felt such fear as he did now for his life as he did now.

Pycelle wondered if he should slip something into the drink of the King before dismissing it. The Crown Prince was too young and a regency would be of use to no one.

"There is news, your grace, from across the Narrow Sea," tithered the Eunuch, "The banner of the Three-Headed Dragon has been raised on Pentos. There are those who claim that an army is being raised by Viserys Targaryen to reclaim the lands taken from him. There are many refugees and traders asking for the aid of Westeros."

"Today, I had to sit and listen to the thirtieth Pentoshi Merchant requesting that the Iron Throne intervene in Pentos today, Robert," continued on Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King. Pycelle wondered if he had talked with the Spider beforehand, in how the two agreed. "They all say that Viserys Targaryen took the city to the sword, that the streets run in blood. That he cavorts with dark gods and slaughters the innocent for his dark purposes."

The King did not say a word, instead choosing to drain his cup. The poor Cupbearer rushed to refill the cup.

"Didn't you also say that Viserys Targaryen had died after walking into a fire?" asked Stannis Baratheon. "You are speaking one thing one day, another the next. What use is a Master of Whisperers who cannot tell what is going on? The sailors, I have told of all that you have spoken already. What of Westeros?" asked Stannis, ever the pragmatist.

"Unfortunately, my contacts in Essos are less developed, Lord Stannis," countered Varys. "My little birds have also spoken of the Dornish starting to get ready for war, your grace. It would appear that they are preparing to support Viserys Targaryen now that he has gained full control over Pentos."

Pycelle flinched at that as metal bending was heard, and the goblet that the King held was crushed under the grasp of the Demon of the Trident. It was fortunate that the wine within was long gone.

Then a bird came to be in the middle of the air, out of pure flame, and dropped a letter on top of Pycelle's head, giving a cry and bursting into flame once more, vanishing into thin air.

Pycelle blinked, looking at the letter as though it was not real.

What the hell just happened.

He opened it with shaking hands. As he made to read the letter before the letter floated up on its own.

The pages folded before the letter took the form of a face, a mouth forming from the folds of the parchment. The letter started speaking in the air with the sound of a man.

"Dear Robert... no, Dear Bobby B... nah... Dearest Cunt... that was close, but not enough pizzaz. Dearest King Cunt... no, you know what, fine, To Fat Bob, King of Whores, Bane of Feasting Halls, Emptier of Wine Casks and Lord Steward of Westeros," addressed the letter out loud.

It was loud enough to echo through the entire Maegor's Keep.

"You think you know me. You do not," stated the Letter, "You knew my brother, though. Not as well as he knew your betrothed after the girl ran off refusing to wed a Whoremonger like you, but still."

"They say I am a madman... that is true. They say that I have made strange pacts with stranger gods... that is also true. They say that I can kill a man by merely looking at them... which I have done. They say that I am a dragon in human form... debatable but agreed. They say I am Death, Destroyer of Worlds... yes, I am. They say a lot of things about me," the letter declared, floating just high enough for cupbearer to miss and thumble as he jumped to catch the letter.

"Know that all of these and more are true..." said the Letter, turning around and somehow glaring at the cupbearer.

"When I left the shores of Westeros, you, Robert, were left as Steward of the Realm. You have fucked it all up, beggared the realm, caused a squid infestation, and set the Realm for Ruin in your foolishness," the Letter declared, calling out the wildest and most foolish things. "And now I hear that you call yourself King."

"By the time you read this letter, I will be in Pentos, gathering my army. I await thee, Horned King," the letter spoke and at those words something shifted in the air.

The Letter then said, "This is my declaration of WAR, Heir of Argillac."

"I am coming for you and the seven and ten bastards you spawned, Stormlord," said the Letter, causing Pycelle to note how there were no mention of trueborn. That was not good.

"So, bring your armies. Pray that they are enough," said the Letter, dodging the cupbearer once more. "Bring your ships. Pray that they are enough. Bring all your hammers too. Prey that they will be enough." before tagging along "Not that you have enough balls left after the Lions were done with it."

The letter remained silenced for but a moment, before stating "May you remain eternally sober and forever flacid. Signed by Fire and Blood, Your Cousin, The Wizard of Westeros, Last Archon of the Valyrian Freehold, Champion of Death, the Butcher of Gods, the Dragon Reborn, One True Protector of the Realms of Men, the Wicked Wizard of the West."

"This message is brought to you by Will of Fire, The First Phoenix, Winged Flame Eternal." another voice spoke far faster than before.

The letter blew a raspberry before bursting into flames and turned into ash.

The silence filled the Small Council Chambers, as everyone thought the same thing.

Magic.

After some time, a sound was heard, as "banners," King Robert whispered.

"Robert..." started Jon Arryn.

"CALL THE BLOODY BANNERS!!!" roared King Robert Baratheon.

---

The validity of the infamous Pentoshi Letter has been up for debate by scholars of history. While the callous nature of Viserys the Wandbearer is known throughout his long list of deeds and misdeeds, one must note the anachronistic nature of the letter that supports these claims. The fact that the original letter was claimed to have been immolated by the then Grand Maester Pycelle leads most scholars to assume that the letter was nothing but a lie concocted to justify the Military Campaign to the Free City of Pentos.

The letter is specifically noted to exclude the Trueborn Children of Robert Baratheon from Cersei Lannister, along with their supposed illegitimacy that would lead to strife at a later date. Many scholars agree that such knowledge at the time frame of the supposed letter made little sense. The Legitimacy of Robert Baratheon's Heirs would not be brought into question until a later day, leading to many scholars agreeing it to be an act of historical revisionism by the Grand Maester himself to demonize the Exiled Monarch. The letter, however, supports the thesis provided by "The Flight of the Dragon, a Realistic Look into the Second Exile of House Targaryen" by Archmaester Gilbay on the Baratheon Stewardship and the Interregnum.

--- excerpt from "Pentoshi Wars of 292-293 AC"

I did it. It was a mistake. I should not have drunk the Weirwine that Morna made. That shit hits like a truck. Also, fuck Gilbay and his fanfiction with Blackfyre*. --- signed The Wizard**

*The sword, not the family. --- signed The Wizard*

**a note that appeared on the original copy of the Pentoshi Wars by the infamous Vandal going by the nickname The Wizard, potentially an unstable individual obsessed with the Life of Viserys III Targaryen. It is unclear the means and motive of the individual.

Fuck you with Blackfyre, too... the Family, not the Sword this time. --- the Wizard*

AN: