Chapter 645

The northern wind had fallen silent. As the snow melted into thick mud, green shoots pushed their way through the soil, and insect eggs stirred to life. With the coming of spring, it was not just nature that awakened, but also the people of King’s Landing—both soldiers and civilians alike.

The invasion of the Reach had been finalized and set on the agenda. For over half a month, preparations for war—stockpiling grain, forging weapons—had been in full swing. Just as the city held its breath, waiting for the Queen’s army to march once more, another piece of explosive news spread through the industrial park like wildfire:

The Night’s Watch armory had declassified the blueprints for gunpowder and artillery, handing them over to the industrial research institute for mass production—preparing for the worst in case the war did not go as planned.

At the announcement, morale soared. Everyone was thrilled, but none more so than those with a direct stake in the matter. The mid-tier researchers of the institute, now poised to access deeper military secrets, eagerly anticipated the opportunity to expand their knowledge. The administrators, suppliers, and workers of the industrial park, looking forward to the influx of contracts and coin, celebrated the expansion.

And then there were the other beneficiaries—the ones lurking in the shadows. The spies who had spent years sharpening their knives, desperate to infiltrate the Night’s Watch armory, only to be blocked at every turn.

The industrial park, being a business organization, had been relatively easy to infiltrate. But the armory? That was another matter entirely. It was an insulated system, rooted in the Gift, floating above the research institute’s hierarchy. Its core personnel were few, heavily vetted, and under strict protection. These factors had given the infiltrators countless headaches. But now, the target had suddenly lowered its own defenses, voluntarily declassifying critical information on firearms and explosives.

The once unreachable feast had been placed directly in their bowls.

For the spies who had been cursing Aegor’s iron-clad security policies just days ago, this turn of events felt like divine providence. Overnight, he had gone from their greatest obstacle to a benefactor.

And yet, while King’s Landing—both allies and enemies—basked in this unexpected boon, there was one man who found himself deeply, profoundly uneasy.

Illyrio Mopatis dismissed his informant with a wave, his expression unreadable. As the door closed behind the man, he absentmindedly crumpled the report in his hands and tossed it toward the brazier.

He missed.

The wad of paper skittered across the floor and came to rest in the corner.

"Damn it!"

Before the curse fully left his lips, his ever-dutiful serving girl had already rushed over, retrieving the paper and tossing it properly into the fire.

Illyrio watched as the parchment blackened and curled, consumed by the flames, its words reduced to ash.

Yet, his heart felt no lighter.

His hands had not trembled because of some fleeting accident. They had trembled because he was afraid.

Or rather—it was not that fear had only now crept up on him. The scent of danger had been lingering around him ever since his last meeting with the Queen.

But today…

Today, that scent had thickened.

It clung to his skin like the stench of rot.

Since setting his course on "steal and disseminate the secret of the new weapons", Illyrio had thrown himself fully into the task.

The plan had been simple in concept, but the execution had proven nightmarish. For years, he and Varys had divided their responsibilities: Varys operated in Westeros, directing the fireline operations, while Illyrio worked from Essos, providing resources and manpower from the shadows.

He was not a field agent. He was not an intelligence officer. Personally running a spy network in the heart of Westeros was not within his expertise.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to start from scratch.

The research institute was the second-largest department in the Night’s Watch industrial complex, just behind production itself. It was sprawling, chaotic, riddled with countless personnel. Even before Illyrio had arrived in King’s Landing, Varys’ mid-tier agents—either under his direct orders or by their own initiative—had begun infiltrating its ranks.

These sleepers had settled into their cover identities, living ordinary lives. If no contact ever came, they would remain in their posts indefinitely, earning decent wages, marrying, having children, growing old under the empire Aegor had built.

But the moment a superior activated them, they would reawaken and carry out their missions.

Illyrio’s task was not to orchestrate an infiltration.

It was simply to reactivate what had already been built.

All he had to do was follow the web that Varys had left behind, locate the handlers, and breathe life back into the network.

And yet—despite all his efforts, despite leveraging every last asset at his disposal—the operation had stalled.

Then, suddenly, without warning, the enemy had handed him exactly what he wanted.

Illyrio could scarcely believe it.

With his network already in place, if the declassification was real, if the blueprints and formulas were truly being distributed, then by tonight—by tomorrow at the latest—he would have the full, unaltered schematics in his hands.

One question remained: was this real?

To be fair, it was possible.

The Queen’s forces were preparing to march on the Reach. Facing a kingdom of ten million, Daenerys and her advisors might have feared that their advanced weaponry would be insufficient to ensure total dominance. It was entirely reasonable that they would rush to expand production.

Given the looming war, even if the Queen’s inner circle suspected there were spies lurking in the city, they might have chosen to tolerate it for now—opting to deal with espionage after the war, rather than picking a fight with every foreign agent while simultaneously waging war against the Reach.

That explanation made sense.

But Illyrio had survived in this world by never trusting coincidences.

Something about this felt wrong.

With war imminent, the Queen’s faction had no reason to waste time dealing with small fry.

That meant one of two things:The enemy had made a genuine mistake amidst the chaos of war preparations.This was a trap.

And in King’s Landing…

How many people could qualify as "big fish"?

Illyrio racked his brain, trying to think of any other high-profile spy or conspirator currently active in the capital.

He came up blank.

His body trembled involuntarily.

A terrifying thought struck him.

As "the magistrate of Pentos", he was not worth the effort of an elaborate deception.

If someone had set a trap for him, that meant they knew of his true identity.

They knew he was not just a merchant.

They knew his ties to Varys.

They knew his allegiance to Young Aegon and Jon Connington.

And worst of all…

They knew his real ambition.

The poisoning case.

The one he had been agonizing over, trying to determine the real culprit.

Had the answer been staring him in the face this whole time?

Had the Queen discovered the truth? No—that was unlikely.

Then… her Hand?

That damned Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch?

But how? How had he committed the crime and not only evaded punishment, but also regained Daenerys’ favor to become her most trusted advisor?

None of that mattered now.

What mattered was survival.

Illyrio shot to his feet, his massive bulk making the chair groan in protest.

"Babette!" he barked. "Send word to Koller immediately! No reports from the research institute are to be delivered to me directly—reroute them to Pentos! Arrange a ship—no, forget that!"

He hesitated only a moment before slamming his fist against his thigh.

"Order the carriage! Send a messenger to the docks! We are leaving for Pentos. Immediately!"