After Ser Kevan finished speaking, he slowly closed his eyes, his expression calm, as though he were merely awaiting the end of a long and exhausting journey rather than death itself.
He stood straight, chin slightly raised, ready to receive the final stroke.
But at that moment, something shifted.
Karl's heart trembled.
His brows knit tightly together, and that faint, uneasy feeling that had lingered in his chest since entering the throne room suddenly swelled into something undeniable.
"What did you do?!" Karl roared.
His voice echoed violently through the hall, startling everyone present.
He had spoken with this man for so long, yet gained no useful information. Instead, Kevan's calm composure had almost seemed mocking — as if he stood above them all, indifferent to his own fate.
Now Karl understood.
Kevan had been stalling.
And he had succeeded.
Seeing the previously composed Lord Karl lose his calm, a faint smile curved onto Kevan's lips.
"You wish to know what I did?" he asked lightly. "Then I suggest you inspect the ravens in the Scholar's Tower."
"Ravens?" Karl's voice sharpened. "You sent a message?"
The words struck him instantly.
Scholar's Tower.
Ravens.
Suddenly he recalled passing a tower earlier while searching for the Throne Room. He had even asked Varys about it at the time.
Karl's gaze shifted toward Varys. His hand loosened slightly on the hilt of his sword.
A subtle killing intent flickered in his eyes.
Varys looked momentarily confused — then realization dawned upon him. His head turned sharply toward Grand Maester Pycelle, who stood hunched nearby, his chain of office glinting in the firelight.
Sensing the change in atmosphere, Karl slowly sheathed his sword.
"Of course," Kevan continued calmly. "That is what ravens are for. Though I fear you will find few of them now. The ones not yet released may be… scattered in feathers and blood."
"So instead of fleeing," Karl said evenly, "you returned to the Red Keep for this?"
Kevan shrugged faintly.
"It is the only thing I can still do for House Lannister."
"Even if it costs your life?"
"What value has my life compared to theirs?" Kevan replied without hesitation. "If my death buys time — if it ends this meaningless war — then so be it."
There was no bravado in his tone. No theatrical martyrdom.
Only conviction.
Karl felt an unfamiliar complexity stir within him.
He had always seen Kevan as Tywin Lannister's shadow — loyal, steady, obedient. A man who never sought glory for himself.
But Karl, who possessed knowledge beyond this world's perspective, knew more.
Kevan had been knighted during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Jaime once described him as a towering warrior in his youth. After Tywin's death, Kevan had proven himself a capable leader — stabilizing alliances, repairing political damage, and governing with seasoned wisdom.
In another fate, it had taken Varys himself to eliminate Kevan to prevent the Lannister-Tyrell alliance from regaining strength.
This was not a foolish man.
Nor a coward.
Karl exhaled slowly.
Then he drew the gilded longsword at his waist.
"I will grant your wish," he said quietly.
Kevan's eyes flickered to the blade.
"That sword once cut King Aerys's throat beneath the Iron Throne," he murmured. "Jaime wielded it."
"You object?" Karl asked calmly.
Kevan shook his head.
"No. You have not dishonored it. You are… a true knight."
Karl gave no reaction to the praise.
He stepped forward, blade gleaming coldly in the torchlight. The tip pointed toward the floor as he stopped beside Kevan.
"Then let it send you on your way."
Kevan lifted his chin slightly higher.
"It is an honor. I only hope this is the second time it tastes blood beneath the Iron Throne."
He closed his eyes once more.
The wind howled faintly through broken windows.
A flash of cold steel cut the air.
Clang.
The sword was already sheathed.
Gasps erupted around the hall.
Kevan trembled instinctively.
But there was no pain.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
He was still standing.
His head remained firmly upon his shoulders.
Confusion clouded his face.
Then he turned.
What he saw froze him in place.
A body lay split cleanly from forehead to ribcage, divided into two grotesque halves. Blood pooled across the stone floor. The severed maester's chain, composed of twenty-four metal links, lay shattered amid the gore.
Grand Maester Pycelle.
Dead.
"Why?" Kevan asked hoarsely.
Karl's face was unreadable.
"He was the traitor in King's Landing. The man who betrayed the Iron Throne."
From Kevan's perspective, that was true.
He stared at the corpse, recognizing the broken chain.
After a few silent seconds, he nodded faintly.
"Then there is no contradiction," Karl replied.
He bent, retrieving the chain. From it, he carefully removed the Valyrian steel link, wiping it clean before pocketing it. The rest he discarded without interest.
Then he turned back to Kevan.
"You will be confined to the dungeon," Karl stated evenly. "A private cell. I hope it proves comfortable."
Kevan frowned.
"You said you required my head to answer for the dead."
Karl allowed a thin smile.
"Grand Maester Pycelle was correct about one thing. A man of your status deserves judgment by a king."
"This is not a battlefield. And you called me a true knight, did you not?"
Kevan's expression darkened.
"Then I retract my assessment."
Karl shrugged lightly.
"I do not particularly care."
He paused, then added coolly:
"And I have changed my mind."
His patience had run thin.
He pointed toward four tribal warriors.
"Take him to the dungeon. Guard him carefully. Do not allow him to kill himself."
"I have no intention of killing myself," Kevan said stiffly.
Karl's gaze sharpened.
"Have you ever heard of a man stabbing himself thirteen times in the back?"
Kevan hesitated.
"That would be called murder."
"Exactly."
Realization flickered across Kevan's face.
"You believe I am more valuable alive."
"Yes," Karl said bluntly. "Far more valuable."
The warriors stepped forward and escorted Kevan away.
Before leaving, Kevan turned once more.
"Lord Karl… you are clever. Perhaps even suited to be king. Should you sit upon the Iron Throne, it may well benefit the Seven Kingdoms."
Karl did not answer.
Silence lingered after Kevan's departure.
Only when the hall grew deathly quiet did Karl's gaze drift toward two remaining figures.
Varys.
Petyr Baelish.
The Master of Whisperers and the Master of Coin.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Timett noticed immediately. He had learned this small habit of his lord's — the subtle narrowing that preceded death.
"My lord," Timett said eagerly, raising his blade, "shall we kill them?"
Bronn, a beat slower, followed suit with his sword drawn.
Karl hesitated.
Only briefly.
Then he gave no command to stop them.
Understanding the silent approval, Timett advanced.
Varys turned pale.
"My lord — let us speak reasonably!" he cried, voice trembling.
But a cold blade pressed against his throat silenced him instantly.
He swallowed hard, unable to continue.
Littlefinger reacted faster — and more desperately.
Before Timett even reached him, his knees buckled. He fell forward and crawled toward Karl, tears streaming down his face.
"Lord Karl, mercy! Mercy!" he sobbed, clutching Karl's knees. "I saw nothing! I know nothing!"
"I was imprisoned in the dungeon until you defeated Ser Kevan! You are my savior!"
His voice cracked pathetically.
Gone was the calculating schemer.
Gone the mocking smile.
In its place was raw survival instinct.
Karl looked down at him.
This man — subtle, ambitious, manipulative — reduced to groveling.
The hall remained tense, blades hovering inches from flesh.
One word from Karl would end them.
And yet he did not speak immediately.
Because unlike Pycelle, unlike even Kevan…
These two were dangerous in different ways.
Killing them would be simple.
Using them would be wiser.
The Iron Throne was not won solely by steel.
It required whispers.
Gold.
Information.
Karl's fingers tapped lightly against the pommel of his sword.
The throne room waited.
And the fate of two of the realm's most cunning minds now rested upon a single breath.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)