A heavy silence settled over the Small Council chamber.
Moments earlier, the attending officials and royal stewards had delivered alarming news—three key ministers were nowhere to be found. Their absence was not explained, not excused, and certainly not reassuring.
Now, the room felt suffocating.
Even the air seemed thick with tension.
The high-ranking ministers present exchanged uneasy glances, but none spoke immediately. Each man appeared lost in his own thoughts, calculating possibilities, weighing dangers, and silently preparing for what might come next.
Among them sat Varys.
The Master of Whisperers had arrived early, having learned of both the emergency council meeting and Duke Karl Baratheon's return to King's Landing. Since entering the chamber, he had remained silent—observing, listening, absorbing every detail like a spider patiently studying vibrations in its web.
Only now, as the servants withdrew and the Kingsguard closed the doors with a heavy finality, did Varys finally stir.
He turned his gaze toward the man seated upon the Iron Throne's temporary seat—the man who would soon become king.
Karl Baratheon.
Karl sat still, leaning back slightly, his eyes closed as if resting. His expression revealed nothing. No anxiety. No anger. No curiosity.
Nothing.
That, more than anything, unsettled Varys.
A flicker of unease crossed his usually composed face. Beneath it lay something deeper—resentment, perhaps… or fear.
"Your Majesty…" Varys began carefully, his voice soft but steady. "I'm afraid we will not be able to wait for them."
At his words, several ministers turned toward him.
Karl, however, did not react.
Not even the slightest movement.
Varys felt a bitter taste rise in his throat.
Still, he pressed on.
"Yesterday evening, shortly after the Grand Maester announced King Robert's death, Duke Stannis Baratheon ordered his fleet to depart from the harbor. They set sail immediately, heading toward Dragonstone."
That alone was enough to darken the atmosphere.
But Varys was not finished.
"Later that same night," he continued, "Duke Renly Baratheon also left the capital. He departed through a side gate."
A pause.
"He was accompanied by Lady Margaery Tyrell—the queen who had yet to be formally wed."
Another pause.
"And Ser Loras Tyrell… along with one hundred armed guards."
The room grew colder.
"According to the latest intelligence," Varys added, "they are heading south. Most likely toward Storm's End… or Highgarden."
When he finished speaking, Varys lifted his gaze toward Karl, his heart quietly steeling itself for whatever response might come.
None came.
Karl remained still.
Eyes closed.
Silent.
The tension became unbearable.
Grand Maester Peyton raised a trembling hand to his temple, massaging it slowly. His expression was weary, almost pained.
How could he not understand what this meant?
Meanwhile, Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King, stood rigidly. His fists were clenched tightly at his sides, his face dark with restrained anger.
Then—
Karl spoke.
"Then why didn't you run?"
The question cut through the silence like a blade.
It was sudden. Unexpected.
And deeply unsettling.
Eddard Stark and Grand Maester Peyton both turned sharply toward Varys.
The Master of Whisperers froze.
In the stillness, the faint sound of him swallowing echoed unnaturally loud.
Sweat began to form on his brow.
He raised a sleeve to wipe it away, but the gesture only made his unease more obvious.
"Your Majesty…" Varys forced out, his voice strained. "King Robert's death… has nothing to do with me—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
No matter how he phrased it, it sounded wrong.
Guilt-ridden.
Suspicious.
Karl's eyes opened.
Cold.
Sharp.
Unforgiving.
"Then you must know something," Karl said, his voice like winter frost. "Tell me, Varys."
A pause.
"If you cannot convince me… I will have you buried with the King."
Another pause.
"Alive."
The room went deathly still.
"And I will light the pyre beneath your feet."
Varys felt his heart skip.
For the first time in a long while, he felt true fear.
"Everything I know," he said quickly, "cannot compare to what Ser Barristan Selmy can tell you."
He gestured toward the legendary knight standing nearby.
"But—" Varys added, forcing himself to continue, "there is something you should know."
He hesitated for only a fraction of a second.
"The wine steward… the one selected from the royal household… has been found dead in his chamber."
The words hit the room like a thunderclap.
Karl straightened immediately.
"Dead?" he demanded. "Murder… or suicide?"
Varys shook his head.
"Unclear. He died from poisoned wine. There were no signs of struggle."
He paused.
"It appears to be suicide."
Karl's brows drew together, his gaze piercing.
Eddard Stark stepped forward, his breathing quickening.
"When did this happen?"
"We are still awaiting the maester's examination," Varys replied. "The exact time of death has not yet been determined."
Grand Maester Peyton stroked his beard thoughtfully.
"Could it be…" he murmured, "that he took his own life out of fear? Perhaps he believed he would be implicated?"
Eddard shook his head immediately.
"That's too simple."
His voice was grim.
"It does not rule out the possibility that someone silenced him."
Peyton froze.
The implication was clear.
"Then… who?" he asked quietly.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"Stannis Baratheon," Peyton said at last, forcing the words out. "He had the strongest claim after the King. And he argued repeatedly that the law should confirm his succession."
Eddard clenched his jaw.
"Renly Baratheon and House Tyrell cannot be ignored either," he added.
His voice grew harder.
"They were with the King during the hunt."
"And after Robert named Karl as his successor… Renly fled. With the Tyrells."
He turned slightly.
"Even Margaery went with them."
Varys nodded.
"And Lord Mace Tyrell as well."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Two factions.
Two brothers.
Both gone.
Both suspicious.
Grand Maester Peyton felt cold sweat trickle down his back.
House Tyrell alone was dangerous enough.
But the King's own brothers?
That was far worse.
He turned to Karl hesitantly.
"Your Majesty… should we summon them? Call them to the Small Council to explain themselves?"
Before Karl could answer, Varys let out a soft, almost mocking laugh.
"Do you truly believe they would come?"
Peyton faltered.
"…Even so, we must try—"
"Try?" Varys interrupted gently.
"There is no room left for 'trying.'"
His voice was calm—but final.
"This is regicide."
The word lingered like poison.
"They cannot bear that accusation."
Peyton closed his eyes briefly.
At that moment, he wished nothing more than to resign, return to the Citadel, and bury himself in books far removed from politics.
Because the truth was painfully obvious.
There was no peaceful resolution anymore.
Even if Karl wished to show mercy…
Would Stannis and Renly believe him?
Would they risk their lives on trust alone?
Unlikely.
And if Karl chose to act ruthlessly…
This was the perfect excuse.
Eliminate both rivals.
Secure the throne.
Erase all opposition.
After all…
Neither Stannis nor Renly had legitimate heirs.
If they were removed…
Karl's position would become unshakable.
Even his status as a bastard would no longer matter.
No wonder they fled.
Peyton rubbed his temples again.
The more he thought, the worse it became.
There was only one conclusion.
War.
Another war for the throne.
Eddard Stark spoke again, his voice heavy.
"Your Majesty… I support the Grand Maester's suggestion."
He hesitated.
"We should at least send a summons."
A pause.
"We cannot simply accuse them."
Another pause.
"…Perhaps we can prevent bloodshed."
Then, reluctantly:
"Or… have them swear fealty to you."
The meaning was clear.
Forgiveness… in exchange for submission.
Eddard felt a deep bitterness as he said it.
This was not justice.
This was compromise.
Varys watched them both in silence.
Naive.
Both of them.
Even if Karl agreed…
Would Stannis and Renly accept?
Or would they see Karl as the easier target?
A lone king.
Newly crowned.
Unstable.
In the end…
Only one truth mattered.
Victory.
Whoever won…
would define reality.
Karl finally moved.
He opened his eyes and turned to Varys.
"Lord Varys," he said slowly.
"You mentioned poisoned wine."
Varys nodded.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Karl's gaze sharpened.
"Then tell me…"
A pause.
"Where is House Martell?"
The question caught everyone off guard.
"Are they still in King's Landing?"
Silence.
But in that silence…
A new suspicion was born.
And the web of doubt grew even tighter.
The game had begun.
And there would be no easy end.
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