In a world where stories breathe life into our imaginations and create bonds that transcend reality, the divine intervention of gods can turn the tides of fate and fortune. And so, the betrayed and downtrodden Targaryens find themselves bestowed wit...
Varys, the self-proclaimed master of whispers and knowledge, felt an unsettling unease creeping into his psyche. He had always taken pride in being one step ahead, privy to the most elusive secrets of Westeros. However, recent events had shaken his confidence.
The untimely death of his friend, Illyrio Mopatis, and the suspicious burning of his mansion had left Varys with more questions than answers. To add to his disquiet, the Citadel had also fallen victim to a mysterious blaze, its closely guarded secrets—including their nefarious involvement in harming Targaryen children and other noble houses—reduced to ashes.
Now, whispers from the east carried tales of so-called heroes, emancipating slaves and ruling over Essos. These rumors only served to further fray Varys' composure, as he struggled to reconcile his fading sense of control over the unfolding events.
Chaos and madness swirled through King's Landing, the very elements that Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish thrived upon. Yet, even he appeared perplexed by the recent events that threatened the delicate balance of power.
Varys found himself plagued by an unrelenting sense of dread, a feeling he could not seem to shake. Whatever was transpiring, he feared he might not live long enough to witness its resolution. Lost in these troubling thoughts, he was startled by a knock at the door.
"Enter," Varys called, his voice tinged with a hint of apprehension.
A young servant boy entered, bowing respectfully. "My lord, an emergency Small Council meeting has been called."
"I shall be there presently," Varys replied, already rising from his seat.
Upon arriving at the Small Council chamber, Varys bowed his head in deference to the Queen Mother, noting the absence of the King. Littlefinger was in attendance, his sharp gaze revealing nothing of his thoughts. Pycelle's seat remained empty, a stark reminder of his demise at the hands of Lord Tywin Lannister for his role in the Citadel's conspiracies.
The small council meeting devolved into chaos as the news of Stannis Baratheon's demise and Dragonstone's fiery fate circulated among its members. Whispers and murmurs filled the air, a sense of unease spreading like wildfire.
Varys, ever perceptive, could not shake the feeling that something was amiss. His mind raced, searching for the missing piece of the puzzle, yet it remained elusive.
Cersei, the Queen Mother, brushed off the shocking revelations, redirecting the conversation to a more pressing concern—Renly Baratheon. "I care little for that bore. It's Renly who poses the true threat, now that he's declared himself king, with the North in open rebellion and the Tyrells joining his cause." Her voice dripped with disdain, frustration boiling beneath the surface.
As if on cue, a short figure entered the council chamber, interrupting Cersei's rant. "Well, dearest sister, that's what happens when you behead the beloved Warden," the man quipped.
Cersei's eyes narrowed as the man approached, placing a kiss on her cheek. "What are you doing here?" she asked, her tone laced with annoyance.
"Simply enjoying some wine and attending the council meeting," Tyrion Lannister replied nonchalantly, taking a seat and pouring himself a goblet of wine.
"This is the small council, Tyrion," Cersei seethed. "You must have a position to be here."
With a smirk, Tyrion replied, "Ah, but as the Hand of the King, I do have a position, do I not?"
Cersei scoffed, a humorless laugh escaping her lips. "Our father is the Hand, not you."
Tyrion reached into his jacket, retrieving a parchment that he handed to Varys. "Yes, about that..."
Varys unrolled the scroll, skimming its contents before announcing to the council, "It would seem your father has named Tyrion as the Hand until he arrives in—"
"Out! All of you, out!" Cersei shouted, her fury reaching its peak as the council members exchanged uncertain glances, the weight of Tyrion's appointment and the tensions within the realm hanging heavy in the air.
As Varys retreated to his chambers, burdened by the weight of the day's events, he happened upon one of his little birds in the winding corridors of the Red Keep.
"Do you have a song for me?" Varys inquired, a glimmer of hope in his voice.
The little bird nodded, silently handing over a scroll before disappearing into the shadows.
Varys unfurled the parchment, only to be struck by a shock so profound it shook him to his core. The Golden Company had been decimated, along with everything and everyone connected to it.
His mind reeled, grasping for an explanation. If he didn't know better, Varys would have suspected that another player had entered the game, threatening the fragile balance of power in Westeros.
Meanwhile, the little bird navigated the intricate network of tunnels beneath the castle, eventually emerging into the open. He paused for a moment, then, with a practiced motion, peeled off the face he wore, revealing his true countenance.
A man in a dark cloak approached the boy. "Is it done, then?"
"Yes, my prince," the boy replied. "The message has been delivered to the eunuch."
Daemon, his eyes blazing with ambition, let out a mirthless laugh. "Good. Soon, they will fully comprehend the consequences of incurring the wrath of a dragon. Let us go, for there is much work to be done."
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