Sansa
"I'm so sorry."
"You lost a brother, Your Grace."
Sansa Stark shook her head, as her handmaidens, little ladies close to her in age, give or take a year or two, who'd all of a sudden saw themselves elevated to ladies in waiting to the Queen, pulled down her sleeves for the soft white gray dress she would wear to the haphazard coronation they'd prepared for her.
"You lost a betrothed, a man you loved." Sansa took the older girl into her arms. "And I know you loved Robb truly, Margaery. He loved you too, he talked about you every night, at supper, it vexed father so, that his eyes would be distant, thinking about you, when he ought to have been thinking of his duties..."
Duties he'll never live to fulfill, Sansa thought sadly.
Margaery smiled warmly back at her. Once, only mere days ago, she'd looked up to Margaery, the beautiful, older daughter of Highgarden, her brother's beloved, who smelled of the roses which she bore as the sigil of her house...and who was to be her future Queen. Now, it fell as part of her duties to comfort the girl, who was almost a woman now, certainly far more woman than Sansa in every single way.
"Would milady...I'm sorry, Your Grace wish for a necklace today?" Samtha Rykker held up several before Sansa. A mere day and a half since they'd named her Queen, none of her little ladies, or even her own siblings, had quite gotten used to addressing Sansa in the proper manner yet. Nor did Sansa want them to, though she knew the choice was not hers. It was funny, the little Queen thought, that becoming queen meant she would lose so much of the freedom she'd once enjoyed as a lady, as a royal princess of the court.
Picking one adorned with rather modest sized and emerald colored jewels, Sansa knew that it did not match with the colors of her gown, or her father's crown they would place upon her head today, but she did not care. It was her favorite necklace, and on this day, when the High Septon would officially signify to the realm that she now belonged to them, and no longer herself...Sansa Stark...no, Sansa I Stark, as the maesters would record in their books for the rest of time, wanted one thing for herself.
"Thank you Samtha."
"It looks beautiful on you, Your Grace."
Samtha smiled furtively. They gossiped that the brown haired girl with the chubby face and the chubbier waist was the plainest of all her ladies. Jeyne was especially unkind to Samtha, and not always behind her back, but Jeyne was prone to be mean. She hadn't always been bad, Sansa thought. Once she'd been plain too, her hair never done in the southern way, her dresses all made in the north, and they'd all mocked her, the southern girls. Until they grew older, and all the court saw how the eldest daughter of the King loved her northern friend more than anyone else, and then they all began lavishing Jeyne with gifts, and flattering words, as if her own proximity to the Princess practically made her one.
"You found this one for me, when that merchant from Qarth brought five wheelhouses of treasure to the market, you were the one to see it Samtha, you knew I'd love it the moment I saw it."
From the corner of her eye, Sansa noticed Jeyne squinting her eyes in jealousy. Why must she always try and be so horrible, why is Jeyne always trying to out southron the southrons?
"You look absolutely splendid, Sansa." It seemed odd, that out of all of them, Margaery could still freely address her by the name she was born with, and have it feel absolutely natural. Margaery was just that way, she just had that ability always making everyone comfortable in her presence. "I truly will miss you, you've been so wonderful to me, Your Grace. I only wish...you would've made the best goodsister..."
Sansa paused, looking hesitatingly at the older girl, the only person save their parents who could've left Robb shaking and petrified in fear.
Was he afraid, when the Greyjoy pirates struck him down next to father? Who died first, and who had to watch the other die? These questions asked themselves often in her nightmares.
"Perhaps...you don't have to leave, Lady Margaery. I...," Sansa looked around. Most of her handmaidens knew her well enough, and could guess as to what she was about to offer. All of them held their faces plainly, trying not to betray any expression, any notion of jealousy...all besides Samtha, who looked dumbly at the Queen and her friend without any sort of pretense whatsoever. "Maybe you can stay. I know we're just a bunch of silly girls to you, my lady, but perhaps a place in court by my side, until you find a new betrothed..."
"I wouldn't think of such a thing," Margaery gasped, "I still can't believe he's no longer with us..."
"At least it gives you time to mourn. Of course, if it is Highgarden you wish to return to..."
"My heart yearns for home," the older girl thought out loud, "but I cannot refuse such an honor, if the Queen extends it..."
"It's not just an honor, it would be my pleasure, a blessing bestowed upon me, for you to remain by my side, Lady Margaery."
"Then it would be my pleasure to wait upon my Queen, Your Grace." Margaery said this such familiarity, it must've sounded to all that she'd known Sansa as her Queen her entire life.
All her other ladies were better at hiding their displeasure than Jeyne, who frowned in naked jealousy. Except Samtha, who gasped in sheer joy.
"Oh, I'm so happy you can join us, Lady Margaery..."
Sansa knew that Jeyne would express her displeasure to her one way or another, in the days to come. She would not hear the end of it, she expected. But she was the Queen now, what else could she do with her new position, what else could she do for herself, except to keep this girl, this woman she admired, by her side for just awhile longer. It was one thing that did not need approval from her new Regency Council, or at least she'd hoped. At the very least, the Queen did not need permission from her ladies in waiting to appoint another.
Her neck ached throughout the coronation. The crown was a large one, and Sansa thought that had Bran or one of her other siblings been crowned in her place, it would wrap around their head entirely, dropping down below their neck against their tiny shoulders. The heavy thing perched upon her brow, Sansa had to learn her head backwards, so that the front of it could rest against her forehead, and the rear against the back of her head, almost to her neck. It was entirely iron, father had insisted on no jewels or southern adornments upon it but one, a gray, seven-sided crystal at its front, with seven elegant swords raised high into the sky, in the same manner as those worn by the Kings of Winter thousands of years before her, each sword's weight feeling the entirety of her father's sword Ice pressing down against her.
"Long may she reign. Long may she reign. Long may she reign."
They all chanted this, the High Septon's grubby voice closer to her ears than all the others. She'd spoken to the man once or twice before. As the daughter of Eddard Stark, born of Winterfell, she worshiped the gods of old, and spent many a day by the Godswood and its garden father had made in the Red Keep, enlarging the grounds from the smaller sanctuary the Targaryens kept more out of necessity than reverence.
But as the daughter of Catelyn Tully, many of Sansa's earliest memories were the recital of all the verses in the Seven Pointed Star, with all its tales written of the gods and their enemies, more of them seemingly residing in the world she inhabited rather than any godly domicile.
How could both sets of gods be true, she'd asked this High Septon, a fat man with grease oozing from his cheekbones, when she'd been child far younger than the day she was crowned Queen.
"They aren't," he replied. "Only the Seven, all else is blasphemy."
Then why did the Targaryens along with all the houses of the realm honor both, even if they did not believe in her northern gods? What of her father, who kept to the old ways, did this mean he was destined for one of the Seven Hells?
"Your father is a King. The gods make exceptions through the Doctrine of Exceptionalism for those who sit upon the Iron Throne, so long as they defend the Faith of the Seven, and allow the Faith to flourish under their reign."
Didn't that doctrine apply only to the Targaryens? What about all the Starks who came before her father, like Bran the Builder? Or even grandfather Rickard, or uncle Brandon, who'd died long before her father could be of any use to the Seven?
"The Gods are all-knowing, all wise," the Septon had replied, his voice growing more unsure with each answer, Sansa had thought. "They knew the future of the Stark line, its great destinies ahead, and preserved their souls..."
"What about all the northerners who weren't Starks? Like Jeyne, or Jory Cassel, or the Boltons, and Karstarks, and Cerwyns and Hornwoods and Umbers..."
He'd changed the subject then, though to what, Sansa did not remember. She'd had little use for him after that day, deciding that even as she worshiped the gods with all her heart, even as she studied with Septa Mordane and believed in all the teachings of the Seven Pointed Star, perhaps the gods had made maybe this one mistake with this High Septon, perhaps they hadn't realized that he was not as clever, or as holy perhaps, as they'd thought...including her own father, who'd appointed the man. She'd received his blessing, before the coronation, but Sansa could tell he wanted more from her. Was it her personal warmth and approval? A place on her Small Council, or Regency Council? More godly advice for her to ask he dispense with, of which she knew he knew little of, except what was written in books available for all to read, text which read the same regardless of eyes?
Though the ceremony was painful, in the literal sense of the word, the new Queen could take comfort from the eyes of her family, buried in grief as they were, cast upon her with pride. Even old Jon Arryn, who'd always been polite and courteous to her but little more, seemed to study her with his weathered orbs, as if still unsure of just how wise he'd been in picking her over Bran although, Sansa was sure, if forced to be admit the entire truth, he'd preferred neither of his choices, a little boy, or a girl only a few years older.
The ceremony was thankfully short, as Sansa had pleaded her mother for, a Queen begging the favors of others from the first certainly an auspicious sign to begin her reign. The lords easily dispersed to a small feast for themselves, a modest celebration because the kingdoms were still at war, still mourned their fallen King, and the new Queen sat before all to preside over its commencement, taking the tiniest sip of her wine before giving a brief toast written by grandpapa and Lord Jon, and receiving a louder acclamation in return, before she and her Small Council departed to meet at once to discuss the pressing business of the realm.
"You did well today, Sansa," her mother hugged her, before she took her seat, closest to her at the table. Across from her sat Jon Arryn, her father's Hand, whose position she had no reason to change. Beside him grandpapa, the Master of Law, and across, sitting next to her mother, Archmaester Ebrose, who'd served on her father's Small Council since he'd called him from the Citadel after the rebellion. Seated furthest from her on mother's side was Petyr Baelish, her Master of Coin, and across from him the Master of Whispers, Lord Renly Baratheon, who began by addressing the matter of the two empty chairs in her Small Council.
"I've a raven from my brother," the youngest brother of the late Robert began, reading a scroll the scroll in his hand. She'd always liked Renly, so Sansa averted her eyes at the man as he spoke, knowing what was to come. "They've managed to break the siege at Pebbleton and reach sanctuary at Kayce. Many died fighting, but many survived. All fought well."
The last words he read grimly, as if in Stannis's voice. It was known through all the court that neither brother much liked the other, but there was respect, and Sansa thought Lord Renly had to be pleased that his brother survived the Greyjoy trap.
"What of Lord Commander Waynwood?"
"Ser Addam perished with his King," Renly said sadly, "Lord Hoster, Your Grace. And your brother as well."
Uncle Brynden she'd mourned with the others. She'd still held out hope that Ser Addam may have lived so he could return to protect her. The younger and bastard brother of Lady Anya Waynwood, he'd fought valiantly beside father first at the Trident, then in Dorne, where the then young knight had been the one to defeat Ser Gerald Hightower while father and Howland Reed beat the legendary Arthur Dayne in combat. After the war, father had promised to legitimize the man so long as he immediately took his oaths to the Kingsguard, so not to threaten his half-sister's claim over Ironoaks Castle. But Sansa remembered Lord Commander Addam only as a quiet man, who seemed to be the living embodiment of father's shadow, yet always had a smile for her or Arya, who'd hand her a small piece of lemon candy when the King's attention was turned.
The chair she sat in now had been her father's, and like the Iron Throne, Sansa felt impossibly small in it, as if three of her could sit side by side and still have room left.
"I give thanks to the Gods Lord Stannis survives," the Queen proclaimed, nervously reciting the words her mother and Jon had written for her to study and memorize only that morning. "He will remain in his place upon my Regency Council, and my Small Council."
That meant four, along with mother, Jon Arryn, and Hoster Tully. They needed one more for five, and as far as Sansa knew, no decision had yet been made on that matter.
"Your Grace," Jon Arryn began, his blue eyes deathly serious. "What I tell you now, you must keep within the ears of this Council only."
"I understand."
"You can't even tell your brothers, or sisters," mother said, taking her hand as she instructed her. "Not your ladies, not your friends, not even Jeyne."
"Panic must not spread," Lord Baelish said from across Renly, "not until we have a plan of attack."
"Attack," Sansa asked. "So this will be war then?"
"Aye," the Archmaester nodded, "and a larger one that we thought, when King Eddard rode west to lay siege to Pyke and Balon Greyjoy."
"Dorne's treachery is noted already," grandpapa said sadly. "Though they haven't responded to our summons, we must consider them in a state of rebellion against the Iron Throne, Your Grace."
Dorne. Rebellion. Haven't they never been conquered through war, Sansa thought, remembering her lessons, but dared not ask.
"But other banners were sighted along with the Greyjoys and their mercenaries," Renly added. "Houses Rosby and Buckwell, for one, from our very Crownlands. Houses Hogg and Rykker as well, so it would seem the conspiracy extends even to Harrenhal."
"Samtha's uncle," Sansa gasped, shocked.
"Sansa, I don't doubt that your friend knows nothing of this," mother said, as gently and as tenderly as possible.
"Though it should not be discounted entirely, that the girl may have known of...something," Petyr Baelish, a man she considered her own uncle, added mysteriously.
"Regardless, her family has rebelled," the Queen Dowager continued, "Ned's...your father's blood stains their hands..."
"The castles are already vacated," Jon said, "the lords and their bannermen fled under our noses. We'll move to take Rosby, Antlers, Sow's Horn and Harrenhal, give them to lords worthy of our trust, houses that will support us in the war to come."
"Is it Rhaegar," Sansa dared ask, speaking the name of the shadow, the specter across the Narrow Sea which had loomed over their family since before the rebellion.
"I'm afraid so," Renly replied, and Sansa thought he sounded just a tad fearful. "Jon Connington holds Pyke along with the Greyjoys, which means this is Rhaegar's first move."
Grandpapa. "Which means there's more to come."
"Will they attack King's Landing," mother asked, deathly concerned.
"If they are fools," her Hand said, Sansa's own panic instantly abated at his assurance. War was one thing...war here, at home, against her, where they'd expect her to lead...that...that was completely unimaginable.
Jon Arryn continued. "Rhaegar will seek to test the waters. My guess is the Crownland banners sailed to Driftmark, House Velaryon was one of the last to submit to your father. There, they'll gather with Rhaegar's men. They may strike anywhere along the coast, but they'll avoid the capital for now...and wait until they gather more support."
"Rhaegar believes that more and more houses will rally to him," Petyr said, "the longer he maintains his armies upon our shores. He'll wait until he believes himself invincible, until he outnumbers us, perhaps, five to one, before he'd make a move on King's Landing."
"Which is why we must crush them," Jon said, "wherever they invade, before their rebellion gets any chance at growing."
"Will they grow," Sansa asked. It seemed the obvious question, yet none had addressed it thus far. "Will they get support from the other houses?"
A pause, first.
"We don't believe so," grandpapa assured. "Not unless they see us losing the war, not unless we appear weak."
"We lost our King," Sansa said, feeling an odd sensation growing in her heart. It was anger. These old men, who'd always seemed so wise all her life, who was her own kin...yet...just how wise were they? How could they know all this now, and yet let father die? "They must see us so weak already."
"It was treachery," Petyr said. "It was a trap, the lords understand this, so long as we respond with strength."
"Do you know this? Or are you just guessing?"
Sansa did not know what had come over her. Perhaps it was an aftereffect of the weight of the Crown placed upon her head earlier, that she would believe she had the actual power to challenge these men...and mother...even though they sat before her telling her of these things as a favor, a courtesy...even though they could go on and keep her in a tower and carry on with their war all the same. Yet, she heard herself challenging them anyway.
"Certainly we have to speculate upon some matters," Jon said, briefly flustered at being called out by a little girl pretending to wear a crown, "but believe me, Your Grace, we don't take the country to war blindly."
"Yet," a raspy voice challenged, "we were blind, weren't we? We were blind to the Greyjoy ambush which murdered our king, we were blind to the Martell betrayal, and we didn't know until it was too late that houses a mere three days' ride from the capital had decided to join an imminent Targaryen invasion." Petyr Baelish turned to Lord Renly, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and Sansa looked away, knowing that her dreaded moment had come.
"The failure is mine, and mine alone," Renly admitted, downcast. "Clearly Rhaegar has a better Master of Whispers than the one that serves you and your father, Your Grace."
All her Small Council looked to her expectantly now, and whatever courage she possessed just seconds before had long vanished into thin air.
"Lord Renly, you have served my father loyally for many years," she began, hearing her voice wavering, choking. As she spoke, Sansa had to avoid looking to her mother for comfort, but tried her best to address her Master of Whispers directly, looking kind Uncle Renly in his eyes. "But this...this...this war has been a failure...your failure, in this war..."
She knew the words she was supposed to say. Yet bringing them to voice was so difficult, to speak thusly at this man who had always been kind to her, who was well liked by everyone in the court, well liked by her mother and grandfather, who'd both nevertheless written for her the words she was forgetting now.
Don't be weak, Sansa chided herself. Father and Robb are dead, because of his failure.
Yet, hadn't grandpapa and Jon Arryn and all of them failed just as much as uncle Renly?
"I must ask...I must ask that...you...I must ask that you resign your seat from the Small Council."
Her final words came through smoothly, but at the cost of her composure. Her nose was sniffling, she could feel her eyes watering, and the Queen wondered whether she was about to break down and cry her first time before her Small Council.
"I understand," Renly said, no surprise in his voice as he rose to leave, and Sansa wondered where he would go. Storm's End, his brother's keep? Join the Watch, gods forbid? There weren't many places in her kingdoms for a younger brother, especially one who was not particularly skilled with the sword. Petyr had even pressed for his imprisonment, mother had told her, to be interrogated as to the extent he'd betrayed father, whether of negligence alone, or actual fealty to Rhaegar across the sea. Fortunately grandpapa had dismissed such suspicions as baseless, so Sansa was at least spared from having to lay down a far harsher pronouncement.
"Who will serve as our Master of Whispers now," she asked, the words, the question her own.
"It has not been decided yet," Jon replied. "We are searching for a replacement as we speak."
"Perhaps Lord Renly may continue to grace the Small Council with his wisdom," Sansa suggested, "until a replacement is found, of course."
"Your Grace," Petyr warned, "I'm not sure this is wise."
To her surprise, her mother nodded her agreement, as Renly paused by the doorway, not having expected this offer from her. Of course he hadn't, none of them did, until the idea appeared into her mind just now. She wondered how mad mother or grandpapa would be at her afterwards.
"Not as Master of Whispers," she thought, "but a seat...in general..."
"It's not unheard of," Hoster mused, deep in thought. "Your Grace, I do not believe it wise, to set the precedent of rewarding failure. But," he added, "perhaps we may keep Lord Renly at court, as your guest, so that his advice could still be easily given, were Your Grace to ask for it."
"Thank you, Your Grace, Lord Hoster, Queen Catelyn." Renly bowed graciously, before departing.
"It's a clever thought, Your Grace," Jon Arryn said approvingly. "With doubts as to the loyalties of all the realm between the Iron Throne and Rhaegar, better to keep Renly here."
"If he's a traitor, we can keep an eye on him," Petyr said, the seat across from him empty for now. "If he's loyal, it gives him lesser cause to seek out Rhaegar in his disappointment."
"That...," Sansa said, mouth agape, "I didn't think of any of that, really. I just..."
Stupid girl, I shouldn't have admitted this!
Would they think her a fool now, these older men who were so much wiser and cleverer than she, who could think steps beyond her own words, her own imaginations?
"You're kind," mother said warmly, any disapproval gone from her eyes. "You're compassionate, you didn't want to hurt him. But you must be strong, Sansa. Lord Renly...I do trust him, he was Robert's brother, and Ned loved him, almost like his own brother. But others...you must be take more care to be more...careful in...in dispensing...with your compassion. Not all of them will deserve it in the future, not all of them will reply it with gratitude."
"There is the matter of Lord Renly's replacement," Jon brought up, seemingly eager to break up the familial engagements of the Council meeting. "Any thoughts?"
"We must bring the west in," Petyr began. "For too long, they've been apart from the capital. The question is, who can we trust there?"
"Perhaps the Lannisters haven't fully swung their support behind Rhaegar yet," mother said, thinking, her finger gripping tightly the small of her chin. Sansa had never seen this...political side of her before. "Else Lord Stannis would not be alive to send us ravens."
"And they're no friends to the Greyjoys," Hoster added, "it's the Westerlands who usually have borne the brunt of Ironborn aggression since the end of House Hoare."
"We should invite the Lannisters to the capital," the Archmaester agreed. "Let them profess their continued fealty to House Stark, to Queen Sansa, First of her Name...and we'll reward them justly."
Mother raised an eyebrow. "Which Lannister exactly would the Council suggest?"
Varys
The King looked older, last he saw of him in Volantis. Rhaegar Targaryen seemed to age half a decade with each year he spent out in exile, the dashing young knight Varys remembered before the war almost forever vanished. Though little remained of the dashing Prince who'd charmed the entire realm before that awful war, the man they called the Spider thought that his eyes were still keen, intelligent, and alert, those features alone a thousand fold improvement upon his father, whom he was growing closer to in physical resemblance.
"Any word from the Lannisters?"
"Nothing," Varys replied. "Though no outright denial or denouncement either, which is a good sign, Your Grace."
"So they'll look to wait and see who's winning the war before throwing in their lot," Rhaegar muttered with disgust, "same as the last war."
"I wouldn't expect a lion to change their stripes, Your Grace, old or young, big or little."
"Do they expect us to reward them for such treachery?" The outburst came from the young Prince Viserys, not the worst Targaryen Prince Varys has known, not the best either, and certainly the reason the Spider was eager to arrange a good marriage for his King the moment he made his return to the Seven Kingdoms.
"Ned Stark didn't," Varys replied. "Which is why we have a chance at their loyalty in the first place."
Rhaegar glared at him first, before turning to his younger brother. "Agreed. Best not make the same mistake." The King shook his head. "It surprises me they chose the girl. Does it surprise you, Lord Varys?"
"It does," Varys admitted, prompting Rhaegar to raise one eyebrow in interest. "The choice of either one over the other would have surprised me."
"Which means neither surprises you." A surprising voice, belonging to the young Princess Daenerys, spoken from the corner of the small room that Rhaegar had settled in as his solar in the vast manse. None of them had known of her presence, until she just was suddenly there. Viserys seemed to bristle, but the King just gave her a calm and pacifying smile. Sometimes, Varys thought, it wasn't the thought of the Crown and the Throne that kept the King going, nor the idea of revenge, but his child sister, and who would provide for her were he to die, a lone Prince in exile.
He hates her, Varys thought, watching Viserys glaring at his younger sister, because she's everything he's not. Smart. Beautiful. Charming. Yet, he wants her, Varys knew. They both needed to marry. Soon, and separately, Rhaegar had agreed to that. It'd been one of the conditions Varys had set, before agreeing to serve the man.
"The people did not know what to think of the strange northman sitting on the throne which had belonged to the dragons for years," Varys began, a subtle wink at the young girl, who was becoming less and less a girl by the day. "He was stern, he was cold, he seemed to visibly shy away from their inherent need to love him, their King. Yet they saw in King Eddard a good man, a noble man, a fair man, who protected the smallfolk, who dealt justice to a common smith the same way he would any great lord. They saw his little wolflings, all good, lovely children, Princes and Princesses who would inherent the realm after Ned Stark, and they liked what they saw, father and children, King and heirs...King Eddard the Just one day, King Eddard the Beloved the next day..."
"Which is why he had to die now," Viserys interrupted, and the man they called the Spider cringed.
"Yes, it was a necessity." And a tragedy, Varys believed, one he would not have worked so hard to manifest into reality, had he not believed the King standing before him, whom he served ever since Ned Stark dismissed him following his coronation, had the potential to reign an equally just king. He never bore ill will against the man they called the Quiet Wolf, Varys knew he ought to consider himself lucky in keeping his head at all, war being war, after all that war had cost Ned Stark. But a man needs food upon his table, a reason to wake each morning and not drink and fuck himself into oblivion, though the latter was impossible to Varys...and all the little birds he'd cultivated through so many years, across so many lands...well, it would be a shame leave them unfed, abandoned and lost in the deep dark woods.
"What do you know about their new Queen," Daenerys asked, her voice curiously inquisitive.
"She's a lovely little girl, quite pretty, so they say." Varys turned to Rhaegar. "I know little of Bran Stark, except that he's clever too, a good child. Perhaps he'll grow to be a valiant warrior one day. But a pretty girl evokes stronger emotions in the people than a young boy. I believe they see in her a symbol. Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn. Ned Stark was strong but fair, and becoming beloved, as we all know. The picture of a beautiful young Queen sitting upon her father's throne can create a lasting legacy for their dynasty, engendering not the fear with which Aegon conquered and held six kingdoms with...but the love that Jaehaerys...and his little Queen Alysanne, inspired in making all the many kingdoms one."
"So long as they have the swords and shields of the northern three kingdoms standing behind the girl," Rhaegar noted, unmoved by his words. Looking up from the map, he questioned Varys. "What of House Baratheon?"
"Stannis is a loyal man, I doubt he'd budge. Lord Renly, on the other hand, I'd expect them to dismiss, for his failure." And that failure Varys had worked day and night to achieve, letting none but a critical few know of their trap, the secret sealed so shut that it threatened to endanger the entirety of their plans.
"You'll approach him, along with the Tyrells?"
The Spider turned to Lewyn Martell, who'd listened to their conversation without so much a word until now. In fact, Varys could swear he'd heard the old Kingsguard utter no more than a few dozen words ever since accompanying his charge to his new exile east of the Narrow Sea.
"After we land, and make our presence known in the Seven Kingdoms."
"Approach such noble houses now," Rhaegar explained, for the sake of his younger brother, "and you force them to an immediate decision...whether to throw their support to us at once...or betray us at once and alarm the Red Keep."
"But war buys them time to make a decision," Varys continued, "and it buys us time to find...new ways, of convincing them."
"So they can pick a winner depending on how the war is going," Daenerys interrupted, to the surprise of all of them again except Rhaegar. And Lewyn, Varys noticed, who actually regarded the young princess with amusement, perhaps even a sense of pride in his watchful eyes. "Just like the Lannisters," she finished.
Struggling to stand upright, the King grabbed his cane and walked forward to his younger brother. Setting the cane aside, leaning against the table, Varys watched Rhaegar's legs buckle while he placed both hands upon the shoulders of Prince Viserys, and thought that one more unsteady second, and Lewyn would need to grab the King before he fell.
"That's your job, your duty, brother. To make it evident the right choice, to all the houses whose treason isn't already set in stone through blood or honor."
"I will not fail you, my brother." Prince Viserys bowed. "My King."
You will fail, Varys thought, though his face betrayed nothing, unless you have help. The men who will accompany you will see that you succeed, young Prince, despite your best efforts...because of my best efforts. But even then, nothing is certain, because war is still war...
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Notes and responses: Thanks to all for reading and reviewing this fic thus far.
As to any ships which may or may not occur...I expect this story to be an expansive one, spanning beyond Season 8 in terms of timeline. Any "ships" which may or may not occur will serve the plot and characters...not the other way around. Any ships which may occur may be permanent, or temporary, lasting only a few chapters. They could be toxic, or healthy, expected or unexpected, willing or arrange...but I will clarify that the endgame of this story is the story itself, not any specific ship.
