Scene 1: The Spider in the Web
POV: Varys
Location: The Tunnels beneath the Red Keep
The Master of Whisperers did not run. Running attracted attention, and attention was death.
Varys moved through his chambers with the frantic precision of a man packing for a holiday in hell. Into the pockets of his soft velvet robes went a vial of tears of Lys, a pouch of uncut diamonds, and a roll of parchment containing the ciphers for his agents in Pentos.
Outside, the Red Keep hummed with a strange, dissonant noise. It wasn't the screaming of a sack—that had stopped hours ago, replaced by the barking orders of Tywin Lannister's officers and the rhythmic tramping of boots. The Usurper—King Robert, he corrected himself, tasting the ash of the word—had done the impossible. He had capped the volcano.
Varys hated the impossible. It ruined the projections.
He pressed a hidden catch behind a tapestry of a hunting scene. The stone wall groaned and swung inward, revealing a drafty, cobwebbed darkness. This was his domain. The Red Keep had walls, but Varys owned the spaces between them. Here, he was a ghost. Here, he was safe.
He slipped inside, his soft-soled slippers making no sound on the dusty flagstones. He closed the door, sealing away the smell of smoke and fear.
Let the Stag and the Lion bicker over the chair, Varys thought, his pulse finally slowing. Let them think they have won. I will watch from the shadows. I will see where the cracks form.
He navigated the blackness by touch and memory. Left at the third archway. Down the spiral stair that felt like a gullet. He was heading for a grate that opened directly onto the cliffs of the Blackwater Rush. A boat was waiting.
He turned the final corner, his mind already composing the letter he would send to Illyrio Mopatis. The Baratheon boy is brute force. He understands iron, not silk. He will be easy to—
Varys stopped.
A torch flared to life ten paces ahead. The sudden light was blinding in the pitch black.
Varys threw up a hand, his other hand diving for the dagger in his sleeve. But a heavy thud echoed behind him. He spun around. Two men stood there, blocking his retreat. They wore the mottled grey-green cloaks of forest hunters, their faces smeared with soot and mud. They looked like common soldiers, or perhaps bandits.
He turned back to the light. A man stepped out from the archway. He was slight, unassuming, with a face that one would forget the moment they looked away. He held a light crossbow, resting it casually against his shoulder.
Varys squinted. He searched his memory—a catalog of thousands of faces, from High Lords to stableboys. He knew the captains of the City Watch. He knew Tywin's lieutenants. He knew Robert's lords.
He did not know this man.
"Who are you?" Varys asked, his voice tight. "A Lannister man? If it is gold you want, I have diamonds. Enough to buy a keep."
The man didn't smile. He held up a piece of parchment. Varys felt his stomach drop. It was a map. A hand-drawn map of his tunnels.
"The King is tired," the stranger said. His voice was soft, echoing strangely in the stone tube. "He wants to sleep. And he says he cannot sleep while there are spiders in his walls."
"The King?" Varys laughed nervously, edging backward. "Robert Baratheon knows nothing of these walls. Who gave you that map? Pycelle?
"The King drew it," the man said simply.
The absurdity of the statement froze Varys. The drunkard? The hammer-swinger? He drew the blind spots of the Red Keep? It was impossible. And yet, the man was standing exactly where Varys's escape route bottlenecked.
"You are making a mistake," Varys said, dropping the mask. The simpering eunuch vanished, replaced by a desperate, sharp-minded player. "I am the Master of Whisperers. I know where the bodies are buried. I know the debts. Without me, your King is blind."
"He doesn't need your eyes," the stranger said, leveling the crossbow. "He has his own."
Varys realized then that he wasn't dealing with a brute. He was dealing with a replacement.
"Wait!" Varys cried, holding up the pouch of diamonds. "I can—"
Thwack.
The bolt took him in the chest, punching through the velvet and the silk and the flesh.
Varys gasped, the air leaving his lungs in a wet wheeze. He looked down at the wooden shaft protruding from his heart. It seemed... mundane. A piece of wood. A piece of iron.
I don't even know his name, Varys thought, his vision blurring. I am dying to a ghost.
He fell to his knees. The stranger watched him, impassive.
"The King says secrets are poison," the man whispered. "We're pouring them out."
The two hunters moved forward. They didn't just drag him; they processed him.
With the cold efficiency of butchers dressing a carcass, they stripped him. Off came the heavy velvet robes perfumed with lavender. Off came the soft slippers from Pentos. They pried the rings from his fingers and cut the leather pouch of diamonds from his belt. Even the hidden scroll of ciphers was plucked from his sleeve.
Corwin took the items, tossing them into a nondescript sack.
Varys tried to speak, to offer one last bargain, but his mouth was full of blood. He was left naked, shivering in the damp air—just a pale, soft lump of flesh with no name, no sigil, and no history. If he washed up on the shores of the Blackwater now, he would be nothing more than another drowned beggar.
They lifted the grate. The sound of the rushing water below was a roar.
Varys felt the cool air against his skin, and then he felt nothing at all.
Scene 2: The Frailty of Age
POV: Siro Location: Grand Maester Pycelle's Chambers
Siro did not like the smell of the Grand Maester's chambers. It smelled of old paper, sour wine, and fear.
He stood in the shadows of the gallery, watching the old man below. Pycelle was in a frenzy. The evacuation bells were still ringing faintly outside, but Pycelle wasn't packing to leave. He was destroying evidence.
Siro watched with a cold, hunter's eye. When Pycelle walked through the court, he moved with a stoop, his hands shaking like leaves in a gale. But now, alone in his room, the stoop was gone. He moved quickly, his hands steady as he fed scrolls into a brazier.
A mummer, Siro thought. Just like the King said.
Robert's orders had been specific. No knives. No poison. Make it look like the tragedy of time.
Siro waited until Pycelle turned toward the massive bookshelf that lined the far wall. The Maester needed something from the high shelf—a heavy, leather-bound ledger. He dragged a heavy wooden ladder across the floor. He tested it, then began to climb. He was surprisingly agile for a man of eighty.
Siro moved.
He stepped out of the shadows, making sure his boots scuffed loud enough to be heard.
"Grand Maester," Siro said.
Pycelle jerked. He was four rungs up, reaching for a book. He spun around, clutching his chest.
"Who? Who is there?" Pycelle stammered, the shake instantly returning to his hands as if by magic. "I am... I am the Grand Maester! You have no right—"
"The King sent me," Siro said, walking closer. He didn't draw a weapon. He just stood at the base of the ladder, looking up. "He is concerned about your health. He thinks you work too hard."
"The King?" Pycelle blinked, confused.
"Robert," Siro stated.
Pycelle's face went pale. "I... I served the realm! I opened the gates to save the city! Lord Tywin will vouch for me!"
"Lord Tywin is busy," Siro said. He placed a hand on the side of the ladder. "And the King says the realm needs younger men. Men with steady hands."
Pycelle looked down at Siro's hand on the wood. He realized, with a dawn of horror, that this was not a conversation.
"No," Pycelle whispered. "I am frail. I am an old man. You cannot..."
"Careful," Siro said, his voice flat. "That ladder looks unsteady."
Siro hooked his boot around the leg of the ladder and gave a sharp, twisting kick.
He didn't shove it violently. He just stole the old man's footing.
It was a simple trick, one Siro had used in tavern brawls a dozen times. When a man leans high, you only need to nudge the bottom to bring him down.
Pycelle flailed. He reached for the shelf, his fingers brushing the spines of the books he claimed to love. He let out a short, sharp cry—not a scream, just a yelp of surprise.
He fell backward.
The landing was sickeningly loud. Bone met stone with a wet crunch.
Siro didn't flinch. He watched the body settle. Pycelle lay at a crooked angle, his neck twisted unnaturally against the leg of his heavy oak desk. The ledger he had been reaching for fell a second later, landing beside his head with a dusty thump.
Siro knelt. He checked the pulse at the neck. Nothing.
He stood up and looked around the room. He didn't touch the burned letters. He didn't steal the gold. He simply adjusted the ladder so it lay on the floor, as if it had slid out from under a careless old man.
Calculated incompetence, the King had called it. Use their lies to hang them.
Pycelle had pretended to be feeble his whole life. Now, that feebleness was his epitaph.
Siro walked to the door, opening it and calling out to the guards in a voice filled with appropriate shock.
"Help! The Grand Maester! He's fallen!"
As the guards rushed in, Siro stepped back, fading into the corridor.
The Lion had lost his voice. The Spider had lost his web. The King's house was clean.
Scene 3: The Lion's Paw
POV: Robert Baratheon Location: Maegor's Holdfast (King's Chambers / Corridor)
Robert woke with a start, not from a nightmare, but from the silence.
For the first time in months, his head wasn't pounding. He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. He had slept for perhaps four hours—a deep, dreamless blackout.
He splashed cold water on his face. As he reached for a towel, he noticed a shadow detach itself from the corner of the room.
It was Siro. He hadn't used the door; he must have used one of Maegor's secret passages that opened behind the hearth.
"You're quiet," Robert rasped, tossing the towel aside. "Is it done?"
Siro nodded. "The cellar is swept, Your Grace. The Spider is gone. And the Grand Maester... had a tragic fall from a ladder. The King's house is clean."
Robert let out a long breath. Varys and Pycelle. Two pillars of the corrupt old world, removed before they could rot the foundation of the new one. It was ruthless, but looking at the peace in the room, Robert felt a surge of accomplishment. He had stabilized the board.
"Good," Robert said. "Get some sleep, Siro. You look like—"
"There is one more thing," Siro interrupted, his voice dropping to a whisper. He glanced at the heavy oak main door, where the silhouette of a guard was visible through the gap at the bottom.
"Ser Jaime is outside," Siro whispered. "He doesn't know yet."
"Know what?" Robert asked, sensing the tension.
"The Vanguard," Siro said quickly. "The evacuation is proceeding, but a specific unit broke off. They ignored the order to clear the streets. They smashed through the inner cordon of the Holdfast moments ago."
Robert went cold. "Who?"
"Gregor Clegane," Siro said. "And Amory Lorch. They aren't looting, Your Grace. They are heading straight for the Royal Nursery."
Fuck.
The sense of accomplishment evaporated. Robert connected the dots instantly. Tywin wasn't attacking him. Tywin was trying to impress him.
It was the Canon Event. The "Lannister Loyalty Gift." Tywin intended to present the new King with the wrapped corpses of Rhaegar's children to prove that House Lannister had severed ties with the Targaryens forever.
He thinks I'm a brute, Robert realized with horror. He thinks I want them dead but I'm too soft to give the order. He's doing me a 'favor'.
If Gregor Clegane reached that nursery, the reign wouldn't end today. Robert knew that. He would still sit on the Iron Throne.
But the Golden Age he wanted to build would be dead on arrival.
It would mean Dorne would fester in silence for twenty years, waiting for a chance to strike. It would mean the look of disgust in Ned Stark's eyes would never truly fade. It would mean Robert Baratheon was just another butcher in a crown, no better than the Mad King he replaced.
I didn't march three hundred miles to rule a graveyard.
"System!" Robert barked internally, instinctively looking to the corner of his vision for a tactical overlay.
He waited for the blue box. He waited for the
Nothing.
The interface was greyed out. Dead. Silent.
Why? The panic spiked hot and fast. Why now? This is a critical divergence!
Then, the realization hit him like a bucket of ice water.
It thinks we won, Robert thought bitterly, staring at the empty air where the text should be. The war is over. The Throne is secured. The System doesn't care about dead babies, it only cares about the Winner's stability. It went into standby because the math says I'm safe? Or that it is only me from here out? Because 'War' is over?
It's just a machine, he realized, the anger flaring hot in his chest. It doesn't have a soul. But I do.
I'll do it myself.
He didn't reach for a sword. He walked to the rack by the bed and grabbed his warhammer. The heavy iron weapon felt right in his hand—a tool for breaking walls, not fencing.
"Stay here," Robert told Siro. "If anyone else comes through that secret door, kill them."
Robert marched to the main door and kicked it open.
Bam.
Ser Jaime Lannister spun around, his hand flying to his sword. He looked exhausted, his white armor stained with soot, guarding the door of the man who had just usurped his father's King.
"Your Grace?" Jaime asked, eyeing the massive hammer in Robert's hand. "Is there a threat?"
Robert looked at the young lion. Jaime had no idea his father's dogs were hunting his charges just one floor below.
"The threat is inside the house, Jaime," Robert growled, stepping past him. "Your father's mad dog is loose."
Jaime looked confused. "My father? Gregor?"
"He's heading for the Nursery," Robert said, breaking into a run. "He's coming for the children."
Jaime's face went white. He didn't ask questions. He didn't hesitate. He turned and sprinted after Robert.
"WITH ME!" Robert roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
He didn't run like a King. He ran like a battering ram with legs, the heavy hammer clanking against the stone.
He wasn't fighting for his life. He was fighting for his soul.
The sound of splintering wood echoed from the floor below.
Robert gripped the hammer until his leather gloves creaked. The System was silent, but the ghosts were screaming.
He charged into the breach.