Maegor's Holdfast, Council Chamber
Cersei Lannister smiled in satisfaction as she looked over the four letters written in Sansa Stark's own hand. With a graceful gesture, she instructed Varys to seal them with Lord Eddard Stark's direwolf sigil.
Each letter was addressed to a different recipient: Sansa's mother, Lady Catelyn Tully of Winterfell; her brother and heir of Winterfell, Robb Stark; her aunt, Lady Lysa Tully of the Eyrie; and her grandfather, Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun.
"Pour me wine."
The Queen Dowager accepted the goblet from her maid, her curved lips betraying her triumph and satisfaction.
She took a sip of Summer Red, and murmured, "My sweet Sansa has truly outdone herself."
Varys pressed the final seal and smiled pleasantly. "The pure-hearted little girl may yet save her father's life…"
He cast a quick glance at the Queen Dowager and continued, "She still dreams of marrying our King Joffrey in the Great Sept of Baelor, letting all of King's Landing witness her perfect union."
Cersei's smile curled in contempt, though she said nothing.
Grand Maester Pycelle's frail voice quivered with worry. "For the sake of family, let us hope they make the wise choice—to come to King's Landing for the coronation and swear fealty to His Grace Joffrey."
Varys folded his hands. "They will soon learn that Sansa is being well cared for and kept safe under your gracious protection, Your Grace. Surely they will feel deep gratitude for your mercy…"
After a pause, Varys rose and bowed low, his tone swelling with admiration.
"Your Grace, not only have you crushed the rebels, but now—with little more than parchment and ink—you will bring order to the realm after Robert's passing. Such wisdom… truly humbles the rest of us."
When his words ended, the aged Pycelle hastily stood and nodded in agreement.
Cersei lifted her chin, her expression proud. "Some victories are won by sword and spear; others, by quill and raven."
It was a lesson Lord Tywin had often taught his children back at Casterly Rock, when Cersei was still a girl.
Her eyes gleamed. "Has the Wolf in the Black Cells awakened?"
Varys replied, "He has, though his condition is poor. The gaolers say he has refused food—or perhaps the fare is simply too foul to swallow."
Cersei let out a derisive laugh. "Is he praying to the gods for forgiveness?"
Her smile faded into ice. "Let him feel hunger, then. Bring him only water—enough to keep him breathing."
Varys bowed. "As you command, Your Grace."
Pycelle croaked, "A fine idea, my queen. A weakened wolf is a harmless one."
Cersei's gaze hardened. She remembered Lord Eddard's defiance and cruelty—she would not see him rest easy.
"Tell the gaoler—one cup of water per day."
Varys nodded again, wordlessly obeying.
After a pause, Cersei mused aloud, "Once Joffrey's coronation is over, the trial of the Stark traitor should be made public."
Pycelle pondered, then agreed. "Before the eyes of the realm, if Lord Stark confesses his treason himself, it will strengthen the new king's authority."
Cersei frowned slightly. "Stark is a stubborn man. Sansa may be of little use in that regard."
The old maester's bleary eyes brightened. "Your Grace, perhaps the young lady might meet her father once. We could offer him the Wall—a chance to take the black. The daughter's plea might move him to repent."
The Queen seemed intrigued by the thought.
Varys, however, objected softly. "Your Grace, allowing them to meet would be far too risky."
Both Cersei and Pycelle turned toward him.
"We must not underestimate northern pride," said Varys. "If father and daughter are reunited, I fear they might act rashly—perhaps even choose death over dishonor. Lord Stark would never cling to life if it meant betraying his honor. And then… we would face a far more delicate problem."
Pycelle interjected, "Your Grace, it is said that Lord Stark loves his family dearly."
Varys gave him a sidelong glance. "Precisely, Grand Maester. And that is why we must not gamble. Both are in our grasp already—there's no need to tempt fate."
Cersei considered for a moment. "Then what would you propose, Varys?"
A faint smile curved across his plump face. "Let the little dove remain pure and unspoiled. Best not to expose her to horrors she cannot bear—it would be cruel to the child."
He shuddered theatrically, as though the thought chilled him.
"Enough," said Cersei sharply. "Get to the point."
Varys bowed his head quickly. "Your Grace, allow me to handle Lord Stark. I give you my word—he will confess."
Pycelle frowned. "Lord Varys, you just said the man is unyielding. Do not forget how he treated us when he served as Hand of the King."
He turned to Cersei. "Still, the Stark lord will care about his daughter's safety."
Varys smiled faintly. "And that, Grand Maester, is exactly what I intend to use."
He looked to Cersei, voice silken. "The greatest power of fear, after all, lies in the unknown. A good father will do anything for his good daughter. He will yield."
Sunlight streamed through the chamber windows, catching in Cersei's golden hair. Her smile held a hint of mockery.
"Very well, Varys. I shall trust that silver tongue of yours—for once."
Varys bowed, beaming. "Your trust honors me, Your Grace."
Grand Maester Pycelle sank back into silence, feigning sleep behind his drooping lids.
Cersei tipped her chin and took another sip of wine. Her voice darkened. "Varys, Pycelle… my late husband's brothers still refuse to bend the knee."
With a thud, she set her cup down. "Their ambitions are no smaller than his were. They are our true enemies."
Varys' smile did not waver. "Your Grace, at least the two of them will never join forces. Everyone knows that much."
The Queen accepted the thought—Baratheon brotherly love had always been "deep."
"You are quick-witted, Varys," she said.
He bowed low. "I merely bask in Your Grace's brilliance. That is honor enough."
Cersei received the flattery without reaction; such words, to her, were only truth, not praise.
Her emerald eyes flicked toward Pycelle. "See that these letters are sent at once."
The old man shuffled forward, trembling as he gathered the sealed missives.
When his hand reached the one bound for the Eyrie, he hesitated.
"Your Grace," he murmured, "perhaps we should hold this one. The Vale is said to be… unsettled."
Cersei frowned and turned to Varys.
He bowed. "My little birds tell me the lords of the Vale have formed a so-called League of Justice, in response to Lady Lysa's crime against Lord Jon Arryn. They vow to see the culprit punished."
Pycelle nodded eagerly. "Soon enough, they'll seek the Red Keep's support. That would serve us well."
Cersei sneered. "A laughable name. Very well—leave the Eyrie to itself. They'll come to us soon enough."
She rose. "Varys—keep watch on Stannis and Renly."
Surrounded by her maids and Kingsguard, the Queen Dowager swept from the council chamber.
A Week Later – The Black Cells, Red Keep
There was no light, no mark to measure time. Whether his eyes were open or closed, Lord Eddard Stark could no longer tell the difference.
He slept and woke, over and over again—unsure which hurt more.
In sleep came dreams: dark, bloody, full of broken vows.
In waking came only thought—and his thoughts were worse than nightmares.
He thought of Catelyn and the pain of separation; of their children, whose faces he feared he might never see again. The ache was like lying upon a bed of nettles.
He wanted to weep, but no tears would come. Even now, he was a Stark of Winterfell—his grief and fury frozen solid within him.
Days—or what felt like days—passed. His breath was the only sound in that endless dark. To keep his sanity, he built castles of hope in his mind.
Robert's brothers—Stannis and Renly—must be raising banners on Dragonstone and at Storm's End… Lord Beric Dondarrion and Ser Gladden, once they'd dealt with Ser Gregor's men, would march back to King's Landing… Ser Gawen Crabb, if fate had spared him, would be out there still, watching and waiting…
And Catelyn—once she learned of his imprisonment—would call the banners of the North, while the Riverlands and the Vale… the Vale… he had not yet judged Lysa Tully for Jon Arryn's death.
Each time the gaoler brought him water, he marked another day. At first, he'd tried to speak—to ask for news of the world—but the man with the ratlike face only stared. Ned began to suspect the fellow had no tongue.
Eventually the hunger gnawed so deep it made his body tremble. He wondered if the Lannisters meant to starve him to death.
Then he dismissed the thought. If Cersei wanted him dead, his head would already have fallen before the Iron Throne. No—she wanted him alive. However weak, however broken—alive.
Chains rattled; the cell door groaned open. The sudden flare of torchlight stabbed his eyes, forcing him to squint.
When his vision cleared, he saw the bald, gleaming head.
"Varys…" Ned rasped.
The Spider smiled faintly and bowed. "Good day, Lord Stark. It has been too long."
Ned leaned against the wall, voice hoarse. "Is it day, then?"
"With the sun high above, yes." Varys handed him a wineskin. "Drink, my lord."
Ned drank greedily. Red wine spilled from his lips, streaking his beard. Summer Red. He had always found it too sweet—but tonight, it tasted divine.
After a moment, he murmured, "No Lys tears in this, I hope."
The words made Varys feign a wounded look. "My lord, to poison a great lord of Winterfell? I'd never dare. I'm but a humble servant."
Ned drank again, the warmth easing his pain. "A humble prisoner too, it seems."
Varys smiled faintly. "And yet, the North still looks to you."
Ned bit back his questions; he had learned to guard his tongue with those he could not trust—and none less than Varys.
He exhaled slowly. "How is Sansa?"
"She remains with the Queen," Varys said. "She begged for your life only days ago. If you had heard her, my lord, your heart would have broken."
Ned's eyes trembled. "And Arya?"
Varys shook his head. "Your little one escaped. Neither my birds nor the Lannisters have found her. The gods were merciful this once."
Ned's heart lifted slightly. Perhaps Gawen had kept his promise.
"The gods are kind…" he whispered, taking another sip to toast the good news.
"My bastard son?"
Varys shrugged. "No one troubles themselves over a lowborn boy, my lord."
Ned's tone sharpened. "And Gawen?"
Varys' eyes flickered. "Lord Crabb enjoys the Queen's confidence. She has appointed him Commander of the Gold Cloaks."
He watched Ned closely, then added, "The Half-Wild Lord has turned the city upside down. They say all King's Landing runs red with his work."
In truth, it was an exaggeration. Lord Gawen Crabb had merely purged the corruption festering among the city watch.
Still, since his rise to command, Varys had grown wary—more cautious than ever.
Ned's eyes narrowed. "Then the guilty have paid the price," he said coldly.
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