"But eunuchs can't visit brothels with bastards and dwarfs, my lord," Varys said lightly.
"If necessary, I can only cheer from the side."
The cold iron sword slowly moved away from his throat.
Karl Stone withdrew the blade with deliberate calm, and Varys swallowed hard, feeling the miraculous return of breath. Life—fragile and fleeting—had never felt so precious.
A thin sheen of sweat covered his scalp and rolled down his temples. His back was soaked beneath his silk robes. Moments ago, death had been close enough for him to smell it.
Now, he lived.
Behind him, two bodies lay ruined upon the marble floor. One had been split cleanly from crown to groin. The other—Petyr Baelish—had been cut nearly in half at the waist and still writhed weakly, hoarse screams bubbling through blood-filled lungs.
Compared to them, Varys considered himself fortunate.
Karl regarded him with a steady gaze. Though technically only a knight—and bearing the modest title of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea—he was, for the moment, the true master of King's Landing.
"I wouldn't like a man watching me conduct business either," Karl replied dryly. "Especially not a eunuch."
Varys forced a polite smile. It wavered, but he maintained it.
Karl studied him a moment longer, then straightened.
"I prefer intelligent friends," he said evenly. "It saves time. Less plotting. Fewer knives in the dark."
He gestured casually toward the corpses on the floor—Grand Maester Pycelle in two pieces, and the still-gasping Master of Coin.
Varys followed the gesture and bowed his head slightly.
"I consider myself fortunate to have earned your friendship, Lord Karl."
"My loyalty," he added carefully, "has always been to the Iron Throne."
Karl shrugged.
"If necessary, I could have sent you to join your colleagues."
Varys did not doubt it.
Few men reached the Small Council without learning how to smile while hiding a blade. Purity did not survive long in King's Landing.
But killing Varys now would gain Karl little—and cost him much.
The eunuch's network of whisperers extended across the Narrow Sea and into every alley of the capital. And Karl, for all his boldness, was not reckless enough to discard such an asset without reason.
"For now," Karl continued, "let us solve the problems before us."
He turned serious.
"Until the king returns and appoints a new council, the burden falls to us. What do you suggest, Lord Varys?"
The faint groans of Petyr Baelish echoed strangely through the chamber as statecraft resumed around him.
Varys wiped sweat from his brow.
"I am but a humble eunuch," he said modestly. "If I understood governance, His Grace would not have ridden north."
Karl said nothing.
"But if we speak of urgency," Varys continued, "King's Landing desires peace above all. Public order must be restored immediately."
He paused.
"And food. Supplies are already strained. After such chaos, the city's granaries are not full."
Karl's brow furrowed.
Public safety. Food.
Simple words. Immense problems.
He had marched south prepared for war—not governance. His men were hardened mountain fighters, raiders and killers. Not city guards.
"I can maintain order," Karl muttered. "But food… The capital depends heavily on trade. The Blackwater is unstable. The Narrow Sea is no safer."
He rubbed his temple.
"My men are warriors. It is fortunate if they do not plunder. Asking them to manage half a million citizens? That is another matter entirely."
Varys observed him carefully.
This was important.
Karl was ruthless—but not senseless. He understood limitations. That meant he could be reasoned with.
"Rationing," Varys suggested smoothly. "Strict control. It will preserve supplies and reassure the people."
Karl glanced at him sharply.
"And manpower?"
Varys folded his hands.
"The City Watch."
"They were not all slaughtered," he continued. "Many were detained in the western barracks near Cobbler's Square."
Karl tilted his head.
"I am not Commander of the City Watch."
Varys's lips curved faintly.
"If memory serves, Ser Janos Slynt disappeared at the height of the chaos."
Karl raised an eyebrow.
"Did he?"
"Quite certain."
Karl sighed theatrically.
"A tragedy."
"Dying on the battlefield is an honor," Varys agreed solemnly.
Their eyes met.
The understanding was clear.
Very well.
Karl would assume temporary command—officially out of necessity, unofficially by right of conquest.
"Prepare the order," Karl said. "The Watch answers to me."
Varys bowed.
Thus, with a few carefully chosen words, the capital's military authority changed hands.
But one matter remained unfinished.
Petyr Baelish's weak cries had faded to ragged breathing.
Karl stepped forward, intending to conclude the matter personally.
Steel flashed.
Before he could speak, a sword pierced Baelish's throat.
Blood sprayed across marble.
Silence fell.
Karl turned slowly.
Jon Snow stood there, blade still buried in Littlefinger's neck.
The young man's expression was grave—not triumphant, not angry.
Resolved.
Karl's gaze cooled.
"Jon Snow," he said quietly, "do you understand what you have done?"
Jon swallowed and withdrew his sword. Blood dripped onto the floor.
"Yes, my lord."
"I ended his suffering."
Karl stepped closer.
"Did you consider why he suffered?" His voice sharpened. "Did you consider the thousands dead because of him?"
Jon's jaw tightened.
"He betrayed his king. He murdered Lord Arryn. He plunged the realm into chaos for ambition."
Karl's eyes hardened.
"And you killed the Master of Coin without trial."
Jon lowered his head.
"I accept punishment."
Bronn shifted uneasily nearby. Timett opened his mouth to intervene.
Karl silenced them with a raised hand.
"You were wrong," Karl said.
Jon's shoulders stiffened.
"But not for killing Petyr Baelish."
Jon blinked in confusion.
"I told you," Karl continued, "mercy toward enemies can be cruelty toward yourself."
He drew his sword in one smooth motion.
The steel rang softly.
"Kneel, Jon Snow."
The room went still.
Jon hesitated only a moment.
Then he released his sword, bowed his head, and knelt.
Karl stepped before him.
For several long seconds, nothing happened.
Then Karl placed the flat of his blade upon Jon's shoulder.
His expression softened.
"I am glad you have not lost your compassion," he said quietly.
Jon looked up, startled.
Compassion?
Karl's tone changed—becoming ceremonial.
"Jon Snow of Winterfell. Son of Eddard Stark."
He lifted the sword and touched Jon's right shoulder.
"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave."
The blade moved to the left.
"In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just."
Again to the right.
"In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the weak and innocent."
His voice carried through the chamber.
"In the name of the Maiden, protect all women."
"In the name of the Smith, be steadfast."
"In the name of the Crone, seek wisdom."
He lifted the sword once more.
"In the name of the Stranger… remember death awaits us all."
The final touch fell gently.
"Rise, Ser Jon Snow. A knight of the Seven Kingdoms."
Jon's breath caught.
Slowly, he rose to his feet.
His eyes shone—not with pride alone, but with fierce purpose.
Karl lowered the sword.
"I charge you to take up your blade," he said quietly. "And never surrender it."
Bronn let out a low whistle.
Timett grinned.
Varys observed silently, calculating.
In that chamber filled with blood and ambition, something rare had occurred.
A knight had been made—not for politics, not for reward—
—but for character.
Jon picked up his sword.
"Thank you, my lord."
Karl sheathed his blade.
"Do not thank me," he said. "Prove me right."
Outside, the city of King's Landing trembled between chaos and order.
Inside, a bastard of Winterfell had risen.
And the storm had gained a knight.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)