The Small Council convened under a storm-filled sky. Thunder echoed above the Red Keep, and it was as though the gods themselves listened in silence.
Petyr Baelish was smiling.
> "It seems we're losing control of the narrative," he said, hands folded neatly. "A queen dead, a city afraid, and no answers."
Grand Maester Pycelle huffed. "A sickness of the blood, surely. The queen—"
> "Was slaughtered, old man," Jaime growled, eye twitching.
Varys watched quietly, his expression unreadable.
King Robert was absent again—drinking himself into numbness, too tired to rule, too broken by Cersei's death. The capital moved without its king.
And in the secret tunnels beneath the Keep, Köinzell moved like a phantom.
He had uncovered whispers. Letters. Little birds' songs.
A trail that led not to Cersei... but to her puppeteer.
> Baelish.
In the candle-lit silence of the Council chamber, a raven landed. Its scroll sealed with a black wax sigil: a sword piercing a serpent.
Varys caught it. Broke the seal. Read it.
And froze.
> "This... is treason."
Baelish tilted his head. "Let me see it, Lord Varys."
But the eunuch only looked at him—truly looked.
> "You forged letters to spark tension between Stannis and the king. You've shifted coin to the Tyrells and arranged brothel meetings with nobles for leverage."
Petyr's smile didn't fade. "Proof, my dear spider?"
> "Delivered," a cold voice spoke.
Köinzell stood in the shadowed arch above the throne room.
His cloak fluttered like bat wings. In his hand, a letter—Stannis Baratheon's own seal burned atop it.
The Council froze.
Köinzell dropped the parchment.
> "Read it. Then decide whether treason still wears a crown."