Silver Stag

Downfall Of The Mockingbird

[King's Landing - Red Keep, Throne Room]

As the bells tolled through the streets of King's Landing, Varys and Littlefinger looked up from their conversation in the throne room to see what was causing the commotion. The sound of hooves pounding against the cobblestone streets grew louder and louder until they could see a sea of wights, led by the Night King himself, riding on Viserion, the dragon that had once belonged to Daenerys Targaryen.

Littlefinger's eyes widened in confusion as he took in the sight before him. "By the gods, how many of them are there?" he exclaimed.

Varys, ever the voice of reason, shook his head. "It seems we underestimated the Night King's power," he said grimly. "He has somehow managed to raise even more wights since then."

As the Night King approached the Red Keep, his army of wights closing in behind him, Littlefinger felt a cold dread creeping up his spine. He knew that if the Night King breached the walls of King's Landing, all would be lost. But he also knew that neither he nor Varys possessed the ability to stop the Night King.

"What do we do now?" Littlefinger asked desperately, looking to Varys for guidance.

But Varys simply shrugged, his expression grim. "We must rely on others to save us this time," he said. "The living will have to find a way to defeat the dead."

"By the gods," Littlefinger breathed, "where did all these wights come from?"

Varys smiled slyly, his voice dripping with malice. "Oh, Lord Baelish," he said, "you really do underestimate the power of death. It seems that he was able to raise quite a few more soldiers from among the corpses of those who fell during the War of the Five Kings. You remember that little conflict, don't you? The one you so carefully orchestrated." He chuckled dryly. "Oh, Lord Baelish, are you really that naive? You thought you could start a war and not have it escalate beyond your control?"

Littlefinger looked around in confusion, his eyes wide with disbelief. "But... but I thought we had killed most of them," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Varys chuckled dryly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Ah, but you forget, Lord Baelish. Your ambition has a way of multiplying the bodies it leaves in its wake."

Littlefinger's face reddened with anger, but he said nothing, knowing that Varys spoke the truth. The Master of Whisperers continued, his voice cold and calculating. "You see, when you played your little game of chaos during the War of the Five Kings, you didn't just kill off armies of men. You also unleashed a plague of the dead upon the land. And now, they mqrch at the behest of the Night King, fueled by your own greed and stupidity."

The air was heavy with tension as the two men locked eyes, each one aware of the other's guilt in the destruction that lay before them.

"And so, Lord Baelish," Varys said, his voice dripping with malice. "It seems that your ambition has come full circle. You may have brought about the very end of the world you sought to rule."

Littlefinger trembled with rage, knowing that he had been outmaneuvered once again by the cunning eunuch. But even as he plotted his revenge, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of admiration for Varys's genius. For in the world of Game of Thrones, sometimes the very worst villains were also the most brilliant strategists.

Their conversation halted as the doors to the Throne Room opened.

"I must admit, I didn't expect you to come here today," Varys said, eyeing Sansa Stark as she entered the room, flanked by four Vale knights.

Sansa glided across the floor, her gaze fixed on the two men. She was a vision in white silk and blue embroidery, her beauty radiating like a beacon despite the somber atmosphere. But there was a steely determination in her eyes that belied her youthful appearance.