Chapter 550

The wine is poisoned!

In an instant, both Varys and Littlefinger came to the same conclusion. Without a word, they exchanged a subtle glance—mortal enemies by circumstance, now unwittingly bound together on a sinking ship. For a fleeting moment, they felt an ironic camaraderie, like foxes mourning the death of a rabbit.

This bastard means to kill us! But for the two targets, merely realizing the wine was poisoned was only the first step to survival. They now had to grapple with the pressing question: if they refused to drink…

Did Aegor have a backup plan?

Would he resort to force in a fit of anger?

Had he prepared contingencies to deal with the Queen’s inevitable suspicions and wrath?

And what about the four Unsullied guards stationed outside—could they hold their own against the twice-as-numerous Garrison of the Gift soldiers?

The air, which only moments ago felt unnervingly cordial, now dropped into a frigid abyss of dread and tension. The two seasoned political operators, masters of schemes and survival, found themselves stiff with fear, their minds racing to devise a way out.

Varys’s hand trembled as it slipped into his robe, gripping the hilt of a hidden dagger.

You think killing me will be easy? Think again.

The world knew him as the “Spider,” the master whisperer who had served two kings of Westeros. Few, however, knew the full story of his life before that.

As a boy in Essos, Varys had been chosen by a blood mage to serve as a ritual sacrifice, watching helplessly as his manhood was cut away and cast into flames. Yet even as he lay abandoned in the streets, wounded and bleeding, he chose not to submit to fate. He lived. Begged, stole, and even sold his body to survive.

Through grit and cunning, he quickly rose from a street thief to a master burglar and eventually became a feared kingpin of the underworld in Pentos. Alongside Illyrio Mopatis, Varys’s name became synonymous with control, manipulation, and survival. He had long learned to protect himself, to fight, and to kill.

He was no frail, soft-bellied eunuch. Beneath the soft exterior, Varys wore a finely wrought mail shirt and carried a concealed dagger. He wasn’t a knight, but in the tight spaces of a brawl, his experience would make him a deadly opponent.

But would that be enough to save him today?

His palms grew slick with sweat as his mind raced. Aegor was no ordinary foe. This was the man hailed as the “Commander of the Gift,” slayer of White Walkers, hero of humanity’s darkest hour. A veteran of countless battles, armed with a valyrian steel sword and likely clad in hidden armor, Aegor wasn’t someone Varys could overwhelm with a desperate gambit.

What were his odds? One in ten? Less?

Varys swallowed hard. He knew the answer. The odds were abysmal. Yet the defiance burned in his chest. He had spent decades weaving his schemes, building his power. To die here at the hands of a blunt instrument like Aegor? Never.

His survival instincts kicked in: fight, not flee. If he could strike first and take Aegor hostage, the soldiers outside might hesitate. With the Commander as his shield, Varys could retreat to the Queen’s chambers and regroup under the Unsullied’s protection. Slim odds, yes, but better than none.

If he was going to die, he wouldn’t make it easy.

While Varys prepared to gamble on a desperate move, Littlefinger was calculating a very different plan.

Unlike Varys, Littlefinger lacked the physical skills to fight back. His prowess lay in words and schemes, not blades. He didn’t even consider resistance. As Aegor’s former ally, his best option was to adapt and survive.

If the wine truly was poisoned, and Aegor failed to get them to drink, would he escalate to violence? Uncertain. But if Aegor turned to force, Littlefinger was already prepared to kneel. Better to live as a servant under a new master than to die for misplaced loyalty.

He had decided. If Varys refused to drink and Aegor did nothing, Littlefinger would follow suit. But if Aegor reacted violently… Littlefinger would swear fealty on the spot. He would proclaim Aegor as the true King of Westeros, the master who deserved to sit the Iron Throne. If there was still time.
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As the two men silently worked through their opposing plans, Aegor made an unexpected move.

After declaring, "Let us drink to celebrate," Aegor lifted his cup, tilted his head back, and downed the entire glass in one smooth motion. Not a drop was left. He then placed the cup back on the table, inverted, and stared at the two of them with an innocent, expectant expression, as if asking: Why haven’t you drunk yet?

What…?

What the hell is this?

Varys froze, his mind spinning. He had been ready to leap into action, to spill blood if necessary, but now… now the man had just drunk the wine himself?

Littlefinger, too, was caught off guard, his schemes and calculations thrown into disarray. What was Aegor’s game? Was it possible they had been wrong all along?

Varys quickly ran through everything he had observed:

The wine had been poured in full view, and the servant had made no suspicious movements.

The cups had been clean when set on the table, with no evidence of tampering.

And Aegor had genuinely drunk every last drop.

Unless…

Varys’s gaze shifted to the wine jug. Could Aegor have used some kind of trick vessel, one capable of pouring different liquids? He had heard of such things in the far east, intricate devices designed for assassination.

But the jug on the table was simple, glass, and transparent. It had no hidden compartments or mechanisms.

Perhaps…

Was the wine truly poisoned, but Aegor had taken an antidote beforehand? No, Varys dismissed the thought almost immediately. In all his years of studying poisons, he had never encountered a toxin with a reliable antidote. The idea was a myth, a fantasy peddled by bards and storytellers.

Then… what was the answer?

There was only one logical conclusion. Aegor’s cup had never been poisoned.

The entire setup—the tension, the false signals, the implied threat—had been nothing more than a masterful act. Aegor had orchestrated it all to cow them, to assert dominance without lifting a finger.

And the worst part? It had worked.

Varys felt a surge of anger bubbling beneath his composed facade. The humiliation was suffocating. He had been outmaneuvered, tricked, and toyed with like a fool.

But if Aegor thought this victory would go unanswered, he was sorely mistaken.

For now, Varys forced a pained smile and shook his head. "Lord Commander, my apologies. My health has been poor recently, and I fear I cannot partake in this fine wine today."

He wouldn’t drink. Not even if it cost him his life.