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Chapter 551
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 17:30:27 +0000 UTC“I admit, I am not well-versed in the dining customs of Westeros or those of Tushu, but whether in my homeland of Caina or here in the North, refusing a toast… is a grave discourtesy.” Aegor’s face darkened at an alarming rate, his displeasure clearly visible. “Lord Varys, you appear to be in robust health. How could you be so unwell that you cannot even stomach a single cup of wine?”
“I am ashamed to say that intelligence work is most exhausting… The pressure… It wears on one’s stomach…”
“I do not care about your stomach, Lord Varys.” Beneath his collar, something began to heat up. Aegor coldly cut him off. “In truth, I do not care whether you are rude or not. But your outright refusal to drink this cup of wine makes me feel as though the entire mediation I just conducted, the agreement we reached concerning the southern campaign, meant nothing to you. That you only feigned compliance in my presence, but once you step beyond these doors, the scheming, the sabotage, the poisonous whispers in the queen’s ear will all resume—only with greater fervor to reclaim what you lost today. Is that not so?”
“You overestimate me.” Varys shook his head without hesitation. “After days of contemplation, I have realized—without need of further persuasion—that opposing Lord Petyr serves no benefit to Her Majesty’s cause. Securing the North’s support and launching the southern campaign as soon as possible is the wisest course. Even if you had not arranged this meeting, I would have advised Her Majesty upon Lord Stark’s return to Winterfell to temporarily set aside her grievances with the Karstarks and the neutral houses…”
Varys had been read like an open book, yet his response was impeccable—neither flustered nor flawed, a masterclass in composure. But before he could weave more pleasantries, the situation shifted abruptly.
Aegor, who had been standing just fine a moment ago, suddenly drew his steel sword with a sharp shing and slammed its tip onto the table with a dull thud, pinning it beside his empty, upturned goblet.
The sudden action sent shockwaves through the room. Both seated men shot to their feet in an instant.
“Wait, I have something to say!” Petyr raised his hands, shouting over the tension. Varys, however, had already drawn a dagger—though still beyond Aegor’s sword range, he was prepared to use the room’s furniture and occupants as cover, waiting for an opening to counter should Aegor make a move.
“Spare me the nonsense.” Aegor clenched his jaw, his grip tight on the hilt. Though his face remained impassive, his lower body did not shift an inch. “I was wondering why Lord Varys had grown so bold—turns out the weapon hidden in his robes has been giving him confidence. Perhaps I was too subtle earlier, and you failed to grasp my meaning. Very well, let me put it in cruder, simpler terms—”
“You will drink this wine—whether willingly or not!” His voice dropped into a low, menacing growl. He twisted his wrist, tilting the steel blade slightly to catch the candlelight, making its edge gleam menacingly. Then, in a voice heavy with intimidation, he continued, “Drink it of your own accord, and we all walk away happy, without incident. Otherwise… you refuse my courtesy, and I will not be held responsible for how you drink it instead. Shall I describe it? I could cut open your throat and pour it straight down your gullet—or slice open your belly and pour it directly into your stomach. Either way… it will not be a pleasant sight.”
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"Not drinking means disrespecting me."
Before coming to this world of ice and fire, Aegor had ranked this phrase among the top three stupidest things he had ever heard. Never in his life had he imagined that one day, those very words would come out of his own mouth.
A finely forged steel blade may lack the prestige of Valyrian steel, but it had its own advantages. Freshly polished, its reflective surface caught the candlelight perfectly, casting a cold gleam into the eyes of those at the receiving end of the threat. The silent intimidation of steel sang a deadly accompaniment to Aegor’s blunt, unambiguous warning—a pressure so tangible it made both men’s skin crawl.
The Unsullied guards outside would not intervene in time. Both Varys and Petyr, understanding this, remained silent rather than risk escalating the situation by calling for help. Seeing that Aegor had yet to strike, Petyr swallowed his protests, while Varys remained in an awkward stance—gripping his dagger, unsure whether to sheathe it or strike first.
If Aegor’s goal was to confound his adversaries, he had succeeded completely. Varys now had no idea what he was truly after.
If the wine were poisoned, Aegor would hardly have downed it himself before forcing Varys to drink. But if it were not poisoned, then what kind of reckless fool would draw his sword—simply to demand that someone give him “respect”?
Under normal circumstances, Varys would take hours, days, even weeks to carefully analyze and deduce his opponent’s intentions. But now, he knew he had mere seconds—every passing moment doubled the likelihood that Aegor would lose patience and strike.
His mind raced, calculations forming at breakneck speed.
Whether or not the wine was poisoned, there were only two possibilities: it was, or it was not.
If it was poisoned, then Aegor drinking it first and forcing Varys to do the same meant he intended to drag them both to the grave—whether this was plausible or not mattered little. If true, Aegor, having accepted death, would never allow Varys to escape. In that case, drinking or not drinking made no difference. Either way, he would die—either by poison or by Aegor’s sword.
If it was not poisoned, then Aegor’s reckless intimidation could mean only one thing—he was establishing dominance. Perhaps his experience as Lord Commander and Gift-Lord had led him to believe that all power worked like the Night’s Watch—that once he cowed an opponent into submission, they would never defy him again.
To a seasoned political player like Varys, this worldview was utterly naive. But considering Aegor was a soldier at heart, it was possible—perhaps even likely—that he truly believed it.
The doubts dissipated. Varys glanced at the dagger in his hand, then at the untouched wine on the table. Now, the choice became a difficult one.
Had Aegor not drunk the wine first, the choice would have been simple: better to take his chances than to accept certain death.
But now, the situation had shifted. Aegor drinking first had reduced the likelihood of poison. Now, the choice was between certain death by refusing and possible survival by drinking.
Had Aegor blundered, or was even this sliver of hope a calculated illusion?
It had been many years since Varys had faced a problem this vexing.
He could not say. But he knew this much—if, after decades of careful scheming, he died simply because he refused a harmless drink and enraged a brute into killing him, then even in hell, he would die again of regret.
An ominous sense of foreboding loomed over him, but the will to survive—and Aegor’s increasingly impatient expression—left him no time for further thought.
Varys put away his dagger, forced a smile, and inclined his head. “A small token of protection. I fear I have embarrassed myself before such esteemed company… An old man such as myself, having weathered so many storms, cannot help but be cautious. But if the Lord Commander is so insistent upon this one cup of wine, then I would be a fool to persist in refusal.”
To ensure he retained enough strength should the worst happen, he did not sit back down. He carefully lifted the goblet, raised it to eye level, and, while keeping Aegor in his peripheral vision, took a small sip.
Petyr watched as Aegor’s rigid expression eased slightly. His left hand absently tugged at his collar, but his right still gripped the sword, the tip nudging his own emptied cup.
“Drink. All of it.”
Sighing inwardly, Varys tipped the goblet back, draining it entirely.
Aegor’s grip on his sword relaxed at last. But he was not finished. He turned his gaze to Petyr. “And you, Lord Petyr? You were about to say something? Or is your stomach conveniently unwell too?”
The meaning was unmistakable. Petyr had no intention of testing Aegor’s patience.
Without hesitation, he lifted his goblet and drained it in one gulp.
Three empty cups.
Aegor sheathed his sword and broke into a smile. “Ah, now was that so hard?”
