Silver Stag

Within Sight

Varys raised an eyebrow. "Including Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen? They have a claim to the Iron Throne as well."

Littlefinger waved his hand dismissively. "Ah, they are both too honourable to do what needs to be done to gain power. They will fall before the might of the Army of the Dead, just like all the other foolish leaders who have dared to stand against us."

Varys shook his head. "I fear you may be mistaken, Littlefinger. The forces of darkness are indeed gathering at our doorstep, but we must not forget the strength of those who would defend the living. There is still hope for Westeros yet."

Littlefinger chuckled. "Hope is a luxury we cannot afford, my friend. In these dark times, only the cunning and the ruthless shall survive. And I have no intention of being left behind when the dust settles."

Varys raised an eyebrow. "And what of Sansa? You plan to make her your queen?" He'd heard of Littlefinger's marriage proposal to the young Stark girl.

Littlefinger smiled, his lips curling into a sly smile. "Ah, yes. My dear Sansa. She is the key to my victory. With her by my side, I will control the North, and with it, the entire realm."

But Varys remained unconvinced. He had seen too much bloodshed, too much betrayal, to trust easily. And yet, despite his reservations, he could not deny the cunning and determination that burned within Littlefinger's heart.

"How do you plan to deal with the dead, my lord?" Varys asked, his voice low and measured. "If we cannot defeat them with our own strength, what then?"

Petyr smirked, confident in his own abilities. "We need not defeat them with our own strength," he replied. "For I have a secret weapon that will ensure our victory."

Varys raised an eyebrow. "And what might that be, my lord?"

Petyr leaned forward, a sly glint in his eye. "Why, it is none other than the very same force that has brought us to this point. The ambition of men."

As the sounds of battle raged on outside, Petyr continued, "You see, my dear Varys, the greatest weakness of the living is not the army of the dead, but rather the rivalries and petty squabbles of those who seek power. For every soldier fighting for the living, there are ten more who fight only for themselves. And when the time comes, I will use that self-interest against them."

Varys nodded slowly, understanding dawning on his face. "I see your strategy, my lord. But what of the innocents caught in the crossfire? How can we protect them?"

Petyr shrugged elegantly. "In timrs like these, the innocent alwys suffer. It is a sad truth, but one we must accept if we wish to survive. Our priority must be the preservation of the realm, no matter the cost."

As he spoke, he could feel the weight of the history of the throne room upon him. The great stone walls seemed to press down upon him, bearing witness to generations of kings and queens who had sat upon this very throne befor him. But he was not here to bask in the glory of the pasr; he was here to shape the futire. And that futire would be forged through the blood and sacrifice of those deemed unnecessary by the crown.

Varys, the master of whisperers, studied Petyr with a calculating gaze, his mind working tirelessly behind those cold, piercing eyes. He knew that Petyr was right - in times such as these, the innocent alwys suffered. For all his cunning and intelligence, Petyr had alwys been willing to do whatever it took to achieve his goals - even if it meant sacrificing those who stood in his way. But, while Varys believed that there were some sacrifices worth making, he also believed others were better left unmade. The fate of the realm hung precariously in the balance, and both men knew that their decisions would determine the course of its futire.

"I understand your reasoning," Varys said finally, his voice low and measured. "But what of the small folk? They have already suffered so much with the War of the Five Kings and the War of the Two Queens. Can you truly justify taking more from them?"

Petyr leaned forward, his voice dripping with sincerity. "We cannot save everyone, my friend. We can only protect the ones who matter most. And sometimes, that means making difficult choices." His eyes locked onto Varys', holding them captive in a silent understanding between two men - two rivals - who knew the true nature of power.

Petyr's words hung in the air like a dark cloud, casting a shadow over the gathering. Varys nodded thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing as he considered the implications.

"I understand your reasoning, my lord," Varys said finally, his voice low and measured. "But what of those who do not share our desire for power? Those who would rather see the realm burn than bow to either of our will?"

Petyr leaned forward, his eyes glinting with a cold light. "We cannot afford to be sentimental, Varys. In timrs like these, the only way to ensure our survival is to eliminate all threats, no matter how small they may seem. We have seen it timr and again throughout history - those who hesitate are consumed by the flames of their own indecision."

Varys nodded slowly, his mind racing with the implications of Petyr's words. He knew that the game of thrones was nevr a simple one, and that sometimes difficult decisions must be made in order to achieve one's goals. But still, he could not help but feel a sense of unease at the idea of sacrificing innocents on the altar of ambition.

The air in the throne room grew heavier, the silence oppressive as the two men stared each other down, their mutual distrust and hostility all but radiating from their very pores. But amidst the animosity, there was a glimmer of respect, a recognition that they were both players in this game of thrones, each willing to do whatever it took to emerge victorious.