I finished the letter with a flourish of the wrist, sliding the feathered pen across the coarse parchment in a beautiful arc. I’d been practicing calligraphy, of all things, a few minutes a day, so the people in this backwards world didn’t think me uncultured for not being able to put an extra circle every time I wrote a capital L.

It didn’t hurt that Margaery also happened to have a deep infatuation for poetry and sonnets, and I had no shortage of examples to copy off of my last life. I’d already pre-made a dozen and had them in my bedside drawer, just in case. Happy wife, happy life, as they say.

This one wasn’t for her, though. This message would be heading north, past the Crownlands and the Vale, and all the way to White Harbor. The North was about to become the focus of my efforts; it would be there the fate of my reign, and possibly the world, would be decided. I couldn’t have the staging ground of the fight against the White Walkers in a three-way tug rope between the northerners in the center, Stannis in the north, and the remnants of the Ironborn in the west. I needed firm control of it. And I would rather fall on my sword right now than have the fucking Boltons on my back when the winter armageddon came.

There was a sharp rap at the door then, and Bronn moved to open it. He had grumbled about playing my doorman for the day, but I gave him the signed document that arranged his marriage with Lollys Stokeworth for the week after mine with Margaery. Now, the next person he killed for me, he’d be doing it as a lord.

He’d kept well shut after that.

It was Qyburn who shuffled into the solar attached to my rooms, carrying a small box and the smell of death with him. He’d changed his robes since I last saw him, of course, but blood and suffering had a way of lingering to a man. It was a few hours after the last council meeting, and the sun was still out in the sky. It made the pallidness of the former maester all the more evident.

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing.

I gestured to the chair opposite mine. “I see you brought the items I asked of you.”

“Indeed, my king. The gifts and the notes. Here is fine?” He hovered the box over the desk.

“Yes, yes. There is just fine.” He set the box down before passing me a bundle of parchment, and I saved the tiny scrolls inside a drawer for later perusal. I had to keep up to date with my spy network after all. “Now, tell me of Ser Balon. I can’t help being… curious about his state.”

“Progress has been slow, Your Grace, but not insignificant.” Qyburn had a habit of wringing his hands. “His body is the same, yet different. It functions in ways the human mind is not used to. He is quiet—though I knew him not before his accident, so I have nothing to compare, but he is capable of speech, if that worries Your Grace.”

I would hardly call being stabbed by a shadow-demon an accident, but I simply nodded. My headache had faded after a few hours, so I was in a stellar mood. “What about his urges? How much does he need? How is it done? Can he pass his condition to others? Does he need anything else other than blood? Something more… substantial?”

“He has not become a cannibal, Your Grace. He holds no desire for the flesh of men. His condition is also singular, caused specifically by his wound. The blood acts as the source of fuel, as otherwise the rot would consume him instead. I’ve experimented with his blood and his saliva as well, Your Grace, and no others have become infected by it. And I have established that he needs no more than a cup-full to satiate himself for near a full day.”

“So no pointy teeth or any of the like?”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Ehr, no, Your Grace. Nothing like that.”

I nodded. I had to make sure. “He needs blood much less than a regular man needs water, then,” I muttered. That seemed… doable. Very doable. Though there’d be no way of conserving the blood for long, there were also a lot of unimportant people laying around, and I did have near absolute power over my subjects, most especially the less-desirables that made the black cells their home.

“Precisely, Your Grace. His needs are easily met, and I suspect he can go longer without it. Though he does get… antsy if left unchecked for long. I have yet to determine the consequences of long term suspension of blood. Another week, perhaps, and I believe he will be ready to return to duty.”

“Of course,” I said. Suspending a vampire from blood was not a can of worms I wanted to touch with a ten-foot long stick. “Give him my regards, if you will. As soon as you believe it best, I will come down to visit him. Now, onto other matters. I need you to do something for me, Qyburn.” I took the letter I’d been writing, tied it with a ribbon, and affixed the royal seal to it. “I need this sent to Lord Manderly of White Harbor, as soon as possible. Make it a priority.” This was a gamble, I knew. Because if Ser Kevan failed, I would be branded a liar on top of an incestuous bastard. But time was against me, and I couldn’t wait for the stars to align to move things forward.

Qyburn nodded and grabbed the letter with gentle hands. “It shall be done, Your Grace.”

I lifted a finger. “One other thing, before you go. Be ready to take over the birds in an hour's time, Qyburn.”

He didn’t even twitch. “Of course, Your Grace,” he said, smiling. “I have been waiting.”

xxxx

Varys was the next one to come in, an hour after Qyburn left, and he immediately knew what was about to happen when he turned and noticed it was Bronn closing the door. “Ah.” He looked between the two of us for a moment, then resignation settled on the lines of his face. “I see,” he said.

It worried me how aloof he was about it, though I didn’t let it show. “Indeed, my lord. But I hope you know I do this not out of spite for you. I greatly admire your work, in fact. It simply has to be done.”

Varys nodded calmly, standing in the middle of my solar as if I didn’t have a known thug with his sword out behind him and a hand-held crossbow pointed his way. It was one of the items in Qyburn’s box. “May I know why?”

“Just in general, or why now?” I asked.

That got a chuckle out of him. “Both, if you will.”

“Now, well...” I pointed at the dark robes he was wearing, the same one from the meeting earlier. The one with the large hood. “It will be easier for Bronn there to wear those and leave without being recognized.”

I cast a quick glance over to the side, purposefully. Varys caught the look and followed it, and saw the improvised fat-suit we’d come up with sitting over a dresser. Qyburn’s second item. “To make it look as if I never was, in fact, killed. Simply left your service… indefinitely.” He bobbed his bald head again. “Quite ingenious.”

“I thought you would appreciate it,” I said. “As for why I’d kill you at all… it is rather simple, I think. I could never trust you, Lord Varys. Even if I think we could do wonders for the Kingdoms together, I would always live with your possible defection to Daenerys Targaryen hanging over my neck. It might never happen, but then again… it just might.”

Varys sighed. “I give you my word I have no plans of following the Dragon Queen, Your Grace. Is there no way to make you trust me on this?”

“Come now, my lord.” I let out a humourless laugh. “I may not know you too well, but I know enough. Secrets upon secrets, plans underneath plans. It is a shame, really. You are an incredibly important piece in the game. Very much so. But…”

“But not irreplaceable,” he completed.

I smiled. “No, not irreplaceable. There can only be one irreplaceable piece in the board, after all.” I hefted the loaded crossbow his way, pointed right at his heart. He knew what was coming next.

“I agree, my lord,” he said, voice steady. Then it was his turn to smile. It was a thin and terrible thing. “Long live the true king.” The bolt flew before the words were wholly out of his mouth, piercing through silk and flesh like it was nothing but water.

Varys died with that same smile on his face, as if mocking me for a joke he left unsaid. A joke that I didn’t know the punch line of.