“I don’t know much about the food culture of Westeros, but whether it’s in my homeland or here in the North, not drinking a toast… is considered extremely rude.”

His proposal to drink together was rejected, and Aegor’s face darkened, visibly and rapidly. “Lord Varys looks very healthy. How can you be so unwell that you can’t even manage a single cup of wine?”

“To be honest, intelligence work is exhausting… under pressure, my stomach—”

“I don’t care about your stomach, Lord Varys.”

Something beneath Aegor’s collar began to heat up. He cut the eunuch off coldly. “In truth, I don’t care whether you’re being rude or not. But your refusal to drink this wine makes me feel that the mediation I worked so hard to complete, the consensus we reached about the Southward campaign, meant nothing to you. You only agreed because you were afraid of me… Once you walk out that door, not only will you fail to reduce the sabotage, the underhanded tricks, and the slander whispered in Her Grace’s ear, but you’ll double them to make up for what you lost here today, isn’t that right?”

“My Lord is overthinking it.”

Varys shook his head without hesitation. “After many days of careful thought and reflection, I’ve already realized, without needing reminders or lectures, that continuing this conflict with Lord Petyr is not in the Queen’s best interest. Gaining widespread Northern support and beginning the Southward expedition as soon as possible is clearly the right path.

Even if you hadn’t arranged today’s meeting, Lord Commander, I would have urged Her Grace, once Lord Stark returned to Winterfell, to temporarily set aside the Karstark matter and the neutrality of certain houses—”

Though completely seen through, the Spider’s reply betrayed no guilt or hesitation. It was textbook-level calm, the poise of a seasoned player.

But his performance was only halfway through when it was suddenly interrupted by a more dramatic shift: Aegor, who had been standing still, suddenly drew the Valyrian steel sword at his waist with a metallic ring, then slammed the blade tip down beside his emptied goblet, embedding it into the table with a sharp thud.

The move naturally startled everyone in the room. The two seated men instantly leapt to their feet.

“Wait, I still have something to say!”

Petyr raised his hands and shouted, while Varys directly pulled out his dagger. Though the distance was still beyond the sword’s reach for now, if Aegor stepped forward or struck first, Varys would use the furnishings and the other man in the room as cover, circling and dodging until he found a chance to strike back.

“Save your excuses.”

Aegor ignored the burning pain in his collar. His expression turned ice cold as he gripped the sword hilt tightly. He didn’t move his legs at all.

“I was wondering why Lord Varys was being so bold. Turns out, the dagger hidden in your tunic gave you confidence?

Perhaps I was too subtle earlier, and you didn’t understand me. So let me put it more crudely and directly—”

“Today’s wine, whether you want to or not… you will drink it.”

His voice dropped into a low growl, then paused slightly. He twisted his wrist, flicking the Valyrian steel sword along the table. The blade’s gleam caught the light. He adjusted his tone to a deeper, more intimidating register.

“Drink it of your own will, and everyone’s happy. No fuss, no trouble. But if you refuse, and you insult me, Aegor West… don’t blame me for using this sword to help you drink it!”

“Maybe I’ll slice your throat open and pour it down, or cut your belly and pour it straight into your stomach. Either way… it won’t be pretty.”

Even the best-refined steel longswords couldn’t compare to the majesty of a Valyrian steel blade, but the former still had its merits: a freshly polished blade could reflect light brilliantly. The cold gleam flashing in the eyes of the two terrified men, shifting with the subtle turn of the blade, seemed to provide a wordless accompaniment to the threat it posed.

The killing intent was almost tangible, making them clench involuntarily.

The Unsullied outside the door couldn’t intervene in time. Both men understood this, and in their wisdom chose silence over shouting for help and making the situation worse. Seeing that Aegor hadn’t actually struck yet, Petyr restrained the words hovering at the tip of his tongue, while Varys, awkwardly gripping his dagger, hesitated between putting it away or attacking first.

If Aegor’s goal was to confuse them, he had already succeeded. At this point, Varys could no longer guess what the man actually wanted.

If the wine was poisoned, then he couldn’t have drunk it himself to trick others into following. But if it wasn’t poisoned, what kind of madman would draw a sword… just to force someone to drink?

Normally, Varys would spend hours, days, or even longer analyzing someone’s true motives. But not now. He knew clearly that the longer he waited, the more likely Aegor would lose patience and strike.

For several seconds, he worked through possibilities at full mental speed and arrived at a preliminary judgment.

There were only two possibilities regarding the wine: poisoned, or not.

If it was poisoned, and Aegor had still drunk it before threatening him, then he intended to die alongside him. If that were true, and he refused to drink, the man who had already resolved to throw away his life would never allow him to escape. Whether he drank or not, he would die. The only difference was whether he died by poison, or by a sword—or multiple swords.

If it wasn’t poisoned, then this entire display, forcing him to drink fine wine at swordpoint, was either madness or a crude attempt to assert dominance over the Queen’s inner circle… in the most childish way imaginable.

Perhaps Aegor’s success as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and Lord of The Gift had led him to a one-sided conclusion. He might truly believe that all people were like the commanders of Shadow Tower and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, who would yield after being threatened—once he and Petyr gave in on this wine, they’d never dare resist him again.

That worldview was utterly laughable to a seasoned player of the game who knew how to bend and stretch, but given Aegor’s military background, maybe he really did believe it.

The fog in his mind cleared somewhat. Varys looked down at the dagger in his hand, then at the wine still sitting untouched on the table.

How to proceed suddenly became a difficult decision.

If Aegor hadn’t drunk his own wine, then the choice between being poisoned and gambling would be easy—he’d gamble.

But now, the fact that Aegor had drunk first shifted the wine from “definitely poisoned” to “probably safe.” Faced with a choice between “certain death by refusal” and “possible survival by compliance,” the difference was everything.

Was Aegor a fool, or was even this glimmer of hope carefully engineered?

How many years had it been since he’d faced a problem this difficult, that made him hesitate this much?

Varys couldn’t say, but he knew one thing for certain: if, after decades of planning, he died because he refused a cup of non-poisoned wine and provoked a madman into killing him, he would regret it all the way to the Seven Hells.

An ominous premonition buzzed in his mind, but his desire to survive, and Aegor’s increasingly sharp expression, pushed him past the point of indecision.

Varys put away his dagger and smiled as he bowed slightly.

“Just a little self-defense, not worth mentioning. I’ve weathered many storms. I truly don’t have the courage to test you, my Lord.

Since Lord Commander is so insistent over a single cup of wine, I won’t be a fool. I’ll inconvenience my stomach and comply.”

He didn’t dare sit again, in case he needed to defend himself. Carefully, he picked up the goblet, raised it, keeping Aegor in view from the corner of his eye, and took a small sip.

Under Petyr’s gaze, Aegor’s expression, which had been at the brink of violence, eased somewhat. His left hand casually tugged at his collar, but his right remained firm on the Valyrian steel blade. He used the tip to tap the upturned cup he had drunk earlier.

“Drink it. All of it.”

Since he had already made the decision, there was no point in hesitation. Varys sighed inwardly, raised the goblet again, and this time, he drank it all—drained it completely, leaving not a drop.

Aegor’s expression relaxed further, but he still didn’t lower his sword. Instead, he turned to the other man in the room, his tone growing colder.

“Lord Petyr, what was it you wanted to say just now?

You’re not going to claim an upset stomach, are you?”

The meaning could not have been clearer. Petyr dared not feign ignorance. Since even the dead eunuch had judged the wine to be safe, what was there to fear?

Without another word, he picked up the goblet, raised it, and emptied it in one smooth motion.

Now that all three cups were drained, Aegor finally relaxed. He sheathed his sword and allowed a sincere smile to form on his face.

“Look at that. Why make things so difficult? Never mind…

Please allow me to apologize to both Lords for my poor temper. What happened today is done. No one is to speak of it again. Please, sit. This lunch was made with the finest ingredients in all of the North’s stores. In the midst of winter, even a king would rarely enjoy such a feast.”

He put away his blade, sat down first, summoned the servants back, and began to enjoy the meal. The feast that had nearly become a bloodbath now resumed its guise as a cordial gathering of colleagues.

After a night of careful planning and a bit of improvisation, Aegor’s high-stakes gamble to cleanse the Queen’s court had successfully taken its most difficult, but also most critical, first step.

That was worth celebrating.

But it was still far too early to relax. The next phases of the plan were the true essence, the key. Any mistake or misstep could bring endless trouble.

(To be continued.)

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep