Chapter Text
The young Stark looked tired. His long, haggard face with its sunken eyes made him look much older than the boy of twenty that he was. He is still grieving the loss of his father and his brother, Varys thought. This place will break him sooner or later. But for better or for worse, he'd thrown in his lot with the Northern boy they called the quiet wolf.
However quiet he may have been in the past, he was forced to speak now, surrounded by the men that formed the core of the fragile alliance for his boy king: the High Septon, Lord Tyrell of Highgarden, Lord Arryn, Lord Hoster Tully, Ser Gerold Hightower, and the Dornish Prince Lewyn who had so narrowly escaped death on the Trident.
“Jaime Lannister will answer for his crimes,” the young Stark told the men around the table. “It's his head or the Wall.”
“Ser Jaime slew the King he was sworn to protect,” the High Septon protested. “Such men cannot be trusted to serve the realm, not even in a cloak of black.”
“His crimes are grave,” the Stark agreed. “But so were the crimes of many others who joined the Night's Watch. I'm honor-bound to give him a chance to start anew at the Wall.”
The Northman's voice was calm, but the look in his gray eyes gave Varys a chill. Behind the pain and sorrow, there was hatred. The Lannister boy took something from you, he realized. How you wish you could renounce your honor for once and take his head. Or worse.
“What of Lord Tywin?” Prince Lewyn Martell asked. “The undergoaler in charge of him tells me he has confessed to ordering the murder of the royal family.”
Oh yes, he has, Varys thought. And he's still bleeding when he makes water and begging me for milk of the poppy. “His bannerman Clegane confirms it,” he interjected. “He claims he tried to stop his liege lord but came too late.”
“Gregor Clegane was caught with my niece's blood on his hands,” Prince Lewyn protested. “He deserves the sword or worse.”
“Ser Gregor received his knighthood from Prince Rhaegar himself,” Varys reminded him. “Would he truly want to hurt the family of the man who gave him that honor?”
Ser Gerold took his bait. “The prince would not have knighted Ser Gregor if he had any doubts about his character,” he agreed. “Rhaegar took the vows of knighthood very seriously.”
The Stark boy nodded. “Clegane will get a chance to take the black if he so wishes.” He paused, looking at the Dornish prince. “As for Lord Tywin, I will have his head myself.”
He hates the father nearly as much as he hates the son, Varys thought.
“To take his head would be an undeserved mercy,” Lewyn objected. “My sister insists on an appropriate punishment to match the gravity of the crime, my lord. Must I remind you that your boy's claim rests on our support?”
“We cannot afford to incense the Westermen any further, Ned,” Jon Arryn cautioned.
“Have you seen the bodies?” The Dornishman asked, livid with anger. “Have you seen what they did to my niece? Have you seen the babe's head? Lord Tywin and his men should be drawn and quartered, and that would still be a kindness.”
The Stark boy closed his eyes, and for a moment, Varys was unsure of what he would do. “I have seen the bodies,” he finally said softly. “But I cannot give you what you are asking for. I will take Lord Tywin's head myself. That is all the justice I can offer you.”

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