Between Varys and Tyrion Lannister and Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow as siblings.
The night was a shroud over King's Landing, the stars peering down like watchful, distant eyes. Varys, the Spider, moved through the shadows with a grace that belied the urgency of his mission. His presumed death had been a ruse, a scheme within a battle of wits and wills. With the resources at his disposal now scarce, his visage was no longer that of a courtly advisor but that of a man reborn from the ashes of his former life.
Meanwhile, Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the new king, sank into his chair with the familiar weight of burdens that seemed to multiply with each passing hour. The scar upon his face was a ledger of his life's trials, a testament to a survivor's tale. He poured a goblet of wine, the liquid's deep red hue matching the king's banner draping the room. His mind wandered—to his family, to his queen now fallen, to the choices that led him here, handmaid to a boy king who knew little of the darkness within men's hearts.
Elsewhere, a northern wind licked at the scars running down Jon Snow's face as he watched Castle Black become smaller behind him. His heritage as Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, meant nothing here in the True North, but the guilt of his kin-slaying remained a cold companion. He had saved Westeros, yet now, he was forced to contend with a peace that felt like another form of exile.
Varys, cradling the documents that would change the course of history, finally reached the chambers of the Hand. "Lord Tyrion," he whispered, revealing himself from the darkness. Tyrion startled, his hand inching towards the blade he'd hidden within reach. Varys's silken voice quickly allayed his fear. "I come bearing truths that will either damn or save us all."
The revelation of Tyrion's heritage tore through him like wildfire through dry timber. A Targaryen? He had laughed first, a hollow sound devoid of true mirth. Then he had scrutinized the documents and the Spider's earnest face. With every line of text declaring his lineage, Tyrion felt as though he was peeling away layers of an identity he had worn like armor.
Back at the Wall, a raven cawed its arrival at dawn, disturbing Jon's brooding solitude. The message it bore—an uncommon seal with both spider and lion sigils—beckoned him to trust an old friend and meet in secret. The message spoke of dragons, of unity, of a bond he could not ignore. He had to act, though it would mean turning southward once more to a realm he'd vowed to forsake.
The Targaryen lineage, thought extinguished, was the fragile bond that might rescue or ruin the very fabric of a kingdom still reeling. As Tyrion, Jon, and a hesitant Daenerys convened within the shadowed chamber, the Spider's network watched on. The large map sprawled before them was a chessboard, and they, however unwittingly, had become the principal pieces in a game that started long before the first dragon was ever born.
Daenerys' presence was like a specter, her eyes colder now, yet burning with an intensity that had not perished with her dreams of the Iron Throne. Her visions of liberation were now revised into quests for survival, yet her heart carried an inextinguishable flame of righteousness. "What is our course?" she asked, her voice steady as she traced her finger along the Neck, pausing at Winterfell. "What does a Targaryen do when the world has turned its back on them?"
Varys watched the siblings, a queer feeling stirring in his chest—hope, a dangerous emotion he had long since buried. "We do what our House words command us to," he replied, his eyes betraying a rare flicker of emotion. "We take wing and fly above the chaos, for fire and blood are not merely the tools of war, but the instruments of rebirth."