King's Landing, the Red Keep.
The air was as oppressive as a swamp before a storm.
Banners that should have flown high hung limp. Beneath the faint daylight, the dome's stained glass cast warped patches of light, lending the hall an even eerier air.
The atmosphere around the long table was colder and heavier still.
A succession of thunderous reports had left King's Landing utterly stunned, its nerves already stretched taut by Renly's approaching army.
Renly had died suddenly, and Stannis had absorbed his army. That should have offered a moment to breathe, perhaps even cause for celebration.
But the news that followed turned that breathing room into a deeper suffocation... Dragonstone had fallen. The Targaryens had returned, bringing a dragon and a fleet.
"My lords, forgive my... weariness." The Master of Whisperers, Varys the Spider, wore his soft silk robes as always.
His plump face bore its customary, inscrutable concern, and his voice was as soft as a sigh:
"My Little Birds have been bringing back constant reports from across the Narrow Sea about the Silver-Haired Prince, the Triarchic Alliance, the Golden Company's defection, and even... a dragon. I laid them before the Small Council, one after another."
He looked around at them, resignation threaded through his cloying voice:
"Yet they were either dismissed as fanciful tales from overseas or treated as minor irritations."
"Now those irritations have become festering sores, and those tales have become a nightmare at our gates. Dragonstone, right at the mouth of Blackwater Bay, has raised the three-headed Dragon Banner beneath our very noses. And until a moment ago, we were still trembling over Renly, who is already dead."
He spread his hands, wearing his usual expression of innocence and regret.
"This is no time to assign blame, Lord Varys."
The Master of Coin,