King's Landing, the Red Keep, the Small Council chamber.
Around the heavy table, the atmosphere was suffocatingly oppressive.
Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, looked livid. His wrinkled hands pressed firmly against the tabletop, his gaze cutting toward Varys, the Master of Whisperers, like a knife.
"Varys, what in the world happened?"
Only yesterday, the king's flagship had fled back to King's Landing like a beaten dog, bringing terrible news that could shake all Seven Kingdoms.
The vast fleet of the Seven Kingdoms had been ambushed off Bloodstone Island and utterly destroyed.
The fate of countless nobles, knights, and soldiers remained unknown.
King Robert had flown into a wild rage, swearing to mount that Easterner's head on the walls of King's Landing.
Yet when Lord Eddard Stark revealed that the Easterner had a Great Dragon, everyone, including the king, fell silent.
Varys's smile now looked uglier than tears. He rubbed his smooth fingers together, his voice thin and fearful. "Lord Hand, please... please forgive my failing. I failed to verify Ser Jorah's intelligence. It now appears that it may very well have been an elaborate deception..."
Renly Baratheon gave a mocking sneer. "'Failing'? 'May very well'? Lord Varys, do you realize that because of your 'failing,' half the illustrious houses of the Seven Kingdoms have lost their lords and heirs? Forty thousand elite troops and eighty thousand accompanying laborers have ended up in the bellies of fish or become prisoners. Do you think you can brush aside such a colossal loss with a careless 'failing' and 'may very well'?"
Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, granted special permission by the king to attend the council, had worry etched between his tightly drawn brows. "My lords, it is too early to assign blame. Our most urgent concern is how to rescue