Varys sipped his wine. "Ah—sweet as summer. The grapes are singing on my tongue."
Tyrion Lannister watched him perform in silence.
The Spider let his smile fade a touch. "My lord Hand, I swear I served Lord Arryn and Lord Stark as best I could, but…"
He shook his head slightly, a hint of wounded pride. "They had their own codes, and iron wills. For a despised master of whisperers—there are… limits."
Tyrion swirled his cup. "And with me?"
Varys's mild smile returned; his hands folded together by long habit. "You are the most perceptive Hand I have known."
Tyrion grinned. "But?"
Varys blinked, then chuckled. "You know what power is—what true power is. But…"
He moved his lips, then smiled and shook his head. "The springs of wisdom at Casterly Rock dote upon you."
Having offered the flattery, he added, "My lord Hand, your sword frightens people. Fear begets resistance, and consequences grow… unpredictable."
Tyrion's mismatched eyes flickered. "The Baratheon brothers will bring their war to King's Landing soon enough. I must make ready. I've no time for games with the rest."
Varys nodded and sighed. "Understanding each other's burdens… is so very hard."
"I do what I must," Tyrion shrugged.
"And that," Varys beamed, "is the Hand's will made firm. You see? I cannot stop you even if I would."
Tyrion laughed. "If I bungle it, I'll come to the same bad end as my predecessors… Hmm. Poison may be kinder than being swallowed whole. I do rather wonder how I'll die."
"You say that as if you do not fear tomorrow," Varys said gently.
Tyrion raised his cup. "To my amiable father."
Varys inclined his head. "Indeed. Lord Tywin will not suffer harm to any Lannister."
"Lannister," Tyrion murmured, so low only he could hear.
Seeing him drift, Varys pressed on. "My lord Hand, you have done splendidly. With you in that chair, I begin to hope for the realm again."
"The Gold Cloaks, you mean?" Tyrion rubbed his temples.
"Queen Regent Cersei ruled this city with two swords," Varys said, almost wistfully. "Few failed to notice."
"Including my sweet sister, no doubt," Tyrion smirked.
Varys paled. "She is your sister, my lord. I would never jest of her."
Tyrion flicked a hand. "A private joke, Varys—because I'm slowly trusting you. Go on."
A small bow. "One sword went willingly from King's Landing; the other was made to go. And now—there is a new sword. A decorative one."
Tyrion's eyes narrowed. Testing me, are you? You want the true reason Gawen left? Why would a eunuch care? He let a pause stretch, then said, "I thank my good sister. A loyal sword obeys—however poor the order."
Varys's gaze glimmered; he seemed to sigh. "At least he has slipped the whirlpool of the Red Keep…"
"Perhaps the Earl of the Crab Claw got homesick," Tyrion said lightly.
"In the Red Keep," Varys sighed, "the big fish always eat the small."
Tyrion feigned incomprehension. "Cheer up. My sister still has her pretty-cloaked Kingsguard."
"When Ser Barristan Selmy was driven out, he cast down his sword at the Iron Throne—and carried off the Kingsguard's last honor," Varys murmured.
Tyrion barked a laugh. "Even eunuchs talk of honor?"
Varys's eyes flicked. Then a sly smile. "Eunuchs know nothing of honor. Yet I think you and I might share some language for it."
"Hah. I like your candor."
He raised his cup. "Odd—I find I like you more and more. Is it because I'm half a man?"
He set the cup down. "I'm small, my legs ill-shaped, women disinterested; yet the gods have been kind—I am still a man. I might wed and get sons. With luck, my boy would have Jaime's face and Tywin's wits. You can't even dream that dream…"
He straightened, suddenly grave. "Dwarfs are the gods' jest. Eunuchs are men's sin. Varys—what are you really?"
Varys's face did not change. "As you said, my lord—the choices of eunuchs are few. I would be the realm's servant. If I may, I'll set my small skills to the service of whatever force can steady the realm. Each time, I do my utmost—toward that tiny wish."
Tyrion studied him. "Force?"
"Power is a curious thing," Varys smiled. "Have you pondered the riddle from the winehouse?"
"Once or twice," Tyrion said. "King, septon, rich man—which dies, which lives? There's no single answer—or too many. It depends what the man with the sword chooses."
"And yet, that man is nothing," Varys said softly. "No crown, no coin, no god's favor—only his sword."
"The sword decides life and death," Tyrion murmured.
Varys nodded, smile thinning. "If our lives truly hang on the sword-bearer, why pretend the one on the Iron Throne holds power? Why must a strong man with steel obey a boy like Joffrey—or his drunken brute of a father?"
"Because the boy and the brute can command other strong men," Tyrion said, leaning back. "They too have swords."
"Then are they the ones who hold power?" Varys asked. "Whence came their swords? Whose words do they obey?"
He went on, mild as milk. "Some say knowledge is power; some, the gods; some, the law.
"And yet, that day on the steps of Baelor's Sept, our pious High Septon, the lawful Queen Regent, and a dozen high lords stood helpless before a mob.
"Since I came to the Red Keep I've watched the mighty die—each by different causes. I ask myself: who killed them? Did those who wield power take up a weight they could not bear?"
"You've an answer," Tyrion said, amused.
"I'd not boast so far," Varys smiled. "I am only an observer. Plain eyes see much. I see that power lives in men's minds. What men believe is power—that is power. No more; no less."
"Then power is a conjurer's trick," Tyrion said, lifting his cup.
"Power is a shadow on a wall," Varys answered, raising his. "Even a small man may cast a very large shadow."
Tyrion laughed. "I like you, Lord Varys."
…
Crab Claw Peninsula, Lyanna Manor.
Gawen Crabb glanced at Steward Sulana. She lifted helpless shoulders.
He nodded and set off. "Come, Sulana."
As they walked, she said, "My lord, Lady Lyanna does not mean to avoid you. She doesn't know how to face you."
Gawen's brow quirked. "My cousin cannot think I mean to force moon tea down her throat?"
They went a few steps with only the sound of their feet.
"My lord, forgive me," Sulana said at last. "Crabb law makes folk uneasy."
Gawen considered, and confirmed to himself he had made no such law.
"Then—I'm misunderstood, Sulana?"
A rare smile. "From experience—pregnant women overthink, and mostly the worst."
"…Understandable," Gawen said, giving her a sidelong glance.
…
In a small solar, Lyanna Crabb eased into a chair with Yulia's help.
Gawen's eyes fell briefly to her belly. His tone was gentle. "Cousin Lyanna. It's been too long."
She shifted, uncertain. "Gawen, I…"
After a moment, seeing her search for words, he said quietly, "Why keep the child?"
He added, "We're kin. You may speak plainly."
Moisture filmed Lyanna's eyes. "I do not wish to marry—but I want a child of my own."
Yulia and Sulana both stole glances at silent Gawen.
After a pause he said, "I understand."
"And the manor does need an heir."
…
Night. Candleflame wavered in the study.
Gawen's long fingers tapped the desk. Beside them lay a letter: Renly Baratheon had proclaimed himself King at Bitterbridge in the Reach—Renly I—and wed Margaery Tyrell his queen.
Surely Stannis knew by now… Were Gawen not a traveler out of time, he might never have guessed Stannis would march from Dragonstone with only a few thousand to face Renly's hundred thousand before Storm's End—law and right, as stubborn as iron.
He unfurled a map of Westeros. First his finger rested on Storm's End, then slid to the small island east of the Crab Claw—Claw Isle.
He pinched his chin, eyes fixing on Gulltown in the Vale.
He regretted Jon's departure; given time, Jon might have grown into a commander in his own right.
His gaze went back to Claw Isle. He did not dither long. Not yet. Let the fruit ripen a little more.
He took up a letter from Varys—Lannister sworn swords had left Casterly Rock with two thousand freeriders.
His eyes swept the map over Harrenhal and the Twins.
He sat again. The chaos of Westeros was about to begin… The Vale… House Arryn could not be allowed to endure. He would need a murderer.
…
Pyke, Iron Islands.
Balon's solar was as ever: damp, drafty.
Asha's grin was wicked. "Sweet brother—your sister's a modest maid!"
Theon glanced at his father by the brazier, face flushing. He muttered, "Stay unwed, then. When I am king, I'll make you a silent sister."
"What's that?" Balon's voice cut across them.
Asha straightened and went prim as a septa—at least to Theon's eye.
"I mean you to take the van, Theon," Balon said. "You'll sail eight longships north. Raid the Stony Shore—fishing villages, every boat you see. Burn them. Perhaps you'll draw a few northern lords out from their stone hovels. Aeron goes with you. And Dagmer Cleftjaw."
The rest barely reached Theon through the roar in his ears. "Eight ships?" he blurted. "Father, is that all? What can I do with eight?"
"I have planned everything," Balon said, cold as spray. "You need only listen."
Theon felt the slap. No trust in his skill; only a petty raiding charge—burn fishers' huts, take what they have—and their ugly daughters—and even that under a leash. A puppet prince on display.
His fists clenched.
…
Essos, the City-state of Viserys, West Harbor.
Creaking timbers underfoot—Jon Snow, Young Griff, and Rolly came down the gangplank.
Young Griff looked about with keen interest, then clapped Jon's shoulder.
"Hey, Jon—thinking of that red-haired girl again?"
Jon smiled. "She has a name—Rhaeniel."
Young Griff threw up his hands. "I know, I know. I'm jealous, is all."
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
📯 Lords and Ladies of the Realm, heed the call! 📯
The saga burns ever brighter—30 chapters ahead now await, available only to those who swear their loyalty on Patreon. 🐉❄️🔥
Walk among dragons, defy the cold, and stake your claim in a world where crowns are won with fire and fury.
🔗 Claim your place: www.patreon.com/DrManhattanEN
👤 Known on Patreon as: DrManhattanEN
Your loyalty feeds the flame. And fire remembers.