30: Varys I

— Varys —

King's Landing was not a city that tended towards ever sleeping. Some might call it the center of the realm. Varys disagreed. The center of the Seven Kingdoms wasn't any one place; it was the people — differing and disparate, lordly and small — who kept the realm alive.

Though he supposed, if there were ever one place to be, it would be King's Landing. In front of the throne that held sway over countless millions of lives. Set beside the other players of the game, pawn and knight and lord. Stag and Lion and Wolf, too, soon enough. Where one was pitted against rivals, where one could grasp opportunities, and in Varys' case, where one sought to stave off the chaos that could so easily come calling.

The Iron Throne was a cursed monstrosity of sundered, sharpened steel, the ultimate representation and symbol of power in Westeros. The throne loomed taller than five men standing atop one another, seeming to twist and engulf any who sat upon it. That ultimate symbol was set within a great hall that could house a thousand.

Once, that great hall had housed the skulls of monsters as well. Varys remembered the sight during the waning days of the Dragon's reign. Balerion's skull, mounted front and center behind the Iron Throne he'd forged in life. A reminder of an age of overwhelming power none could stand against. Most of his life, Varys had known that age to have passed. Now, he wasn't so sure…

On a night before the King was due back in the city, Varys found sleep escaping him, chased away by nightmares. Of pain. Of terror. Of futile sacrifice. Of a mad, mad warlock standing over him with the pivotal piece of a man in hand. Of a black fire snuffed out then and there. Of his sister Saera crying for a time, before resolving to continue their line on her own, where he couldn't…

Anything was better than lingering on that past and extinguished future… He walked with his thoughts through the quiet but never barren halls of the Red Keep. With little conscious consideration, Varys found his feet carrying him to the throne room, before that ultimate symbol of power.

Slipping in through the tunnels that crisscrossed Maegor's Keep, Varys quickly realized he wasn't the only one who couldn't sleep that night. A slight slip of a man had gotten there before him. A man whom Varys was unfortunately rather familiar with.

Petyr Baelish — 'lord' to some, 'mockingbird' to others, 'littlefinger' to many — sat in the throne room, staring up at the Iron Monstrosity. Not on the throne, of course. Not even Littlefinger would dare. But he had taken the seat kept for the Hand of the King as if he owned it in truth. Varys took note of where he sat. Many would consider it a good seat.

Varys didn't hide his steps as he approached. Petyr didn't look back. The throne room was cloaked in the night's darkness. Only a lantern each, covered but with small openings to let a manageable bit of light escape, lit the room and allowed them to see. At the edges of that dim light, shadows danced as if mummers before the throne. A suitable and fitting analogy for the game of the realm.

They didn't greet each other, but Petyr still spoke out of turn, "… 'Tis a pretty story the realm tells itself."

Varys hummed, "I don't know if I would call it pretty."

"I think it's beautiful," Petyr replied. "That a single chair, brutal as it may be, can control so much."

"Many desire the chance to cut themselves most brutally upon it."

"Many, indeed… Yet mounting those bladed steps and sitting upon it is only the beginning of the game."

"Of course," Varys gave a nod, mostly to himself, for Petyr didn't even glance back. "It is only after that, when the true work can begin."

Varys felt strongly about that. That stability was the base purpose of the realm's being, the reason for that 'pretty story', as Petyr called it. It wasn't a man sitting atop the throne that secured stability for the realm, but the actions he took before and after.

He'd seen it thus with the Dragon, and seen it thus with the Stag. The latter was preferable for now, becoming more so as the world changed so drastically, for he was ever a ruler of crisis… But Varys couldn't blind himself to what came after, when Stag became venison and his antlered crown passed to an inbred Lion cub.

He and Petyr lapsed into silence. It was not a comfortable thing. A contest, really. Spider and Mockingbird. Would a web be weaved or a song sung first?

'Ironic, isn't it?' Varys asked himself, humming as he waited. 'That a Spider relies on the singing of little birds, and a Mockingbird relies on a web of debt and favors. One would think our monikers were switched by servants in the wash.'

Petyr was first to surrender the silence. It was the smallest of victories in Varys' eyes. But Petyr would still aim to pay it back. He did so love to gloat and needle.

Their familiar game began with an easy toss, not so hard, not so soft. "Will you be informing the king of your now tenuous position?"

"Tenuous positions?" Varys tittered. "Oh, do tell. I think myself rather secure at the moment."

"I would not denigrate you, friend," Petyr tutted. "I'm sure you've heard word from Highgarden, of Lord Mace Tyrell's newest… project…"

"His 'College of Arts'?" Varys clarified. "Yes, I've heard tell. But I fail to see how that would threaten the Master of Whispers."

"Do not play the fool," Petyr almost but didn't quite sneer. "The whole realm knows who is truly behind the Flopping Rose."

"Another player, skilled as you or I," Varys nodded. "Beware the hidden thorns. Of course."

"Surely then, you can see the project's true purpose."

"Lords and Ladies rarely mind their entertainment. A bard can be a valuable asset in the right hands."

"Indeed, and it is such a shame that your hands are not the right ones," Petyr smirked in the dim lighting of the throne room. "You need to look into diversifying your investments, friend, lest you end up with only mutes as the game turns to singers. The realm might just turn to little flowers instead of little birds."

Varys hummed as he considered his rival's opening move in this battle. A light jab, not truly malicious, but far from friendly. More of a warning shot across the bow. Petyr had no hand in the actual development he spoke of. He was trying to twist it to his victory, but Varys could've turned it back on him just as easily.

There was truth to it, though. Not in threat just yet, for the realm was more than big enough for three jostling Whisperers, but the potential was there. The Queen of Thorns would surely be expanding her garden through her son's pet project. His patronage of the arts was a perfect opportunity for the Queen of Thorns to plant seeds and grow roots wide and far.

Still… "I am not worried," Varys said. "A bard can only see and hear so much. Her roots might spread, but never as deeply as my little birds can nest into every little crevice. The canny and clever will see what they wish to see, and my little birds will flit above their newfound paranoia. And the unclever, the uncanny… well, they wouldn't have seen anything anyway."

Petyr nodded in the darkness, acknowledging that neither had won a point. Not there. He sat back and waited for Varys' counter. Varys chose their second exchange carefully, news that he had something of a hand in, an escalation most minor… And the game continued.

"The Goldcloaks seem to be struggling nowadays. My condolences. I know how much you've invested there. Mayhaps if you'd done so in competence, not corruption, useful as it may be, the board would not be in such flux."

From the corner of his eye in the darkness, Varys saw Petyr's scowl. He'd struck a sore spot. All thanks to that newest of players. Varys could not claim them for himself. But he could claim himself an avid admirer. And was it not the way for an avid admirer to aid those they admired wherever they could?

"Those damned 'Puffs…" Petyr bit out. "If I knew such a dangerous group would come into being, mayhaps I would've invested as you say. None could've predicted them, however. What player but I would 'lower themselves' to the darker sides of the streets and Smallfolk?"

"What player, indeed~?" Varys tittered.

He knew, of course. Petyr likely did as well. The 'Puffs were not shy about their allegiance and origin. But no lord worth their pride would so much as simply ask to know it traced back to that enigmatic castle in the North, of unknowns and magic.

So new, so mysterious, and yet, so influential already. If Varys were a more esoteric-focused man, he would lay everything now happening in the realm at Castle Hogwarts' gates. As it was, he could lay some, but certainly not all, at those gates. The realm excelled at making problems for itself long before they appeared…

"So few care to see the upheaval they've caused," Petyr — dare Varys say…? — Grumbled.

"Upheaval beneficial to most, if not all that matter," Varys said.

Petyr turned to eye him suspiciously, "I did not know you thought so."

"You wound me." Varys turned to look back at him and showed just a bit of his hand. "All I do is for the good of the realm. But the realm is not Lord and Knight and Oneself most of all, as… some… believe. No, the realm is its people, those same masses we tell the Iron Throne's 'pretty story' to. And the 'Puffs have been simply wonderful for them. Protection, opportunity, healing, relief, I could go on and on…"

"You could, couldn't you?" Petyr frowned. "… Noted."

Petyr would remember that. But Varys relished the small victory. It alone would've made his subtle support of the 'Puffs in King's Landing worth it. Fortunately, he admired them for more than just the pain they caused Petyr.

No others could bring new life to Flea Bottom, or offer healing to the most desperate and destitute, or grant hope of a future, any future, to those who'd never known its touch. Such a strange thing, such strange times, when a cartel brought more stability to the realm than most lords.

"The age is changing, my friend," Varys said, offering a small olive branch to keep their conversation going. He certainly wouldn't find enjoyment like this in restless sleep and reawakened nightmares…

Petyr actually chuckled, "All with eyes can see that clearly, these days. Even those without cannot deafen themselves to it."

"I'm reminded of a Yi-Tish curse, one that speaks of living in interesting times. I believe it applies to the realm and beyond, now."

"Would you have me thank distant Yi Ti for the new opportunities to be grasped?"

Varys tilted his head slightly. "Opportunities?"

"Even the smallest of birds can find themselves soaring high on troubled winds," Petyr smirked.

That didn't surprise Varys, but he still felt the need to ask, "But at what cost?"

Petyr fell silent for a long, tense moment, turning back to gaze up at the Iron Throne, "… Any."

With that, Varys was reminded why he considered Petyr his truest rival in King's Landing. There were others outside of the capital: the Queen of Thorns, the Old Lion, the Coiled Viper… But even then, Petyr was… different. Dangerous, for he was anything but set in his ways and ambitions.

Worst of all, he was truly a competent and capable little man. He'd awakened no magic of his own. Varys was as certain of that as he was certain of his own lack of magic, thank whatever gods might care to listen.

But even without, Petyr adapted and maintained his position at the top of the realm through ruthless cunning, corrupt connections, and cold gold. Just as Varys maintained his place through flexibility, invaluable service, and information.

Varys wouldn't put it past the Mockingbird to rise high indeed on troubled winds, at any cost. Worrying… Threatening, potentially… Varys tucked that insight away for later and changed the subject.

"Have you received correspondence from our delightful queen as the royal procession makes its way back south with Wolf in tow?"

"I have…" Petyr slowly nodded. "And since you're asking, I assume you have too?"

"Indeed," Varys confirmed. "I just found it worth commenting on that she is finally being made to learn a modicum of subtlety and shore up outside support in her dreadful new silence."

"Yes, how dreadful, how droll," Petyr drawled sardonically. "The realm hasn't stopped weeping. But you're not wrong. It will certainly be a change."

"Like so much else happening these days. Oldtown has been suspiciously quiet, 'business as usual', too usual… The Darkstar has Dorne on Dawn's edge. The Old Lion has taken a new apprentice in Casterly Rock, a 'little dragon' of green and silver, not red and black. Awakening magicks everywhere, of course, and I've heard unprecedented news from your homeland, Petyr."

"The Mountain Clan chaos, not of the usual sort?" Petyr questioned.

"That is what I was referring to, yes," Varys nodded. "Trying to assert themselves as true lords of the realm, even claiming willingness to bend the knee, so long as it's to the Demon of the Trident and the Stark in Winterfell, not the Eyrie. Terrible timing, some would say, with only a boy Arryn and a widowed fish sitting in the seat. Terrific timing, the clans seem to claim."

"The Lords of the Vale will never allow it," Petyr scoffed. "I don't see why, other than the blood that runs fast and deep. The Mountain Clans can claim longer lineages than I, for certain. Swearing themselves to the North is an interesting prospect, to say the least. It would just about cut the Vale off from the Riverlands."

"It won't come to that, most likely," Varys tutted. "Westerosi Lords are nothing if not stubborn, nothing if not tradition-bound. I doubt the Mountain Clans are much different and certainly not united as the Vale. A few vassals might be gained, but the rest of the Mountain Clans will just return to their usual ways with an illusion of civility."

"An apt prediction. I don't disagree, but we will just have to wait and see," Petyr nodded. "It's a shame my holdings are in no position to take advantage of the chaos."

Varys allowed himself a small smile, "Yes. A shame."

"Don't you start," Petyr warned. "I could make the same points about your homeland, friend…"

"… I suppose you could," Varys fell into quiet consideration.

News from Essos had been… interesting, to say the least. Not complete chaos and anarchy, not yet. But it was a closer thing than most would care to admit.

"It all comes back to that infuriating and exhilarating magic…" Petyr voiced. "But Essos doesn't seem to have bloodlines in the same way that they've emerged in Westeros."

"Not bloodlines, no," Varys shook his head in agreement. "But… gifts… awaken regardless. Miracles and damnations from the Land of a Thousand Gods. Old practitioners regaining power and strength, surging back to the fore. Forgotten secrets awakening from the ruins of civilization.

"Essosi history is just as storied as these sunset lands. I've heard tell of many queer things: Moonsingers and more from the temples of Braavos, old secrets and fiery priests from within the black walls of the Daughter Cities of Valyria, great river beasts from the legendarily magical waters of the River Rhoyne, instability from the cursed slavery within Slaver's Bay and Ghiscar, warlocks and worse from Qarth, connecting east and west, and forgotten nightmares from the ruins of Old Valyria…"

"I heard intriguing news from Braavos, of the nonmagical variety," Petyr said casually. "A new hull was laid in their Arsenal. A grand one. From shipyards that build a ship a day, this grand new ship took a week to complete."

"My my~…" Varys tittered. "That is certainly a feat. I imagine there's no other ship like it in the world. One wonders after its purpose…"

"Something nigh holy to the Braavosi," Petyr drawled lazily. "The Iron Bank has been quite close-lipped about who commissioned such a flagship. But my man there claims that many noble-hearted dreamers, adventurous young men, and enterprising young women have been recruited to sail upon it already. Bravos, courtesans, sell-swords-and-sails, perhaps a Keyholder or two, or even a hidden Faceless Man, all under the command of the 'Knight of a Thousand Duels'…"

"A knight?" Varys asked, tilting his head. "How odd."

Petyr smirked at being better informed than him, "A knight… or a Wizard and his two Witches."

Varys raised a brow, "Hogwarts has set sail on the seas of Essos? And why share this with me, friend…?"

Petyr was utterly blunt in his victory, chortling, "Just to gloat. You need better assets in Braavos, my friend…

"But besides that, I doubt it affects us much. After all, our focus is not on the east. There is little prize to be won there. Let the Wizard and Witches champion whatever futile causes they can find. Let them crush themselves by trying to mount the stubbornly unchanging weight of Essos upon their shoulders. They know no better, but they will soon learn…"

"Well, at least there is some limit to your ambitions," Varys cut dryly.

"Now, as enjoyable as this fortuitous nighttime meeting has been, I'm afraid I must be off. Not to bed, for I know I would get no sleep. Our little talks are always so stimulating, Petyr. But there will be work to be done in the morning. I believe I'll simply cherish this chance for an early start."

Outwardly, he was unflinching as he made his excuses to leave. Inwardly, though, thoughts raced through his mind. Petyr had no way of knowing how wrong he was. There were prizes in Essos. Many, on the whole, but Varys thought most keenly about the three who could change everything within their sunset kingdoms.

Without aid, the surviving Targaryens were hopeless. Beggars without an ounce of support to their names, thought almost lost already. Varys knew differently. With the proper touch, the last children of the Mad King were powerful tools that offered opportunity aplenty. A pair of worthy daggers to keep hidden away and prepared, for one day, they might just be needed most desperately.

And that was without mentioning the third. The shadow of power Varys wished to project on the wall. The perfect prince of mysterious origin. Red and black, black and red, did it even matter? A Dragon was still a Dragon.

The plans there had to be adapted for the new times. For now, the Stag King was most valuable exactly where he was. Proven and unifying, he was best suited to keep the realm together through the changing ages and Magic's Return.

The pure Lion cub wouldn't be the same. When the time came to ascend his 'father's' throne, the realm's situation would change rather drastically. That inbred little creature was no king. But he was the perfect patsy for the realm to see contrasted against a perfect prince.

With a lifetime amongst the common man, a Golden Company at his back, a widely-hated-and-contested rival claimant, and a 'pretty story to tell the realm', Aegon would fulfill his mother's ambition. The ambition his uncle once held before that warlock snuffed out his black flames for good…

After slipping back out of the throne room into the tunnels of Maegor's Holdfast, Varys lingered for a moment. He watched Petyr turn back to the Iron Throne. The Mockingbird's whisper carried softly through the dark and empty great hall.

"… Any cost."

'Any cost,' indeed…

IIIII

[AN: Short chapter today, more of an interlude, really. It's a good look at everything stirring across the story (besides the North. Varys and Petyr don't really have many eyes up there, especially not past the Wall). Varys has decided to back Robert for now. But he still has ambitions and secrets he keeps to himself.

He and Petyr aren't magical. I have no intention of having them become magical, either. I like the idea that they're both so competent that they just don't need it, not for themselves directly. So even without magic, they're both major players.

Cersei is struggling to adapt to her new silence, but she'll likely still play a role in the King's Landing Knot. Tywin's taken Draco under his wing in Casterly Rock, no real surprise there. That Old Lion is all Slytherin. The Vale needs a stronger leader than Sweetrobin and Yandere Lysa. Victor's there with the Royces, so something might come of that. Darkstar hasn't thrown Dorne completely into war, but it's a near thing. There will be plenty of spicy political intrigue for Blaise and Co when we finally get down there. And Essos…

Essos is a powder keg set to explode. Neville, Susan, and Hannah, with the backing of the Iron Bank/Faceless Men/Many-Faced God, are just the spark that's needed. I also like the idea of them with a massive, historic flagship and a colorful crew to help their journey. Their first stop will, of course, be Pentos, where canon awaits, already slightly off the rails…

Unfortunately, this is all I have written for The Grind as of right now. I realize that it's a bit of an unsatisfying point to leave off, but I'm not abandoning the story. I just think it needs a more novel-style release than chapter-by-chapter. I'll probably work on it in the background, and once I have a significant backlog to speak of, release it in like a week-or-so-long continuous spurge of The Grind.

In the meantime, I'm still doing occasional but regular chapters for Gotham's Dead End Bar, and I've started a new ASOIAF story to replace this one: 'Ser Ciaphas of House Cain'. That story should start going up publicly next Sunday (there'll be a Dead End chapter first on Friday). But as always, if you want to show support and read my stories early, you can do so on my Patreon (pat reon.com/dryskies_btb) :]