Chapter 54: Privy Council Meeting

Varys sat alone in his modest chamber, surrounded by shadows and silence.

Perhaps for secrecy's sake, or perhaps to spare the nobles the discomfort of his eunuch's presence, this isolated dwelling that clung to the Red Keep's outer walls had become the exclusive domain of successive Masters of Whisperers.

But Varys knew its secrets, as he knew all the Red Keep's mysteries.

The labyrinthine tunnels that honeycomed the earth beneath the castle, the "little birds" who nested within the hollow walls of noble chambers, the hidden passages connecting the various rooms of the Tower of the Hand to the outside world, the treacherous paths descending from the castle heights to the rocky shores below...

With a mere pull of the concealed lever in his bedchamber and a descent down the stairs hidden beneath the innocuous flagstones, all these became the Spider's most formidable weapons in the great game.

Only Petyr Baelish did he consider a truly dangerous opponent.

The hasty extinction of the Targaryen dynasty had buried the Red Keep's secrets alongside dragon skulls and forgotten loyalties, leaving only the spymaster himself privy to their existence.

But Baelish was different. This cunning man disdained the honor and appearances that other courtiers valued above all else. From the moment he arrived at court, he had courted minor nobles, small merchants, and even the Red Keep's lowliest servants, gathering information with insatiable hunger.

Using his position as Master of Coin, he had established brothels and taverns throughout King's Landing, bestowing favors upon the humble and forgotten within the Red Keep, eventually becoming the second beneficiary of the castle's ancient secrets.

This fact caused Varys no small disquiet.

Petyr, who cared only for himself, Petyr, for whom power was the sweetest wine—what if this man should discover Varys's true secrets? Would he choose to make them public?

Varys did not know the answer, though he had once considered it an impossible hypothesis.

Who could possibly discern his true identity?

But three days past, he had received disturbing news: Khal Drogo was dead, Magister Illyrio was dead, Dothraki scimitars had laid waste to Pentos, and the dragon siblings had vanished like morning mist.

The Dothraki broke the sacred contract of guest right?! Who orchestrated such madness?

The message had mentioned the crown prince ex-squire Alyn and Ser Jorah Mormont, but could these two truly be the architects of such devastation?

Joffrey?

Varys found this difficult to believe. All intelligence suggested that the Crown Prince remained arrogant, willful, and woefully ignorant.

The boy had exchanged the lives of elite soldiers for a lion, forced singers to compose songs in his honor, openly conducted his so-called "King's Game" before even ascending the throne, taken the Stark children deep into the crypts of Winterfell without permission, and insisted on separating from the royal party to visit the Wall.

Only his sudden interest in swordsmanship with the Kingslayer could be considered wise—no, not even wise, merely sensible.

How could such a pampered youth orchestrate the destruction of a Free City?

Varys's thoughts turned quickly to the envoy who had accompanied Alyn to Pentos to purchase dragon eggs—one of Littlefinger's many creatures.

Does Petyr know something I do not?

What benefit could he possibly derive from Pentos's destruction?

Varys had pondered these questions for two full days.

Now, at last, the fog had begun to lift.

Though he had read it countless times, Varys examined the note in his pale, soft hand as though seeing it for the first time, committing each word to memory before it must be destroyed.

This was the latest intelligence delivered that very morning: Jester, Beauty, with squire, Bear Paw on ship sailing west.

"Jester" referred to Viserys Targaryen, the beggar king.

"Beauty" was Daenerys, who should have wed Khal Drogo and, when the time was ripe, led tens of thousands of Dothraki screamers to trample the Seven Kingdoms, causing the lords and smallfolk alike to yearn for the return of the true dragon.

"Squire" was a new code name, but Varys understood it designated Alyn.

"Bear Paw" was Ser Jorah Mormont, once a valued informant, whom Varys had now struck from the list of allies and placed upon the list of those marked for silent death.

The message contained only this single sentence, yet Varys extracted volumes of meaning from its sparse words.

Viserys and Daenerys—these two were the true targets of the conspiracy's mastermind. The catastrophe that had befallen Pentos was merely collateral damage, an acceptable price.

Varys knew that Petyr had always been conscious of his low birth.

Baelish's ancestral holding was a rocky wasteland upon the smallest finger of the peninsula known as The Fingers in the Vale, a place so desolate it was nearly uninhabited—hence his mocking sobriquet "Littlefinger."

Because of his humble origins, the Tully sisters whom he had loved or who had loved him had married into greater houses and become ladies of significant domains.

Because of his family's lack of standing, his path to advancement had been fraught with obstacles and ridicule. Only after demonstrating remarkable aptitude as Master of Coin had the cutting remarks receded somewhat into the shadows.

Could he be the assassin? Did he seek a Targaryen wife of noble blood to elevate his own status? Did he wish to create chaos? Or merely curry favor with the king?

Varys traced each line of reasoning to its logical conclusion, yet always sensed some fundamental flaw in his understanding.

Regardless, he had at last discovered the whereabouts of the Targaryen siblings. Even if his suspicions proved incorrect, he could discern the truth by observing their final destination.

The hour grew late.

Varys destroyed the note with practiced efficiency, adjusted his flowing sleeves, and emerged from his gloomy dwelling into the oppressive heat of a King's Landing summer.

A meeting of the Small Council was convening in the modest chamber behind the Iron Throne, though neither king nor Hand was present to guide the proceedings.

The assembled ministers regarded Varys with expressions ranging from curiosity to contempt as he entered.

"The Spider's web seems to have grown slack," Petyr remarked with silken malice. "I learned of this matter the day before yesterday."

Lord Renly's handsome face bore clear displeasure. "Varys, you have grown negligent of late. The destruction of Pentos is no small affair, yet you bring this to our attention only today."

Varys lowered himself deliberately into his accustomed seat, its dark wood seeming to embrace his substantial frame.

"My lords, I beg your forgiveness," he said, his voice as smooth as honeyed milk. "The bloody sack of Pentos is indeed no secret, but I had not wished to burden you with matters beyond our immediate concern. Today, however, I bring tidings of greater significance."

A flicker of interest passed across the assembled faces.

Grand Maester Pycelle erupted into a fit of theatrical coughing. "Varys," he wheezed, "good ser, it is most dreadfully warm. Have pity on an old man—cough—and proceed without delay."

Varys exchanged measured glances with each of his three colleagues before bestowing a particularly sweet smile upon Lord Baelish.

"I bring glad tidings. The Targaryen siblings are neither dead nor fled beyond our reach."

He distributed handwritten reports with meticulous care.

"Ser Jorah Mormont, who yearns to return to his ancestral home, and Alyn, formerly squire to our Crown Prince, have secured them and even now sail toward our shores."

Renly and Pycelle perused the documents with varying degrees of interest before passing them to Petyr's waiting hands.

Varys's gaze followed the parchment's journey. "I know not which lord's handiwork this fortuitous turn of events represents," he said with careful emphasis. "Pray enlighten us, that we might offer proper congratulations."

Petyr's expression remained as fixed and unreadable as a carved mask.

"Lord Varys, do you speak truly?" Renly asked, unable to suppress a sigh. "My good-brother will likely revel in this news for a full year."

Grand Maester Pycelle stroked his long white beard with trembling fingers.

"If these tidings prove accurate, it heralds a great blessing for all Seven Kingdoms," he pronounced. "Our people need no longer fear Targaryen vengeance from across the Narrow Sea."

Varys clapped his hands together softly. "Indeed. According to their reported course, we might gaze upon the last remnants of the fallen dragon dynasty within a sennight. Cause for celebration, to be sure. His Grace will undoubtedly reward those responsible with appropriate generosity."

Petyr smiled but offered no comment.

"My lords," Varys suggested, "perhaps we might dispatch a royal fleet to intercept them before they reach port, lest some unfortunate accident befall these valuable prizes."

Petyr signaled for a cup of Arbor red. "I could not agree more heartily," he said, his gray-green eyes betraying nothing. "What say you, my lords?"

Varys's proposal received unanimous approval from the council.

A corpulent man of servile demeanor presented the Grand Maester with iced honey milk.

"My thanks, good apprentice," Pycelle murmured, taking a delicate sip. "My lords, if no further matters require our attention, I propose we adjourn today's proceedings."

Varys observed Littlefinger's retreating form in silence.

With a fleet dispatched to meet the approaching vessel, the Targaryens could hardly escape the court's vigilant eye. What further schemes could Petyr pursue? What additional advantage might he extract from this situation?

Could I have been mistaken in my suspicions?

The Crown Prince, Joffrey Baratheon.

Varys remained alone in the Small Council chamber long after the others had departed, as still as the stone dragons that adorned the castle walls, lost in troubling thoughts.

...

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