Chapter 7

For Lord Varys, the path was far more treacherous and he was far less sure of the outcome. Still, he had to test the loyalty of the little birds, whether they had truly defected to Qyburn to a man, or rather some of them might retain some allegiance to the former Master of Whispers. To the eunuch, this could well make a difference between a more decisive and imminent victory and a longer, more dangerous conflict that impaired their chances against the Night King later.

If this meant his death, so be it. Varys had accepted that his doom was sealed since ever since Melisandre prophesied that he would die in Westeros, the implication being that it would be soon. He would make the most of the time that he had in this world, and the role that he was given by Fate or the gods, whichever this might be. Not letting the fears of death overwhelm him had been calming enough in its own way and so the Spider settled into the task before him, that of removing Qyburn from the equation. If Cersei’s Hand could be curbed, checked, or stopped entirely, it would make a monumental setback for the Lannister camp.

Even so, Varys wasn’t foolhardy enough to dress as himself, opting to put on a brimless cap, blouse, and trousers to conceal his true identity from all but the little birds who might recognize their old master. For the eunuch, this was absolutely crucial, to maintain his anonymity while spying on the enemy’s Hand and former maester right there in King’s Landing. Qyburn was truly far more lethal than anyone had realized until lately. It had been the ex-maester who had reshaped the Mountain, Ser Gregor Clegane into a nearly invincible knight and he who had designed the powerful scorpions used by Bronn to wound Drogon, not to mention Euron lately. He was not a joke by any means, unless a cruel one by Fate or some kind of prankster god.

In any case, knowing the Red Keep as he did, not to mention the Tower of the Hand, Varys was more than capable of working his way past the labyrinth of corridors and passages therein, avoiding needless confrontations and inconvenient inquiries. He ignored his rumbling stomach at the moment, convinced that he probably took the last steps of his mortal life, and if so, hunger was the least of his worries. For the Spider, this was the final web, so he would spin it well, whatever the cost to his own life, health, and safety. Far too much was at stake to back out at this juncture.

“You didn’t think that we forgot about you, did you, Lord Varys?” a youthful voice ended the silence behind him.

“I had wondered ... if you would even recognize me. So, I’m caught, it seems. I’m to be taken to face the Hand or perhaps the Queen? Or what other grisly fate? I have heard what you did to Grand Maester Pycelle, after all. A grim, dark fate for him, and he had already experienced the black cells once at the hands of the Imp. Well, if I’m to die, so be it, but don’t waste time seeing me off to my end. You serve the Crown, do you not? Do not cheat the royal exchequer of its money’s worth. Remember what I taught you about efficiency,” Varys assumed the worst, quite naturally, only to be answered with a gentle laugh from the boy who had his tutelage from the Spider.

“I was your best pupil, I wager, m’lord. I would not harm my old master. Qyburn might fancy himself the new Master of Whispers as well as Hand of the Queen, wearing both cloaks, but he is also seeking to fill Pycelle’s shoes. That’s a tall order for any man, even for one of Qyburn’s craft and cunning. I do not think that you quite realize how much I absorbed from you, but I did. I even cut myself so as to liberate myself of the distractions caused by desire. I am a eunuch, too, save by my own hand. I only deviated by lacking the courage to remove the pillar, preferring to displace only the stones. I must confess that this has made pissing a little easier for me,” the soft, melodic voice continued.

“What happened to me was not of my own wishes, but I made good use of it. I cannot fathom willfully doing this to oneself. Nor would I instruct or wish it upon anyone else. Even so, I must confess to admiring, even envying, your resolve, Jarrad. You must truly covet power and success that much to forgo the pleasures of the body for its sake. After all, you were willing to destroy the Sept of Baelor for the same purpose, so what are your balls next to the lives of thousands?” Varys reproached his former student and spy about the use of wildfire at the behest of Cersei Lannister against her foes.

“I did what must be done ... for the same cause as yours, m’lord. For the realm, believe it or not. The realm is not well-served by superstition, septons, Sparrows, and ignorance. If some of the more foolish denizens, the most judgmental and narrow-minded set, had to perish to cut out this cancer of too much piety and zeal, so be it. The branches of the Westerosi tree had to be pruned for their own good. I regret the suffering and misery of said hundreds and thousands of townspeople, but they chose their fate when they piled refuse upon their Queen and shamed her during her naked walk through the capital.

“So, no, I lose no sleep over the use of wildfire to purge the city of its dross and refine it to a purer silver or gold. What had to be done was done. You yourself commissioned assassins once or twice to put men and women to death whenever it suited the realm, and you stood by while Ned Stark was beheaded, because such would better serve the realm that way. Sometimes, one must be ruthless to serve the greater good. It is sad that these people died, to be sure, some of them could well have been friends of mine, some even kindred, yet their deaths worked toward the good of all Westeros,” Jarrad gave Varys his own counsel.

“I could ... understand that, if indeed it aided the greater number of the smallfolk, Jarrad. But how did this, how does this, serve the realm? Putting a woman like Cersei on the throne, a woman devoid of all natural instincts save for motherhood, a woman capable of murdering her own husband and planting her brother’s bastards on the throne in turns ... I used to not think that the birthright mattered at all, but I’ve seen where sometimes it can. Certainly it does in cases where the ruler’s claim is so thin that she must resort to the most vicious acts of wanton brutality in order to preserve her power. What good has Cersei really done to justify all of this bloodshed?” Varys countered, making Jarrad blink a bit in spite of himself.

“I ... can see that I still have a thing or two yet left to learn from my old master. It’s a pity that you left when you did. Qyburn taught me some lessons, but none of that sort. Qyburn is more concerned with the how, never with the why. If he can do it, he assumes that he should. There is never any doubt or hesitation or scruple about it. You seem to assume that there must be a purpose behind even the most callous acts of destruction and mayhem, am I correct?” Jarrad seemed to be affected by what the Spider told him now, a new instruction from his old mentor that he had never considered before.

“How old are you, again?” Varys tried to recall, still not sure if he fully trusted this old companion of his that he encountered in the Tower of the Hand.

“Fourteen. Anyway, come with me, my old teacher. Have something to eat. The Hand of the Queen is expected to join us soon. This is where he takes his meals, often with myself, in fact. We can, perhaps, slip him a dose of this,” the youth offered Varys a very small vial.

“What’s in it?” Varys naturally probed, as they sat down in a small, cozy room within the Tower.

“A different medicine than the one that delivered the realm of the young Joffrey. Let him think that you’ve come around to Queen Cersei’s virtues and wish to serve her after all. Say, perhaps, that the burning of the Tarlys convinced you that you’d backed the wrong horse, even though Daenerys Targaryen seems to be winning. It’s reasonable to suppose that, if for no other reason than that it possibly reminded you of the Mad King, her father. Let lower his guard just enough and he’ll soon be discussing a place for you in Cersei’s Small Council. By the time that he realizes that he’s ingested the Tears of Lys, it will be far too late,” Jarrad suggested, much to Varys’s shock.

“The Tears of Lys? Named after my birthplace? How fitting! You have aged, matured even, quite a bit for a boy so young. I suppose that some of that is my own fault, but Qyburn must take the blame for much of it as well. To have made the decision, especially in an age of such strong lusts, to render yourself incapable of acting upon them, that is truly astonishing in its own right. The same is true of your rather cold-blooded attitude toward assassinations and massacres,” Varys noted.

“I was among those who assassinated Pycelle. I had an early education in murder. For the greater good, as I’ve said, it’s not such a crime. Pycelle was always something of a pig and a pompous, self-important toad. I regret nothing of what I did to him. Now his laboratory belongs to Qyburn, and I must confess that I will regret killing that man, but to be frank, it’s necessary. What’s one more death for the benefit of the realm? I’d already decided that he had to perish once the scorpions were finished. At that point, I would no longer need him around. He’d only be standing in the way of progress. He was useful, but he’s outlived that use,” Jarrad told Varys coolly, making even the Spider shiver in response to the boy’s icy tone and expressions.