Varys did not argue; he nodded calmly. "You know the boy well, my lord. It's true—he has not yet harmed the innocent."
Ned Stark's grey eyes flickered. "As if that weren't the barest duty of a knight—now praised as some rare virtue."
A knowing smile touched Varys' lips.
"When I was young… or to be exact, before I was cut," he sighed, "I wandered Essos with a mummers' troupe. They taught me one lesson: everyone has a part to play—onstage and off. Later, when I came here to serve as Master of Whisperers, I found…"
He paused, then went on, "The Red Keep is no different. The Master of Laws must be iron-hearted; the King's Justice, a terror; the Master of Coin, miserly to the bone; the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the very image of valor. And the spymaster… must be full of wiles and honeyed words and slip through every crack."
Ned's voice cooled. "A tidy excuse, Varys, for standing apart and washing your hands."
Varys pretended not to hear the barb. "A spymaster drunk on courage is as useless as a craven knight, my lord."
Ned frowned. He loathed such wordplay; all the pretty phrases in the world would not turn falsehood into truth. He took a pull of wine. "Will you cut my throat for Cersei, then?"
The Spider's smile stiffened. He shook his head. "That I cannot do."
"Nor are you here to set me free," Ned said, with a dry edge.
Varys shook his head again, voice tinged with regret. "Once, perhaps. But Petyr Baelish vanished from the Black Cells not long ago—despite heavy guard. Since then, the watch is stricter than ever. And you, my lord, are the Queen's most precious prisoner."
Ned's hand stilled on the wineskin. "Littlefinger escaped?"
Varys inclined his head. "I am quite certain. Eunuchs have no honor, they say—but I've no reason to lie to you."
After a silence, Ned said, "Enough. There's nothing I can do." He exhaled. "Since you're in a candid mood—state your purpose."
"My lord, I come for peace."
Varys folded his hands, suddenly grave. "If anyone in King's Landing truly wished to keep Robert Baratheon alive, it was I."
Ned said nothing.
"For fifteen years I guarded him from his enemies," Varys sighed, "only to see him undone—by a friend."
His gaze met Ned's. "What madness seized you, that you went to the Queen and told her you knew those three were not of the royal blood—handing the Lannisters time to arrange the 'accident' that followed?"
Ned's mouth twisted. "Madness… of mercy."
"The only answer, indeed," Varys murmured. "You are a high and honorable man, Lord Stark. I forget it, because I so rarely meet your like."
He glanced around the damp, stinking cell. "And seeing what honor and mercy have bought you, I remember why."
Ned asked, "What of Robert's wine?"
"I looked into it," Varys said softly. "The strongwine was given to Ser Lancel by the Queen. She planned for this long ago. The king praised the boy, and the boy loved the taste of drunkenness. Hunting drunk is perilous; an 'accident' was a question of when, not if. That is what the Queen desired."
His eyes gleamed in the torchlight. "Had you not provoked her, she might have waited longer. Even if the boar hadn't killed him, your Robert would have fallen from his horse… or taken a stray arrow… or met a sudden adder's bite. That royal hunting ground was seeded with snares, waiting for a drunkard king to stumble into them. So it was not the wine that killed Robert, my lord—it was your mercy and your honor."
"Gods forgive me," Ned whispered, eyes shut tight with pain.
"If the gods exist, they will not judge you harshly," Varys said gently. "The Queen had murder in her heart long before—when you were still in Winterfell."
Ned's eyes snapped open—sharp again, like the day of blood in the throne room. "You're toying with me."
Varys flinched back a step, all injured innocence. "Do not mistake a small man's goodwill, my lord."
"Then speak your true purpose," Ned growled. "Spare me your fog."
Varys dabbed at an absent bead of sweat. "Very well. The Queen will visit you soon."
"What for?" Ned asked, cold as the crypts.
The Spider glanced at the door and lowered his voice. "She fears you."
"I am a prisoner," Ned said with scorn. "She can kill me when she likes."
"You mishear me," Varys said quickly. "She fears the power behind you—Stark and Tully swords."
"The North has risen?" Ned pressed.
Varys nodded, then shook his head, and finally explained. "Your lady wife and your son are calling your banners. Ravens have flown to Riverrun and the Eyrie—one need not read them to guess their drift."
"And Casterly Rock?" Ned asked.
A shrug. "Lord Mace of Highgarden feasts with twenty thousand on the Reach–Westerlands border, 'hunting brigands,' they say. With the Reach to the east and the Riverlands to the north, Lord Tywin's plate is suddenly very full."
"And Dorne?" Ned said.
"The Martells have not forgiven Elia and her children," Varys breathed. "Give them the scent of vengeance, and they will not stay their hand."
He went on, "Then there are Robert's brothers. Stannis—by right and by steel. On Dragonstone, I'd wager he's raising ships and men, not shells. He holds the royal fleet. When will he strike for King's Landing? No one doubts Lord Stannis is not a tender man."
"The Crownlands and the Westerlands have foes enough," he finished softly.
Ned frowned. Why spill these tidings to him? It could not serve the Queen.
"Whom do you serve, Spider?"
Varys offered a small, earnest smile. "The peace of the realm. I swear it on what I have lost. All I do is to avert war and keep the kingdom whole."
Ned did not believe him. Not for hatred of eunuchs—only the wolf's nose for lies. There was something else, hidden.
He closed his eyes, the wine warming his skull.
"My honor does not bend," he said at last. "I will not set Cersei's get upon the throne. Stannis is Robert's true heir. I welcome him to the Iron Throne."
"Ah!" Varys cried, then leaned close. "My lord, that is not a tune the Queen will wish to hear. Keep such words and you may greet King Stannis—with a rotting head."
"I do not fear death," Ned said.
"But…" Varys pleaded softly, "have you forgotten your innocent girl? Sansa begs for your life, and you… She is pitiable."
Cold ran Ned's spine. His eyes flew open. "Leave my daughter out of this. She is only a child."
"Who, besides you, cares whether she's a child?" Varys whispered. "To the Queen, she is a piece upon the board. A tamed wolf is more useful than a dead one. That is why the girl still breathes."
"If Cersei harms Sansa," Ned snarled, "the Starks and Tullys will drown her in blood."
"Your Grace the Queen is not a rational woman," Varys sighed. "That much is known."
Ned could not hide his fear for the girl. He faltered.
"Princess Rhaenys was a child too," Varys said after a look at him. "Sweet, younger than both your daughters. She had a little black kitten—called him Balerion, and liked to pretend he was the Black Dread. When the Lannisters broke her door, they taught her the difference between kittens and dragons."
He seemed lost in sorrow.
"The High Septon told me once: we suffer because we are sinful. If so, tell me, Lord Stark—why is it that in your great lords' game of thrones, the smallfolk always suffer most?"
He straightened. "Peace is simple. Confess your treason before the realm. Bid Winterfell bend the knee to King Joffrey. And swear, even on pain of death, never to reveal the Queen's secret. Then she will let you take the black; Sansa will be spared; and the realm may be saved from war."
Varys moved to the door and bowed. "Think on it—before the Queen arrives. Do not overrate her patience."
He rapped upon the wood and was gone.
The City Watch (Gold Cloaks) were the garrison and law in King's Landing, quartered in two great barracks: the eastern near the Dragon Gate, the western by Cobbler's Square.
Eastern Barracks, Commander's Tent
Gawen sat before a detailed map of the city.
He looked up from the parchment. "Leyton, take some rest."
Dawn had long broken; Gawen and his young steward had worked through the night. He missed Maester Al and Samwell, far away in Whispering Hall.
Leyton lifted a weary face from the papers, dark crescents under his eyes. "My lord, there's little left. We should finish by noon."
He yawned despite himself and clapped a hand over his mouth.
Gawen smiled. "The rot in the Watch runs deep—but it gives us a clean pretext. Thank you, Leyton."
The boy scratched his head, embarrassed.
After a while he tucked away a letter. "My lord, Steward Rosser has arranged a meeting with the King's Landing merchants. They await your audience tonight."
Gawen nodded. Leyton meant the merchants who had dealt with him during last year's royal hunt.
"My lord, Ser Lancel Lannister begs audience," a runner called from outside.
Gawen's brow rose. So, Lancel had his knighthood already?
Lancel stood before him, chin high. Gawen rubbed his hair. The boy looked like one whose head had been thoroughly turned.
"Lord Crabb," Lancel began grandly, "by command of the Queen Regent—"
"Kneel," Gawen said, cutting him off.
Lancel stared, incredulous.
"I represent—"
With a hiss, Gawen's longsword flashed past Lancel's cheek and thudded into the tent-post behind him, the hilt quivering.
Lancel dropped to his knees, white as chalk. "Y-you—"
Gawen cocked his head, puzzled. "Lancel, have you forgotten my warning?"
"I am a knight!" Lancel flushed scarlet.
Gawen rose, stepped close, and crouched until their eyes were level. "And what has that to do with my warning?"
Lancel's handsome face twisted. "You've no proof!"
A dull whump—and Lancel folded on the carpets with a gasp of pain.
Gawen stood over him, voice mild. "What made you think I needed proof? Have you considered what happens when Joffrey learns the truth?"
.
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