Chapter 79 — Genius Appears in Strange Places
"If you want to ask, my lord," Alayaya said with a hand over her mouth to hide her laughter,
"why not just say it?"
Tyrion swallowed his pride.
"Fine. I meant— is he… unusually—"
He made a vague gesture in the air.
Alayaya shook her head before he could finish.
"No. It's not… particularly large.
But size had nothing to do with it."
Tyrion blinked.
"Yet you didn't take his coin.
That part seems… unusual."
Alayaya's frankness left him speechless for a moment.
"He is the most extraordinary man we've ever met."
"You've met countless men," Tyrion leaned forward, eyes narrowed.
"So we're speaking of the same Podrick Payne? My former squire?
The boy is twelve—well, nearly thirteen—but that's not the point.
The point is, when I paid in advance, I expected you all to… well… profit."
"Oh, we profited, my lord," Alayaya purred,
"just not in gold."
While she spoke, her eyes sparkled with memory—
chin lifted, lips parted ever so slightly.
She even licked her lips once, throat moving as she swallowed.
"We promised him that whenever he came again, we would never take a single coin from him."
"Seven hells…"
For perhaps the first time in his life, Tyrion Lannister felt truly uneasy—
his soul bruised, his pride limping.
He locked eyes with her.
"What did he do?"
"Many things," she sighed,
"but… they're hard to explain."
Silence sat heavily between them.
A tall girl and a small man, staring each other down.
After a long moment, Tyrion exhaled and straightened.
"I understand.
Talent does appear in strange places."
He shook his head, half in awe, half in despair.
"So… your mother had no complaints about losing such revenue?"
"None at all.
Mother looks forward to his visits more than anyone.
She says that in him, the gods are best honored.
She sounds quite devout."
Tyrion couldn't stomach more of this conversation.
His chest felt tight—
surely he was bleeding inside, or why else would it hurt so much?
"Very well, beautiful girl.
Thank you for… clarifying matters.
But now, my other friend waits, and I shouldn't keep him longer.
Before I go—
may I learn how skilled your tongue truly is?
Of all your charms, that one intrigues me most."
Alayaya wiped the corner of her mouth with a finger, voice light.
"My tongue was well-trained, my lord—
I learned early when to use it…
and when not to."
Tyrion smiled thinly.
"Excellent. And what do you propose we do next?"
She leaned forward, whispering as if sharing a secret:
"Open the wardrobe, my lord.
What you seek is behind it."
He kissed her hand, then climbed into the wardrobe.
His stubby fingers found the seam, pushed—
a panel slid aside, revealing blackness beyond.
His hand brushed cold metal.
He gripped the iron ladder and began to descend.
Only after he had climbed deep beneath the street did the vertical shaft tilt,
turning into a slanted earthen tunnel.
There, waiting with a candle in hand, stood Varys.
"My lord," the eunuch murmured,
"I trust you found Chataya's establishment… satisfactory?"
In the pitch-black of the underground tunnel, the candle in the eunuch's hand was the only source of light.
Tyrion's boots had barely touched the ground when Varys spoke, unable to wait even a heartbeat longer.
"Most satisfactory. I truly don't know how you ever conceived such a clever approach."
Tyrion halted, turned to face him.
"But are you certain that woman can be trusted?"
In the murky glow of the candle, the light wasn't nearly as kind as daylight—and only then did Tyrion realize something was wrong. His whole body tensed.
The man standing before him was nothing like the silken, perfumed Master of Whisperers he knew.
Varys wore a battered leather jerkin over a shirt of mail, a spiked helmet pulled low over his brow. There was even the shadow of stubble on his chin, and a long scar cut across his cheek. Daggers and a short sword hung at his belt.
If not for that familiar honey-thick voice, no one would ever take this grim mercenary for the court's master spy—much less a eunuch.
Varys noticed something—whether it was Tyrion's question, or the slight tightening of his posture—and the corner of his mouth twitched beneath the helm.
"My lord… in a world so treacherous and unpredictable, I am certain of nothing."
"But Chataya bears no love for the Queen Regent, and she remembers her debts. That is enough. Come."
He offered no further explanation. Instead he turned and strode deeper into the passage.
Tyrion clenched his fist, then loosened it again, grinding his teeth before following.
Podrick was right to be wary…
Even the eunuch's gait was different—gone was the floating softness and perfume of lavender. Now his steps were heavy, confident, and reeked faintly of cheap ale and garlic.
"You kept me waiting today," Tyrion said, trying to make his tone sound casual, unstartled.
"But I must say, Varys, I rather like your new wardrobe."
"My work doesn't allow me to parade through the streets with a retinue of knights, my lord," Varys replied smoothly.
"Each time I leave the city, I wear a different face."
"It's the only reason I'm alive—and still able to serve you."
He paused, then added gently:
"As for your waiting… my time is worth very little. And you, of course, had your reasons.
Your sister—ah, well. I shouldn't speak out of turn.
Let's just say the impatient one was not me, but someone else entirely."
Tyrion couldn't tell if the eunuch was mocking him, warning him, or simply stating a fact.
Clearly Varys had spent the day here—and yet knew precisely what had happened in the Red Keep.
And as for Shae…
Tyrion narrowed his eyes slightly.
"I must admit, the leather suits you.
Perhaps you should wear it to court next time."