Chapter 80 — Answer Me… Look in My Eyes!
"My lord, I fear your sister would never approve…"
Varys didn't slow his pace; his voice held a weary amusement.
"She'd wet herself from fright."
Tyrion snorted at that — he wouldn't admit he'd nearly jumped himself at seeing the eunuch in armor.
But damn the man for revealing such a startling face to him of all people.
And that thought brought Podrick's warning back to mind.
"It was already dark when I left the Keep," Tyrion said suddenly.
"I can't be sure whether my sister's eyes and ears caught sight of me.
Though truth be told… it might be best if they had."
If Varys heard the implication, he didn't show it. His voice remained light:
"Then I'm pleased, my lord.
But most of your sister's spies are my spies — she simply doesn't know."
Tyrion raised a brow.
"So that's why you waited all day down here?
Because of what happened in Maegor's Holdfast?"
"Naturally," Varys replied without hesitation.
"When you summoned all those… native craftsmen, I understood something had shifted.
And I must say, my lord — you have a remarkable squire."
A shadow of a smile crept into his voice.
"Women are utterly defenseless before him.
Even your sister. Even Chataya.
Such talent… enough to make every man green with envy."
Tyrion stared up at him.
"…Can you do it?"
Varys did not turn back.
"I am merely a eunuch, my lord."
Tyrion wasn't sure whether that counted as an answer.
As always, he could not read the man — or tell where the truth ended and the mask began.
Tyrion exhaled slowly, steadying himself, and changed the subject.
"How did a brothel end up with a secret passageway?"
He lifted a brow.
"Surely some desperate soul, aflame with lust, once crawled through a wardrobe to get here? If so, all the effort hardly seems worth it."
Varys shook his head.
"The passage was built by a former Hand of the King — too proud to be seen entering this place openly. As for Chataya, she guards its existence well."
His tone was calm… until it wasn't.
"But they do know you visit here, my lord. Whether someone dares disguise themselves as a patron to slip inside — that I cannot promise won't happen.
Best we tread carefully."
Varys gestured toward a narrow hidden door. Beyond it, Tyrion heard the muffled whinny of horses.
Tyrion didn't move. After a day of waiting, Shae could spare another minute — and he had a question that weighed more than any reunion.
He turned back toward Varys, candlelight wavering between them, and looked straight into his eyes.
"Before I left the city, Podrick brought me… unfortunate news."
Varys didn't blink.
"Your remarkable young squire?
Then I assume it concerns where we've just been, does it not?
About Barra and her mother?"
His lack of surprise was telling.
The flame flickered, shadows of the two men stretched across the dirt walls — merging, splitting, merging again — like silent arguments cast in smoke.
Tyrion said nothing.
Varys sighed softly.
"Barra… such a poor child. But truly, my lord, you needn't fear the worst."
He smiled — composed, unreadable.
Tyrion's face did not change.
"I saved them from my sister, only for my own men to sell them."
His voice was low, flat, dangerous.
"If they're fortunate, they'll reach Dragonstone alive.
Stannis won't kill them — he hates bastards, yes, but he's not without… boundaries.
On that island, in that castle, there must be space enough for one mother and her child."
A pause. His eyes hardened.
"If they're unlucky, they'll follow the babe's grandparents — taken by storm, swallowed by sea."
"And if, after all that, they still reach Lys… then what?
Tell me what future awaits them?"
Tyrion searched Varys's face — every twitch, every shadow.
Was this the true face of the Spider?
The one who smiled in the throne room — or this armored stranger smelling of garlic and cheap wine?
Varys met his stare without flinching.
"Of course I can tell you, my lord."
He lifted the candle, and the shadows shrank back as if afraid.
"You worry needlessly."
Tyrion's voice dropped into a growl.
"You claim your head is filled with secrets —
so are you telling me you leaked their whereabouts to that ship?"
Varys felt the shift — the coiled danger beneath Tyrion's words.
He fluttered a hand, candle shaking, shadows thrashing on the walls like beasts caught in rain.
"No, no, my lord — you misunderstand. Why would I do such a thing?
I merely… know things.
And in truth, I have never dealt with the ships arriving during these troubled times."
Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Tyrion waited.
And Varys — as always — filled the silence.
"You don't believe me.
I can hardly blame you. Who trusts a master of whispers?"
He paused — then dropped the thread.
"But if I told you that the ship from Lys belongs to Stannis Baratheon… would that ease your mind?"
Tyrion stiffened — shocked, yet unsurprised.
Varys continued, voice smooth as silk over steel:
"Its captain is Salladhor Saan — pirate, trader, banker, smuggler, 'Prince of the Narrow Sea.'
He commands Stannis's naval strength. One of his ships, Valyrian, guards Dragonstone.
The other — Brightrobin, the 'Thousand Colors Bird' — ferries news from King's Landing to Dragonstone."
His eyes gleamed.
"And Saan, my lord, is an old friend of Ser Davos Seaworth.
It was Davos himself who convinced him to serve our King Stannis."