Littlefinger was dangerous. Varys was dangerous too.
But in the Red Keep they were useful—extremely useful.
Even Tyrion had busted his ass and still couldn't figure out how to restore the steady river of gold the crown had enjoyed in Littlefinger's day. Current revenue was down to barely a tenth of what it used to be.
Varys was even worse. His little birds covered the entire Seven Kingdoms. Compared to that, Littlefinger's street-level rackets were like a wight standing next to a White Walker.
Cersei's crew didn't even deserve to be mentioned in the same breath.
But Joffrey was marching to war.
He was leaving King's Landing—possibly for a long time.
He couldn't afford to let a spider keep spinning webs in the city while he was gone.
No matter how quickly Varys had sworn loyalty the moment Joffrey took the throne, no matter how hard the eunuch had worked during the fighting, no matter how clean his record had stayed… Joffrey was ending this tonight.
After what happened with Littlefinger, he had learned one thing: the simpler the plan, the better. The more layers you added, the more ways it could go wrong.
So the method was dead simple.
The king wants a private word. Come to dinner.
Varys walked in smiling.
The Hound stepped up behind him, clamped one massive hand over the eunuch's mouth, and dropped him with a single blow to the neck.
Bag. Dungeon. Chair. Rope.
Done.
Joffrey had cleared the deep cells beneath the Red Keep days earlier. No guards, no prisoners—just bare stone walls and flickering candlelight.
The Hound melted into the shadows by the only door, silent as death.
The quiet settled like damp air rising from underground.
Finally Varys spoke first.
"Heh heh heh… Your Grace really picked the perfect spot," he said, voice still soft but missing its usual oily smoothness. "I actually believed you were inviting me to dinner."
Joffrey said nothing.
Varys waited. His smile slowly stiffened.
"Your Grace… aren't you going to ask me anything?"
Still nothing. Joffrey wanted Varys to break first.
Because he did have questions—he just wasn't sure which ones to ask yet.
Varys closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again there was a trace of resignation.
"The assassin really was one of mine."
Joffrey's face darkened.
Which assassin?
"Robert took anyone who could hold a spear. Slipping a few of my people into the column was child's play. Littlefinger planted several too, but I hid mine better."
Bran.
Joffrey remembered.
"A boy all the way up in the North," he said slowly. "Why did you think he was a threat?"
"He wasn't a threat to anyone, Your Grace." Varys spat a mouthful of blood. "I had him killed to help you."
"Help me?"
"I saw how much you hated Littlefinger," Varys said with a small smile. "That man would drag the entire continent into the seventh hell if it got him one more rung up the ladder. You wanted him gone. So did I."
"But you knew the Lannisters and the Starks weren't exactly friends," Joffrey said. "That move could only start a blood feud between the two houses."
"I never told him exactly what to do," Varys replied. "I told him to use his own judgment. He chose the most dangerous way possible—and lost his life because of it."
"You know Littlefinger, Your Grace. He loves to find cracks and widen them. A dagger that used to belong to him, now in the king's possession? The story he could spin… even my burned-off cock could guess what he'd say."
Joffrey stayed quiet a moment.
"You're telling me all this now because you want me to spare you?"
Varys lifted his head. His eyes held nothing but bone-deep exhaustion.
"Your Grace, would begging do me any good?"
"I only want to know how I was caught… and who betrayed me."
Joffrey was silent again.
How the hell would I know who betrayed you? I just have future knowledge and I already knew you were a traitor. So I grabbed you ahead of time as a precaution.
He finally settled on a mysterious little smile.
"Dragons are the mark of emperors."
"I found the true master you really serve."
Varys's face flickered twice.
"Dragons," he repeated.
"Daenerys Targaryen."
"Stormborn, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons."
"The true dragon has returned, Your Grace. Do you understand what that means?"
Joffrey shook his head.
"She's just a little girl. By the time those three dragons are big enough to ride, more than ten years will have passed. You've never even met her. Why are you so sure she'd be better than me?"
Varys shook his head too.
"Strength does not always make a good king."
"King Aerys was strong. He burned countless people alive and no one dared oppose him. King Robert was even stronger—he started a rebellion and ended the Targaryen dynasty. But were they good kings?"
Varys looked straight at him. Candlelight danced in his eyes behind Joffrey.
"When a strong bad man gains power, good people die. When a good man who isn't strong gains power, good people still die. I've seen too many tragedies—madness, war, famine… Every time power changes hands, it's the smallfolk who bleed."
"So I wanted to find someone… someone who could truly bring peace to the Seven Kingdoms."
Joffrey tapped his knee lightly, face blank.
"So you chose Daenerys instead of me? I can't bring peace?"
Varys coughed twice.
"Your Grace, I didn't choose her and abandon you. I simply needed time to observe."
He tried to change the subject. "Does Your Grace know my story? How I ended up here?"
"An orphan apprenticed to a mummer's troupe," Joffrey said. "Then a sorcerer bought you, cut off your manhood, and burned it as part of a spell."
Varys sighed.
"Nothing gets past you, Your Grace."
"From that day on I have hated magic and everyone who practices it. That's why I wanted to help you. That's why I want Melisandre dead. That's why I want Stannis dead."
Joffrey thought for a moment.
"Then why can't you keep helping me? Haven't my actions been merciful enough?"
Varys gave a tired smile.
"Your Grace, you are a good king. Better than the Mad King. Better than Robert. Better than your father and mother. Better and wiser than any king I have ever seen."
"But the Mad King was wise when he was young too. Who can say whether your wisdom today won't turn into something far more terrible tomorrow?"
Joffrey stared at him coldly.
"If that's what I become, why wouldn't Daenerys become the same? The coin has two sides—and both sides are Targaryen."
Varys didn't answer.
"What about the boy? Wouldn't he become the same?"
"Young Aegon. Young Griff."
"Red dragon? Black dragon?"
"Rhaegar's son? Or Illyrio's son?"
Varys's face froze.
For the first time it wasn't an act. Real, raw shock.
Then Varys started laughing—wet, wheezing, like a broken bellows.
"Heh… heh… heh…"
He laughed until Joffrey wondered if he would ever stop. Finally he did.
"He's young, clever, kind," Varys said, eyes glistening. "He will be a good king. I believe he will be a good king. Griff taught him war, Rolly taught him arms, Septa Lemore taught him faith, Haldon taught him language and history."
"But your teachers were better. And you have more hope."
"Robert needed to stay alive so the realm could stay at peace until the boy was ready. Robert needed to die so the realm would fall into chaos and the boy could return as the hero who ended the war. But Robert didn't die… and you seized control of the situation immediately."
"I could not let Stannis take the throne, so I helped you. But I also could not let you end the war too cleanly… because you really would make a good king."
Tears slid down Varys's cheeks.
"Your Grace… I am sorry."
"I know your habits. You like to drink alone at night under the moonlight. So—for his sake—"
"I put poison in the wine in your chambers."