The air felt thick in the temple, the smell of incense overwhelming the senses. Varys stood just outside the birthing chamber, his hands clasped tightly within the folds of his voluminous robes. The faint, rhythmic chants of the red priests echoed through the stone corridors of the ancient Volantene temple, their words a low, monotonous hum in praise of R'hllor, the Lord of Light. The walls, etched with crumbling mosaics depicting ancient prophecies, were bathed in the eerie flicker of braziers filled with sacred fire. Shadows moved restlessly as if the very walls of the temple were alive and watching.
He shifted on his feet, his normally placid face tight with anxiety as his eyes flicked to the heavy double doors in front of him. Through the crack in the doors, Varys could hear the unmistakable wail of a newborn babe. A shiver ran down his spine. The Spider, as they had once called him in Westeros, had lived many lives and heard many cries, but this one felt different. There was a weight to it, as though the babe's cry carried the weight of prophecy itself, the weight of a future yet to be written.
Volantis. He cursed the gods, all gods, for leading him to this wretched place. A city as ancient as the histories themselves, built on the edge of the Smoking Sea, shrouded in the mist of old magic and endless faith in R'hllor. The red priests and priestesses were everywhere, walking among the people like living embodiments of the god they served. Their flames burned brighter here, the belief in R'hllor stronger than in any other place in Essos. The fire was alive in this city, crackling with magic and zealotry.
Varys, though never a believer, had learned to use faith to his advantage. It was one of many tools in his vast arsenal. And now, here in this forsaken city, it had become his shield. The red priests of Volantis, with their endless chants of prophecy and rebirth, were more than willing to offer sanctuary to the Spider, especially when he whispered to them of Daenerys Targaryen's fate.
His lips pressed together as he thought back to Westeros, to Dragonstone, to that fateful night when he had been forced to flee. The heat of dragonfire still felt close to his skin, a lingering phantom. He had trusted Tyrion Lannister with his plans, trusted that the once sharp-witted Hand of the Queen would see reason, that he would understand that Daenerys needed to be stopped. But he had been wrong. A fool. Tyrion had betrayed him, sacrificing him for a doomed queen, and Varys had been forced to run. He had barely escaped Dragonstone, a few seconds standing between life and fiery death as Drogon's breath scorched the very ground where he had once stood.
Escaping to Volantis had been his only option. Westeros believed him dead, as dead as Daenerys after Jon Snow's betrayal. It was better that way. The fewer who knew of his continued existence, the safer he would be. But safety was fleeting, always fleeting, and now his thoughts wandered to what lay beyond the closed doors in front of him—the babe, and the woman who had once been a queen.
He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to steady his nerves. What was done was done. The game had shifted, the pieces moved into unfamiliar territory, and Varys was left to adjust his strategy. His mind returned to the infant inside the room, the newborn whose cries pierced the quiet of the temple. He thought of its mother—the last Targaryen queen, the breaker of chains, the woman who had once been the embodiment of fire and blood.
A creak sounded as the wooden doors opened, and Varys straightened. A midwife emerged, her face hidden beneath the shadow of her hood, her eyes downcast. She glanced up at him for only a moment before speaking, her voice quiet and almost reverent.
"Come," she said in the Common Tongue, the word clipped by her Volantene accent.
Varys hesitated, his mind flashing through every possible outcome. He had never been one to let emotions cloud his judgment, but this moment felt different. His heart, usually cold and calculating, was not immune to the gravity of what lay beyond those doors. Daenerys, the dragon queen, was alive—or something close to it. And the babe she had birthed was now in this world. The consequences of this birth rippled across the map of Westeros and Essos, like the waves of the Narrow Sea lapping at the shores of both continents.
Steeling himself, he stepped inside the chamber, his feet silent on the worn stone floor. The room was dimly lit, the flicker of firelight casting the shadows of the two priestesses standing at the corners, their golden masks glinting in the orange glow. Their presence was like that of sentinels—watchful, silent, ever vigilant.
His eyes were immediately drawn to the figure lying on the bed at the center of the room. Daenerys Targaryen. The Mother of Dragons. Or at least, what remained of her.
She was barely recognizable, a shadow of the fiery queen she had once been. Her skin, once kissed by the warmth of the sun, was now pale and ashen, her face hollow and sunken. Her once beautiful silver hair clung damply to her head, darkened by sweat. Her eyes, those bright, determined violet eyes that had once commanded armies and dragons alike, were closed, her body as still as death. The sheets beneath her were stained deep red with her blood.
Varys felt a pang of something unfamiliar—a deep, sorrowful pity. Daenerys had burned too bright, too fiercely, and now the fire that had once sustained her had all but consumed her. The red priests had kept her alive, but only barely. Magic, it seemed, could bring one back from the brink of death, but it could not restore what had been lost.
His gaze shifted to the midwife who now stood beside the bed, cradling the tiny babe in her arms. "The babe," she whispered, almost in awe, as she gently placed the bundle into Varys' arms. He hesitated only a moment before accepting the newborn, his arms cradling the child with surprising gentleness.
The babe was small, impossibly small, its skin soft and fragile. A tuft of silver-blonde hair crowned its tiny head, and when it opened its eyes, they were a striking shade of lilac, the unmistakable mark of her Targaryen heritage. It whimpered, a soft, pitiful sound that tugged at something deep inside Varys. For a moment, he forgot the prophecy, the game, and the war. All he saw was a child—a child born into a world that had never been kind to those who bore the name Targaryen.
"A girl," one of the priestesses said from the foot of the bed. Her voice was low, filled with a kind of reverence that made Varys uncomfortable. She stepped forward, her red robes brushing the stone floor as she moved. "Azor Ahai reborn," she whispered, her eyes fixed on the child in Varys' arms. "The princess who was promised."
The words hung in the air, heavy and oppressive. Azor Ahai reborn. The prince—or in this case, princess—who was promised. Varys had heard the prophecy before, whispered in the halls of kings and queens, spoken by red priests and priestesses who saw visions in their flames. It was a dangerous thing, prophecy. It had shaped kings, started wars, and brought death to many. And now, these priests believed that this tiny babe, this fragile creature in his arms, was the one who would fulfill that prophecy.
Varys did not believe in prophecy. He believed in power, in manipulation, in the unseen threads that connected kingdoms and empires. Prophecies were the tools of those who sought to control the weak-minded, to bend them to their will. He would not be swayed by such things.
"The prophecy has been wrong before," Varys said, his voice steady as he looked at the priestess.
The woman's eyes gleamed beneath her golden mask, but she said nothing, simply watching with the intensity of a predator observing its prey. Varys turned his attention back to the babe, his mind racing with the implications of what had just transpired. The world would soon learn that Daenerys Targaryen was dead—or worse, something less than alive. But this child…this child would be the key to everything.
He cast a long, lingering glance at Daenerys, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, kept alive only by the magic of the Red Priestesses. The woman who had once been a queen, who had once burned cities to the ground with her dragon, was now a vessel, a hollow shell brought back only to deliver her child into the world.
Varys looked down at the babe again, her tiny fingers curling against the fabric of his robes. She was so small, so vulnerable, and yet her very existence could reshape the future of Westeros.
"She will be called Visenya Targaryen," Varys said, his voice filled with quiet authority. The name carried weight, history. Visenya had been a conqueror, a queen, a warrior in the days of old. This child would need that strength, for the world she had been born into would be unforgiving.
The red priestesses exchanged a glance, their eyes glowing behind their masks. One of them nodded slowly, acknowledging the name with a silent approval. Somewhere deep within the temple, the flames of R'hllor burned brighter, as though the fire itself recognized the significance of the moment.
As Varys stood there, holding the child that could change the course of history, he realized that the game was far from over. The wheel would continue to turn, but now, in his arms, he held the key to its next revolution.
Visenya Targaryen. Azor Ahai reborn—or so they believed.
The Spider smiled faintly, knowing that while prophecy might shape the world, it was the hands of men—and women—that truly guided its fate.
And Varys would make certain that those hands belonged to him.