Chapter 188 Varys's Nightmare
Varys had a dream.
In the dream, he was a child again, standing before his first master. The man's face was a blur, but Varys could still feel a sense of warmth from his familiar shape. For the time he had spent as a slave in the kitchens of the Lysene merchant's manse had been the happiest period of his miserable childhood.
The merchant's cooks and maids were kind, rarely forcing him to do heavy or tiring work. And there, in that great house, Varys had friends—a whole group of children to play with.
But the happiness, even in a dream, was short-lived. Soon, he saw the mummers' troupe.
He vaguely remembered the day. It was the merchant's daughter's nameday, and to celebrate his little princess, the merchant had hired a traveling troupe to perform. And on that day, the master of the troupe took a fancy to Varys, offering to purchase him.
At the time, the young Varys did not understand what this truly meant. He only thought he could escape the boring life of a kitchen hand and join the mummers, performing in all manner of beautiful costumes. He begged the merchant to sell him.
He hadn't known it was the beginning of his life of misery.
The dream shifted. He was on the troupe master's boat, performing all the filthiest chores, enduring harsh training, and often going hungry. Their troupe toured the Free Cities, sometimes crossing the Narrow Sea to Oldtown and King's Landing.
The dream galloped on, a whirlwind of images awakening Varys's memories bit by bit.
Soon, a knot of anxiety tightened in his gut as the troupe arrived in Myr, the place that would change his life forever.
As he had dreaded, he saw the sorcerer. It was he who had demanded to buy him for a staggering sum of money, an amount the troupe master could not refuse. At the time, Varys had been terrified of the man, believing the whispers that he enjoyed little boys. But the sorcerer had no such desires; he needed Varys to complete a ritual of blood magic.
In the waking world, Varys no longer feared him. He had long since captured the sorcerer and locked him in a chest in a cellar, having already exacted his revenge.
Yet now, in the dream, Varys's brow furrowed deeply. The sensations were too clear. He felt the effects of the potion that had paralyzed him, rendering him unable to move or speak, yet able to feel everything.
In his dream, he was about to be castrated again.
Varys wanted to scream.
Inevitably, the moment came. An agonizing pain erupted from between his legs. From the corner of his eye, he saw the sorcerer toss something into a brazier. The flames turned a spectral blue, and a voice spoke from their depths—the same voice that haunted Varys's waking thoughts, day and night. He still did not know if it was a god, a devil, or merely a sorcerer's trick.
The flame died, and the voice vanished.
When Varys opened his eyes again, he was in Pentos. Sitting before him was his new friend in crime, Illyrio Mopatis.
Varys felt a secret flicker of relief, for the dream had skipped the worst of it—the time after the ritual when the sorcerer had cast him out into the street to fend for himself. The troupe had already sailed away, and he began a life of begging and thievery. He had endured unspeakable tortures of both body and mind during that time. It was a memory he never wished to revisit.
His vision focused on the scene before him. He and Illyrio were starting their new enterprise: Varys would steal valuables from lesser thieves, and Illyrio would return them to their original owners for a handsome reward.
Soon, their operation grew powerful and they became famous in Pentos. Anyone who lost something of value knew to come to them for 'help' in recovering their property. Of course, the city's thieves came looking for them as well. At first, they wanted to kill the two men who were hijacking their business, but they always failed. Eventually, the thieves simply asked them to help sell their stolen goods, effectively becoming their suppliers.
Before long, Varys and Illyrio had amassed considerable wealth.
The dream continued its relentless forward march, but Varys grew more and more disoriented. He began to wonder what it meant, this sudden dream that retraced his entire life. Could he have accidentally ingested some poison? Was he, at this very moment, dying in his sleep?
The dream gave him no time to ponder the question, for he had already arrived in Westeros.
He had come at the invitation of Aerys II. The Targaryen monarch, known to history as the 'Mad King,' had discovered his talents and invited him to sit on his small council as the Master of Whisperers.
Thus began his service to House Targaryen.
Gradually, his network of spies spread throughout King's Landing until not a single whisper in the city escaped his ears. He gained the absolute trust of the Mad King, so much so that the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold, expressed his disgust that Aerys's dynasty had become Varys's.
Unfortunately, the War of the Usurper broke out. After Prince Rhaegar fell at the Trident, the Lannister army arrived belatedly at the gates of King's Landing.
He had advised Aerys II not to trust Lord Tywin, not to open the gates to him. But this time, the Mad King did not listen to his counsel, choosing instead to believe in the loyalty of House Lannister. Aerys and Lord Tywin had been close friends in their youth; Tywin himself had knighted the king. And during the dozen years Tywin had served as Hand, the waning Targaryen dynasty had enjoyed a period of renewed vitality.
Though the two had eventually fallen out, when Aerys faced his own annihilation, he still opened the gates of his city to Tywin Lannister.
Tywin's army promptly sacked King's Landing. His man, Gregor Clegane, went straight to the Red Keep to slaughter Rhaegar's wife and children.
Rhaegar's son, Aegon, was torn from Elia Martell's arms by the Mountain and dashed against a wall. His daughter, Rhaenys, was dragged out from under a bed and stabbed to death.
In the dream, Varys witnessed it all again, and did nothing to stop it… just as he had done more than a decade ago.
Fortunately, it is only a dream, Varys thought, a cold comfort. Fortunately, these images, these truths, will only ever appear in my dreams.
When the scene changed again, he was back in Pentos. By now, Illyrio had become one of the city's powerful Magisters.
In the dream, Illyrio excitedly showed Varys his newborn son, the boy born to him and his wife, Serra.
The boy had violet eyes and silver-gold hair.
"This is your child?" Varys asked.
"Of course."
"A Valyrian of such pure blood… he could pass for a Targaryen."
"In a sense, he is a Targaryen," Illyrio replied meaningfully.
The child's mother, Serra, was a descendant of the Blackfyre line, just like Varys himself.
"Whether the dragon is red or black, a dragon is still a dragon," Varys nodded. In that moment, a grand plan formed in his mind.
He would do something no one had ever dared to imagine. Together with his dear friend Illyrio, he would craft the wisest, most benevolent monarch the world had ever known, and with him, forge a new dynasty.
But just as Varys finished hatching his plan, ready to tell Illyrio, the baby in his arms suddenly combusted, turning to a pile of ash. His friend Illyrio collapsed into a cold corpse, his corpulent body riddled with arrows.
Then, all of Pentos was burning. Amid the raging inferno, Varys once again heard the whisper from the flames. It was still a language he could not understand.
Is it a god? A devil? Or just a sorcerer's trick?
"Begone, you shameless thing!" Varys roared in his sleep.
He did not expect to see a figure emerge from the fire.
The man wore the white plate armor of the Kingsguard and had hair of spun gold. He looked very young. He stepped from the flames, walking out of the ruins of Pentos unharmed. Behind him, a giant black dragon spread its wings and unleashed a torrent of dragonflame upon him.
The next moment, Varys awoke with a jolt.
He was relieved to find he was not dying of poison, but his relief was swiftly replaced by a profound confusion.
Who was the young man at the end of the dream? What was the voice in the flames? And the dragon? Was this merely a nightmare, or was it a premonition?
Varys did not believe in gods and had always despised magic, but he could not convince himself this was just a bad dream. He had not suffered a nightmare in years; he could not even remember the last time he'd had one.
He knew this was an ill omen.
His hunch was soon confirmed. That afternoon, a letter was delivered to him.
It had come from across the Narrow Sea. It brought news that Pentos had been sacked by Khal Drogo. Illyrio Mopatis was dead, killed in the chaos. The whereabouts of the Targaryen siblings were unknown.
This was yet another piece of calamitous news, coming on the heels of the tidings from Winterfell that the queen had been executed for adultery and Robert had declared war on the Westerlands. But this was far, far worse.
It took Varys a long time to recover. He staggered to his desk and took out a quill and parchment. He had to write to Harry Strickland, commander of the Golden Company, and to Ser Jon Connington. They had to discuss what to do now that their precarious restoration plot was in tatters.
After writing the letter, Varys shaved a piece of sealing wax into a spoon and held it over a candle flame.
In the flickering light, he once again saw the shadow of the blond youth from his dream.
This time, a name suddenly surfaced in his mind—a candidate who perfectly matched the figure from his vision. The bastard son Illyrio had mentioned so many times in his letters.
Ian Darry.
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