The Starks had forgotten them.
So why, then, would Aemon seek them out?
It was only when the boy revealed his true intentions that Varys withheld his objections.
He was not going North for the Starks.
He was going for Maester Aemon of the Night's Watch.
The elder brother of King Aegon V the Unlikely. The prince who had once forsaken the throne for duty. The man who had served the Night's Watch so long that most of the realm had forgotten he was still alive.
A wise old man who, once upon a time, had exchanged ravens with a young prince named Rhaegar Targaryen.
"No, my prince. It begins now," Varys responded, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of finality, as if the wheels of fate had begun to turn with an unstoppable momentum. His words, though spoken softly, seemed to echo off the cold stone walls of the secret chamber, filling the silence between them with a palpable tension.
"Are you certain," the prince asked, his voice betraying a flicker of uncertainty, his gaze searching the shadows that danced across the chamber. "That we cannot simply fabricate my death?" His words hung in the air, heavy with the desperate hope of a young man still grasping at the fringes of a future he wasn't yet sure he deserved.
Varys allowed a faint smile to curve the edges of his lips, but his eyes, ever watchful and calculating, remained unchanged. "The notion of finding a young boy who has perished from starvation, allowing his body to waste away until only the brittle remnants of bone remain, to take your place—it is an idea long in the making, no doubt. Ingenious, if somewhat morbid. Yet, when you return, the question of your legitimacy will arise. Proving your true identity may well become an insurmountable challenge." His words, though spoken with dry amusement, carried the gravity of the consequences they would face.
"I am aware," Aemon replied, his voice softer now, touched by the weight of his own thoughts. His eyes, dark as a storm-clouded sky, flickered momentarily with the glint of resignation. "I merely wished…" His sentence trailed off into a silence thick with unspoken truths.
"To hurt them." Varys' voice cut through the stillness with quiet precision, as if he had anticipated the prince's desire before it had even been fully formed.
Aemon's eyes hardened, his gaze shifting downward for a moment, as if the weight of his own confession had drawn the very life from him. "Yes," he admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Not a kingly action, I know." His words carried the faintest hint of shame, as though the very notion of vengeance contradicted the idealized image of kingship that he had been taught to uphold.
Varys nodded, the understanding in his expression shifting from cold calculation to a more somber recognition of the complexity of human nature. "No," he murmured, his voice softened by the weight of experience. "But it is a deeply human one. The impulse to strike back at those who have wronged you—to make them feel the pain they've caused."
Aemon's gaze lifted, but there was no hope in his eyes—only a quiet bitterness that seemed to cut through the air like a blade. "That assumes," he said, his voice cold as ice, "that they would feel any grief at my death. And I do not mean in terms of reputation." His words rang with a hollow truth, the sharp edge of disillusionment clear in the way he spoke.
"I understand, my prince," Varys replied, his tone steady and unwavering, as if he had long since come to terms with the cruel realities of the world they both inhabited.
The conversation fell into silence once more, each man lost in his own thoughts. The shadows of the Red Keep seemed to grow thicker around them as they moved through the hidden tunnels beneath the fortress, their footsteps muffled by the centuries-old stones. The weight of years of schemes, plans, and betrayal hung like a fog in the air, thick and suffocating. Neither spoke, for words seemed unnecessary now—there was nothing more to say that hadn't already been said, nothing more to do that hadn't already been set in motion.
The tunnel led them to the port, where a small, humble boat awaited. It bobbed gently on the water, as if reflecting the uncertain tides of fate that now carried them both. The moon, obscured by clouds, offered no light, and the stars above shone with a cold, distant brilliance, as though watching over them from realms far beyond their reach.
Before parting ways, Varys reached into his cloak and produced a small pouch of coins, its leather worn and well-traveled. He pressed it into Aemon's hands with the same impassive expression he had worn since they had first met.
"Thank you," Aemon murmured, his fingers closing around the pouch as if it were the last tether to a world he was leaving behind.
"It's just a few coins, my prince," Varys replied, brushing off the thanks with the same dispassionate tone he always used. His gaze remained steady, betraying no emotion, though beneath it all, there was something deeper—a faint flicker of care that was as rare as it was fleeting.
"No," Aemon said again, his voice tinged with a quiet sincerity that seemed to catch in his throat. "I meant for everything."
Varys hesitated for a moment, the faintest flicker of something unspoken passing between them before he answered, his words as measured as ever. "I did what I did for…"
"For the realm, yes," Aemon interrupted, a knowing smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. His eyes met Varys' with an understanding that transcended the simple exchange of words. "I will not take the black."
"I know," Varys replied, his voice soft but firm, the depth of his understanding unspoken but evident in his gaze.
Aemon nodded, the weight of his promise hanging between them like an invisible thread. "I know you know," he said, his voice tinged with a touch of humor, "but it needed to be said. My word is my bond—if I do not speak it, it feels… incomplete." His voice trailed off, the rest of the sentence unspoken, as if the very act of saying it would seal something deeper within him. "I'm surprised, though, that you would let me go. Unsupervised, I mean, after everything you've invested in me."
"I know you, my prince," Varys replied, his eyes never leaving the young man before him. "One way or another, you will fulfill your duty, unlike the rest of your family since the Unlikely's children."
"Even if it takes decades?" Aemon asked, his voice sharp with determination, his gaze unflinching.
"Even if it takes decades," Varys answered, the certainty in his words as resolute as the very stone that surrounded them.
"Even if I abandon the plan? If I refuse to go to Pentos, to your friend, and follow the course you've set for me?"
"Plans," Varys said with a wry smile, "are made and unmade. Especially those designed for the long term."
"I'm only two and ten," Aemon replied with a dark chuckle, the edge of his youth still evident in his voice. "I could die at any moment—sooner than later, perhaps."
"True," Varys said, his gaze never wavering. "But I believe you are clever enough to survive. I have no doubt that you will do great things, my prince. But those things must come from you, and you alone. To have others guide or watch over you would only hinder your growth in ways you cannot yet comprehend."
"And you have other contingencies, don't you?" Aemon asked, his voice sharp with the edge of suspicion. "Rhaegar and Aegon—using me as a convenient scapegoat, perhaps?"
"If necessary," Varys answered, his tone unruffled, his face betraying nothing of his true feelings. Aemon couldn't help but smirk at the reply, the spark of amusement lighting up his eyes.
That was the one thing Aemon had come to appreciate about Varys: the man was a master manipulator, but he understood that the truest form of manipulation lay in truth. It was a strange bond between them—one forged not in affection or loyalty, but in the cold, calculating recognition of each other's minds.
With one last look shared between them, they nodded in silent understanding. Aemon stepped onto the boat, his eyes turned toward the horizon as the small vessel began to drift out onto the dark waters. The moonless sky above them stretched endlessly, the stars like distant whispers of a fate yet to be fulfilled.