"My lord, you actually have time to visit me?" Varys sat by his desk, facing Tyrion.
The eunuch's quarters lay beneath the northern wall—small, confined, and airless, with only three narrow, windowless rooms.
"I've got time to spare, but not much space," Tyrion said. The bedroom was scarcely larger than a coffin, forcing him to sit on the edge of the bed. "Is this bed made of stone, or does it only feel that way?"
"My back pains torment me, my lord. I can only sleep on something hard," Varys replied.
"I always thought you were the sort to sleep on feather beds."
"How shocking! How could you think that of me? Are you angry with me, my lord?"
"Angry? Why would I be angry?" Tyrion said dryly. "I trust you as I would my half-brother. Is this about how you never came to see me after the war? And by the gods, is that water in your flask?"
"Ah, my good lord," Varys sighed. "After the Battle of the Blackwater, I had... delicate circumstances. Surely, you had a queue of flatterers to keep you company."
"All my glory was stolen by Mace Tyrell," Tyrion muttered.
"How amusing. What virtue does the Great Lord of Highgarden possess?" Varys smiled, his tone as smooth as silk. "The Battle of the Blackwater has already been named the Lannisters' Flood of Seven Armies. They say with a single piss, you washed away Stannis's seven encampments. Word on the streets is you're the reincarnation of the Drowned God."
"Peasant gossip," Tyrion said. "The Drowned God is a sea god. I merely commanded a river. What next? Not just the Mad King's blood, but Greyjoy blood in my veins too?"
"My lord, don't be cross," Varys said lightly. "I know that for a pure-hearted young man, partings can be painful. Oh, how does the saying go? When love is mixed with motives foreign to it, it ceases to be true love."
"You seem to know quite a bit," Tyrion said with a cold smile. "Why not share everything with me?"
"What would you like to hear, my lord?" Varys asked pleasantly. "Of your formidable father, Lord Tywin? The noble Lord Mace of the Reach? Or perhaps the lovely Lady Margaery—no, forgive me—the Queen?"
"I'd like to hear it all."
"That won't do, my lord," Varys said with a knowing smile. "That would make you owe me a favor."
"So what if I do?" Tyrion said. "A Lannister always pays his debts."
"Ah, my lord," Varys said, lips curling faintly. "Where to begin? Lady Margaery Tyrell wept through the night. What a cruel blow for the poor Rose of Highgarden."
Something clenched tight in Tyrion's chest.
"A maiden who gave herself for love," Varys continued softly, "sacrificing herself to a hero avenging her betrothed. Such a tragic tale. I hope you'll ease her sorrow."
"Of course," Varys went on smoothly, "the arm cannot twist the thigh. Even if Lady Margaery was unwilling, Lord Mace was determined to marry her to the King. Oh, the Lord of Casterly Rock is a man of great dignity—but still a touch beneath a king."
"So Lord Mace looks down on me, then?" Tyrion said, irritation flickering in his voice.
"The Lord of Highgarden is a proud man," Varys replied. "It's only natural he looks down his nose at others. But trust me, my lord—half the girls in the Seven Kingdoms would gladly warm your bed. I almost wish I could bear daughters myself."
"So Prince Doran holds me in high esteem, does he?" Tyrion asked.
"Ah, Dorne," Varys said with a smile. "My dear lord, I presume you speak of Prince Doran's betrothal?"
Tyrion nodded.
"Arianne Martell, the prince of Dorne's cherished pawn," Varys said softly. "Of course, my lord, I know what you wish to ask. Her beauty is well known—no less dazzling than that of Margaery Tyrell."
"But her temperament, well... in the borderlands they say the food of Dorne makes the men hot-blooded and the women wild and wanton. Fire peppers and strange spices heat their blood, leaving them... less restrained."
"In Dorne, that's hardly considered a flaw."
"Different customs for different lands," Tyrion said, seemingly indifferent. "I've heard that in Dorne, daughters inherit equally with sons?"
"Indeed," the eunuch replied. "But trust me, Prince Doran favors his son far more than his daughter. If you hope to wield influence in Dorne through her, you'll likely be disappointed."
"That is disappointing," Tyrion sighed. "I thought Prince Doran would be fond of me."
"Oh, I'm sure he is," Varys said with a small smile. "But Arianne may not be. She might see you as... a tool her father uses to rob her of her birthright."
Tyrion chuckled. "Well, I'm not here about Dorne. I need your help with something else."
"No need for politeness, my lord. Speak freely."
"I need two girls," Tyrion said. "One should preferably be a virgin from a respectable family—say, a merchant's or landed knight's daughter. The other should be experienced—seductive, skilled, someone who knows how to handle... the preliminaries."
"I see," Varys said, lips curling. "A lesson in worldly knowledge for our young king? A difficult request for me, my lord. You know I am a eunuch. Wouldn't Lord Baelish be better suited to such matters? His brothels are unmatched in King's Landing."
"Didn't I send him away? Has he returned to the city?" Tyrion asked, surprised. "And he didn't come to see me?"
"Heh, my lord," Varys chuckled. "He's gone to your father, seeking to reclaim Harrenhal. The Lannisters, as ever, repay their debts."
"Even if he's back, I won't go to him," Tyrion said. "Littlefinger sells his secrets openly, but you— you actually know how to keep them."
Varys's smile deepened, his round face shining with satisfaction. Tyrion suspected, for once, it was genuine.
"My lord, you are truly perceptive. If I were the Great Lord of Highgarden, I'd not only offer you my daughter—I'd throw in my mother too." Varys chuckled. "As it happens, I have the perfect candidates."
"There's a merchant ship from Pentos docked in the harbor," he continued. "Since Stannis's defeat, Essosi traders have flooded in. The captain, as always, has brought his daughters—yes, plural—on his voyage. I can assure you, my lord, each one is a beauty, exotic and fresh-faced, untouched. Every one of them a maiden."
"Their father, a wealthy captain, hopes to marry one off to a knight each time he visits. Of course, Pentos has knights of its own, but under their treaty with Braavos, their lot isn't exactly enviable."
"Let me speak to him. He'll be delighted to let one daughter 'serve' the king's... education. Naturally, the price must be right."
"Money's not an issue," Tyrion said.
"Excellent." Varys leaned back slightly, eyes glinting. "As for the other girl—Littlefinger recently acquired a new bed slave from Lys. She was meant to train his other girls, improve their technique and, shall we say, customer satisfaction."
"You know Lys—its entire economy depends on the slave trade. Slaves outnumber the free three to one. The city is famous for its bed slaves and pleasure houses, breeding beautiful boys and exquisite young women."
"I know it," Tyrion said with a nod.
"I can have her sent to you, of course—without Littlefinger ever finding out."
"My lord!" Podrick's voice called from outside. "My lord Tyrion!"
"Very well, Lord Varys," Tyrion said, standing. "Do as you've said. Money's no concern. Have them sent to the king's chambers tonight. I trust you can handle the arrangements."
"Of course," Varys said, rising to bow. "I shan't see you out."
...
The sunlight outside made Tyrion squint, his eyes stinging.
"What is it, Pod?" he asked, rubbing them.
"My lord, the maid Shae sent me to find you. Lady Sansa's been taken away."
"Taken? By who?"
"A noblewoman named Olenna."