Chapter 35 – Riddles
Faced with Tyrion's question, Varys offered a thin, helpless smile.
Surrounded by drawn blades and hard stares, the eunuch moved as if the very air might cut him. He chose his words carefully—far more carefully than usual.
"My lord, you know as well as anyone that, as Master of Whisperers, I must at least appear worthy of my title. The nature of my… profession requires a certain sharpness of ear and eye."
He spread his hands placatingly.
"With your noble father at war against House Stark, refugees have flooded into King's Landing by the thousands. His Grace is understandably troubled. My fellow councillors and I must help lighten our king's burdens, which means being—how shall I put it—particularly attentive, so that no spies slip through our gates."
He drew a steadying breath.
"And that, my dear lord, is where the oddity begins. Three or four days ago, a rather… distinctive band of mountain clansmen appeared in the city. Today, word reached me that another such company—quite similar—entered through the Gate of the Gods."
Varys lifted a brow.
"And as we both well know, the war in the Riverlands has not reached the Vale. There is no earthly reason for those brave warriors of the high valleys to seek refuge in King's Landing."
A pause.
"So, you see, my lord, I felt compelled to see with my own eyes."
The answer was simple. Too simple.
In only a few soft-spoken sentences, Varys casually dismantled what Tyrion and Podrick had believed to be a careful, covert plan. Not because they'd made some glaring mistake—no. Their "hidden" preparations were doomed from the start.
The moment the first group of clansmen slipped into the city, Varys had already noticed.
It wasn't their secrecy that failed—it was their existence.
Even if the heavens split and the earth caved in, no one should ever expect to see mountain tribesmen roaming the streets of King's Landing. They were as subtle as a bear in a silk pavilion.
A bald monk's lice, plain as day.
How could the Spider not notice?
At this point, it was obvious Varys had been watching Tyrion from the moment the first Wildlings set foot through the gates. After all, only one man in the Seven Kingdoms traveled with several hundred mountain clansmen—and they had made quite the impression at the Green Fork.
The only reason Varys had not confronted Tyrion earlier was simple:
Podrick's warning had delayed Tyrion's visit to Shae, derailing the eunuch's timing.
He'd waited all day at the Broken Anvil with no dwarf in sight, until impatience forced him to send for him.
A grand scheme ruined by a single misplaced assumption.
Realizing all this, Podrick couldn't help but let out a silent, incredulous laugh.
The entire situation was—frankly—ridiculous.
Varys, reading the room, smiled gently and gestured toward a seat.
"My lord," he said softly, "might we sit and share a drink?"
Seeing the tension ebb, Varys relaxed as though the danger had been no more than a passing breeze. He even tittered lightly and gestured toward an empty seat.
With everything already laid bare, Tyrion could only sigh helplessly. He sat beside Shae, though he felt anything but at ease.
The whole situation was clear to him—but unfortunately neither Shae nor Chella understood what this meant. They still, in their naïveté, believed the eunuch truly was Tyrion's friend—someone who had waited half a day simply to greet him.
But Tyrion Lannister was no fool.
He knew exactly why Varys had come.
All that talk of "I simply wished to meet your delightful young lady" meant only one thing:
"You tried to hide her.
I know who she is.
I know where she is.
And here I am."
A threat, sharp and silent as a knife pressed to his throat.
Worse yet: it was a knife he'd placed in the eunuch's hand himself.
Tyrion didn't even bother to wonder who had "betrayed" him. Pointless. Varys had suspected the moment the clansmen appeared in the city. Tyrion had walked straight into the Spider's web, blind and obliging.
"Well then," Tyrion muttered, defeated, "I'll have a drink."
He waved Chella and the rest of the clansmen away.
The atmosphere brightened again, loud and warm as before. Varys sat with them, smiling pleasantly as he poured wine for everyone at the table.
"You know," the eunuch began conversationally, "I've always been fond of entering the city through the Gate of the Gods. The stonework atop that gatehouse brings tears to my eyes—those carved faces… the eyes are so lifelike, watching each traveler who walks beneath."
"But King's Landing has grown so dangerous. I know its alleys well enough, yet coming alone… unarmed… why, I very nearly turned back."
He sighed dramatically.
"Such troubled times. Rogues stalk the streets, blades cold as their hearts."
Tyrion heard the meaning beneath the gentleness.
Podrick heard it.
Bronn certainly heard it.
Only Shae heard none of it.
"If they trouble me, they'll lose an ear for their trouble!" she declared, waving a tiny fist. "Shagga will toss them into the street!"
Varys laughed—loud and delighted, as if she had told the greatest jest in the world.
"Your young lady is quite the charm," he said sweetly. "Were she mine to protect, I assure you, I would take… exquisite care."
His eyes, however, held no mirth at all.
Tyrion could only spread his hands in a helpless gesture.
"I intend to," he said lightly. "Though I fear I'm a bit too small to join the Black Ears. Hard to brag of courage at my height."
This time Varys's smile was genuine.
He rose to his feet.
"Then I shall trouble you no longer."
"My lord, you must be exhausted. A dawn arrival, a council meeting, an inspection of the streets—and now my intrusion. Shameful of me."
"But I wished to welcome you properly. The realm needs you very badly."
He tilted his head. "You have seen the comet, I trust?"
"I'm short," Tyrion said dryly, "not blind."
On the King's Road the red comet had swallowed half the sky, drowning the moonlight.
Even riding through the city tonight, the world had been stained red.
"Folk call it the Red Messenger," Varys continued softly. "They say it heralds a new king—and warns of the blood and fire that follow."
"Before I go, my lord, may I pose you a riddle?"
The eunuch rubbed his powdered hands together.
He asked without waiting for permission:
"Three great men sit in a room.
A king.
A priest.
A rich man."
"A sellsword stands before them—lowborn, with no special gifts. Each great man commands him to kill the other two."
"The king says, 'I am your lawful ruler. I command you to kill them.'"
"The priest says, 'By the authority of the gods, I charge you to slay them.'"
"The rich man says, 'Kill them, and all my gold is yours.'"
Varys leaned forward slightly.
"Tell me, my lord… who dies, and who lives?"
He finished with a graceful, deep bow.
His soft shoes whispered against the floor as he slipped out of the Broken Anvil, leaving only the riddle—and the threat behind it—hanging in the air.