Varys slipped through the crowded hall. A plump woman was singing bawdy verses, while slimmer girls sat perched on patrons' shoulders, laughing as cups were raised beneath them.
He went straight up to the third floor. He already knew Petyr was waiting for him.
Today Varys was dressed like a Tyroshi sellsword, wrapped head to toe in grey leather, with heavy boots fit for a mercenary.
"My old friend, the place you have chosen is an insult," the Spider said as he entered. Littlefinger was waiting with that ever-present, sly smile.
Varys peeled off the leather disguise. Beneath it he wore his usual purple silk robe, his shaved head smooth as an egg.
"Forgive me," Littlefinger said, filling a cup with bright Summerwine. "You know I run places like this. I thought I would play the host on my own ground."
"The Master of Coin's wine. What an honor," Varys said with elaborate enthusiasm.
Yet the familiar, heavy scent of powder that usually clung to him was absent. In its place was the sharp tang of sweat, and it made Littlefinger's nose wrinkle.
"My old friend," Varys went on, "if we are speaking of opportunities with women, you have more than anyone in King's Landing. And yet our Master of Coin remains unshackled by marriage. That is a rare thing."
"Perhaps no one pities me," Littlefinger said with theatrical sorrow. "I shall have to pray to the Mother a few more times."
"I doubt pity is the trouble," Varys replied. "If our Master of Coin merely lifted a finger, the rich merchants of King's Landing and the poorer lesser nobles would be tripping over themselves to send their daughters to your bedchamber. But alas, perhaps you are a devoted man. Unlike our good Renly, you lack that particular wickedness. Some woman has already claimed your heart."
"Enough," Littlefinger said, spreading his hands. "Our pleasant days are about to end. Once our dear Robert returns, he will have me find coin for him."
"Can the treasury bear the cost of war?" Varys asked, watching him closely. "If the king truly means to fit out a fleet and carry an army across the sea."
"My old friend, do not pretend to be confused." Littlefinger's smile sharpened. "You are not as feeble as Grand Maester Pycelle, and you know as well as I do that the coffers have been hollow for years. We stand at six million gold dragons in debt. We will have to borrow. But I suspect House Lannister will gladly lend its support. After all, our dear Robert would be marching for Lord Tywin's grandson."
"Then you have your work cut out for you," Varys said. "Everyone knows our dear king hates counting coins. He prefers tourneys and rich dishes."
"The king spends," Littlefinger said. "I find the money."
"Will we win, my Lord Spider?" Littlefinger asked, making it deliberately sharp. "The Iron Throne and the Twin Cities Alliance. Our dear king on one side, and across the Narrow Sea, a Baratheon traitor and the last remnants of the Targaryens."
"You ask me?" Varys let out a soft, feminine giggle. "That is a cruel question. Everyone knows I am only a frail creature who relies on little birds."
He swirled his cup and answered in the same gentle tone.
"More than a hundred years ago, the Three Daughters fought Westeros at the Gullet. Dragons still flew then, and even victory came at a terrible price. Now there are no dragons. I suspect the outcome is uncertain. Whether the coin falls heads or tails will be for the gods to decide."
"I will pray our dear king wins," Littlefinger said. "Across the Narrow Sea, the king's bastard is both ruthless and bold. If he prevails, small folk like us will be dragged out and stuck atop the walls of King's Landing."
"Who would dare lay a hand on our Master of Coin?" Varys said, soothingly. "Does the realm keep so many generals and warships for decoration?"
"If that boy wins, our lives will be misery," Littlefinger said. "A bastard's heart can be sensitive, easily wounded. And full of anger besides."
"You have seen him," Varys said, fixing him with a steady look. "What did you make of him?"
Littlefinger toyed with his mockingbird brooch.
"What else? A soldier. A fighter. A handsome boy. And ambitious. If he were not, he could never have raised a storm as he has."
"I think you are afraid," Varys said, sounding unconcerned. "The Iron Throne has its fleet, Ser Barristan, and loyal, capable men such as Lord Eddard and Lord Tywin."
"You have forgotten one name," Littlefinger replied. "If the king means to send out every ship he has, then Lord Stannis will have to return to King's Landing."
Stannis was not beloved, but as commander of the fleet, he was indispensable.
"I doubt Lord Stannis will return so easily. There are many who would rather not see that sour face of his," Varys said, shaking his head.
"Another cup," Littlefinger said, rising to refill his glass. "War is a tedious business. It needs gold dragons, grain, intelligence, a fleet commander, soldiers. We cannot send men across the sea in fishing boats. It will take at least a year or two to prepare."
Varys lifted the goblet with exaggerated grace and drained it in a single swallow.
"To think our good king must one day cross blades with his poor, wandering child. It is rather tragic," Varys sighed. "Perhaps I should pray to the pitiless gods and beg them to reconcile father and son."
"Is that not power?" Littlefinger drank as well, the wine red as fresh blood. "Power is exquisite. It lets the smallest man shine like a beacon, and it can drive brothers and sisters to slaughter each other."
"And what do you think power is?" Varys asked.
"It is you. It is me," Littlefinger replied. "Power cannot be seen or touched, yet it shapes our fate and the fate of thousands. It is a wine everyone longs to taste, even if it means spilling a kinsman's blood."
"Just so. I wonder how many times we have seen such strife," Varys said lightly. "The tales of kinslaying are never pleasant."
He went on, almost conversationally.
"The most famous examples belong to the Targaryens. The Dance of the Dragons was one. The Blackfyre Rebellions another. And not just once, but many times. Our king's own grandfather, Ormund, died on the field during the last of those rebellions. History has a cruel sense of humor."
"Not only them," Littlefinger added with a smile. "Have you forgotten the troubles in the far North? The chaos at Winterfell. House Stark had its own season of blood."
Varys watched him carefully. Even when speaking of the Starks, that sly smile never left Littlefinger's face.
"A savage and bloody chapter," Varys said. "The Starks themselves prefer not to speak of it now. I would not wish to wound a certain poor friend by dwelling on it. After all, here in King's Landing, you and I are but two small men clinging to one another in the Small Council."
"It was a miserable time indeed," Littlefinger agreed. "'Old Man of the North' Cregan's heir, Rickon, rode south with the Young Dragon and died during the conquest of Dorne. His half-brothers fought over the inheritance, and Winterfell endured years of turmoil."
"A stirring tale," Varys said softly. "Rickon's two half-brothers each married one of his daughters in pursuit of Winterfell. And Lord Jonnel's lost eye? Some say it was the work of his own kin."
"So you see," Littlefinger said, "power is merciless. Even the Starks, who love to speak of wolves gathering in packs, turned their fangs on each other."
"My old friend, I admire you more with every word," Varys said, clapping lightly. "You speak of House Stark without the slightest ripple."
"Who among us was not young once?" Littlefinger laughed. "For the sake of a woman's devotion, I would have gladly taken a wolf's blade through my body. But look at me now. I am still here. The wild wolf has been dead for more than ten years. His bones are dust."
Varys studied his face and found nothing. Gods above, who could ever truly guess what game Littlefinger played? He hid himself so well, as if he posed no threat at all.
"Lord Eddard will soon arrive," Varys said. "Another player stepping onto a very dangerous board."
"I look forward to it," Littlefinger replied. "I should like to see this new player for myself."
"The game is perilous," Varys said, refilling his cup. "We must tread carefully."
Littlefinger accepted the wine and drank without hesitation.