Varys navigated the crowded, perfumed hall of the brothel with practiced invisibility. A plump woman with heavily painted eyes sang a bawdy tavern song from a raised dais, while slender, silk-clad girls sat giggling on the laps of wealthy merchants.
The Spider ascended directly to the third floor, knowing exactly which private solar Petyr Baelish had secured. Today, Varys was not the powdered eunuch of the Red Keep. He was dressed as a Tyroshi sellsword, wrapped entirely in rough grey leather, heavy riding boots hiding his soft, slippered feet.
He slipped into the room and closed the heavy oak door.
"My dear friend, choosing a place of such base carnality is an insult to my delicate sensibilities," Varys sighed, shedding the rough leather cloak to reveal his customary lavender silks. His bald head gleamed like a powdered egg in the candlelight.
Littlefinger sat behind a Myrish carpet-draped table, that perpetual, mocking smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Forgive me, Lord Varys. Considering I own the establishment, I find the wine is cheaper and the walls are significantly less prone to whispering than those of the Red Keep."
Baelish poured a cup of Arbor red and slid it across the table.
"To drink the Master of Coin's personal vintage is an honor," Varys said, accepting the goblet with exaggerated grace. The heavy scent of cheap perfume and sweat clung to him from his disguise, a detail Baelish noted with mild distaste.
"You know, Lord Varys, you have the greatest access to women in all of King's Landing, yet you remain unbound by the tedious chains of matrimony. It is a rare freedom."
"Alas, who would pity a poor, mutilated creature such as myself? I must pray to the Mother for comfort," Varys tittered, pressing a hand to his chest. "Yet, if our Master of Coin only asked, every wealthy merchant and impoverished lordling in the city would trample each other to place their daughters in your bed. Who holds your heart, Lord Petyr? For you certainly lack the... alternative tastes of our sweet Lord Renly."
"Let us leave my heart where it is, old friend," Baelish said smoothly, spreading his hands. "Our days of peace are drawing to a close. When our good King Robert returns from the frozen North, he is going to ask me to perform a miracle. He will ask for coin."
"Can the royal treasury bear the cost of a war?" Varys asked, his voice dropping its theatrical lilt. "Assuming the King intends to marshal a fleet and an army to cross the Narrow Sea?"
"Do not play the fool with me, Spider. You are not Grand Maester Pycelle," Littlefinger chuckled. "You know as well as I do that the treasury is a myth. The Crown is six million golden dragons in debt. We must borrow heavily. I imagine House Lannister will be eager to open their vaults; after all, our good Robert is raising this army to secure the throne for Lord Tywin's grandson."
"It will be a monumental task. Our merciful King despises counting coppers. He prefers the clash of the tourney and the taste of the feast."
"The King spends the gold. I simply find it," Littlefinger said lightly. "But tell me, Lord Spider... will we win? The Iron Throne against the Twin City Alliance. Our King against the mercenary bastard and the Targaryen ghosts."
"You ask me?" Varys giggled, raising his hands defensively. "I am but a frail creature who listens to the whispers of little birds. But I will say this: a century ago, the Triarchy fought a massive naval war against Westeros in the Stepstones. We had dragons then, and the victory was still a bloody, ruinous affair. Today, the dragons are gone. The outcome is entirely in the hands of the gods."
"I pray for our good King's victory," Littlefinger murmured, staring into his wine. "Because if the boy across the Narrow Sea wins... men like us will be dragged from our comfortable chambers and nailed to the gates of the Red Keep."
"Who would dare harm our Master of Coin?" Varys cooed. "Does the realm maintain its generals and its fleets merely for decoration?"
"The bastard has a cruel, decisive streak," Littlefinger noted, his smile tightening fractionally. He remembered the heavy iron warhammer resting against Gendry's shoulder in Myr. "Bastard hearts are often fragile, sensitive things... prone to violent, sudden furies."
"You have met him. What was your assessment?" Varys asked, his dark eyes unblinking.
Baelish toyed with the silver mockingbird pinned to his doublet. "What is there to say? He is a soldier. A warrior. A handsome boy with an ambition that outstrips his birth. If he lacked those qualities, he would not have the strength to shatter the world as he is doing now."
"I sense fear, Lord Petyr. The Iron Throne has the royal fleet, Ser Barristan the Bold, and commanders as seasoned as Lord Tywin and Lord Stark," Varys said dismissively.
"You omit a name. If the King means to sail his armies east, he will need the Master of Ships. It seems Lord Stannis will be forced to make a triumphant return to the capital," Baelish observed. Stannis was rigidly humorless and utterly despised Baelish, but his skill at sea was absolute.
"I do not think Lord Stannis will return so easily. Many in the Red Keep have no desire to see his dour face again," Varys disagreed softly. "Drink your wine, Petyr. A cross-sea invasion requires immense logistical preparation: gold, grain, intelligence, and ships. We cannot row thirty thousand men across the water in fishing skiffs. It will take a year and a half, at minimum, just to prepare."
Baelish stood and refilled Varys's goblet. The Spider took it and drank deeply.
"It breaks my heart to think of our merciful King drawing steel against his own wandering child," Varys sighed, a mask of profound sorrow settling over his features. "Perhaps I should pray for a reconciliation."
"Is this not the true nature of power?" Littlefinger asked, taking a sip of the blood-red wine. "Power is a wondrous thing. It makes dull men shine like stars, and it drives fathers to butcher their own sons."
"And what do you believe power to be, Lord Petyr?"
"It is you, and it is me," Baelish answered smoothly. "It is an invisible, intangible force, yet it dictates our fates and the fates of millions. It is a sweet wine that every man wishes to taste, even if the vintage requires the blood of his kin."
"Indeed," Varys agreed, rising to pace the small room. "How many civil wars has this continent endured? The histories of kinslaying are horrifying. The Targaryens had their Dance of the Dragons, and then the Blackfyre Rebellions." He looked closely at Baelish. "Oh, and the Blackfyre wars did not happen just once. They erupted again and again. King Maekar himself died crushing the Peake Uprising, inextricably linked to that bastard line. The world is tragically unpredictable."
"But it is not just the Targaryens, my old friend," Littlefinger smiled, leaning forward. "Have you forgotten the histories of the frozen North? The civil wars of Winterfell. The She-Wolves."
Varys watched Baelish's face carefully. The mocking smile remained perfectly fixed.
"A brutal, bloody chapter that the Starks prefer to leave buried," Varys noted. "I fear to speak of the Starks, lest I wound the heart of my dear friend. After all, you and I are the only true self-made men on the Small Council; we must protect each other's sensitivities."
"The Stark succession was a glorious tragedy," Baelish countered, his eyes gleaming with genuine amusement. "Lord Cregan's heir, Rickon, dies in Dorne fighting alongside the Young Dragon. And what happens? His half-brothers, Jonnel the One-Eyed and Edric, tear the North apart and marry Rickon's daughters to secure their claims. Chaos and disaster, all for a wooden chair."
"So you see how terrifying power truly is," Varys murmured. "Even the Starks, who endlessly preach of the pack surviving, will turn and devour each other when the crown is placed on the table."
"I admire you, Lord Petyr," Varys continued, clapping his soft hands together. "Whenever the Starks are mentioned, you remain the picture of composed grace."
"Who was not foolish in their youth?" Littlefinger laughed, a bright, empty sound. "I was once willing to let a wild wolf carve me open for the sake of a woman's chastity. But look at me now, Lord Varys. I am alive, and the wild wolf who nearly killed me has been ash and bone for fifteen years."
Varys searched the Master of Coin's eyes, looking for the crack in the facade. He found nothing. Gods, Varys thought, the man hides his venom behind an impenetrable wall of glass.
"It will not be long before Lord Eddard Stark arrives to take up his brother's seat," Varys warned softly. "He will join this dangerous game of ours."
"I could ask for nothing more," Littlefinger smiled, raising his goblet in a mock toast. "I am eager to see how the honorable Lord Stark plays."
"The game of power is lethal, Petyr. We must both step carefully in the dark."
Varys poured another cup of wine for the Master of Coin, and Littlefinger obediently drank it down, the smile never leaving his face.