In Grand Maester Pycelle's room beneath the rookery, cold wind cut through the window, and the smell of blood spread freely.
"How is this possible?" Varys watched with his own eyes as "Pycelle's" corpse began to change. Light and shadow crossed over him, twisting and rippling without end.
A strange echo seeped through the room, crawling into their ears like maggots. What Varys and Gendry heard was not the same word, and certainly not the word the red priestess had spoken.
The "Pycelle" dead in the chair became a beautiful woman in red robes. Young, full-bodied, strangely alluring, with a heart-shaped face, red-copper hair, and mysterious red eyes. Only the Grand Maester's chain remained. After a puff of smoke, several little birds beside the Grand Maester's seat clutched their throats and died.
"You are not Pycelle," Varys rasped. The little birds could only split into two lines, and it seemed instead as if they were surrounded by Gendry and the red priestess. The color drained from Varys's round, plump face, leaving it even paler. His rounded shoulders hunched, and his soft powdered hands gripped a crossbow. He was still wearing silk slippers. "You are the red priestess?"
Melisandre carefully stepped around the bodies of the birds, then looked at Varys and spoke in her distinctive, pleasing Jade Sea accent. "One life, one death. One ice, one fire. You are standing in our way, Varys."
As always, Melisandre was red from head to toe. She wore a long silk gown bright as living flame, with long sleeves and a slit bodice revealing a darker blood-red blouse beneath. Around her throat was a red-gold collar tighter than any maester's chain, set with a large ruby that shone brilliantly. She also wore Grand Maester Pycelle's ever-present chain. The maester's chain was made of twenty-four kinds of metal links, hanging heavy from her neck to her chest.
Thud!
Gendry swung the smoke-dark Orphan-Maker and first cut off the head of the maid who had led him from behind the door. She was the one he hated most. The thin woman's head rolled across the floor like a ball, separated from her body, and then the body itself crashed down heavily. Her blood flowed like a little stream. In such a cramped room, a thinner sword was far more practical.
Then Gendry darted forward like a spirit bird through the forest, quick and fluid, his tall body rising and falling with startling grace. It was as if he had already foreseen the paths of the crossbow bolts fired by the little birds, and he avoided them easily. In the brief gap while the crossbows had to be reloaded, Gendry had already reached the birds. He showed no mercy.
A Valyrian steel sword was the sharpest blade beneath the heavens, and Gendry was the finest swordsman of this age. His edge stood above all.
Sword light danced wildly in Gendry's hand, becoming a storm of blood.
Hands, heads, and waists flew away. Hot blood and brain matter bloomed in the air. The little birds, pale-faced and black-eyed in their ragged robes, were cut down where they stood. The dark blade Orphan-Maker slashed and spun with savage force, bringing death wherever it passed.
Pycelle's room had become a chamber of death. Blood ran everywhere, and severed limbs and broken bodies filled the room. Hot blood spattered across every corner, turning it into a butcher's slaughterhouse.
Varys watched all his plans fall apart before his eyes.
This was not how it should end. His delicate calculations, the courage to gamble everything, the perfect timing. All of it had been a trap. The Spider had thought he was harvesting an arrogant Gendry, only to discover that Gendry had been baiting him instead.
"Melisandre, control Varys," Gendry ordered.
"Your opponent is me." The red priestess stepped over the circling field of death and approached Varys by the window.
"What kind of sorcery is this?" Varys tightened his grip on the crossbow, eager to try.
"Call it whatever you like. Enchantment, illusion, sleight of hand. R'hllor is the Lord of Light, Varys, and his servants can weave light as mortals weave thread."
Gendry also pressed closer to Varys, not bothering to wipe the hot blood from his face. He held the blood-reeking Orphan-Maker, and blood stained his robe and leather jerkin red. "I could have dealt with you and your flock of birds by myself, but with Lady Melisandre's help, it is safer. To be trapped by such a design is a fitting end for you."
"The chain helped," Melisandre said. "Chains hold memories, and powerful enchantments can be built upon them. A dead man's boots, a lock of hair, a pouch of finger bones, a chain. Murmurs and prayers are enough to call a man's shadow back from such things and drape it over another. The wearer's essence does not change. Only the form is altered."
Melisandre spoke as if it were nothing at all. Outsiders did not need to know how difficult it was, or how much effort she had spent. It was something she had learned long ago, before she went to Asshai. The easier a spell looked, the more people feared it. When the dagger struck her, she had been struggling to maintain the illusion. Fortunately, the room was dark enough to hide the flaws.
The ruby at her throat burned scorching hot. She had even feared her flesh might smoke and blacken. Thankfully, Gendry had arrived in time.
"You..." Standing in the shadows by the window, Varys froze, then saw a blaze of red. The red priestess stared at him with red eyes, and the ruby at her throat flashed.
"No!" Varys wailed. He felt as if his soul had been seared by fire, a burning pain that struck deep. His hands went limp, and the crossbow fell to the floor with a clatter. Varys felt as if his head were about to burst.
Round-headed, greasy Varys knelt on the ground, having dropped the crossbow, like a shrieking worm. He looked up as two tall figures closed in around him, the red priestess and the towering Gendry.
Varys began to reflect on himself, on his own flaws.
First, he had underestimated the red priestess. Because she had not shown herself in battle, he had assumed she had no ability. Second, he had underestimated Gendry. This brave, cunning, cruel, and savage ruler, half-man and half-ghost, was first in skill and first in cunning. That had been Varys's greatest weakness. This round, the final round, was finally his defeat. And the price of defeat was his life.
"Do you know? Of everyone in King's Landing, I hate you the most. Who do you think you are, Varys? Did you think hiding behind the curtain was enough to control the whole situation? Did you think this was fun? Dealing with you has cost me no small amount of effort." Gendry picked up one of the little birds' bolts from the floor. "The man who kept me from sleeping. Your treason is worse than the Lannisters'."
"A plot. It was all your plot..." Varys endured the pain bursting from the depths of his soul and pointed at Gendry. "No wonder Barristan was resting today. No wonder Stannis went to the camp on the south bank of the Blackwater Rush. Randyll Tarly stayed at the Dragonpit camp all along. And your attendants either rested or went to the Blackwater Rush. You left only that inexperienced newcomer, Balon Swann, by your side."
"Stronger and more evil. More evil and stronger. Wasn't this the road you once searched for?" Gendry asked. "When Aerys brought chaos to the realm, you said nothing. When the late King Robert drowned himself in luxury and lust, you said nothing. You do not need to speak now either."
Thuck! Thuck!
Two bolts, one from the left and one from the right, pierced Varys's palms clean through. Varys let out a howl of pain.
"Power is power."
"Why did you not use wildfire?" Gendry asked Varys.
"Too... too difficult to find. And old wildfire is terribly unstable. If the flames erupted unevenly, I could not be certain it would kill you completely. I had no choice but to light it in Flea Bottom and draw out Randyll and the others," Varys said.
"Spare... spare me..." Varys begged. "End my pain. End my life. Gods. For the sake... for the sake of the fact that I once... saved you. I have secrets. I have secrets to trade."
"What secrets? The secret of that little false Aegon?" Gendry asked.
"You... you know?" Varys's eyes widened into perfect circles of shock. This was the greatest secret in his heart, the goal of his life's work. How could it be exposed so easily? "How could you... how could you know?"
Varys had never intended to reveal Young Aegon's secret. He had only meant to offer some lesser secrets to buy himself a death.
"Of course I know. And the Golden Company too, yes?"
"You... you will not act? You are not afraid?" Varys asked.
"What am I afraid of? A bastard you people made?" Gendry asked in return. His black blade hovered over Varys's head, tapping lightly. "It would be a little wasteful for you to die now."
"He... he is not a bastard. He is the King, the true King." A flash of desperate resolve burst from Varys's eyes.
"In the future, if I say he is one, then he is." Gendry smiled faintly. "Besides, you can also serve as a witness."
"I... I will not betray..." Varys tried to hurt himself.
The red priestess pulled a wad of cloth from one of the little birds' ragged garments and stuffed it into Varys's mouth, preventing him from biting off his tongue.
"Do you know why I am not afraid of Aegon?" Gendry asked the speechless Varys. "If Aegon can call forth another group of loyalists from dead kingdoms, that would suit me perfectly."
Varys let out a pained moan, but with his mouth gagged, he could not speak. He could only suffer in silence and reflect inwardly.
Aegon, Illyrio, what kind of monster have I created?
Click.
Hurried footsteps sounded outside the door. Barristan, Randyll, Balon, and the others came rushing to the room with a group of captured men. The lights in Pycelle's chamber came up, and all the bloodshed was laid bare.
Gendry left the room calmly, with only the smell of blood lingering around him.
Varys opened his eyes as the red priestess dragged him out of the room. His body was stained with great patches of blood. For tonight's scheme, he had prepared for a long time and had used nearly all the connections he had in King's Landing, among the Gold Cloaks, and among the attendants.
Varys saw those people. Most of them were familiar faces, his loyal deep agents in King's Landing. Now they too were about to be destroyed.
"How should these people be dealt with?" Lord Randyll asked. Gendry had been right. When chaos broke out, whoever shouted for action was the traitor.
"Kill them all." Gendry's gaze swept over those terrified faces. Attendants, Gold Cloaks, servants.
"As you command!" Randyll nodded. Once they were involved in Varys's treason, there was no way for them to live. These people had tried to help Varys commit kingslaying. How could they be allowed to survive?
Tears ran down Varys's face. Only despair remained in his eyes.