Autumn wind swept through King's Landing, and Varys watched the dry leaves fall in the courtyard like the frail flame of his own life.
His body was bound to an oak chair. Varys felt like a pig or sheep tied to a butcher's block, waiting to be slaughtered. Cunning Varys, the old hand of the Small Council, the king of King's Landing's shadows, had truly fallen this low.
I lost to Gendry, so this is the fate I deserve. This is the game of thrones, Varys lamented inwardly. He seemed to see Littlefinger's ghostly smile in the darkness, smiling at him still. I warned you to be careful, Lord Varys.
"Fool! Fool! Fool!" Varys cursed himself again and again. He had failed Illyrio, failed "Aegon," and most of all, failed himself. He cursed everyone else too. Gendry, Lothor, the red priestess, and Septa Rhaelle.
Under the soldiers' whips and swords, Varys felt his plump body shrink into something small and pitiful. He had underestimated that boy, and underestimated that woman, the red priestess Melisandre. He had gambled everything like a desperate man, and in the end, he had lost it all.
The pain in his palms had almost faded from his awareness. The blood on the wounds had long since dried black, and the cuts had been rubbed with searing Myrish fire-herb. It was not that the wounds no longer hurt. It was that pain from every other part of his body was tearing him apart as well.
The agony came inch by inch, as if crabs were slowly pinching at Varys's flesh. His legs had been broken by the guard knights, and he would never stand again. His palms had been pierced by Gendry.
"Mercy, mercy on me. I saved the Storm. Ask him to end my pain. Gods have mercy on me..." Varys cried hoarsely. His tongue felt an inch too short, and his words came out slurred.
Lothor Brune and the "septa" looked at Varys. Here was the man who had thrown the Seven Kingdoms into chaos. He had set wildfire in Flea Bottom, and had even tried to assassinate Gendry, hoping to plunge the Seven Kingdoms into fresh disorder.
"Lord Eddard Stark will like this gift," Lothor Brune said. He wore a half-new suit of leather armor, not because he was poor, but because he was used to being frugal.
Lothor stared coldly at the Spider. "You cannot die so easily. The Storm still needs that sharp tongue of yours."
"My father would certainly like this gift too," said "Rhaelle," the beautiful blonde, blue-eyed woman dressed as a septa. Tyene Sand looked at Varys. "That tongue once stirred countless storms, and now all it can do is beg."
Varys's mouth had already been dosed with Tyene's poison. It was sweet and fragrant, but it drained the strength from a man. Varys could speak, but he had no strength to bite off his tongue. His teeth and tongue felt soft and useless.
The Dornish did not know the full depth of Varys's long-laid schemes, but they knew well enough that the complete rupture between the Mad King and his son had not come without Varys's goading. During Robert's Rebellion, the Mad King had held Princess Elia Martell, Prince Lewyn's niece, as a hostage and ordered him to lead more than ten thousand Dornish warriors into Rhaegar's army against the rebels led by Robert. That vicious calculation had likely also been Varys's doing.
"Lothor..." Varys fixed his gaze on Lothor. "My cause..."
"A beautiful plan, shame it all fell apart." Lothor looked at Varys. "Set Flea Bottom alight with wildfire, then lure the Prince to Pycelle's room, and have the little birds come through the secret passage with crossbows and daggers. You must have imagined that chain of events for a long time."
My failure, Varys thought. He thought of himself, and of the flaw in Littlefinger's and Illyrio's great ventures. From beginning to end, they had rarely had armed strength that truly belonged to them. A Master of Whisperers, a Master of Coin, a cheese merchant. Few warriors would ever obey them from the heart. At most, they obeyed for gold and deception. A beast like Lothor Brune would only submit to someone he truly admired. A knight's heart was proud.
"No amount of sweet words can match a sharp sword." Varys closed his eyes in grief. It was precisely because they lacked armed strength that they had devoted themselves to raising Young Aegon and reaching out to the Horselords. Yet now it was all still a dream.
"It is not time to sleep yet, Lord Varys." Lothor waved a hand and looked coldly at him. "Assassination is a coward's method, you vile man."
The two soldiers conducting the interrogation lifted their flails and struck Varys hard.
The sharp pain forced Varys's eyes open again, dragging him back into the whirlpool of torment. "Cruel... cruel Gendry, cruel Lothor."
"You know what we want. How you sent the Usurper Cersei away. Your underground map of King's Landing. Whether you know anything about the remaining wildfire in King's Landing. The birds you still have left. The remaining spies under your hand." Lothor seized Varys's greasy chin.
Varys looked at Lothor and said nothing. They had not mentioned Eddard Stark. It seemed they had found the Old Wolf he had hidden in a secret passage beneath a brothel. He could only blame the fact that this time, all his people had been exposed and swept up in one net.
"You have to live long enough to see the Storm crowned, Lord Varys. King's Landing will be greater after the war. One world, one king, one voice. The Seven Kingdoms will sing triumph under the Storm's banner, and not only the Seven Kingdoms, but the Three Daughters and Volantis as well." Lothor looked at Varys. "Glory belongs to the Storm. Not to you. Not to Petyr. Not to vermin hiding in the shadows."
Varys saw the fanaticism in the soldiers' eyes. These men had long since become the Storm's mules. Soldiers were simple. They obeyed the warrior who led them to victory.
Gendry truly was like his father Robert. He had a gift for inspiring loyalty, even for winning over enemies. And himself? His failure made him look like a clown.
With Aegon's secret exposed, Varys was like a knight stripped of armor, left to have his flesh carved away slice by slice.
...
In a bedchamber in the Tower of the Hand, Eddard Stark finally woke from the murky darkness of sleep. The servants had dressed the Great Lord once more in gray-white velvet, making him look a little less wretched.
Eddard's cheekbones were sunken, pale strands had appeared in his hair, and his beard had grown out in rough patches, leaving him looking bleak and worn. He had never been known for youth or handsome looks, but people had always thought him loyal and dependable. Now he simply looked old.
"When the king dies, the Hand is buried with him." He had once been no different from a dead man. Eddard had thought himself buried beneath the earth with his king. Belowground, everything was dark and cold. He could only feel the chill of the stone walls and remember the past. Only when the gaoler brought him food did he sometimes glimpse the light.
The shadow of war hung over everyone, and no one came to see him in particular. Eddard seemed to have been forgotten. After all, the Northern army had been too far from the main battlefield. The decisive fighting had belonged to Stannis, Gendry, the Vale forces, and the rest.
Then one night, Varys, disguised as a gaoler, had given him a cup of drugged wine and moved him once more into another secret passage.
When he was clear-headed, Eddard had pleaded with Varys, but it had done no good. He rarely saw Varys at all. His grief and fury could only fester inside him. He was still a Stark of Winterfell. He missed his wife, his daughters, his children. He longed for someone to come and save him.
"Lord Eddard." Ser Barristan looked at the gaunt man who had just woken. Eddard had never been fat, and the suffering of the Black Cells and the secret passages had ravaged both his body and spirit. After the Lannisters' defeat, Varys had hidden him in the dark tunnels and dosed him with sleeping draughts.
"Ser Barristan!" Eddard Stark started. "Is this purgatory?"
The first thing Eddard saw was Ser Barristan. Seeing him again felt like waking into another lifetime. The old knight was still upright and unbent, his white hair doing nothing to diminish his bearing. His armor gleamed like white ice, and a milk-white cloak hung from his shoulders.
"No." Ser Barristan Selmy shook his head and gently drew the curtains aside, letting light seep into the room. "This is a chamber in the Tower of the Hand. Varys has been captured. You have been saved."
"The war?" Eddard asked hesitantly. "We won?"
"We won the Battle of King's Landing. Joffrey died at the hands of the mob," Ser Barristan replied. "I came to see you first. Once you have recovered, you will soon be able to meet your men and kin. Jon Snow and Roose Bolton."
"Jon, Roose..." Eddard murmured their names. To see them again would be a sweet thing. It seemed that even though the North had not left the war, the true king was still the Stag.
"Who commanded?"
"Prince Gendry on land, Lord Stannis Baratheon at sea, myself, and Bronze Yohn. The Reach forces also joined the war under Lord Mace. Our enemies were not only the Lannisters, but a great army from Volantis and Slaver's Bay as well. Your son and your brother-in-law cut the Lannisters' supply lines on the western front. Their deeds were not as dazzling as those in the east, but they were no small contribution."
"Volantis..." Eddard understood from that name alone that it had been a sweeping, terrible war.
"The North has troubles of its own now. King Balon has raised another rebellion, and the North suffers once more," Ser Barristan said.
"Balon..." Pain flashed across Eddard's face. "And Theon?"
"He fled. From Seagard to the Iron Islands," Ser Barristan said.
"He..." Pain crossed Eddard's face again, but it soon faded into acceptance. "It seems he never forgot being Robert's and my captive and hostage."
"It seems I have missed a great many things," Eddard said.
"Yes. Many people have died," Ser Barristan said with a nod. "The Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, was grievously wounded. He lost a hand, and his face was disfigured. Joffrey, Lysa Tully, Petyr Baelish, Lord Rickard Karstark, and a pack of Frey whelps are all dead. Tyrion Lannister, Old Frey, Grand Maester Pycelle, and now Varys have all been captured. Renly, too. After declaring himself king, he was defeated and exiled to The Wall..."
"They... they are all dead?" Eddard's eyes widened, his voice hoarse. It was as though the gods had swept a brush across the world, and the people he knew had withered one by one. Lysa and Littlefinger most of all, and Joffrey, and Rickard.
"After you were taken, war followed war," Ser Barristan said. "Prince Gendry led me and gathered part of the Vale and Crackclaw Point forces. First we relieved the Trident and defeated the Kingslayer. Then we opened the way through The Twins. After that came the liberation of the Vale, the battle for Storm's End, and then the Blackwater Rush and King's Landing."
"It feels as though I slept once, and when I woke, everything had changed. Counting Robert, three crowns have fallen to the ground." Eddard sighed. One war after another was enough to leave a man breathless. "You must have had a hard road. Back then, I placed my hopes outside the city. Robert's two brothers were outside, one on Dragonstone and one at Storm's End. His eldest son commanded a great force across the Narrow Sea. My own guards, I sent out to hunt Gregor. And my wife. I believed that once she learned the truth, she would rise. The Northern lords would come south, and the nobles of the Trident and the Vale would answer."
That was what happened, Ser Barristan thought. But there was only one true protagonist.
"You are still fortunate," Ser Barristan said. "Lady Sansa has returned to her mother's side. We have rescued her. As for your younger daughter, though we have not found her yet, she is a tough child. She should be all right."
"You should rest and recover. Perhaps you will still be able to attend the coronation and the wedding," Ser Barristan said. "Prince Gendry's coronation, and his wedding to his beautiful betrothed. The union of the Stag and the True Dragon. It will be a grand occasion for Westeros."
"Mm." Eddard nodded, then asked, "And my colleagues on the Small Council now?"
"Lord Stannis is Hand, Great Lord Mace is Master of Coin, Bronze Yohn is Master of Laws, Good Selwyn is Master of Whisperers, and I remain Commander of the Kingsguard. There are many advisors as well..."
"Some new faces, then." Eddard let out a breath. At least this council seemed upright. With the hateful Lannisters and those fawning flatterers gone, Eddard could finally sleep in peace.
"Lord Eddard, according to King Robert's will, you may continue to serve as Regent and Protector of the Realm," Ser Barristan said with some hesitation. This had been stated plainly in the king's will. By the customs of the Seven Kingdoms, when a king was underage or unable to govern, the Regent ruled in his name. Once the king passed his sixteenth nameday, the Regent returned that power and the king governed for himself.
"I give up that position. Robert gave it to me out of friendship, and I give it up out of gratitude to my old friend. Gendry may govern his own realm boldly, especially with Lord Stannis and old servants like you to support him. But I... I am not made for this. My home is in the North, in Winterfell." Eddard refused at once.
"You?" Ser Barristan could not help admiring him. Before power, Barristan had thought Eddard might step back, but he had not expected such certainty.
"I miss the North. Winter may be coming. I must take the North through winter, with the Ironborn, the wildlings... This long winter, perhaps I should never have come to King's Landing."
Eddard was a Stark of Winterfell. He had come to King's Landing only because Robert had asked him, and because his wife Catelyn had urged him. That game was over. The southern game was too tangled for a Stark to play well. To play it at all, one should come quickly and leave quickly, never linger.
Ser Barristan nodded. Eddard's retreat was best for everyone.
A Regent was not a necessity, especially not for a strong king. Every king had the impulse to rule by his own will, especially a young conqueror like Gendry, whose word carried such weight. The lingering contradiction between king and Regent would always remain.
Eddard had made up his mind. He would never touch those glittering offices again. They were like roses covered in thorns, leaving both his hands cut and bloody.
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