Varys II
296 - AC
The Kingswood was loud.
Even in the hour before dawn, when the world seemed to hold its breath, the forest whispered to itself—branches rubbing like old bones, leaves shivering without wind, insects clicking out private, patient songs.
He moved through it alone, his slippers damp with dew, his silks exchanged for plain wool beneath a hood the color of rot and bark.
He had dismissed the guards at the edge of the treeline with a laugh and a jest, as though this were some idle fancy, some harmless curiosity.
In truth, he had never trusted men with spears when secrets were at stake.
The path he followed was not a path at all, merely a habit worn into the undergrowth by feet that did not care to be seen.
It wound deeper than the hunting trails, past the places where lords loosed their hounds and drank spiced wine, into a part of the Kingswood that remembered older things.
The air grew thick there, heavy with the smell of damp earth and fungus and something bitter beneath it, like burned herbs.
'Here,' he thought. 'Of course it would be here.'
The hut crouched between two twisted oaks, half-swallowed by ivy and moss, its roof sagging like a tired spine. A thin thread of smoke leaked from a crooked chimney, smelling not of peat or oak but of strange resins.
Bones hung from the branches above the door—rabbit, crow, something longer that might once have been a fox.
They clattered softly as Varys approached, stirred by a breeze he could not feel on his skin.
He stopped three paces from the door.
"I have come," he said softly, his voice carrying just enough to reach ears that were listening.
Silence answered him.
Varys had the smile he always did, though no one could see it beneath his hood.
Silence was a language he spoke fluently.
He waited.
At last the door creaked open, not wide, only enough for one eye to peer out. It was clouded and yellowed, ringed with red veins, set deep in a face like dried bark.
The woman's hair hung in ropes of grey and black, tangled with feathers and thorns. Charms dangled from her neck, knucklebones, bits of iron, a finger joint far too thick to belong to any child.
"You are late," the wood witch rasped.
"I was careful," Varys replied pleasantly. "It is how I survive."
Her eye narrowed. The door opened wider.
She was taller than he expected, stooped but broad-shouldered, wrapped in furs that still smelled faintly of blood.
Her hands were scarred and strong, nails blackened with old stains. When she looked at him, it was not with curiosity, but with a kind of hostility, as though his presence offended the very ground.
"You came alone," she said. It was not a question.
"Would you have preferred a crowd?" Varys asked. "I find them dreadfully distracting."
She spat into the dirt. "Men like you bring knives even when they bring smiles."
"And women like you see ghosts even when they see flesh," he countered gently.
That earned him a thin, sharp grin. "Come, then. Let us see what you are."
Inside, the hut was darker than the forest, the air thick with smoke and heat. Candles burned in clusters, their wax blackened, flames guttering green and yellow. Symbols were carved into every surface—spirals, hooks, runes half-forgotten even by the Citadel. At the center stood a rough-hewn table stained with old spills.
"Sit," the witch said.
Varys did, folding himself carefully, smoothing his robes. He noted everything: the bowl of water clouded with ash, the bundle of roots bound with hair, the iron knife laid deliberately within reach. Most of all, he noted the circle scratched into the dirt floor, broken and redrawn many times.
"You wished to see," she said, circling him. "To know what clings to you."
"I wished to know," Varys corrected, "What clings to me."
Her hand struck his chest without warning.
He did not flinch.
Her palm pressed flat against him, fingers splayed, as she began to mutter in a tongue older than the Andals, older perhaps than words. The candles flickered violently. Shadows twisted, stretched, recoiled. The air grew colder.
Varys closed his eyes.
And remembered.
He remembered the stone cellar in Myr, the stink of piss and fear. The man with blue lips and jeweled rings, humming as he sharpened the blade. The circle drawn in chalk, perfect and precise. The sound of his own scream echoing up through the floor as something precious was taken, offered to flames that answered in a voice not meant for human ears.
'Power,' the sorcerer had whispered. 'All things have a price.'
The witch hissed, jerking her hand back as if burned.
"There is nothing," she said sharply. "Nothing that answers."
"That cannot be," Varys said, His voice still calm, his eyes fidgeted to his forearm.
She seized his chin, forcing his face up, peering into his eyes. Her grip was painful.
"I see flesh," she snarled. "I see fear buried so deep it rotted. I see a hollow where fire should be."
Her fingers tightened. "Whatever was done to you, it left less than a man. No shadow follows you. No flame claims you. You are… quiet."
For the first time, Varys felt a flicker of something like unease.
"Try again," he said softly.
She laughed, harsh and ugly. "There is nothing to try. You are empty."
Empty.
The word echoed louder than any scream he remembered.
He stood slowly, smoothing his robes once more. "Then you have wasted my time."
The witch's laughter died.
"Careful," she warned. "Men who seek answers often burn for them."
"So I have heard," Varys said. He turned toward the door. "My thanks for your… honesty."
As he stepped outside, the forest seemed to lean inward, branches creaking. Behind him, the witch stared after him, her expression no longer mocking, but troubled.
"You walk untouched," she called. "That is not a blessing."
He paused, then glanced back over his shoulder, his smile returning at last—small, sad, and sharp.
"Oh, my dear," he said. "I have never believed in blessings."
He vanished into the trees.
Later, when the sun climbed and the hunters came with torches and righteous fury, they found the hut easily enough. Accusations were shouted. A rope was thrown. Oil was spilled.
The witch screamed then—not in prophecy, not in defiance, but in raw animal terror as flames took the walls, the roof, the charms she had trusted all her life. The forest watched, silent once more, as smoke curled up into the morning sky.
Far away, on the road back to King's Landing, Varys felt nothing at all.
—----
Eddard VI
296 - AC
The fire in his chambers burned low, red coals shifting softly as heat bled into the ancient stone. He stood by the narrow window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out over the yard where frost silvered the ground and the world seemed held in pause.
He had not slept.
The letter from Sunspear lay open on the table behind him, weighted down by a small stone carved with the direwolf stand.
He had read it half a dozen times already.
Ned closed his eyes briefly. Gods be good, he thought, when did his boy become old enough for such choices?
A knock sounded at the door, firm and respectful.
"Enter," Ned said.
Robb stepped inside. He wore simple wool and leather, his auburn hair still damp from washing, cheeks reddened by the cold.
There was no sword at his hip, only the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly where he stood.
"You sent for me, Father?"
Ned turned, studying him for a long moment. It struck him—again—how much Robb had grown. Not merely in height or breadth of shoulder, but in bearing. He stood like a Stark now, unconsciously, as though Winterfell had shaped him with the hands of the Northern roads.
"Aye," Ned said. "Come. Sit."
Robb crossed the chamber and took the chair opposite the table, hands resting loosely on his knees. He glanced once at the open parchment, then back to his father, brow creasing with curiosity but no impatience.
Ned did not sit immediately. He moved to the table, picked up the letter, then set it down again as though feeling its weight even through parchment.
"This was sent by Prince Doran." Ned began, his voice even.
Robb's brows rose a fraction. "Is this about the steads?"
"Aye but not just about them."
Ned finally took his seat, folding his hands before him. For a heartbeat he said nothing, gathering words the way one gathers breath before cold water.
"They have written to propose a betrothal," he said at last. "Between you… and Princess Arianne."
Robb blinked.
It was not the dramatic shock of a boy startled by the notion of marriage, nor the quick excitement of a youth thinking of beauty and romance. It was surprise, plain and unadorned, followed by a thoughtful stillness.
"Arianne?" he repeated slowly. "The princess who now sits with Sansa in the Great halls and comparing the stitches."
"The same," Ned said.
Robb leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. "I did not expect that."
"No," He agreed. "Nor did I."
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft crackle of the fire. Robb's gaze drifted briefly to the flames, then back to his father.
"Is this your wish?" Robb asked carefully.
Ned met his eyes at once.
"That is not how this begins," he said. "This is not a command. I would hear your thoughts before my own."
Robb nodded, absorbing that. He was quiet for a time, thinking—not staring at the floor like a chastened child, not pacing like a restless one, but sitting still, weighing.
"I know little of her," he said finally. "Only what I have seen."
"And what have you seen?" Ned asked.
Robb's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "She is… not what the songs would have me expect of a southern princess. She watches more than she speaks. When she does speak, she does not waste words. She does not pretend to be smaller than she is."
He listened closely.
"She is proud," Robb continued. "But not foolishly so. And she does not look at the North as something to be endured. She studies it. As if she means to understand it."
Ned felt a quiet easing in his chest. He had thought much the same.
"She is older." Ned reminded gently.
Robb shrugged.
"She is older than me, aye, A few years." He paused, then added honestly, "That does not trouble me."
Ned inclined his head. "Nor should it."
Robb glanced again at the letter.
"Why has Prince Doran chose us?" he asked. "Of all the kingdoms, what has he seen in the North?"
Ned was silent, absorbing each word.
"Prince Doran is cautious," He spoke. "Patient. He does not gamble lightly. If he offers his daughter, it is because he believes this match strengthens both our houses."
"And you?" Robb asked quietly. "What do you believe?"
Ned held his son's gaze.
"I believe it is a strong match," he said. "Politically. Strategically. And… personally."
Robb's brows knit slightly. "Personally?"
Ned allowed himself a small, rueful smile. "I have watched you these past years, Robb. I have watched you lead, listen, temper your temper. You are not the same boy you were, and you will not be the same man you are now when you come into your lordship."
Robb shifted, uncomfortable with praise but attentive.
"Your mother says the Martell is no meek girl," Ned said. "She would not be content to sit idle, nor would she shrink from the weight of Winterfell. I believe she would challenge you when needed, and stand beside you when it matters."
Robb considered that. "You think she would accept the North."
"I think she already has, more than she admits," Ned said. "And I think the North would come to accept her."
Robb's fingers tapped once against his knee, then stilled.
"And Mother?" he asked.
Ned exhaled softly. "Your mother has concerns," he admitted. "She worries about distance. About customs. About whether a woman raised under Dornish suns could ever truly be at home beneath northern snows."
"And you?" Robb asked.
"I believe a home is made more by people than by weather," Ned said. "Your mother came south from Riverrun and made Winterfell hers. I see no reason Arianne could not do the same, in time."
Robb nodded slowly.
"There is more," Ned said. "This match would bind us to Dorne in ways that cannot be undone easily. If storms come and they will, it would mean obligations."
Robb met his eyes squarely. "I understand."
Ned studied him for a long moment, then allowed himself a rare moment of plain truth.
"You have grown into this faster than I wished," he said quietly. "But I am proud of you."
Robb flushed slightly, then inclined his head. "Thank you, Father."
Silence returned, warmer now, less heavy.
"At the end of it," Ned said, "this choice must be yours. I will not bind you to a woman you do not wish to wed, nor to an alliance you cannot accept."
Robb did not answer at once. He rose from his chair and crossed to the window, standing where his father had stood earlier. Outside, the sky was beginning to pale with the promise of morning.
After a long moment, he spoke.
"If you believe this is a good match," Robb said, voice steady, "then I will agree to it."
Ned felt something unclench inside him.
"But," Robb added, turning back, "I would like to know her better. Not as a princess. As a woman."
Ned's mouth curved into a faint, approving smile. "That is only right."
Robb nodded.
"Then I'll tell Prince Doran… that House Stark accepts the betrothal." Ned rose as well, placing a hand briefly on his son's shoulder.
Father and son stood together for a moment, the fire warming their backs, the future stretching before them like a road half-hidden by snow.