Chapter 52 — A Test
"Why, to the man who raises him up, of course — Lord Tyrion. There can be no doubt."
Varys answered without flinching, face full of wounded innocence, as if offended by Tyrion's suspicion.
"I have never had dealings with Ser Jacelyn Bywater. My suggestion has nothing to do with personal ties — it is simply because you asked, and because the man himself is honest."
"As far as I know, Ser Jacelyn is a man of honor — very brave. To the corrupt he appears rigid, unbending, unlikable… but that is hardly a flaw in a commander of the City Watch."
Everything Varys said sounded reasonable.
In fact — none of it was technically false.
Looking at the eunuch's sincere smile, Tyrion fell silent again and raised his wine cup to hide his thoughts.
"Very well, Lord Varys. If everything you say is true, then it is worth consideration."
He paused — then asked the question that had been itching at him from the start.
"But tell me, Varys — why are you being so good to me?"
Tyrion's gaze swept over the smooth hands, the perfumed face, the flattering smile.
"Because you are the Hand of the King, my lord. I serve the realm, the king… and therefore I serve you."
"Oh? Is that the same devotion you showed Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark?" Tyrion's tone turned sharp and mocking.
"I served Lord Arryn and Lord Stark to the best of my ability. Their early deaths broke my heart," Varys said with dutiful sorrow.
Tyrion did not buy a word.
"Well forgive me if I don't feel reassured. If I misstep, I might follow them to the grave."
"I don't believe so, my lord," Varys replied lightly, swirling his wine. "Power is a curious thing. Have you given thought to the riddle I told you at the inn?"
Tyrion had not expected that to come back — and forced himself not to look at Pod.
Because that night, during that riddle, Podrick had dominated the entire discussion… and Tyrion still wasn't sure he agreed with his conclusion.
"I've thought about it once or twice. A king, a priest, a wealthy man — who dies? Who lives? Whom does the sellsword obey?"
He raised his eyes to Varys.
"There is no single answer. Or rather — there are too many answers. Everyone carries their own version."
"In the end, everything depends on the man holding the sword."
Tyrion looked away — but Varys did not.
The eunuch turned openly toward the boy who still pretended to be ordinary.
Podrick Payne.
Genius.
Varys thought of everything he knew — too much — and something shifted in his eyes.
"Your squire's interpretation of the riddle was very unique, my lord. And… rather fascinating."
"To be honest, he exceeds my expectations. A true prodigy."
The praise came with no warning.
Pod and Tyrion instinctively looked at each other — surprised.
The Spider had heard that entire conversation at the inn — even in the dead of night.
Pod met Varys's gaze calmly.
"I am honored by your recognition, Lord Varys. But compared to you, your wisdom is far more admirable."
The flattery was clumsy, transparent, and stiff — painfully so.
Varys didn't seem to mind. He smiled graciously, bowing his head slightly, polite as ever.
"At any rate," Varys returned to Tyrion, "the question remains. Was Stark killed by Joffrey's command? By Ser Ilyn Payne, the executioner? Or… by someone else entirely?"
"I don't imagine you, Lord Tyrion, would be confused by this riddle."
He smiled again — lighter than before, as if the whole conversation had been harmless.
Tyrion narrowed his eyes, then suddenly tossed back his entire glass.
"If I dig up the answer to that damned riddle, it'll only make my headache worse."
He slammed the cup down, jaw clenched.
Tyrion spat out the curse, but then simply stared down at the wine in his glass.
A beat later he let out a dry laugh and shook his head.
"Strange thing, Lord Varys."
"The more time I spend with you… the more I find I like you. I might still kill you one day — but I think I'd feel miserable about it."
"I shall take that as the highest of compliments," the eunuch replied, not the slightest hint of fear in his voice.
"What are you, Varys?" Tyrion suddenly leaned forward over the desk, eyes locked on him. "Some call you a spider — but I think that's far from the whole truth."
"You're right, my lord," Varys said with a pleasant smile. "I am also just a eunuch."
He spoke lightly, as though it were nothing.
"But spiders and whisperers are seldom loved. All I wish is to be a loyal, diligent servant of the realm."
The line was so polished and theatrical Tyrion could smell the stench of it.
"People say I'm half a man. But the gods have not been entirely cruel to me."
"My legs are weak, I'm short, ugly, women have little interest in me… but at least I am still a man."
"Shae wasn't the first woman to share my bed. One day, I might even take a wife and father a child. And if the gods are kind, my son would have his uncle's looks and his father's mind."
"But you…" Tyrion's voice sharpened, "…you don't even have that dream to cling to. A dwarf is the gods' joke — but a eunuch is a sin made by men."
"So tell me, Varys — who cut you? When? Why? And who were you before they took a knife to you?"
He put the wine aside and leaned fully over the desk.
His face had gone dead serious.
One dark eye and one green eye drilled into Varys's chest, as if Tyrion wished to carve him open and see who — or what — was sitting across from him.
But the eunuch's smile never wavered.
Only his eyes shifted — a tiny flicker, cold and without warmth.
"My lord, you flatter me. Truly."
"But my story is long and very sad. So instead… shall we return to the matter of treason?"
With the smoothness of someone born to survival, Varys snapped the conversation in half.
He set down his cup, reached into his sleeve, and produced a rolled parchment.
He handed it to Tyrion casually — as if it were nothing of consequence.
"Captain of the royal warship White Hart intends to raise anchor in three days. He means to sail north… and deliver his ship to Stannis Baratheon."