Chapter 81 — I Truly Don't Know What Such a Boy Wants
Varys finished his explanation with a final, gentle smile.
Then, without warning, he glanced at the candle's wavering flame, lifted a hand—and blew it out.
Darkness fell like a shroud.
Still caught in grim thoughts, Tyrion felt the hairs on his neck stand up. His whole body tightened. In that heartbeat of pitch black, every grisly fate of the Hands before him flashed across his mind—heads fallen, reputations ruined, blood soaking the marble of the Red Keep.
For an instant he cursed his own impulsiveness.
But before panic could take shape, light returned—brief, pale, and real.
Varys had not vanished like a specter. He had simply opened a door.
Beyond the doorway, a stable.
Oil lamps swung lazily from the rafters, casting a sickly yellow glow. The whicker of a piebald mare echoed in the space, explaining the sound Tyrion had heard earlier. Next to her: a mule, and two more horses, sleepy-eyed and stamping their hooves.
Varys stepped quietly inside and hung the extinguished candle beside one of the lamps, as though nothing strange had happened at all.
Only then did Tyrion realize his tunic clung damply to his back.
He swallowed hard, steadying his breath, forced his legs to move, and crossed the threshold.
The eunuch's questioning gaze met him just as he found his voice.
"You… just called Stannis 'His Grace.'
I assumed you missed today's—celebrated—small council meeting."
Tyrion's tone wavered between curiosity and accusation.
"But I've also heard whispers.
Stannis has crowned himself, they say.
In which case… perhaps the title isn't wrong.
Though if that's so, there are three other men claiming the same crown."
He paused, eyes narrowing.
"Four kings in the realm, yet only one throne.
Tell me, Lord Varys—who should we call the king?"
A troubled look flickered across Varys's face.
"If King Joffrey heard that question, he'd have your head."
"Naturally," Tyrion said with a curl of his lip. "Joffrey is my king."
Varys inclined his head slightly, like a man grateful for the reminder.
"As he is mine, my lord.
I obey the boy who sits the Iron Throne."
Tyrion snorted.
"Ah yes, the picture of loyalty—Varys the Faithful.
The world misjudges eunuchs so easily.
They forget how fiercely loyalty burns in those the world tries hardest to overlook."
Varys bowed his head just so, accepting the compliment—or letting it pass.
"Take your pick, my lord."
He gestured toward the waiting animals.
"Which mount shall bear the Hand of the King tonight?"
Tyrion exhaled, feeling the weight of too many thoughts.
Podrick, that strange boy…
Sometimes I truly wonder what he wants.
His fingers brushed the saddle of the sturdy brown horse nearest him.
Whether he failed to hear the sarcasm in Tyrion's voice or simply chose not to care, Varys showed no reaction.
As he spoke, he walked toward the wall and took a weather-worn cloak from a wooden peg.
Tyrion wasn't sure what to feel after that reply, so he said nothing more.
He limped over to the piebald mare, lifted her lips with a finger, and checked her teeth under the stable's dim oil-lamp glow.
"This one's old. Push her too hard and she'll drop dead mid-stride."
Varys gave a faint shrug as he approached with the cloak.
"Hardly fit for battle, no.
But she'll carry you from place to place, and—more importantly—no one will look twice.
The others are the same.
As for the stableboy, the only things he notices are his animals. What he sees and hears begins and ends here."
He offered the cloak.
"I hope you won't find it too shabby."
The garment was rough-woven, sun-bleached, the color nearly washed away.
Varys draped it over Tyrion himself, drawing the hood low until half the dwarf's face sank into shadow.
Night had already swallowed the city, and with the hood pulled this far over his features, Tyrion couldn't help wondering—if the City Watch hadn't yet enforced curfew—whether Varys had some ulterior motive.
His suspicious gaze made Varys pause.
"Most people only notice what they expect to see," Varys said mildly, removing the cloak again.
"A dwarf stands out. But put this on, and to passing eyes you're just a scrawny boy in an old cloak, riding his father's nag on some errand."
He folded the cloak over his arm.
"In any case, your choice to come at night was the safest possible one.
Keep this cloak for daytime—should you ever be forced to wander about in plain sight."
Tyrion snorted inwardly but kept his smile polite.
"Suits me well enough.
I'll make use of it when I must.
For now—Shae's likely gone mad waiting."
Varys returned the smile.
"Miss Shae is restless. I could only tell her you had urgent affairs.
She's a clever woman—she'll understand a Hand's burdens."
"My thanks."
"Allow me to saddle your horse."
As Varys busied himself with straps and buckles, Tyrion watched him—until another question bubbled up.
"So. You know Stannis has crowned himself.
Do you also know how he learned of my dear sister and brother's… twin-bladed indiscretion? I'd love to know his source."
Varys chuckled while tightening a girth strap.
"Perhaps he read a book or two.
Perhaps he considered the color of the late king's bastards.
Lord Stark and Lord Arryn certainly did.
Or…"—his voice dropped—"someone told him."
The eunuch's laugh wasn't his usual airy giggle, but something darker, rougher.
"Someone like… you?" Tyrion prodded.
Varys gave a wounded sigh.
"How cruel, my lord. You suspect me?
No—I didn't say a word.
Just as with little Barra and her mother, I merely knew."
"But even if you had said something, would you ever admit it?" Tyrion pressed.
"How many even knew of the girl?"
"Not many," Varys replied with his unfailing smile.
"But if I've guarded a secret for years, why would I reveal it now?
Deceiving kings is easy, my lord—deceiving the birds in the rafters is harder."
He spread his hands.
"And the bastards were right there for all to see.
Everyone saw."
Tyrion sighed.
"Robert's bastards… what about them?"
"Eight, by my count," Varys said, adjusting the stirrup.
"Doesn't matter what color hair their mothers had—bronze, chestnut, honey, cream—every child came out black-haired as a raven."
"And yet," he added, glancing up, "Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen all emerged golden as summer wheat.
One needn't be a maester to draw conclusions."
The words hit Tyrion like a slap—familiar, dreaded.
"Cersei only needed to bear Robert a single true child," he muttered, "and the whispers would've died."
He drew a breath.
"But if she had… she wouldn't be Cersei."
Varys only smiled as he cinched the last buckle.
"So," Tyrion asked quietly, "if not you—who?"
"Well, someone disloyal, no doubt."
Varys tugged the strap one final time.
Every trail of suspicion circled the same man.
Podrick's warning echoed again.
"Littlefinger?"
Varys shrugged delicately.
"I never said so."
Tyrion didn't answer.
He let Varys help him into the saddle—then looked down, face half-hidden in shadow.
"Some days, I think you're the truest friend I have in King's Landing.
Other days, I fear you most of all."
Varys met his gaze without flinching.
"How strange—we are entirely alike in that regard, my lord."
He stepped back, expression unreadable—then, almost casually:
"Though I must ask—shouldn't your best friend be that remarkable young squire of yours?"
"I hear Lord Tywin meant to knight him—to grant lands even.
Yet he refused, and followed you into the very heart of chaos."
Varys's voice dropped to a whisper, fascinated:
"Ten, twelve years old—and already he spurns glory, slaughters without hesitation, sees deeply, acts shrewdly… even your sister—your sister—seems powerless beneath him."
The eunuch folded his hands.
"My lord… I truly don't know what such a boy wants.
What ambition could possibly satisfy him?"
Tyrion felt an uneasy chill.
"What… indeed."
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