The hall below was thick with heat, perfume, and the laughter of half-drunk men. A plump woman was singing a bawdy song on the stage, swaying her hips with practiced exaggeration. Younger girls perched lightly on the shoulders of visiting merchants, reaching down to steal kisses, pluck coins, or whisper promises no coin purse could ever truly afford to fulfil.
But none of this mattered to the Spider.
Varys slipped through the crowded room with the smooth ease of someone who had moved among a thousand such dens. His disguise was perfect—grey Tyroshi leather from neck to boot, plain enough to avoid scrutiny yet foreign enough to explain why he moved with such quiet confidence. From the cut of his clothes to the weathered straps of his boots, he looked every bit a sellsword fresh off the docks.
He ascended the stairs without a word to anyone. On the third floor, behind a carved door painted with laughing, intertwined shadows, waited the only man in King's Landing who could make the Spider feel genuine distaste.
Petyr Baelish lounged inside the room like a man at home in the middle of a battlefield. His mockingbird pin shone in the candlelight, and that familiar sly smile—half amusement, half mischief—rested on his lips.
"My old friend," Varys sighed dramatically as he shut the door behind him. "Choosing this place for a meeting is an insult. I can think of a hundred better locations to discuss matters of consequence."
Littlefinger laughed softly, rising to pour wine into two delicate cups. "Come now, Varys. You know I own this entire building. Why entertain guests elsewhere when one can be both host and master under the same roof?"
Varys peeled off his sellsword disguise, letting the leather fall away to reveal a robe of shimmering purple silk beneath. His bald head shone like a polished egg in the lantern light.
"Even so," he said, accepting the wine, "you know how I detest the smell of sweat and perfume mixing in the air."
"Then consider this a lesson in humility." Littlefinger raised his own cup. "Besides, the Summer Red is fine enough to make even your sensitive nose forget your grievances."
Varys sniffed the wine, nodded in approval, and took a long sip. "Our master of coin truly spares no expense. I should visit your establishments more often."
"You visit them more than enough," Littlefinger said lightly. "And as for me being unmarried, well… perhaps the Mother has yet to take pity on me."
"That is hardly the reason," Varys said with a tinkling laugh. "If you extended your hand, half the noble daughters in King's Landing would be fighting to be the first dragged back to your chambers. Rich merchants, minor nobles, widows—they'd all throw their daughters at you. But alas, our master of coin claims to be a man of deep devotion. Which woman has captured your heart, I wonder?"
Littlefinger's smile tightened. "Let us leave that topic buried, my friend. Our days of leisure are drawing to an end. When Robert returns, he'll ask me to conjure gold from an empty treasury."
Varys waved a hand. "Ah yes, your beloved treasury. Tell me, can the Crown truly afford a war? Assuming the King truly intends to raise a fleet and sail Across the Narrow Sea?"
Littlefinger's laugh was light, but there was a blade hidden beneath the sound. "Don't pretend to be ignorant, Varys. The treasury has been empty for years. Six million gold dragons in debt. Six million. We borrow what we do not have, spend what we cannot repay, and hope the realm does not collapse like a poorly stacked tower. And yet… House Lannister will surely support the war. After all, the King raises his banners to fight for Lord Tywin's grandson."
"The King spends," Varys said softly. "And the master of coin finds."
"Precisely."
Littlefinger leaned back against the table, swirling his wine. "Tell me, Lord Varys—do you think we will win? The Iron Throne and the Free Cities of Myr and Tyrosh. Robert Baratheon here, and across the sea, the King's bastard Child—rising like some dragonless Targaryen reborn."
The Spider chuckled. "You flatter me by asking. I am merely a frail eunuch with little birds in dark corners. But if we speak of history… Over a hundred years ago, the Three Daughters fought Westeros in the Gullet. Dragons were still alive then, and even so, the victory came at great cost. Now? With no dragons? The Gods alone know which way the coin will fall."
Littlefinger let out a slow breath. "I only pray it falls in Robert's favor. If the bastard Child triumphs, small men like us will be dragged out and impaled on the walls of the Red Keep."
Varys shook his head as if comforting a child. "Who would dare harm our master of coin? We have generals, warships, and valiant lords. Surely they are not all for show."
"You underestimate ambition." Littlefinger raised a brow. "A bastard's heart is a strange thing—sensitive, scarred, and full of rage. If he wins, he will not forget any slight."
Varys studied Littlefinger closely. "You've seen him. What is your judgment?"
"A soldier," Littlefinger murmured. "A warrior. Handsome, ambitious, dangerous. Storms do not rise on still water. Someone like him never appears without reason."
Varys nodded. "You are afraid."
"Not afraid," Petyr whispered. "Realistic. And besides, you omitted someone important. If the King commands the entire royal fleet, then Lord Stannis must return to King's Landing. The Master of Ships is indispensable."
"I doubt Stannis will return easily. Many dread the sight of his sour face," Varys muttered. "But you're right—he is necessary."
Littlefinger moved to pour more wine for them both. "A great war requires so much—gold, ships, grain, spies, commanders, and soldiers. Armies cannot sail in fishing boats. Preparation alone will take more than a year."
Varys drank again, slower this time. "Still… father against son. How tragic. Perhaps I should pray for them. Pray that the Gods will soften their hearts."
Littlefinger smirked. "Is that not the essence of power? It elevates insignificant men, turns brothers into rivals, and fathers against their own blood."
"What do you think power is?" Varys asked quietly.
Littlefinger set down his cup and smiled, that thin curved line that never reached his eyes. "Power is you. Power is me. Power is the influence we exert simply by whispering in the right ears. It is invisible, yet it decides the fate of kings and the deaths of thousands. It is the sweetest wine in the realm, and everyone wants a taste—even if it means poisoning their own kin."
Varys spread his hands. "Kings and lords have shed blood for less. Think of House Targaryen—the Dance of the Dragons, the Blackfyre Rebellions. Civil war after civil war, father against daughter, brother against brother."
"And do not forget the far North," Littlefinger chimed in. "Winterfell has its own bloody stories—chaos, disputed heirs, daughters wed to half-brothers, a lord slain beside the Young Dragon himself."
Varys winced. "I try not to mention House Stark too loudly. It wounds a certain honorable friend of mine. In King's Landing, you and I rely on each other more than anyone else."
"Even wolves turn on each other when the snows come," Littlefinger said. "Their so-called unity means little when power is on the line."
Varys eyed him. "You speak boldly."
Petyr shrugged. "I was young once. I bled for the love of a woman. A wolf stabbed me, but look—I still live, and the wolf has long turned to ash."
The Spider frowned, unable to read the man's expression. Littlefinger's smile was too constant, too deliberate, too hollow. One could not tell where the mask ended and the man began.
"Soon," Varys murmured, "Lord Eddard Stark will join this dangerous game."
Littlefinger lifted his cup in a toast. "I welcome him. The game grows more interesting with each new player."
Varys raised his own cup in return, though his eyes held a shadow of worry. "The game of power is treacherous. Let us hope we do not drown in it."
"Hope?" Littlefinger echoed. "No. In this game, we do not hope—we survive."
The two men drank their blood-red wine in silence, aware that somewhere in the city, drums were beating, ravens flying, and whispers already shifting the future of kings.
And far Across the Narrow Sea, the bastard son of a King was sharpening his sword.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)