Chapter 22 — Varys's Secret
King's Landing lay roughly five hundred kilometers from Dragonstone, resting at the far end of Blackwater Bay — a gleaming port city and the heart of the Seven Kingdoms.
After crossing the bay, Drogon spotted it from afar:
a sprawling giant of stone and brick.
The political, cultural, and military center of Westeros — a city of nearly one million souls.
The entire capital was wrapped in towering walls with seven gates for entry and exit.
As Drogon drew closer, two massive structures atop separate hills immediately seized his attention.
One was a fortress built entirely of red brick, complete with battlements, curtain walls, and arrow towers — a city within a city.
The other was a cluster of seven crystalline towers, one crowned with a colossal bell; in the square before it stood a massive statue.
The Great Sept of Baelor, Drogon guessed — the same cathedral Cersei would someday turn to cinders.
After circling once more to imprint the capital's layout in his memory, he descended to look for a safe landing.
Messenger ravens were common in King's Landing.
At his current size, as long as no one got too close, most would probably mistake him for a large bird.
But the oversized backpack on his shoulders stood out like a torch in the night — he needed to hide it somewhere safe.
The Red Keep was out of the question — too many guards, too many eyes.
And the contents of the pack were essential to his survival; he needed them for food.
He spotted a potential hiding place and was just turning toward it when two figures emerged from the main gate of the Red Keep — one stout, one slender.
They split paths immediately — one heading south, the other north.
Drogon dipped lower, gliding over the stout man's head for a clearer look.
A perfectly round bald head.
A plump face.
A pale yellow silk robe with both hands tucked politely into his sleeves.
He walked with slow, careful steps — almost lazily — but with an alertness that suggested constant vigilance.
Drogon's pupils narrowed.
That gait.
That bald head.
That expressionless calm.
Could it be?
The master of whispers himself — Varys, the Spider.
Convinced enough to investigate, Drogon rose into the air and began tailing him from high above.
Varys strolled at an unhurried pace, pausing now and then to glance left and right, as if watching for anyone following him.
Perhaps habit — perhaps fear — perhaps guilt.
Drogon expected him to continue straight down the avenue, but instead Varys slipped abruptly into a small storefront — bolts of silk and bundles of cloth hanging from the doorway.
Drogon perched on the roof across the street and waited.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
Still no sign of Varys.
A trace of unease stirred in Drogon's chest.
Maybe this wasn't just a random shop — maybe it was one of his hidden bases where network threads converged and secrets were stitched together.
Then — a thought struck.
A rumor he remembered about Varys:
He was not just a master thief and spymaster… he was also a master of disguise.
The plump woman who had left the shop earlier — waddling along in a silk gown, swaying like a duck — could that have been him?
Drogon shot into the air and scanned the street — catching sight of the same heavyset woman walking with exaggerated daintiness, stopping at trinket stalls, lifting bracelets and necklaces for inspection, occasionally floating into boutiques buzzing with noblewomen.
So he followed.
One street.
Two.
Ten.
Then an hour.
She drifted through the markets without pattern — window shopping, sighing, gossiping with vendors, handling fabrics with a housewife's curiosity.
Nothing unusual.
Nothing suspicious.
Exactly like… any other bored noblewoman.
And the longer Drogon watched, the more uncertain he became.
Did I follow the wrong person?
Had he wasted precious time chasing a stranger while the real Varys slipped into the shadows?
A faint hint of regret crept into his mind
The only reason Drogon had continued tailing the woman was because he had a clear purpose.
In this world of poor roads and slow communication, Daenerys suffered from a fatal shortage of capable people.
Jorah and Barristan could fight — but were useless beyond the battlefield.
Missandei was competent, but ultimately a secretary and translator, not a strategist.
What Daenerys desperately lacked were people like Varys and Tyrion — minds sharpened for politics and statecraft.
And although Drogon knew both of them would eventually defect to Daenerys — Varys even smuggling Tyrion to her personally — he didn't know when that would happen.
Daenerys might have won Astapor, but her true challenge lay ahead: the other two cities of Slaver's Bay.
And once she conquered them, the real nightmare would begin — governing.
Drogon didn't know every detail of that future, but he knew enough:
Daenerys would drown in chaos, unable to keep control without the right advisors.
That was one of the biggest reasons he flew to Westeros —
to recruit talent before the future could fall apart.
And now, after spotting Varys by pure chance, it would be a tragedy to lose him.
If the trail went cold, it went cold.
Varys wasn't going anywhere — Drogon had to console himself with that thought.
He was just about to give up when the plump woman suddenly turned into a narrow alley at the end of the street.
Her steps quickened — her heavy body suddenly moved with surprising ease.
Drogon paused midair.
That's not how she walked before.
Instinct overrode hesitation — he continued following.
The woman only walked a short distance before stopping in front of a secluded courtyard.
She looked left and right, pulled out a key, and let herself in.
That familiar cautious movement made Drogon's scales prickle with excitement.
He found him.
The woman stepped into the courtyard, and Drogon silently vaulted the wall after her.
The yard was small and crude — only two rooms stood inside.
The woman entered the northern one.
Drogon flitted to the opened window and listened.
Inside, faint sounds — the splash of water.
He peeked carefully.
The heavy-set "woman" stood before a tarnished bronze mirror, wiping away makeup.
A wig came off, revealing a perfectly bald head.
Cosmetics smeared under a cloth, layer by layer, restoring pale skin.
It was Varys.
He hadn't lost him.
Drogon was delighted.
Unaware that he was being watched, Varys continued his meticulous routine — washing off powder, changing robes, and in less than ten minutes resumed the calm, polished figure known by the whole capital.
Then he went to a drawer, took out a hammer, crouched down, and began prying up nails on the cellar hatch.
With a tilt of his head, he lifted the lid.
"You must be starving. I brought you brown soup today — you always liked it. I admit… I've missed its aroma a little myself."
He opened the cloth bag he had carried back from the market, removed a clay pot, fetched an absurdly long metal straw beside the hatch, slid it into the darkness below, and set a funnel on top.
"Steady. Drink slowly — don't choke," he murmured, pouring the thick, foul-smelling soup through the funnel with surprising gentleness — like one would feed a bedridden patient.
From the cellar came muffled whimpers.
Drogon's pupils tightened.
So that's who he's feeding… the sorcerer.
The one who mutilated him, drugged him, and tossed him away like trash.
The one whose cruelty forced the young Varys into a life of begging and thievery… until he learned that stolen messages were worth more than stolen gold.
With stolen secrets, he built a network — children who could climb chimneys, slip through cracks, read and write, collect whispers and sell them.
Wealth grew.
His reputation reached the Mad King Aerys, who brought him to court to hunt traitors and enemies among the lords.
Eventually, Varys's little birds spread across the two continents.
And when his web was large enough to catch anything…
He found the sorcerer.
Did he kill him?
No — he imprisoned him.
Fed him.
Kept him alive to suffer — slowly.
Cruelty layered upon patience — terrifying and impressive at once.
Drogon couldn't help a silent sigh.
It was hard to imagine a man capable of such hatred was also a man who swore to "serve the realm and its people."
Perhaps great hatred gives birth to great conviction.
Lost in thought, Drogon almost didn't notice that the "feeding ritual" had ended.
Varys replaced the hatch, hammered the nails back in place, returned the tools to the drawer, then took a seat before the window.
He stared outside — unmoving, expression unreadable.
No one could tell what he was thinking.
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