Chapter 64: Handling Affairs of State
The more Varys thought about it, the more plausible the idea became.
And yet, a fresh knot of doubts immediately surfaced in his mind.
A skinchanger's control over animals was said to be total domination—absolute command.
But the more powerful the creature, the harder it was to control. And dragons… dragons were the most powerful beasts in the world. For someone to control a dragon, their ability would have to be terrifyingly strong—far beyond ordinary comprehension.
Besides… even if the mysterious one could control a dragon, how could Daenerys possibly allow it?
No matter how he turned the question over, the logic refused to settle neatly into place.
In the end, Varys forced himself to stop thinking about it.
He looked at Tyrion and warned him seriously.
"I know you're curious about the mysterious one's identity," Varys said. "But he warned me—explicitly—not to try finding him, not to investigate him, not to ask about him."
He paused, his gaze steady.
"So when you reach Slaver's Bay, you mustn't openly question the queen or her people about him either."
Tyrion rolled his eyes.
"What a miserable feeling."
Varys understood the sentiment all too well.
He had experienced it before.
He was still experiencing it now.
"There's something else," Varys continued. "You won't be travelling to Slaver's Bay with only Shae. There will also be a little girl going with you."
"Who in the Seven Hells is going with us now?" Tyrion muttered. He felt like he no longer had the energy to be shocked.
"You know her," Varys said calmly. "Shireen Baratheon—Stannis's daughter."
Tyrion froze.
Even he couldn't help blurting out in disbelief:
"That child? The one who had greyscale when she was little?"
Kidnapping Stannis Baratheon's daughter?
Was Daenerys out of her mind? Was she trying to provoke Stannis into sailing an army across the Narrow Sea?
Varys answered before Tyrion could fully voice the thought.
"Stannis listens to the red woman as though she were his god. He already burned Shireen's uncle alive—and it's very possible he'll burn Shireen next."
His voice remained even, but the content made it feel colder than steel.
"The mysterious one instructed the Onion Knight to smuggle Shireen off Dragonstone. Then he had me arrange transport to a remote shore on Tarth."
"A dragon carried her across the Narrow Sea to Pentos. I've placed her in a small courtyard residence—right beside Shae."
For a moment, Tyrion couldn't speak.
So Stannis Baratheon had fallen so deeply into madness for the Iron Throne… that he could burn his own blood.
Then Tyrion's mind snapped to something else.
"Shireen crossed the Narrow Sea on the back of a dragon?" he demanded. "But dragons are the queen's mounts. Would a dragon even allow a child to ride it?"
Dragons were creatures of pride.
They did not permit riders casually. Even true dragonlords required long training to mount and command them.
"That," Varys said simply, "is why I told you: either the mysterious one can command the dragon… or the queen has allowed the dragon to carry her."
Tyrion narrowed his eyes.
"So the mysterious one saved Shireen out of… what? Pure kindness? No other reason? No hidden agenda?"
He wanted to understand that unseen figure beside Daenerys—wanted even a thread of insight into the sort of person who moved pieces before others even knew there was a board.
Varys gave him a look—half amusement, half disdain.
"What purpose would there be?" he asked. "To threaten Stannis into abandoning the Iron Throne?"
Tyrion knew Stannis well enough to answer without thinking.
Even before the red woman poisoned his mind, Stannis Baratheon wasn't the sort of man who could be coerced by threats against his daughter.
Now?
Now he would burn her himself.
The mysterious one had been willing to go through so much trouble—risking complications—just to save an unrelated little girl.
That alone was enough to soften Tyrion's impression of him.
Perhaps the man wasn't as cold as he seemed.
Tyrion found himself—against his better judgment—feeling a flicker of recognition toward this unseen figure.
After a long stretch of talk, Tyrion finally remembered the inconvenient existence of his legal wife.
"Where did Sansa go?"
"She was taken by Petyr. Most likely to the Eyrie."
Tyrion frowned.
"Robb is still alive. So why would Petyr still take Sansa?"
He understood why so many had coveted Sansa—and the North—but that had been when Robb Stark's death seemed inevitable. Even Tyrion himself had only married her because his father intended to arrange Robb's death.
But after the Red Wedding, killing Robb would be far harder.
Petyr spiriting Sansa away now… seemed almost pointless.
Varys's expression did not change.
"You'll have to ask Petyr that yourself. I don't know what game he's playing either."
"Can we get her out?" Tyrion asked.
Though the marriage had never been his choice, and though he had never forced himself on Sansa, he still didn't want her trapped indefinitely at the side of an older man like Petyr.
Soon he would be leaving with Shae, and the title of husband would become nothing but ink on parchment—but Tyrion still didn't wish Sansa further misery.
"I'll try," Varys said simply.
Tyrion gave a short nod, then moved on to what truly mattered now.
"When can I leave for Pentos?"
After surviving trial and near-certain execution, he felt hollowed out—his spirit scraped bare.
He had no desire to remain in King's Landing, especially with a sister who wanted him dead, a father who wished him erased, and a city that had already decided he was disposable.
"If you truly want to go," Varys said, "then tomorrow night should be possible."
Tyrion considered it. King's Landing held nothing for him now.
"Then tomorrow night," he said.
He remained with Varys longer, learning what he could about Slaver's Bay. It was only then Tyrion discovered something that stunned him anew:
Barristan Selmy had already sworn himself to the Mother of Dragons—as her Queensguard.
Daenerys now controlled three cities in Slaver's Bay, commanded ten thousand troops, and possessed more than a hundred great ships.
And when Varys mentioned her plan to establish a new academy—an institution of learning—
Tyrion was shaken all over again.
He had never imagined that timid little Targaryen girl could possess such audacity.
No oaths of fealty required.
As long as one met the conditions, anyone could enter—noble or commoner, man or woman.
It overturned tradition itself.
And then there was the policy that truly struck Tyrion like a hammer:
encouraging scholars and craftsmen to write books, to compile knowledge into texts.
As a man who had devoured libraries like others devoured wine, Tyrion knew exactly how irresistible such an offer would be to the learned—and to those with rare skills.
He could already foresee it clearly.
One day, that academy would eclipse the Citadel itself.
It would become the most influential institution of knowledge across the four continents.
For the first time in a long while…
Tyrion found himself eager.
Eager to reach Slaver's Bay and see it with his own eyes.
---
Meereen
Inside the Great Pyramid, Daenerys was handling state affairs.
Since she had decided to remain and rule Slaver's Bay, she had no choice but to learn these things—slowly, painfully, one petition at a time.
Within the vast, echoing hall, she sat upon her seat.
Barristan stood nearby as her guard.
And perched on her shoulder, Drogon was half-asleep, his head bobbing now and then as though he might tumble off at any moment.
Below, an old man had just become the thirty-something petty grievance she'd heard that day.
"Honored Mother of Dragons," the man said, "my name is Puka. I once served the Great Master Tatalyr."
Daenerys blinked.
"You can speak the Common Tongue?"
"I was once a teacher," the old man explained. "I taught the Great Master's children to read and write. Since you came, I left that house. I have no work now."
He hesitated, then bowed his head.
"So I beg you… allow me to return. Let me teach the Great Master's children again."
Daenerys stared at him as though he had grown a second head.
"You want to go back to the Great Masters… and be enslaved again?"
Even after seeing former slaves try to sell themselves back into chains, it still shocked her—every time—to hear it spoken plainly.
The man dropped to his knees, stubborn as stone.
"The Great Master never abused me. I ate well. I slept well. I beg you—grant my request."
Half-asleep, Drogon stirred on her shoulder, his thoughts drifting like smoke.
[Let him go, then. Just pay him wages.]
He wasn't an expert in governance.
But he was a modern soul wearing dragon flesh, and many problems were simple when viewed through modern eyes.
It wasn't the first time he'd indirectly guided Daenerys.
She learned quickly—though at times she hesitated, sometimes adopting his ideas, sometimes pretending she hadn't heard them at all… terrified he might realize she'd been listening all along.
What she didn't know was that Drogon had already reverse-played her more times than she could count.
And as far as he was concerned—
These minor matters?
They could be handled any way she liked.