“So you
“It is so
“They are humble. Excessively so, in truth.” Tyrion had waited until Varys was summoned by his father before slipping in to pay him a visit. The eunuch’s apartments were sparse and small, three snug windowless chambers under the north wall. “I’d hoped to discover bushel baskets of juicy secrets to while away the waiting, but there’s not a paper to be found.” He’d searched for hidden passages too, knowing the Spider must have ways of coming and going unseen, but those had proved equally elusive. “There was
Varys closed the door and barred it. “I am plagued with backaches, my lord, and prefer to sleep upon a hard surface.”
“I would have taken you for a featherbed man.”
“I am full of surprises. Are you cross with me for abandoning you after the battle?”
“It made me think of you as one of my family.”
“It was not for want of love, my good lord. I have such a delicate disposition, and your scar is so dreadful to look upon…” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “Your poor nose…”
Tyrion rubbed irritably at the scab. “Perhaps I should have a new one made of gold. What sort of nose would you suggest, Varys? One like yours, to smell out secrets? Or should I tell the goldsmith that I want my father’s nose?” He smiled. “My noble father labors so diligently that I scarce see him anymore. Tell me, is it true that he’s restoring Grand Maester Pycelle to the small council?”
“It is, my lord.”
“Do I have my sweet sister to thank for that?” Pycelle had been his sister’s creature; Tyrion had stripped the man of office, beard, and dignity, and flung him down into a black cell.
“Not at all, my lord. Thank the archmaesters of Oldtown, those who wished to insist on Pycelle’s restoration on the grounds that only the Conclave may make or unmake a Grand Maester.”
“Quite true,” Varys said. “And the second Aegon fed Grand Maester Gerardys to his dragon.”
“Alas, I am quite dragonless. I suppose I could have dipped Pycelle in wildfire and set him ablaze. Would the Citadel have preferred that?”
“Well, it would have been more in keeping with tradition.” The eunuch tittered. “Thankfully, wiser heads prevailed, and the Conclave accepted the fact of Pycelle’s dismissal and set about choosing his successor. After giving due consideration to Maester Turquin the cordwainer’s son and Maester Erreck the hedge knight’s bastard, and thereby demonstrating to their own satisfaction that ability counts for more than birth in their order, the Conclave was on the verge of sending us Maester Gormon, a Tyrell of Highgarden. When I told your lord father, he acted at once.”
The Conclave met in Oldtown behind closed doors, Tyrion knew; its deliberations were supposedly a secret.
“Grand Maester Pycelle has always been a good friend to your House,” Varys said sweetly. “Perhaps it will console you to learn that Ser Boros Blount is also being restored.”
Cersei had stripped Ser Boros of his white cloak for failing to die in the defense of Prince Tommen when Bronn had seized the boy on the Rosby road. The man was no friend of Tyrion’s, but after that he likely hated Cersei almost as much.
“Is he? Oh dear. Still, the knights of the Kingsguard
“To my father,” said Tyrion pointedly.
“While we are on the subject of the Kingsguard… I wonder, could this delightfully unexpected visit of yours happen to concern Ser Boros’s fallen brother, the gallant Ser Mandon Moore?” The eunuch stroked a powdered cheek. “Your man Bronn seems most interested in him of late.”
Bronn had turned up all he could on Ser Mandon, but no doubt Varys knew a deal more… should he choose to share it. “The man seems to have been quite friendless,” Tyrion said carefully.
“Sadly,” said Varys, “oh, sadly. You might find some kin if you turned over enough stones back in the Vale, but here… Lord Arryn brought him to King’s Landing and Robert gave him his white cloak, but neither loved him much, I fear. Nor was he the sort the smallfolk cheer in tourneys, despite his undoubted prowess. Why, even his brothers of the Kingsguard never warmed to him. Ser Barristan was once heard to say that the man had no friend but his sword and no life but duty… but you know, I do not think Selmy meant it altogether as praise. Which is queer when you consider it, is it not? Those are the very qualities we seek in our Kingsguard, it could be said — men who live not for themselves, but for their king. By those lights, our brave Ser Mandon was the perfect white knight. And he died as a knight of the Kingsguard ought, with sword in hand, defending one of the king’s own blood.” The eunuch gave him a slimy smile and watched him sharply.
“It is not Ser Mandon who brings me here.”
“To be sure.” The eunuch crossed the room to his flagon of water. “May I serve you, my lord?” he asked as he filled a cup.
“Yes. But not with water.” He folded his hands together. “I want you to bring me Shae.”
Varys took a drink. “Is that wise, my lord? The dear sweet child. It would be such a shame if your father hanged her.”
It did not surprise him that Varys knew. “No, it’s not wise, it’s bloody madness. I want to see her one last time, before I send her away. I cannot abide having her so close.”
“I understand.”
“You are wise to suspect so, my good lord.”
“Who?” He cocked his head.
“The Kettleblacks report frequently to your sweet sister.”
“When I think of how much coin I paid those wretched… do you think there’s any chance that more gold might win them away from Cersei?”
“There is always a chance, but I should not care to wager on the likelihood. They are knights now, all three, and your sister has promised them further advancement.” A wicked little titter burst from the eunuch’s lips. “And the eldest, Ser Osmund of the Kingsguard, dreams of certain other…
“Oh, dear me, no, that would be dreadfully dangerous, don’t you think? No, the queen only