Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 388: Varys’s Efforts in Vain

Tyrion gazed deeply into Tysha’s eyes, and there was a jarring disconnect between his loving expression and the words that followed. Though his heart was clearly full of affection for her, he asked about his impending death with complete indifference.

Tysha's anxiety surged at his casual remark. After more than ten years apart, they had finally reunited, and now they were facing another parting—this one permanent. Her desperation took over as she turned her tear-filled face toward Viserys.

“Your Grace, please!” she cried. “Let me die in his place.”

Varys and Slynt, standing nearby like two overstuffed pillars of flesh, watched the scene intently. Varys, ever the master of control, remained calm, though his mind was already calculating the potential outcomes. Slynt, on the other hand, couldn't hide the restless flickering of his eyes, hoping to gauge how this plea might impact his own rewards.

Varys’s thoughts turned toward the future—this was a chance to evaluate Viserys’s character. How the prince handled this matter would reveal much about his temperament and give Varys insight for the future rise of Young Connington. Slynt, more self-serving, simply wondered what reward he might extract from Viserys if he pardoned Tyrion. If the Imp could be spared after an attempted assassination, surely Slynt—“an adviser with meritorious service”—would fare well.

Viserys considered Tysha’s plea before shaking his head. “Just wait for your trial, Tyrion. You hired assassins to kill my dragon. For that, you will face trial—but I don't kill people just to satisfy a whim.”

His response surprised both Varys and Connington, who shared a glance. Connington, having lived through the blood-soaked reign of Aerys, found this restraint refreshing. Viserys's self-control was a far cry from the mad king’s unpredictable cruelty. Varys, though, saw a potential challenge—a ruler with stable emotions might be harder to manipulate.

Tyrion, however, let out a sigh of relief, finally pulling his gaze from Tysha’s tearful face. “So, we still have time then,” he muttered, a touch of his old humor returning. Then, turning to Viserys, he said, “Your Grace, if I help you take Casterly Rock, will you let me go to the Wall? Or perhaps allow me to live for a year or two—or even six months? A month, maybe?”

He gave a wry smile. “You’ve wanted to conquer Casterly Rock ever since you arrived in Westeros, haven’t you? My father once told me to clear the sewers there. Believe me, no one knows its weaknesses better than I do.”

Viserys didn’t hide his interest. Tyrion’s offer was tempting, and there was no reason not to accept it. Even if Tyrion was ultimately sentenced to death, he could be granted a reprieve for this invaluable help. It would also serve as a demonstration that attempting to assassinate the royal family wouldn’t lead to mercy. Tyrion had failed, and yet, through his wit and resourcefulness, might still be useful.

“Take them both away,” Viserys ordered. “We’ll deal with this later.”

As Tyrion and Tysha were led out, Viserys turned his attention to more pressing matters. The tent was now occupied only by Viserys, Connington, Slynt, and Varys. There was something weighing on the air—something that only Slynt seemed oblivious to. Viserys decided to address him first, leaving the more dangerous conversation with Varys for last.

“Ser Slynt,” Viserys said, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Your loyalty has not gone unnoticed. I will make you a Lord. The lands and rewards will be discussed after Tywin’s defeat.”

“Thank you, Your Grace!” Slynt exclaimed, dropping to one knee, raising his sword in a gesture of unwavering loyalty. In that moment, Slynt’s thoughts were already racing, envisioning a new family crest—a warrior binding a male lion.

As Slynt left the tent, his mind filled with grand visions, only Viserys, Connington, and Varys remained. Varys suddenly sensed that something was off. The room had grown unnervingly still, and he glanced at Connington, who was avoiding eye contact. The silence was unnaturally thick, broken only by the distant sounds of soldiers, horses, and carriages moving outside the tent.

Inside, however, the tension was palpable. Varys’s heart began to race as he realized Viserys had taken an unusually long pause. Something wasn’t right.

Varys, ever the diplomat, had dressed carefully today. He wore a black silk tunic embroidered with a palm-sized yellow dragon—a subtle nod to the prince he sought to impress. Yet, as Viserys moved closer, Varys could feel the predatory energy radiating from him. It was as if a dragon was circling its prey, ready to strike at any moment.

Viserys stopped so close to Varys that they could almost hear each other’s heartbeat. Varys, uncharacteristically unnerved, could sense the dangerous aura emanating from the prince. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck, though he maintained his outward calm. Viserys, for his part, noticed something peculiar—a faint, strange fragrance clung to Varys, sharp enough to cut through the air of the tent.

The silence continued, heavy with the unspoken threat hanging between them.

“Varys,” Viserys began, his voice sharp, “did you sow the seeds of discord between my father and Rhaegar? Did you deceive Ser Connington into believing that Illyrio’s child was Rhaegar’s, using the baby as bait? Was that your plan all along?”

Varys’s heart raced, but then he forced himself to relax. He felt like a rat dragged from its sewer hiding place, terrified at first but then surrendering to its fate, resigned in a way that bordered on despair. His eyes darted to Connington, whose expression brimmed with disgust. In that instant, Varys understood everything.

“Yes,” he said, his voice steady.

Viserys's eyes narrowed. “I sentence you to death for inciting discord between the King and the Prince!”

Varys, now worthless in the eyes of the young prince, seemed ready to accept his fate. But just as Viserys expected him to bow to his doom, the eunuch’s demeanor shifted. His voice quickened, his words tumbling out with sudden urgency.

“Wait!” Varys’s tone was desperate yet calculated. “Your Grace, I have already stationed someone to guard the wildfire caches beneath King’s Landing. If I do not signal him in time, he will ignite them, and the entire city will burn. Every man, woman, and child will perish. But if you let me live, I can promise you the city will be spared.”

Viserys’s expression darkened. Varys had anticipated everything, even Tyrion’s secret plan to use wildfire to destroy both himself and the King.

Varys had long known every tunnel, every hidden passage in the Red Keep. He even knew that Tyrion ground his teeth and farted in his sleep, let alone the dwarf’s plot to die in flames alongside Viserys. Tyrion, in the whirlwind of seeing Tysha, had momentarily forgotten about this fatal contingency, but Varys had not.

“Varys! How long will you persist in your madness?” Connington growled, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword, fury burning in his eyes. He hadn’t imagined Varys would be so shameless as to threaten the lives of the innocent citizens of King’s Landing. But the eunuch remained unmoved.

Varys turned to Connington with a mocking smile. “Ah, Ser Connington, this is where the true value of information lies. You see, I was once a fool, unaware of your loyalty to the Targaryens. And so, yes, I was played. But I am no fool now.”

A grotesque smile stretched across Varys’s plump face, the calm facade gone. His desperation was masked by a bizarre confidence that only deepened the tension in the room. When a conspirator is exposed, their behavior often takes on a shameless, almost defiant air, and Varys was no exception.

Viserys narrowed his eyes, studying the eunuch’s expression carefully. Varys, too, stared back, understanding all too well that his life hung by a thread. Despite his fear, he believed there was still a way out. His knowledge of Viserys’s growing emphasis on preserving human life had been gleaned from a web of information. This was his final gambit.

“Varys,” Viserys said slowly, his voice low and dangerous, “I don’t understand why you’re still clinging to life. Do you really think you have any chance left to overthrow me? Schemers like you rarely succeed, and when they do, they are despised for the rest of their days. You think you’re clever, but no matter how sharp your plots, you will always be beneath me. Yes, red or black, a dragon is still a dragon—but the color matters. If you dye a black dragon red, no one will ever accept it as a true descendant of Blackfyre. What’s the point of your scheming?”

Varys let out a booming, theatrical laugh—loud and exaggerated, as though he were playing to an audience in a crowded theater. It was anything but subtle.

“Meaning?” Varys chuckled. “Meaning is something we ponder after the deed is done, Your Grace. You can kill me, yes, but you must choose: will you kill me, or will you spare the lives of everyone in King’s Landing?”

'Master, let me enter his body, and I will extract all of his secrets for you!' A man's voice suddenly echoed inside Viserys’s mind.

'No! Master, let me do it. I’m the best at this. I can guarantee to extract every last secret without a single mistake!' This time, it was a woman's voice. Viserys immediately realized it was the Undying Ones—the sorcerous beings he had absorbed into his body when he was in Qarth.

'Master! Let me do it!' the man insisted again.

'No! Let me do it!' the woman protested.

A cacophony of voices from the Undying Ones erupted inside his head, each clamoring to be the one to extract Varys’s secrets. The noise grated on Viserys’s nerves, and finally, he snapped.

'Shut up!'

The voices fell silent instantly.

Viserys had been saving the souls of the Undying Ones for a later purpose—injecting them into White Walkers to serve as spies—but now it seemed he would have to use them sooner than planned. He was ready to send one of the Undying Ones into Varys’s body to rip out his memories.

As he prepared to act, Viserys noticed Varys and Connington staring at him with confusion and unease. His outburst had been sudden, and his behavior odd, even to those who knew him well. Connington, in particular, found the situation unsettling. It reminded him too much of Aerys in his later years, when the Mad King had begun speaking to unseen voices and falling into fits of delusion.

Not again, Connington thought, watching Viserys warily. This is the Targaryen prince we’ve been waiting for after all these years. Please, don’t let him turn out like his father. After all, Aerys had seemed normal when he was young, too.

Varys, on the other hand, felt an icy fear creep over him. He had hoped for Viserys to descend into madness one day, much like Aerys, but not now—not while Varys’s life hung in the balance. If Viserys lost control, the negotiations might turn into an execution.

Viserys, sensing their anxiety, decided to explain his next move. Without another word, he stepped forward and placed his hand firmly on Varys’s bald head. Neither Varys nor Connington knew what was about to happen, but their reactions were starkly different. Connington was puzzled, though concerned. Varys, however, was utterly terrified.

When Viserys’s fingers, adorned with dragonbone rings, tightened around his skull, Varys felt as if the prince’s hand were digging into his very flesh. He had seen men of incredible strength—like the circus “Strong Belwas” who could crush bones with their bare hands. In that moment, Varys feared his skull would meet the same fate. His body tensed, waiting for the crushing blow.

But instead, the world around Varys began to fade. His vision darkened, and within seconds, he slipped into unconsciousness. His soul was invaded by one of the Undying Ones, which swiftly devoured his essence and began sorting through his memories like rifling through old papers.

To Connington, however, it appeared as though Viserys had merely placed his hand on Varys’s head. The eunuch quivered for a brief moment before dropping to his knees in sudden submission.

“Your Grace, spare me!” Varys cried, his voice trembling. “I should not have threatened you with the lives of innocents! The child I sent to ignite the wildfire—he has red hair. You only need to send someone to tell him that I have been captured, and the plan will be stopped. Please, Your Grace, spare me!”

Viserys glanced at Connington, who looked back at him, bewildered. Viserys, his face unreadable, then signaled for Connington to act. The soldier hurried off, his mind racing.

Varys continued to grovel, confessing everything in his desperation. “Your Grace, I— I supported the Blackfyre claim because of their bloodline, but I see now... I was wrong. Please, Your Grace...”

Viserys didn’t respond. His cold gaze lingered on the fallen eunuch for a moment before he turned to Connington. “Imprison him,” he ordered. “Varys is still a prisoner, and it would be unseemly for him to suddenly be treated as a guest. Not yet.”

Connington quickly moved to obey, leading the guards as they seized Varys and dragged him away. The eunuch, once so powerful and secretive, had been stripped of everything—even his soul. His schemes had collapsed, and now, even his flesh was under Viserys’s control.

Viserys didn’t bother to enter the city himself. He had no interest in being paraded through King’s Landing at this stage. He had one final step left before the ‘Restoration War’ began in earnest, and he would see it through to the end.