THE USURPER'S HAND

"This is where they stashed you away."

"All things considered, I have slept in worse places," Lord Varys said. He sat on the center of his pallet, eyes closed and a placid smile on his face.

"I am certain," Jon Arryn said, looking into the cell where the former Master of Whisperers was kept. Varys had surrendered without a fight, and more importantly, to Stark soldiers rather than Lannisters. Without any open reason to kill him, they were forced to bring the eunuch to the dungeon of the Red Keep, where he was held in cells that were normally reserved for trueborn nobles.

"I am pleased to think that you thought to visit me in my captivity," Varys said, finally opening his eyes and turning to his guest. Jon shifted uncomfortably. This man appeared complacent and even friendly, but he had been one of the Mad King's most loyal servants. "I must thank you for these accommodations as well, my Lord Hand. I thought I would have been left to rot in the common cells above. At least this way I have some small measure of privacy."

"And comfort," Jon noted. Varys' robes were of deepest vermilion silk, and the sweet fragrance of lilacs drifted out from his cell. The pallet had been covered with a soft duvet, and a small shelf even held a handful of books for his diversion. "You still have friends here, it would seem."

"A few coins can bring the rudiments of comfort to a noble cell," Varys explained. He stood from his bed, his soft slippered feet gliding across the floor with barely a whisper. "But I do not think that you have come here to discuss the finer points of my captivity."

"No," Jon acknowledged. He paused, looked around the cell, then around the torchlit hall of the dungeon. "You served King Aerys for some time."

"This is true," Varys said. "I can only hope that my service was deemed worthwhile."

"He brought you here," Jon continued. Varys nodded.

"Also true."

"You were Aerys' man," Jon concluded.

"I am for the realm," the eunuch corrected him, his voice tranquil. "Now Robert Baratheon is the realm, and so I am for him."

"I want to believe you," Jon said, eyeing the eunuch once more. There was nothing to read in that serene visage.

"You do as you must, Lord Hand," Varys said. Jon shifted uneasily; the eunuch was impossible to grip. He took a step back, scratched at the stubble of gray and black forming on his chin, trying once more to read the man behind bars. "You seem unwell, Lord Hand. Are you in good health?"

"Princess Rhaenys escaped the Red Keep during the sacking," Jon said, watching the prisoner closely.

"That is indeed fortunate," Varys said. There was no surprise, no joy, no disappointment… nothing. Just that infuriating tranquil smile. "For her, at any rate."

"Queen Rhaella escaped to Dragonstone with Prince Viserys," Jon added.

"I was aware of that," Varys said.

"You sent them there." It was not a question. Varys shrugged.

"Battle is always a fickle thing," the eunuch said. "When we heard nothing for so long, I decided not to risk them any further. The king still clung to Elia, though. Leverage against Dorne, and his own son, if truth be told."

"You knew the king was mad," Jon concluded.

"I did," Varys admitted. "But he was my king. Honor dictated that I serve him."

"And now?" Jon asked.

"As I said, I am a man for the realm," Varys answered smoothly. "Robert is the king. Therefore, I am his man."

Jon paused a long moment.

"I need someone to find Princess Rhaenys," the King's Hand said. "I need to find her before… other people can."

"But I am locked away in here," Varys noted. "How could I hear my little birds sing of your lost princess? Without even a window?"

"You will be reinstated as Master of Whisperers," Jon explained. "I will speak to King Robert and assure him of your loyalty to the crown rather than the man."

"That is most kind of you," Varys said, smiling as he put his hands together and bowed his head. Damn him, Jon thought, he knew the whole time what was to happen. For a moment the King's Hand wondered how much of the escape might have been orchestrated by the eunuch, but he had come too far to turn back now.

The climb out of the dungeon took far more time than the descent. Each step brought him more doubts. Would Varys help, or would he turn on the new king and help Rhaenys? Would he slip away to Dragonstone at the first opportunity? Would he try to remove Robert from the throne? Would he be an even worse foe than the Lannisters were already proving? If he knew where Lyanna Stark was, would he part with the information? He had too many questions, and too few answers.

Jon Arryn's trek from the Holdfast to the Tower of the Hand was as arduous as the steps from the dungeon. He was getting old, of that there was no doubt. His legs ached as he wound his way up the serpentine stair and across the courtyard to the Tower of the Hand. For a week he had tried to make the tower his home, but it was not the Eyrie. This would offer no expansive view from a perch atop the Giant's Lance, and good men of the Vale were in terribly short supply in King's Landing.

Four guards stood at the entrance to the Tower of the Hand, all dressed in the sky blue and white of House Arryn. The sight of his own men gave the King's Hand some small comfort; at least he was not totally alone in the Red Keep. As they saw him, they stiffened to attention.

"Lord Hand," the lead guard said. Jon nodded.

"Everything is quiet, Jordy?" Jon inquired. The guard nodded. "Good. With a little luck, things will be quieting down."

The King's Hand passed his guards and entered his own tower, walking through the great hall of the first floor. More steps loomed before him, twisting up the side of the tower. With a sigh of resignation Jon began the long climb, his knees beginning to ache after the first two score. After four score, he stopped to rest, looking out the window. There was no more smoke in the sky, not after a week, but a breeze from the city still brought the smell of charcoal to his window. Closing his eyes and steeling his will, Jon resumed the climb.

Forty more steps brought him to his own private chambers. Down a short hall, past two more guards, and finally, peace within his new home.

"I thought you would never return, Jon."

"Lysa?" Jon asked, stunned by the voice. The dim room hid her only a moment more before he found her, sitting by a long dressing table in a simple gown of House Arryn blue. She was a beauty, shy and slim, but at less than half his age he barely knew how to approach her. "I… thought you'd be at the Eyrie."

"I left soon after news of the victory at the Trident reached us," Lysa explained, standing. "After all, if my husband is Hand of the King, should his loyal wife not be with him? At least some of the time?"

"Thank you, Lysa," Jon said, trying a smile. It turned into a wince instead.

"Your teeth?" Lysa assumed. A trace of her warmth disappeared.

"It… is nothing," Jon lied. He had lost several teeth already, something that had not endeared him to the young beauty. "The hour is late, sweetling. Perhaps we should to bed?"

"You seem tense," Lysa said. Jon nodded wearily.

"There is so much to do," he explained. "So many positions to fill. We barely even have a Small Council, and I shall be happier once Lord Tywin is not a part of it."

"Being King's Hand sounds like difficult work," Lysa said. Jon sat down on the bed, and his young wife moved behind him. Gently she began to rub his shoulders. Even without his armor the days seemed to take their toll on him, and Lysa's tender massage felt wonderful.

"It is. I would be glad for some help, and also your company."

"Help," Lysa said, leaning closer in behind him. He could feel her lips just brushing his ear. "I might be able to find someone to help you."

"Really?" Jon asked.

"Petyr Baelish has an exceptionally keen mind," Lysa observed. Jon sat up straight. Then he stood. Lysa leaned back on the bed, a look of surprise on her face.

"Petyr Baelish?" he repeated.

"I know he is young-"

"He is fifteen." Jon cut her off. He turned back to look at her. "Isn't he the one that dueled Brandon Stark?"

"Does that matter?" Lysa asked, crossing her arms across her chest. Her mouth pinched.

"It was dishonorable," Jon said. "Your sister was already betrothed to Brandon when-"

"What does it matter?" Lysa interrupted, throwing her hands up in frustration. "He is smart, he can be of use!"

"And what did he contribute during the rebellion?" Jon asked. "What did the Baelishes offer when I called my banners?"

"They had nothing to give!" Lysa countered. "They sit out on the Fingers, a few acres of rock stuck into the ocean, and you want… what, exactly? You gave them nothing, so they have nothing to give!"

"Many of my other bannermen gave far more to me when I called my banners," Jon protested. "It is those men that should be given the honor of high station. They have earned it!"

"Fine," Lysa said, throwing up her hands. She climbed down off the bed, striding back over to the dressing table. "Ignore his worth. Ignore his cunning and his intellect. Pick Ser Lyn Corbray. Wasn't he the one that fought you at Gulltown and then switched sides? That is honor, I'm certain."

"He is fifteen," Jon repeated. The sound that escaped Lysa's lips was something akin to a growl.

"He is fifteen, he is fifteen!" she mocked, her voice a high falsetto. "I must be a stupid little girl then, since I'm only seventeen, is that it? Good for nothing more than sealing an alliance with my father? Maybe to give you a few heirs? I guess without me, you wouldn't have won your little war, either! Maybe I should have the honor of some position! Maybe Master of Laws!"

"Enough, Lysa!" Jon roared. His hands balled into fists without him even realizing it. Anyone, anyone but Petyr Baelish! He was young, untried, and he had disgraced himself attempting to duel for the hand of a Lord Paramount! The King's Hand stopped, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "I am going to sleep, Lysa," he said. "I have many long days ahead of me. You will give me the chance to rest."

Lysa huffed, kicked a stool out, and sat down to brush her hair out with short, harsh strokes. Slowly Jon began to undress. As he did so, he suddenly found himself wishing that he had not won the war.

It would have been more peaceful that way.