"Baron."
Cloudy eyes, peeled skin, mycelium veins; he'd been shoved to the ground, hands bound behind his back, a golden spear pressed tight against his neck.
No fear, or rage, or shame – his visage bore naught but ascetic equanimity.
"You have my condolences."
The flames lapping at his manor finally reached the clay-tiled roof: the structure collapsed in on itself, embers showering the smoldering corpses strewn about the once-manicured lawn – what little remained of his subjects, his retainers, his family.
Enthralled by a force far greater than himself, the Baron – whatever shreds of him still lingered within his rotten shell – was just as much a victim as the rest.
"Nonetheless, I hope you understand."
Outbreaks of the Scarlet Rot – incursions of that loathsome Outer God – warranted nothing less than wholesale extirpation. But the Legions, the regulars, simply hadn't the necessary experience, the Inquisition the raw strength, the territorial reserves the reliability and Radagon's clique the decisiveness.
And so, a Wild Hunt, the Queen and her Guard, personally descended upon the blighted estate to deliver what mercy we could.
Riding hard and fast, through a haze of spores, trampling toadstools underfoot; towering lichens and rivers of pus, infested ruins and shambling husks, the sickly sweet reek of decay choking the stagnant air; hammer blows, sword swipes, jets of flame.
It wasn't a battle – it was a culling, a pruning of tainted branches.
Fire, the Erdtree's anathema, proved in this respect invaluable.
Perched atop a curule seat, I crossed my legs and sighed.
"Such a waste … "
The Baron tilted his head, unblinking eyes aglow.
"Do not mourn." His voice was tender, sibilant, with the slightest gurgle bubbling up from beneath. "Death is a joyous thing. What beauty there is, in serving as the seedbed for the new."
The thing puppeting him smiled.
"One day, you too will see."
Frowning, I gave a gentle nod.
"Maybe."
Then, I rose to my feet, and bobbed my head at the nearby Guardsmen.
"Get on with it."
Silent behind their gilded facemasks, the one with the spear took a few steps back when his comrades raised their sprayers, and anointed the Baron with a seething mixture of Messmerfire and Erdtree sap (both vanishingly rare commodities).
Skin blackened, flesh melted, bones cracked.
He just kept on staring with that beatific smile.
V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V
Five in the afternoon was as good a time as any to drink.
Comfortably secluded in an out-of-the-way drawing room, I'd forgone consistency in favor of variety, and arranged for myself something of a private wine tasting.
(In other words, I spent fifteen minutes rummaging about the cellars, nicking whatever caught my eye.)
By now, I felt confident in saying that Westerosi wines, on the whole, weren't exactly much to write home about – thick, heady, vaguely … off.
Consistently mediocre.
Of the lot that I'd filched, the Dornish stuff was best, with a pleasant kick of spice and an exotic hint of citrus. Nothing great, mind, but interesting enough to stand out above the rest.
'Arbor gold,' meanwhile, the particular variety of sparkling white that the locals never shut up about, was competent enough, good for what it was, though just I couldn't force myself to like it – a bit too prissy frou-frou for my taste.
The Vale pinot was the worst by a mile; greasy, sour, some real goonbag crap.
Still, wine was wine.
With rich orange late-day sunlight creeping through the thick-paned windows, I reclined on a low padded couch, a glass in one hand and a copy of Bastard Born – a swashbuckling chronicle of some long-dead Velaryon, high seas and hanky-panky – in the other.
Comfortable, quiet, it was a delightful way to spend the afternoon, and a wonderful change of pace (Robert was good company, make no mistake, but we all need some downtime every once in a while).
I almost didn't notice when Varys minced through the door.
His shiny bald head dipped in greeting.
"Your Grace."
He certainly looked the part of your standard unctuous, obsequious, oriental eunuch: round shoulders and soft hands, a loose velvet gown damasked with flowers and ivy, cloying perfumes to mask the scent of urine.
Indeed, as far as such charades went, his was a fairly effective one, going a long way to blunt his otherwise sinister reputation; it's hard to look at some flabby genderblob and believe all the talk of spiders and birds.
Were it not for the glint in his eye, the tugging at the corners of his lips (and, I'll concede, no small amount of metaknowledge), it might've even fooled me.
I never liked his sort – too smug, too slippery. Utterly steadfast in their convictions, but nauseatingly evasive as to what those convictions actually were. Marika, the original, made a point of scourging them when they inevitably got too clever, and I can't say I disagreed.
"I must apologize," he simpered, "events have thus far contrived to keep us apart. Now that I've" – a titter – "escaped their clutches, I'd like to welcome you again to King's Landing." It had already been a week and some change – well, better late than never. "The rumors of your beauty truly pale to the reality."
He really was quite good at the vaguely off-putting femininity.
I turned a page, not bothering to meet his gaze.
Was this a cheap power play?
Of course.
Was it satisfying?
Absolutely.
"How kind. Here for an interrogation, I assume?"
Hands folded together inside his voluminous sleeves, Varys took a few steps closer, the door creaking shut behind him.
"Nothing so droll, Your Grace, I simply wish to inquire as to your … companions. I've heard quite a lot about them these past few days."
I raised a brow. Having left them to their own devices, they'd all but slipped my mind.
(Look, I've never claimed to be an attentive caretaker – tossing the chicks from the nest was more my style. Besides, they were all adults (where it counted, anyways), so it wasn't like they couldn't handle themselves. At least in principle.)
"Trouble?"
Seemingly amused, he shook his head.
"I wouldn't go that far. Perhaps more along the lines of … noticeable. Yes, noticeable. Idiosyncratic, as it were."
I dog-eared the page, finally deigning to look in the eunuch's direction; 'he' continued.
"Eddin, your Ironman, he's had an extraordinary run of the Street of Silk." He feigned concern. "The … entertainment district, if you're unfamiliar. Remarkable stamina, or so I've been told."
"Good for him."
A hum. "Yes, and your priest – "
"He's not mine."
Brow furrowed, head tilted, Varys' surprise wasn't entirely feigned. "Pardon?"
I took a sip. "He's not my priest. He belongs to R'hllor."
This took him a second to digest.
"I see."
He didn't, not really – his eminent loathing for the higher mysteries blinded him to their potential. When you well and truly hate something, it's all too easy to fall into the trap of dismissing it as trivial.
"Still, I suppose you are to thank for his renewed spirit. The poor man hasn't been this enthused since the days of His Grace King Aerys. It is heartening, I must say, to behold a faith so revitalized."
Varys paused; I took another sip, gesturing for him to continue.
"Then, we have little Brynden." He clicked his tongue. "That is her name, yes?"
A nod. "Hmm."
"Strange … there's a particular Brynden that somewhat fits … her description … although … " Trailing off, he covered his mouth and giggled – ugh – then exaggeratedly sighed. "Ah, please, excuse my mumblings, Your Grace. She's been in a sour mood, I'm afraid to report. Pensive, brooding, reclusive. Some days ago, a few girls her age even invited her to a sewing circle, but she declined their offer quite … vigorously."
I'd have paid good money to see that.
"She's also gotten herself a pet, you know?"
"Oh?"
Varys nodded.
"Yes, a raven. Docile thing, very well-trained, likes riding on her shoulder. The girl is too fond by half of threatening to peck eyes out with it."
I propped my cheek against a palm.
"Precocious, isn't she?"
He laughed again, this time fairly genuinely, though his mirth shortly petered out, until the both of us once more loitered in silence.
"Your Gra – "
"If you came to ask me something, stop pussyfooting and say it." A second's delay. "Oh, and sit down, would you?"
He just stood there, frowning in unspoken refusal.
I rolled my eyes.
With a flick of the wrist, he was hoisted into the air and shoved onto the couch opposite mine; he struggled, of course, kicked and writhed, but tendrils of grace tied him to the seat, and bound his arms and legs.
(Maybe a little rougher than strictly necessary, but I solaced myself with the fact that he'd made me sit through exposition.)
A knife slipped from his sleeve and clattered to the floor.
Eyeing it, I chuckled, and floated it over for closer inspection.
"What's this?" I wiggled it around. "Insurance?"
Otherwise distracted, he didn't answer.
"Doubt it'll do you much good … "
I gave the knife one more lookover – "Oh well" – before flinging it off to the side.
Soon enough, Varys had tired himself out; panting, sweating, slumped against the backrest, he shot my way a scowl as withering as it was impotent, his effete mask, its usefulness spent, discarded along with his composure.
"Come on, use your words."
I was having too much fun with this.
A growl clawed through his grit teeth; then, like a lightswitch, his back straightened, gaze sharpened, voice flattened – he shed the mummery, the flairs and affectations, and exposed the hollowed-out half-man lurking underneath.
He revealed to me his true face: empty, numb, insensate.
By this point, he'd simply no reason not to.
'There you are.'
It wasn't that he was some psychopath, physically incapable of feeling emotions – rather, it was that he'd gone out of his way to sever them, compartmentalize them, remold them to better serve his artifice; his soul, like the rest of him, had been wholly devoted his manipulations.
Undoubtedly effective, though one can't help but wonder how much he'd lost in doing so.
"What are you?"
I smiled, condescendingly, like he'd asked how babies are made.
"A god."
Topping off the glass, I kicked my feet up onto a table.
"And what, Lord Varys, are you?"
His impassive gaze almost turned bemused.
"The story I've heard, correct me if I'm wrong, is that a sorcerer, of all things, lobbed your bits off. Used them in a ritual or somesuch."
The tension was palpable now.
"In all honesty, part of me doubts you're a gelding at all. Wouldn't be the first lie you've told. That's your job, after all. To wade through all the intrigue." Resting my elbow on a knee, I leaned closer. "And I hope you know, I despise intrigue – no patience for it."
I paused to take a sip.
"You know chess? Cyvasse?" A dismissive wave. "Whatever it's called here. I despise that too. Less to do with strategy than memorization. Too rigid, too abstract." A snort. "Insufferable metaphors."
"Is there a point to this?"
"You're a damn good player. But I'm the type to flip the board, then bludgeon my opponent with a table leg."
Was my threat too subtle?
Grinning, I toasted my glass. "That's the prerogative of godhood."
Benevolent as I was, I gave Varys a moment to stew; then, dismissing the magic that hogtied him to the couch, I shooed him away.
"Well, toodle-oo. Don't let the door hit you on the way out."
Features blank, he stared some more, as if tracing my eyes and nose and lips would've yielded some greater understanding, before robotically rising to his feet and offering a shallow bow.
"Your Grace."
He then shuffled off.
I returned to my leisure.
Around an hour later, as the sky turned a shimmering coral, lamplights twinkling through the streets below – and, more importantly, I reached the bottom of my last bottle – I set the book onto a side table, stretched my arms, and wandered out into the hallway.
Not needing any, I hadn't plans for the rest of the night – best to take things by ear, I figured, and avoid a commitment that I might in time regret. Dinner sounded wonderful, as did another dozen or so bottles, but I won't deny that I was tempted to try and find Robert for a spot of fun, or perhaps to go and bother Brynden for a bit.
Thinking of her, I frowned.
The transition from one form to another wasn't easy – I knew that from experience. Your skin's too tight, like an ill-fitting jacket, every step introduces new stumbles and jiggles, the sound of your own voice causes you to flinch.
Maybe I should've eased up a little on the girl: no matter the age of her soul, her body was now that of a child, with all the attendant fragilities.
And while I was at it, a stray thought scratched, why not –
A door slammed open.
A gauntleted hand yanked on my braid.
A dagger lunged for my throat.
"JESUS CHRI – "
Instinctively, I lashed out with a blast of raw force.
My assailant's body popped like a balloon.
Blood, gristle, shards of bone painted the walls, the floor, the ceiling.
Some of it got in my mouth.
"Shit."
Cursing under my breath, I glanced up and down the hall, wincing at nearby footsteps, balking at the murmurs of approaching conversation
"Fucking hell."
Hurriedly, jumpily, I flicked the offal from my hands, vaporized the gore from my dress, and stuffed the scattered chunks of my would-be assassin into a nearby broom closet, jamming the door shut with a hard push.
I walked away, feigning nonchalance.
Somewhere from behind, a horrified scream.
I started walking faster.