Chapter 22

When he boarded the Nightingale and set sail from Westeros, he was no longer a senior minister of the court, the intelligence chief of the Iron Throne; this

His life has gone through many chapters—some joyful and free, some painful and heart‑wrenching, some exciting but brief, some easy and boring, some heavy and difficult, some splendid and profound. He likes the splendid and profound chapter best. Even now, the splendour continues, constantly being dug deeper.

He had not yet reached the moment of unpacking the gift box and fully savoring the delicacy, but the reward seemed already piled before him, exuding a rich, fragrant aroma; the true delicacy might make his whole body tremble.

During the boring idle time on the ship, he kept comparing these chapters of his life; when a crewman interrupted his thoughts, he decided to stop comparing and instead reach a definite conclusion—every segment is indispensable, but a boring life ought to be spiced with splendour and depth, for he had understood early, when he wandered the streets as a pickpocket, a truth: happiness gained without effort is short and shallow; happiness earned through long labour and nurturing of the heart is long and deep.

During the days when he allied with Illyrio, they became the foremost rich merchants of Pentos and also the city‑state's governors, controlling the city and mastering trade through their governorship. Illyrio, relying on his fine physique, ample gold, status, and marriage into the Pentos prince's family, thought he could do the same, but Varis believed a eunuch had best not delay women who harbour thoughts of marriage, especially those of high birth.

The change in status made earning coins much easier for them. He defined this period as easy and boring, until he accepted the invitation of the king across the Narrow Sea.

His espionage career and its meaning were elevated here; the information his little birds once cared about—what cargo a captain was about to sell, a rich merchant's actually empty purse, or a lady's bastard child truly being a captain's—was no longer their focus. He could now serve the country and the king with his talents and the intelligence he commanded, and more importantly, here he could become a true observer, shifting from watching money and affairs to watching people and the politics that affect everyone. This gave him a great sense of novelty. Yet novelty came with heaviness and hardship; he watched the nation step by step collapse, ordinary folk driven to death by the folly of the great.

Observers might think he was the one who caused the nation's collapse, but he was merely a hard‑working eunuch, powerless to defend himself against accusations aimed at the great or the honoured. This period was etched deep in his heart.

When he returned to Pentos, tormented by pain, his friend Illyrio presented him with a life‑long goal that required long cultivation to reap. He recalled the power question he liked to pose to sages: a bishop, a king, a rich merchant, and a soldier together in a room, each ordering the soldier to kill the others—whom should the soldier obey?

Only one who truly understands power can grasp the meaning of this question. He thought Tyrion might give him some inspiration, but even Tyrion, as clever as he is, failed to provide a satisfactory answer.

Heh, Tyrion's talent lies elsewhere; he should make up for the shortcomings of such upright folk as knights.

This question is his to answer. He must not only answer it, but also put the answer into practice.

After the mad king Aerys died, he returned to Pentos, dispirited, and resolved to spend the rest of his life in the boredom of wine and meat and Pentos's sea breeze, fantasizing about becoming a fat eater and drinker alongside his friend. But then his friend Illyrio came to him, asking for his help to present the greatest gift in the world to his late wife.

His friend also had his own worries, he thought.

He remembered Illyrio's request then and the humble tone in which it was made; Varis knew that, given their relationship, he need not be so deferential about any request.

"My good lady, Shaera is dead." Illyrio began with these words.

Varis was not surprised; after contracting greyscale, Shaera had longed for death, saying in her own words that she would neither live ugly nor die in pain. But she was only in the early stage of infection, and seeing Illyrio's grief‑stricken face, he had no need to know how his sister had died.

"The child is her sole regret on her deathbed," Varis heard him say, "her only worry."

Varis could not comfort his grieving old friend.

"I promised her I would look after the child well," he said, tears streaming, "she asked me, with all I could, to protect him and give him the best. I answered her through tears. I am her son's father—how could I fail to look after him? My eldest son might inherit the estate, my eldest son's uncles might bear him ill will, but I am confident I can keep him safe."

He kept weeping; Varis did not know what to do, but he knew that whatever Illyrio asked, he would agree.

"No matter how I comfort her, she just keeps repeating, 'Protect him well, give him the best.' I finally promised her, 'Give him the best,' and only then did she close her eyes. Varis, I thought for three days before I understood what 'the best' meant, and what could truly protect him." Varis watched him gradually reveal a miserable yet proud smile.

This opened the next chapter of his life; he heard Illyrio say, "My child, his hair takes after his mother—silver; his eyes take after mine—violet."

Illyrio was rich enough to rival a nation, but he firmly believed that name and power were the finest armor and the finest sword—this was the best gift he wished to give his own child, and he staked everything, answering that power question with his concrete actions.

Varis, feeling the thrill of avenging the world, accepted Illyrio's plea, then returned from Pentos to Westeros, officially launching a new chapter, and for over a decade he has exhausted his mind and energy on it.

Past events lay vivid before him; Varis watched the Red Keep, now hidden in darkness and gradually shrinking, heard the distant funeral bells from the church, and looked forward to his next return to Westeros.

Now Westeros is fractured, the perfect moment for the true dragon to sweep the world. His heart surged: the North lost the war and is in dire straits; the East is divided within, its leaders lacking virtue; the Iron Islands follow the old ways, lashing out everywhere, wildly making enemies; the Riverlands are weak and wretched, a scene of ruin; the West, though victorious in war, needs only a slight maneuver to end up with fools in charge—under such folk, the realm's decline is inevitable; the Riverlands have endured countless wars, now attacked by the Iron Islands, unable to look after themselves, and he has already taken steps to sever their ties to the Iron Throne; the Stormlands suffered a crushing defeat, clinging to life; Dorne lies far from the mainland, small in land and people, lacking potential. This is the true dragon's hour of war. When victory comes, what else can the queen do against a prior claimant besides marrying her off? Although this differs from the original aim—placing a man on the Iron Throne and keeping women in the birthing bed—there is no choice; the dragon queen will not stay quietly behind the scenes.

This is exactly it—plans cannot keep up with change.

In the early stages of the plan, they could only take one step at a time, laying out schemes and casting nets casually; now they are fast approaching the final phase of hauling in the net and catching fish. Even better, the queen they awaited has brought them more surprises—she is the Mother of Dragons, having birthed three dragons from stone. And even if she truly needs three heads, he is confident that the single head they have prepared for her can actually prove its worth, after all, whether red or black, they are dragons.

Three dragons are enough to secure every victory in the Seven Kingdoms.

Dragons are a fortunate accident.

Before, they wanted to maintain domestic balance of power, postponing war as long as possible to give the seeds time to grow. When war finally broke out, to reduce Westerosi strength as much as possible, they could only prolong the conflict, causing allies to turn on each other. The dragon queen is willing to rule the Mereen, willing to hone her governing skills here—let her do as she wishes.

Is she not overwhelmed by the surrounding chaos? The eunuch brings her a clever but unreliable Westerosi; this clever person proves his ability in practice, surely enabling her to stand firm in the turmoil; is she not grieving over the Mereen uprising? The eunuch will bring her countless little birds, guaranteeing she can sleep soundly, letting her become a joyful dragon‑riding queen.

The sailboat rocked, outdoor tools of unknown purpose clattered back and forth with the sway, yet he fell asleep easily with a smile, something he had rarely done in over a decade.

The next day, he woke in the morning light.

A young boy brought him breakfast—two boiled eggs, a slice of bread, a fresh orange, and a cup of lemon water. He hurriedly finished the meal, only then realizing that even if he ate faster, he could not make the ship reach Pentos any sooner.

He knew why he was so anxious: his old friend had not prepared to receive, in haste, a notorious kingslayer.

In the free‑trade city‑state he plays the role of an honest merchant; his ties to the Targaryens have already drawn criticism, and if he were to take in a Iron Throne fugitive, potential enemies would have to think twice.

Afterward he reached Pentos smoothly, but after settling a few matters with his old friend there, he directly boarded a merchant ship for Volantis, where the Golden Company awaited.

He boarded the Sea‑Gull, sailing south with the current, past the Stone Stairs islands, and through the coast of the Disputed Lands.

Seafaring is a dangerous endeavor; they encountered pirates in the Stone Stairs islands and escaped them, but near Lys they ran into a storm.

According to the captain, two crewmen were blown overboard by the gale, the hull suffered heavy blows, and repairs were unavoidable in Lys. The Prince of Thieves does not miss Lys, but he chose to wait and then continue toward his destination, after all, he still has plenty of time, and sea travel is far faster than overland.

Lys is the middling one among the Nine Free Cities' trade ports, and even among the three cities of the Tri‑City Alliance it is the weakest—it has never gained the upper hand in the struggle for the Disputed Lands against its two neighboring cities.

That is natural; a city whose focus is lust could hardly display martial prowess, and the world does not believe such a rule.

Yet it is ironic that the Lysians possess their own arrogant pride. In Varis's view, their arrogance and their stubborn belief in being superior are like summer ice—unable to withstand testing. Their pride stems entirely from being the original colony of Valyria, having once hosted ancient dragon‑kings.

Varis thinks that if the power question were put before them, they would unhesitatingly choose the king, for they have long been tamed, unaware that the dragon‑lords have long since crumbled to dust ground by stone, and the true dragon likewise sank with burning stone into the sea.

Lys is an important transit point; he wanted to pick up some news, so he entered the Lys Pleasure House, frequented by ordinary sailors.

At the hall bar he ordered a glass of Paleni wine. Made from the island's specialty plums and beets, it tastes sweet‑tart and pleasant, the sort he used to sneak sips of as a child. The barmaid brought it over and gave him a sweet smile; he could not bear such sweetness, lifted the cup, and took a light bite.

It had sour and sweet, but certainly not the childhood flavor—something extra had been added. He pondered the taste carefully, took a second slow bite, noting an astringency from incomplete fermentation, and drew a conclusion.

"My lord, you've already drunk three glasses alone; if you keep drinking like this, you'll miss Lys's finest offering," the barmaid said as she poured his fourth cup, adding that they need not explain what "Lys's best" is.

"My dear lady, believe me—I have already lost the world's finest thing; otherwise why would I be here drinking bitter wine alone?" he replied.

Here people seek amusement more than they show off news; loud, monosyllabic cheers outnumber the tedious chatter he needs. This is the city's failure, but he need not give up, for other inns are the same.

"If you've lost it, just go find it back," she said.

"That won't do," Varis replied with a laugh, "lost is lost happiness."

They lit the hall's oil lamp; the flame danced in the oil reservoir, casting a yellowish glow over the inn's hall. Everyone liked this atmosphere.

He swallowed the fourth cup.

He leaned against a small nook at the corner; a cold wind blew across the ocean, and even in Lys he could feel a slight chill—this corner was just right.

After a long while, the dirty seat before him gradually filled with sailors, merchants, and travelers from all over the world, speaking a variety of languages, and Varis at one point felt as if he were in a market.

As the intelligence chief of the crown, he naturally hoped to receive news from the east rather than the west; most of the talk suited his taste, but much of it he already knew.

"If we're talking about funny things, I've heard one," a young man laughed loudly, "I heard that the Golden Team in Mil, before preparing to go to war against the Disputed Lands, canceled their contract, so the Governor of Mil had to send envoys to other city-states to announce the cancellation of the war declaration. The envoy he sent was stripped naked by the Grand Duke of Teloxi, who had the words 'I was wrong' tattooed on his back. It is said that the Grand Duke also had singers compose songs on this theme, and those who wrote well were richly rewarded."

This is a good story, Varys thought, his and Illyrio's actions reducing unnecessary wars, and it would be even better if he laughed less.

Besides the jokes that made him not want to laugh, he also heard a lot of news about dragons. In Westeros, talking about dragons was like talking about distant and ancient legends, but here they were vivid, with all uncertainty cast aside, the rumors always featuring a beautiful queen and her three dragons.

"Four dragons," a sailor‑type man said to him, "The steward of the Longtail told me, when he bought oranges here, that he saw four dragons in Meereen, not three." His certainty made Varys chuckle.

The three dragons corresponded to the gifts Illyrio gave, to the girl's sigil, and to the number of dragons possessed by his ancestor, the conqueror Aegon Targaryen and his sisters.

"Four" is a bad omen; the gods would not assign such a clumsy number to that girl, if there are any gods.

"The biggest one is just a red dragon."

It is a black dragon, Varys corrected himself mentally; this was also confirmed by Illyrio, and besides, fossil dragon eggs contain no red. In his youth he had also fabricated some outrageous lies to attract attention.

He had to steer the conversation elsewhere; otherwise tonight they could talk about nothing but dragons. He did not want to listen to a bunch of drunks discussing every dragon name in the Targaryen family.

When the topic turned to war, the boy spoke noticeably less, while the older, big‑bearded mercenary‑type beside him gave better information: "Volantis might join the anti‑dragon‑queen coalition of Yunkai, but they face the threat of the Dothraki, so they cannot pour too much force into a raid on Slaver's Bay. I've heard, though, that the eastern seas are everywhere flying the banners of the Iron Islands' pirates… many merchant ships have already suffered; is Westeros really so poor that the ironborn must go this far just to plunder?"

The ironborn were raiding the riverlands, but why head east? The sea was already complicated enough; he only hoped the route to Meereen would avoid those pirates. This news was not his focus.

"Those who hate the dragon queen are far more than just the slave‑using free cities of Lys," the mercenary said bluntly, "Braavos and Pentos may have abolished slavery, but their archons and magistrates secretly meet Yunkai's slave masters, enjoying their gifts—how could they side with the dragon queen?"

"I've heard some bigwigs say world trade is some kind of circle," said an old man with a gray beard, "and the dragon queen broke that circle."

"Yeah, yeah. The Dothraki sweep the plains, most of the slaves they catch end up sold in Slaver's Bay, and Slaver's Bay distributes them worldwide… shipowners unload a ship's cargo there, take on a batch of slaves, and the whole world profits. Now the Dothraki have masses of slaves with nowhere to sell, while the cities that need slaves have nowhere to buy… no circle, trade becomes hard. They hate her, don't they?" A middle‑aged man in a sealskin cloak, his mouth full of yellow teeth, pursed his lips and interjected.

"Business might be tough. This month alone I've seen several big sea merchants go bankrupt, drinking themselves to death in the streets. A few prostitutes even chipped in to bury the corpses." Said a muscular laborer, like a dockworker.

That was his greed—a tiny vial of Lys's tears worth many times its weight in gold, yet he chose to end his life; but the world is full of such fools, Varys thought.

"No wonder. I've heard the Qartheen are also sending a fleet to Slaver's Bay." They also regularly need to buy various slaves in Slaver's Bay and there distribute the goods they obtain from the east.

"Isn't the dragon queen surrounded by enemies on all sides?" the gray‑bearded old man said.

"The dragon queen has dragons; what can more enemies do?" the boy interjected, looking like a potential ally of the dragon queen.

Many dragons also need enough dragon heads to use. Varys felt there was no need to stay longer listening to the boy's fantastical dragon tales. But just as he rose to leave, a familiar face walked in.

This person bore a resemblance to Renly, with glossy black hair, almost exactly as he had looked when Varys first met Renly years ago. The few companions he didn't recognize wore the stag sigil; they were Stannis's men.

Varys liked this boy named Edric Storm. Before Robert's death, he would send gifts in Robert's name every year on the boy's name day. The gifts were ordinary and plain, but enough to warm a child's heart. When the boy received them, he would write Robert a fervent thank‑you letter, each time warming Varys's heart; he truly wished the boy were his own son.

Although Varys had changed his disguise, he still felt compelled to pull his cloak lower. The light here was dim; even if he appeared before someone, they might not recognize him. He slipped out of the inn quietly, as if he had never been there.

The next morning, as usual, he met with the captain and brought him and the crew oranges bought at the market. After leaving, he headed toward the house of his childhood—though it was not actually his childhood home; he had been born a slave in the household of its original owner. The slave master prized Varys's bloodline. His paternal line could be traced back to the mad Targaryen, Aegon, called "Brightflame"; his paternal mother's line went back to a daughter of Jaehaerys I. His maternal blood came from the Blackfyre family, specifically the fourth son of Daemon Blackfyre. He had heard his master say this when selling him and his sister. His mother's claims were similar, except the slave master had reversed the paternal and maternal origins.

The slave master had not allowed his mother to bear many siblings, and this claimed lineage did not greatly raise their value—at least not much for him. His sister was taken by a Lysene brothel, which obviously hoped her white hair would attract patrons interested in Westerosi royalty across the Narrow Sea. He himself was picked up by a troupe, spending most of his time doing odd jobs for the company and occasionally using his white hair to cameo as a royal child in their plays.

The greatest role he ever played was Aemon Targaryen, son of Viserys I. For that character he now only remembers one line: "You put out my eyes! You put out my eyes!" He still recalls that, with a anguished tone, covering one eye with a hand and pointing at the other person does the trick. The troupe leader approved his performance, and he thought he could keep doing it until he himself became troupe leader one day.

He toured with the troupe in the major free cities, sometimes receiving performance invitations from King's Landing and Oldtown. He had indeed traveled to many cities, but never became troupe leader.

Once, while they were performing in Myr, a man with a thick beard and brown hair approached the troupe leader and bought him. For a long time he thought it was because his acting wasn't good enough, that the troupe leader had sold him; he blamed himself for ages, replaying every scene, pondering where he had fallen short in serving the troupe.

Only after he became the Prince of Thieves did he finally discard those petty thoughts.

That man cut off his genitals, making him a eunuch. He no longer clearly remembered the man's exact appearance, but the strangeness of the blood magic would stay with him forever. He heard the man curse his enemies in a strange tongue, which he could not understand.

Afterward he saw a shadow, grotesque and dark, wearing his face—his adult face. The shadow slipped out of their room; he felt he could command it, wanted to command it to kill the man before him, but it was as futile as trying to move a finger. His spirit was just as weak.

The man laughed hysterically, "It's the true dragon's root, the true dragon's root," looking at the man weeping with joy, "I have offered all your descendants to the god; the god has satisfied me, satisfied me." He saw no divine reply, only heard the man's mad laughter, as if it could shake the house apart. That day he wept.

The former slave master's house itself seemed to weep. Water from the fountain was piped down from the hilltop; servants drew it from the basin to wash the walls and sweep away huge leaves caught in the cracks. Varys observed closely: two servants had white hair, but they were elderly old men who cultivated various colored flowers along the lawn's edge. They were gardeners, unlike his mother, who had served the house's original owner as a part‑time sex slave and bed‑warmer.

This place retained most of the buildings from his childhood. He had once drawn water to drink from the same fountain, picked up lemons that had fallen naturally from the trees in the yard, and had once splashed happily in the wide pool on the right with other young slaves, because they needed to be clean before being sold the next day.

Later he bought the estate and had the pool filled in, erecting a huge harp sculpture on top.

He remembered the tortuous process of purchasing this manor and the humiliations he endured.

"You want me to sell the courtyard where my father and his father were born to a eunuch without balls? I'd rather be killed!" The owner failed to realize that Varys had once been his slave.

Varys granted his wish. He paid ten times the estate's price, hired the Faceless Men, and had the owner and his obstinate heir killed, until a cousin of the owner deemed the place a haunted house. Varys did not haggle; he bought the manor at the original price, saying, "The surplus is my compensation for your relatives' unfortunate demise." He told that cousin.

He had been away from this manor for too long, and there was little he could recall; he could not be certain whether his father or his paternal grandfather had also been born here. They were of no consequence.

When the ship was finally repaired, he gave the manor, in Robert Baratheon's name, to his bastard son, along with all his assets in Lys. He returned what he had taken from his father. If this bastard were wise enough not to press a claim based on blood, he would live longer than most people.

The Nightingale's Lys shipyard patched the holes in its watertight layer, repaired some rotted planks, cleared the holes in the Nightingale's prow, and painted it red, green, blue, and yellow, turning the Nightingale into a beautiful, flashy bird—a sign of luck; on its eyes they added black‑white speckles, symbolizing keen sight. Varys liked this decoration.

The captain knew well the route from Lys to Volantis. They continued aboard the Nightingale, sailing three days smoothly to reach Volantis.

Volantis's harbor is larger than any city he has seen. It lies at the southernmost bay of the continent, guarding one mouth of the Rhoyne as it flows to the sea. Sea and river mingle here, and the outspurs of the two banks' mountains divide the mingling waters into several sections, each cleared and leveled into natural quays where ships from all over the world tie up, while sailors, slaves, and dockworkers continually unload cargo from vessels, haul it away, and bring the city's output aboard for export.

At the farthest edge of the quay a breakwater was built, its timber framework bearing rows of hanged pirates, smugglers, and other criminals, with various birds circling the corpses. It is no different from any other port, except that the bodies here look more numerous.

Their ship eased toward the quay; the harbor master, seeing the new vessel enter the channel, stepped out of the three‑story stone building, signaled with flags, and directed them to their berth in turn.

The stone building stood too close to where the bodies were hanged; Varys thought it amounted to punishing the hard‑working harbor officials. But all he smelled was the sea's briny tang, and he wished they would smell it too.

Entering the city, Varys in the distance saw the great stone bridge over the Rhoyne, counted among the world's nine wonders. The bridge joins the river's east and west banks, allowing Volantis's power to extend simultaneously to both banks and upstream over vast lands. Varys knew the city's history and geography well.

Inside the city, he smelled the distinctive scent of a summer seaside town—fishy, fecal, rotting ferment, and perfume. Each alone he could tolerate, but together they were enough to make him retch. He only wished to grow accustomed quickly.

His residence in the city lay on the eastern high ground of the Rhoyne, hidden behind a vast grove of palm trees and scrub; even under a blazing sun, walking there felt cool. Servants kept the path to the estate swept clean, quiet and unobtrusive—a style he favored. The estate was enclosed by stone walls, overgrown with thorny creepers, the walls draped in vines and branches. Its main structure was timber, but many parts were faced with natural stone and coated in the local salt‑white wash, nicely displaying the coastal summer style.

The next morning, after bathing and dressing, he put on a light purple silk long shirt, donned a round‑edged, borderless black hat with elaborate embroidery to cover his bald head, then affixed a sparse eight‑point mustache to his upper lip, completing the look of a spice merchant. As usual he hired a palanquin and went to the city's mercantile district to buy security services. His destination was not the crowded, noisy Volantis itself, but the town of Selhorys up the Rhoyne from Volantis.

After waiting a week in Selhorys, Tyrion and young Aegon's party finally arrived. This was his goal.

"My dear friends, seeing you arrive here safe after your hardships truly delights me." Varys said sincerely. Those before him, though a bit disheveled, were still presentable.

"My rotten spider, seeing you here surprises me more than seeing my dead father. How did you get from King's Landing here?" The imp wore garish, utterly asymmetrical children's clothes, looking like a clown, but he was so ugly he resembled a little demon monkey. Only his voice remained unchanged.

"Oh, spider, I don't have that many legs. Let you know I traveled just like you—by boat, by litter, and on my own two feet, sir."

"Boat and litter, I've done more than you—I've even ridden in a barrel." When Varys looked puzzled, he quickly explained, "Those bastards stuffed me into a barrel and shipped me to the cheese merchant; was that your doing?"

"Sir, you're wronging me; I only told the captain not to let anyone know you'd been in Pentos. I believed they'd have a better way to handle it."

The captain wasn't unfamiliar with smuggling others, but the imp's treatment obviously wasn't due to his small size; it was surely his mouth that had pissed someone off.

"Wronged me? To get here we nearly became the Shroud Lord's feast. Tell me why you won't give us a better route? I admit the Valyrian road stretch is fine, but after the Sorrows the sailing is another matter entirely. And besides, young Aegon is terrible at chess—he loses and flings pieces everywhere, then forces me to pick them up; it's unbearable. Though I'm small, my heart demands respect, and my father ought to know that."

"You…" little Griffin looked somewhat at a loss.

"This is truly awful. Good sir, no matter what, this is already the best route. I'll explain it to you slowly later." Varys, impatient to linger here with all this talk—and besides, it wasn't safe—said, "Having gone through all this, I've already booked the best inn in town for everyone; now, why don't we relax and take in the city?"

"Ships, slaves, savages, horses, the walls on all sides—what a fine view!" the imp sneered, gazing in every direction, grumbling a lot. Perhaps he had indeed suffered.

The city walls are not only fine scenery, but also good armor; without these walls, how could Saihelu stand on the east bank of the river? The Dothraki lurking outside the city are not to be trifled with—just look at the ruined city of Samer downstream.

Then he turned to the blue-haired little Yigeng, saying, "Well, if a person lacks the ability to protect himself, he shouldn't lightly place himself in danger." The more noble the adult, the sooner he should understand this principle.

"Our little Prince cannot tolerate being educated by a eunuch; quickly take us to the inn!"

"Yes, sir."

After the welcoming banquet, everyone dispersed. He walked out of the inn, aimlessly, came to a corner of the Riverside Avenue plaza, where the wind carried the scent of the wilderness. He saw a small person clutching a wineskin, wandering. Not far from him was a red-robed monk preaching; he was preaching something to the crowd gathered around him, eliciting bursts of cheers. A bit farther away, a group of prostitutes stood by the black wall, soliciting patronage from passersby, and under the plaza's firelight and the lanterns' candlelight, their faces could not be made out.

As he passed by, Tyrion raised his wineskin in greeting to them, like a patrolling king. But the prostitutes merely smirked at their female companions, either because they had never seen a dwarf, or because they had never seen such an ugly person. There was always some reason for them to laugh.

"Sir, you are still in danger in this city. If it were me, I wouldn't come out alone." Varys had to remind him.

"Before you is a little person. Moreover, he tragically lost half his nose—who would be so impolite as to lay hands on a poor soul like this?"

"Sir, I can't say for sure. I've seen too many people who only like to strike at the helpless."

"Hehe." Tyrion belched, holding his wineskin, swaying back and forth.

Varys thought, if he continued to walk the streets looking like that, he'd surely be snatched up and made into a medicine ingredient.

"The Spider, prison warden, master of whispers, protector of orphans, kingmaker..." he laughed heartily, "Tell me, where did the whores go?"

"Well, sir, everyone you just mentioned knows that. But I'm merely a eunuch; I can't answer your question."

"Whores are naturally in the brothel." A stranger's voice burst in.

Varys hastily turned around; a tall man, almost bald, dressed in a wool coat, appeared before him and Tyrion. Embroidered clearly on the wool coat was a green field with a standing black bear.

After a good while, Varys realized this man was none other than the former Lord of Bear Island, Jeor Mormont. Varys liked to spring surprises on people, but he did not like to be surprised himself.

"Whores are in the brothel, but your lady lies in another's bed..." Tyrion hadn't finished speaking when he was suddenly slapped hard across the face, toppling to the ground and flinging his wineskin away.

"Ser Jeor..." Varys could only call out to him, the little demon couldn't withstand such violence.

"Oh, Ser Jeor, I never expected to meet you again in this foreign land, and you are so enthusiastic." The little demon covered his mouth, but his voice still leaked out.

"If you keep wagging your tongue, I can be even more enthusiastic." Ser Jeor drew the dagger at his waist.

Varys couldn't attend to Tyrion, so he kept stepping back, gesturing for him to stay calm.

This dagger was clearly aimed at him.

"Ser Jeor, we can discuss this calmly; there's no need for this." Varys knew it's hardest to reason with a brute.

"Eunuch, your little bird is starting to peck at its master!" Tyrion interjected, he stood up, but was somewhat unsteady.

"Watch your words," Ser Jeor kicked him again, standing before the little demon like a giant, "otherwise I'll first cut out your tongue."

Varys didn't know where Ser Jeor's such great hostility toward him came from, but if he didn't uncover it soon, he would surely die here.

"Ser Jeor, why?"

"Why? Varys, you really asked a good question." He sneered, "Indeed, why is he here? Meereen is surrounded by enemies on all sides; he clearly isn't on official business sent by the Dragon Queen, otherwise... look at his destitute state—was he kicked out by the Dragon Queen?" The little demon burst into laughter, "I'd say it's most likely his spy identity was exposed and he slunk away." Tyrion got another punch for that remark, but it actually proved his guess was right.

Varys felt grateful to Tyrion in his heart; perhaps before death he might understand the reason. Oh, how unfair, ah, how unlucky.

"Ser Jeor, there must be some misunderstanding." He had to rely on a shred of moral feeling in the Black Bear Knight's heart to stay alive.

He hadn't done anything wrong to him; being a spy was merely normal trade.

"Heh heh, what misunderstanding? Use your fat head to prove his innocence—if it were me, I'd do the same." Tyrion spat out a mouthful of blood-tinged spittle.

"Perhaps I'll take you along as well." Ser Jeor said to the little demon.

"Ser Jeor, if you take our heads to Meereen to give to the Dragon Queen, that would be a grave mistake." He explained.

"I've missed many times," Varys heard him say, "this time won't be any different."