The eunuch was humming tunelessly to himself as he came through
the door, dressed in flowing robes of peach-colored silk and
smelling of lemons. When he saw Tyrion seated by the hearth, he
stopped and grew very still. “My lord Tyrion,” came out
in a squeak, punctuated by a nervous giggle.
“So you do remember me? I had begun to wonder.”
“It is so very good to see you looking so strong and
well.” Varys smiled his slimiest smile. “Though I
confess, I had not thought to find you in mine own humble
chambers.”
“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 water in your flagon, gods
have mercy,” he went on, “your sleeping cell is no wider
than a coffin, and that bed . . . is it
actually made of stone, or does it only feel that way?”
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.” Bloody fools, thought Tyrion. “I seem to recall that
Maegor the Cruel’s headsman unmade three with his
axe.”
“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. So Varys has little
birds in the Citadel too. “I see. So my father decided to nip
the rose before it bloomed.” He had to chuckle.
“Pycelle is a toad. But better a Lannister toad than a Tyrell
toad, no?”
“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. I suppose
that’s something. “Blount is a blustering
coward,” he said amiably.
“Is he? Oh dear. Still, the knights of the Kingsguard do
serve for life, traditionally. Perhaps Ser Boros will prove braver
in future. He will no doubt remain very loyal.”
“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. Trying to murder one of the king’s own blood, you mean.
Tyrion wondered if Varys knew rather more than he was saying.
Nothing he’d just heard was new to him; Bronn had brought
back much the same reports. He needed a link to Cersei, some sign
that Ser Mandon had been his sister’s catspaw. What we want
is not always what we get, he reflected bitterly, which reminded
him . . .
“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.” How could you? Tyrion had seen her only yesterday, climbing the
serpentine steps with a pail of water. He had watched as a young
knight had offered to carry the heavy pail. The way she had touched
his arm and smiled for him had tied Tyrion’s guts into knots.
They passed within inches of each other, him descending and her
climbing, so close that he could smell the clean fresh scent of her
hair. “M’lord,” she’d said to him, with a
little curtsy, and he wanted to reach out and grab her and kiss her
right there, but all he could do was nod stiffly and waddle on
past. “I have seen her several times,” he told Varys,
“but I dare not speak to her. I suspect that all my movements
are being watched.”
“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 . . . favors . . . as
well. You can match the queen coin for coin, I have no doubt, but
she has a second purse that is quite inexhaustible.” Seven hells, thought Tyrion. “Are you suggesting that
Cersei’s fucking Osmund Kettleblack?”
“Oh, dear me, no, that would be dreadfully dangerous,
don’t you think? No, the queen only
hints . . . perhaps on the morrow, or when the
wedding’s done . . . and then a smile, a
whisper, a ribald jest . . . a breast brushing
lightly against his sleeve as they
pass . . . and yet it seems to serve. But what
would a eunuch know of such things?” The tip of his tongue
ran across his lower lip like a shy pink animal. If I could somehow push them beyond sly fondling, arrange for
Father to catch them abed together . . . Tyrion
fingered the scab on his nose. He did not see how it could be done,
but perhaps some plan would come to him later. “Are the
Kettleblacks the only ones?”
“Would that were true, my lord. I fear there are many eyes
upon you. You are . . . how shall we say?
Conspicuous? And not well loved, it grieves me to tell you. Janos
Slynt’s sons would gladly inform on you to avenge their
father, and our sweet Lord Petyr has friends in half the brothels
of King’s Landing. Should you be so unwise as to visit any of
them, he will know at once, and your lord father soon
thereafter.” It’s even worse than I feared. “And my father? Who
does he have spying on me?”
This time the eunuch laughed aloud. “Why, me, my
lord.”
Tyrion laughed as well. He was not so great a fool as to trust
Varys any further than he had to—but the eunuch already knew
enough about Shae to get her well and thoroughly hanged. “You
will bring Shae to me through the walls, hidden from all these
eyes. As you have done before.”
Varys wrung his hands. “Oh, my lord, nothing would please
me more, but . . . King Maegor wanted no rats
in his own walls, if you take my meaning. He did require a means of
secret egress, should he ever be trapped by his enemies, but that
door does not connect with any other passages. I can steal your
Shae away from Lady Lollys for a time, to be sure, but I have no
way to bring her to your bedchamber without us being
seen.”
“Then bring her somewhere else.”
“But where? There is no safe place.”
“There is.” Tyrion grinned. “Here. It’s
time to put that rock-hard bed of yours to better use, I
think.”
The eunuch’s mouth opened. Then he giggled. “Lollys
tires easily these days. She is great with child. I imagine she
will be safely asleep by moonrise.”
Tyrion hopped down from the chair. “Moonrise, then. See
that you lay in some wine. And two clean cups.”
Varys bowed. “It shall be as my lord commands.”
The rest of the day seemed to creep by as slow as a worm in
molasses. Tyrion climbed to the castle library and tried to
distract himself with Beldecar’s History of the Rhoynish
Wars, but he could hardly see the elephants for imagining
Shae’s smile. Come the afternoon, he put the book aside and
called for a bath. He scrubbed himself until the water grew cool,
and then had Pod even out his whiskers. His beard was a trial to
him; a tangle of yellow, white, and black hairs, patchy and coarse,
it was seldom less than unsightly, but it did serve to conceal some
of his face, and that was all to the good.
When he was as clean and pink and trimmed as he was like to get,
Tyrion looked over his wardrobe, and chose a pair of tight satin
breeches in Lannister crimson and his best doublet, the heavy black
velvet with the lion’s head studs. He would have donned his
chain of golden hands as well, if his father hadn’t stolen it
while he lay dying. It was not until he was dressed that he
realized the depths of his folly. Seven hells, dwarf, did you lose
all your sense along with your nose? Anyone who sees you is going
to wonder why you’ve put on your court clothes to visit the
eunuch. Cursing, Tyrion stripped and dressed again, in simpler
garb; black woolen breeches, an old white tunic, and a faded brown
leather jerkin. It doesn’t matter, he told himself as he
waited for moonrise. Whatever you wear, you’re still a dwarf.
You’ll never be as tall as that knight on the steps, him with
his long straight legs and hard stomach and wide manly
shoulders.
The moon was peeping over the castle wall when he told Podrick
Payne that he was going to pay a call on Varys. “Will you be
long, my lord?” the boy asked.
“Oh, I hope so.”
With the Red Keep so crowded, Tyrion could not hope to go
unnoticed. Ser Balon Swann stood guard on the door, and Ser Loras
Tyrell on the drawbridge. He stopped to exchange pleasantries with
both of them. It was strange to see the Knight of Flowers all in
white when before he had always been as colorful as a rainbow.
“How old are you, Ser Loras?” Tyrion asked him.
“Seventeen, my lord.” Seventeen, and beautiful, and already a legend. Half the girls
in the Seven Kingdoms want to bed him, and all the boys want to be
him. “If you will pardon my asking, ser—why would anyone
choose to join the Kingsguard at seventeen?”
“Prince Aemon the Dragonknight took his vows at
seventeen,” Ser Loras said, “and your brother Jaime was
younger still.”
“I know their reasons. What are yours? The honor of
serving beside such paragons as Meryn Trant and Boros
Blount?” He gave the boy a mocking grin. “To guard the
king’s life, you surrender your own. You give up your lands
and titles, give up hope of marriage,
children . . . ”
“House Tyrell continues through my brothers,” Ser
Loras said. “It is not necessary for a third son to wed, or
breed.”
“Not necessary, but some find it pleasant. What of
love?”
“When the sun has set, no candle can replace
it.”
“Is that from a song?” Tyrion cocked his head,
smiling. “Yes, you are seventeen, I see that now.”
Ser Loras tensed. “Do you mock me?” A prickly lad. “No. If I’ve given offense, forgive
me. I had my own love once, and we had a song as well.” I
loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair. He bid
Ser Loras a good evening and went on his way.
Near the kennels a group of men-at-arms were fighting a pair of
dogs. Tyrion stopped long enough to see the smaller dog tear half
the face off the larger one, and earned a few coarse laughs by
observing that the loser now resembled Sandor Clegane. Then, hoping
he had disarmed their suspicions, he proceeded to the north wall
and down the short flight of steps to the eunuch’s meager
abode. The door opened as he was lifting his hand to knock.
“Varys?” Tyrion slipped inside. “Are you
there?” A single candle lit the gloom, spicing the air with
the scent of jasmine.
“My lord.” A woman sidled into the light; plump,
soft, matronly, with a round pink moon of a face and heavy dark
curls. Tyrion recoiled. “Is something amiss?” she
asked. Varys, he realized with annoyance. “For one horrid moment
I thought you’d brought me Lollys instead of Shae. Where is
she?”
“Here, m’lord.” She put her hands over his
eyes from behind. “Can you guess what I’m
wearing?”
“Nothing?”
“Oh, you’re so smart,” she pouted, snatching
her hands away. “How did you know?”
“You’re very beautiful in nothing.”
“Am I?” she said. “Am I truly?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then shouldn’t you be fucking me instead of
talking?”
“We need to rid ourselves of Lady Varys first. I am not
the sort of dwarf who likes an audience.”
“He’s gone,” Shae said.
Tyrion turned to look. It was true. The eunuch had vanished,
skirts and all. The hidden doors are here somewhere, they have to
be. That was as much as he had time to think, before Shae turned
his head to kiss him. Her mouth was wet and hungry, and she did not
even seem to see his scar, or the raw scab where his nose had been.
Her skin was warm silk beneath his fingers. When his thumb brushed
against her left nipple, it hardened at once. “Hurry,”
she urged, between kisses, as his fingers went to his laces,
“oh, hurry, hurry, I want you in me, in me, in me.” He
did not even have time to undress properly. Shae pulled his cock
out of his breeches, then pushed him down onto the floor and
climbed atop him. She screamed as he pushed past her lips, and rode
him wildly, moaning, “My giant, my giant, my giant,”
every time she slammed down on him. Tyrion was so eager that he
exploded on the fifth stroke, but Shae did not seem to mind. She
smiled wickedly when she felt him spurting, and leaned forward to
kiss the sweat from his brow. “My giant of Lannister,”
she murmured. “Stay inside me, please. I like to feel you
there.”
So Tyrion did not move, except to put his arms around her. It
feels so good to hold her, and to be held, he thought. How can
something this sweet be a crime worth hanging her for?
“Shae,” he said, “sweetling, this must be our
last time together. The danger is too great. If my lord father
should find you . . . ”
“I like your scar.” She traced it with her finger.
“It makes you look very fierce and strong.”
He laughed. “Very ugly, you mean.”
“M’lord will never be ugly in my eyes.” She
kissed the scab that covered the ragged stub of his nose.
“It’s not my face that need concern you, it’s
my father—”
“He does not frighten me. Will m’lord give me back
my jewels and silks now? I asked Varys if I could have them when
you were hurt in the battle, but he wouldn’t give them to me.
What would have become of them if you’d died?”
“I didn’t die. Here I am.”
“I know.” Shae wriggled atop him, smiling.
“Just where you belong.” Her mouth turned pouty.
“But how long must I go on with Lollys, now that you’re
well?”
“Have you been listening?” Tyrion said. “You
can stay with Lollys if you like, but it would be best if you left
the city.”
“I don’t want to leave. You promised you’d
move me into a manse again after the battle.” Her cunt gave
him a little squeeze, and he started to stiffen again inside her.
“A Lannister always pays his debts, you said.”
“Shae, gods be damned, stop that. Listen to me. You have
to go away. The city’s full of Tyrells just now, and I am
closely watched. You don’t understand the dangers.”
“Can I come to the king’s wedding feast? Lollys
won’t go. I told her no one’s like to rape her in the
king’s own throne room, but she’s so stupid.”
When Shae rolled off, his cock slid out of her with a soft wet
sound. “Symon says there’s to be a singers’
tourney, and tumblers, even a fools’ joust.”
Tyrion had almost forgotten about Shae’s thrice-damned
singer. “How is it you spoke to Symon?”
“I told Lady Tanda about him, and she hired him to play
for Lollys. The music calms her when the baby starts to kick. Symon
says there’s to be a dancing bear at the feast, and wines
from the Arbor. I’ve never seen a bear dance.”
“They do it worse than I do.” It was the singer who
concerned him, not the bear. One careless word in the wrong ear,
and Shae would hang.
“Symon says there’s to be seventy-seven courses and
a hundred doves baked into a great pie,” Shae gushed.
“When the crust’s opened, they’ll all burst out
and fly.”
“After which they will roost in the rafters and rain down
birdshit on the guests.” Tyrion had suffered such wedding
pies before. The doves liked to shit on him especially, or so he
had always suspected.
“Couldn’t I dress in my silks and velvets and go as
a lady instead of a maidservant? No one would know I
wasn’t.” Everyone would know you weren’t, thought Tyrion.
“Lady Tanda might wonder where Lollys’s bedmaid found
so many jewels.”
“There’s to be a thousand guests, Symon says.
She’d never even see me. I’d find a place in some dark
corner below the salt, but whenever you got up to go to the privy I
could slip out and meet you.” She cupped his cock and stroked
it gently. “I won’t wear any smallclothes under my
gown, so m’lord won’t even need to unlace me.”
Her fingers teased him, up and down. “Or if he liked, I could
do this for him.” She took him in her mouth.
Tyrion was soon ready again. This time he lasted much longer.
When he finished Shae crawled back up him and curled up naked under
his arm. “You’ll let me come, won’t
you?”
“Shae,” he groaned, “it is not
safe.”
For a time she said nothing at all. Tyrion tried to speak of
other things, but he met a wall of sullen courtesy as icy and
unyielding as the Wall he’d once walked in the north. Gods be
good, he thought wearily as he watched the candle burn down and
begin to gutter, how could I let this happen again, after Tysha? Am
I as great a fool as my father thinks? Gladly would he have given
her the promise she wanted, and gladly walked her back to his own
bedchamber on his arm to let her dress in the silks and velvets she
loved so much. Had the choice been his, she could have sat beside
him at Joffrey’s wedding feast, and danced with all the bears
she liked. But he could not see her hang.
When the candle burned out, Tyrion disentangled himself and lit
another. Then he made a round of the walls, tapping on each in
turn, searching for the hidden door. Shae sat with her legs drawn
up and her arms wrapped around them, watching him. Finally she
said, “They’re under the bed. The secret
steps.”
He looked at her, incredulous. “The bed? The bed is solid
stone. It weighs half a ton.”
“There’s a place where Varys pushes, and it floats
right up. I asked him how, and he said it was magic.”
“Yes.” Tyrion had to grin. “A counterweight
spell.”
Shae stood. “I should go back. Sometimes the baby kicks
and Lollys wakes and calls for me.”
“Varys should return shortly. He’s probably
listening to every word we say.” Tyrion set the candle down.
There was a wet spot on the front of his breeches but in the
darkness it ought to go unnoticed. He told Shae to dress and wait
for the eunuch.
“I will,” she promised. “You are my lion,
aren’t you? My giant of Lannister?”
“I am,” he said. “And you’re—”
“—your whore.” She laid a finger to his lips.
“I know. I’d be your lady, but I never can. Else
you’d take me to the feast. It doesn’t matter. I like
being a whore for you, Tyrion. Just keep me, my lion, and keep me
safe.”
“I shall,” he promised. Fool, fool, the voice inside
him screamed. Why did you say that? You came here to send her away!
Instead he kissed her once more.
The walk back seemed long and lonely. Podrick Payne was asleep
in his trundle bed at the foot of Tyrion’s, but he woke the
boy. “Bronn,” he said.
“Ser Bronn?” Pod rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
“Oh. Should I get him? My lord?”
“Why no, I woke you up so we could have a little chat
about the way he dresses,” said Tyrion, but his sarcasm was
wasted. Pod only gaped at him in confusion until he threw up his
hands and said, “Yes, get him. Bring him. Now.”
The lad dressed hurriedly and all but ran from the room. Am I
really so terrifying? Tyrion wondered, as he changed into a bedrobe
and poured himself some wine.
He was on his third cup and half the night was gone before Pod
finally returned, with the sellsword knight in tow. “I hope
the boy had a damn good reason dragging me out of
Chataya’s,” Bronn said as he seated himself.
“Chataya’s?” Tyrion said, annoyed.
“It’s good to be a knight. No more looking for the
cheaper brothels down the street.” Bronn grinned. “Now
it’s Alayaya and Marei in the same featherbed, with Ser Bronn
in the middle.”
Tyrion had to bite back his annoyance. Bronn had as much right
to bed Alayaya as any other man, but
still . . . I never touched her, much as I
wanted to, but Bronn could not know that. He should have kept his
cock out of her. He dare not visit Chataya’s himself. If he
did, Cersei would see that his father heard of it, and ’Yaya
would suffer more than a whipping. He’d sent the girl a
necklace of silver and jade and a pair of matching bracelets by way
of apology, but other than that . . . This is fruitless. “There is a singer who calls himself
Symon Silver Tongue,” Tyrion said wearily, pushing his guilt
aside. “He plays for Lady Tanda’s daughter
sometimes.”
“What of him?” Kill him, he might have said, but the man had done nothing but
sing a few songs. And fill Shae’s sweet head with visions of
doves and dancing bears. “Find him,” he said instead.
“Find him before someone else does.”
The eunuch was humming tunelessly to himself as he came through
the door, dressed in flowing robes of peach-colored silk and
smelling of lemons. When he saw Tyrion seated by the hearth, he
stopped and grew very still. “My lord Tyrion,” came out
in a squeak, punctuated by a nervous giggle.
“So you do remember me? I had begun to wonder.”
“It is so very good to see you looking so strong and
well.” Varys smiled his slimiest smile. “Though I
confess, I had not thought to find you in mine own humble
chambers.”
“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 water in your flagon, gods
have mercy,” he went on, “your sleeping cell is no wider
than a coffin, and that bed . . . is it
actually made of stone, or does it only feel that way?”
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.” Bloody fools, thought Tyrion. “I seem to recall that
Maegor the Cruel’s headsman unmade three with his
axe.”
“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. So Varys has little
birds in the Citadel too. “I see. So my father decided to nip
the rose before it bloomed.” He had to chuckle.
“Pycelle is a toad. But better a Lannister toad than a Tyrell
toad, no?”
“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. I suppose
that’s something. “Blount is a blustering
coward,” he said amiably.
“Is he? Oh dear. Still, the knights of the Kingsguard do
serve for life, traditionally. Perhaps Ser Boros will prove braver
in future. He will no doubt remain very loyal.”
“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. Trying to murder one of the king’s own blood, you mean.
Tyrion wondered if Varys knew rather more than he was saying.
Nothing he’d just heard was new to him; Bronn had brought
back much the same reports. He needed a link to Cersei, some sign
that Ser Mandon had been his sister’s catspaw. What we want
is not always what we get, he reflected bitterly, which reminded
him . . .
“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.” How could you? Tyrion had seen her only yesterday, climbing the
serpentine steps with a pail of water. He had watched as a young
knight had offered to carry the heavy pail. The way she had touched
his arm and smiled for him had tied Tyrion’s guts into knots.
They passed within inches of each other, him descending and her
climbing, so close that he could smell the clean fresh scent of her
hair. “M’lord,” she’d said to him, with a
little curtsy, and he wanted to reach out and grab her and kiss her
right there, but all he could do was nod stiffly and waddle on
past. “I have seen her several times,” he told Varys,
“but I dare not speak to her. I suspect that all my movements
are being watched.”
“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 . . . favors . . . as
well. You can match the queen coin for coin, I have no doubt, but
she has a second purse that is quite inexhaustible.” Seven hells, thought Tyrion. “Are you suggesting that
Cersei’s fucking Osmund Kettleblack?”
“Oh, dear me, no, that would be dreadfully dangerous,
don’t you think? No, the queen only
hints . . . perhaps on the morrow, or when the
wedding’s done . . . and then a smile, a
whisper, a ribald jest . . . a breast brushing
lightly against his sleeve as they
pass . . . and yet it seems to serve. But what
would a eunuch know of such things?” The tip of his tongue
ran across his lower lip like a shy pink animal. If I could somehow push them beyond sly fondling, arrange for
Father to catch them abed together . . . Tyrion
fingered the scab on his nose. He did not see how it could be done,
but perhaps some plan would come to him later. “Are the
Kettleblacks the only ones?”
“Would that were true, my lord. I fear there are many eyes
upon you. You are . . . how shall we say?
Conspicuous? And not well loved, it grieves me to tell you. Janos
Slynt’s sons would gladly inform on you to avenge their
father, and our sweet Lord Petyr has friends in half the brothels
of King’s Landing. Should you be so unwise as to visit any of
them, he will know at once, and your lord father soon
thereafter.” It’s even worse than I feared. “And my father? Who
does he have spying on me?”
This time the eunuch laughed aloud. “Why, me, my
lord.”
Tyrion laughed as well. He was not so great a fool as to trust
Varys any further than he had to—but the eunuch already knew
enough about Shae to get her well and thoroughly hanged. “You
will bring Shae to me through the walls, hidden from all these
eyes. As you have done before.”
Varys wrung his hands. “Oh, my lord, nothing would please
me more, but . . . King Maegor wanted no rats
in his own walls, if you take my meaning. He did require a means of
secret egress, should he ever be trapped by his enemies, but that
door does not connect with any other passages. I can steal your
Shae away from Lady Lollys for a time, to be sure, but I have no
way to bring her to your bedchamber without us being
seen.”
“Then bring her somewhere else.”
“But where? There is no safe place.”
“There is.” Tyrion grinned. “Here. It’s
time to put that rock-hard bed of yours to better use, I
think.”
The eunuch’s mouth opened. Then he giggled. “Lollys
tires easily these days. She is great with child. I imagine she
will be safely asleep by moonrise.”
Tyrion hopped down from the chair. “Moonrise, then. See
that you lay in some wine. And two clean cups.”
Varys bowed. “It shall be as my lord commands.”
The rest of the day seemed to creep by as slow as a worm in
molasses. Tyrion climbed to the castle library and tried to
distract himself with Beldecar’s History of the Rhoynish
Wars, but he could hardly see the elephants for imagining
Shae’s smile. Come the afternoon, he put the book aside and
called for a bath. He scrubbed himself until the water grew cool,
and then had Pod even out his whiskers. His beard was a trial to
him; a tangle of yellow, white, and black hairs, patchy and coarse,
it was seldom less than unsightly, but it did serve to conceal some
of his face, and that was all to the good.
When he was as clean and pink and trimmed as he was like to get,
Tyrion looked over his wardrobe, and chose a pair of tight satin
breeches in Lannister crimson and his best doublet, the heavy black
velvet with the lion’s head studs. He would have donned his
chain of golden hands as well, if his father hadn’t stolen it
while he lay dying. It was not until he was dressed that he
realized the depths of his folly. Seven hells, dwarf, did you lose
all your sense along with your nose? Anyone who sees you is going
to wonder why you’ve put on your court clothes to visit the
eunuch. Cursing, Tyrion stripped and dressed again, in simpler
garb; black woolen breeches, an old white tunic, and a faded brown
leather jerkin. It doesn’t matter, he told himself as he
waited for moonrise. Whatever you wear, you’re still a dwarf.
You’ll never be as tall as that knight on the steps, him with
his long straight legs and hard stomach and wide manly
shoulders.
The moon was peeping over the castle wall when he told Podrick
Payne that he was going to pay a call on Varys. “Will you be
long, my lord?” the boy asked.
“Oh, I hope so.”
With the Red Keep so crowded, Tyrion could not hope to go
unnoticed. Ser Balon Swann stood guard on the door, and Ser Loras
Tyrell on the drawbridge. He stopped to exchange pleasantries with
both of them. It was strange to see the Knight of Flowers all in
white when before he had always been as colorful as a rainbow.
“How old are you, Ser Loras?” Tyrion asked him.
“Seventeen, my lord.” Seventeen, and beautiful, and already a legend. Half the girls
in the Seven Kingdoms want to bed him, and all the boys want to be
him. “If you will pardon my asking, ser—why would anyone
choose to join the Kingsguard at seventeen?”
“Prince Aemon the Dragonknight took his vows at
seventeen,” Ser Loras said, “and your brother Jaime was
younger still.”
“I know their reasons. What are yours? The honor of
serving beside such paragons as Meryn Trant and Boros
Blount?” He gave the boy a mocking grin. “To guard the
king’s life, you surrender your own. You give up your lands
and titles, give up hope of marriage,
children . . . ”
“House Tyrell continues through my brothers,” Ser
Loras said. “It is not necessary for a third son to wed, or
breed.”
“Not necessary, but some find it pleasant. What of
love?”
“When the sun has set, no candle can replace
it.”
“Is that from a song?” Tyrion cocked his head,
smiling. “Yes, you are seventeen, I see that now.”
Ser Loras tensed. “Do you mock me?” A prickly lad. “No. If I’ve given offense, forgive
me. I had my own love once, and we had a song as well.” I
loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair. He bid
Ser Loras a good evening and went on his way.
Near the kennels a group of men-at-arms were fighting a pair of
dogs. Tyrion stopped long enough to see the smaller dog tear half
the face off the larger one, and earned a few coarse laughs by
observing that the loser now resembled Sandor Clegane. Then, hoping
he had disarmed their suspicions, he proceeded to the north wall
and down the short flight of steps to the eunuch’s meager
abode. The door opened as he was lifting his hand to knock.
“Varys?” Tyrion slipped inside. “Are you
there?” A single candle lit the gloom, spicing the air with
the scent of jasmine.
“My lord.” A woman sidled into the light; plump,
soft, matronly, with a round pink moon of a face and heavy dark
curls. Tyrion recoiled. “Is something amiss?” she
asked. Varys, he realized with annoyance. “For one horrid moment
I thought you’d brought me Lollys instead of Shae. Where is
she?”
“Here, m’lord.” She put her hands over his
eyes from behind. “Can you guess what I’m
wearing?”
“Nothing?”
“Oh, you’re so smart,” she pouted, snatching
her hands away. “How did you know?”
“You’re very beautiful in nothing.”
“Am I?” she said. “Am I truly?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then shouldn’t you be fucking me instead of
talking?”
“We need to rid ourselves of Lady Varys first. I am not
the sort of dwarf who likes an audience.”
“He’s gone,” Shae said.
Tyrion turned to look. It was true. The eunuch had vanished,
skirts and all. The hidden doors are here somewhere, they have to
be. That was as much as he had time to think, before Shae turned
his head to kiss him. Her mouth was wet and hungry, and she did not
even seem to see his scar, or the raw scab where his nose had been.
Her skin was warm silk beneath his fingers. When his thumb brushed
against her left nipple, it hardened at once. “Hurry,”
she urged, between kisses, as his fingers went to his laces,
“oh, hurry, hurry, I want you in me, in me, in me.” He
did not even have time to undress properly. Shae pulled his cock
out of his breeches, then pushed him down onto the floor and
climbed atop him. She screamed as he pushed past her lips, and rode
him wildly, moaning, “My giant, my giant, my giant,”
every time she slammed down on him. Tyrion was so eager that he
exploded on the fifth stroke, but Shae did not seem to mind. She
smiled wickedly when she felt him spurting, and leaned forward to
kiss the sweat from his brow. “My giant of Lannister,”
she murmured. “Stay inside me, please. I like to feel you
there.”
So Tyrion did not move, except to put his arms around her. It
feels so good to hold her, and to be held, he thought. How can
something this sweet be a crime worth hanging her for?
“Shae,” he said, “sweetling, this must be our
last time together. The danger is too great. If my lord father
should find you . . . ”
“I like your scar.” She traced it with her finger.
“It makes you look very fierce and strong.”
He laughed. “Very ugly, you mean.”
“M’lord will never be ugly in my eyes.” She
kissed the scab that covered the ragged stub of his nose.
“It’s not my face that need concern you, it’s
my father—”
“He does not frighten me. Will m’lord give me back
my jewels and silks now? I asked Varys if I could have them when
you were hurt in the battle, but he wouldn’t give them to me.
What would have become of them if you’d died?”
“I didn’t die. Here I am.”
“I know.” Shae wriggled atop him, smiling.
“Just where you belong.” Her mouth turned pouty.
“But how long must I go on with Lollys, now that you’re
well?”
“Have you been listening?” Tyrion said. “You
can stay with Lollys if you like, but it would be best if you left
the city.”
“I don’t want to leave. You promised you’d
move me into a manse again after the battle.” Her cunt gave
him a little squeeze, and he started to stiffen again inside her.
“A Lannister always pays his debts, you said.”
“Shae, gods be damned, stop that. Listen to me. You have
to go away. The city’s full of Tyrells just now, and I am
closely watched. You don’t understand the dangers.”
“Can I come to the king’s wedding feast? Lollys
won’t go. I told her no one’s like to rape her in the
king’s own throne room, but she’s so stupid.”
When Shae rolled off, his cock slid out of her with a soft wet
sound. “Symon says there’s to be a singers’
tourney, and tumblers, even a fools’ joust.”
Tyrion had almost forgotten about Shae’s thrice-damned
singer. “How is it you spoke to Symon?”
“I told Lady Tanda about him, and she hired him to play
for Lollys. The music calms her when the baby starts to kick. Symon
says there’s to be a dancing bear at the feast, and wines
from the Arbor. I’ve never seen a bear dance.”
“They do it worse than I do.” It was the singer who
concerned him, not the bear. One careless word in the wrong ear,
and Shae would hang.
“Symon says there’s to be seventy-seven courses and
a hundred doves baked into a great pie,” Shae gushed.
“When the crust’s opened, they’ll all burst out
and fly.”
“After which they will roost in the rafters and rain down
birdshit on the guests.” Tyrion had suffered such wedding
pies before. The doves liked to shit on him especially, or so he
had always suspected.
“Couldn’t I dress in my silks and velvets and go as
a lady instead of a maidservant? No one would know I
wasn’t.” Everyone would know you weren’t, thought Tyrion.
“Lady Tanda might wonder where Lollys’s bedmaid found
so many jewels.”
“There’s to be a thousand guests, Symon says.
She’d never even see me. I’d find a place in some dark
corner below the salt, but whenever you got up to go to the privy I
could slip out and meet you.” She cupped his cock and stroked
it gently. “I won’t wear any smallclothes under my
gown, so m’lord won’t even need to unlace me.”
Her fingers teased him, up and down. “Or if he liked, I could
do this for him.” She took him in her mouth.
Tyrion was soon ready again. This time he lasted much longer.
When he finished Shae crawled back up him and curled up naked under
his arm. “You’ll let me come, won’t
you?”
“Shae,” he groaned, “it is not
safe.”
For a time she said nothing at all. Tyrion tried to speak of
other things, but he met a wall of sullen courtesy as icy and
unyielding as the Wall he’d once walked in the north. Gods be
good, he thought wearily as he watched the candle burn down and
begin to gutter, how could I let this happen again, after Tysha? Am
I as great a fool as my father thinks? Gladly would he have given
her the promise she wanted, and gladly walked her back to his own
bedchamber on his arm to let her dress in the silks and velvets she
loved so much. Had the choice been his, she could have sat beside
him at Joffrey’s wedding feast, and danced with all the bears
she liked. But he could not see her hang.
When the candle burned out, Tyrion disentangled himself and lit
another. Then he made a round of the walls, tapping on each in
turn, searching for the hidden door. Shae sat with her legs drawn
up and her arms wrapped around them, watching him. Finally she
said, “They’re under the bed. The secret
steps.”
He looked at her, incredulous. “The bed? The bed is solid
stone. It weighs half a ton.”
“There’s a place where Varys pushes, and it floats
right up. I asked him how, and he said it was magic.”
“Yes.” Tyrion had to grin. “A counterweight
spell.”
Shae stood. “I should go back. Sometimes the baby kicks
and Lollys wakes and calls for me.”
“Varys should return shortly. He’s probably
listening to every word we say.” Tyrion set the candle down.
There was a wet spot on the front of his breeches but in the
darkness it ought to go unnoticed. He told Shae to dress and wait
for the eunuch.
“I will,” she promised. “You are my lion,
aren’t you? My giant of Lannister?”
“I am,” he said. “And you’re—”
“—your whore.” She laid a finger to his lips.
“I know. I’d be your lady, but I never can. Else
you’d take me to the feast. It doesn’t matter. I like
being a whore for you, Tyrion. Just keep me, my lion, and keep me
safe.”
“I shall,” he promised. Fool, fool, the voice inside
him screamed. Why did you say that? You came here to send her away!
Instead he kissed her once more.
The walk back seemed long and lonely. Podrick Payne was asleep
in his trundle bed at the foot of Tyrion’s, but he woke the
boy. “Bronn,” he said.
“Ser Bronn?” Pod rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
“Oh. Should I get him? My lord?”
“Why no, I woke you up so we could have a little chat
about the way he dresses,” said Tyrion, but his sarcasm was
wasted. Pod only gaped at him in confusion until he threw up his
hands and said, “Yes, get him. Bring him. Now.”
The lad dressed hurriedly and all but ran from the room. Am I
really so terrifying? Tyrion wondered, as he changed into a bedrobe
and poured himself some wine.
He was on his third cup and half the night was gone before Pod
finally returned, with the sellsword knight in tow. “I hope
the boy had a damn good reason dragging me out of
Chataya’s,” Bronn said as he seated himself.
“Chataya’s?” Tyrion said, annoyed.
“It’s good to be a knight. No more looking for the
cheaper brothels down the street.” Bronn grinned. “Now
it’s Alayaya and Marei in the same featherbed, with Ser Bronn
in the middle.”
Tyrion had to bite back his annoyance. Bronn had as much right
to bed Alayaya as any other man, but
still . . . I never touched her, much as I
wanted to, but Bronn could not know that. He should have kept his
cock out of her. He dare not visit Chataya’s himself. If he
did, Cersei would see that his father heard of it, and ’Yaya
would suffer more than a whipping. He’d sent the girl a
necklace of silver and jade and a pair of matching bracelets by way
of apology, but other than that . . . This is fruitless. “There is a singer who calls himself
Symon Silver Tongue,” Tyrion said wearily, pushing his guilt
aside. “He plays for Lady Tanda’s daughter
sometimes.”
“What of him?” Kill him, he might have said, but the man had done nothing but
sing a few songs. And fill Shae’s sweet head with visions of
doves and dancing bears. “Find him,” he said instead.
“Find him before someone else does.”