The Provenance || Jon Snow | Game of Thrones

2.03

"You'll be pleased to know our mutual friend is doing quite well in Lady Sansa's service," Lord Varys interrupts Tyrion's previous thoughts, eyes drawing towards the spymaster across from him with the attention being paid to Shae, "and our other friend is teaching Sansa well."

"Good.  One of my better ideas...the former, that is."  The dwarf's eyebrows scrunch at the second pretense--a woman of great power helping a girl with none.  It is not the first time he's considered it, and pondered on why Gabrielle Baelish has taken Sansa under her wing.  He wishes to believe it's for better reasons--like finding a true companion in Sansa Stark--but with the Baelishes, Tyrion is hesitant to believe anything so simple.  No, it's likely that Gabrielle Baelish wants something out of Sansa...but what?

Yet, Varys has moved on, a strange occurrence for this aloof and analytical figure as he beats about the bush, "And it seems the Grand Maester has found his way into a black cell?  Well played, My Lord Hand.  But should I be worried?  Janos Slynt, Pycelle...the small council grows smaller every day."

"The Council has a reputation for serving past Hands poorly.  I don't mean to follow Ned Stark to the grave," Tyrion grates, his tone serious in his intention to avoid just this.  But Varys sends him a look of disagreement at this endless reduction of counselors, forcing Tyrion to pipe in that, "Lady Baelish will take the Maester's spot on the council and cover for her father while he's away."

Tyrion finds great joy in the arrangement, truth be told: to have a woman in a man's role upon the council, and the Maester at that.  And it also helps him sleep...knowing Petyr Baelish will be off elsewhere while his less dangerous daughter covers for him.  Yes, this will be a great few months for Tyrion Lannister.

Varys hums with a tone that sounds like agreement in Tyrion's plan, but the dwarf cannot be sure with this character.  The Spider grins, as if hearing his thoughts, "Power is a curious thing, my lord.  Are you fond of riddles?"

"Why, am I about to hear one?"

"Three great men sit in a room.  A king, a priest and a rich man.  Between them stands a common sellsword.  Each great man bids the sellsword kill the other two.  Who lives, who dies?"

Tyrion looks at Varys with a sharp eye, as if trying to sense out the riddle he is typically terrible at solving, "Depends on the sellsword."

"Does it?" Varys's eyes rise with his inquiry, pointing out that, "He has neither crown nor gold nor favor with the gods."

"He has a sword, the power of life and death."  And here Varys was thinking that Tyrion was not another of his father's soldiers.

"But if it's swordsmen who rule, why do we pretend kings hold all the power?  When Ned Stark was lost, who was truly responsible?  Joffrey?  The executioner?  Or something else?"

Tyrion's forehead wrinkles at the endless array of questions unanswered--ones he cannot answer--rebuking straightly, "I've decided I don't like riddles."

"Power resides where men believe it resides.  It's a trick, a shadow on the wall.  And a very small man can cast a very large shadow," Varys finally reveals, and Tyrion's tempted to latch onto his throat.  No wonder he couldn't answer it...that was no riddle at all.  Just a piece of wise webbing.  And yet, Varys makes a significant point and leaves Tyrion pondering for some hours longer.  Sure, he's seen the workings of creating such shadows--in Varys and the two Baelishes.  But how to uphold that shadow...how to persevere even in the absence of light?  No, that is the trickier question, and even after some time, Tyrion finds himself baffled by the concept--more convinced than ever to solve it, even if it's the last thing he does...