Winter Is Coming

A Life That Matters

Lord Varys put on one of his many disguises. It was a relief to shuck off the embroidery and the cloying perfume, replacing simpering eunuch with hard-bitten man of the streets. His face seemed to shrivel, his hands turn calloused. Even the voice roughened. He'd killed in this guise, with fists, clubs; an anchor lying dockside once. They wouldn't have thought him a brawler in the Red Keep. He'd keep it that way, against a time when all disguises might fail.

He walked out of the kitchen tunnels into an alley leading to the docks. He had an appointment there. Sometimes, he reflected as he stepped past trembling beggars and half-feral orphans huddled against the alley walls, he wondered what he was doing in this gods-forsaken city, with these gods-forsaken people. It was at those times he most yearned to rid himself of his suffocating costume and venture into the streets as someone without a reputation to maintain.

There was a heaviness to the air as Varys neared the docks, a poised expectancy that hung over the smoke-shrouded city. He had no doubt why — the return of their king and his scheming court, along with Robert's new Hand.

No one thought much of the Northerners. Down here, they all merged into one: the cannibals and giants north of the Wall, the frog-faced marsh-dwellers, the Starks — an old family, but ignorant and stupid all the same. The Hand — well, he knew nothing. The city folk looked forward to relieving the Stark guards of what little gold they had. Varys didn't share the city's contempt. Ned Stark was honest, but shrewd. He'd work out soon enough what had got Jon Arryn murdered. And then... then the city might once again know what it meant for the kingdom to be torn apart.

Varys stepped out onto the broad, barrel-packed wharves, which blazed with the light of dozens of torches. Guards slouched at the ends of the gangplanks spaced at regular intervals along the cobbles. Varys let his gaze slide off them, a rough insolence on his face. He stopped opposite the fourth gangplank. There stood the figure he came for. He swaggered onward, and came to a stop in front of a cloaked, hooded, slim-hipped creature that could have been male or female — until words came out of her mouth.

"You came, then?"

The few words had Varys's every instinct on alert: the cool, cultured voice that seemed entirely unremarkable, the plain features he caught only a glimpse of beneath the deep folds of her hood, the worn down cloak that nonetheless hinted at wealth in its dusty gold clasp and fine embroidery — all indicated either the girl's privileged background or her master's desire for anonymity in sending such a plain messenger.

"I did," he replied, his words measured.

Not a flicker of emotion crossed her trained features. "The Many-Faced God has been promised a life," she said. It was an effort not to whip his head to her. Her face still bore no emotion, yet he wondered if she had meant to give the name of the God she worshipped. 

"Lives are cheap. Lives are everywhere," Varys countered. "Tell the Many-Faced God he can pick who he chooses."

The girl stared him down. "A life, or the return of the debt owed. A life that matters."

She detached herself from the gangplank railings and sauntered towards him. A tall girl, even when he was in this persona. She looked him in the eye.

"Which is it to be, cockless? The debt is due. The Many-Faced God expects payment tonight."

He did not let himself betray his surprise, only calmly met her gaze. "A life that matters?" He cocked his head. "To whom? The life of the poorest beggar in the streets can matter a great deal to his family. I assume the Many-Faced God has nothing against the murder of innocents?"

A flicker of muscle feathered in the girl's unremarkable face. Oh, he did love to bandy with these merciless killers. They believed that their ceaseless worship relieved them of the responsibility their trade gave. He did not operate in such self-delusions. 

"You know the life that was the price, cockless. The Many-Faced God will not be tricked."

But he has tricked you, Varys thought. As shall I. 

"Come with me," the Master of Whispers said, modulating his voice to a shudder of anxiety, letting his shoulders collapse inwards, feigning intimidation. A smirk blinked in and out of the girl's eyes. Varys led her away from the gangplanks toward the customs building, the one stone edifice aside from the dock-piers themselves. He stopped in the now empty square in front of its plain but imposing brick facade. 

And whistled.

He could see the girl's eyes darting around the square, no doubt taking in every detail she could, and Varys suppressed a smile as heavy, unhurried footsteps sounded along the same path he'd led her down. He did not fail to notice how the girl's hands dropped to her waist, most likely to better reach the weapons concealed beneath her cloak.

Yet even her unreadable mask cracked a little as two rough-looking men stalked into the square, the heavy swords sheathed at their sides proof of how much more they were than street beggar or alley ruffian. They halted when they reached her side, and she stood as they encircled her, one on either side, her body taut as a bowstring poised to fire. Varys only smiled.

"I will not deny the Many-Faced God his payment," he said, clasping his hands before him. He nodded at the men. They moved before he could blink, yet the girl was faster. She had palmed two wicked looking knives before they had fully drawn their swords, and slashed the deadly weapons across their stomachs in a move that would have gutted most men. Indeed, the soft leather they had been wearing split along the slice of her blades, but she could not pierce the chain mail concealed beneath. She blinked, and the look cost her.

One of the men had his sword at her throat in a heartbeat; the other pressed the point of his blade into her chest. She snarled, low and vicious. 

"A life that matters," was all Varys said, turning away from the spray of blood that pattered onto the cobblestones like hot rain.

He blinked away the guilt at the sight of the body lying motionless on those now crimson stones, reminding himself that she had been a vicious and remorseless killer. Yet did this make him any better than her in end?