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“I do wonder, my dear Varys, who you truly serve,” Littlefinger asked one day as the two caught a rare breath of fresh air, the realm’s chaos momentarily put aside.
Varys shrugged and toyed with the edge of his sleeve. “The realm, I suppose.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked the question. Varys remembered with sudden alacrity the glint of torchlight on Eddard Stark’s sweaty skin and said a silent prayer for the dead man, one more honorable corpse that history would soon forget. There were too many for him to remember, though some sleepless nights he would send one of his birds for a cup of summerwine and stare at the moon burning white over the sweltering city, trying to recall their names.
Meanwhile, Littlefinger’s grin belied his incredulity. “So selfless, my friend. The realm could use more men of your caliber. But I'm not entirely sure I trust your answer.”
“I'm not entirely sure you should trust me at all, old friend. I'm hardly as noble as you, Lord Baelish. What a blessed world it would be, if all men were,” he replied, tempering the compliment with a quirk of his eyebrow. The lie could hardly have been more blatant; Varys knew himself to be no saint, but Littlefinger may as well have been a wight, for all the good he did the realm.
In truth, Varys knew the realm meant as little to Petyr as power or money meant to himself. He wondered if Eddard had finally understood either of them, in the end. He wondered if Eddard would have even cared. Not that it mattered, when all was said and done. Dead was dead, and Varys would’ve let Lord Stark die a million times over if it kept the realm together. In fact, he wished it was that simple.
But unfortunately, it never was. Time passed and the rot at the heart of Westeros soured further. There was another dead king, another bevy of claimants for the crown, another plague of wars, another man lucky or unlucky enough to finally win the throne. Varys wondered if he would ever understand why someone would be willing to die for the chance to sit on the blasted thing. He would take silk pillows and palanquins any day, which, ironically enough, meant he’d surely be a better king than anyone who actually wanted to wear the crown. It hardly mattered though. A foreign eunuch could never rule, he knew that.
Littlefinger had become indispensable to the new king, just as he always did. It hardly mattered who ruled anymore; Littlefinger always came out on top. Varys wondered how long it would be before he tired of the new king and conspired to replace him with one that suited his needs better. It wouldn't be long; to littlefinger the politics of Westeros were a game and the people, pawns.
Indeed, at the first council meeting under the new king, Petyr was his same jovial self. “It must be difficult," he told Varys with a grin, "to see such troubled times from the eyes of a mere spider. No armies, no great wealth. You must feel rather… impotent.” Littlefinger let his eyes trail down suggestively; Varys suppressed a sigh. For all his unpredictability, Littlefinger was surprisingly consistent in his humor.
He refused to rise to the bait. “You give spiders little credit. I have heard, old friend, that there are spiders in Meereen and Yunkai so large that they can catch even birds in their webs.” He tilted his head pointedly at the mockingbird on Littlefinger’s lapel.
Petyr smiled. “What a shame then, that we aren’t in Essos. Our Westerosi spiders must feel very small indeed, compared to such creatures.”
“Size isn’t everything, my friend.”
“Oh dear, I suppose you’d know all about that.” Littlefinger grinned, raising an eyebrow lasciviously. “But are you quite sure we’re still discussing insects?”
Varys shrugged and walked away, letting Littlefinger win the round. He was busy enough himself, ingratiating himself to the new king. Not that it was a difficult task; like Littlefinger he would become indispensable to the new ruler. He’d done it many times before. Watching the other man walk away, Varys closed his eyes in silent prayer. His mind strayed to his spider webs of plots and plans, and to one plan in particular he’d been nursing for years.
In his mind’s eye, he began to draft a letter to an old friend from across the sea, the lastest note in a long history of correspondence. In his heart he knew the letters were unlikely to bear any fruit and the plan they detailed was unlikely to succeed. Westerosi politics were already unpredictable at best; what would happen if dragons were brought into play was anyone's guess. But at the same time, his plan had to suceed. The realm needed a ruler that could rule in his or her own name, not as a puppet of manipulators like Littlefinger. The constant warring had to end.
And end it did, with the battles of feuding lords turning to fire fields in the wake of the flames of Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons. All the other claimants were nothing more than smoke and ash in the wind when she rode into the city. It appealed to Varys’ sense of humor, somewhat, that King’s Landing was ultimately in the hands of a Queen.
Littlefinger remained; of course he remained. He had ingrained himself in so many prior courts, why should the dragon queen’s prove to be any different?
Standing in the throne room as Daenerys began her first session of court, Varys closed his eyes and prayed it would be different, different in so many ways. He listened to the muffled stillness of the room, the rustling of the nervous courtiers, and almost dared to hope.
He was surprised when he saw she wore lavender samite with a peculiar white fur stole, not at all like the heavy red and black fabric that he had expected and most of the sycophantic courtiers had worn. Yet on her fair brow she wore the heavy crown of Aegon the First, Aegon the Conqueror. The significance of this was lost on no one.
“I was surprised that you decided to stay, old friend,” Littlefinger whispered from beside him, his eyes never moving from their new queen as she situated herself amongst the barbs of the iron throne. He watched her like a vulture or a wild dog, voracious and not at all afraid of her.
Varys kept his face a mask. “My duty is here. To the realm,” he murmured back. Whatever Littlefinger believed, it was true.
Littlefinger smirked and opened his mouth to speak, but his words were drowned out by their new Queen.
"My fellow Westerosi," she began. "We stand at a crossroads in history. Our realm is in shambles within and beset by evil on our northern borders. I know many of you have championed different factions in the past. I know many of you have doubted my claim or my ability to hold this throne at one point or another. All this, I will overlook if you swear to serve me now. The past is the past. Join me, and we can build a realm that is great once again."
"Yet listen to my words. There are those among you who, even now, bear malice and ill will for this realm. There are those who would seek to jeopardize our new found peace for their own gain. And for such malicious traitors, there will be no mercy, only justice. First among them is Lord Petyr Baelish."
It was perhaps the only time Varys had seen Littlefinger to be genuinely at a loss for words. He opened and closed his mouth, his forehead creasing as he stared at Daenerys. “My dear, I can assure you-“
Her voice rang out, echoing through the hall with a strength that brooked no negotiation. It was the voice of a queen, and Varys shuddered at the terrible beauty of it. “Speak no more, Lord Baelish. For I have heard of your crimes from those whom I trust dearly. Your greed and your warmongering have no place in my new realm. You will stand trial for your past conspiracy and treason, and for all the crimes you would have sought to commit had I let you be. Guards, seize him.”
Petyr gaped beside him, but Varys’ eyes were only for his queen. She was cold iron, not the iron of war but the iron of the throne, solid and unyielding. Sharp but only a threat to those who dared to challenge her. It was odd; he took no pleasure in seeing his old rival struck down. But it had to be done; Littlefinger was simply too malicious to go free.
And who better to help cage him than Varys? Littlefinger’s rival, the one who had witnessed all his atrocities over the years, and had diligently recorded them all, dreaming of the day in which the realm would finally be free of Lord Baelish’s poison. Littlefinger seemed to realize this as soon as the echoes of Daenerys’ proclamation faded. He turned to Varys with wide eyes and a vaguely puzzled look. "You...?"
Varys was perhaps only a spider. But the smallest spider could be lethal, if the bite was true and delivered at exactly the right moment.
As the guards reached for Littlefinger, Varys leaned close, his lips brushing the collar of the other man’s doublet. “It’s nothing personal, old friend,” he whispered.
He closed his eyes briefly and thought of the new, better realm that stood before him. He thought perhaps that if he could see this day, Eddard Stark might forgive him.
“It’s nothing personal,” he repeated. “But I did warn you not to trust me.”