No Light Anywhere, And Nothing Left To Burn

Varys has a game he plays with himself, to keep his wits sharp. It’s not the one with the cloth-covered table and an assortment of thirty-odd small objects, nor forcing himself to recall vast swaths of song and story; he’s had quite enough of that in his youth, and he always found its effects more dulling than sharpening. Sometimes it is advantageous to be amusing; a funny little man will often find tongues to be looser than for a man like the Hound, but he will caper and rhyme for no man’s amusement, and finds them boring, himself. Riddles are similar to prophecy, and are good to keep an ear to, but they are scarcely occupying. Floor plans and architect’s maps he’d already committed to memory, the cramped streets of cities from his several possible boyhoods, and without a moment of leisure time he still has the mental expanse in which to build strongholds and walk these labyrinths of memory. The only special aid he needed for remembering men’s names, and where such-and-such secret passage was, was to recall the faces of men who had died for such ignorance, and then it was no trouble at all.

Drink is the traditional weakness for eunuchs, but Varys has determined he will grow old and fat quite sober. It’s too easy to poison a man who’s already too far into his cups to notice. Drinking games as well are the traditional refuge of the idle, and the bulk of their amusement relies on good company, so he has discarded the flagon-draining and drunken shouting and trimmed the practice down to a sleek, almost mathematical clarity.

Two tally marks for every instance of Joffrey mistaking his own vindictiveness for wit. One tally for every mangled house motto, every cool reminisce of the Mad King, every improperly tanned furry cloak. (These seemed to be a Stark fashion.) Five tally marks and a skeptical look every time Littlefinger menaced a young and lovely girl. Two for every unattractive bit of speculation about Lord Renly’s chances in the trial that was certainly brewing for him, one more if this led to aspersions on his brothers, two more for every time such speculation gave way into a general discussion of Renly’s physical charms, and an automatic win when the tide of the conversation would turn entirely to his rather epicene friend and all hope was lost for constructive conversation. No prizes for persons being visibly disturbed by Varys’ presence, either well aware of his acute perceptions or afraid that boyhood castration via hot knife might be contagious. One strike for every grim aphorism about eunuchs and poison. Two for every time Petyr Baelish showed inordinate interest in what was under silken robes. Three points however, for vanity’s sake, each instance where this sensible mistrust of Varys himself was fanned into flames of utter panic.

And so on and so forth, a great list of categories based off of keen observances and the piping of his little birds – the actual list of conditions is written up in his head alone; poking fun at the expense of dangerous people would have been absolute folly. But no one notices a little nick in the table’s edge, a fingernail-slice in a wax tablet, or – more often than not – a small knotted cord in the hands of an anxious spado. Without any end in sight, the game would get boring. After fifty of these imaginary tally marks come to pass, Varys has a hot caudle brought to him and holes up in his chambers to make maps of lands that don’t exist and think of anything but houses and thrones.