Chapter 366

Varys’s heart skipped a beat. This girl doesn’t play by the rules. If Stannis were truly burned alive by dragonfire in the Red Keep, with Daenerys ascending the Iron Throne, what place would there be for Young Aegon and the Golden Company?

This plan could not be allowed to proceed.

“A fine idea,” Varys said, his tone calm but his words sharp, “but it’s pure fantasy. On a dark, stormy night, while the defenders of King’s Landing may not see the dragons coming across Blackwater Bay, do you believe Her Grace could somehow navigate the darkness and pinpoint the Red Keep without error?

“More importantly, since the day Her Grace took Dragonstone, Stannis and his closest advisors have abandoned the Red Keep. They’ve scattered across King’s Landing, operating out of hidden command centers. While my little birds have managed to locate most of these sites and mark them on maps, there’s no telling which location Stannis will use on any given night. Even if we could predict that, asking Her Grace to pick out one indistinguishable building from the air and burn it with precision? That’s nothing short of a fool’s dream.”
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Why had Varys served under two kings yet remained trusted by both? How had he, an uninvited guest in Daenerys’s court, managed to integrate himself so seamlessly, even to the point where Petyr Baelish, despite his extreme distrust and loathing, had been unable to expose any crime or flaw?

Because Varys was better.

Petyr Baelish, for all his mastery of political maneuvering, was an artist of technique. His methods relied on manipulation, deceit, and schemes—always clever, but never without evidence. Every plot left a trail, and every lie demanded another to cover it.

Varys, however, was entirely different. His brilliance lay not in deception but in truth. The Spider’s sole strategy was the consistent delivery of real, accurate, and actionable intelligence—intelligence so useful that rulers would inevitably dance to his tune.

It sounded simple, but the execution was anything but. If Baelish’s strategy was “seven parts truth and three parts lie,” Varys’s approach was “nine parts truth and one part omission.”

If Varys acquired information, he would carefully sift through it, selecting the 90% most advantageous to his objectives. This curated truth would then be delivered to the right person at precisely the right time.

The remaining 10%? That was where his genius lay. By omitting key details, he could transform a rebel preparing for war into a paragon of loyalty, a virtuous maiden into a shameless harlot, or the most honest man alive into someone worthy of immediate execution.

By sticking almost exclusively to the truth, Varys avoided the exhausting work of covering lies. This left him with more time, energy, and resources to craft grander schemes and more intricate power plays—strategies that left even Baelish’s deft maneuvers looking amateurish. And if his omissions were ever discovered? He could always blame the inherent difficulties of intelligence gathering.

This commitment to near-complete honesty meant that when Varys did slip in that rare 1% of falsehood, it became nearly undetectable. Who could see the flaw in a tapestry woven from truth?
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“Then forget it,” Missandei said quickly, blinking twice as she dismissed her own suggestion.

Stannis’s caution was well known. Abandoning the Red Keep to hide in safer locations fit his character perfectly. Even Baelish, ever the skeptic, accepted Varys’s fabricated narrative without question, too focused on crafting his next argument to notice.

“The dragons should indeed be a last resort,” Baelish said, picking up on Varys’s words. “But now is precisely the time for Her Grace to make that final choice! Your Grace, anyone could pick out some silver-haired Valyrian boy, call him Aegon Targaryen, and claim he has a right to your throne. I don’t believe for a second that this so-called prince is legitimate!”

Varys swallowed hard, his mind racing as he clung to the hope that no one would revisit the idea of burning the Red Keep. “It’s natural to question his identity,” Varys replied smoothly, “especially since Prince Aegon was just a child when he was spirited away from King’s Landing. However, those aiding him now—most notably Jon Connington, who served as Hand of the King under Aerys II—are well-known figures. Many lords in the Narrow Sea region whom you’ve already subdued could vouch for Connington’s identity.”

Aegon Targaryen’s claim could withstand any scrutiny. This was Varys’s ultimate gambit, a scheme decades in the making, designed to flip the Game of Thrones and secure his influence over Westeros.

What made it so brilliant was its foundation in truth. The Golden Company was real, the council of advisors grooming Aegon into a ruler was real, and even Jon Connington himself was real. From the soldiers in Aegon’s camp to the prince’s closest confidants, everyone genuinely believed in Aegon’s identity.

With Illyrio Mopatis and Varys as the only ones aware of the full truth, and all others who might have known conveniently dead, it was the perfect, unassailable fabrication.

“The Gryphon Lord may be real, but so what?” Baelish pressed, his sharp instincts sensing a deeper game. “Your Grace, let me speak plainly: even if Aegon Targaryen is real, you cannot afford to wait for him to move. As the son of your brother Rhaegar, his claim to the Iron Throne supersedes your own under Targaryen succession laws. If you delay your attack on King’s Landing until he arrives, even a swift victory will leave the credit—and the throne—in his hands.”

It was a hard truth, one Baelish dared to voice only because of his position as the Queen’s Hand and Daenerys’s deep trust in him. And yet, its undeniable logic cornered Varys completely.

Varys forced a bitter smile, masking his inner turmoil as he replied, “Your Grace, you and your nephew are the last two Targaryens in the world. Would you truly fight each other in such dire times?”

Baelish struck back without hesitation. “If Aegon Targaryen is legitimate, then Her Grace’s self-proclamation as Queen was an act of treason. Your Grace, would you surrender the throne so easily to someone who just arrived in Westeros?”
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Daenerys Targaryen said nothing throughout the exchange.

She had learned, through her brief but tumultuous reign, the value of listening to competing perspectives. Once, whether it was Jorah Mormont guiding her in the east or Petyr Baelish exposing Jorah’s betrayal, she had always relied on a single advisor. Now, with both Baelish and Varys at her side, she found herself less inclined to choose between their positions and more interested in observing their strategies, absorbing their logic, and sharpening her own understanding of politics and power.

As the two schemers paused to regroup their arguments, the tension was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps echoing down the hall.

“Your Grace!” A young soldier in patched armor burst into the room, breathless and visibly nervous. “The fleet patrolling the northern waters… they intercepted a gray-sailed ship. Aboard are someone claiming to be the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch… and a priestess of the Lord of Light.”
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