Lord Eddard Stark hesitated for a long time outside the brothel's entrance before finally stepping inside. The air was thick with perfume, and suggestive laughter filled his ears. He kept his head down, imagining the headlines tomorrow across King's Landing: The King's Hand Seen Entering a Brothel. He silently cursed that damned "Spider" once more.
"Aren't you a new face?" A tall woman approached with a knowing smile.
Eddard ignored her, scanning the room until he saw a large man waving to him. Relieved, he approached—only to realize it wasn't Varys after all.
"Lord Stark! Didn't expect you to come so openly," the man greeted him in a voice that was unctuously familiar.
Recognizing the voice, Eddard realized this indeed was Varys, albeit heavily disguised.
The spymaster's usual bald head was hidden under a mess of dark, unkempt hair, and he sported a small, uncharacteristic beard. Dressed in a rough leather jerkin, Varys looked every bit a coarse sellsword. He was in the middle of a guessing game with a voluptuous girl, who had already been stripped of her shoes and outer clothes, while Varys was playfully trying to unlace her pants—something he never would've expected a eunuch to do.
"I don't hide or disguise myself, because I have nothing to hide from anyone," Eddard stated firmly.
Varys merely shrugged, dismissing the girl with a rough kiss before leading Eddard further inside.
"I know, Lord Stark. You're a man of honor, unburdened by these little tricks," he said with a sideways glance that hinted at something more. "Especially in times like these."
Eddard's brows furrowed. "Have you heard anything?"
"Rumors, my little birds whisper. Lord Renly has been meeting with some Reach lords inside the Red Keep."
Renly?
Eddard felt a surge of frustration. Though he'd initially held a positive opinion of the King's younger brother, the fact that Renly seemed to be plotting while Robert was fighting for his life disappointed him deeply.
"Keep watching him for me."
"Of course, my lord. Happy to serve."
They walked further along the dim hallway before Eddard asked, "And what of the queen? Has she made any moves?"
Varys looked momentarily caught off guard. "No… nothing, as far as I know."
Eddard eyed the spymaster skeptically. Robert's words from Winterfell's crypt echoed in his mind: "I'm surrounded by liars and fools."
It made Eddard wonder: was Varys a liar or a fool? Or perhaps both?
Then there was Petyr Baelish—neither one of them seemed like fools, so did that make them both liars?
He recalled his wife's insistence that Petyr could be trusted, but Varys was still the only one providing him with valuable information. The whole city was weighing on him, and he longed to be back in Winterfell, where every emotion was plain on a person's face. Here in King's Landing, everyone wore a mask.
"We're here," said Varys, still in his mercenary guise, motioning toward a young woman ahead. She had light auburn hair and cradled an infant in her arms.
"My lord," she greeted him nervously, "did he send you to check on us?"
Eddard nodded vaguely, unsure how to respond, and gently stroked the baby's soft black hair.
"My lord, please tell him how beautiful our child is. Tell him I'm still waiting, that I've not been with anyone else since that night. I'm waiting for him to come back."
He won't be coming back, Eddard thought to himself. Even if Robert were not bedridden, he would never return here.
Bastards like this one were likely forgotten entirely by the king. Eddard cast a questioning look at Varys, wondering why the spymaster had brought him to see this particular child.
Could this bastard be the key? Was this child supposed to be evidence?
Eddard was confused.
After bidding the girl farewell, they left the brothel.
"Shall we go to Steel Street next?" Varys asked. "There's another bastard there, almost grown now. A strong lad, apprenticed to a blacksmith."
"Varys," Eddard stopped, unable to contain his impatience. "What exactly are you trying to tell me?"
"Lord Stark," Varys asked in reply, "do you know how many bastards the king has?"
"I've heard there are many," Eddard replied, already weary of the topic.
"Indeed, quite a few." Varys leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Three years ago, when His Grace attended a tourney in the West hosted by Lord Tywin, he had a pair of twins with a girl in Casterly Rock. The queen was furious and killed them both."
Eddard was taken aback, uncertain why Varys had brought up these particular bastards.
"And has the queen ever taken action against his bastards here in King's Landing?"
"No, she has not."
Suddenly, Eddard understood that Varys was hinting at something specific about the twins born in Casterly Rock. But why did she only kill those children and leave the others alone? Perhaps she was outraged only because it had happened so close to home?
He grew tired of these mind games, stopping to face Varys squarely.
"Enough, Varys! Just tell me what you know!"
Varys flinched, his face a picture of mock innocence. "Lord Stark, I've already told you all that I know."
Barely restraining his irritation, Eddard was now certain that Varys was both a liar and a schemer.
At that moment, a steward rushed toward them, his face full of alarm.
"My lord, something terrible has happened—Lord Petyr Baelish has been wounded by Prince Oberyn in the streets!"
"What?!"
It seemed as if everyone in this city was entangled in some plot. Eddard felt his weariness deepen, muttering a curse against the Red Viper under his breath before following the steward. He spared no further thought for Varys, who was left standing alone at the brothel's door.
Unseen by Eddard, Varys's face betrayed no surprise. Instead, he wore a knowing smile.
---
"Little cat?"
Arya Stark perched on the edge of a narrow window ledge, trying to catch a glimpse of the one-eared black cat she had been pursuing.
"Belarion?" She scrambled over the windowsill, clambered onto the roof, and finally spotted her elusive quarry.
But the black cat saw her as well and darted away.
With a grin, Arya bounded after it, her bare feet and agile steps taking her over walls and around corners, through courtyards, and finally into a low, dark hole. She squeezed through and found herself in a pitch-black cellar.
"Little cat?" Arya called softly, but she had already ventured too far in to turn back now. She was determined to catch that black cat.
The cellar stank, though not unbearably, but the oppressive darkness made her uneasy. She edged forward, her eyes gradually adjusting as the shapes around her became clearer.
In the dim light, she realized she was surrounded by enormous, hollow eyes staring down at her, paralyzing her with fear.
Monsters?
Arya squeezed her eyes shut, whispering her father's name, her mother's, and even her swordmaster's. Summoning her courage, she opened her eyes once more.
The monstrous shapes remained, but Arya now saw them for what they were: bones.
Steeling herself, she stepped forward, curiosity driving her to touch one of the enormous bones. It was cold and hard—likely a tooth, but one so large it dwarfed her.
Her mind drifted back to the black cat, and she continued onward, pushing thoughts of the eerie bones from her mind.
After finding a wooden door, she struggled with it until it reluctantly creaked open, revealing a space even darker beyond.
Feeling her way along the rough walls, Arya pressed forward, hoping her eyes would adjust, but the darkness remained absolute.
She finally considered giving up—this was no place to find a cat.
But just as she prepared to retrace her steps, she heard voices.
Startled, Arya froze, spotting the faint glimmer of torchlight down a distant corridor. Two figures appeared in the light, their shadows dancing against the walls, their voices echoing through the chamber.
"How did Petyr Baelish fall into the Viper's clutches?" one of them asked, speaking with the accent of the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea—just like her sword instructor Syrio.
"Because of a nobody—a little man who tripped him up," replied the other, whose voice was soft and syrupy, strangely familiar yet hard to place.
"Who?"
"A minor lord."
"Caesar?" The man with the foreign accent seemed to grasp it instantly. "How would he know about Baelish's schemes?"
"Only the gods would know that," the soft voice replied. "But I noticed him stirring up trouble long ago. I've been covering his tracks."
"And why help him?"
"Littlefinger is a danger to everyone. He might escape if things go south. He could flee to the Vale, marry Lysa Tully, and lock the Gates of the Moon, leaving us all to deal with the fallout. Sooner or later, he would have turned against us."
"You're right. We can't let the Seven Kingdoms fall into chaos too soon. We're not ready yet."
"Exactly. Letting Littlefinger be removed serves our purposes best."
"A shame, though. We'd hoped he might help destabilize the realm when the time came…"
"Littlefinger can't be controlled by anyone. We can't risk keeping him in play."
"And what about now? He's nearly been cornered."
"Hmm…" The voice paused, thoughtful. "I'll see what I can do."
"Good," the man with the foreign accent agreed. "And what about Eddard Stark? Have you told him about Robert's bastards?"
"Yes, I've hinted at it. But don't worry; with his narrow mind, he'll keep stumbling further down the wrong path. When the time is right, I'll give him the final piece of the puzzle. Then he'll be ours to maneuver."
"Be careful with him. Don't let things unravel."
"Don't worry," the other voice replied smoothly. "I am, after all, a magician…"
"Ha!" The first man laughed. "Then keep working your magic."
Their voices and the torchlight faded into the distance. Arya pressed herself tightly against the wall, holding her breath, not daring to move a muscle.
(End of Chapter)