Rumors were loud.
Whispers were quiet.
And in the game of thrones—
Only one of them mattered.
King's Landing — Beneath the Red Keep
Long before the Small Council argued over parchments and pride, Varys already knew the truth.
Or at least—
Enough of it.
The tunnels beneath the Red Keep twisted like veins through stone, hidden passages known only to a select few. Here, far from prying eyes, the Master of Whisperers moved with practiced ease, his soft slippers making no sound.
A small figure waited in the shadows ahead.
One of his little birds.
The child bowed quickly.
"My lord… news from the east."
Varys smiled gently.
"Of course there is."
The message was not written.
It never was.
"Speak," Varys said softly.
"The city of Astapor has fallen," the child whispered. "Not by siege. The Unsullied… they turned."
Varys' eyes flickered.
"Turned?" he repeated.
"They killed the masters. A dragon queen freed them."
"And the king?"
The child swallowed.
"He gave the order."
Varys dismissed the child with a coin and a kind word.
Then he stood alone in the dim passage.
Thinking.
Astapor falling was not the concern.
Slave cities rose and fell.
What mattered—
Was how.
"Choice," he murmured.
"Someone gave them choice."
That was far more dangerous than fire or steel.
The Small Council — Later That Day
By the time the matter reached the Small Council, it had already been shaped.
Not entirely.
But enough.
"They say Astapor has fallen," the Hand began.
"They say many things," a councillor scoffed.
"They say dragons have returned."
That drew laughter.
Soft.
Uncertain.
Varys spoke then, his tone light, almost amused.
"Stories do have a way of… growing in the telling."
Several men nodded, relieved.
But the Hand watched him carefully.
"You don't believe it?" the Hand asked.
Varys tilted his head slightly.
"Oh, I believe something happened," he said.
"But whether it is dragons… or clever illusion…"
He spread his hands.
"That is harder to say."
He was lying.
Not entirely.
But enough.
Because the truth—
Was far more dangerous than uncertainty.
He knew about the Golden Company.
Not from rumors.
From contracts.
From letters intercepted and burned.
From whispers traded in dark corners of Essos.
"They don't move without certainty," he said later, in private.
The Hand frowned.
"Then they believe this Targaryen can win."
Varys gave a small, sad smile.
"They believe he might."
He knew about the Unsullied.
Numbers.
Training methods.
Conditioning.
But what unsettled him was not their presence—
It was their change.
"They were freed," he said quietly.
"Slaves freed by a Targaryen?"
"Yes."
"That makes no sense."
Varys folded his hands.
"No," he agreed.
"It makes… something new."
And then—
There was the final piece.
The one he did not share openly.
The Shadows
It came from three separate sources.
A merchant.
A sellsword.
A slave who fled Astapor in the chaos.
All told the same story.
Differently.
But the same.
"Men in black armor."
"Eyes that glow."
"Blades that cut through steel like air."
"And when they are struck…"
The slave had trembled at this part.
"They do not bleed."
Varys had listened carefully.
Asked precise questions.
Measured every hesitation.
Every detail.
And in the end—
He believed them.
Not because the story made sense.
But because it did not.
At night.
That night, Varys met with the Hand alone.
No guards.
No witnesses.
Just candlelight and truth.
"You're holding something back," the Hand said immediately.
Varys smiled faintly.
"I always am."
"This is different."
He paused.
Varys considered his words carefully.
"Tell me," he said instead, "what frightens you more?"
The Hand frowned.
"A dragon?"
"Of course."
"An army of perfect soldiers?"
"Yes."
Varys leaned forward slightly.
"And what of an army that does not fear death?"
Silence.
"That's every army," the Hand said.
Varys shook his head gently.
"No."
He held the man's gaze.
"I mean an army that does not stop when it dies."
The Hand stared at him.
"You're serious."
Varys did not answer immediately.
Because saying it aloud—
Made it real.
Ravens left King's Landing that very night.
Not official ones.
Not sealed with royal wax.
But quieter messages.
Hidden.
Encoded.
Sent to places that did not officially exist.
To contacts in: Pentos, Braavos, Volantis
And beyond.
"Watch them," Varys instructed.
"Watch the dragons. Watch the army."
"And..."
" watch the shadows."
End of Chapter.