107: Chapter 107 Spider

The sound of the cane faded into the distance, eventually vanishing along the gravel path outside the archway. Drogon was just about to move the lion-claw armor and the golden rose to a more secluded corner of the side hall when he suddenly heard a faint rustling sound behind him.

It was not the sound of footsteps. It was the sound of silk robes brushing against gravel. Extremely light, extremely faint, like a snake slithering across sand—not a thick snake, but a slender one that knew how not to disturb its prey.

He turned around. A man who looked completely out of place in the ruins stood in the shadows of the southern archway.

A stout, bald man. He wore pale purple silk robes, his hands tucked into the wide sleeves. A gentle smile hung on his face—the corners of his eyes crinkled, his mouth turned up, making him look like a kind merchant.

But those eyes held no warmth. Those eyes were evaluating. Weighing. Filing everything he saw into the intelligence grid in his mind—every face, every word, every micro-expression was archived into some invisible drawer.

Varys. The Master of Whisperers for King's Landing. Nicknamed "The Spider." He spoke in a voice so soft it was nearly a whisper. Yet, in the silence of the ruins, every word was exceptionally clear.

"Please forgive my uninvited presence. The Queen of Thorns' cane can be heard three streets away—I followed that sound to find you.

You are Tyrion's new friend. That Meereenese merchant 'Garr.' You are also the black dragon of House Targaryen, the de facto guardian of Dragonstone, the retriever of Storm's End relics, and the nocturnal visitor to the Casterly Rock treasury—Lord Tywin smashed a wine goblet in his study last night after discovering the theft. Just one.

He doesn't drink much, so that was likely his way of expressing extreme fury. If he had been there, he probably would have used a sword instead of a goblet."

Drogon's tail did not exist in his fully human form. But his right index finger tapped unconsciously against the leather pouch at his waist. Tap, tap, tap. This was a substitute action for the tail he wanted to flick but had suppressed—transferred from the tail tip to the fingertip.

"Lord Varys. The Master of Whisperers for King's Landing. Tyrion said you would come looking for me yourself—he just didn't tell me you would hide in these ruins until the negotiations were over."

"I am accustomed to observing from the shadows." Varys walked slowly into the side hall, his silk robes dragging a clean path across the floor—the dust on the gravel was wiped away, revealing the scorched plaster beneath.

"The Queen of Thorns is the shrewdest negotiator in Westeros—I wanted to see if the dragon would be nervous in front of the rose. You were not. This suggests you have been trained by an even shrewder negotiator.

The Mother of Dragons? Or that Dothraki lioness of yours?"

Drogon did not answer the question. He simply leaned his back against the broken marble pillar again, waiting for Varys to state his purpose. The Spider would not appear without a reason.

Every time The Spider appeared, it meant he held intelligence that could shift the situation—and he had already calculated what kind of chain reaction this intelligence would trigger.

Varys withdrew a very thin scroll of parchment from his sleeve. When unfurled, it was only the size of a palm, but it was densely packed with tiny script.

Every letter was written with a near-obsessive neatness—this was the latest intelligence transmitted from the continent of Essos via the glass candles of The Citadel. He handed the parchment to Drogon.

"You do not ask why I have come. Very good. I will tell you directly—I am not here to pledge loyalty to the Mother of Dragons.

I pledge my loyalty to the stability of Westeros.

Cersei Lannister is on the iron throne now, but can her rule let Westeros survive the winter?

No. The Night King is marching south, with an army of at least one hundred thousand wights. If Westeros does not have a unified command before winter—everyone will die in the Long Night.

Cersei will not cooperate with the North.

But Daenerys Targaryen will—she just received a reply from the Young Wolf. The wildfire blueprints you brought back from Casterly Rock can prevent King's Landing from being blown up into a second Valyria.

What you are doing—regardless of the methods—is buying a possibility of unification for Westeros. That is why I am here."

Drogon unfurled the parchment. The intelligence on the paper was encrypted in High Valyrian—some terms were even variant spellings of Old Valyria. This happened to be within the system's translation range. He scanned it line by line.

Latest developments from the Abyss Demon Realm north of The Wall: The Night King has assembled at least eighty thousand wights, and three White Walker generals have crossed the Fist of the First Men, about a week faster than Melisandre's previous prophecy.

Inside King's Landing: Cersei is about to hold a political marriage—the bride is Sansa Stark, and the groom is Tyrion's cousin, a cadet heir of House Lannister.

Final note: Lord Baelish has secretly transported Sansa from the Eyrie to King's Landing. She is currently under house arrest in Maegor's Holdfast in the Red Keep, with at least two handmaidens planted by Baelish—one in charge of hairdressing, one in charge of dressing, both in charge of surveillance.

Drogon's deep brown, round pupils paused on the last entry.

Sansa Stark. Tyrion's nominal ex-wife. Eddard Stark's daughter. The Young Wolf's sister. A girl used repeatedly as a political bargaining chip—from Joffrey to Tyrion, from Littlefinger to Ramsay Bolton, and now she had been shoved into King's Landing, about to be sold off again.

"Baelish. He moved Sansa from the Eyrie to King's Landing, and Cersei agreed."

"Yes. Baelish intends to marry her to a cadet heir of House Lannister, in order to control the succession rights of both the North and the Westerlands after the war—

If Sansa gives birth to a Lannister, this child will have a legitimate claim to the North.

Sansa herself is, of course, unwilling—but she is trapped in the Red Keep, with only the handmaidens Baelish planted around her. She cannot escape. The last time she escaped was the night Joffrey died, and that time, someone opened the back door for her."

Drogon's fingers tightened slightly on the parchment. He did not know Sansa personally, but he knew the tone Tyrion used when mentioning her in the brothel. She was the only person Tyrion never spoke of with a sarcastic tone.

"She is not stupid, just terrified." — When Tyrion said this, his fingers kept turning that empty wine goblet. He turned it for a full five minutes.

"Tyrion knows Sansa is in King's Landing. He will want to save her. Not out of love. But out of a complex, inexplicable sense of indebtedness—a debt for failing to protect her."

System pop-up.

"Target is not within the host's perception range. According to Varys's intelligence—Sansa Stark is currently trapped in Maegor's Holdfast in the Red Keep. Escape probability: Extremely low.

Marriage announcement time: Expected within a few days.

Direct impact of this intelligence on the host—if Sansa is forced to marry a cadet Lannister, the alliance negotiations between the Young Wolf and the Mother of Dragons will be disrupted by the pro-Lannister faction within the North.

Indirect impact—Tyrion Lannister's emotional state regarding Sansa Stark: Complex, guilty, unresolved.

He was once forced to marry her, but never harmed her. He voluntarily chose to sleep on the floor.

If he learns that Sansa is in King's Landing and is about to be forced into remarriage—his self-destructive tendencies may be reactivated.

This poses a potential threat to his focus on dismantling the wildfire. Recommendation: Before the main canister of the Cremation Array is dismantled, withhold the intelligence about Sansa from Tyrion."

Drogon folded the parchment. He tapped his finger on the back of the paper.

"He is already arranging the dismantling for tomorrow night. He needs to focus now. Regarding Sansa—tell him after the wildfire secret passage survey is completed tomorrow night. Give him one night to digest it."