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Chapter 72: The Spider's Offer
Tyrion's mismatched eyes narrowed as he regarded the bald eunuch standing in the doorway of his cell.
"So," Tyrion rasped, without bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice, "now you want to talk? After you conspired to put me here?"
He kept his gaze lowered, waiting, measuring. He knew it wasn't Varys — not truly. But Tyrion Lannister had learned long ago that the best way to read a man was to accuse him and watch how he squirmed.
The Spider did not flinch. Of course not. Varys never flinched.
"Conspired?" Varys repeated, his soft, unctuous voice filling the small cell like perfumed smoke. "Lord Tyrion, you wound me."
Tyrion let out a low, humorless chuckle. "I'm sure I do. But then, you've grown fat on a feast of wounds and secrets."
Varys smiled faintly — the same small, almost apologetic smile that Tyrion had seen him wear at a hundred council meetings. "No one conspired to put you here, my lord. No one could have foreseen what happened. Not even I."
That earned a glance from Tyrion, sharp and skeptical. "No? You mean to say you didn't know my sweet sister would blame me for her precious monster's death? I would've thought you cleverer than that."
Varys shook his head, unruffled. "Cersei's grief blinds her. It is a hard thing, losing a child — even one such as Joffrey. And your sister was not the most reasonable of creatures even before her loss."
Tyrion leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. Damn him. Damn them all.
"So it wasn't some scheme," Tyrion muttered. "No hidden dagger aimed at my back. Just bad luck. The purest, bitterest kind."
Varys inclined his bald head. "Your words, not mine. But yes — Joffrey's death was not a plot against you. It was chaos, plain and simple. He insisted on inspecting the defenses. The people were starving. The city boiling beneath the weight of fear and hunger. The riot was inevitable."
I should have seen it, Tyrion thought, a hollow ache blooming in his chest. I should have known.
He had ruled this city — not from a throne, but from the shadows. He had tightened the purse strings, struck alliances in the dark, sent traitors to the Wall, and monsters to their deaths. And yet he had failed to account for the simplest thing of all.
Hunger.
And hatred.
He thought of Joffrey's smirk as he paraded past the hungry mob, of Cersei's whispered poison, of Littlefinger's smiles with no warmth behind them. The city had been a powder keg waiting for a spark.
And now, here he was, left to rot.
"I underestimated the people," Tyrion admitted, his voice low. "And I overestimated my own power."
"Many great men have done the same," Varys replied quietly.
Tyrion snorted. "Yes, well. Most of them wound up with their heads on spikes. I'd rather avoid joining them if it's all the same to you."
Varys stepped closer, folding his hands within the long sleeves of his robes. His perfume barely masked the stink of the cell.
"I fear your sister has already begun her vengeance," Varys said, his voice barely above a whisper. "More than a dozen heads have rolled these past few days. Some of them good men — some not. Littlefinger has been all too happy to point out your so-called co-conspirators."
Tyrion grimaced. "How convenient for him. I imagine those men were in his way."
Varys nodded gravely. "Indeed. Power reshapes itself quickly in times like these. I have seen it before."
Tyrion's mind went to darker places — to the stories of the Mad King's reign, the wildfire beneath the city, the screams of those who dared defy the Iron Throne.
"And at that time, it was you whispering in the Mad King's ear," Tyrion said, not without venom.
The Spider's expression remained carefully neutral. "And now it is Littlefinger. But that does not change the fact that your sister is losing her grip on reality. All the court sees it. The people speak of it openly — though only behind closed doors."
Varys's voice dropped even lower. "Renly Baratheon will reach the city tomorrow. And unless I misjudge the mood of King's Landing, he will find the gates open to him. The people are weary of madness."
Tyrion rubbed his temples, exhaustion pulling at him like a tide. "Why are you telling me this? What use do I have for truths I am powerless to act upon?"
Varys gave him a long, measured look — as if weighing his next words with great care.
"Because there is one thing you can still do, Lord Tyrion. You can save the children — Tommen and Myrcella."
That caught Tyrion's attention. His blood turned cold.
"And why," Tyrion said slowly, "would you help me do that? What's in it for the Spider?"
Varys hesitated — a rare thing for him.
"When the Targaryen children were murdered in this very city, I did nothing. I watched. I survived. And I regret that." His voice was soft, filled with a strange sorrow. "History does not often grant a man the chance to correct such mistakes."
Tyrion studied him for a long moment. Was it true? Was this the same Varys who had built a life out of webs and lies? Or was this yet another thread in his ever-spinning scheme?
Perhaps it did not matter.
Perhaps survival was the only truth worth clinging to.
He exhaled slowly. "Very well. Lead the way."
Varys gave a slight nod — respectful, almost solemn.
"The secret passages still run beneath the Red Keep," he said. "I can get you to the children. And from there — to the docks."
Tyrion rose on stiff, sore legs. The cell creaked as he moved, as though reluctant to release him.
As he followed Varys into the corridor, the shadows of dungeons beneath the Red Keep stretched long before them, and the soft, measured footsteps of the Spider echoed like a promise — or a warning.
Behind him, the cell door swung shut.
Ahead lay danger, uncertainty, and betrayal.
But Tyrion Lannister had always been good at surviving.
And tonight, that would have to be enough.