The Stolen Scholar
Thirteenth Day of the Eighth Month 293 AC
As you slip into Varys's form you realize something that had escaped your conscious notice during your momentary confrontation with the eunuch's arcane doppelganger—he is considerably lighter on his feet than one might assume by the plump pale face and carefully cut robes. Though you certainly would not wish to run any foot races in this form, you suspect he is capable of bursts of swiftness that would shock most opponents, possibly the last shock of their lives for some.
"...I think it's safe to go," Dany cuts into your musing. You had not heard the prophecy she offered, though clearly the questions she asked were deft enough to skirt the edge of your own veiled presence. Rather than follow you afoot your sister takes on a hatchling's form and hides in the folds of your cloak.
A few quick calculations later you discern that the Usurper is fortunately in the training field before lunch. Natural enough that he would call his son then, perhaps for a brief fatherly lesson.
Banishing the smoke of incense from the small room you step out into the corridor, walking on soft and silent feet as you dimly recall Varys did. It would not be enough to trick one who knew him well, you suspect, but who in the Red Keep could claim to know the Spider? As you approach the royal apartments by the servants' ways you narrowly avoid a maid struggling to carry twin buckets of hot water for a lady's bath, perhaps the queen's, though her burdens are clearly ordinary enough that she can afford to listen to the news one of her companions is sharing.
"So then when Ser Selmy found the little princess the Queen shouted at him on account of her being dirty and he just stood there and let her do it until the King showed up and said: 'What was he supposed to do, dunk her in a horse-trough on the way?' The king has a fine way with every woman 'cept his wife."
Though you might have wished to linger and listen to more gossip you move quickly on, until you find yourself at the door to the the familiar chamber you had visited so many times in the flesh as a boy. The high windows were still tinted ever so slightly yellow from age, the floor still creaked, and the bunches of dried herbs still made your nose itch...
"Your Highness," you begin with a deep bow to the boy. "Your father bid me to tell you that he wishes to see you on the field while I speak to the Grand Maester."
The boy prince's eyes light up with more than the relief of being rid of a boring lesson. You read surprise there at being so summoned.
Does Baratheon truly spend so little time with him?
"Is he going to teach me how to fight? Does he want me to try a hammer? Mother said I'm too little for it, but she's not a fighter of course, and uncle Jaime said it's not a good idea to become wedded to any weapon before I'm at least a squire's age..." He trails off, struggling for some exaggerated image of lordly disdain, like seeing a mummer trying to play Tywin Lannister poorly. "I suppose you wouldn't know fighting either, then?"
"Not as your father and uncle do, no," you answer, allowing a smile to slip onto your features. To your surprise it is not wholly feigned. Though the prince does not have the innocence of his sister, you struggle to count him a foe in truth. "As to your other questions I confess I cannot say, only bring you the word of the king."
Young Joffrey rushes past you without a word of thanks or parting. From Pycelle's expression that is ordinary enough not to elicit comment.
Poor form for a prince, your mother would have scolded you had you behaved thus to any member of the small council.
Turning to the Grand Maester himself you briefly considering tossing some accusation in his face, perhaps asking him how much gold the lives of those who died in the sack were worth. In the end you are silent save for the words that reduce him to a small unthinking beast.
***
Upon your return to Chataya's you discover that Maelor had not yet managed to arrange a meeting with Baelish, but your mother had been successful in finding Varys's tailor though she had not yet had not yet approached him. "Purity started glowing in its sheath as we drew close," Waymar explains grimly. "We counted it best to avoid any battle while Varys was yet unaware that we hunt him."
"We meaning the two of
them," Nuri huffs, though more from form than an honest gripe you would judge. The arcanum may be uncommonly eager to prove herself, but she still shares Lya's sharp wit.
"Don't worry, you will have your fight before this is over," you assure her.
Drawing forth the staff wrought in cursed flame and forged again by Yss's power you begin to weave it through the exacting patterns of the curse, each step flowing into the net and cold hissing words older than mankind swift and light upon the tongue. You can feel the weight of the ancient serpent god twisting in the dark beyond the ritual circle, you can almost hear the rasp of his scales as you lift the staff high and strike the strip of skin with all your strength. Cold green light fills the hidden chamber beneath the streets and King's Landing seen only for an instant for the eyes of flesh... but for the gaze of spirit it lingers, a beacon that will be the end of Varys you dearly hope.
"Quick, the mirror," you call urgently. Before the words had even been spoken in full Nuri passes it along. The glass ripples like water struck with a stone before revealing a familiar vista: swaggering bravos and merchants hawking their goods, light spilling from the doorways of taverns into the mist,
the Moonpool in Braavos.
"Of all the da...rn place," Dany half-curses before glancing at your mother. "Do you think the Sealord will understand if we kill Varys there, or aught we wait?"
What do you do?
[] Teleport in and fight Varys
-[] Write in with whom and any extra buffs
[] Speak to the Sealord first and explain the situation
[] Wait and try to scry Varys again later
OOC: Sorry this took so long. I had to roll up both other groups and it was a close thing.
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