Nerd In the North: 3-19

III-19: The Spider’s Web

The chamber was dimly lit, the glow of flickering candlelight casting long, wavering shadows against the cold stone walls. The air carried the weight of age—old parchment and dust, spiced wine left to breathe too long, the faintest trace of medicinal herbs clinging to the heavy tapestries. 

The scent of sickness.  

Grand Maester Pycelle sat hunched over the heavy oak table, fingers curled loosely around a goblet of wine. The candlelight did him no favors, its unsteady glow deepening the furrows of his brow, sharpening the sagging lines of his jowls, making his watery eyes seem more sunken than they already were.

Eyes that saw more than he pretended to, less than he wished they could.

His robes, thick and embroidered with the sigils of his order, draped heavy over his shoulders, the weight of age pressing down upon him.  

He brooded in silence, rolling words over in his mind, weighing each one as though they were gold dragons slipping through his fingers.  

The door whispered open.  

Soft footsteps.  

Pycelle did not look up at first, merely exhaled through his nose. There was no need. He knew that tread, as silent as it was.  

Varys moved like a shadow, his silk robes whispering against the floor, soundless but for the faintest shift in the air, as if the candlelight itself bent toward him in quiet deference. He paused just beyond the table, hands clasped before him, his ever-present smile playing at the edges of his lips—soft, knowing, unreadable.  

“Lord Varys,” Pycelle intoned at last, lifting his gaze, his voice a slow drawl, polite but lined with a deep and weary patience. “To what, I wonder, do I owe the… pleasure of this visit, at such an hour?”  

Varys tilted his head slightly, an affectation more than a movement, like a cat watching a bird twitch in the grass. “Oh, Grand Maester,” he murmured, his voice light, smooth, effortless, “I merely wished to inquire after our beloved king’s condition. News of his health—or lack thereof—seems to be on every tongue.”  

Pycelle’s bushy brows lifted a fraction, just a fraction, though his expression remained otherwise impassive. His fingers did not loosen from the goblet’s stem. “His Grace remains…” he chose the words with great deliberation, “…stable.”  

A pause.  

“The wound heals well,” he continued, measured, firm, “as I have assured Her Grace. The gods have been kind in that regard.”  

Varys inclined his head, as though in agreement, though his eyes gleamed in the dim light with something softer. “And yet,” he said, ever so lightly, “he does not wake.”  

A breath passed between them.  

Pycelle’s grip on the goblet tightened ever so slightly, but his voice remained as steady as ever. “Such injuries take time,” he said, tone rich with the wisdom of years. “His Grace was gravely wounded. It is no wonder his body requires deep rest to mend.”  

Varys hummed, nodding as though satisfied, though the slight press of his lips suggested anything but. “Of course,” he murmured. “And yet, it does strike me as… peculiar.”  

Pycelle regarded him carefully.  

“A man as robust as Robert Baratheon, felled by a boar.” Varys’ tone was lilting, neither questioning nor confirming. “No matter how fierce. Some might find it… difficult to believe.”  

The words curled into the air between them, as light as silk, yet barbed all the same. Pycelle’s fingers curled more tightly around his goblet, but his face remained still.  

“You imply poison,” he said at length, voice slow, deliberate. “Or some other foul play?”  

A beat of silence.  

Varys’ smile did not falter.  

“Mmm… not to say such,” the portly eunuch mused, his voice softer than a whisper, “but would it be out of the realm of possibility?” 

“Nonsense,” Pycelle continued, before the Spider could weave his web further. “The boar’s tusks pierced deep, Lord Varys. Such wounds are often mortal.”

“And yet, the king’s heart beats, albeit slowly,” Varys murmured. Stones groaned overhead as shadows crept across worn flagstones. “Most curious, wouldn’t you say?”

“If you’ve come to question my treatments again, I really must—”

“Question?” A soft sound, almost a laugh. “I merely observe. The wound heals, you say, yet His Grace does not wake. Even the mightiest warriors cannot sleep through destiny forever.”

Pycelle’s chains clinked as he shifted. Started to speak. Stopped. Started again. “A maester deals in facts, my lord. In truth. Not destiny and…” His hand waved vaguely.

“Truth?” Varys let the word hang. “Do tell me more of this… truth you’ve discovered in your examinations.”

“The mortal frame has—”

“—its limits. Yes, you’ve mentioned.” Varys moved, making Pycelle track him across the chamber. “Three times today, in fact. Once to the Queen, once to the Small Council, and now to me.”

“If you would let me finish—”

“By all means. Though I wonder if Her Grace appreciates your… thoroughness in these matters.”

Pycelle’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. “The Queen has every confidence in—”

“In your ability to keep His Grace exactly as he is?”

“I do not take your meaning,” Pycelle muttered, though his eyes darted to the door.

“No?” Varys circled the old man’s chair. “Curious how His Grace fell ill so suddenly. More curious still how he remains… suspended.”

Robert Baratheon lay dying. That much was clear enough. But why wasn’t he dead?

The queen’s hand had guided his downfall—that had never been in doubt. The wine, the boar, the whispered reassurances that her husband was too strong to fall so easily—it had all been woven into a careful pattern, a net that tightened with each passing day. Yet Cersei had left him breathing, lingering between life and death, neither king nor corpse.  

Varys had never known her to hesitate before.  

And that, Varys thought, was troubling indeed.  

Pycelle’s voice crept back into his awareness, thick with the careful weight of a man who had spent a lifetime convincing others of his wisdom.  

“Her Grace maintains absolute faith in the king’s recovery,” Pycelle wheezed, fingers worrying his chains.

“Does she?” Varys circled closer. “Tell me, how often does she visit?”

“Daily, to ensure—”

“To ensure what, exactly?”

“To… to pray for his recovery,” Pycelle finished weakly. “She barely sleeps, barely eats—”

“Ah yes. Her prayers.” Varys’s voice dropped lower. “One wonders what she truly prays for. His recovery? Or his continued… repose?”

“You dare to suggest—” Color flooded Pycelle’s face. Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth. “Her Grace would never—”

The walls shuddered.

A deep, muffled boom rolled through the chamber, shaking the floor beneath them. The stones groaned, a deep and eerie sound, as though the very foundation of the Red Keep resented its burden.  

Dust sifted from the rafters, catching the candlelight as it fell.  

Pycelle lurched forward in his chair, his gnarled hands clamping onto the armrests as if he feared he might be thrown from his seat. His goblet tipped, spilling wine across the table, the scent of spiced grapes thick in the air.  

The torches along the walls wavered.  

Then came another tremor, sharper this time.  

The goblet clattered to the floor.  

Varys turned toward the door, his silk robes rustling with the movement.  

Then came the scream.  

High and shrill, the young voice tore through the corridor beyond, cutting through the heavy stillness of the night.  

“TOMMEN!”  

The word hung in the air, raw and desperate.  

Pycelle’s mouth worked soundlessly, his breath rattling in his throat. He turned toward Varys, his eyes wide, searching for something—explanation, reassurance.  

Varys did not move.  

Somewhere distant, a door slammed. The hurried scrape of boots against stone echoed through the halls.  

Pycelle licked his lips.

“It seems,” Varys murmured, his voice as smooth as ever, “we may have more pressing concerns.”