The Spider's Web
The Street of Steel rang with the sound of hammers and the hiss of quenched blades. Alyssa moved through the crowd alone, cloak drawn close, senses sharp. She did not need guards here—too many shadows, too many eyes. Power was quieter this way.
At the seventh bell precisely, a girl no older than twelve appeared at her side. She did not speak. She simply turned and walked, trusting Alyssa to follow.
They passed through alleys, then a door Alyssa would have sworn was only brick moments before. Inside, the air smelled of ink and parchment.
Varys waited.
"Lady Alyssa," he said pleasantly, hands folded into his sleeves. "Thank you for trusting me enough to come."
Alyssa did not bow. "I haven't decided whether I trust you," she replied evenly. "Only that listening may be useful."
Varys smiled, as though she had paid him a compliment. "Wise. Trust is earned. Information, however... is traded."
They spoke at length.
Of the realm. Of rot and imbalance. Of kings who ruled with appetite instead of foresight.
Varys' voice softened as he steered the conversation where he wished it to go. "I have served several rulers," he said. "Some cruel, some foolish. Few who understood consequence. The Targaryens once did—at least some of them."
Alyssa's attention sharpened, though her expression remained carefully neutral.
"Elia of Dorne," Varys continued quietly. "Her children. Rhaenys, who loved her kitten. Aegon, who never knew his name." His eyes flicked to Alyssa, watching for a reaction. "All butchered during the sack of this city, while men cheered in the streets."
He let the silence linger.
"Prince Aemon of the Night's Watch," Varys added, almost reverently. "A man who gave up a crown to keep the realm whole. Dragons were not always monsters, my lady. Nor were wolves always tame."
Alyssa spoke at last. "And yet the realm remembers only the fire," she said. "Not the innocents who suffered under a mad king."
Varys smiled faintly. "Just so. Which is why I watch closely when I see someone who builds instead of burns."
Alyssa frowned slightly. "You speak as if I were some hidden ruler—or a dragon returned," she said. "I am neither. I am no queen, and certainly no Targaryen."
The words rang with quiet certainty.
Yet even as she said them, her thoughts flickered—unbidden—to Jon Snow. In the TV show, Game Of Thrones, she remembered, he had been Lyanna Stark's son, Rhaegar Targaryen's heir, the hidden dragon raised as a bastard. The irony brushed past her unnoticed, for in this world Jon was exactly what everyone believed him to be: Ned Stark's bastard, nothing more.
Alyssa pushed the thought aside, meeting Varys's gaze again, unaware how close she stood to truths buried far deeper than she knew. "I only wish to help my people," she added quietly. "And to do so without getting myself killed in the process."
Varys's smile returned, softer but no less sharp. "An admirable goal," he said. "And a rare one. In my experience, those who seek to do good often survive longer when they accept that danger is unavoidable—but preparation is not."
Alyssa's eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you insinuating that someone already wishes me ill?"
Varys did not answer at once. His expression turned thoughtful, almost gentle. "I am suggesting," he said at last, "that when someone grows as quickly as you have—wealthy, influential, and inconvenient—there are always those who begin to ask how the world might look without you."
Alyssa let out a quiet, humorless breath. "If I were a man, this wouldn't even be a conversation," she said. "I'd be called ambitious. Visionary. Instead..." She hesitated only a moment. "The King has already hinted at a marriage—between me and his eldest son, Joffrey."
For the first time, Varys's pleasant composure slipped.
"Ah," he said softly. Too softly. "The prince."
His eyes sharpened, studying her anew. "Joffrey is... not his father," he continued carefully. "The boy delights in cruelty. I have seen it with my own eyes—small things, perhaps, but cruelty rarely shrinks as power grows."
He tilted his head, as though weighing how much to say. "It would be a dangerous match. For you. For the realm."
A pause.
"You may find," Varys added mildly, "that I know more than I ought about the inner workings of the Red Keep. And about those who whisper in the King's ear." His smile returned, thin and knowing. "Some men thrive by turning marriages into chains."
His gaze flicked meaningfully—just once. "I would advise you to be cautious around Lord Baelish. He smiles as he pushes others toward the edge."
Alyssa's lips twitched despite herself, a flash of guilt tempered by unmistakable satisfaction. "I may have... embarrassed him at court," she admitted. There was no real apology in her tone—only smug amusement.
Varys's smile widened a fraction. "So I saw."
She studied him, then asked calmly, "You've made it clear you know more than most. If I must wed to shield myself, do you have any... suggestions?"
Varys steepled his fingers. "The Tyrells," he said without hesitation. "Wealth, influence, and ambition wrapped in charm. Lady Margaery would be the most flexible option—beloved, perceptive, and dangerous in her own way. Or her brother, Ser Loras, should alliances demand a more traditional shape."
His eyes gleamed. "Either would serve as a shield. And either would unsettle those who wish you easy to control."
Alyssa tilted her head, confusion plain. "Margaery is a woman," she said carefully. "How does she serve as a spouse in the eyes of the realm?
Varys did not miss a beat. "Lady Margaery was born with what men have," he said quietly. "An inconvenient truth to some, but hardly unheard of in Westeros. Intersex women exist—quietly acknowledged, rarely discussed. They are uncommon, yes, but not reviled as bastards are, nor mocked as imps. The realm tolerates what it finds useful."
He inclined his head. "The Tyrells are pragmatic. Such women are often treated as curiosities—sometimes quietly accommodated, sometimes openly accepted, depending on the House. The Faith looks the other way when power and propriety align. To many, it would be considered... unconventional, but legitimate enough. And far less dangerous than binding you to a cruel prince."
Alyssa absorbed that in silence, face carefully composed.
Inside, her thoughts were anything but calm.
Margaery. She thought back to the feast—the easy smile, the warmth, the intelligence in her eyes. How they had spoken as equals. How Alyssa had felt seen... without understanding why. She hadn't known. Hadn't even suspected.
Nothing like this had happened in the show she remembered.
Confusion churned in her chest, mingled with an unexpected flicker of intrigue. She schooled her expression, refusing to let Varys see the storm beneath the surface. If her memories could no longer be trusted to follow the paths she knew, then how much of what she thought she understood would still hold true?
The realization unsettled her more than she liked. Her knowledge of the future—once a shield—was becoming unreliable. And that meant she would have to rely on herself.
Throughout it all, Alyssa kept her reactions measured, revealing just enough to satisfy without inviting deeper scrutiny. She offered Varys glimpses of her competence and resolve while carefully masking her uncertainty and the turmoil beneath. Varys, for his part, seemed content to let her believe she was in control, observing quietly, filing away each hesitation and choice of words—not circling her as an equal, but assessing whether she might become one.
"I protect the realm," Varys said softly. "Sometimes from itself."
Alyssa met his gaze. "Then we share a goal. But not methods. I protect my people first."
"And yet," Varys replied, eyes keen, "you concern yourself with orphans. With the hungry. With the future."
She said nothing.
"That makes you dangerous," he continued gently. "And valuable."
Alyssa studied him for a long moment, then spoke carefully. "What do you think of the two Targaryens hiding in Pentos?"
For the first time since she arrived, Varys looked genuinely startled. The mask slipped—just a fraction—before it returned, tighter than before. "That," he said slowly, "is not knowledge many possess."
She met his gaze evenly. "You are not the only one with eyes and ears everywhere."
Varys studied her in silence, then asked lightly, "Then tell me—why do you care about two exiles across the Narrow Sea?"
Alyssa did not answer at once. When she did, her tone was measured, rehearsed. "Because I have access to... a greenseer," she said, offering the lie smoothly. "Someone who sees further than maps and messengers. There are signs—dreams, visions—that the girl may one day wake three dragons from stone."
Varys's eyes flickered. "Dragons," he echoed, testing the word.
"There are other whispers," Alyssa continued, careful not to press too hard. "Old vows. Old ways. That Rhaegar, Elia, and Lyanna may have been bound by Valyrian custom, not merely folly. That a child was born of it."
She hesitated, then added lightly, as if testing the air rather than making a claim, "If such rumors have weight, it would change much."
Privately, her thoughts leapt—Jon Snow, the hidden dragon, but she kept that to herself. Instead, she tilted her head, a wry note entering her voice. "Tell me, Lord Varys—if it came to that... who would you support?"
Varys did not correct her. He only watched, interest sharpening. "You tread close to dangerous stories, my lady."
"I know," Alyssa said calmly. "Which is why I tread carefully. If even a fraction of it is true, the realm will burn—or be remade. I would rather be prepared than blind."
She waited.
At last, Varys inclined his head slightly. "I do not choose sides based on names or crowns," he said carefully. "I support what I believe is best for the people—and for the realm as a whole. Peace. Stability. A future where fewer children starve and fewer innocents die for the ambitions of the powerful."
Alyssa's gaze held his. "You plan to support Viserys," she said quietly. "But he is as mad as his father—brittle, cruel, and obsessed with what was taken from him. If a choice must be made, I would choose Daenerys instead."
Varys regarded her for a long moment, measuring the conviction beneath her calm. Then he sighed softly. "My little birds speak often of Viserys," he said. "Of his cruelty, his rages, the way he takes his frustrations out on those weaker than himself." His mouth tightened. "Such a man would burn the realm to feel warm again."
He hesitated, then added, more carefully, "They also speak of the girl. Daenerys. And of a red priestess who has begun teaching her—even now, before any dragons wake."
Alyssa stiffened, genuine shock flashing through her before she could stop it. That didn't happen, she thought wildly. Not like this. Not so soon.
Varys watched her reaction closely, eyes sharp. "The world is already shifting, my lady," he said quietly. "It rarely waits for us to be ready."
They parted with no promises made—only an understanding. They would watch one another. Carefully.
Roses at Noon
When Alyssa returned to her manse, another message awaited her.
An invitation.
Lunch. Intimate.
Hosted by Lady Olenna Tyrell and her granddaughter.
Alyssa folded the parchment slowly, lips curving.
So, she thought. The game continues.
Thorns in the Shadow
Vivienne Tyrell learned of the luncheon secondhand.
That alone was insult enough.
She sat before her looking glass, fingers tight around a silver hairpin, listening as one of her cousins gossiped breathlessly about the Stark girl—about how clever she was, how composed, how even Lady Olenna herself had invited her to dine in private.
Vivienne's mouth curled.
Margaery had been invited.
Of course she had.
Margaery, with her effortless smiles and easy charm. Margaery, whom everyone loved. Margaery, whom Olenna adored nearly as much as Loras. Vivienne had lived her entire life in that shadow—never quite as beautiful, never quite as beloved, always the afterthought.
She wanted more.
She wanted to be seen. Wanted to be chosen. Wanted to be queen.
And now there was this Stark girl—this upstart wolf pup—sweeping through court like she belonged, admired by lords, watched by queens, whispered about in corridors. Even their grandmother had not thought Vivienne worth inviting to the table.
Her nails bit into her palm.
I should have been there, she thought bitterly. I should have been the one meeting kings. The one being courted. The one they talk about.
She rose, pacing the chamber, anger sharpening into something colder and more dangerous. If Margaery was to be offered to kings and princes... then perhaps it was time someone else stepped forward instead. Someone more ambitious. Someone willing to do what her sister would not.
Joffrey. Tommen. Crowns were crowns, no matter whose brow they rested upon.
Vivienne smiled slowly.
Let the Stark girl have her luncheon.
This game was far from over.