varys the spider

by Flames and Fury

The night outside Duskendale was a shroud of ice and vengeance. Brynden Rivers moved like a wraith, Dark Sister drinking the moonlight as it carved through guards too slow to scream. Aerys trailed behind, clutching the Spider's book to his chest, its pages whispering secrets that curdled his blood.

*Summerhall.*

The word seared his mind. *A tragedy,* the realm had called it—a blaze born of Aegon V's folly, of eggs that would not hatch. But the book spoke darker truths. *Maesters in grey, slipping wildfire into the pyromancers' stores. A Conclave plot to smother dragonfire forever.*

"Keep up, boy," Brynden growled, hauling Aerys over a corpse. The king's hands trembled, not from fear, but rage. *They murdered her.* Shiera's face haunted every page, her death no accident but a calculated snuffing of "tainted" blood.

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**The Kingsroad, 276 AC**

They traveled as wolves travel—by night, off the roads, eating charred hare and vengeance. Brynden taught Aerys the weight of a blade, the art of silence. The king's laughter had hardened into a brittle thing, his violet eyes now mirrors of Brynden's own fury.

"Why?" Aerys demanded one night, the book open to an illustration of Summerhall's ruins. "Why kill the dragons?"

Brynden fed a branch to the fire. "Magic is a sword without a hilt. The maesters mean to break the blade so no one can wield it. Even if it means breaking the realm."

Aerys spat into the flames. "Then we'll forge a new blade. Sharper."

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**Castle Black, The Dragon's Roost**

The Wall wept icy tears as they approached. Aemon Targaryen awaited them, transformed—youth restored by dragonfire's kiss, his back straight, eyes a vivid purple. At his feet coiled the hatchling, scales black as betrayal, eyes like molten gold.

"Cousin," Aemon greeted, voice smooth where it had once been parchment-thin. "Uncle."

Brynden's breath caught. *Egg's son, alive in this frozen hell.* The dragon hissed, smoke curling from its nostrils.

"They named him Duskwing," Aemon said, "for the hour of his birth."

Aerys knelt, unflinching as the creature sniffed his silver hair. "He's… beautiful."

"Aye," Brynden said, "and the Citadel will piss themselves when they learn he lives."

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**The Lord Commander's Tower**

The Spider's book lay open between them, its spine cracked to the page detailing the Summerhall sabotage.

"The Conclave's tendrils strangle every court," Aemon said, Duskwing perched on his shoulder. "But here, at the edge of the world, their grip slips."

Brynden traced the faded sigil of House Blackfyre. "We need allies. Men who hate the Grey Rats as we do."

"The North remembers," Aemon mused. "But it is the *dragons* they must remember. The realm has forgotten fire."

Aerys stood abruptly, his shadow a jagged thing on the wall. "Then we'll remind them."

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**Myr, The Spider's Loom**

Varys watched through the scrying pool, his sunglasses reflecting Duskwing's flames. In the ripples, he saw:

- *Aemon penning letters to Dorne, sealed with dragon wax.*

- *Brynden smuggling wildling envoys through secret passes.*

- *Aerys, hollow-cheeked and blazing, rehearsing a speech to men who'd die for a madman's cause.*

"Empower your enemies' enemies," he murmured, refilling his cocoa with a splash of rum. The Bregan D'aerthe cameo glowed faintly—*approval* from a world away.

In Westeros, the pieces rallied: a half-mad king, a blood-soaked seer, a dragon prince reborn. Let them charge the Citadel's gates. Let them bleed.

The true war was not against the Conclave, but the apathy it bred. *A realm that fears magic will never embrace the Spider's webs.*

He dipped a biscuit into his drink, savoring the bitterness.

*No need for TV,* he mused, *when the show is this good.*

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