Varys sipped his wine quietly, then set the cup down with care. His voice, when it came, was low and precise.
"When I was a young man, I served in the court of the Mad King," he began. "I watched good men burned alive for imagined slights. I heard their screams. And I told myself it was not my place to intervene."
He turned his gaze to Tyrion and Paxter, his expression unreadable.
"I still hear them sometimes. The screams. I remember every name, every face. I did nothing then. I will not make that mistake again."
Paxter said nothing at first, his jaw tight. "She's not her father."
"No," Varys agreed. "Not yet."
Tyrion leaned forward, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "She is not mad," he said. "But she is angry. And anger, in rulers, is a dangerous thing."
"We all want to see Cersei fall," Varys said. "But if we burn cities to the ground to make that happen, then what difference is there between dragonfire and wildfire?"
Paxter finally exhaled. "Then we must guide her. Quietly. Firmly. Keep her focused on justice—not vengeance."
Varys nodded. "Exactly. Or else we'll trade one tyrant in gold for another in flame."
Tyrion poured himself another glass of wine, but he didn't drink. His gaze was distant, focused on some point far beyond the stone walls of Dragonstone.
"She trusts us," he said after a long pause. "At least, she trusts me. For now."
"And trust," Varys said quietly, "is a fragile thing. Easier broken than mended. Once shattered, it can never be fully whole again."
Paxter stood and walked toward the window slit, gazing out at the crashing waves below. "She's surrounded by foreign armies, foreign generals, and foreign gods," he said. "That's why we matter. She needs voices from Westeros. She needs to see this land as more than just conquest."
"She needs more than that," Tyrion said. "She needs restraint. Temperance. Someone to tell her when she's gone too far."
"She needs friends," Varys added.
"Friends who will challenge her," Paxter said.
There was a heavy silence between them. Outside, the sea wind howled and tugged at the tower stones, as if the very castle itself listened.
"Do you believe in her?" Tyrion asked suddenly, his voice softer now.
Paxter turned from the window. "I believe she wants to do what's right. I believe she wants to break the wheel, not become it. But I also know that every ruler who ever climbed too fast began by thinking they were the exception."
Varys gave a small, approving nod. "Then we must be the brakes on her wheels. Not saboteurs. Not traitors. But counselors. Cautious and loyal… to the realm."
Tyrion raised his goblet in mock salute. "To the realm. The poor, ungrateful, divided realm."
Paxter chuckled dryly. "We should put that on the banners."
Varys, ever serious, folded his hands. "We do not have the luxury of missteps. The North has bent the knee. The Reach and Dorne have rallied. If she slips now, everything we've built begins to crumble."
"She won't slip," Tyrion said, more to convince himself than the others. "Not if we do our jobs."
"Then let's hope we're better at them than her last small council," Paxter said grimly. "They died screaming in the Red Keep."
Varys stood, gathering his robes. "Then let's ensure history remembers us differently."
He moved toward the door, pausing just long enough to look back at them. "The Queen listens to you, Tyrion. She respects your judgment. And she values your voice, Lord Redwyne. Use them."
The door closed behind him with a whisper.
Tyrion refilled his glass, then raised it toward Paxter. "To walking the line between loyalty and treason."
Paxter took a deep breath and sat once more. "To keeping the dragon from becoming her fire."
Tyrion poured himself another glass of wine and eyed Varys suspiciously. The Spider had been uncharacteristically quiet, his long fingers resting atop a sealed parchment on the table between them. The wax bore the direwolf of House Stark.
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "What's that beside you?"
Varys didn't look up. "A raven from Winterfell. For Jon Snow."
Tyrion leaned forward. "Have you read it?"
Varys shot him a look. "It's sealed."
Tyrion smirked. "What does it say?"
Varys finally turned, his expression flat. "Nothing good."
Paxter looked between them. "Winterfell sends word in the middle of a war, and you expect us not to worry?"
Varys tapped the letter once, fingers gentle. "Worry, yes. Panic, not yet. But if the North stirs, the entire realm may follow."
Tyrion frowned, setting down his cup. "We need to open that letter."
"No," Varys said firmly. "Let Jon read it. It's his home, his people. But when he does… we must be ready."
Outside, the waves crashed against the cliffs of Dragonstone—and the war for Westeros continued, as always, in whispers and shadows.