On the way to the Tower of the Hand, together with Herald and Balon Swann, we found ourselves in the Throne Room — a huge, elongated hall with a high ceiling supported by massive columns. The floor here was laid with marvelous marble in geometric patterns. The servants polished it so diligently every day that it was easy to slip.
The room could easily accommodate up to a thousand people. Dragon skulls had once hung on the walls, but King Robert had ordered them removed.
At the far end of the hall, on a raised platform, stood the Iron Throne — an unusual structure forged from several hundred swords. According to legend, they had belonged to the enemies of the first Targaryens, and the throne itself had been fused together with the help of dragons and their fire.
Behind the throne, set into the wall, was a large window of stained glass split into a circle with seven multicolored rays.
Taking advantage of a quiet moment, I stopped near one of the columns entwined with decorative flowers, leaned my shoulder against it, and allowed myself a rare pause for thought.
The Iron Throne deserved a separate mention. I had already thoroughly studied this seemingly ordinary object, which was at the same time imbued with some strange mystical meaning. I even managed to sit on it a couple of times—during large ceremonies held in the Throne Room, which the king was obliged to attend.
Such moments look majestic… and unbelievably boring!
Sitting on the Iron Throne was no pleasure at all. The seat was hard, and despite the cushion, your bum and lower back began to ache after an hour. Sharp swords jutted out in all directions, so you had to constantly watch your hands if you didn't want to get cut.
And the throne itself stirred unusual thoughts. It was astonishing what crimes people were willing to commit simply to sit upon this uncomfortable piece of metal!
Maybe I was missing something, but sitting on it was pure torment. And the road to possessing the Iron Throne — a path paved with the corpses of your enemies and your own unsavory deeds — reeked of utter idiocy.
Perhaps my thoughts were rather strange for Westeros…
Herald coughed softly to catch my attention. I turned and saw him nod toward Varys, who was approaching.
The Master of Whisperers moved utterly silently, placing his feet with unusual deftness and smooth. As always, his hands were tucked into his sleeves, and his face wore a good-natured, sympathetic expression. Balon Swann silently stepped aside, giving the eunuch space.
"Your Majesty," Varys said, stopping before me and bowing.
"Lord Varys," I nodded.
His presence immediately broke the contemplative mood that had settled over me. I was about to turn and suggest that we head to the Council chamber, but his words stopped me.
"Your Majesty, may I ask a question?" Varys inquired.
"Depends on the question."
"You know, I have always been curious what kings think of the Iron Throne," he said, taking my answer as permission. "Tell me — what thoughts come to you when you sit on it, or, as now, when you simply look at it?"
I hesitated. Varys's question made me wary — it was difficult to believe he was merely making conversation. Should I answer? And if I did, should I voice Joffrey's thoughts or my own?
"When I look at it, I think about royal greatness," I decided to play this game after all, and saw Varis smile — it seemed this was the answer he was expecting. "And about royal duty."
There was a short pause. Varys was digesting my words, and I decided to test him in turn:
"And what thoughts come to you, Lord Varys, when you look at the throne?"
"It constantly reminds me of whom I serve," the Master of Whisperers replied with a sincere smile.
We continued our conversation as we walked toward the Tower of the Hand. Varys's answer still echoed in my head. And the longer I thought about its meaning, the more I became convinced that there was a second, much deeper meaning to it.
This time, the Small Council raised the question of Stannis. Seizing the opportunity, I cautiously asked:
"What is Lord Stannis doing on Dragonstone?"
"He continues to light great fires in honor of his new god — and burns the rebellious upon them," Varys replied.
"That's madness," Pycelle coughed. "To abandon the Seven for some obscure eastern god… It won't end well."
"R'hllor has been worshipped in Essos for millennia," Oberyn Martell's rough voice cut in.
"Praise the Seven we live in Westeros and not Essos," Lord Redwyne retorted.
"That doesn't mean other beliefs simply cease to exist," the Red Viper countered calmly.
"If we begin believing in every strange thing that exists in the world, nothing good will come of it," Pycelle predictably sided with Redwyne and the Seven.
"We needn't concern ourselves with the madness of other peoples," Cersei declared sharply.
"It's funny," Tyrion said casually, "how every nation insists that only its own gods are true."
Cersei shot her younger brother a look, trying to decipher the meaning behind his words. She seemed to wonder whose side he was taking — hers or Oberyn's.
"Who has he burned already?" I asked, interrupting the brewing argument.
The other members of the council remained silent. Tywin and Kevan watched with interest. Oberyn frowned, shifted sideways in his chair, and took a slow sip of wine. Jaime looked at me with a strange expression.
"His own right-hand man, Alester Florent, Lord of Brightwater Keep."
"And did that make him more popular?"
At that, Oberyn laughed loudly.
"Not at all, Your Majesty," Varys smiled. "Burning your own people is not the best idea. Even if they tried to make peace using their power."