Bywater glanced over the names and smiled. “As you will.”  “There’s one,” Tyrion said quietly. “Deem. Tell the captain it would not be taken amiss if that one should happen to be swept overboard before they reach Eastwatch.”  “I’m told those northern waters are very stormy, my lord.” Ser Jacelyn bowed and took his leave, his cloak rippling¹ behind him. He trod on Slynt’s cloth-of-gold cape² on his way.  Tyrion sat alone, sipping³ at what remained of the fine sweet Dornish wine. Servants came and went, clearing the dishes from the table. He told them to leave the wine. When they were done, Varys came gliding⁵ into the hall, wearing flowing lavender robes that matched his smell. “Oh sweetly done, my good lord.”  “Then why do I have this bitter taste in my mouth?” He pressed his fingers into his temples. “I told them to throw Allar Deem into the sea. I am sorely tempted⁶ to do the same with you.”  “You might be disappointed by the result,” Varys replied. “The storms come and go, the waves crash overhead, the big fish eat the little fish, and I keep on paddling. Might I trouble you for a taste of the wine that Lord Slynt enjoyed so much?”  Tyrion waved at the flagon, frowning.  Varys filled a cup. “Ah. Sweet as summer.” He took another sip⁴. “I hear the grapes singing on my tongue.”  “I wondered what that noise was. Tell the grapes to keep still, my head is about to split. It was my sister. That was what the oh-so-loyal Lord Janos refused to say. Cersei sent the gold cloaks to that brothel.”  Varys tittered nervously⁸. So he had known all along.  “You left that part out,” Tyrion said accusingly.  “Your own sweet sister,” Varys said, so grief-stricken he looked close to tears. “It is a hard thing to tell a man, my lord. I was fearful how you might take it. Can you forgive me?”  “No,” Tyrion snapped. “Damn you. Damn her.” He could not touch Cersei, he knew. Not yet, not even if he’d wanted to, and he was far from certain that he did. Yet it

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