(Author's Note: This chapter is divided into subchapters to guide the reader through shifting scenes and secret conversations. The focus is on Varys's movements and secrets, ending with the realm buzzing over the impending Tourney of the Hand.)
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(A City of Whispers)
King's Landing, for all its glittering red towers and golden domes, smelled no different by night than by day. Piss, wet stone, fish guts, and the heavy, almost sweet rot of countless unwashed bodies. In the hush of midnight, the odors only seemed sharper, pressing down like a blanket over the winding streets.
Beneath the Red Keep, tunnels coiled like roots of an ancient tree. The passages were silent except for the soft slap of slippered feet moving steadily through the gloom.
Varys glided forward, pale robes rustling against the stone walls. A hood covered his bald scalp. He carried no lantern; he had walked these tunnels so often that he could have found his way blind.
Naros followed, unseen. He kept a cautious distance, slipping from one dark alcove to another, testing how close he could draw before the Spider sensed him. The further south Naros ventured, the more convinced he became that Varys was the most dangerous man in the realm.
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(The Web Tightens)
Varys paused near a junction where four tunnels met. From the darkness, a small boy emerged, silent as a wraith. He carried a folded scrap of parchment.
"My sweet bird," Varys cooed in a whisper. He crouched and took the note with gentle fingers. "Go back the way you came. Tell your mistress I shall see her tomorrow."
The boy vanished into a side passage without a word.
Varys opened the parchment and read quickly. Naros, lurking above on a narrow ledge, strained to see the writing but the Spider crumpled the paper and tucked it into his sleeve before Naros could decipher a single word.
Then came a soft footstep from behind Varys. A man in half armor emerged from another tunnel, a gold cloak folded under one arm. He had the look of a City Watch officer: square jaw, eyes quick and suspicious.
"You didn't get this from me," the man muttered. "But Littlefinger's moving coin. Lots of it. Ships in the harbor. New guards hired. He's keeping secrets from the council."
"Littlefinger always keeps secrets," Varys replied. "It is his profession, as much as it is mine."
The Gold Cloak hesitated. "He's hinting… at replacing certain men on the council. And… he's been seen speaking with Ser Jaime."
Varys's eyes narrowed, though his voice stayed soft. "Very good, my friend. Tell no one else."
The man nodded and melted into the darkness.
Varys turned to continue his path. Naros shifted above, following as the Spider moved deeper into the web.
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(A Conversation in the Dark)
In a chamber far below the Red Keep, walls slick with old damp, Varys finally paused as if sensing the eyes upon him.
"You've been following me for some time," he murmured.
Naros dropped lightly from a ledge, landing soundlessly behind the Spider.
Varys turned, pale face unreadable. "Most impressive. There are few places in these tunnels I have not charted. Fewer still where someone might hide from my little birds."
Naros said nothing at first. He studied Varys's features in silence. The eunuch bore himself with a softness that was almost meek, yet every flicker of his eyes hinted at razor-sharp awareness.
Varys tilted his head. "Who are you really, I wonder? You are not one of the king's spies, nor Littlefinger's. You move too well for a hired sword. And your silence speaks volumes."
Naros's voice was low. "A man who watches. A man who listens."
"Ah. A man of riddles." Varys folded his hands into his robes. "And what does this silent watcher want with me?"
"Stability," Naros said. "The realm does not need more chaos."
Varys gave a soft, airy chuckle. "Wise words. But chaos is a ladder, as some would say."
"I've seen ladders like that before. They end in rivers of blood."
Varys's eyes flicked over him, calculating. "You are… foreign. You stand like a warrior, yet I sense you fight as a shadow would. Tell me, is it true that shadows are longest just before the dawn?"
Naros allowed himself a small smile. "They're longest when no one bothers to light a fire."
Varys inclined his head. "Indeed. Then perhaps you and I seek similar ends, if not similar means."
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(Threads of Truth and Lies)
A hush settled between them. From high above, faint sounds of guards echoed through grates in the tunnel ceiling. A rolling cart rumbled overhead, the wheel squealing faintly.
Varys broke the silence. "I have heard troubling things about your northern friends. The queen grows suspicious of Lord Stark's household. Spies have been set upon Arya and Sansa."
Naros stiffened. "Why?"
"Because the queen is a woman who likes secrets—and dislikes secrets held from her. And because Littlefinger whispers into every ear, including hers."
Naros's voice dropped. "Littlefinger."
"Yes," Varys sighed. "Lord Baelish grows ever bolder. He juggles debts and favors with a skill even I must admire. But he is a dangerous man to leave unobserved."
Naros thought of Arya slipping through shadows and his hidden clone among Baelish's men. "What else?"
Varys glanced around, as though measuring the darkness itself. "There is talk of the realm's debts spiraling out of control. And the king has decided, in his infinite wisdom, to host a grand tourney."
Naros lifted an eyebrow. "A tourney."
"The Tourney of the Hand," Varys said. "It will bring knights, lords, hedge knights, mercenaries, and spies from across the realm. It will be a feast for the eyes—and for secrets."
He folded his hands once more. "A perfect place for a man who listens."
Naros's jaw tightened. The tourney was a storm gathering on the horizon. Crowds meant chaos. Chaos meant more eyes watching, more chances to be discovered.
"Too many eyes," Naros murmured.
Varys gave a faint smile. "Yes. Yet sometimes it is easier to hide in a crowd than in an empty room."
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(City of Preparation and Rumors)
Naros lingered in the shadows near the Red Keep gates as dawn spilled gold across the rooftops. King's Landing stirred to life in a new, fevered rhythm. Word of the Tourney of the Hand spread like wildfire.
Banners were being sewn in vivid silks—crimson lions, blue trout, white stags, and sunbursts of yellow. Naros watched merchants hawk bright cloths embroidered with house sigils. Even the street rats had begun crafting crude wooden shields and pretend swords to mimic the knights they hoped to glimpse.
He drifted through the city as a nameless man, his cloak dusty, posture slightly stooped. He passed butchers gossiping about which noble houses were sending champions. Smiths labored day and night over new sets of armor. Tavern girls whispered about wealthy lords looking for nighttime company during the festivities.
In one narrow lane, he saw a group of carpenters arguing about the stands being built around the tourney grounds:
"King wants more seats than the last tourney," one said, wiping sweat from his brow. "I swear, we'll run out of timber before we finish."
"Aye, but they say the purse for the joust's the biggest in a century," another grumbled. "Half the realm's knights will be here swinging lances."
"And half the realm's spies, too," muttered a third.
Naros filed away every word.
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(Echoes of a Laughing Knight)
In a smoky tavern along the Street of Flour, Naros listened as older knights traded stories of tournaments past. One name kept surfacing like a ripple across calm water:
"…the Knight of the Laughing Tree…"
"Madness, that one," an old hedge knight rasped over a mug of brown ale. "Just appeared out of nowhere. Masked, shield painted with a laughing weirwood. Beat three squires' knights into the mud. No one ever knew who they were."
"Some say it was a woman," said another, voice hushed.
"A woman?" the hedge knight scoffed. "Bah! Knights don't ride like ladies."
"But they say Prince Rhaegar himself tried to unmask them," said the second man, eyes wide. "And a few weeks later, the whole bloody realm was at war."
Naros sipped watered wine from the shadows, mind turning over fast. The Knight of the Laughing Tree… an unknown identity, a shrouded symbol. A ghost who changed the course of kings.
An idea sparked in his chest.
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(An Idea Takes Shape)
That night, Naros sat atop a high tower, looking down over the torches of the city below. Bells rang from the Sept of Baelor, tolling the hour. The breeze stirred the cloak around his shoulders.
He thought of the melee to be held during the tourney. It was the perfect chaos: masked men, all identities hidden, watched by nobles and commoners alike. A place where secrets might slip free. A place where whispers could become warnings.
He murmured to himself:
"The Knight of the Laughing Tree… a symbol that rattled the realm once. Perhaps… it could again."
Naros began investigating, piecing together details from every scrap of rumor. The Laughing Tree's shield, said to be white with a weirwood's grinning face. The slender stature noted by one drunk knight. A voice that some swore sounded young. A skill on horseback that defied the ordinary.
He considered the risk. Appearing as that figure might be foolish. It might draw suspicion from those with long memories—men like Varys or Littlefinger. Or worse, from the queen herself.
But part of him wanted to send a message.
"To those clever enough to connect the dots," he thought, "let it serve as a warning. I'm watching. And I am no one you can predict."
He closed his eyes, feeling the cool night air across his face. In that moment, he was Naruto again—the ghost of a warrior who'd once shaped nations. And he was Naros, the farmer's son, reborn in a world whose threads he now tugged with careful fingers.
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(A Realm on the Brink)
Morning arrived to find the entire city in motion. Squads of Gold Cloaks drilled in the squares, for fear of riots when the crowds swelled. Bakers spoke of flour prices rising as visiting nobles demanded fine bread. Even the beggars were practicing how to plead in High Valyrian, in case a foreign lord passed by with a heavy purse.
Naros slipped past a cart filled with barrels of cheap Dornish wine. He overheard two merchants:
"…the North's come south again, just like before the Trident. Let's hope it ends better this time."
"It won't," the other said darkly. "The realm is like dry straw. One spark…"
Naros agreed silently. The tourney might be that spark. It would gather every ambitious man, every schemer, every hungry knight seeking gold and favor. And into that press of banners and steel, secrets would spill like blood.
From the walls of the Red Keep, Naros looked down at the sea of preparation. His mind shifted back to Arya, Sansa, Ned Stark—and to the shadows moving between the nobles.
He drew his hood lower, disappearing into the crowd.
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(Closing — The Tourney Looms)
By twilight, all of King's Landing hummed with anticipation. Children chased each other with toy swords, crying out names of famous knights. Noble banners snapped in the wind above merchant stalls. The Red Keep's towers blazed red in the last light of day.
Naros watched from the edge of the square, face hidden beneath a new disguise. He felt the weight of destiny gathering. The Tourney of the Hand was not simply a feast or a sport. It was a crucible. A place where kings were judged and secrets unveiled.
He whispered under his breath:
"Let them watch for the Knight of the Laughing Tree. And let them wonder who else might be hidden beneath a helm."
He melted away as the bells tolled, leaving the city buzzing like a hive under the rising moon.