"When I think of the approaching war, I can hardly sleep," Tyrion admitted. "Aren't you afraid, Lord Varys? Littlefinger took flight at the Eyrie and was reduced to dust. I don't want to meet that fate."
"Who wouldn't be?" Varys looked ready to weep. "The thought of that kindly, respectable, smiling face becoming bare bones sends a chill down my spine."
"Littlefinger and I weren't exactly friends, but thinking of how horribly he died still leaves me rather wistful," Tyrion said with a pang of sympathy. Poor Littlefinger, flying high among the mountains with Lysa Tully.
"Why are you so loyal to me?" Tyrion asked on a sudden impulse.
"You are the Hand of the King. I serve the realm, the king, and you?"
"That isn't the right answer. Is that how you served Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark?"
"Then let me tell you the truth again, my lord. I fear death too, and there is no place for me to survive beneath the Storm." Varys looked at the wine in his cup and drained it. "King Robert was like the wind, furious but ever-changing. His bastard was a smith, with a nature like rock: tough, strong, and resolute. A spider can survive a gale, but beneath a rock, it can only die. Since the bastard has already deemed us men who disrupt the government and ruin the realm, he will naturally show us no mercy."
Tyrion shrugged and poured Varys another cup. "Those words improve my opinion of you, Lord Varys. You are not merely a capable master of whisperers, but a good friend to me as well."
"My lord, I have seen your hard work," Varys told Tyrion. "But fortunes rise and fall. Above all, you must persevere."
"I am persevering, Lord Varys, and I have your support.