missleroux:

pbaelish-esq:

He had taken note of Varys’ eyes flittering back and forth across the entrance. Typical agent behaviour; he hadn’t thought much of it. Varys had even taken the seat that faced the door so that Peter had been forced into the half-blind position adjacent and rely on the brush of wind against his ear to suggest the comings and goings of the bar’s denizens. But though Varys hardly moved, there was a flurry of flowery perfume which assailed him suddenly. Not a scent one would expect in a place like this, full of men and their mistresses. This was an expensive smell.

Peter didn’t turn. Varys next comment would tell him much. 

 ”I see more than one familiar face in this bar, Peter.  A coincidence maybe, or this meeting may be compromised.  If the latter, perhaps you should share the orders from your superiors and be on your way?”

And that was a nice surprise. He relaxed his cheeks into a churlish grin. 

“You know too many faces. It’s making you paranoid.” He fixed the cigarette between his lips and reached into his waistcoat to remove a folded collection of papers from his inner most pocket. More names and faces, he knew, but he wasn’t going to mention it. The country’s interior was not his concern with Varys; he was snaking his way through the British power structure to move the pieces where he wanted, but Varys should take charge of things in the embassies. There were names of some daughters of a besmirched Indian noble, the travel records of all the German aristocrats within a hundred miles of the capital… 

Peter flicked his tongue across his lips once they were spared the cigarette again. 

“I’ve often been an unwelcome guest myself, Varys. I take well to others of my kind.” He pushed the folded paper across the table, but still, he didn’t move. “I’d keep that close to the chest, my man, and let’s invite the lady over,” a crook of the eyebrow, “if you’re so inclined.” He wasn’t really sure how he’d move next, but he’d made his play and that was that. 

(OOC: If anyone has an issue with this post, do message me and I’ll edit it immediately. I was attempting to get some kind of unity going on amongst the plots, but since there’s no universal vision of how they might all converge, it might be entirely inappropriate. Since, in-canon, Varys and/or Littlefinger always have some idea of the various plates spinning above them, I thought I’d just gesture to that same idea.)

As was her standard procedure these days, Melisandre ordered a cocktail and then proceeded to ignore it. It was too risky to drink in company, not when alcohol made her tongue rather looser than it should have been, and this time she was too busy trying to pick up the thread of one conversation over the ambient noise of the bar to bother with any distractions. 

One of the men was speaking, but she couldn’t quite catch the words, and for a moment she thought her judgement had been off, that she was too far away after all, and very nearly cursed.

“I’ve often been an unwelcome guest myself, Varys. I take well to others of my kind.”

But that was Baelish, clear as day - Halford must have simple lowered his voice.

“I’d keep that close to the chest, my man, and let’s invite the lady over, if you’re so inclined.” Merde. They’d spotted her, then, and perhaps she was simply paranoid, but it sounded like they’d guessed she was slightly less than an innocent bystander. That would certainly make things interesting.

Now that they knew she was there, it was almost tempting to just give up the game and approach them directly. Instead, Melisandre forced herself to relax and take a tiny sip of her drink. It didn’t matter what they thought, after all, because they couldn’t know she was listening in, and she had no interest in confirming their suspicions. At this point, as always, she would be better served by waiting.

Varys slipped the paper next to the other in his pocket.  He amused himself with the thought of all the secrets he contained - on his person, in his head.  It was his job to know everything.  And for the things he didn’t know, it was his job to hire people who could find them for him.  He was very good at his job.  

When he had first joined the Secret Service Bureau the government had not known how to use the skills that his fellow agents had.  There had been bungling and agents lost by bad intelligence control.  These days, the Home Office and other departments knew not to stick their fingers into Bureau operations, but as proven by Baelish’s presence, the government couldn’t help but try to help.  Varys wondered if they knew what creature they had in Peter Baelish, esquire.  He wasn’t like other lackeys.  It would be amusing to watch his progress.

And then there was the problem of Miss Melisandre Leroux.  He searched his memory for every detail, every passing rumour he had heard of the red lady.

She didn’t take their invitation, and Varys wondered if she was perhaps innocent of deception.  But no, her back had stiffened at Baelish’s words, almost imperceptibly, but that was another thing that Varys was trained to see.  While she may not have intended a meeting, her close presence precipitated it.  She was smart though.  It was better to wait it out, make the other party take the initiative.  Likely she was as interested in confrontation as he was.  Which was to say, not at all.

He rolled his eyes at Baelish in mock dismay before rising from his seat.  It fell to the eunuch to be the gentleman in this situation.  ”Madamoiselle Leroux, voulez-vous joindre à nous, s’il vous plait?” (“Miss Leroux, would you join us please?”)

(OOC: Sorry for 3 things:

1 for god-moding your back stiffening, Melisandre.  I can take it out if you hate it. Varys sees all, but since you didn’t put anything like that in, I vacillated on including it.

2 for everyone for my poor French.  It’s a combination of Canadian schooling and Google.

3 for such a short and late update on this thread.)

(Source: agentvarys)

missleroux:

pbaelish-esq:

Peter glanced at the agent, wondering what he knew. His name and origins were undoubtedly caught in his net, but that was a story the clerk was willing to sacrifice. 

“Communication would suggest that both parties are participatory.” Peter replied, inhaling deeply.  He didn’t mind that Varys didn’t smoke, but the fact that he taken a cigarette meant Peter could at least be owed a small favour. “I write to Lady Stark but I receive no replies. The only idea I have that she reads my words at all is through my correspondence with her sister, Jon Arryn’s widow. Though, I suppose you know all about that: playing certain cards and expecting a strange hand to be dealt back.” 

A Bosnian student buys a sandwich, and the young men of England go to war. 

Pursing the cigarette between his fingers, he ran the pad of his thumb across his chapped lips again, recalling Lysa’s telegrams. The form did so fit her sharp way of speaking. 

The smoke had cleared again, so he gave Varys a little more, thankful that he had something to shut his lips around when he was done to keep the information to himself. Besides, if he could make Varys beg for information, the day might still start to feel enjoyable.

“Major Stark is to be transferred to London. The Office has plans for him when the call goes out. I pray you have some little birds flying south for the season.”

As the door swung closed behind her, Melisandre paused for a minute, to gave her eyes time to adjust to the darker interior of the establishment. She didn’t expect to see anyone she knew here - which was part of the appeal; she wasn’t looking to see and be seen, only to get a drink and rest her feet for a while - but she had always liked to know who was in a room before she crossed it, and her time in London had only reinforced the habit.

But as she glanced around the room, her gaze fell on two men sitting in a corner, and for a moment, she didn’t know whether to cheer or sigh. She recognized them, of course, though she could hardly claim she knew them: Peter Baelish - war office - to whom she had been briefly introduced at some social event, though she doubted he would remember her, and Varys Halford - secret service - who she recognized only from photographs. Both important men, particularly in the intelligence community, and both men Melisandre very much intended to get close to.

So much for relaxing with a drink, then.

This was going to be tricky - she couldn’t simply walk up and sit down, of course, but she had to make sure she was in a position to speak to them - or at least listen in on their conversation, but that would be difficult in its own right. Melisandre glanced around the room once more, and finally strolled over a table close to the bar; it was close enough that she could hear their conversation if she tried, and positioned so that they would have to walk past her to get to the door. She could pretend to notice them then, but in the meantime, she might as well have that drink. 

The front entrance had been crossed several times in the few minutes Baelish had been sitting at the table.  Varys had made a note of each man that entered and left, and where each had sat.  Then, a striking young woman, dressed in red, entered the room.  She could not be disguised and Varys doubted that she even wanted to.

Melisandre Leroux.  There were reams of paper with her name, picture and suspected activities at the Bureau office.  No proof, though.  Not yet.  He surreptitiously watched her sit down at the bar close to his table in the corner.  Her presence could mean nothing, but he might need to cut the pleasantries short.

“Major Stark is to be transferred to London. The Office has plans for him when the call goes out. I pray you have some little birds flying south for the season.”

He gave Baelish a patronizing smile as he replied lightly.  ”I am flattered that you would be concerned for my friends.  Rest assured, though preparations for war grow daily, the situation here is well under control.  Of course, with this horrid war, we need our best fighting men.  It is only natural that Major Stark would be called to his duty.  I know that the honorable gentleman is a true patriot and would not desert his country in their time of need.  I believe his lady wife will be making her way to London, to stay at her dear sister’s home while the Major is away.  Winter Hall must be so lonesome with the family in the south.”

He wondered if Peter would admit his plans to him but doubted it, at least not here and now.  They were nothing close to friends, and if Peter was smart he would only brag when the result was assured.  That gave Varys time to continue his own investigations.  Plots within plots, a game within a game.  It was refreshing.  He lowered his voice.  ”I see more than one familiar face in this bar, Peter.  A coincidence maybe, or this meeting may be compromised.  If the latter, perhaps you should share the orders from your superiors and be on your way?”

(Source: agentvarys)

pbaelish-esq:

Peter slid into the seat adjacent and lit the cigarette before he spoke again. He gestured the case towards Varys, offering him one, and let the blue spirals of smoke waft up to the ceiling before he acknowledged that his companion had mentioned superiors. 

“The government’s work never ends,” he said, cooly (and with Europe’s jaws yawping as they were, it was unlikely that anyone would be getting time off particularly soon). There were still a few stains of Galway in his voice, and he strained to loosen them when he next spoke. “How have you been, Varys? Trained the birds to feed from your hand yet?”

He had a mind for a few more ornithological feathers for Varys’ cap, but that was all to come. He leaned back in his seat and smoked a little more, letting eyes moved across the bar horizon, wondering who these other men were and what they might call their purposes. 

Varys accepted the thin cigarette from the shiny case proffered, but did not light it.  Smoking was not his vice, but he made a point not to decline anything offered to him.  Information, simple courtesies, friendship, anything that was freely given was of worth to the agent.

“Yes, and sing on command too.” He replied with a smile.  The problem with most men was that they relied on their status, wealth or position.  Baelish had been born without those things, Varys had fallen into the hardest of times after his injury and so both had experienced life on the bottom and upper class.  This meant that the men, so different in appearance and demeanor, understood each other very well.  And that meant they knew not to trust each other.

“I understand you are in communication with the Lady Catelyn Stark, despite your years apart.  I wonder how her husband feels about the correspondence?”  The question was rhetorical.  They both knew Stark’s opinion of Baelish.  ”I do hope you do not come to harm, opening such an old wound.”

(Source: agentvarys, via pbaelish-esq-deactivated2012041)

pbaelish-esq:

agentvarys:

A waiter brought his drink.  Varys paid immediately with a five pound note, and a small slip of paper found its way into his hand when he received his change.  He placed the change in his jacket pocket, but moved the note to an inner pocket in his vest.  He would read it later, then burn the evidence.  Varys was nothing if not careful.

He sat in the darkest corner of the room, though at only four in the afternoon was not very dark at all.  His back was to the wall and he could see both the front entrance and the door to the kitchens and staff area.  The employees were readying themselves for the evening rush.  Soon there would be a steady stream of workers entering the bar for a drink and male companionship before heading home to the wife and dinner.  These precautions had become a habit to the agent and with war on the horizon they would only become more necessary.

His rye sat on the table before him, untouched as he considered the coming war.  Things were ramping up and at the Bureau C was quite anxious.  Most agents were in the field, some already in France and Germany, but Varys remained in England.  He wondered what his superiors had planned for him.

Peter paused outside the establishment, running his thumb across chapped, bitten lips. It was a musty, forgettable sort of place, of course. There seemed to be a business in drawing up missable businesses so that a certain sort could drink in peace. There was a bright blue sky hanging over London that day, but he could smell the rain coming in the air. Naturally, he thought, tasting the irony in his teeth.  

He pushed through the door and into the gloom, letting the musk of cigarettes and barley bleed into his bones - like coming home. (Though not truly, much as the drones might think, because home was fresh grass and alabaster walls always. Not his home, not just yet.)

He ordered a whiskey and water at the bar and fixed a cigarette from his silver book (twelve pounds in Harrods) between his lips. Before he had a moment to light it, he saw Varys Halford’s pale, round face across the room.

The soles of Peter’s leather shoes (twenty-five pounds in Saint John’s Wood) stuck a little on the bar floor as he strode across the room, running the code phrase over in his head. The same one they had used the two or three times previously when they had met in similar circumstances to unite covert and overt governmental arms. He was sure there would be more meetings - many more. The Archduke was dead and anyone who cared to pay attention would see the bear trap of Europe snapping a mile away. 

He felt safe amongst bottom-feeders, spies and snitches the Office employed to run errands; people whose testicles he had government permission to crush in the name of King and Country if it came to it. But that was not quite possible with Varys, he thought with a grin tucked into his cheek as he removed his hat (seven pounds) and pressed it to his chest. There was no newspaper in sight across the table surface. 

“My good man, could I trouble you for the racing pages?”

He saw the dapper man approach, and Varys sighed inwardly at poor Brown.  The man was ever working to appear as more than what he was.  Having long ago accepted his own fate, Varys had little patience for men that pretended.  He had to admit that the stylish man very much looked the part he played and he did not begrudge his success.  Peter Baelish had done well in his years in the government.

“My good man, could I trouble you for the racing pages?”

An official visit then.  Varys surrendered the idea that he would receive a moment’s peace until at least Christmas.  The war would be won, they said, by then.  Of course, from the information he had collected it would take much longer.  He resigned himself to the fact that it could be years before he would be free to have a private drink in a bar, from which he planned to wage his own little war in the fledgling arena of the intelligence world.

“It was a lock for Old Rosebud, I hope you didn’t bet on another.”  Varys gestured to Baelish to sit as he responded with the appropriate response to the code.  He would have to start carrying a paper with him at all times of day.  Wars were so inconveniencing. “Please take a seat.  It is so nice to see you again.  I so rarely have a chance to meet my old friends these days.  Things must be very busy at your offices as well.  Your superiors are making you work after hours I see?”

(via pbaelish-esq-deactivated2012041)

A waiter brought his drink.  Varys paid immediately with a five pound note, and a small slip of paper found its way into his hand when he received his change.  He placed the change in his jacket pocket, but moved the note to an inner pocket in his vest.  He would read it later, then burn the evidence.  Varys was nothing if not careful.

He sat in the darkest corner of the room, though at only four in the afternoon was not very dark at all.  His back was to the wall and he could see both the front entrance and the door to the kitchens and staff area.  The employees were readying themselves for the evening rush.  Soon there would be a steady stream of workers entering the bar for a drink and male companionship before heading home to the wife and dinner.  These precautions had become a habit to the agent and with war on the horizon they would only become more necessary.

His rye sat on the table before him, untouched as he considered the coming war.  Things were ramping up and at the Bureau C was quite anxious.  Most agents were in the field, some already in France and Germany, but Varys remained in England.  He wondered what his superiors had planned for him.

I am: Melissa, thespidervarys, agentvarys

I play: Varys

Timezone: EST

How I can be reached: ask, submit, aim (thespidervarys)

Personal tumblr: girlandherbooks

Answer The Call is an AU [Alternate Universe] Roleplay based on George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire. The setting is London, 1914. The country is on the brink of WWI. Young men will go off to war. Mothers and wives will remain behind with their whispered prayers. The world is changing…

Any of the characters in Martin’s series are welcome. And character bios are completely up to the player. So what are you waiting for? Will you answer the call? Enlist today.