Tyrion waved at the flagon, frowning.
Varys filled a cup. "Ah. Sweet as summer." He took another sip. "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 nervously. 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 rankled, to sit here and make a mummer's show of justice by punishing the sorry likes of Janos Slynt and Allar Deem, while his sister continued on her savage course.