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Petyr Baelish was no stranger to surprises. King’s Landing was a labyrinth of covert dealings and the strange predilections of rulers and government figures; one was prepared for the unexpected around every corner, and he had seen his share and more of such things. When you worked in a brothel, as well, it was common to walk in on the unanticipated sight– in fact, in few places could you regularly come upon more unusual occurrences. Baelish lived his life prepared for whatever he might see, or hear, or encounter at any given moment.
When he stepped into Varys’ quarters in King’s Landing on this particular evening, however, what he saw gave him pause. At first he mistook it for an assassination attempt; the man was sitting slumped on the floor, his back against a table the only thing keeping him somewhat upright. A rather significant amount of blood pooled on the floor at his left side, apparently the result of a wound from the dagger which lay, blade wet and red, near his right hand. Petyr’s eyes automatically scanned the room for any threat– it was unwise to assume that just because Varys had been targeted, he himself was safe– and sensing none, approached and crouched by the man’s side.
From a closer view, however, it became clear that no such outside assailant was to be feared. The gashes– two of them, across the lower part of Varys’ left arm– were quite deep, but the angle of them, and the position of the weapon on the opposite side of his body, fingers still half-touching it, revealed the wound to be inflicted by Varys’ own hand. Carefully Petyr slid the blade away with his foot, out of reach, and then lifted Varys’ left hand delicately from the floor, the slickness of blood coating his own fingers in the process. The bleeding, it seemed, had slowed, but a fair amount still ran faintly from the split skin, and it was possible for him to bleed out if it was not stopped. Casting his eyes about the room again, Baelish retrieved a basin of water and a few cloths from a table near the window, then squatted next to Varys once more.
Varys blinked at Petyr, conscious but only partially so; at the first touch of the wet cloth on his skin, he made a small incoherent sound that could have been an attempt at speech, but Petyr gave an admonishing hum in response– tutted, he thought, how had he become so motherly?– and he fell quiet again, merely watching with half-alert focus as his wounds were tended to. If the action caused him any pain or sting, he gave no indication.
Petyr examined the court gossip as he cleaned the gashes with inexpert but gentle hands. Varys’ eyes were not red, his cheeks not damp, his skin not blotchy– only a bit paler than usual from the blood loss. He had not been crying; this injury was not a result of some fit of hysterics. “Why did you do this?” he asked calmly, evenly– almost casually, but for the edge of seriousness in his voice that betrayed his sincerity.
The Master of Whispers squinted slightly at him, as though he were blurry– which, if Varys were woozy from bloodletting, Petyr supposed he might well be. “What, do you grow faint at the sight of a little blood, Littlefinger?” he spoke in a weak murmur.
“No.” Of course he did not. Even in the somewhat more genteel surroundings of King’s Landing, the people of this land were well acquainted with the sight of blood. They witnessed violence and gore in ostensibly more civilized ways– in the casualties of their jousts and tourneys, in the beheadings of traitors, occasionally in the event of war or ransack or savage. And many came to such a place with the memory of the bloody acts that had been committed to get them there. No, he could very well be strong at the sight of it. “But enough blood is spilled in playing the Game of Thrones as it is. Seems a waste for any man to lose more by his own hand.” He lifted the man’s wrist, examined it, daubed at the wounds again. “Besides, this is hardly a little blood.”
Varys’ half-cleared gaze fell to the floor. His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Oh dear,” he said quietly. “I seem to have caused myself rather more injury than I intended.”
“Indeed,” Littlefinger muttered. With the hand that was holding Varys’ arm steady, he ran his thumb against the palm of the man’s hand, the only brush of unnecessary affection he had allowed himself so far. “I still wait for a reply to my question.”
Varys stared at him. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I find it rather hard to explain, actually. It is not an act in which I engage on a regular basis. Occasionally, I suppose, one simply needs to release the animal which claws at one inside.”
Petyr furrowed his brow. “And on what occasions does this animal bare its claws, pray tell?”
“Oh, hardly ever,” Varys said. He frowned. “Or perhaps always. I’m not quite sure.” His words were slurring a little. Petyr finished cleaning the area around the gash and wrapped another cloth around it, pressing down firmly with his hand to staunch the bleeding; Varys hissed at the sharp pain but made no protest. “It is difficult to tell where the beasts lurk within, when one is surrounded by so many from the outside. I am hardly aware of it until it strikes, I’m afraid.”
“How does this creature attack, if I may ask?” Petyr asked, as much to keep his dazed friend talking as to satisfy his own curiosities and concerns. He kept his eyes on the wound and his voice easy, adopting the metaphor of the animal that the court gossip had used so ably to describe his inner demons. “In melancholy? In anger, turning you against yourself? In pain?”
“Quite the opposite, in fact.” Varys’ voice had cleared a little, marginally more alert. “The absence of all of those things. A numbness, the sense of being blind to myself. I suppose the lack of pain is why I seek to cause it.” He moved the affected arm in a gesture of indication, and winced at the way it jarred his already sensitive limb.
“Be still,” Petyr admonished. The explanation made sense. As the Master of Whispers, Varys’ professional success– if not his very life (and how closely indeed those two were tied, in King’s Landing)– depended on his alertness, the awareness of his surroundings. If indeed a period of depression resulted in a dulling of the man’s senses, naturally he would do something to sharpen them. A jolt of pain to pull him back to reality, make him more vigilant. A way, perhaps, to punish himself with some infliction of injury, to remind him how many others might do similarly if he were not careful. Looking closely at the arm he still cradled in his own hands, Baelish could now see a few more marks, the scars of lines very sparse and faint. There were not many of them, and they were faded to varying degrees, but each to such an extent that it was clear they were not recent. Varys was not lying when he said this was not a frequent occurrence.
“I am very tired,” Varys murmured. Petyr glanced up, and for the first time saw that fatigue reflected in the other man’s eyes. It was a vulnerability he was not often party to. It felt private, almost intimate.
“You are weak,” he replied, “from the blood you have lost. Do not sleep yet. Stay with me.” He had not meant the last comment to sound as nakedly needy as it did.
Varys’ eyes softened further, and he reached up unsteadily with his unharmed right hand, placing the palm gently against Petyr’s cheek for a few long moments before losing the energy to do so and letting it fall slowly back to his side. “As you wish,” he agreed quietly, allowing his head to rest against the table once again. His eyes went half-lidded, but he did not close them, only continued to look at Petyr with something akin to affection in his expression.
Petyr lifted the cloth and scanned the cuts once again. The bleeding had stopped. He cleaned any remaining blood from the area with water; as he did so, he spoke. “This animal,” he said, his voice careful and unusually candid with the need to reassure, “It may be inside you, but it is not you, Varys. You are no such beast.”
Varys looked at him kindly. “Oh, my dear man,” he said. “Of course not.”
The air felt heavy with the coppery stench of blood. Petyr found a salve in the cupboard nearby and dabbed it gently on the wound before wrapping the area tightly in bandaging. The oil would serve to numb the pain and replace it with a more pleasant tingling sensation, and Petyr savored its muted flowery scent, privately hoping the smell would prove calming and relaxing to the injured man as well. He grimaced at the stain on the floor, then futilely mopped up the worst of it with the rest of the cloths, resolving to send a servant up in a few hours to clean what remained. While standing, he opened a window, replacing the odor-heavy air with the fresher breeze from outside. Then he came back to Varys’ side. “Do you feel as though you could stand, with my aid?”
He received an affirmative nod from Varys, and taking his arm, helped to hoist him to his feet, as one would an elderly man who cannot stand on his own. Varys clutched at him as he shuffled unsteadily toward the bed, one hand clasping Petyr’s fingers, the other wrapped tightly around his arm. They made their way slowly across the room, and Varys let himself be lowered onto the bed, although Petyr ensured he remained in a sitting position. “Your robes have not escaped unstained, I’m afraid,” he informed Varys, unsure if the man had even noticed. “Would you prefer to change into clean ones?”
Varys examined the not-unsizable residue of blood across the left side of his robes with a vague distaste. “Please,” he said. Petyr retrieved other robes, more suited for rest, from the wardrobe and helped Varys out of his soiled ones and into the others, touching him delicately for fear of disturbing his injuries (and also, a bit, out of respect for his modesty). He looked more comfortable in fresher clothes, and satisfied, Petyr helped him to lie down on the bed.
“Will you be lying with me, then?” Varys asked. Petyr stared at him, slightly startled and hoping he was concealing it well; for a moment he thought Varys was inquiring whether he intended to lie with him carnally. It would not be the first time they had found themselves in such a situation, but this hardly seemed the opportunity for such a proposition to be made, and surely Varys did not think he intended to take advantage? But a glance at his expression showed no such thing, and with relief Baelish realized that Varys had only meant to ask if he was planning to accompany him to bed, perhaps as a comfort.
“If you wish it,” Petyr said, finding the idea not unwelcome. “I will not insist, if you would prefer I do not.”
Varys hummed in acknowledgment. “Thank you,” he said. “I would rather lie alone, I think. But if I may ask, would you stay nearby? Your presence is most welcome, though perhaps not needed quite so immediately.” Varys’ voice became a small, contented purr at the end of that statement, and Petyr realized that without noticing, he had begun to run his fingers over the other man’s shoulder and arm, an unconscious gesture of affection and reassurance. He paused the motion, but did not remove the tips of his fingers.
“Of course,” he said. He made to pull away, to stand, but at the last moment Varys reached back and placed his hand firmly over Petyr’s own, the brief contact a gesture of thanks. On impulse Petyr leaned down and pressed a kiss, very lightly, to the bare crown of the man’s head, and heard a gentle exhale accompany it. It was easy to forget, in the lulls when their friendship contained no physical dimension, how much Varys enjoyed and treasured such intimacies. He wanted to let the man sleep, but one other thing tugged at his mind. “There are ways,” he said carefully, “to cause pain without damaging oneself. To punish, but not at the expense of pleasure. Many do such things. There is no shame in it.” In fact, he himself was familiar with the many ways in which this could be done. The brothel was a prime place to witness the ways in which a person could be restrained and weakened and hurt for pleasurable ends, and he was not unpracticed in such things himself, although they were not what he usually preferred for his own pleasure.
Varys murmured, “Tricks of the whorehouse, I suppose?” His words seemed flippant on the surface, but his voice was without condescension or vitriol, and Baelish knew him to be teasing.
“Tricks, perhaps, but effective ones,” he said. “Something to consider, the next time you feel claws digging too deep.”
“And would you be the one to provide such ministrations? Or would you send another to deliver them?”
Petyr paused, knowing what Varys was asking. “Either,” he finally offered. “Whichever would suffice.”
Varys gave a slight smile, his eyes mostly closed. “I will bear it in mind,” he agreed. “Thank you.”
He was well on his way to unconsciousness already, the blood loss combined with the rest of his pains exhausting him. Petyr stayed a moment longer on the bed, indulging himself in the act of watching the man drift off from so close a proximity. Then he stood, taking a place at a chair not far from the bedside, borrowing some paper from Varys’ desk to begin working through a business matter which required his attention. The sounds from outdoors mingled with Varys’ even, heavy breaths on the bed, lulling him into a rare sense of security. It would not last forever, he knew; Varys would awake, some time later, and they would resume their court business as though nothing had happened, apart from whatever resulted from the perceptible shift of their relationship this moment had caused. The stain would be cleaned or covered, and things would return to normal. They would watch their own backs, ever vigilant, once again.
But Varys was not awake yet. And so Petyr Baelish sighed, contented, and waited.