#ashesri

His chest ached, he realized, that old throb he’d thought he’d forgotten. No, that wasn’t right. How could he every try to hide that memory? The one that simmered beneath the surface, where he was covered in cuts and bruises, with the sneering face of Brandon Stark above him. The drink that night had been foul to his seventeen-name-day tongue, for his misery seemed as bottomless as the bottles, piled high, on the floor, rolling and shattering across the stones of the Great Hall. It was the burn of tears, running along his cheeks, to the corners of his mouth, bitter on his tongue. It was the burn of rage for what he could not change, from the strength of his build, to the deftness of his strike. It was the burn of regret and hatred, for self and all around him, but not her. Never her.

First to Brandon, then to Eddard, handed away ten thousand miles from him. From a man she loved, to the one she grew to love, far more than she ever had him. He didn’t remember that evening, not really, but he did the events that had led to it. That was enough to leave scars upon his soul, branding him, cutting away everything that was Petyr, and forming him into Lord Baelish.

That didn’t explain it though.

The thing he held, locked tight behind closed doors, bolted down into the very lowest part of his subconscious. He’d fretted, the first time, in more ways than one… When it had occurred, in the gardens of the Red Keep, among the strangely crimson honeysuckle – Well, he was a new thing. A pretty lad with flouncing, dark curls, and keen eyes. Though that didn’t explain the thing that had festered beneath the surface without him ever knowing.

Petyr paused, realizing he’d lost himself, what he’d even been thinking about, content to flounder but never confront the problem. Because doing so would be admitting it existed, even though it had, quite easily, for the past few decades. But that would give it a name, would involve admitting that it affected him, which was ridiculous… Beta didn’t have heats. Well, not ‘normal’ ones by any stretch of the imagination. They could mate any other, not bound to the same restraints as the other two: Omega and Alpha, but in doing so they existed outside the basic laws. Not an unusual course, Maesters still surmised that about one in ten was born a Beta, so there was nothing wrong with it.

Lacking the nuances of the other two had left the Beta in a strange sort of limbo, where they didn’t mate outside their circles except in fairy tale and song, and since he was very clearly in neither – Cat was not his. But it wasn’t just that, because even though there were recorded stories of Beta mating with Omega, they had never done so with an Alpha. That would be ridiculous, their scents didn’t match, and would ultimately lead to infidelity on the stronger species’ part…

Which didn’t explain why, after weeks of ignoring it, after arriving in King’s Landing to learn The Game he had found them – two rows of black marks, circular, and perfect a little off in its symmetry against his shoulder blade. Petyr had shoved a tunic over his head, dressed for the day with his heart in his throat, and palms sweating. He knew what it was, but denied it… Denied it until the day he woke up with a weeping erection, but every time he touched it he thought he might die. It ached, yet not in a way he could satisfy, and he had bucked helplessly against the sheets. It lasted all day, he turned everyone away who came to the door, knocking worriedly, while he cowered on his bed.

Finally, with the hour of the wolf at hand, he had morbidly, with a sort of ill fascination, tried a different tactic. His fingers were small, lithe, better for holding a pen than a blade, but they were deft enough to curl inside him. He came in seconds, whimpering, and burying his face into his pillow to bite back a scream. It happened all the next day as well, where he feigned illness yet again, but in truth couldn’t stop twisting his digits inside of himself. Release after release, till the bedding was filthy with his essence, sweat, and saliva. The day after, when the flames of need had deserted him, left cold embers in his belly… He realized.

Petyr had scrambled, starting the fire in the hearth with shaking, disgusting hands, and shoved the sheets into the hungry maw without a second thought. He’d scrubbed himself till his skin was red and raw, wishing to be out of it, to be anyone else, and that he might be able to reach behind – to rub and rub till those hateful black lines were gone. But they weren’t. They stayed. And the burn returned, without fail, every three months. Eventually, through careful planning, and sleight of hand, he managed to procure the reagents to ensure they only ceased to every six months. Though instead of two days, he would be down for four. This played into his ploy well however, the trustworthy, if somewhat prone to sickness, poor son of a lowly lord, with little to hide, and all the friends to be had.

There was always something though… Something cruel and rather twisted at the back of his mind, a smell he couldn’t place, but wanted every time. It was made of musk that smelled of spice and something stronger than wine, oak trees and the fresh bite of cold, early morning mist, and the bitter tang of a fresh fire. Thicker, longer fingers, rougher… Though not for what they did, but for how they felt against him. Sometimes, he thought he might be able to place them, those foreign, lingering touches, but could never find the mind for them.

Now, with the dull, pang he’d tried to forget from his youth, heavy in his chest, he realized he could smell it. Petyr paused mid stride, brow furrowing, eyes widening, and lashed around so quickly the world spun. Gold and red, grey and brown, the flames and tents and smoke and banners mixing into an indiscernible mass as he walked. Then he started to jog, though the very notion of Lord Petyr Baelish jogging amongst a bunch of Northerners was ridiculous, he couldn’t let it go. His heart thundered in his temples, lungs stuttering on the freezing air, because he was there – nearly delirious and terrified that the source would be gone before he made it.

But that was stupid, because though he knew fear, had tasted it time and time again against lions and wolves and stags, he knew how to remain calm in the face of it. Now, now he didn’t know what to do. Because none of them compared to the man at the end, sitting in a stone room, in an alcove unto himself…

“Brynden?” How did he forget himself so easily? There was to be a ‘Ser’ on there, though he seemed to have abandoned any form of decorum. How could he not? For though the other had his back to him, he was framed by firelight, and still as tall and strong backed as he remembered, even sitting as he was. The figure paused, head turning, just ever so slightly, and then he rose, suddenly, like the crest of a coming ocean wave.

The Blackfish faced him rapidly, lacking the usual mail and plate he wore, wearing only a loose, dark tunic about his shoulders. It hung upon his form, down over his waist, somewhat over the thick leather gloves upon his hands. There was a split at the collar of the shirt, leading down the middle of his chest, exposing the lean planes of muscles that still existed there. His hair had finally, completely faded, weather beaten and made of ash, with the black of soot at his roots. It was bushed now, as it usually was when completely dry, and wilder than ever about his face, a few, stray strands dusting his brow and temples. Petyr thought he would look older, but it appeared the years had done something, or perhaps, nothing at all to him. Then again, maybe his memory was fuzzy. He didn’t remember him being that tall, a full head over him, and then some…

“Petyr Baelish,” he tried to deny the twitch that went down his shoulders at that, the other man’s lips quirked at the corners. “Half way expected you ta still be snuggling up to those lions,” he could hear the sneer in his voice, hands twisting the gloves off, and Petyr contained the bristling he could feel on his spine. Brynden had a way of doing that, making you feel small, well… smaller, in just about every way, berating like a father, but still further than one had any right to be.

Petyr opened his arms, smiling softly. “We all do what we have to, to survive… You taught us that.” He gestured to him, offhandedly, though the implication underneath did not escape the Blackfish’s notice. Nothing did. His Tully blue looked darker in the gloom, the fire behind him turning the rivers into the first, churning waves before the maelstrom struck.