The Provenance || Jon Snow | Game of Thrones

1.07

He wants to say he is surprised to find Petyr Baelish standing in the center of the throne room, eyes pointed solely upon the Iron Throne like a statue of bygone kings and weary sculptors. But, more often than not, the Spider is privy to the inner workings of the brilliant mind of Littlefinger--if not through his own observations, then through those of a little bird. Indeed, Varys is the only true competitor to the vile whoremonger of King's Landing and Master of Coin--the only one who can fend him off from decimating their small game of chess. But even then, Varys cannot help giving the man some credit for his utter genius and innovative spirit--despite his holistic character flaws that make him perhaps the most dangerous player of this game of thrones.

"The first to arrive and the last to leave," the Spider breaks the silence of voices in exchange for the cessation of his footsteps, only a shoulder behind the Master of Coin, "I admire your industry."

Littlefinger turns to him then, eyes scraping off the throne from afar, to turn to the competitor with a sly grin on his wormy features, "You do move quietly."

"We all have our qualities."

"You look a bit lonely today. You should pay a visit to my brothel this evening. First boy is on the house," Baelish makes his first move of this simple little game, knowing Varys will play along knowingly.

The Spider does not waver, "I think you're mistaking business with pleasure."

"Am I? All those birds that whisper in your ear, such pretty little things. Trust me, we accommodate all inclinations."

"Such as your pretty little thing?" Varys asks, knowing from the slight quiver in the other man's brow that the blow was very much successful. He hides his grin.

Baelish avoids the question like a professional, "I'm a purveyor of beauty and discretion, both equally important."

"Though I suppose beauty is a subjective quality, no? Is it true that Ser Marlon of Tumblestone prefers amputees?"

"All desires are valid to a man with a full purse," Littlefinger, ever the businessman, replies.
Varys continues his charade of utter disgust falsified as rumor-mongering, "And I heard the most awful rumor about a certain lord with a taste for fresh cadavers. Must be enormously difficult to accommodate that inclination. The logistics alone...to find beautiful corpses before they rot."

"Strictly speaking, such a thing would not be in accordance with the King's laws."

"Strictly speaking, and strictly speaking, a man cannot court his daughter."

The quiver is visible this time--anger developing across Littlefinger's brow at the Spider's prodding, his tone sharp upon his tongue and Varys's ear, "Tell me, does someone, somewhere, keep your balls in a little box? I've often wondered."

"Do you know, I have no idea where they are? And we had been so close," Varys is fakely forlorn--but jubilant in slight victory--to tell, "But enough about me. How have you been since we last saw each other?"

"Since you last saw me or since I last saw you?" Which is truly the best question.

"Now the last time I saw you, you were talking to the Hand of the King."

"Saw me with your own eyes?" Petyr Baelish asks, knowing this not to be the case. Varys may move quietly, but even he cannot hide like a small child.

"Eyes I own."

"Council business," Petyr Baelish relents, truthful to some extent. "We all have so much to discuss with Ned Stark."