Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

275 AC

Whilst Leofric Reyne's boots echoed through the sandstone corridors, a haunting melody drifted through his mind unbidden.

"Who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?"

Leofric smirked humorlessly beneath the cowl of his cloak. Only a cat of a different coat, masquerading as one of you. His gloved hand ran over the rich doublet - adorned not with a mighty red lion, but a grey stone head with fiery eyes emblazoned on a light green field.

Yet no finery could disguise the lion's blood, the lion's fervor that truly coursed through his veins. No matter how low he might bow or which colors adorned his back, his claws would remain as sharp and resolute as the day he was born amid rising water.

The etiquette games and hollow status posturing of craven lords held no sway over Leofric. In his fourteen years, he'd learned that true pedigree came edged in steel, not inked on moldering parchments. The same insolent defiance that the cold lyrics condemned burned within him -- the very flame that would reignite his family's faded glory.

As he strode into Riverrun's cavernous great hall, Leofric threw back his hood, revealing his dark blonde locks. His pale green eyes met Lord Hoster Tully's assessing gaze.

"Ah, young Petyr, I assume," Hoster said at last, a thin smile cracking his lips. "Welcome to my halls, lad. Though I must admit I did not expect you for some time yet."

Leofric inclined his head with practiced deference, though his eyes betrayed the turmoil churning beneath. "Thank you, my lord. My travels were swifter than anticipated."

Hoster Tully's gaze lingered, probing yet seemingly satisfied. "No matter," he said with a dismissive wave. "You're here now, and that's what matters. Come, join us for supper - I'm sure the road was long."

Leofric nodded and moved in step with the Lord of Riverrun. As they approached the high table, his thoughts turned to the horrific scene that had set these events in motion: his discovery of the lifeless body of Petyr Baelish, slaughtered by bandits along the road, surrounded by his pitiful men-at-arms, their dead faces frozen in shock and despair.

Assuming the boy's identity had been a desperate gambit, but one Leofric deemed necessary. With his own family destroyed, their lands seized, donning Petyr's guise was a path to survival and the revival of his house. Though the deception made his stomach churn, he would play the part flawlessly.

Quickly taking a seat beside the Tully children, Leofric steeled himself the chilling words echoing again like a sinister prophecy in his mind:

"In a coat of gold or a coat of red,

a lion still has claws"

As the evening unfolded, the hall was filled with the clatter of silverware and the murmur of conversation. Plates were laden with hearty fare - roasted fowl, steaming bowls of stew, and crusty loaves of bread. The Tullys spared no expense in their hospitality, ensuring their guests wanted for nothing.

A tiny voice piped up from his side. "Are you going to be a knight, Petyr? Father says I have to start training soon!"

Leofric glanced down to see Edmure, Hoster's eight-year-old heir, staring up at him with unabashed wonder. Despite the madness of his situation, Leofric felt his guard slip ever so slightly at the boy's innocent entreaty.

"Perhaps one day, Edmure," he replied with a small smile. "If I prove myself worthy."

From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Hoster regarding him appraisingly. Doubtlessly weighing the truth of his words against the half-formed doubts taking shape.

Then the moment passed as young Edmure tugged eagerly at his sleeve once more.

"Will you train with me, Petyr? Please?" The boy's eyes positively danced with hope.

"Of course, young lord. I would be most honored..."

He smiled and made his conversational niceties as the night went on.

The next morning, Leofric found himself in Riverrun's expansive library, rows of leather-bound tomes surrounding him. He ran a hand along the spines, daydreaming about their possible contents.

"Lord Petyr?" A young voice broke his reverie. He turned to see little Lysa Tully hovering in the doorway, her chestnut curls framing a cherubic face. An ugly cat trailed at her heels.

"My lady." Leofric inclined his head respectfully. "Please, come in."

Lysa scampered in, her blue skirts swishing. The matted feline followed close behind, weaving between her legs. "Might I join you?"

"Of course." Leofric pulled out a chair for her at one of the heavy oak tables. "I would be honored by your company, Lady Lysa."

The girl beamed and clambered into the seat, the ugly cat leaping into her lap. "This is Scruffy," she said, stroking its knotted fur. "He's the greatest knight of all the Riverlands!"

Leofric couldn't help but smile at her childish fancy. "I can well imagine, my lady."

Lysa giggled, delighted at having captured his interest. "Will you read to us, Lord Petyr? From one of these big books?"

He paused, thrown by the innocent request. But one look at her expectant face had him acquiescing. "If that is your desire, Lady Lysa."

Selecting a heavy tome, he cracked open the aged spine, putting on a show of tracing the pages with his finger. The scent of musty parchment wafted up, but his eyes remained unfocused. Still, he began to spin gallant tales, his voice adopting a false cadence. Lysa was an enraptured audience, hanging on every word of the fanciful stories he wove.

At least until the ugly feline locked eyes with him - pale avaricous disks of yellow regarding him balefully from its matted face.

A gentle clearing of a throat broke the spell. Leofric glanced up to see Catelyn Tully framed in the library's doorway, her auburn hair like burnished copper.

"There you are," she chided her younger sister with a warm smile. "I might have known I'd find you borrowing poor Petyr away on his first day."

Lysa looked up, her expression crestfallen at the interruption. "But Cat, he's telling me amazing stories about knights!"

"Is he now?" Catelyn's eyes danced with amusement as she glided into the room, her skirts whispering against the rushes. "Well, far be it from me to interrupt such an important task."

She settled gracefully into another chair, regarding Leofric with open curiosity. Up close, he could see she was likely Lysa's elder by only a few years, yet carrying herself with a poise and confidence well beyond her age.

"Please, don't stop on my account, Baelish," she said politely. "I should very much like to hear one of these wildly improbable fables myself."

Her tone held a note of gentle teasing, as if she took it for granted that Leofric was merely indulging her little sister's fancies. He felt a curious urge to rise to the challenge, to impress this girl who seemed so assured of her own burgeoning maturity.

Clearing his throat, he wove an epic tale of Ser Byron Swann's famous joust against the intimidating Arryk Lonmouth of the Kingsguard. He poured all his energy into bringing alive every thunderous charge, the crack of lances, the rattle of armor.

By the time he reached the climactic tilt where Ser Swann unseated the formidable Lonmouth, Lysa was enraptured, her eyes shining. But it was Catelyn's reaction that most gratified him.

The young girl's eyes had gone wide, her lips parted in an expression of unabashed wonderment. For those few moments, the veil of her precocious knowingness had fallen away, leaving only the innocent fascination of a child swept up in a grand adventure.

As Leofric described the throng of smallfolk roaring their approval, Catelyn's hands began applauding seemingly of their own accord. Her face flushed becomingly when she realized, but the bright smile remained.

Later as he and Edmure passed through the arched gatehouse into the cramped training ground, Leofric's gaze was immediately drawn to the quintain dummy in the corner. Its leather arms were battered and stuffing leaked from a dozen holes - mute testament to the intensity of drills it had endured.

"Well, well, if it isn't our little lordling."

The gruff voice belonged to Riverrun's master-at-arms, Ser Desmond Graves. The grizzled knight appraised them from beneath a formidable brow, his weathered face creased into a perpetual scowl.

"And I see you've dragged our new guest into your childish games, Edmure." Ser Desmond spared Leofric a curt nod. "Ser Petyr."

Leofric inclined his head respectfully. "Just Petyr, for now, ser. Though I hope to prove myself worthy of the title one day."

Ser Desmond grunted, seemingly unimpressed by the courtly rejoinder. "We'll see about that, boy. Grabbed yourself some practice swords, I see."

He nodded at the pair of blunt wooden blades Edmure lugged along, his skinny arms straining under their weight. The boy beamed up at the master-at-arms.

"Petyr's going to show me how to fight, Ser Desmond! Will you watch?"

"Aye, I'll watch." Ser Desmond's mouth twisted wryly. "Could be I'll learn a thing or two about juggling, the way you flail about."

Edmure's face fell momentarily before brightening. "You'll see, Ser Desmond! I'm going to be a proper knight."

"Is that so?" The master-at-arms appraised Leofric again with those hard eyes. "We'll see what metal this one's made of, then."

Swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat, Leofric accepted one of the blunted swords from Edmure, feeling its comforting heft in his hand. He may have been playing at false identities, but the skills and disciplines trained into him since birth remained very real.

Backing onto the packed dirt of the practice ring, Leofric fell into a classic batters stance. He held the blunt sword extended before him, angling his body into a side-facing guard position as he'd been taught.

"Like this, Edmure," he instructed calmly. "You always want to keep your dominant side facing your opponent. Present him with as slim a target as possible."

The boy struggled to mimic Leofric's stance, his gangly limbs splaying at awkward angles. Ser Desmond tsked from the sidelines.

"You guard too wide, Edmure. You'll just tire yourself out wavering about like that." His eyes bored into Leofric. "Well, Baelish? Are you going to show him the way of it, or are we waiting for the grass to shrivel up and die?"

Stifling his annoyance, Leofric focused on Edmure once more. "Like this," he repeated, widening his own stance into a textbook pudic grounded position.

He demonstrated a basic open stance, hammer, wing, and broken stances to the enraptured boy. All the while, Ser Desmond offered the occasional sarcastic commentary.

"Good foot there, Edmure. If you're trying to catch a chill and shake out of your boots..."

Ignoring the japes, Leofric began drilling Edmure through a basic pattern sequence - an overhand strike, backhand, sottoposta undercut. Slowly at first, he called out each step with a measured cadence while the boy struggled to keep up.

"Strike...break away...rebound strike..."

Ser Desmond snorted gruffly. "Well, at least you're moving your feet forward...sometimes. Your blows still look like you're swatting flies, though."

Edmure flushed at the criticism, his movements growing more frantic and uncoordinated. But Leofric refused to let him break cadence. He kept the pattern steady, marking every step with a crisp command.

"Cut...Turn away...Meet the blade...rebound...Turn back...And cut!"

On and on they cycled through the methodical, soothing rhythm. Edmure panted, his face shining with exertion. But the precision of his movements slowly improved, the wild flailing smoothing into something approaching proper form.

Ser Desmond fell into a grudging silence, his flinty gaze appraising. At length he rumbled, "Not bad...for a boy swinging a stick."

The slightest hint of praise set Edmure beaming. He faltered ever so slightly, only for Leofric's next clipped command to have him moving anew.

"Steady now...Cut...Break away..."

For one peaceful moment, the burdens of his dire circumstances lifted from Leofric's shoulders. No deceptions, no turmoil - only the familiar dance of sword practice, imparting the techniques that had first ignited his passion for swordplay.

He lost himself in the simple rhythms, methodically correcting his young charge's stances and strikes. All with the phantom whispers of his childhood masters echoing through his mind, searing their timeless disciplines into his bones.

So entrancing was the ritual that Leofric barely registered Ser Desmond's parting grumble as the master-at-arms stomped off: "I'll be damned if that Baelish brat doesn't bear watching..."

At length, Edmure collapsed to the ground in an exhausted but triumphant heap.

"I did it!" he panted, grinning up at Leofric in adoration. "Did you see me, Petyr? Did I look like a proper knight?"

Despite himself, Leofric couldn't help but smile back at the earnest, sweat-streaked face. For just a few fleeting moments, he'd managed to forget his burdens and pour his entire being into something honest and true.

"You looked every inch the gallant warrior, my lord," he said sincerely. Edmure's chest puffed out with pride at the praise.

A servant approached Leofric as he made his way from the practice yards, still riding the high of imparting the sword disciplines.

"Beg pardon, m'lord," the man said with a deferential bob of his head. "Lord Tully has requested your presence in his solar."

Leofric felt his blood chill at the summons. Had his masquerade been seen through at last? He pushed the thought aside, nodding curtly. "Of course. Lead on."

The servant guided him through Riverrun's winding corridors and up a cramped spiral stair tucked away behind a heavy arras. At the top, they emerged onto a covered rampart walk, open to the sultry dusk air.

The smell of damp stone and faint green tang of the Tumblestone's churning rapids washed over Leofric. For a fleeting instant he was transported back to those harsh early years spent hiding in that nameless peasant village, accompanied only by the maid who had smuggled him to safety as a babe.

With a pang, he shoved the wistful recollections aside, turning his mind to the task at hand as the servant rapped on a heavy oaken door.

"Enter," came Hoster Tully's muffled bark.

The servant swept the door wide, ushering Leofric into the Lord of Riverrun's private solar. The circular chamber was a warm, book-lined space suffused with the buttery glow of candle banks.

Swaybacked leather chairs surrounded an intricately-carved stone hearth where an low fire crackled, casting wavering shadows. The scents of woodsmoke and melting tallow mingled with the pervasive musty redolence of ancient vellum.

Hoster himself stood gazing out the room's lone arched window, an austere silhouette against the fiery backdrop of the setting sun. At the servant's deferential announcement, he turned, pale eyes assessing Leofric from beneath hooded brows.

"Thank you, that will be all," he dismissed the man with a curt gesture. "Leave us."

As the door clicked shut behind the departing servant, Leofric felt his spine stiffen almost against his will, every sense heightening in anticipation of the unmasking to come.

To his surprise, Hoster did not emerge with immediate accusations or demands for truth. Instead, the Lord of Riverrun simply regarded him in silence for several long, stretching moments.

At last, he let out a measured exhalation, turning to gaze out over the crimson-streaked rapids once more.

"You've been putting my children through their paces in the practice yards, I'm told." His voice was deceptively mild, giving no hint to his thoughts.

Leofric swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat. "Yes, my lord. Young Edmure was keen to begin his training. I only meant to oblige him."

"Of course, of course." Hoster made a dismissive gesture, seemingly unconcerned.

Hoster chuckled, a rare sound. "Just like me at that age. Always eager to prove himself a mighty warrior with that wooden sword of his."

The wistful reminiscence caught Leofric off guard.

"In truth, the lad could do worse for a tutor than one of Baelish's get."

He let the apparent compliment linger for a beat before continuing.

"Though I'll admit, you are... much different than than your father. More deliberate. Kinder, even."

At that, Hoster's mouth tightened fractionally. "Perhaps that is for the best. Your father was brash to a fault. His..."

He searched for a diplomatic phrasing, eventually settling on, "unnecessary bravado and thirst for glory cost many lives during the War of the Ninepenny Kings."

Hoster's pale eyes bored into Leofric. "Sometimes, a cooler head and more reasoned approach is preferable to bravado."

The unspoken question seemed to hang in the air between them.

At last, he settled on a subdued, "I shall endeavor to take your words to heart, my lord. A measured approach can often outmatch a brash one in the end."

The barest hint of a smile seemed to play across Hoster's craggy features at that. He inclined his head ever so slightly.

"See that you do, Petyr. See that you do."

When Leofric took his leave, chaos swirled in his mind. But one thought predominated above all others: For now, the game remained afoot. And he was one move ahead.

He soon retired to his new chambers, the weight of the day's events heavy upon him. Stripping off the borrowed finery, he cast aside the facade of Petyr Baelish like a discarded cloak. Alone in the dim candlelight, he allowed himself a moment of vulnerability, a rare luxury in the intricate dance of deception he found himself entangled in.

With a heavy sigh, Leofric sank onto the edge of the ornately carved bed, its velvet coverlet a far cry from the rough pallets of his youth. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, the weight of responsibility settling upon his shoulders like a leaden mantle.

As exhaustion threatened to drag him into the embrace of sleep, his mind churned with the ceaseless whirlwind of plots and schemes. The precarious balance of his lie hung by a thread, each encounter, each interaction a potential unraveling of the delicate web he had spun.

Chapter Text

"I am a cage, in search of a bird."

- Franz Kafka, In the Penal Colony

The days following his conversation with Lord Hoster passed in a careful rhythm of deception and adaptation. Leofric had only recently settled into the role of Petyr Baelish, and each morning brought fresh challenges to his masquerade. The servants were still growing accustomed to his presence, the Tully children were slowly accepting him as part of their daily routine, and even the stern Maester Vyman seemed cautiously satisfied with his conduct—though Leofric made certain to keep his interactions with the learned man brief and practical.

The greatest threat to his deception remained his inability to read. In a castle where even minor lords were expected to be literate, Leofric had become masterful at avoiding situations that would expose his ignorance. When presented with documents, he would claim his eyes were tired from training. When asked to review correspondence, he would defer to "Lord Hoster's superior judgment." So far, his excuses had held, but he knew his luck couldn't last forever.

Yet beneath the veneer of acceptance, Leofric sensed undercurrents of scrutiny. The castle's household knights exchanged meaningful glances when they thought he wasn't watching. Most unsettling of all was the way Lord Hoster would occasionally pause mid-conversation, as if searching for something in Leofric's face that wasn't quite there.

The absence of Lady Minisa hung over Riverrun like a shroud. She had died mere months before Leofric's arrival, and the grief still touched everything—from the black armbands worn by the household to the way Lord Hoster's eyes would sometimes drift to empty chairs during meals. The children, especially young Lysa, still seemed to listen for footsteps that would never come.

On this particular morning, as autumn mists clung to the Trident's banks and the first frost touched Riverrun's battlements, a commotion in the outer yard drew Leofric from his chambers. Servants scurried about with unusual urgency, and he could hear the distant sound of hoofbeats on the cobblestones.

"Petyr!" Edmure's voice rang out as the boy came bounding up the steps, his face flushed with excitement. "Come quickly! Father's received word from Harrenhal!"

Leofric felt his stomach tighten. News from the cursed castle could mean any number of things, none of them necessarily favorable to his precarious position. Still, he followed Edmure down to the great hall, where Lord Hoster stood listening to a travel-stained messenger, his expression grave.

"Ah, Petyr," Hoster said without looking up from the sealed letter in his hands. "Perfect timing. It seems we'll be receiving guests before the month's end."

"Guests, my lord?"

"Aye." Hoster finally raised his eyes, and Leofric caught a flicker of something—anticipation? concern?—in the older man's pale gaze. "My goodbrother, Lord Walter Whent, rides from Harrenhal with his family. They'll be stopping at Riverrun for several days."

The name hit Leofric with recognition, though he managed to keep his expression neutral. House Whent of Harrenhal—lords of the greatest castle in Westeros, though also one of the most cursed. If anyone would have the knowledge and connections to see through his deception, it would be those who held one of the most important seats in the Riverlands.

"That's wonderful news, my lord," Leofric managed, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his chest. "It will be an honor to meet Lord Whent."

"Indeed." Hoster's eyes narrowed slightly. "Lord Walter is a shrewd man. I imagine he'll be curious to meet the young lord I've taken under my protection."

The words carried a weight that made Leofric's chest tighten. Family connections meant deeper knowledge, longer memories, and more reason to scrutinize a supposed ward's background.

"I shall endeavor not to disappoint, my lord."

"See that you don't," Hoster replied curtly before turning his attention back to the messenger. "Now, there are preparations to be made. Edmure, find your sisters and tell them we'll need the guest chambers readied. And Petyr..." He paused, fixing Leofric with that penetrating stare once more. "Perhaps you should spend some time reviewing matters of local history and precedence."

---

That evening, Leofric found himself in an awkward position. The suggestion to review histories was sound advice, but his inability to read made it impossible to follow. Instead, he sought out one of the household knights in the armory, hoping to glean information through casual conversation.

"The Whents, you say?" Ser Morden looked up from the sword he was sharpening, his weathered face thoughtful. "Aye, they're good lords, though they carry a heavy burden with that castle of theirs."

"Harrenhal has quite a reputation," Leofric ventured carefully.

"Cursed, some say. Though Lord Walter's made the best of it these past years. His sons are said to be capable men—all four of them grown now and taking their places in the world. And Lady Talia is considered one of the fairest maidens in the Riverlands." Morden paused in his sharpening. "Course, being from the Vale, you might not know them as well as us Riverlanders. Different circles and all."

Leofric seized on the opening gratefully. "Indeed, ser. The Fingers are quite removed from such grand houses."

"Mmm." Morden nodded understandingly. "Well, no doubt it'll be interesting to see how Vale nobility gets on with Riverland lords."

As Leofric excused himself and headed back toward the keep, he felt the weight of his deception pressing down harder than ever. Every conversation was a minefield, every innocent question a potential trap.

---

Four days later, the Whent party arrived with appropriate ceremony. Lord Walter Whent was a man in his middle years, his dark hair streaked with silver and his bearing dignified despite the weight of ruling the cursed seat of Harrenhal. With him came his four sons and daughter—a formidable family that commanded respect throughout the Riverlands.

Cedric, the eldest at twenty-two, carried himself with the authority of an heir, his dark eyes constantly assessing. Gareth, a year younger, bore the easy confidence of a second son, while Rowan and Serwyn, the twins at nineteen, moved with the coordinated grace of men trained to fight side by side. Lady Talia, barely sixteen but already renowned for her beauty, possessed the sharp intelligence that seemed to run in the Whent bloodline.

The great hall was prepared for a feast in their honor, and Lord Hoster had spared no expense. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, bearing the arms of both houses—the leaping trout of Tully and the nine bats of Whent. The long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fresh-baked bread, and barrels of wine.

Leofric took his place at the high table, positioned carefully where he could observe without being the center of attention. From there, he had a clear view of the Whent delegation, and more importantly, they had a clear view of him.

"So," Lord Walter said as the first course was served, his voice carrying the authority of one who ruled from the greatest castle in Westeros, "young Baelish. I confess, it's been some time since I've had occasion to speak with anyone from your family."

Leofric's blood ran cold, but he managed to keep his expression neutral. "My lord does me great honor by remembering House Baelish at all."

"Difficult to forget, given the... circumstances of recent years." Walter's dark eyes fixed on him with uncomfortable intensity. "Your family's troubles were quite the talk of the Vale for a time."

The words hung in the air like a blade poised to fall. Leofric knew he was being tested, but he couldn't quite grasp the nature of the test.

"Difficulties following my father's death, my lord," he said carefully. "But Lord Hoster has been most generous in providing me shelter and guidance."

"Has he now?" Walter's gaze flicked briefly to Hoster, who nodded solemnly. "My sister always spoke highly of Hoster's sense of honor. I suppose taking in a ward in need would appeal to such sensibilities."

Cedric Whent looked up from his trencher, studying Leofric with calculating eyes. "You're looking well for someone who supposedly lost everything, Baelish. Riverrun's hospitality must agree with you."

There was something in the heir's tone that suggested deeper meanings, but Leofric couldn't quite grasp them. "Lord Hoster has been most kind, my lords."

"Kind indeed," Walter agreed. "Though I have to wonder what prompted such kindness toward the heir of a house that had... what was it? Debts and accusations of mismanagement?"

Leofric felt the trap closing around him, but couldn't see any way out except through honesty—or what passed for it. "Lord Hoster judged me by my own merit rather than my father's failings, my lord. I hope to prove worthy of that trust."

"Merit," Gareth Whent said with a slight smile. "And what merit might that be? You're quite young to have established much of a reputation."

"I try to serve faithfully and learn from my betters," Leofric replied, the words feeling inadequate even as he spoke them.

"Faithful service," Walter mused. "Yes, that's valuable indeed.

The blood in Leofric's veins turned to ice, but he forced himself to remain calm.

Walter's expression remained neutral, but his eyes were sharp as a hawk's. "How fascinating."

Lady Talia, who had been silent throughout the exchange, finally spoke. Her voice was soft but carried clearly across the table. "Forgive me, Petyr, but didn't we meet at the harvest feast in Saltpans two years past? You seem... different somehow."

The question hit him like a physical blow. Leofric's mind raced, searching for an answer that wouldn't damn him entirely.

"I'm afraid you must be thinking of someone else, my lady," he said carefully. "I haven't attended a harvest feast in several years."

"Haven't you?" Talia's blue eyes remained fixed on his face. "How strange. I could have sworn..."

"Memory can play tricks," Lord Walter interjected smoothly, though his gaze never left Leofric. "Especially when grief clouds our recollections."

The conversation moved on to other topics after that, but Leofric remained aware of the periodic glances from the entire Whent family throughout the evening. He was being evaluated, measured against some standard known only to them.

---

Later that night, as Leofric made his way back to his chambers, he found his path blocked by the Whent brothers. All four of them stood in the corridor like a pack of wolves, their expressions unreadable in the torchlight.

"A word, if you would," Cedric said, his voice deceptively mild.

Leofric's instincts screamed danger, but he had little choice but to comply. "Of course, my lords."

"Walk with us." Gareth gestured toward a side passage that led to one of the castle's more secluded courtyards. "The walls have ears, and we'd prefer our conversation remain private."

They walked in silence until they reached the small courtyard, moonlight casting long shadows between the stone columns. Only then did Cedric speak again.

"You know," he said conversationally, "we've always prided ourselves on knowing the noble families of the Vale. Goes with holding Harrenhal—you need to know who your allies are."

Leofric said nothing, sensing that any response would be a mistake.

"The thing is," Rowan continued, his voice eerily similar to his twin's, "we remember the Baelish family quite well. Small house, humble holdings, and an aging lord with a timid son."

"People change," Leofric said quietly.

"Do they?" Cedric's smile was predatory. "Or do some people simply wear other men's names like stolen clothes?"

"I am who Lord Hoster says I am."

"Are you?" The brothers began to circle him slowly, like wolves stalking wounded prey. "Because here's what we think happened. We think the real Petyr Baelish is dead—probably has been for months. And we think you're some clever boy who saw an opportunity and took it."

Leofric forced himself to remain still, though every instinct screamed at him to run or fight. "That's quite an accusation."

"Isn't it just?" Cedric stopped directly in front of him. "The question is, what are we going to do about it?"

The silence stretched between them like a taut bowstring. Finally, Leofric found his voice.

"What do you want?"

Cedric's grin widened. "Now that's the first honest thing you've said all evening. What we want is simple—we want to know who you really are and what your game is."

"And if I refuse to tell you?"

"Then you'll discover that accidents happen even in the safest castles," Gareth said casually. "Boys have been known to fall from walls, drown in rivers, choke on their food..."

The threat was unmistakable, but Leofric found himself strangely calm. After weeks of careful deception and constant fear of discovery, there was almost a relief in having his charade finally challenged so directly.

"You're threatening to murder a guest under Lord Hoster's roof?"

"Murder?" Rowan looked genuinely surprised. "Who said anything about murder? We're simply pointing out that imposters tend to meet unfortunate ends."

"And what would Lord Walter say if his sons were connected to such an 'accident'?"

"Our father is a practical man," Serwyn replied easily. "He understands that sometimes problems need to be... resolved quietly."

They stared at each other in the moonlight, predators and prey locked in a deadly dance. Then, unexpectedly, Cedric laughed.

"You know what? I like you," he said, stepping back with his hands raised peacefully. "You've got steel in your spine, I'll give you that. Most men would be pissing themselves by now."

Leofric's hand remained on his sword hilt. "What game are you playing, Whent?"

"No game," Cedric assured him. "Just taking the measure of a man. And you know what we've decided? We don't much care who you really are or what happened to Petyr Baelish."

"You don't?"

"Why should we? You're not hurting anyone, you're not causing trouble, and Lord Hoster seems satisfied with your service. As far as we're concerned, you can go on being whoever you want to be."

Leofric stared at them in confusion. "Then why—"

"Because we wanted to see what you'd do when cornered," Gareth explained. "A man's true nature shows when he thinks he's about to die."

Cedric turned to leave, then paused.

"Word of advice, though—if you're going to keep wearing that name, you'd better learn to read. Petyr Baelish was known for his cleverness with letters and numbers. Someone's going to notice if you keep avoiding anything written."

With that parting shot, they disappeared into the shadows, leaving Leofric alone with his racing heart and churning thoughts.

Easier said than done, he thought bitterly, his hands still trembling slightly from the encounter. Learn to read? Just like that? As if letters would suddenly stop swimming around on the page like angry wasps, as if the scratches and marks would magically arrange themselves into meaning.

---

The rest of the Whents' visit passed without further incident, though Leofric remained aware of their occasional scrutiny. Lord Walter's eyes would sometimes linger on him during meals, as if trying to solve a particularly complex puzzle. But no further accusations came, and when the time came for their departure, the farewells were cordial.

"You're a credit to Lord Hoster's household," Walter told him as the Whent party prepared to leave. "I hope we'll have occasion to meet again soon."

"The honor would be mine, my lord."

"I'm sure it would." Walter's smile was enigmatic. "Take care of yourself, young Baelish. These are uncertain times, and a man never knows when his past might catch up with him."

Chapter Text

"Your father was a stubborn old ox. I was surprised when he died. Didn't think death had the patience."

- Brynden Tully

Leofric's knee cracked against the stone floor with enough force to bring tears to his eyes. He'd rolled out of his narrow bed in a tangle of blankets, still half-caught in a nightmare where Cedric Whent's voice whispered “learn to read” while faceless men closed in from all sides. His shoulder throbbed from where he'd struck the wall, and when he tried to stand, his left leg nearly buckled beneath him.

A wonderful start to what promised to be a thoroughly miserable day.

The encounter with the Whent brothers had poisoned his sleep for three nights running, their casual threats and knowing smiles turning every shadow into a potential enemy. He limped to the washbasin, splashed cold water on his face, and tried to convince himself that today would be different. That today, no one would look at him sideways or ask pointed questions about his past.

The yard was not empty as he'd hoped. Ser Desmond Graves stood near the weapon racks, his face impassive as he watched a guard practice his forms. The master-at-arms was a man past his prime but far from finished—gray-bearded and thick through the chest, with scars that spoke of decades spent teaching young lads the art of staying alive.

"You're early," Graves said without turning around.

"Couldn't sleep, ser."

"Hmm." The master-at-arms finally looked at him, pale eyes taking in Leofric's appearance with professional interest. "Lord Hoster's been asking questions about you. About your training."

Leofric's stomach tightened. "What sort of questions?"

"The sort that make a man wonder where a minor lord's son learned to carry himself like a sellsword." Graves dismissed the guard with a curt nod, then walked over to face Leofric directly. "Strip to your shirt. Let's see what you're made of."

There was no refusing such a direct command. Leofric shed his doublet and selected a practice sword from the rack, testing its weight and balance. The blade was heavier than he preferred, but it would serve.

Graves armed himself with casual efficiency, falling into a stance that spoke of great experience. "Come at me, boy. Show me what your wastrel of a father taught you."

The first exchange was brutal in its brevity. Leofric attacked with a simple thrust, only to find his blade trapped and turned, Graves' riposte stopping a hair's breadth from his throat.

"Again."

This time Leofric tried a different approach, circling to his left and attempting a cut to Graves' flank. The master-at-arms moved like the wind, flowing around the attack and countering with a pommel strike that would have shattered Leofric's nose if it had connected.

"Sloppy. You're thinking too much. Again."

They went at it for the better part of an hour, Graves methodically dismantling every technique Leofric attempted. But as the minutes passed, something strange began to happen. The older man's attacks, while still successful, required more effort to land. His counters came a heartbeat slower.

"Enough," Graves said finally, lowering his sword. Both men were breathing hard, sweat beading on their faces despite the morning chill. "Interesting."

"Ser?"

"You fight like you've killed before." The words were delivered without judgment, simple observation. "Not many lordlings can say that."

Leofric said nothing, knowing that silence was often the safest response.

Graves sheathed his practice sword with deliberate slowness. "Lord Hoster has his reasons for keeping you here, and it's not my place to question them. But understand this—I'll be watching you. If you're here to harm this family, I'll gut you myself."

Before Leofric could respond, another voice cut through the morning air.

"Strong words from an old man."

They turned to see Ser Brynden Tully approaching across the yard, his red hair catching what little sunlight penetrated the gray clouds. The Blackfish moved with the easy confidence of a man who'd never met his match, pale blue eyes taking in the scene with sharp intelligence.

"Ser Brynden," Graves said with a respectful nod. "Just testing young Baelish here."

"And what did you discover?"

"That he's more than he appears to be."

Brynden's eyes fixed on Leofric with uncomfortable intensity. "Is he now? How much more?"

"Enough to make things interesting."

The two older men shared a look. Then Brynden stepped forward, his gaze never leaving Leofric's face.

"My brother tells me you might benefit from proper instruction. Says you've shown promise." His voice was neutral, revealing nothing. "What do you say to that, boy?"

"I would welcome any teaching you might offer, ser."

"Would you?" Something flickered in Brynden's expression. "Training means pain. It means being broken down and built back up. Most lordlings come to me expecting to play with swords for a few hours and call themselves knights."

"I'm not most lordlings."

"No," Brynden agreed slowly. "I don't think you are." He turned to Graves. "What's your assessment?"

"Raw talent, good instincts, but rough around the edges. He's been taught to kill, but not necessarily to fight with honor."

"Interesting distinction." Brynden began to circle Leofric like a hawk studying prey. "Tell me, boy, what do you know of knighthood?"

The question seemed simple enough, but Leofric sensed deeper currents beneath it. "A knight serves his lord faithfully, protects the innocent, and upholds justice."

"Pretty words. But what about when your lord orders you to do something that goes against justice? What about when protecting one innocent means abandoning another?" Brynden's voice was soft but sharp. "What do you do when honor and survival point in different directions?"

Leofric thought of his father's lessons, of the hard choices that had brought him to this moment. "You do what you must to survive, ser. Dead men serve no one."

Graves made a noise that might have been approval. Brynden's smile was thin as a blade.

"Pragmatic. I can work with pragmatic." He stopped his circling directly in front of Leofric. "Very well. I'll take you as my squire, with the understanding that I'll work you harder than you've ever been worked. You'll tend my armor, care for my horse, and learn what it truly means to be a knight. Agreed?"

"Yes, ser."

"Good. We start tomorrow at dawn." Brynden's eyes glittered with something that might have been amusement.

---

The great hall buzzed with conversation that evening, servants hurrying to prepare for the feast Lord Hoster had called to celebrate some minor victory in trade negotiations. Leofric sat at his usual place, picking at his food while his mind churned over the day's events.

"Petyr!"

He looked up to see Edmure approaching, the boy's face bright with excitement despite the late hour.

"Is it true what they're saying? That Uncle Brynden took you as his squire?"

"It's true," Leofric confirmed, unable to suppress a small smile at the boy's enthusiasm.

As if summoned by his nephew's words, Ser Brynden appeared at Leofric's shoulder. The Blackfish moved with the silent grace of a man accustomed to getting the drop on his enemies.

"Edmure, shouldn't you be abed?"

"Just a little while longer, Uncle? Please?"

"Run along, boy."

Edmure scampered off with good humor, leaving Leofric alone with his new master. Brynden settled onto the bench beside him, his presence both reassuring and unsettling.

"Nervous?" the Blackfish asked.

"Should I be?"

"I think," Brynden said slowly, "that my brother sees something in you that he values. Maybe it's your skills with a blade. Maybe it's the fact that you're beholden to no one but him. Or maybe..." He paused, studying Leofric's face. "Maybe he simply believes in redemption."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the great hall empty as people drifted off to their chambers. Finally, Brynden stood.

"Get some rest, lad."

As the Blackfish walked away, Leofric remained at the table, staring into the dying flames of the hearth. For the first time since arriving at Riverrun, he began to hope that his deception might actually succeed. Not because he was particularly clever or skilled at lying, but because he'd found something he'd never expected: people who might actually care what happened to him.

The thought was both terrifying and wonderful in equal measure.

Chapter Text

”There is a lion in my living room.
I feed it raw meat so it does not hurt me.
It is a strange thing
to nourish what could kill you
in hopes that it does not kill you.
We have lived like this, for so many years.
Sometimes it feels like
we have always lived like this.
Sometimes I think
I have always been like this.”

- Clementine von Radics, The Lion

276 AC

The tourney grounds of Lannisport sprawled out before Leofric like a gaudy tapestry, awash in a kaleidoscope of bright pavilions and fluttering banners. Scores of knights from across the realm had descended upon the Westerlands to celebrate the birth of Viserys Targaryen, their lances and swords glittering like jewels in the autumn sunlight.

Leofric guided his dappled grey palfrey through the raucous crowds, trying his best to keep pace with Ser Brynden Tully's towering warhorse. The air was thick with the mingled aromas of woodsmoke, roasting meat, and the earthy musk of hundreds of mounts packed together.

Following the Blackfish's lead, Leofric reined his mount towards the row of vermilion tents flying the Tully banner - a proud leaping trout emblazoned on a rippling blue and red field. Hoster Tully had spared no expense in outfitting his household for the grand event.

As Leofric swung down from the saddle, grooms rushed to attend to the horses. He cast an appreciative glance over the ornate silk pavilion that would serve as the Tully's base of operations for the fortnight of festivities. Though the grand scale was certainly a novelty for him.

Ser Brynden regarded him with a cocked eyebrow. "Careful there, Petyr. Remember to pick your jaw up off the ground before the King sees and you make us all look simple."

Leofric felt his cheeks flush at the friendly jape but rallied with a cocky grin. "You know me, Ser. Just admiring the decor. I plan to make some...renovations while we're here."

The gruff knight snorted. "Aye, you'd best leave the decorating to the Lannisters, boy. We'll stick to splitting Westerlander skulls if it's all the same to you."

With those parting words, the Blackfish strode off in search of his older brother Hoster, undoubtedly to share his usual droll observations on the Lannister penchant for excess. Leofric took the dismissal in stride, unburdening himself of his bow and quiver before setting to his responsibilities

He made quick work of setting up their simple camp within the larger Tully enclosure, arranging the dual canvas sleeping tents and provisions chests with practiced ease. Though Ser Brynden treated him with a gruff affection, Leofric knew better than to slack in his duties as the man’s squire.

By the time the bustling pavilions began to fill with the crush of celebrants, Leofric had their simple corner in perfect order. With his chores completed for the time being, he allowed his gaze to wander over the nearby camps, taking in the sumptuous splendor on display.

Just up the gently sloping hill, ranks of silver Mallister eagles and purple Dayne sworls marked the encampments of the households from Seagard and Starfall respectively. Beyond them loomed the heraldic banners of many an esteemed house - Corbray, Royce, Manderly, Baratheon, and even the three headed dragon of House Targaryen.

Towering above them all on the crest of the ridge stood the Lannister's palatial crimson pavilion. Massive silken walls emblazoned with the rampant golden lion surrounded an entire keep's worth of chambers, kitchens, and living quarters. From its opulent peak fluttered a forest of banners and crimson pennons, advertising the staggering wealth and power of Casterly Rock to all who laid eyes upon it.

As Leofric took in the spectacle, an excited murmur rolled through the gathered crowd at the first glimpse of color amidst the milling squires and grooms. A harbinger of the festivities to come.

The first of the challengers for the day's opening joust took the field - Tygett Lannister against the silver prince, Rhaegar Targaryen. Tygett was resplendent in red and gold armor of the finest make whilst Prince Rhaegar was garbed in a simple suit of black enameled plate.

Squires rushed to prepare their steeds, buckling the intricate suits of gleaming plate while nimble fingers checked every strap and seal. Stablehands raced between the encampments and field, fetching and tacking the mighty warhorses and coursers with a speed that spoke of years of practiced conditioning.

With a thunderous cadence of hooves, they took their places at opposite ends of the quintain grounds, squires scrambling to ready their lances and shields. A herald in a scarlet tabard stepped forth, his voice ringing with the cadence of a thousand tourneys past.

"Lords and ladies! Noble knights one and all! We come here today to celebrate the glorious birth of the prince, Viserys of House Targaryen! For the opening exhibition - the Lord of the Rock's own blood, Ser Tygett of House Lannister, against the young dragon, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen! Let the jousting commence!"

Trumpets blared with a resounding brazen cry that sent shivers down Leofric's spine. The thundering of the first charge filled his ears, drowning out all other senses as the two legendary knights spurred their massive steeds ahead like unleashed thunderbolts.

For fifteen years, Leofric had lived and breathed the sacred ways of chivalry. He watched now in rapt appreciation as the warriors closed, lances leveled and shields raised in perfect form to guard their visors.

Both lances found their marks in an explosion of wooden shards and fluttering crimson streamers, but neither knight was unseated. Side by side, they thundered onward towards opposite ends of the tilting grounds, already wheeling their massive coursers about for the second pass.

The battle was joined in earnest, each combatant no doubt flushed with grim determination behind his impenetrable visor. Once more they loosed their earth-shaking charges, frenzied cries of approbation swelling from the commons as the fracturing crack of splintered lances rent the salty air.

Again and again they clashed at full gallop, sparks and splinters spraying with each thunderous meeting of wood on metal.

To the untrained eye it seemed to devolve into the sheerest bedlam with each fresh tilt. But Leofric watched, rapt, pulsing to the furious choreography unfolding before him.

Just when his clenched fists grew slick and his jaw taut with the primal thrill of it all, trumpets rang out. The bout had ended in exhaustion, with Prince Rhaegar finally unhorsing the formidable Tygett after nearly a dozen punishing tilts.

He watched as Prince Rhaegar raised his shattered lance in solemn salute to the dented but unbowed Tygett Lannister. The crowd erupted into raucous cheers at the display of chivalric honor.

Leofric's face twisted into a dark grin at the sight of the proud Lannister laid low. One day, he vowed, he would bury that entire brood of insolent gold lions beneath their damn Rock, no matter how brightly their sun currently shone.

"Petyr? Is it true you're to fight in the melee?"

He felt a small hand upon his back and turned to see young Edmure Tully gazing up at him, eyes shining with admiration. Leofric mustered a tolerant smile for the boy, draping an arm around his shoulders.

"Aye, that I am," he replied, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "Though it's sure to be a great rebaudrie if half these preening cockerels take the field. Best not get your hopes up too high of seeing your Petyr cracked like an egg."

Edmure's brow furrowed at the jape. "But you're the finest swordsman I know! Well...apart from Uncle Brynden."

Leofric chuckled, ruffling the lad's auburn hair. "We'll see what the seven have in store, my friend. Just remember - 'tis all in good fun at a tourney. The true idea is for no man to be seriously hurt."

Even as the platitudes passed his lips, a feral light kindled in his eyes. They both knew the melee would be no mild game come the morrow, no matter how nobly the festivities began.

"Now why don't you spend some of your lord father's coin and find yourself a new hawk to amuse yourself with?" He gave Edmure a playful shove towards the tourney grounds. "I'll see you before I take to the field."

As the boy scampered off, Leofric's gaze drifted back to where Rhaegar accepted the crowd's adulation with a solemn grace. Though the prince's obvious prowess sparked a flicker of resentment, it was quickly overshadowed by a blazing hatred that erupted at the sight of the Lannister crimson.

The thunderous applause barely had a chance to fade before the next two challengers made their way onto the jousting fields. A knight bearing the many coins of House Payne on his shield emerged first, followed shortly by the youngest Lannister brother - Gerion, if Leofric recalled correctly. Although, in all honesty, he could not care less.

Instead, his gaze drifted towards the raised box just below King Aerys' balcony, where the major lords in attendance were seated alongside their families. A veritable who's who of Westerosi nobility arrayed in their finest silks and jewels, shifting like colorful peacocks overseeing their little spectacle.

Eventually, he found what he had been searching for: a porcelain visage encircled by a cascade of magnificent auburn locks.

Catelyn Tully, clad in azure and scarlet, sat amongst the other highborn ladies near the front of the raised box.

An achingly twinge gripped his chest as unbidden memories washed over him. Afternoons spent idling in the grounds with the Tully children, Cat's melodious laughter, and best of all the way his heart raced whenever those brilliant blue eyes met his.

Before he could ponder the foolish reverie any further, a rough hand cuffed the side of his head, jarring him back to the present. Leofric turned to see Ser Brynden Tully regarding him with one bushy eyebrow arched quizzically.

"Where does your mind wander, Petyr?" The gruff knight's eyes bored into him with an intensity that said he'd caught Leofric's wandering attentions.

Leofric felt his cheeks flush slightly but quickly recovered with a cocky grin. "Merely sizing up the competition, Ser. I'd not want to keep the ladies waiting overlong once I'm victorious in the melee."

Brynden snorted and gave his shoulder a shove. "Well come along then, Baelish. Best get me fitted for battle before those honeyed words of yours wither on the vine."

With that, the Blackfish turned and set off towards the distant encampments. Leofric cast one last furtive glance towards where Catelyn sat amidst the highborn ladies before falling into step behind his mentor.

Once back in the Tully camp, Leofric joined Brynden in partaking of a light meal. Pages scurried about fetching trenchers of salted pork, fresh baked bread, and chilled ale from the temporary kitchens.

As they ate, Brynden regarded Leofric with a measured look. "Your mind seems...restless today. Even more than is typical for you, that is."

Leofric quirked an eyebrow. "And what makes you say that, Ser?"

"Because I know you, boy," Brynden replied gruffly. "You get this look about you during tourneys, like you're a hair's breadth away from drawing real steel instead of blunted."

The Blackfish's mouth twisted in a wry smile. "I can't quite decide if it’s because you want to participate in the joust, or simply put the whole lot of us to the sword and be done with it."

Leofric felt a reluctant grin tug at his lips. Trust the older knight to cut through the grandeur and pierce right to the heart of his inner turmoils.

"What can I say?" he said at last around a pull of ale. "Perhaps I'm just jealous that once the jousting's done, all eyes will be on that grizzled visage of yours rather than my pretty one."

Brynden barked out a raspy chuckle at that. "Well I'll be sure to take a few tumbles from my saddle then, just to keep that swole head of yours from growing too large to fit your helm."

The comfortable banter continued for a while as they drained their tankards and ate their fill. Eventually, it was time to begin preparing for Brynden's appearance in the day's tournaments.

With a deft efficiency borne of years of practicing the motions, Leofric set about helping the older knight don his ornate plate armor piece by piece. He traced the intricate trout scale patterns chased into the shoulder-guards with an admiring hand, marveling at the craftsmanship.

Soon Brynden stood before him in full regalia - an unbowed knight of peerless skill and experience. The blast of a tourney herald's trumpet signaled his imminent tilt against Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard.

"Off with you then, Petyr," Brynden said gruffly, his pale eyes glinting with that familiar intensity. "Keep those arms of yours inside the quintain this time, aye? One ugly squire's quite enough as it is."

Leofric smirked, He hefted Brynden's shielded lance and gave it a ceremonial twirl. "As you say, Ser. But if I should catch you leaving some unseemly parts to dangle on the tilting field, have no fear - I'll be certain to scoop them up and return them to their rightful place."

The retort earned him a shove towards the entrance flaps and a bellow of laughter from the Blackfish that could likely be heard across the whole tourney field. Squiring had its rare privileges, and ensuring his fearsome mentor kept some semblance of levity about him was always a hard-fought victory.

Soon enough Leofric stood on the sidelines among the other young squires, watching with bathed breath as Brynden took his place for the opening tilt. The Blackfish fought like a demon unchained, trading earth-shaking blows with the famed Oswell Whent amidst a thunderous roar from the crowds.

It was a near thing for a moment, when one of Whent's lances caught Brynden a stunningly powerful blow - so much so that the Blackfish was nearly unseated entirely. For one dreadful heartbeat, Leofric watched his mentor dangling precariously from his saddle, strapped in only by his stirrup.

But by some small mercy of the gods, Brynden managed to haul himself bodily back into the saddle. Then with a showing of sheer willpower of which few knights could boast, he charged ahead and delivered a final punishing strike to Oswell's themoplure, sending the Kingsguard sprawling at last.

The raucous cheers of the crowd were deafening, but Leofric's only focus was on rushing forward to help the battered knight from his horse. Brynden swayed for a moment before straightening under his own power, batting away Leofric's hands with a dismissive grunt.

"I may be bloodied but I'll not go limping about just yet, thank you very much," he grumbled, though his eyes shown with the fierce pride of Leofric's respect. He'd secured them both great honor with his display this day.

As Leofric fell into step beside his mentor, a flash of movement and color caught his peripheral vision. A pair of youths not much older than ten or twelve were making their way towards them through the milling crowds - one resplendent in a deep crimson tunic, the other in a subtler charcoal doublet.

"Ho, Blackfish! Your victory today was most invigorating!"

The voice came from the crimson-clad lad, whose blazing emerald eyes shone with open admiration. Brynden regarded them with veiled curiosity and a cocked eyebrow.

"You mock me, lads? You'd be wise to reserve that tone for someone a bit lower in pedigree, if I were you."

But the bold youth only grinned wider. "Not at all, good Ser! We speak only the truth after witnessing such bravery and tenacity between true masters of the lists."

The charcoal-clad youth beside him, a Marbrand most likely, nodded eagerly. "Indeed, your dance with Ser Oswell was thrilling to behold."

Leofric studied the pair carefully. The emerald-eyed lad's features were sharp and refined to an almost supernatural degree, marking him instantly as one of the infamous Lannister brood. With his open countenance and genuine adoration, he could only be...

"Jaime."

The word slipped from Leofric's lips on an exhale, barely more than a whisper. But in that single syllable lay a welling tide of roiling emotions - confusion, revulsion, bitterness, and something he refused to identify as envy.

Whether the use of his name registered or not, the Lannister whelp turned lucid green eyes towards Leofric in that moment. And in spite of himself, in spite of every fiber screaming out in denial...he found no hatred reflected back at him.

Only the innocence of a child who had yet to learn the world's darker ways.

As Leofric and Brynden started to make their way towards the stables after the hard-fought joust, a piping voice called out from the direction of the lords' box.

"Petyr! Hey, Petyr!"

Glancing over, Leofric's eyes widened slightly as he spotted young Edmure Tully leaning precariously over the railing, something clutched tightly in his small fist as he babbled excitedly in their direction. Neither man could quite make out the boy's words over the general din of the crowds.

"What in the seven hells is that fool boy doing now?" Brynden rumbled with a mixture of gruff amusement and fond exasperation.

Leofric rolled his eyes instinctively, though he couldn't help the slight upward twitch of his lips. Before he could reply, Edmure gave his arm an enthusiastic windmilling motion before loosing whatever was in his grasp over the railings. The object tumbled end over end towards them.

Without thinking, Leofric stretched out a hand and snagged it neatly from the air. As he turned it over in his palm, realization struck - along with a bellow of laughter from Brynden, louder than Leofric had ever heard from the typically dour knight.

There, clutched in his fingers, was what could only be described as a child's attempt at a favor - one of Edmure's worn woolen socks tied crudely into a ring, the faded red and blue stripes garish against his tanned skin.

Leofric felt his cheeks warming despite himself as he looked back up to find Edmure beaming down at him proudly, seemingly oblivious to his mentor's endless amusement. The boy cupped his hands around his mouth.

"I hope you do well in the melee, Petyr!" he shouted earnestly. "I hear the Martell spare is really something!"

Brynden's laughter finally trailed off into intermittent wheezing chuckles. Swiping at his eyes, he clapped Leofric solidly on the shoulder with one calloused hand.

"Well, what are you waiting for, Petyr?" he managed between gasps. "The lad's bestowed his favor upon you. You'd best accept it with all the chivalric gratitude it's due!"

A dozen different deflections and dismissals flickered through Leofric's mind in that moment. He opened his mouth, fully prepared to make some cutting remark about the impropriety of wearing a child's plaything into battle.

But then his gaze traveled automatically back to where Edmure sat, watching him with open adoration and expectant hope written plainly across his cherubic features. And beside him, the unmistakable copper-crown of Catelyn, her expression one of politely veiled interest.

With a start, Leofric realized that Edmure wasn't only watching him - his sister was as well. And if the boy's hero-worship wasn't enough to give him pause, the thought of Cat witnessing his response most certainly was.

Letting out a resigned sigh, Leofric brought the ragged sock-ring up and looped it over one wrist with a solemn nod towards the overjoyed Edmure. Brynden's increasingly mirthful guffaws rang out once again behind him as the Blackfish no doubt envisioned the spectacle to come.

Still, Leofric couldn't quite find it in him to be truly put out. Not when Edmure was practically vibrating with delight at having his favor accepted. And certainly not with Catelyn's eyes shining with well-concealed warmth at her younger brother's antics.

Instead, he offered the young boy a crisp salute and a wink before turning on his heel and striding off towards the melee grounds, his shoulders squared and Edmure's favor prominently displayed. If this was to be the indignity he must bear for one afternoon, then so be it.

After all, if debasing himself so brought a smile to Catelyn's face and kept the last lingering devotion in Edmure's youthful gaze for just a little while longer...well, that seemed a minor cost to pay.

As Leofric and Brynden made their way towards the melee grounds to prepare, the young squire couldn't help but glance down at his rather meager battlegear. It was all they had been able to scrounge together following Brynden’s breakdown:

"You cannot be serious, Petyr," the Blackfish growled, favor of exhaustion on his brow as he returned from the day's jousting. "Letting a mere squire take part in the melee is madness!"

Leofric refused to be dissuaded so easily. "I am as trained as any knight, and you know it," he pressed. "What purpose is there in all this time at your side if not to eventually prove myself?"

Brynden's eyes flashed, but Leofric stood his ground, shoulders squared. After a long, tense moment, the older knight let out a disgusted snort.

"Very well, boy. But if you wind up spitting out your teeth amidst the bedlam, remember - you brought this dishonor upon yourself!"

And so with those ringing words, the Blackfish had relented. Now Leofric surveyed his battlegarb with a critical eye - a simple green-enameled helm and breastplate emblazoned with his false coat of arms, the fiery Titan's head on a verdant field. Ringed mail completed his upper defenses, while his lower body was protected by a simple green surcoat and worn leathers.

His weaponry consisted of a stout but serviceable castle-forged longsword belted at his waist. Lord Hoster had presented it to "Petyr" on the first anniversary of his arrival in Riverrun. Despite its relatively simple make, its weight felt reassuringly familiar in Leofric's calloused hands.

The finishing touch was a small clutch of caltrops secured to his belt by leather cords. Wicked little spiked traps, designed to be strewn across the battlefield to ensnare and immobilize the overly unwary. Leofric had developed quite the deft touch with them in his adolescence.

Speaking of the Blackfish, the grizzled knight loomed beside Leofric now, placing one weathered hand upon his squire's shoulder pauldron.

"You've been silent as a crypt’s tongue, boy," he rumbled, eyeing Leofric intently. "Don't tell me those wits and nerves of yours have abandoned you already."

Leofric rallied with a cocksure grin, though his eyes remained intense. "Just sizing up our odds for survival is all, ser. They don't appear...overly generous."

"Ha!" The bark of laughter held no real mirth. "Trust me, Petyr -when the real bloodshed starts, generous odds will be the last concern on your mind."

The Blackfish's expression turned severe, all business now. "So listen close, and listen well. Once that blasted melee is called, you stick to my side like a second shadow, hear me? Break from my guard even for a moment, and I'll not be held accountable for the various...indignities those sadistic fools will inflict upon you."

Leofric opened his mouth to protest, to insist he could hold his own, but the intensity in Brynden's eyes brooked no argument. With a terse nod, he acquiesced to his mentor's command.

The grim interchange was interrupted by a thunderous bellow from the royal viewing box.

"Lords and ladies! People of the realm!" Aerys Targaryen's amplified tone cut through the clamor. He rose to his feet, resplendent in crimson and sable vair robes that somehow failed to disguise his increasingly frail, almost skeletal frame.

"It is with great esteem that I announce the beginning of the melee!”

The King cast an imperious glare over the gathering. Beside him, the imposing form of Tywin Lannister regarded the proceedings with a decidedly pained expression, as if he could scarcely tolerate such revelries.

"Men at arms - take your positions!" Aerys barked. "And may the seven grace the most skilled warrior amongst you."

With that, a powder keg of chaos seemed to erupt. Knights and lords formed up into loose knots, banging swords against shields amidst a deafening cacophony of taunts and war cries.

Leofric turned to find Brynden watching him with an intensity that seemed to bore straight through to his very soul.

"Last chance to back out with your honor intact, Petyr," the older knight murmured, though his tone suggested he knew the answer already.

Fastening Edmure's favor securely about his wrist, Leofric reached for the longsword at his hip. As the blade cleared its sheath with a dull ringing hiss, his own eyes hardened into frozen pools of pale green resolution.

"Lead on, Ser Brynden," he replied simply. "I'll not be the one dragging us back to the pavilion in disgrace."

The Blackfish's teeth flashed in a wolfish grin. Then, with a frenzied roar exploding from his lips, he charged headlong into the swirling currents of madness and bloodshed - his loyal squire loping at his heels.

What transpired next was nothing short of pure, unbridled chaos. Leofric fought with the skill and ferocity of a man twice his age, lashing out with sword and caltrop alike. Beside him, Brynden raged like an avatar of some foreign war god, cleaving a swathe of broken bodies and trampled men wherever his swordsweeps fell.

They moved as one, covering each other's blind arcs, defending gaps in one another's guards, laying waste to any foolish enough to challenge them. Leofric traded blows with knights hailing from every corner of the realm - Frey, Piper, Umber, Yronwood, and dozens of minor households besides.

Westermen, rivermen, stormlanders, all fell before the unstoppable momentum of his whirling guard. Only when a towering shape in familial Rhyonish robes and spiked armor plate loomed up before them did Leofric pause for the first time.

Then all of a sudden he was left alone when a rogue mace caught Brynden from behind, crashing against his unprotected chevron with a sickening crunch. The seasoned knight crumpled like a withered maple.

For one breathless heartbeat, the Red Viper eyed him.

Leofric stood his ground, every muscle screaming in agony but his defiant glare unwavering. But at last, the man let out a caustic bark of laughter and spat a gobbet of bloody phlegm at Leofric's feet.

Despite the aching in his muscles, Leofric’s defiant glare never wavered. With a deft flick of his wrist, Leofric scattered a handful of caltrops at Oberyn's feet, forcing the Dornishman to stumble back.

Seizing the opportunity, Leofric pressed his advantage, raining down a flurry of precise strikes. Oberyn, caught off guard, could only parry desperately with his spear as Leofric's blade found chinks in his defense. Finally, with a well-placed pommel strike, Leofric sent the Red Viper crumpling to the ground.

No sooner had Oberyn fallen than a new threat emerged – a hulking boy, no more than eleven years old, but already standing taller than most men. This was Gregor Clegane, soon to be known as the Mountain That Rides, his size and strength already far exceeding that of a normal child.

Despite his youth, Gregor charged at Leofric with the ferocity of a wild beast, his spiked mace swinging in wide arcs. Leofric danced away from the powerful blows, his sword a blur as he sought an opening in the young giant's defenses.

The clash of steel echoed across the battlefield as the two traded blows, Leofric's skill countering Gregor's brute force. Finally, Leofric landed a glancing blow, drawing a line of crimson across Gregor's cheek.

The boy bellowed in rage, redoubling his efforts with strength that belied his age. But Leofric was wiser, and with a deft feint and riposte, he disarmed the young Gregor, sending his mace clattering to the dirt.

Gregor sank to the ground, chest heaving, as Leofric's sword remained steadily leveled at his throat. The young giant's rage slowly gave way to grudging respect in the face of Leofric's skill.

The crowd erupted into thunderous cheers and raucous hollers.

Looking up at the royal balcony he noticed the king striding toward him, his eyes burning with a mixture of jealousy and approval. Snatching a sword from the scabbard of Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Aerys laid the blade upon a kneeling Leofric's shoulder and spoke in a booming voice that carried over the tumultuous roar of the gathered spectators:

"In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave."

"In the name of the Father I charge you to be just."

"In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent."

"In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women."

"In the name of the Smith I charge you to be steadfast."

"In the name of the Crone I charge you to be wise."

"In the name of the Stranger I charge you to remember that all men must die."

With each sacred line, Aerys touched Leofric's shoulders with the blade, formally investing him with the solemn duties and responsibilities of knighthood.

Leofric remained kneeling, solemnly repeating the vows to embody the virtues of bravery, justice, protectiveness, steadfastness, wisdom, and humility before death.

"I dub thee Ser Petyr Baelish," Aerys proclaimed. “You may now rise.”

Later as the festivities reached their conclusion, the roar of the crowd swelled once more, signaling the final joust between Prince Rhaegar and Ser Arthur Dayne.

Leofric made his way out to watch, still in his dented armor.

The two knights charged at each other, wooden lances splintering against shields in a furious exchange. But it was Dayne who ultimately prevailed, unhorsing the prince with a decisive blow.

As Rhaegar conceded defeat, the crowd erupted into a symphony of exultant cheers, their adulation cascading like a wave over the tournament grounds. Ser Arthur, the embodiment of chivalry and prowess, basked in the resounding acclaim, his victory etching his name into the annals of history as the champion of the day.

In the quiet aftermath of the tournament, as the sun began its slow descent, Leofric found himself summoned to the, now empty, royal balcony, a mix of trepidation and excitement quickening his pulse. With every step, the weight of his newly bestowed knighthood settled upon his shoulders, mingling with the thrill of being summoned by royalty.

Entering the grandstand, Leofric felt a shiver of trepidation and awe. The regal presence of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen dominated the space, his silver-platinum hair and chiseled features marking him as every inch a dragon prince. Though gracious in demeanor, Rhaegar carried himself with a natural dignity befitting his station.

"Well met, Lord Baelish," Rhaegar greeted him warmly, his rich voice resonating with authority. "You displayed great valor and consummate skill upon the field today. It is an honor to extend my personal congratulations on your well-earned knighthood."

Leofric dipped his head respectfully. "You are most generous, my prince. Though I fear my efforts pale compared to your own prowess in the joust."

One side of Rhaegar's mouth quirked upwards. "I hear the smallfolk have already begun calling you 'The Titan's Fist'. It has quite a memorable ring to it, does it not?"

Flushing slightly, Leofric replied, "A fanciful name, to be sure, though I've little notion why they've chosen to bestow it upon me."

"Regardless of the nomenclature, your deeds spoke volumes today," Rhaegar said. "Facing Oberyn Martell, not to mention that young Clegane whelp, and emerging victorious? You made your ancestors proud this day."

"You are too kind, my prince," Leofric demurred. "Though I must admit, Ser Brynden always cautioned me that 'washing ashore builds character’."

Rhaegar arched an eyebrow. "An...intriguing turn of phrase from the Blackfish. And what did he mean by that, pray tell?"

Leofric couldn't help but laugh. "Honestly, my prince? I've not the faintest idea. Brynden always did have a way with baffling metaphors."

The prince chuckled, a rich and mellifluous sound. "Well, whatever his meaning, you clearly took his lessons to heart." His indigo eyes studied Leofric appraisingly. "

"I confess, my prince," Leofric replied, meeting Rhaegar's steady gaze. "I did wonder if there was perhaps another reason you requested my presence."

He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Though I would never presume to question the will of one so high-born, I could not help but hope this summons boded greater opportunities in your service."

Rhaegar's expression remained inscrutable for a moment before a faint smile played across his lips. "Your instincts do you credit, Lord Baelish. I did not summon you here solely to trade pleasantries."

Rhaegar extended his hand, bidding Leofric to rise. "The kingdoms grow more perilous by the day, make no mistake. With my father's...wavering leadership, there are ever more vultures circling, coveting power."

The prince's jaw tightened fractionally. "Which is why I desperately seek to gather allies. I need lords of resolute loyalty that I can trust implicitly, especially in the Vale. My cousin Robert is too unpredictable, and.. I’m told the falcon has his ear.”

Leofric's breath caught in his throat at the weight of the prince's words. The realization dawned on him that being on good terms with a prince could potentially open doors he never dared to imagine.

Rhaegar fixed Leofric with an intense stare. "Can I rely on you for this, Lord Baelish? To stand by my side when the realm inevitably descends into discord?"

"Without question, my prince," Leofric affirmed solemnly. "You have but to give the command, and I shall guard you as ferociously as any dragon her eggs."

A faint smile tugged at Rhaegar's lips then. "Well said.”

Chapter Text

"Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear."

“Consider the flea! Incomparably the bravest of all creatures, if ignorance of fear were courage. Whether you are asleep or awake he will attack you, caring nothing for the fact that in bulk and strength you are to him as are the massed armies of the earth to a sucking child.”

- Mark Twain, The Tragedy of Pudd’nhead Wilson

Night had fallen by the time Leofric finally took his leave of Prince Rhaegar. The braziers lining the royal balcony cast a flickering orange glow, sending wavering shadows dancing across the deserted tournament grounds below.

As Leofric descended the winding steps back towards the raucous festivities still unfolding throughout the camps and pavilions, his mind whirled. The weight of Rhaegar's proposal, with all its dizzying implications, seemed almost too colossal to grasp.

To ally himself with the crown prince, to take a central role in the coming tempest Rhaegar foresaw - it was an opportunity as tantalizing as it was terrifying. Thoughts of fire and blood churned in the back of his mind, muddying the thrill of promised glory with the cold pragmatism that true power demanded unflinching ruthlessness.

So absorbed was he in his ruminations that Leofric nearly plowed headlong into a small gaggle of giggling girls slipping through a shadowed rear entrance. He recoiled just in time, the overwhelming floral perfumes announcing their identities a split second before he made out their faces in the gloom.

"Oh! Pardon me, ladies," he stammered, flushing despite himself. "I did not mean to -"

The words froze on his lips as he realized exactly who it was he'd nearly bowled over. Leading the pack with characteristic insouciance, clad in gold and crimson silks, was a girl who could only be Cersei Lannister .

Flanking her on either side were two equally arresting beauties - one a raven-haired girl with smoldering eyes, the other a coy blonde whose shameless visage might have inspired a hundred princes' heartfelt ballads.

Cersei eyed Leofric up and down with patently false disinterest before her full lips curved into a predatory smirk.

"Well, well," she purred, emerald eyes glinting with undisguised disdain. "If it isn't the young knight...."

Leofric drew himself up to his full height, meeting the Lannister lioness' gaze with a nonchalant confidence he scarcely felt. "The very same, my lady. Though I could scarcely lay claim to such an honor without acknowledging your lord father's...generous hospitality."

He swept them an exaggerated bow, one deliberately calculated to provoke a reaction - though the interplay of challenge and revulsion on Cersei's beautiful features far exceeded his expectations.

"Spare us your feigned courtesies, upjumped byblow," she sneered. "You may have deluded that pack of starry-eyed fools into dubbing you a knight, but those of us with eyes unclouded can see you for the pitiful fraud you remain."

Leofric arched one eyebrow lazily, a carefully cultivated edge of danger creeping into his tone as he replied. "Such unbecoming words, my lady. Though I suppose it's no great surprise to see envy and spite dripping so freely from one with naught but beauty and high birth to commend her."

Silence fell then as the two locked eyes - lion and lion, each appraising the other with undisguised loathing. It was the raven-haired companion who eventually broke the deadlock with an airy laugh.

"Oh, do stop with the vitriolic flirtations, you two! We haven't the time for such dreary verbal jousts." She fixed Cersei with a sly look. "Or have you forgotten our little detour, cub?"

Cersei's lip curled in disdain at the comment, though some of the venom seemed to leach from her at the unspoken reminder. At last her imperious gaze found Leofric once more, raking him with cool dismissal.

"Run along, Lord Baelish," she drawled. "We've more important matters to attend to than trading barbs with upjumped hedge knights."

With that, she turned on her heel, skirts swirling as she swept away with her companions in tow. Leofric watched them go, the inscrutable remarks about "detours" and the open disdain piquing his curiosity despite himself.
He wasn't sure what mad impulse prompted him to call out after them.

"Wait."

The single syllable lashed out, unnervingly authoritative. To his mild surprise, the maidens actually paused, turning to fix him with wary, incredulous glares.

Leofric met Cersei's venomous stare levelly, allowing just a hint of knowing challenge to color his tone. "Whatever mischief you lovely ladies seek this night...I should very much like to bear witness."

Cersei's lips peeled back in a feral snarl of outrage, but before she could retort, the raven-haired girl laid a staying hand on her arm. Leaning in, she murmured something in Cersei's ear too low for Leofric to make out.

He watched, fascinated, as conflicting expressions warred across the Lannister beauty's face. At last, she seemed to relent with an aggrieved huff, nostrils flaring.

"Very well, Baelish," she spat, waving a regal hand. "You may join us on this...trifling errand, if you're so inclined to humiliate yourself further. But be warned - your tongue won't save you from whatever horrors await us."

Satisfaction thrummed through Leofric's veins at Cersei's capitulation, though he took pains to keep his expression impassive. With a mocking half-bow, he gestured for them to lead on.

The girls exchanged furtive glances before turning to slip through a nearby postern gate and into the shadowy environs beyond the tourney grounds. Leofric followed closely behind, unable to resist a final parting quip to Cersei's retreating form.

"After you, my lady...though only a fool would turn her back on a titan."

The crimson-cloaked shoulders stiffened ever so slightly, but no retort was forthcoming as the unlikely party melted into the night.

After several disorienting twists and turns through progressively seedier back alleys, they arrived at what appeared to be a dilapidated stable fronting a begrimed courtyard. Baleful eyes peered out at them from dim shadowed hovels that seemed to lean perilously inward, as if shielding whatever foul secrets lay within.

Before Leofric could make sense of the wretched locale, Cersei was rapping her knuckles against a heavy oak door, the sound echoing like the knell of doom. A slit in the door scraped open, revealing two suspicious eyes peering out.

"Whatssit you want?" came a reedy voice.

Cersei leaned in close to the door, green eyes glittering. "We've come for your mistress' services. The price will be paid...in full."

The yellowed slits scanned over the girls and Leofric in turn before the watcher grunted. With a clatter of chains, the door swung open to reveal a young woman with hollow eyes.

"In wit' ya then," she said, gesturing them forward with a grimy hand.

As the woman ushered them over the threshold, Leofric cast a final glance over his shoulder at the familiar tourney spires and pennons waving in the distance. In that instant, he felt an unsettling premonition - as if stepping across that threshold carried the weight of fate itself.

Heart suddenly pounding, he pushed the disquieting thought aside and brushed past the woman.

The interior of the decrepit manse was somehow even more foreboding than its exterior had promised. Leofric followed the bobbing cowl of the woman through a cramped stone antechamber and down a flight of creaking cellar stairs in near total darkness. Only the flickering glow of a single tallow candle illuminated the way.

The woman led them not into a dank cellar, but out through a rear door and into the dense woodlands surrounding Lannisport. The path quickly narrowed into little more than an overgrown game trail winding between towering sentinels of oak and iron bark.

Cersei seemed utterly unbothered by the increasingly isolated environs, striding ahead with regal purpose. Her companions followed just behind, the raven-haired girl's hand never straying far from the hilt of a dagger sheathed at her waist.

Only Leofric betrayed a twinge of trepidation, pushing aside branches and thorns as he brought up the rear of their strange procession. Just as he began to question the wisdom of his impulsive decision, a dim glow flickered through the trees ahead.

Moments later they stepped into a small clearing, the air thick with the heady aromas of burning herbs and pungent mosses. In the center of the dell crouched a large, shapeless tent patched together from tattered hides and furs. Smoke trickled from the vented peak, and faint chanting issued from somewhere within the flickering confines.

"We're here, ol' un," the woman hissed, rapping her knuckles against the swaying tent flap.

The chanting ceased abruptly. Then a cracked, ancient voice answered from the depths.

"Send 'em in, Lanna. The bones have foretold their coming'..."

The woman - Lanna, apparently - ushered them forward with a sweeping bow. "Alright, m'ladies...m'lord. The seer awaits yer inquiries."

Cersei swept past her without a second glance, each step regal and controlled despite their decidedly unrefined surroundings. The other girls followed in her wake, twin expressions of giddy trepidation plain on their faces.

As Leofric moved to join them, the woman's hand whipped out with astonishing quickness, clamping around his wrist like a manacle. Her rheumy eyes bored into his, narrowing in acute recognition.

"Not so fast, red lion," she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. "You'n I still 'as a word to say 'fore you tread in that den..."

Leofric, shocked, opened his mouth to object, but the woman's free hand came up in a silent, imperious demand for silence. Confusion and growing unease warred within him as he searched the ancient face for answers. At last, she spoke again.

"I know what ya are, lord o' the flooded' caves. My eyes ‘ave been open to the truth since the Blackfyres lit the way."

She released his wrist then, rapping a knuckle against her breast. "I know, aye...an' I'll keep yer secret. On one condition."

Leofric hesitated only a moment before nodding slowly, grudging respect replacing the scorn he'd felt mere moments ago.

The woman's watery gaze remained unflinching as she named her price. "What happens in that tent don' concern me nor any other. But if'n the lot o' ya mean to slip out into them woods fore dawn...you take me with, away from this shit-stained place."

The weight of the pronouncement hung in the air, rife with unspoken histories and sacrifices made long ago. At last, Leofric inclined his head in solemn acceptance. "You have my word. I will bring you somewhere...safer."

The woman's lips pulled apart in a disturbing parody of a grin, teeth glinting in the gloom. "That's whats I thought you'ds say, proud nobleman." With that hushed exchange concluded, she turned and shuffled through the tent flaps, beckoning Leofric to follow.

He did so with great trepidation, ducking his head to pass through the low entrance. The interior was dimly lit by a series of tallow candles and a smoldering pit dug into the hard-packed earth. The air was thick with the perfume of burning herbs and strange, pungent mosses that twined their tendrils in from the tent's uppermost reaches.

Cersei, her friends, and the dark, wizened form of the woods witch Maggy were arrayed around the firepit, their faces cast in stark relief by its wavering glow. As Leofric settled into a cross-legged seat nearby, the old crone lifted her head, fixing him with a single filmy eye that seemed to bore straight through to his soul. "So..." Her voice cracked in the silence. "You've come at last, children. To hear what the fires have foretold..."

Leofric held Maggy's unsettling gaze, refusing to be cowed despite the frisson of dread snaking down his spine. The woods witch seemed utterly unbothered by his presence, however. With a dismissive wave of her age-spotted hand, she turned her terrifying focus back towards the girls.

"Which of you craves enlightenment first, girls? The flames grow hot and restless, just as they did when first I drank of their truths..."

There was a pregnant pause, each of the girls suddenly hesitant in the face of the witch's disquieting intensity. Then the raven-haired companion squared her shoulders, leveling Maggy with a haughty look. "I'll go first, Cersei. If my questions are to be answered with such cryptic misery, best get it over with." Maggy cackled, a harsh sound.

"Misery, she says! Such spite from one still untested by true suffering."

Undeterred, the girl pressed on. "Very well, old woman. I wish to know if my path will lead me to marriage, and with whom I'll take that vaunted walk. Will it be Jaime?"

The woods witch's filmy eyes seemed to pearl with milky cataracts as she leaned forward, each inhalation little more than a pained, rasping wheeze. "You'll wed what you were always meant for, girl. No need to fear on that account."

She reached out a twisted, blue-veined hand towards the raven-haired maiden, tracing the line of her jaw almost tenderly. "It won't be Jaime, nor any other man. Worms will have your maidenhead. Death is coming, little one. Can you smell her breath? She is very close."

The witch's voice grew thick with relish, her words seeming to slither forth like spectral serpents coiling through the smoke-choked air.

The girl paled visibly at the oblique prophecy, shrinking back from Maggy's questing fingers in revulsion.

As Leofric watched, the blonde handmaid took the moment of silence to her advantage and fled through the flaps.

Yet if Maggy noted the reaction, she showed no sign. Her milky gaze was turning inexorably to Cersei. "Ooh, but what have we here?" she breathed, leaning back with a knowing chuckle. "If it isn't the lion brat herself, all grown up and mixing amongst us lowly folk at last!"

Cersei's face twisted in a sneer of pure venom, any momentary apprehension replaced by the arrogant bravado that so defined her. "I'm no meek girl to be cowed by your tawdry illusions, hag," she bit out acidly.

"Show me something tangible or I'll have my lord father burn this cesspit to the bedrock." There was a beat of loaded silence in which even the swirling tendrils of smoke seemed to still. Then Maggy threw back her head, and Leofric's blood turned to ice water in his veins as a high, keening laugh exploded from her withered lips.

When she lifted her gaze to Cersei once more, her expression was one of pure, beatific rapture. And her next words dripped with the exquisite relish of one who has awaited their chance to inflict the most exquisite torment.

Maggy cackled again, a dire sound like bones being ground to powder. "Oh, how proud you'll stride the land when his seed flows thick between your maiden thighs!"

Not repulsed, Cersei leaned closer and asked "When will I wed the prince?"

"Never. You will wed the king," the witch answered with a chuckle.

"I will be queen, though?" the young Lannister asked.

"Aye. Queen you shall be...until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear."

After a moment Cersei asked, "Will the king and I have children?"

"Oh, yes. Sixteen for him, and three for you. Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds," she said. "And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you."

Cersei visibly paled at the gnarled words, all her bravado seeming to seep away in the face of the witch's unholy pronouncement. Her mouth worked soundlessly as Maggy leaned ever closer, a grin of yellowed tombstones stretching across her features.

But Maggy simply drank in the girl's horror like a precious wine, sipping at the sounds of innocence shattering around her. At long last, she pushed back from the girls, huddling deeper into her tattered robes with a weary sigh.

"Go then, girls. I hold no more truths for you..."

Head bowed, the raven-haired girl paused just long enough to fix Leofric with an odd look before trailing after Cersei.

Only Leofric and the witch remained, the former rooted in place by the poisonous auguries, the latter coiled in her nest of scorched mosses like some ageless serpent.

"Lord Reyne" she voiced at last. "Did you come through the forest to torment, or to have all you crave and despair known?"

Whatever response Leofric might have prepared fled his lips like ashes on the wind. All he could do was meet the witch's expectant stare and shake his head slowly in mute reply.

Maggy regarded Leofric through narrowed eyes for a long moment, as if weighing the merit of bestowing her ill-favored visions upon him.

"Very well then. If you still thirst for what is to come..." She leaned forward, her single milky eye fixing him with a stare that seemed to bore straight through to his soul.

"I see...fire. And ice as sliver as the trout you mock so freely. The might of golden lions shall be humbled, their prideful roars choked to wretched mewls by the rushing tide."

Maggy's voice took on a fevered pitch, growing more intense with each damning proclamation. "Flames will lap at their vaunted feet, until even their precious rock groans and crumbles to ash! For every prospering cub slaughtered, a hundred more vengeful snarls will rise to replace them!"

Maggy recoiled then, wrapping her tattered robes tighter as her body was racked by a consumptive fit of harsh, rending coughs. When she lifted her head once more, spittle frothed at the corners of her mouth.

"And when all is rendered down to their crude elements...when crowns grow heavy and banners fray to nothing but wasting threads..."

Maggy reared back, mouth splitting in a perverse parody of a grin to reveal a stream of blackened, rotten teeth. "...All you'll recall as your lion eyes turn clouded at last is the piteous mewling dying gasp of utter, frosted..." "...oblivion."

As the last blasphemous syllable hissed from the witch's cracked lips, it seemed to Leofric that the candle flames guttered for the space of a single, stretched heartbeat. Just long enough for the darkness to envelop them in a shroud of absolving blackness.

When the light returned, mere moments later, Maggy had withdrawn into the hunched secrecy of her tattered robes once more. The spell of whatever demonic ecstasy had gripped her through that vitriolic diatribe appeared to have passed now, leaving her to simply stare across the meager firepit at him with a piercing stare.

"Does that satisfy you, my lord?" the old woman rasped at last. "Or shall I speak more and slice deeper?" Leofric swallowed hard, trying to regain his outward composure despite the icy tendrils of foreboding squirming in his belly.

For one uncanny moment, it had seemed as though the witch's very words carried the power to unmake the fabric of reality itself. But he was too hardened by his circumstances to give in to such maddened fancies.

Straightening his shoulders, he met Maggy's hollow gaze levelly. "No more is required," he said, resolve stiffening his tone despite the tremors still echoing through his mind. "You've favored me quite enough for one eve, I'd say."

Listening intently, one side of Maggy's mouth twisted upwards in a gruesome mockery of a smile.

With a parting rasp, she gestured with one gnarled hand towards the tent flap behind him, a clear dismissal. Leofric didn't need to be told twice. He pivoted sharply and stalked from the stifling confines, emerging into the pristine chill of the forest night.

As his boots crunched over the carpet of shed loam and pine needles, the stench of burning herbs and madness quickly dissipated. By the time he reached the edge of the clearing where Lanna crouched waiting, he'd managed to compose his features into a mask of stoic indifference.

"Well, pretty lion?" the woman croaked with blatant anticipation. "Did ol' Maggy give ya some tales worth takin' to yer grave?"

Leofric paused, regarding her through narrowed eyes as his thoughts churned. At last, he allowed the barest quirk of a smile to ghost across his lips. "All she's gifted me with is added resolve, Lanna," he murmured. "Some promises, mayhaps, but nothing fate itself hasn't forged me to receive."

The woman chuckled, a rusty well-laden sound of pure devilish delight. "Eees that so, boy? Good, good..."

Ignoring her morbid amusement, Leofric set off once more towards the winking lights of Lannisport shimmering in the distance, Maggy's last words hanging in the air like a death knell. "Just remember," Lanna cawed at him. "The truth is gonna swallow ya whole one day, lionfishhhhh..."

Certainty alone carried Leofric forward through the night, his jaw set in grim resolution. The gold lions would have their ashes decorating the field of fire soon enough.

As he and Lanna traveled the winding forest path back towards Lannisport, Leofric's mind was still churning with the weight of Maggy's dire prophecies. The old woods witch's pronouncements of fiery ruin seemed to have taken on an almost palpable presence, hovering over his shoulders like some unfurled pennant of doom.

He was jolted from his brooding thoughts by the sound of childish laughter carried on the evening breeze. Laughter that quickly soured with panicked cries and shrieks. Exchanging a wary look with Lanna, Leofric lengthened his stride, one hand dropping to the sword hilt at his belt.

Bursting through a Stand of towering trees, they came upon a small clearing - and the unthinkable scene unfolding within. There stood Cersei, lips twisted in a cruel smirk, watching with undisguised pleasure as a small figure thrashed helplessly in the dark depths of an old well at her feet.

"Cersei!" Leofric bellowed, his voice edged with disbelief and fury. "What in the seven hells is the meaning of this?"

The Lannister lioness didn't so much as flinch at his shout, too enraptured with whatever sordid entertainment played out below. As Leofric took a furious step forward, Lanna's vice-like grip clamped around his forearm with surprising strength.

"Don't be a fool, boy," the woman rasped, yellowed eyes glinting knowingly. "This is Maggy's design, plain as them clouds shroudin' the moon."

Leofric opened his mouth to respond, but the words died on his tongue as feminine sobs echoed up from the well, laced with desperate pleas for aid. With a snarl, he wrenched free of Lanna's grasp and broke into a sprint.

As he neared, Cersei seemed to finally take notice. When their eyes met, her painted lips parted in a mocking sneer.

Heedless of her taunts, Leofric flung himself at the crumbling well-side, peering over to see the raven-haired girl struggling to keep her head above the inky water. Without a moment's hesitation, he located a sizable oak branch and extended it down into the abyss.

"Grab hold!" he shouted, muscles straining as the girl's small hands clawed at the peeling bark. "I'll pull you up!"

With a bestial grunt, Leofric hauled upwards. A sodden form came slithering over the lip to sprawl in a boneless heap on the grass, coughing and retching up foul well water.

Scooping her up, Leofric quickly swaddled the shivering girl in the folds of his thick green cloak. Only then did he rise to face Cersei once more, anger and revulsion etched across his features.

"What sort of monster bears witness to such an act?" he snarled, gesturing towards the violated well. "She could have drowned!"

"Pity," Cersei deadpanned with an arrogant toss of her golden mane. "I was so looking forward to it."

Leofric felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Lanna, her face a mask of grim resignation. "Surely ye know better'n to play antics wit' a lioness' murderous whimsies, Baelish. This was fated from the day the crone coughed her first 'parley' on these trees."

"Fated?" he spat, pulling free with disdain. "More like orchestrated by madwomen and their self-serving hexes!" "Be gone from my sight!"

Drawing himself up to his full height, Leofric glared at Cersei with unadulterated contempt. "Let this be a warning, then, _my lady_. The next time you or any of your twisted kin decide to indulge your baser cravings for cruelty..."

He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a growl thick with menace. "...I'll show you what _real_ monsters are capable of."

With that, he turned and guided the soaking girl away, leaving Cersei to stare after them in a mixture of hatred and intrigued curiosity. Lanna watched him go, a sad smile pulling at her cracked lips.

"Ye wants to believe yer not jus' a stickin' fork bent this way an' that," she murmured. "But we all is, boyo...branches whippin' in whatever wind Fate blows hard over these lands."

Leofric cradled the shivering girl in his arms as they made their way back towards Lannisport, haunting whispers about fate and inevitability still rang in his ears, but for once he pushed them aside. This young woman needed reassurance and care, not to see him brooding over the mad mutterings of woods witches.

"You're safe now, my lady," he murmured, adjusting his green cloak more snugly around her sodden form. "I'll not let any further harm befall you."

She managed a weak smile at that, amber eyes shining with a mixture of fear and gratitude. "You have my thanks, ser...?"

A ghost of a smirk played across Leofric's lips at that. "Petyr. Petyr Baelish, my lady."

"Melara," she replied, offering her delicate hand. It trembled ever so slightly in his calloused grip. "Melara Hetherspoon."

They walked for a time in silence, her seeking what comfort she could in his solid, reassuring presence. The sounds of revelry drifted to them through the trees, raucous laughter and plaintive songs mingling with the crackle of a thousand cookfires.

"Do you truly think she meant to let me drown?" Melara asked at last in a small voice. When Leofric didn't reply, she drew the cloak tighter and shivered. "Cersei has always been wild, prone to...unseemly outbursts. But even she wouldn't go that far, would she?"

Her words hung in the air, ripe with youthful naivete and desperate hope for a reassuring lie. Leofric could only sigh and shake his head.

"I've witnessed enough of the lions' savagery this eve to dispel any illusions about the limits of their arrogant cravings." He fixed Melara with an intense look. "Pray this incident be your final awakening to those harsh truths. You'd do well to steer clear of Cersei and her ilk from this night forward."

Melara seemed to weigh his words, conflicting emotions playing across her features. Then, almost absently, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his in a gentle, chaste kiss.

Leofric stiffened in surprise, but didn't pull away. When their mouths parted, the girl's eyes were shimmering.

"You're a good man, Petyr Baelish," she whispered throatily. "I only pray the gods have more like you awaiting on the roads ahead."

Leofric held her gaze for a long moment before clearing his throat and gesturing up the trail. "We should make haste. You've been through an ordeal this eve...you'll need rest and safety amongst friends."

Melara regarded him silently before offering a tiny nod of acquiescence. She pressed in close to his side as they continued on.

By the time they reached the outer rings of Tully tents and crudely-erected ramparts, night had fully fallen. Scores of men-at-arms bearing the silver trout moved amongst the organized chaos, stoking fires and making ready for rest.

One grizzled, barrel-chested man with hooks of graying hair came shouldering through the activity, his craggy face splitting into a wide grin at the sight of Leofric.

"If it isn't the newly-minted 'Ser Petyr himself!" Brynden Tully boomed, ruffling Leofric's hair affectionately. "That was some fancy stick-swinging you did out there in the melee, lad. Dealing out blows like a Wilding grandmother with a knitting basket!"

Leofric batted away the Blackfish's hands with a put-upon huff, trying and failing to suppress his grin.

"As if you'd know anything about fighting with finesse instead of just head-butting opponents into submission, you old trout." "You dropped out, last I checked."

Brynden guffawed at the jibe, smacking Leofric's shoulder hard enough to make him wince. "That's my surly little squire! Though I fear even my thick skull would crack trying to go helm-to-helm with that boulder you cart about on your shoulders."

His eyes then flicked towards the hooded figure clinging to Leofric's side, one bushy eyebrow arching upwards.

"And who's this lovely lady friend you've brought along? Don't tell me that hot-blooded adolescent fancies have finally caught up with the gallant 'Ser Stumpy' here?"

Leofric felt his cheeks flush as Melara shrank a little further behind him.

"This is Lady Melara Hetherspoon, Bryden," he said, trying to inject some dignity into his tone. "I...assisted her with a rather unseemly incident earlier and thought it best she find safe refuge amongst more reputable company for the evening."

The Blackfish's laugh lines crinkled around his eyes as he regarded Melara with an appraising look that made Leofric tense.

"Well now, aren't you a pretty one?" Brynden pulled off an exaggerated courtly bow, offering his hand with a roguish wink towards Leofric. "Any maid brave enough to put up with this young rack of misery is more than welcome to take shelter amongst us grizzled scrappers, my lady."

Melara managed a bashful giggle at the attention, accepting Brynden's hand gingerly after a moment's hesitation. The Blackfish gave her knuckles a paternal pat before turning and leading them further into the encampment.

"Right then, enough standing around!

Behind him, Leofric shook his head in a mixture of embarrassment and amusement as he and Melara fell into step. Leave it to his former master to find any excuse to trade barbs and privy jests. Though judging by the young woman's barely stifled smile, she seemed more charmed than scandalized by the salty fish's banter.

As they made their way through the maze of tents and cook-fires, Leofric found himself instinctively pulling Melara a bit closer. This raucous world of battle-stained knights and worse could pose all manner of unseen dangers to the girl, regardless of Brynden's avuncular bluster.

He still didn't fully understand what had transpired back in the woods with Cersei and that wretched well. But one thing was increasingly clear - he'd not soon be abandoning this girl's safety and peace of mind to mere chance and the whims of Lannisters again.

Chapter Text

“On the Plains of Hesitation bleach the bones of countless millions who, at the Dawn of Victory, sat down to wait, and waiting—died!”

- George W. Cecil, The American Magazine

The first rays of dawn were just beginning to filter through the canvas of Leofric's tent when he stirred awake. For a few blissful moments, the world beyond consisted solely of the comforting familiarity of his sparse surroundings - the scent of oiled leather, the soft crackle of the dying embers in the brazier.

Then, like a crashing wave, the memories of the previous night came rushing back. Maggy's dire prophecies still echoed in his mind, mingling with the bitter taste of Cersei's cruelty towards Melara. With a weary sigh, Leofric pushed himself upright on his narrow pallet, scrubbing a hand over his face.

His gaze fell upon the huddled form of Melara Hetherspoon, still slumbering peacefully on a pallet of her own, tucked beneath his thick green cloak. In the soft light, he could make out the many freckles dusting her cheeks and the gentle curve of her lips. There was an air about her that tugged at something long-buried in Leofric's calloused heart.

Melara's hair spilled across the pallet in an ebony cascade, framing delicate features. Her eyes, when open, were deep pools of molten amber that seemed to smolder with a simmering inner light.

As if sensing his scrutiny, Melara stirred and blinked awake, those very eyes finding him instantly. A ghost of a smile played across her lips as she pushed upright, clutching the cloak around her shoulders.

"You let me sleep in," she murmured, something approaching wonder in her tone.

Leofric couldn't help but return the smile, however faintly. "Of course. You were in need of rest after..." He trailed off, uncertain how to broach the previous night's events.

But Melara seemed to understand, her expression sobering as she averted her gaze. "After Cersei..." She shook her lower lip, drawing the cloak tighter. "I still can't quite believe she would go that far. We were friends once, you know. Sisters, almost."

"People show their true faces when they think no one's watching," Leofric said, gentler than he'd intended. He reached out to lay a comforting hand on her arm. "You survived that trial, Melara. That's what matters now."

She held his gaze for a long moment before giving a small nod. "You're right. I did survive." A flicker of something fiercer kindled in her eyes then. "And I'll keep on surviving, no matter what other horrors that...that wretched girl tries to inflict."

Leofric felt a surge of pride at the girl's resilience, coupled with a rush of protective instinct he knew better than to indulge. Instead, he squeezed her arm once more before rising.

"Speaking of surviving...we should likely make ourselves presentable before the feast. I've a feeling Brynden will be off spoiling for some fresh japes at my expense soon enough."

Melara's lips twitched upwards again at that. "The gruff one? Yes, I can see why you'd want to be on your guard around him." She affected a tone of exaggerated solemnity. "He seems a right terror to squires everywhere."

Chuckling despite himself, Leofric tossed her a clean tunic from his packs. "Just don't let him fool you with that curmudgeonly mummer's act. Deep down he's naught but an overgrown patch of pondweed."

As Melara retreated behind a privacy screen to change, Leofric set about donning his own attire and breaking down his small campsite with efficient motions. It wasn't until he'd finished securing the tent flaps that a new thought struck him.

"Melara?" He kept his tone level, though apprehension gnawed at him. "When you're ready, there's...there's something we should discuss."

The girl poked her head around the screen, one eyebrow arched quizzically. "Oh? Like what?"

Leofric hesitated, trying to find the right phrasing. "Like...your father. Lord Hetherspoon." He searched her expression, seeing the dawning realization there. "He'll want word of what's transpired. And I think it best if you send him a raven before certain...less accurate tales take root."

To his surprise, Melara's features hardened into a surprising mask of resolve. "You're right," she said simply, straightening her borrowed tunic. "He deserves to hear the truth from me."

As she emerged fully, Leofric couldn't help but admire the resolute set of her jaw, the straightening of her shoulders. For all her tender years, Melara Hetherspoon carried herself with a quiet dignity and backbone of steel that few her age could boast.

"Well then," he said at last with an approving nod. "Shall we?"

The raven-haired girl favored him with a grateful look before striding past, headed for the hustle and activity of the rapidly awakening tourney grounds. Leofric followed, anticipation and trepidation warring within him over the conversation to come.

No sooner had they stepped out into the crisp morning air than a familiar figure came bustling over from the nearby cook-fires. Jeyne Farman, the blonde handmaid who'd accompanied them the previous night, regarded Melara with a mixture of relief and consternation.

"There you are!" she fretted, wringing her hands. "We've been looking everywhere for - " Her tirade broke off as she seemed to finally take in Leofric's presence, eyes widening perceptibly. "Oh...my, you're with..."

Melara arched one eyebrow coolly. "Ser Petyr, yes. Who did you think I was gallivanting about with?"

Jeyne's gaze flicked towards Leofric, evaluating. Despite her softness, the girl's hazel eyes held a keen intelligence that put him somewhat in mind of honed arrowheads.

"I only meant - " she began, before visibly quelling whatever objection had been forming. Instead, she favored Leofric with a curtsy that managed to seem more mocking than respectful. "Ser Petyr. What an...unexpected encounter."

"Indeed," Leofric replied evenly, refusing to be cowed by the girl's insolent demeanor. He'd weathered far worse condescension from higher-born sorts in his years. "Although I can't decide if the unexpectedness lies in our chance meeting, or your own...hasty retreat from events last evening."

Jeyne flushed a rather unbecoming shade of puce at that barb. To her credit, she rallied with impressive poise.

"Yes, well...some of us simply aren't cut out for all the vulgarities your kind so clearly revel in." Her chin lifted in a defiant tilt as she slipped an arm through Melara's. "Now if you'll excuse us handmaids, ser... we best get to more civilized company before our reputation is similarly besmirched."

With that, she tugged Melara away in a swirl of fabric and indignant hauteur. The raven-haired girl managed to catch Leofric's eye just before they disappeared into the crowd, giving him a look that was one part sheepishness, one part unspoken thanks.

Leofric watched them go, smirking faintly to himself. The girl had fire.

His moment of wry amusement was interrupted by a gruff cough from behind. Turning, he was unsurprised to find Brynden Tully watching him with a decidedly judgmental look, arms crossed over his barreled chest.

“I’ll give you this much, lad,” the Blackfish groused in that trademark rasp. “You certainly know how to stir up trouble.”

Offering his mentor a sardonic bow, Leofric replied, “Only doing what I can to keep you in fighting form, ser. Age must be getting to you if a few choice words is all it takes to set your hackles rising these days.”

Brynden snorted loudly, though the corner of his mouth did quirk upwards slightly. “Lucky for you I’ve grown used to your provocations. Otherwise I’d have knocked some sense into you by now.”

He jerked his chin towards the departing girls. “So given the talk around camp, am I to assume you’ve taken to rescuing damsels in distress? Quite the reputation you’re building.”

Leofric rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t fully suppress his grin at the jape. “Please, as if I’d ever waste my energies on such frivolous diversions. The myriad of natural born chaos was entertaining enough on its own last night, I’ll have you know.”

The levity faded from Brynden’s expression at that, replaced by a look of guarded wariness. “Aye, well…I did hear a few distressing whispers from the other lads about the said unpleasantness having a connection to the Lannister brood. Care to fill in the gaps for an old trout?”

Weighing his mentor’s words, Leofric made a split-second decision. “Perhaps it’s best if we find somewhere a bit more private to discuss things. This conversation may require a whetted throat or two along the way.”

Brynden grunted in assent, already turning to lead the way deeper into the Tully encampment. “You get us into any more tangles like this, boy, and I’ll be having your sword melted down and sold to cover my wine debts.”

As they settled around a small portable table near the cook-fires, Leofric filled in the Blackfish in hushed tones. He fully recounted Melara’s near-drowning at Cersei’s hands, the strange encounter with the woods witch Maggy, and the malicious prophecies she had issued - both for the Lannister brat and for ‘Petyr’ himself.

To his credit, Brynden listened intently throughout the macabre tale. Only when the final words had been spoken did he lean back, draining his tankard of sourleaf in one protracted pull.

“Seven hells…” he rasped at last, swiping a hand over his mouth. “That mad old witch has been breathing too much swamp air if she thinks her curses hold any weight.”

Leofric arched an eyebrow. “You don’t put much credence in her predictions, then?”
“Not a whit of it,” Brynden said with a dismissive grunt. “Woods witches are all the same - half-mad crones peddling fear with flowery words to make coin from the gullible. Don’t put stock in the ravings of some charlatan.”

As much as Leofric wanted to share the Blackfish’s easy dismissal, something nagged at the back of his mind. The sheer conviction in Maggy’s tone, the way her very words had seemed to hold a power unto themselves…

He pushed the disquieting thought aside for the moment, favoring Brynden with a nod. “You’re right, I shouldn’t let an old madwoman’s mutterings fray my wits.” A wry smirk pulled at his lips. “Although I do hope her prophecies for the Lannisters come to pass - if only so I can revel in imagining the looks on their smug faces.”

Brynden barked out a raspy chuckle at that. “Well now, there’s the proper spirit!” He reached over to clap Leofric’s shoulder firmly. “Just remember, lad…curses and fates belong on the tongues of fools. If there’s any retribution to be had, you’ll need to carve it out with your own two hands. Same as any other man.”

The weight of the Blackfish’s words seeming to resonate deep within Leofric’s core, coalescing around some unfaced ambition. Before he could ruminate further, a nearby commotion drew both their attention.

Two newcomers had approached the cooking fires, one unmistakably garbed in the style of House Baratheon. Leofric studied the younger of the pair intently—a youth of perhaps twelve years with a stern countenance that seemed far too grave for his age. The resemblance to the older man beside him was unmistakable.

The elder Baratheon was a robust figure with an easy bearing that contrasted sharply with his son's severity. This had to be Steffon Baratheon himself, Lord of Storm's End. Though the Baratheons held no land in the Riverlands, it seemed Lord Hoster was seeing to their hospitality nonetheless.

Brynden eyed the arrivals with narrowed appraisal before leaning close to murmur, "What do you make of the young stag, Petyr? He looks about as mirthful as a septon at a brothel."

Leofric considered for a moment before replying in an equally low tone. "He carries himself like he's already fought a dozen battles and lost half of them. Curious, for one so young."

He couldn't shake the nagging sense there was something unusual simmering beneath the youth's dour exterior. Time would tell whether it was the mark of a dangerous player...or simply the burden of being a second son.

Stepping away from Brynden, Leofric approached the Stormlanders. "Lord Steffon, well met. I am Ser Petyr Baelish."

The Lord of Storm's End turned with a welcoming smile that transformed his weathered features. "Ah, Lord Baelish! Your reputation precedes you, lad. I've heard tell of your prowess from Lord Tully." His expression grew more respectful. "And may I congratulate you on your knighthood? The King's recognition of your victory in yesterday's melee was well deserved—a fine display of arms from what I'm told." He clapped a hand on his son's shoulder. "This sullen creature beside me is my son, Stannis."

"Father," Stannis said quietly, his tone carrying a note of embarrassment at the introduction.

"Don't mind his manners," Steffon continued with a hearty chuckle. "He's been in a foul mood since we left Storm's End. Something about missing his books and his grinding stone." He ruffled Stannis's hair, much to the youth's obvious discomfort. "I keep telling him that a lord's education extends beyond the keep's walls, but you know how it is with the scholarly types."

"I am not scholarly," Stannis protested, his jaw set firmly. "I simply prefer useful pursuits to... festivities."

"See what I mean?" Steffon laughed, though there was genuine affection in his voice. "He could find fault with a sunset if he set his mind to it."

Leofric smiled diplomatically. "Lord Steffon, might I have a moment of your son's time? I find my self in need of a friendly bout."

Steffon's eyes lit up with interest. "Capital idea! What say you, Stannis? Show this young knight what Storm's End steel can do."

Stannis, barely twelve but already carrying himself with the solemnity of an elder lord, eyed Leofric warily. "What is it you want exactly?"

"Merely a simple request to cross swords, if you'd oblige me," Leofric said with a smile, trying to ease the tension. "A noble should make a habit of gauging his peers, after all."

"There's no harm in it, son," Steffon encouraged, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "A man learns as much about himself in defeat as in victory. Perhaps more."

Stannis hesitated, clearly unsure, but the prospect of testing his skills against a more experienced fighter was too enticing to resist. "Very well then. But don't expect me to go easy on you simply because we've just met."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Leofric replied.

With that, they moved away from the bustle of the camp, finding a clear patch of dirt nearby. The sun beat down on them as they squared off, wooden practice swords in hand.

"Remember what I taught you about your footwork!" Steffon called out as they began to circle each other. "And mind your guard—you drop your left shoulder when you're thinking too hard!"

The clash of wooden practice swords echoed through the air as they began their duel, Stannis showing surprising agility and determination despite his father's continued commentary.

"That's it, Stannis! Press your advantage!" Steffon shouted, then immediately followed with, "No, no—don't overextend! Patience!"

Leofric couldn't help but notice how the running commentary seemed to both encourage and frustrate the young Baratheon in equal measure. The boy's jaw grew tighter with each piece of advice, though his technique remained sound.

"You're quite skilled for your age," Leofric remarked between exchanges, genuinely impressed by Stannis's abilities.

Stannis remained silent, his focus solely on the fight as he continued to press forward with unwavering determination. Though Leofric ultimately gained the upper hand, disarming Stannis with a well-timed maneuver, he couldn't help but feel a sense of respect for the young Baratheon.

As they caught their breath, Steffon approached with an approving nod. "Well fought, both of you. Stannis, you lasted longer than I expected against an opponent of Ser Petyr's caliber."

"I should have had him," Stannis muttered, staring at his fallen practice sword.

"Perhaps," his father agreed mildly, "but 'should have' won't win you any real battles, son. Learn from this." He turned to Leofric with a grateful expression. "Thank you. It's good for him to face opponents beyond our master-at-arms."

Leofric offered Stannis a smile and a nod of approval. "You fought well, Lord Stannis. With dedication and practice, you'll become a formidable knight one day."

Stannis, his expression a mixture of pride and exhaustion, nodded in acknowledgment. Despite his youth, he had proven himself a worthy opponent, and the respect between them was mutual—even if unspoken.

Later that day Tywin Lannister held a lavish feast, for the departing lords, in the, well ornamented, great hall of Casterly Rock.

Arriving late Leofric took a seat beside the Tullys, he couldn't help but overhear King Aerys' reedy voice.

"Look at them, Tywin," the king sneered. "Rutting and grunting like beasts in a sty."

Leofric noticed that the golden cunt’s jaw had tightened but the Lannister remained silent, his expression unreadable.

Nearby, a young boy could be seen peeking out from behind a column, his wide, mismatched eyes, missing nothing until a serving girl rushed to shoo him away.

Once the nobles had settled, Prince Rhaegar moved from the dias and took up his harp, a beautiful thing made of solid dragon bone. All fell silent when he began to pluck its silver strings.

“Upon the windswept Wall she came,
Alysanne of the silver mane,
To a land of frost and endless night,
Where fire fades and steals the light.

Through ancient ice and frozen stone,
She walked where dragons seldom roam.
Her heart was heavy, filled with grief,
For the North had known no queen's relief.

She saw the men, their faces grim,
In shadows long and halls so dim.
With kind words and tender grace,
She brought warmth to that cold place.

But in the dark, where whispers creep,
She felt the sorrow, cold and deep.
For duty bound and dragon's blood,
Could not thaw the endless flood.

The Wall stood tall, a ghostly scar,
A barrier between near and far.
And though she shone with queenly fire,
Her heart grew heavy, her soul grew tired.

For in the night, she heard the calls,
Of those who'd perished beyond the Wall.
Their mournful cries, a haunting plea,
Echoed in her memory.

Oh, Alysanne, of noble heart,
Who dared to tread where shadows start,
Your light, though bright, could not dispel,
The endless night, the frozen hell.

And when she turned her gaze away,
From ice and snow to dawning day,
She carried with her, sorrow's weight,
A heavy heart, a mournful fate.

For though she brought a fleeting spark,
To the brothers in the dark,
The Wall stood silent, cold and tall,
And Alysanne felt winter's thrall."

As the final notes of the song drifted through the hall, Rhaegar looked up, his silver hair catching the light, and said, "Would anyone care to accompany me for the next song?"

A silence followed, heavy and awkward. Nobles glanced at each other, some shifting uncomfortably in their seats, while others avoided his gaze altogether. The enchantment of the music faded, replaced by the tension of unspoken expectations.

"Hear that, Tywin?" Aerys' mocking tone cut through the stillness. "It seems only dragons can appreciate true artistry."

Shaking his head, Leofric noticed Hoster Tully eyeing him like a proud parent. "You represented us proudly out there, Petyr," the Lord of the Trident said warmly."

Leofric felt a swell of pride at Hoster's words. "Thank you, my lord."

Hoster Tully smiled, the lines around his eyes deepening. "Such a victory was no small feat. The melee is a grueling contest, and you showed not only skill but remarkable endurance and courage."

Leofric bowed his head, humbled by the praise. "I only seek to do what is right, my lord. Your House has shown me nothing but kindness and respect. I owe you a great deal."

Hoster nodded thoughtfully. "Loyalty and gratitude are rare virtues these days, Petyr. Hold on to them. They will guide you through the darkest times. But tell me, how did you manage to best Oberyn Martell? He's a well seasoned fighter."

Leofric allowed himself a small smile. "It wasn't easy, my lord. I had to use my wits as much as my strength. Oberyn was fast and agile, and his spear deadly. I knew I couldn't match him in direct combat. So, I used caltrops, scattering them strategically to limit his movements."

Hoster raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "Caltrops? Ingenious. I suppose he didn't expect that."

"No, my lord," Leofric replied. "He was quite surprised. Once his footing was compromised, I was able to quickly gain the upper hand."

Laughing merrily, Hoster turned to look at him. "Your father would have been proud."

Leofric's heart tightened at the mention of Petyr’s father. “You knew him well, didn't you, my lord?"

Hoster nodded, a shadow passing over his face. "Aye, I did.“

Leofric swallowed hard, feeling a mix of pride and misplaced sorrow.

Hoster laid a hand on Leofric's shoulder. "Remember, it is not the blood in your veins that defines you, but the choices you make and the honor you maintain. Stay true to yourself, and you will always have a place at my table."

As the conversations continued around the great hall, Leofric couldn't help but overhear another exchange between Aerys and Tywin Lannister. The king's reedy voice cut through the din once more.

"I never thought you to be serious, Tywin," Aerys sneered, his pale features twisting into a contemptuous grin. "Jaime, squiring for Rhaegar? Don't make me laugh."

Tywin's expression remained impassive, though Leofric noticed the muscle in his jaw tightening fractionally. "Your Grace, I merely thought --"

"That's just it, you weren't thinking," Aerys interrupted with a cruel chuckle. "Why in the seven hells would I force the future king to waste his time training your lowly get?"

A heavy silence fell over those seated nearby as the nobles pretended not to eavesdrop on the uncomfortable exchange. Leofric felt his hands clenching unconsciously beneath the table.

"Jaime is my eldest son and heir," Tywin replied, his tone deceptively mild. "A lord in his own right. He's more than qualified --"

"He's a child playing at soldiery!" Aerys all but spat. "I'll not have that smirking punk anywhere near my son, is that understood?"

Leofric could see the Lannister patriarch's jaw working furiously, but Tywin remained silent, seeming to forcibly swallow whatever retort he'd been prepared to make.

"No, I don't think he’ll be squiring for anyone of import anytime soon," the king mused with mock thoughtfulness. "In fact, you'd best content yourself with accepting whatever dregs of honor I deign to afford you."

Aerys beckoned over two young boys who had been loitering nearby, pudgy youths that Leofric vaguely recognized as the sons of minor lords. One of them bore a strange surcoat covered in skulls and kisses. Their spotty faces were lit up with boyish glee at being summoned before the king himself.

"You two runts have been granted a great honor," Aerys proclaimed imperiously. "From this day forth, you are to serve as squires to my son, Rhaegar."

The two boys' eyes went wide, looking as though they could scarcely credit their luck. They immediately dropped to one knee, babbling stammered gratitude.

Aerys silenced them with a curt wave of his hand before fixing Tywin Lannister with a pointed glare. "There now, you see? I've no need for mere servants intruding upon the structure of the royal household."

Tywin's jaw tightened even more as Aerys continued twisting the knife. The king leaned back with a cruel smile.

"Actually, I have a better idea for your whelp." Aerys beckoned Jaime over with one crooked finger. "Come here, boy."

Jaime swaggered over obediently, his green eyes bright with arrogance despite his youth. He gave an insolent bow before Aerys. "Your Grace?"

"Oh, don't give me that false courtesy," Aerys sneered. "I'll put you in your place soon enough."

The king kicked off one of his boots and held it up, the sole caked with dried mud and filth from the tourney grounds.

"You see this, Lannister? This needs cleaning. And you're just the little lion cub to do it."
Jaime's cocky expression faltered as Aerys shoved the filthy boot right in his face.
"Clean it. Now," Aerys barked. "With your hands and spit, like a proper servant!"

Jaime looked over at his father helplessly, but Tywin's face was a mask of forced neutrality, seemingly willing his heir to obey despite the humiliation.

After a tense moment, Jaime's shoulders slumped in defeat. He got down on his knees and, with obvious reluctance, began scraping at the caked mud with his bare hands, grimacing at the foul texture.

Muffled laughter and jeering rang out from the surrounding nobles at the sight of the proud Lannister heir being degraded in such a manner. Jaime's face burned scarlet with shame and humiliation.

Throughout it all, Tywin remained still as a statue, seemingly not registering the insults being hurled at his House and heir. Only the rigid set of his jaw and the fire burning in his green eyes hinted at the barely contained rage simmering beneath.

When Jaime finally finished, his hands filthy, Aerys roughly snatched the boot back with a contemptuous sneer. "There, that should learn you some humility, Lannister. Let that be a lesson to your Lord father about overstepping his bounds."

He fixed Tywin with a triumphant glare. "Well? What do you have to say to that, oh great lord of Casterly Rock?"

Tywin stared back at the king, unflinching despite the fresh humiliation. At last, he inclined his head in a shallow nod.
"Thank you...for the instruction, Your Grace. It will be remembered."

His tone was even, betraying no hint of the fury that must be churning within. But those final three words carried more venom than a nest of vipers.

As Jaime slunk back to his seat, hands and tunic streaked with filth, Leofric couldn't help but feel a pang of pity for the arrogant boy, forced to suffer such indignities. And a shiver of foreboding when he saw the odd gleam in Tywin Lannister’s eyes.

After the humiliating spectacle with Jaime Lannister at the feast, Leofric decided he needed some air. He excused himself from the Tully table and made his way out of the stifling great hall, still reeling from Aerys' cruelty towards the Lannister heir.

As he strode through the bustling courtyards of Casterly Rock, Leofric's mind turned to more pragmatic matters. His victory in the melee had earned him a tidy sum of 1,000 gold dragons, which were to be collected from a Tully retainer stationed down at the docks of Lannisport.

Adjusting his cloak, Leofric set off in that direction, relishing the feel of the sea breeze on his face after being cooped up all day. The salty air helped clear his head as his boots carried him through the winding streets towards the harbor.

He was just passing a cramped alehouse when a gravelly voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Well I'll be damned...those are Sybelle's eyes if I've ever seen them."

Leofric turned to find an elderly man seated by the window, eyeing him with keen interest. Despite his age, there was an unmistakable sharpness in the man's dark eyes.

"You have me at a disadvantage, ser," Leofric replied evenly. Up close, he could make out the faded sigil of a purple unicorn on the man's worn surcoat. A noble from a lesser house, most likely.

The old man snorted, taking a swig from his ale. "Aye, that I do. Lord Criston Brax, at your service lad."

Leofric felt his breath catch. Brax...?

Seeming to notice the surprise in his expression, Criston gave a knowing chuckle.

He leaned forward, studying Leofric intently. "I'm half-blind these days, but I'd know that pale green gaze anywhere. You're the very image of my daughter, Sybelle."

A lump formed in Leofric's throat at the mention of his mother's name, emotions he'd long buried resurfacing.

"She had her mother's striking looks, but was twice the fighter my sons will ever be," Criston stated gruffly.

He barked a harsh laugh, taking another draught. "From the day she first drew breath, that girl had more fire than sense, always charging headfirst into trouble. Beautiful as summer but fierce as winter."

Criston fell silent for a moment, idly swirling his tankard as a fond smile creased his weathered face.

When he met Leofric's gaze again, an intense, questioning look shone in his eyes. "Tell me, boy... who are you? And why do you bear such an unmistakable resemblance to my daughter?"

Leofric swallowed hard, realizing the gravity of the moment. This weathered old man was his grandfather. Part of him had always dreamed of finding remaining family.

Squaring his shoulders, he met Criston's gaze steadily.

Taking a deep breath, Leofric began to tell his story.

He paused briefly, seeing the hunger for answers in his grandfather's eyes. "Your daughter was my mother. And my father..." Leofric's jaw tightened. "My father was Reynard Reyne."

Criston's eyes went wide, choking slightly on his ale as the revelation hit him. When he finally found his voice again, it was a hoarse rasp.

"Sybelle...and the younger Reyne?" He shook his head slowly. "By the Seven, girl...you never could resist a dangerous gamble."

Despite the gruff words, Criston's weathered features betrayed an undercurrent of sadness and awe. Leofric pressed on, his voice gaining strength.

"When Castamere fell, my mother was already with child. Before the worst of the slaughter, she secured my safety by smuggling me out with a loyal servant named Alys."

Criston listened intently now, his brow furrowed.

"Alys carried me from one village to the next until we reached the Vale, to a place called Moon Town." He smiled faintly. "It was there that she raised me and had me trained in arms."

Leofric's pale green eyes burned with intensity as he met his grandfather's gaze. "My true name is Leofric Reyne. But please, Grandfather, call me Petyr."

Criston considered that for a long moment, visibly weighing the revelations. When he finally replied, his tone was subdued but resonant with pride.

"Petyr...Aye, I like knowing my line continues through you, boy." A faint smile played across his features.

"Sybelle always was too foolish when it came to matters of the heart. But if her choices produced a son as determined as you seem to be..." He gave a decisive nod, placing his gnarled hand atop Leofric's. "Then I'll not fault her for them."

Leofric felt something loosen in his chest at his grandfather's approval. After Alys' death he had believed himself alone, but now he had found an anchor to his past.

Criston jerked a thumb towards the alehouse behind them.

"Well? You've given this old man quite the tale, but I've a thirst for hearing the full telling before night's done. And perhaps I'll share a story or two about that wild daughter of mine as well."

Despite the weight of the revelations, Leofric felt lighter than he had in years. Shrugging off his cloak, he pulled up a stool across from Criston.

"Aye, I'd like that very much, Grandfather. More than you could know."

---

Later that evening, after Criston had fallen into a peaceful, wine-heavy sleep, Leofric carefully helped the old man back to the Brax family's modest manse. His mind was too active for rest, still processing the day's events.

A tinge of guilt tugged at him, remembering how he had slipped away without properly speaking to Oberyn after their intense bout. The Red Viper had bested dozens of skilled fighters that day, only to meet his match in Leofric's unconventional methods.

His feet carried him toward the Dornish encampment. To his surprise, soft lantern light glowed from a pavilion, and quiet voices drifted through the night air.

Peering around the entrance, Leofric saw Prince Oberyn in quiet conversation with his sister, Princess Elia Martell. Both looked up as he approached.

Oberyn arched an eyebrow. "Well, well...if it isn't the caltrop knight." His lips twitched slightly. "To what do we owe the honor, Ser...?"

Leofric felt suddenly awkward. "Petyr, my prince. I wished to express my gratitude for the lesson you provided during our bout. Your skill is unmatched, and I learned much from facing you."

Oberyn waved dismissively, his face splitting into an approving grin. "Think nothing of it, Ser Petyr. You fought well." He beckoned. "My sister was curious about your tactics."

Elia smiled warmly. "Indeed. That was quite inventive."

As Leofric sat to join them, for what would be yet another of conversation with an influential player, he felt a quiet sense of contentment.

---

Some time later, Leofric found himself wandering again, his head pleasantly light from the Dornish wine Oberyn had shared.

"Petyr? Is that you lurking in the shadows again?"

The familiar voice drew his attention. There stood Catelyn. Her auburn hair caught the torchlight, and her blue eyes sparkled with friendly reproach.

"Well?" she prompted with an arched eyebrow. "Aren't you going to greet me properly?"

Leofric smiled, offering an elaborate bow that made her laugh. "My apologies, my lady. It seems I've been remiss."

Catelyn rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Ever the flatterer, Petyr."

Her expression grew more serious. "In truth, I hoped to offer my congratulations away from all the crowds." Her eyes studied him with genuine admiration. "Watching you fight today was...inspiring. You should be proud."

Warmth bloomed in Leofric's chest at her words. "I should hope I made a better showing than that Bracken knight who fled mid-battle," he quipped.

Catelyn laughed. "There's that sharp wit I know so well." She smiled warmly. "I simply wanted you to know how impressed we all were. You've proven yourself a true knight today."

"The honor is mine, my lady," Leofric replied, meaning it.

Catelyn's expression softened. "You know, Petyr...today reminded me why our friendship means so much to me. You've always been different from the other boys. Better."

Before he could respond, she glanced toward the main pavilion. "I should return before Father wonders where I've wandered off to." With a final bright smile, she departed, leaving Leofric standing thoughtfully in the torchlight.

He allowed himself a moment to process the day's events - finding his grandfather, earning respect from Prince Oberyn, and Catelyn's kind words. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but tonight felt like a turning point.

Straightening his shoulders, he began walking back toward his quarters, his tournament winnings secure at his side and his future suddenly bright with possibility.

Chapter Text

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

- Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere’s Fan

The relentless sun pierced Leofric's field of vision, his head throbbing in cruel rhythm with his heartbeat. The Tully camp swarmed with activity around him, a stark contrast to the nearly abandoned tourney grounds. Most lords had fled like startled birds after the feast, eager to return to their familiar nests of intrigue and power.

Only Hoster Tully remained, locked in hushed conversation with Tywin Lannister near the crimson-draped Lannister pavilion. As Leofric staggered past, desperately seeking water, fragments of their discussion reached his ears.

"...a union to strengthen both our Houses, Lord Tywin," Hoster's voice carried a barely concealed eagerness. "Your Jaime and my Lysa, think of the possibilities..."

Tywin's response was too low to hear, but his face might as well have been carved from the very stone of Casterly Rock. A chill ran down Leofric's spine as he caught the glint of cold calculation in the Lannister patriarch's eyes. He filed away this tidbit, acutely aware of how such alliances could reshape the very foundations of the realm.

As he gulped water from a nearby barrel, the cool liquid doing little to quench the fire of anxiety burning within him, two strangers approached. One bore the familiar purple unicorn of House Brax, while the other's sigil was a complex quarterly design that Leofric couldn't quite place - a red boar's head, a gold band, and a silver lion rampant.

"Ser Petyr?" the younger man called softly, his eyes darting nervously. "We must speak with you. Urgently."

Leofric's heart leapt into his throat, but years of practiced deception kept his face a mask of mild curiosity. "And you are?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.

"Andros Brax," the man replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "This is Ser Lymund Vikary. Please, what we have to discuss... it cannot be overheard."

Hearing that name once again sent a jolt of electricity through Leofric's veins. Could this be his uncle? One of Criston's sons? With a curt nod, he ushered them into a random tent, every sense on high alert for potential eavesdroppers. The canvas walls suddenly felt paper-thin, inadequate protection against the dangers that lurked in every shadow.

Inside the makeshift sanctuary, Andros spoke, his words heavy with unspoken meaning. "We've... we've spoken with my father. He told us about you."

Leofric's breath caught painfully in his chest. What secrets had his grandfather unveiled? The weight of his true identity pressed down upon him, threatening to shatter his carefully constructed facade.

For a heartbeat, Leofric was adrift in a sea of possibilities and dangers. But survival instinct, honed razor-sharp over years of deception, surged to the forefront. "Whatever you believe," he hissed, his voice low and urgent, "this meeting puts all our heads at risk."

Andros nodded solemnly, producing a small, intricately carved oak box from within his cloak. His hands trembled slightly as he held it out. "This belonged to my sister," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

With hands that threatened to betray his own inner turmoil, Leofric accepted the box. It felt impossibly heavy, laden with the weight of a past he had never known. Inside lay a heart-shaped silver locket, its chain as fine as spun moonlight. Beside it, a folded piece of parchment, its edges worn with age.

The locket seemed to pulse with unspoken history, drawing him in.

Unable to resist, Leofric gently pried the delicate locket open. There, etched on the inside with painstaking detail, was a red lion. His throat constricted, a maelstrom of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. This tiny device had once rested against his mother's chest, a silent witness to a life he had been denied.

Andros's gaze flickered to the folded parchment, as a glimmer of anticipation smeared itself across his face. "That... that might be even more valuable than the locket," he whispered.

Lymund leaned in close, his eerily familiar green irises burning with a fervor that both intrigued and unnerved Leofric. "There are things, cousin. Things that run deeper than blood, that could change everything if they became known."

Leofric's mind reeled with the weight of implications, but before he could voice the thousand questions burning on his tongue, a familiar bellow shattered the moment.

"Petyr! Mummer's arse, boy, where have you gotten to?" Brynden Tully's gruff voice cut through the air like a blade.

Panic flared in Andros's eyes, and even the stoic Lymund paled visibly. "Go," Leofric urged, his voice thick with suppressed emotion. "Quickly, out the back. We cannot be seen together."

As Andros and Lymund melted away, Leofric's world spun on its axis. In the span of mere moments, he had touched a piece of his mother's soul, encountered family he never knew existed, and received a gift that could alter the course of his destiny.

But there was no time to process the tidal wave of revelations. He had a carefully crafted role to play, a mask that must not slip.

With trembling fingers, he pocketed the old bit of parchment before clasping the locket around his neck, letting it rest hidden beneath his tunic

As he stepped out to meet Brynden, Leofric's mind raced. The locket felt like a burning coal against his skin, a constant reminder of the precipice on which he stood. One false move, one slip of the tongue, and everything he had built could come crashing down around him.

"There you are, lad!" Brynden boomed as he approached, his weathered face creased with a mix of irritation and concern. "What in the seven hells were you doing in Kevan Lannister's tent?"

Surprised, Leofric forced a sheepish grin, channeling every ounce of the carefree youth he was supposed to be. "Nursing a hangover, Ser Brynden. I fear I may have overindulged at the feast."

Brynden's eyes narrowed, searching his face. For a heart-stopping moment, Leofric feared the old knight could see right through him, could somehow sense the earth-shattering revelations hidden behind his carefully constructed mask.

"Well, sober up quickly," Brynden growled, though his tone held a hint of fondness. "We ride for Riverrun within the hour."