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Chapter Text

The last night of summer in the Riverlands always smelled like cut grass and rain that never came. Catelyn’s house sat back from the road, porch light throwing a gold triangle over the gravel. Beyond the fence, the river made its soft, endless sound—half lullaby, half warning.

Petyr Baelish kicked at a pebble until it skittered into the dark. His hands were deep in the pockets of a jacket that still smelled faintly of motor oil from the job he’d quit that afternoon.

“So,” she said, breaking the quiet. “This is it.”

He gave a crooked smile. “Don’t start the goodbye yet. I still get one more hour.”

“You’ll see me at Thanksgiving,” she said. “It’s not like I’m moving to another country.”

“You might as well be. King’s Landing might as well be Mars compared to the Fingers.”

“You make it sound tragic.”

“It feels tragic.” He looked down, toe tracing patterns in the dirt. “You’ll go off and meet people who talk about politics and read real books and never had to work summers fixing boat engines. You’ll forget I even exist.”

“Petyr—”

“And even if you didn’t,” he cut in, voice quick and nervous, “I can’t follow you next year if I don’t get the scholarship. And I won’t. My father’s last ‘investment’ blew up again. He used the college fund trying to make it back. There’s nothing left.”

She blinked. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“Would it have mattered?” he asked. “You’d still be packing for dorm life and I’d still be here, learning how to stretch paychecks and pretending I’m not turning into him.”

“You’re not your father,” she said immediately.

He laughed once, low. “You keep saying that like saying it makes it true.”

“It is true,” she insisted. “You’ll find another way. You always do. You’re the smartest person I know.”

“Smart doesn’t pay tuition.” He tried for a grin, but it came out tired. “Maybe I’ll just start forging parking permits again. Worked last year.”

“Then you’ll stop,” she said, bumping his shoulder. “You’ll finish school, you’ll get the scholarship, and next fall you’ll walk into that same university and act like you own it. And you’ll come find me, and we’ll get terrible coffee and laugh about how dramatic you were.”

He looked at her like he wanted to believe it. “And we’ll still be us?”

“Yes.” She squeezed his hand. “We’ll be the exception, not the statistic.”

He stared at their joined hands. Her nails were painted the soft pink of summer fruit; his were nicked with grease. “I just don’t want to lose you to the world,” he said quietly. “Every time I think about the campus, about you walking across those quads, I can see
it already—someone in a tie, clean shoes, offering to carry your books.”

“Then I’ll tell him my books are too heavy,” she teased, but her eyes were wet.

A car horn sounded down the lane—her father calling the younger kids in. The moment stretched thin.

“I should go,” he said finally.

“Come by in the morning,” she said. “Before we leave.”

“I’ll be here before breakfast.” He hesitated. “You’ll write?”

“Every week,” she promised. “Even when it’s boring. Especially then.”

He nodded, stepped back. The porch light caught the side of his face—the anxious boy trying to stand like a man. Then he turned toward his car.

She watched his taillights disappear down the drive until the night swallowed them. For a while she stood there, listening to the river and the hum of insects, telling herself their story was different. That love like theirs didn’t fade with distance or time.

Down the road, Petyr drove with the windows open, the wind cold on his face. He thought about his father’s empty wallet, the unpaid bills, the lie he’d told about the scholarship essay being “no problem.”

He told himself he’d find a way to catch up to her. That next year, he’d walk onto her campus like he belonged. He didn’t know yet that this was the last night they’d ever be young together.

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The house felt too bright when she came back inside, the kind of brightness that made you aware of every shadow.

Her father was still up, coat on, half-watching the late news with the volume turned low. The anchorman’s voice mumbled about storms rolling up from the southern coast.

“Good,” he said when he saw her through the doorway. “He’s gone.”

“Just left,” she answered, trying to keep her voice neutral.

Hoster Tully muted the television. “You know he’s not good for you, Cat. I don’t like that boy hanging around here.”

She crossed her arms. “You don’t know him.”

“I know enough. He’s from the Fingers, for God’s sake. His father’s a grifter who’s been run out of half the Riverlands. And you’re about to start college; you need to be meeting people who’ll actually get you somewhere in life.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “He’s not his father.”

“Maybe not, but he’s already walking the same road. Always some new plan, some shortcut.”

Her father sighed, tired more than cruel. “You’ve got the chance to start clean, Catelyn. Don’t throw that away chasing the first boy who told you you were special.”

She nodded because that was easier than arguing, but inside she wanted to scream that Petyr wasn’t like that.

He wanted to be someone.

He read business textbooks for fun, carried a notebook full of numbers and quotes about ambition. He wasn’t lazy, just desperate to prove the world wrong.

When she went upstairs, her sister Lysa was sprawled across her bed with the cordless phone, whispering to whoever she was dating that week. She rolled her eyes as Catelyn passed.

“Dad give you the talk again?” Lysa asked.

“The usual one.” Catelyn started pulling books off her desk and stacking them in boxes. “About how I need to be perfect and practical.”

“He just wants you to have options.”

“I have them,” she said. “He just doesn’t like the one I picked.”

Lysa twirled the phone cord around her finger, smirking. “Petyr Baelish, future billionaire.”

Catelyn smiled despite herself. “Maybe he will be.”

“Sure,” Lysa said. “If he doesn’t end up in jail first.”

Catelyn threw a pillow at her. It missed.

Later, when the lights were off and the house quieted to the ticking of pipes, she lay awake thinking about the road ahead.

She imagined the dorm room she’d been assigned—plain white walls, strange roommates, the smell of city air instead of river wind.

She’d have to be good there. Good grades, good manners, good daughter.

Perfect.

No mistakes that would make her father’s voice echo in her head.

She dreamed of Petyr anyway: his laugh, the way his hands had trembled when he talked about money, how he’d said he’d find a way.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Someone shook her shoulder.

“Catelyn,” her father’s voice whispered in the dark. “Up. Storm’s coming early. Roads' be a mess by sunrise. We’re leaving within the hour.”

Her alarm clock read 4:03.

“Can’t we wait until morning?” she mumbled.

“No. Get dressed. Load the car.”

He left before she could answer.

She sat up, heart sinking. He was serious. Which meant Petyr would drive out here at breakfast like he promised and find an empty house.

She threw on her sweatshirt and went to her desk, fumbled for paper. Her handwriting wobbled with sleep and hurry.

Petyr,
Dad’s leaving early because of the weather, and I can’t make him change his mind. I’ll write as soon as I get there. Don’t worry about the scholarship yet—you’ll find a way, I know you will. Just don’t stop trying. I’ll be waiting.

Love, Cat.

She folded the note twice and tucked it into an envelope. Lysa’s room was still glowing under the door, phone chatter replaced by music.

Catelyn pushed the door open. “Lysa,” she whispered.

Her sister groaned. “What?”

“Give this to Petyr when he comes by, please? He’ll stop in the morning.”

Lysa took the envelope, eyes half-open. “You’re sappy.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise. Go be perfect.”

Catelyn managed a shaky smile. “You too.”

When she stepped outside with her bags, the air was damp and heavy, the first hint of rain stinging her cheeks.

The car’s headlights cut twin paths through the fog, and as her father called, “Let’s go,” she looked once more down the empty road toward town, imagining a beat-up car coming the other way, headlights too late.

Inside, on Lysa’s desk, the letter waited under a half-empty soda can.

Chapter Text

Snow streaked the windows of the train all the way north, the kind that didn’t fall so much as hover, turning the world gray and soft.

When Catelyn stepped onto the platform, the air smelled like wood smoke and river ice. Her father waved from the car, coat collar turned up, impatience visible even through the glass.

“Good to have you home,” Hoster Tully said as she slid into the passenger seat. “You look older. College is doing its work.”

“It’s good to be back,” she said, rubbing her hands together for warmth.

He smiled in that proud, managerial way of his. “I knew you’d take to it. Surrounded by the right sort of people. That Stark boy in your department—Ned? The one whose father runs the northern foundation? Fine family. That’s the kind of company you want to keep.”

She watched the snowbanks slide past the window. “He’s kind,” she said carefully. “Quiet, but kind.”

“That’s a good start.” He patted her knee. “A sensible match, one day.”

She didn’t answer. The road hummed under the tires, and she let his words settle the way snow did—slowly, until you couldn’t tell what they covered.

Ned was kind. He listened when she talked about home; he carried her books even when she told him not to; he asked about her mother’s recipes like they were secrets worth keeping. Around him, she felt steady. Safe. Her father would approve; her professors liked him. With Ned, she could be the version of herself everyone believed in.

But when she thought of Petyr, her chest still tightened. The way he’d held her hand at the river, how he’d spoken about the future like it was a thing you could build with enough will. He’d make her laugh and then ruin her with a single, serious glance. Loving him had always felt a little like falling—exhilarating, impossible to stop.

And impossible, full stop.

Her father’s voice broke through her thoughts. “You see now why I said you two were too young. That Baelish boy’s not bad, but he’s from the Fingers. Men like that spend their lives clawing at other people’s ladders. You need someone who already knows how to stand.”

She nodded, because arguing would only make the drive longer. “You’re probably right.”

“I am right,” he said, satisfied. “You’ll thank me someday.”

Maybe she would. Maybe love that made sense could grow where passion used to live. Ned was the kind of man she could build a life with, the kind who’d never forget to call home, who’d hold her steady instead of setting her on fire. And wasn’t that what happiness was supposed to look like?

Still, when the car turned up the familiar lane, she glanced toward the east, toward the faint line of hills where the land thinned out into rocky coast. The Fingers were out there somewhere, and Petyr would be waiting for Christmas break, still believing she’d come home to him.

She pressed her palms against her knees to keep them from shaking.

After dinner she unpacked in silence, smiled through her mother’s questions, listened to Lysa gossip about friends she no longer recognized. When the house quieted, she sat at her desk, tracing the edge of a photograph of the three of them from last summer—her, Petyr, and Lysa, sunburned and laughing by the river. She slid it into a drawer and shut it gently.

Tomorrow she’d drive out to the coast. She’d tell him the truth. That she liked Ned Stark, that she could love him one day, that her father was right about the kind of future she was supposed to have.
It wasn’t cruelty; it was growing up.

But she still whispered a small apology to the empty room before turning off the light.

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The wind off the bay smelled like salt and cold metal. Petyr sat by the rusted firepit behind his father’s house, the flames fighting the gusts and throwing long, shuddering shadows across the yard. He’d kept the fire going for an hour already, feeding it driftwood, glancing toward the bend in the road every time headlights flashed.

She would come. She’d said she would.

Behind him the door creaked open, and his father stepped out, coat half-buttoned, a cigarette glowing between his fingers.

“She’s not coming,” the older man said. “Girls like that never do.”

Petyr didn’t look up. “You don’t know her.”

“I know the Starks. Big talk in town—your little red-haired sweetheart’s been seen around with the Stark boy. Her father’s over the moon. Two grand old names joining hands. Can’t buy that kind of respectability.”

Petyr stared into the fire until his eyes watered. “It’s gossip.”

“Everything starts as gossip,” his father said, flicking ash into the wind. “You’re smart, Petyr, but don’t mistake smart for special. You were just the local project—something for her to fix before she left.”

The words hit harder because they sounded rehearsed. His father had been waiting to say them.

“Go inside,” Petyr said. “You’ll blow ash into the stew again.”

The man laughed, coughed, went back in, leaving the door banging behind him.

The fire cracked. Petyr added another piece of wood, watched the sap hiss and spark. He told himself that even if the rumors were true, it didn’t matter. She’d promised to write, and promises from Catelyn Tully meant something.

Then headlights curved up the dirt road. His heart lurched so hard it hurt.

The car door opened, and there she was—hair tucked under a scarf, cheeks pink from the cold, moving like someone who’d rehearsed walking away. He stood too quickly, nearly tripping on the stones.

“You made it,” he said, and hated how hopeful it sounded.

“Of course,” she said. Her smile trembled. “I told you I would.”

They sat by the fire. The sea below them was a sheet of gray glass; gulls cried somewhere in the distance. For a few minutes they talked about nothing—her classes, the city, how different everything felt. He told her about fixing up an old car, about the scholarship application he’d sent in. He didn’t mention the letter he’d received yesterday morning—the acceptance, the near-miracle. He wanted to tell her when she was smiling.

But she wasn’t smiling much. She kept staring into the fire like it held the words she couldn’t say.

Finally she drew a breath. “Petyr, there’s something—”

He cut in quickly, desperate to keep her in the world where everything was still fine. “You’ll be proud of me. Remember the scholarship I told you about? They took me. Almost full ride. If I can make up a bit more money, I could come to King’s Landing next year.”

Her eyes flicked to his, wide with something that looked like pain, not joy. “That’s… wonderful.”

He heard the hesitation anyway. The wind shifted; the firelight made her look older.

“I wanted to tell you sooner,” she said quietly, “but there wasn’t a way to write it that didn’t sound cruel. I— I’ve been seeing someone. From my department. Ned Stark.”

He froze. The words hung there, flat and harmless on their own, but they cut like glass all the same.

“It just happened,” she went on. “We spend a lot of time together, and he’s—he’s good, Petyr. Kind. My father likes him. He makes things feel… possible.”

He managed a nod, small, careful. “You said you’d wait.”

“I did. And I meant it.” Her voice cracked. “But life doesn’t stop just because we want it to. I still care about you. I always will.”

He looked down at his hands. The fire had burned low; the smoke stung his eyes. “You should go before the tide turns,” he said at last. “Road’ll flood.”

“Petyr—”

“It’s fine.” He forced the words through a tight throat. “You did what you were supposed to do. Your father’s right. You and I… we were never going to be the kind of story people tell twice.”

She reached for his hand. He didn’t move away, but he didn’t close the distance either.

When she stood, he stayed sitting, watching her silhouette against the pale horizon. She hesitated, then turned and walked back toward the car. Her taillights vanished into the fog like they had that last night by the river.

Only then did he pull the folded letter from his pocket—the scholarship award, the bright blue crest at the top—and feed it into the fire. The paper curled and blackened, turning the words to ash before he could change his mind. The flames snapped once, then steadied. He watched them until nothing was left but embers and the hollow sound of the sea below, whispering that promises always burn the fastest.

Chapter Text

The gym smelled of floor polish and carnations. Banners drooped from the rafters, glittered letters spelling Congratulations, Class of 2002. It was too warm for June, the air thick with perfume and dust from the old bleachers. Fans hummed against the heat, barely stirring it.

Catelyn sat between her father and Ned Stark, program folded in her lap, palms damp against the paper. Her father looked bored already, glancing at his watch between speeches. Ned sat with the easy stillness of someone used to waiting.

She had promised she’d come. It didn’t matter that her father said it was “unnecessary,” that “the boy should stand on his own two feet.” She had made a promise last summer, and Petyr Baelish had always been the kind of boy who remembered promises.

The principal droned through names. Diplomas changed hands. Someone’s family whistled from the back row. Catelyn barely heard any of it. Her eyes kept straying to the stage, to the row of graduates fidgeting under their gowns, searching for the familiar tilt of his head.

When they called his name, applause rolled through the room like a warm tide. Petyr stood, walked to the stage in a dark suit jacket that was too big in the shoulders, the knot of his tie a little crooked. His hair caught the light from the high windows, copper against the dull wood of the podium. He looked older, sharper, like someone who’d already started moving away from here.

“Valedictorian, Class of 2002,” the principal announced. “And recipient of a full academic scholarship to the Vale School of Business.”

The words struck before she understood them. The Vale. Not King’s Landing.

Her heart gave a small, confused thump. She clapped anyway—she clapped harder than anyone around her, smiling until her cheeks hurt—but a part of her wilted quietly inside. She’d imagined him joining her there next year. Coffee between classes, long talks about professors and city streets, the friendship rebuilt in small, safe pieces. A life that could include him without falling apart.

But the Vale was a different world entirely—mountain air, sharp winters, a thousand miles away from everything she knew.

Beside her, Ned leaned in. “That’s a big deal,” he murmured. “He’ll do well.”

“I know,” she said, forcing the warmth into her voice. “He deserves it.”

She wasn’t lying. She was proud. The pride just sat tangled up with something else—guilt, nostalgia, the faint ache of realizing that he really was going to make it, only not toward her.

After the ceremony, the crowd poured out into the parking lot. Cameras flashed. Balloons escaped into the hot sky. Catelyn spotted him standing apart, near the gym steps, hands tucked in his pockets, diploma rolled tight in one fist.

She hesitated only a moment before walking over.

“Petyr,” she said, smiling, breath catching a little. “I promised I’d come.”

He turned. The grin that met her wasn’t bitter, just surprised. “I didn’t think you’d keep that one.”

“I always keep my promises,” she said softly. “I’m proud of you. Truly. You’ve done more with what you were given than anyone I know.”

He shrugged, eyes flicking down. “Guess I finally learned how to make the system work.”

She smiled. “You’ll like the Vale. It’s beautiful there. And… maybe when you come to King’s Landing for conferences or holidays, we could—”

He met her eyes. “Be friends?”

Her voice faltered. “Yes. I’d like that.”

Ned came over then, sun at his back, all calm confidence. He extended his hand. “Congratulations, Baelish. Heard you’re heading to the Vale. Fine school.”

“Thank you, sir,” Petyr said. Polite. Distant.

Catelyn stood between them, wishing she could make the world slow down long enough to untangle what she felt. Pride. Sadness. Relief. The sense that something had ended quietly without her permission.

When she and Ned left, she turned at the gate. Petyr was still there on the steps, a dark figure against the bright day. He lifted his hand in a small wave. She waved back, hoping it said everything she couldn’t.

*******************************************************************

He watched her car disappear down the road, the shimmer of heat swallowing the red of her scarf until it looked like a trick of light. The parking lot was almost empty now—confetti trampled into the asphalt, a single balloon tangled in the fence, someone’s leftover bouquet wilting in the sun.

His father hadn’t come. There’d been a note on the kitchen table that morning: Back acting up. Proud of you, son. Bring home something from the buffet. The handwriting was shaky, the ink smudged where a coffee cup had rested. It didn’t matter. None of it did.

He reached into his pocket and unfolded the letter again, though he knew every word by heart: The Vale School of Business is pleased to offer you a full academic scholarship in recognition of your outstanding achievement… The crest at the top gleamed faintly in the sunlight.

A way out. A clean start. Real proof that he wasn’t his father.

He thought of Catelyn clapping in the audience, the brief shock in her face when she heard “the Vale.” He’d seen it, even from the stage. A flicker—nothing cruel, just surprise. She’d believed, maybe, that he’d follow her to the capital, that their stories might still overlap.

He smiled, small and sharp. He couldn’t blame her. She’d always wanted things neat, hearts sorted like drawers. But his path was never going to be neat.

He looked around the empty lot one last time, at the river in the distance, at the rusted roofs of the town where everyone knew his father’s name and what it meant. The wind lifted the tassel on his cap and carried it toward the road.

He didn’t chase it.

Tomorrow he’d be on a bus to the Vale, heading toward the mountains and the cold air and the next version of himself.

He’d done it.

He was leaving the Riverlands, leaving the Fingers, leaving the ghost of the girl who’d promised to wait.

He wasn’t coming back.

Chapter Text

Snow gathered in the corners of the Vale like secrets, piling against the stone walls of the university until the world felt muffled and clean.

From his dorm window, Petyr could see the last of the students leaving—cars sliding down the steep drive toward the station, laughter echoing faintly before the wind swallowed it. Someone called good-bye through a scarf. Doors slammed. Then silence.
He hadn’t even packed. There was nowhere to go.

His father’s last letter had come two days before: three lines written in the same careless scrawl as always.

Need a bit of help, son. Short on cash until the next job lands. You’re a college man now; maybe you can send a little home.

No congratulations, no how are you. Just the same empty hand reaching out again.

He’d meant to send something anyway—from the envelope of wages he kept in his desk, pay from shelving books in the library and wiping tables in the student café. Enough for groceries, enough for pride. But that morning’s mail had brought a different kind of letter.

Statement of Student Account.

He read it three times, then once more, slower.

The scholarship covered tuition, yes, and housing—but not the “ancillary costs.” Not the meal plan, not the lab fees, not the required textbooks that somehow cost more than his monthly rent. The numbers at the bottom of the page might as well have been written in blood.

He rubbed his thumb over the paper until the ink smudged. The sound of the radiator filled the room, a hollow breathing.

If he didn’t pay by February, he’d lose his spot. Full scholarship or not.

He sat there for a long time, watching the steam fog the window until it erased the world outside.

A knock startled him.

“Door’s open,” he said automatically.

The man who stepped inside looked too old for a university dorm—gray streaking his hair, coat frayed at the cuffs, eyes that moved like they were counting everything.

Petyr recognized him from orientation week: Dr. Qyburn, the former lecturer who handled the computer lab after losing his medical license for reasons no one quite stated aloud.

“Mr. Baelish,” Qyburn said mildly. “They said you were staying through the holiday. Mind if I sit?”

Petyr gestured to the chair. “Everyone else already took the good seats.”

The older man smiled thinly. “I hear you’re a resourceful young man. From the Fingers, yes? I once knew your father.”

Petyr stiffened. “Most people around here only heard of him. Knowing him’s not something I advertise.”

Qyburn’s eyes glinted with amusement. “He had a talent for making things appear… genuine. Documents, signatures, a certain talent for presentation.”

Petyr folded the bill quickly, slid it under his notebook. “If you came to talk about my father’s talents, you’re wasting your time. I’m trying to do things the right way.”

“Of course you are,” Qyburn said smoothly. “But even the right way occasionally requires… creative accounting. The bursar’s office is less forgiving than you might expect, especially when they discover a scholarship is not, in fact, ‘full.’”

Petyr’s pulse jumped. “How did you—”

“I have access to the network,” Qyburn said. “It’s remarkable what one can learn if one knows where to look.”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I could offer you some work over the break. Nothing illegal—merely efficient. Data entry, systems maintenance, discreet help with a few donors who prefer their contributions handled quietly. A few hundred in cash, perhaps more, depending on your skill.”

“Why me?” Petyr asked.

“Because,” Qyburn said, smiling, “you’re clever enough to read fine print but still young enough to think it’s your fault when it bites you.”

Petyr stared at the man, at the offer hiding behind the polite words. He thought of the unpaid bill, his father’s letter, the cold room that would be his only company for the next three weeks.

“You’ll teach me?” he said finally.

“Teach you?” Qyburn chuckled softly. “No, Mr. Baelish. I’ll show you where the locks are. You’ll teach yourself how to open them.”

He stood, buttoning his coat. “Meet me in the lab tomorrow evening. Midnight’s best—no one around to ask questions. Bring a steady hand and whatever conscience you’re ready to spend.”

When the door shut behind him, the room felt smaller. The wind rattled the windowpane. Petyr sat a while longer, staring at the folded bill, at the faint smudge of ink where his thumb had blurred the total.

He wasn’t his father.

He repeated it like a prayer.

But the world didn’t care what he was trying to be; it only cared what he could afford.

That night he dreamed of ledgers balancing themselves and signatures that shifted under his pen, turning into doors.

By morning, the snow outside had covered everything in white—clean, untouched, full of promise.

And by the next night, he’d already agreed to the first lie.

****************************************************************

The road to Winterfell wound upward through bare trees and thin snow, the kind that melted as soon as it touched the windshield. Catelyn pressed her glove against the glass, tracing the blur of white that disappeared almost as soon as it began. Ned drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting easy against his knee. The car’s heater hummed, filling the space between them with a comfortable hush.

They’d been seeing each other for over a year now—classes, study sessions, long weekends. It felt serious in a way that both thrilled and terrified her. He’d invited her home for the break. Come meet the family, he’d said. They’ll love you.

The idea of meeting the family made her stomach flutter. In her house, guests meant perfect posture and perfect conversation. The Tully way was all sharp manners and silver cutlery. She assumed the Starks would be the same—old northern money, formality and quiet power.

As the car climbed the last hill, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She hesitated, then pulled it out. The number wasn’t saved, but she knew it anyway—an area code from the Fingers.

She’d dialed it on impulse, hours earlier at a rest stop, her thumb hovering over the call button until she’d pressed it. Now it rang and rang, and she told herself she’d hang up after the next—

A voice answered. Rough, slurred at the edges. “Baelish residence. You called”

“Hello,” she said quickly. “Mr. Baelish? This is Catelyn. Catelyn Tully. I— I was hoping to talk to Petyr.”

A pause, then a low chuckle. “Well, well. The girl who broke my boy’s heart.”

Her face heated. “I didn’t— I just wanted to see how he was doing. College, the Vale—”

“You didn’t have to call to make yourself feel better about it,” he interrupted. “He’s fine. Smarter than the lot of us. Better off too, once he learned not to wait for people to keep their promises.”

“I only wanted—”

“I know what you wanted.” The sound of ice clinking in a glass. “You wanted a clean conscience. My son wanted the world, and you left him here with me. That’s all right. He’ll do better than any of you. Always was too sharp for this place.” His tone softened, only a little. “He’ll make something out of himself. You’ll see.”

“Could you tell him I called?” she asked, voice small.

“I’ll tell him,” the man said, and the click of the receiver sounded almost kind before the dial tone replaced it.

She stared at the phone for a long time, the hollow hum filling the car even after she ended the call.

“You all right?” Ned asked.

“Just… nerves,” she said, tucking the phone away. “It’s nothing.”

They topped the hill, and Winterfell came into view—broad stone walls, smoke curling from chimneys, lights glowing against the early dusk. It looked less like a fortress and more like a place that had been lived in for generations, the kind of house that knew everyone by name.

**********************************************************

Lyarra Stark opened the door before Ned could even open the door. She was smaller than Catelyn expected, wrapped in a heavy cardigan instead of the pearls-and-pressed-silk she associated with mothers of powerful families. She smiled so easily it felt like stepping into warmth after the cold.

“You must be Catelyn,” she said, taking her coat before she could protest. “Come in, dear, before you freeze.”

The entry smelled like wood smoke and cinnamon. Rickard Stark appeared from a side room, tall and dignified but not imposing, his handshake firm and his grin boyish. “Welcome to our chaos,” he said. “Dinner’s nearly ready, if Lyanna hasn’t eaten it all.”

A girl’s voice called from somewhere down the hall, “I heard that!”

Catelyn laughed. The tension in her chest loosened by degrees.

Benjen, fifteen and gangly, dashed past carrying a snow-dusted scarf, and Lyarra sighed fondly. “He’s been in and out all day. Can’t keep him still long enough to dry.”

The house buzzed with life—footsteps, laughter, the occasional thump of something knocked over. It wasn’t polished, but it was alive. Nothing like the Tully estate with its glass vases and hush between rooms.

At dinner, conversation flowed like the wine Rickard poured—stories of school, of foundation projects in the north, Lyanna teasing Ned about his “southern manners.” Catelyn found herself laughing until her stomach hurt. The table was cluttered, loud, imperfect—and she loved it.

Later, when the plates were cleared and the fire had burned low, she found herself in the kitchen with Lyarra, drying dishes while the others lingered over dessert. The older woman passed her a towel, eyes warm with curiosity.

“So,” Lyarra said, “how are you finding my son?”

Catelyn smiled. “He’s… steady. Kind. He makes things simple.”

“That’s Ned,” Lyarra said. “He’s his father’s calm and my patience, though some days I’m not sure which he’s using.”

They shared a small laugh. Then Catelyn hesitated. The words slipped out before she could stop them. “I called an old friend today. From home.”

“Ah.” Lyarra dried her hands, waiting.

“His father answered. He—he said some things. That I broke his son’s heart. Maybe he’s right.” She stared at the sink. “Petyr was… someone I cared for. But we were young. And my family… there were expectations.”

Lyarra leaned against the counter, expression gentle. “You did break that boy’s heart. That’s not something to be ashamed of. It happens when we grow.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Lyarra said. “But you don’t live your life to protect everyone else from pain, dear. You live it for yourself. If you love my son because you want to, not because you’re supposed to, then you’re doing the right thing. You get to choose your future.”

Catelyn nodded, throat tight. “I do love him. I think I could spend my whole life trying to deserve how good he is.”

Lyarra smiled, setting a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Then that’s all that matters. The rest takes care of itself.”

From the next room came the sound of laughter—Rickard booming, Benjen protesting, Lyanna’s voice bright and teasing. Ned’s laugh threaded through it, low and steady.

For the first time, Catelyn realized she could imagine this as home.

Much later, when the house had gone quiet and the snow began again, she stood at the window of the guest room, phone in her hand. She thought of the call, of Petyr’s father’s words—He’ll do better than any of you.

She hoped he would. She hoped he’d find the life he wanted, the one that had nothing to do with her.

Then she turned off the light, and the house settled around her, warm and alive, the kind of warmth she hadn’t known she’d been missing.

Chapter Text

In the first winter at the Vale, Petyr learned what silence sounded like.

It wasn’t like the quiet at home, where the sea did most of the talking and the wind added its commentary in the gaps. Here, in the narrow stone corridors of the business school, silence was the sound of fluorescent lights, of radiators grinding along, of the building breathing on its own even after everyone had gone home.

Most of the other first-years had left two days before. The last of the cars had crunch-crunched through the snow, taillights disappearing down the hill. He’d watched them from his dorm window and told himself it didn’t bother him. Winter break was just another month on the calendar. You couldn’t miss what you’d never really had.

His world shrank to a few rooms: his dorm, the library, the computer lab where Qyburn made his rounds like a pale ghost in a frayed cardigan.

The first jobs were simple.

“Data entry,” Qyburn said, rolling the word around like it amused him. He handed Petyr a list of donor accounts for the Seven Kingdoms Foundation, the very organization that sent brochures boasting about scholarships like his. “Numbers in one column, numbers in another. Just make sure the right ones line up.”

Petyr sat at the terminal until his eyes burned, fingers clicking numbers into their boxes. Some days it was matching donation amounts to dates; others, reconciling what was on the books with what had actually been wired. Nothing glamourous. Nothing you couldn’t explain if a bursar walked in.

The money was decent enough—a couple hundred here, a few hundred there, always in cash. Enough to add weight to the thin envelope of wages he kept under his socks. Enough to pay the meal plan surcharge and buy a secondhand coat that actually kept out the wind.

The library and café shifts did the rest.
Mornings, he shelved books until the skin on his fingertips flaked from the dry paper. Afternoons he poured coffee and wiped tables, learning how to make small talk with exhausted students and over-caffeinated professors. At night he balanced ledgers for Qyburn until the lines blurred.

He told himself it was temporary. He would prove he could do this the honest way first. The tricks were just… scaffolding. Something to climb on while he built the real life.

It held together for a while.

—

Second year, the first crack appeared.

The envelope from home was thin, but the bill inside was thick—overdue utilities, the kind that came printed with red warnings and threats about disconnection.

Your father is behind again, the note tucked inside said in his father’s untidy scrawl. House is in arrears. They’re talking about foreclosing. If you’ve got anything to spare, now’s the time, son.

Son. As if the word itself were a currency.

He sat on the edge of his narrow bed, the letter trembling between his fingers. The house on the cliff had been his mother’s before it was anyone’s. He remembered her in flashes—soft hands with dish soap on them, her humming while she mended his school shirts, the way she’d stood in the doorway and watched the sea like it was speaking only to her. He remembered the way his father had sat in that same doorway the day she died, staring at nothing, a bottle of something cheap half-empty at his feet.

He remembered her telling him, once, when he was eight and scared of a storm, You don’t leave the only solid ground you’ve got. You make it hold.

He couldn’t let the house go. Not to the bank, not to the gossip of the village, not to become another story people told when they talked about how the Baelishes couldn’t keep anything.

The envelope under his socks was not enough.

So he went to Qyburn.

—

“You’re underpaid,” Qyburn said mildly, after Petyr laid out the situation in as careful and impersonal a way as he could. The older man sat behind his cluttered desk in the lab, screens throwing pale light across his face. “They work you like a mule in the café and the library, and for what? A few coins and access to stale pastries.”

“I can’t ask them for more,” Petyr said. “There’s a lineup of students who’d kill for this job. And the scholarship—my tuition is covered. I just need—”

“More,” Qyburn finished. “Always more. That’s the problem with scholarships. They give you a foot in the door and then charge you for the rest of the house.”

He steepled his fingers. “As it happens, there are more…advanced tasks you might be suited for.”

Petyr tried to keep his voice even. “What kind of tasks?”

“The sort that require discretion.” Qyburn leaned forward. “You know your way around a balance sheet now. What if, instead of merely typing in numbers, you helped shape them?”

He slid a file toward him—a list of shell organizations, subsidiary accounts, funds routed from one name to another. Some of the names were familiar: minor lords, mid-level politicians, a few businessmen from King’s Landing whose donations kept certain foundations—Stark’s, Tully’s, Arryn’s—flush and respectable.

“I’m not stealing,” Petyr said, heart pounding.

“Of course not,” Qyburn replied, almost amused. “You’re reclassifying. Aligning. Making certain sums disappear in one column and reappear in another. No one is poorer on paper when you’re done. They’re merely… less exposed.”

“And the money?”

“Consider it a consultation fee,” Qyburn said. “People pay dearly to look cleaner than they are.”

Petyr stared at the numbers. It was a puzzle, really. Move this figure here, tuck that transfer under this committee’s travel expenses, split a suspiciously large donation into five innocuous ones spread across three months. He could see the pattern already.

“How much?” he asked.

“Enough to cover your father’s arrears,” Qyburn said. “And your own.”

Petyr hesitated. His mother’s smile flickered at the edge of his memory, the house on the cliff, the way Catelyn had looked the last time he’d seen her—standing under a banner in a gym that smelled like polish and carnations, applauding like she believed he’d escape this place.

He picked up a pen.

“When do we start?” he said.

—

The work multiplied.

By the end of second year, his days were an equation he could barely balance:

Mornings in class, pretending to care about lecturers who spoke of market forces and ethical frameworks like they were unconnected. Lunch breaks in the café, wiping tables, counting tips. Afternoons in the library, reshelving the same books he hoped would one day quote him. Evenings in the lab with Qyburn, moving money from one corner of the university’s universe to another.

He became good at it. Too good.

“You have a knack,” Qyburn said one night, as Petyr rerouted a particularly messy transaction into something elegant. “Some people flinch when they touch systems like this. You… understand them.”

“I grew up watching my father play cards with men twice as stupid as he was,” Petyr said, eyes on the screen. “The house always wins—not because the game is rigged, but because the house understands it better.”

“You could build your own house someday,” Qyburn said lightly.

“That’s the plan.”

He sent money home in careful amounts—enough to stave off disaster but not enough to draw attention. Each time he received a thank-you note in his father’s shaky hand, the words were the same: You’re a good son. Your mother would be proud. Keep it coming.

Pride. Such a cheap word for such expensive work.

—

Third year, the cracks became fissures.

The bills from home didn’t stop. They multiplied—medical notices mixed in with utility threats, hospital letterhead with words like chronic and degenerative. His father’s handwriting grew worse, ink blotting where his hand shook.

They say I shouldn’t work anymore, one letter read. As if I have that luxury. The meds help, but they cost. I’m trying to stretch what you send, but the bank keeps calling about the house. I know you’re busy with your big life up there, but if you can manage just a bit more…

Just a bit more.
Just a bit more of his sleep, his conscience, his time.

He doubled his hours with Qyburn, cut back on the café shifts, traded a little legitimacy for a lot of efficiency. The sums he moved grew larger: not just donors now, but contracts, consulting fees, “miscellaneous expenses” that could hide almost anything.

Sometimes the names on the accounts made him stop. The Riverlands Relief Fund. Winterfell Restoration Committee. Casterly Rock Mining Rehabilitation. He saw the families behind the letters—the Tullys, the Starks, the Lannisters—and for a moment it felt personal.

Then he remembered the bill totals, his father’s shaking lines, the cold fear in his own stomach when he looked at his student account and saw the numbers creeping up, many zeroes, very few commas.

The world didn’t stay balanced just because you wanted it to. Someone always paid.

He decided it wouldn’t be him.

—

Winter break, third year, he finally had it.

Not everything—never everything—but enough. Enough to pay off the arrears on the house, clear the worst of the medical debt, get the bank and the hospital off his father’s back. Fifty thousand gold dragons. The number had sat heavy in the ledger for months, a goal line carved into his brain.

Qyburn handed him the last envelope in the lab, thick with cash, the paper band around it marked with a donor account number that would never appear in any official audit.

“You’re sure?” Petyr asked.

“Quite,” Qyburn replied. “Our generous benefactors are delighted to fund their own reputations. You’re merely facilitating the process.”

Petyr slid the envelope into the inner pocket of his coat. It weighed far less than it should, considering what it represented. “This will clear it. The house, the bills. Everything.”

“For now,” Qyburn said. “Debt has a way of growing back. Like mold.” He tilted his head, studying the young man. “What will you do when there’s no one left to save but yourself?”

Petyr didn’t answer.

He packed a small bag that night—no more than he’d brought to the Vale his first year, just a change of clothes, a worn photograph of his mother, the letter from the scholarship committee now folded into a small, soft square. He boarded the bus to the Riverlands at dawn, the mountains falling away behind him, replaced by the flat, damp land of his childhood.

The closer he got to the coast, the heavier the envelope felt.

—

The house was colder than he remembered.

He knew it from the road—the way the front step sagged a little more, the way the paint had peeled off the railing in strips, the way the curtains hung still and dull behind the glass. No smoke came from the chimney. The sea’s roar sounded louder, un softened by any other noise.

He unlocked the door and stepped into air that smelled of dust and old fabric. The heat had been off long enough that the walls felt cold to the touch.

“Dad?” he called.

No answer.

The living room lamp was on, casting a jaundiced circle of light over the sagging recliner. His father sat in it, blanket over his knees, the television flickering silently in front of him. The sound was off, but the picture danced across his still face.

“Dad,” Petyr said again, softer this time.

His father didn’t move.

Petyr’s heart stumbled. He crossed the room in three strides and put a hand on his father’s shoulder. The body under the blanket was slack, heavier somehow. The skin visible above the collar of his worn shirt was pale and waxy, the stubble on his chin silvered.

The remote slid from his hand and thumped onto the floor.

“No,” Petyr whispered. It felt absurd to say it, as if the word could reverse time. “No. Not yet. I’m here. I brought—”

The envelope in his coat burned like a brand.

On the muted television, a news anchor smiled with professional solemnity. A banner scrolled along the bottom of the screen: RIVERLANDS’ OWN Catelyn Tully Engaged to Northern Heir Eddard Stark.

A photograph appeared—grainy, but clear enough. Catelyn in a pale dress, smiling up at a man in a dark suit. Ned Stark stood beside her, hand resting gently on her back, the two of them haloed by the flash of cameras at some formal event. The caption beneath read: Two Great Houses Unite in Modern Age Fairytale.

Petyr stared.

He had imagined this moment a hundred times—coming home with enough money to fix everything, handing his father a future paid in full, proving that he’d kept his promise to make something of himself. Somewhere, in some childish corner of his mind he hadn’t examined lately, there had always been an extra scene tacked on: Catelyn seeing the headlines about Petyr Baelish, the boy from the Fingers who’d climbed so high he had a view of her world.

Instead, she was the headline.
She had found her story.
And his father was dead in a chair he hadn’t been able to rise from, the television light flickering over a face that had never quite learned how to say I’m proud of you out loud.

He reached over, turned the TV off. Silence rushed in, heavy and absolute.

The envelope was still in his pocket. Fifty thousand gold dragons. Enough to save a house no one lived in anymore.

Petyr sank down on the edge of the coffee table, the wood creaking under his weight.

For a long time, he said nothing.

The ache that rose in him wasn’t the hot, sharp grief he expected. That would come later, he knew, in quieter moments. What filled him now was something colder and more precise: the sense of having arrived at the finish line of a race only to find they’d moved it somewhere else while he wasn’t looking.

He’d done everything right, or as right as the world allowed. He’d worked, studied, twisted numbers to make them honest lies instead of outright theft. He’d bled his time into the cracks of other people’s systems. He’d carried the guilt of leaving and the guilt of staying all at once.

His father had died anyway.
The house had gone cold anyway.
Catelyn had found the future she was meant for and become a beautiful caption beneath someone else’s last name.

The world was not fair. It was not a meritocracy with a heart. It did not hand out prizes for boys who tried very hard to be good despite what they’d been born into.

It rewarded those who understood how it worked and were willing to play accordingly.

He stood, moved on autopilot. He found a blanket and covered his father properly. He called the local emergency number, voice flat as he reported what he’d found. He answered questions, made arrangements, signed forms with a hand that did not shake.

When the officials left and the house was empty again, he went to the small kitchen table, spread out the bills in a neat fan—utilities, medical, mortgage—all the paper proof of how hard his father had failed at keeping afloat.

Then he took out the envelope and laid the money beside them. It looked absurdly small for the weight it carried in his life.

He divided it with careful fingers.
Some to the bank, to keep the house from being taken immediately.
Some to the hospital, because they’d done what they could even when his father couldn’t pay.
Some to a simple cremation, nothing fancy, because ghosts didn’t care about mahogany boxes.

When it was all apportioned, almost nothing was left.

He sat back, stared at the little pile of notes that represented the remainder of a boy’s attempt to fix everything.

The last piece of something inside him let go.

He thought of Qyburn’s question: What will you do when there’s no one left to save but yourself?

That was the answer.
This.
This cold room, this empty house, this line on the television saying that the girl he’d once believed in had been folded neatly into another family’s story.

He picked up the last few bills and put them back in his coat.

When he went back to the Vale, he did not tell Qyburn about the house, or the television, or the way his father’s head had lolled at an angle that did not belong in a living body. He simply said, “It wasn’t enough.”

Qyburn nodded, as if he’d expected no other outcome. “It never is,” he said softly. “But you are learning something important, Mr. Baelish. The world’s ledger is not balanced in your favor.”

“I know,” Petyr said.

“And now that you know,” Qyburn asked, “what will you do?”

Petyr thought of Catelyn’s laugh in the Stark kitchen, the way she’d spoken about Ned making things simple. He thought of his father’s muttered boasts, his mother’s hands smoothing the tablecloth, the sea hammering itself into the rocks below a house that had never quite been warm enough.

He thought of numbers and doors and how easy it had become to make zeros jump from one place to another if you stopped worrying about who got hurt.

He met Qyburn’s eyes.
“Build something,” he said. “For me, this time. And I won’t apologize for how.”

Qyburn smiled, slow and thin as a paper cut. “Good,” he said. “Now we can get to work.”

Outside, snow began to fall again over the Vale, soft and quiet, covering every jagged edge in a layer of white.

It didn’t change what lay beneath.

Chapter Text

The invitation came in the middle of exams, buried under library overdue notices and bank statements.
Thick envelope, cream paper, her name pressed in silver above his.
Catelyn Tully and Eddard Stark invite you to celebrate their marriage…

He read it three times before he set it down.

At first he thought it was a joke, a clerical error, maybe even an act of pity. But the return address was the Tully estate, and the handwriting on the envelope—the elegant, looping C—was hers.
Someone had thought he belonged on the list.

For a day or two, he told himself he wouldn’t go. That he had nothing to prove. That it was easier to ignore the ghosts when they stayed in their graves.
But curiosity had always been his undoing, and by the end of the week he was standing in front of a mirror, tightening a borrowed tie and trying to look like the kind of man who could walk into a Tully wedding and not flinch.

The Riverlands in June smelled like honeysuckle and politics.
The estate was lit up like a film set, tents spilling light onto the lawns, champagne glasses clinking like distant bells. Reporters hovered near the gates—partly for the high-society wedding, partly for the campaign Hoster Tully was losing by degrees.

Petyr arrived alone.
No date, no family, no entourage—just the confidence he’d learned to wear like a better suit.
When the usher asked for his name, he gave it calmly.
The man found it on the list without hesitation.
He was, officially, expected.

Inside, everything glittered. Chandeliers swayed under the tented ceilings, violins hummed, and waiters moved like ghosts in black and white. The air buzzed with power disguised as celebration.

He was halfway through a glass of wine when he saw Hoster Tully across the room. The man looked thinner, older, the campaign strain visible around his mouth. When his eyes landed on Petyr, confusion flickered—then recognition, then the politician’s smile, quick and professional.

“Mr. Baelish,” he said, shaking his hand. “Didn’t realize you were on the guest list.”

Petyr smiled, perfectly polite. “You invited me, sir.”

“Ah, well. Always good to see familiar faces.” Hoster’s gaze swept the crowd, restless. “I hear you’re finishing at the Vale this year?”

“One more term,” Petyr said. “Then King’s Landing. The Seven Kingdoms Foundation has offered me an internship.”

That got the man’s attention.
“The Foundation?” His voice softened, curious. “That’s impressive work. You’ve done well for yourself.”

Petyr shrugged. “It’s all accounting in the end, isn’t it? Knowing how to make the numbers behave.”

“Indeed,” Hoster said, eyes narrowing. “If only my campaign accountants could do the same. We’ve had a few… setbacks.”

“I heard,” Petyr said. He kept his tone gentle, almost sympathetic. “Something about donation reports, missing funds. A pity, especially this close to the election.”

Hoster looked at him sharply. “You’ve been following Riverlands politics from up in the mountains?”

“I follow balance sheets everywhere, sir.” Petyr took a slow sip of wine. “They tend to tell better stories than people do.”

The older man’s expression hardened. “Was there something you wanted, Mr. Baelish?”

“Not at all.” He set the glass down, leaning in slightly. “I only wanted to say I could help. You need someone who can make the books make sense again. Someone discreet. For a price.”

“Is that blackmail?”

“No,” Petyr said mildly. “It’s opportunity.”

Hoster studied him. The politician’s instinct to deny warred with the pragmatist’s need to survive.
Finally he said, “And why would you do me that favor?”

Petyr smiled without warmth. “Because if you hadn’t spent so much energy convincing your daughter she was too good for me, I’d have been part of this family. I might even have done it for free.”

Hoster’s jaw tightened. “You’re out of line.”

“No, sir,” Petyr said softly. “I’m exactly where you left me. Only now, the ground’s a little more level.”

He slipped a business card from his pocket—simple, clean, his new email address printed in understated ink—and placed it on the bar between them.
“Think about it,” he said. “You have my number.”

He left Hoster staring at it like it might explode.

The ceremony itself was beautiful, almost painfully so.
The garden glowed under strings of lights, petals scattered along the aisle, everything orchestrated to look effortless.
Catelyn walked through it all like someone born for the part—hair shining, face calm, the same grace she’d carried since the riverbanks of their childhood. Ned Stark waited at the altar, steady and certain, the world’s most patient man.

When the vows were spoken, the guests rose for applause.
Petyr clapped with the rest, smile easy, heartbeat steady.

She caught his eye once, across the crowd.
For a moment her expression flickered—recognition, surprise, a shadow of the girl she’d been.
Then she smiled, polite and warm, and looked back at her husband.

That was the moment he stopped waiting for anything else.

After the reception he drifted to the edge of the grounds, where the lake reflected the lights like a second, quieter sky. The air smelled of rain and cut grass. From here he could still hear the laughter and music from the tent, but it sounded far away, as if it belonged to another world entirely.

He thought about what Qyburn had said that night years ago: What will you do when there’s no one left to save but yourself?

This, he thought. This was what you did. You let go of ghosts. You stopped trying to make the world fair. You learned how to tilt the table.

He finished his drink, set the glass on the railing, and watched it fog in the cool air. Behind him, fireworks began to bloom above the gardens—red, gold, white. The crowd cheered. The reflections shattered across the lake in colors that disappeared as quickly as they came.

By the time the last spark faded, Petyr Baelish was already walking toward the gate, his coat collar turned up against the wind.

He didn’t look back.

Next year he’d be in King’s Landing, interning for the Foundation, learning the machinery from the inside. By then Catelyn would be Mrs. Stark of Winterfell, far away and safely untouchable.

They were finished.
He was finally free to start becoming whoever the world required him to be.

Chapter Text

Snow sifted through the pines outside the new Stark estate, falling so softly it barely seemed real.
The house still looked like a photograph—clean angles, pale wood, big windows that faced the ruins of old Winterfell in the distance.
When she’d first come here as Ned’s fiancée, Catelyn had thought the place beautiful: warm, full of laughter, easy in a way her own family never was.
Now, married and six months pregnant, she couldn’t shake the sense that the house itself belonged to someone else.

The morning light slanted through the kitchen, glinting off the chrome fixtures Rickard Stark had personally chosen. Catelyn stood at the island surrounded by paint swatches for the nursery, her teacup cooling beside them.

“Ned,” she called, “come look at these a moment?”

He didn’t answer at first. She could hear him in the study, talking low into the phone—something about contracts, a meeting, the Foundation board. When he finally appeared, jacket half-on, his eyes were still on the file in his hand.

“What do you think?” she asked, holding up two samples. “This one’s lighter, but the other has a warmth to it.”

He looked, distracted, then smiled faintly. “Whichever you like best.”

“But it’s our child’s room,” she said. “I want you to have a say.”

“I trust you,” he said. It was meant to sound kind, but it landed like a dismissal. “You’ve got better taste than I do.”

She set the samples down, pulse quickening. “That’s not the point.”

He blinked, finally looking at her properly. “Cat—what’s wrong?”

She gestured at the open boxes stacked in the hall, the house still half-finished. “Everything. The furniture, the curtains, the nursery. I can’t decide what any of this is supposed to be. It’s all new, Ned. This house, this life—like we were slotted into it before we had time to make it ours.”

He crossed to her, touched her arm. “My father wanted us close. So did Mother. It’s tradition. When it’s time, I’ll take over the Foundation, and this will—”

“I know,” she said. “That’s the part I understand too well.”

He frowned, searching for words. “You’re tired. You’ve been—”

“Decorating?” she finished. “That’s what housewives do, isn’t it?”

The word slipped out sharper than she meant. She turned away, staring through the wide window toward the snow-fogged fields. You could almost see the broken towers of the old castle from here—Winterfell, the legend, the thing everyone talked about rebuilding. And now there was this house, neat and bright, a symbol of the future they were expected to inhabit.

She had wanted to feel part of it. Instead, she felt curated.

He exhaled. “Cat, I have to get to the office. We’ll talk tonight.”

He kissed her forehead and was gone before she could answer.

The day stretched long and gray. She tried to busy herself with errands, but the house echoed with too much space. The baby kicked once, impatient, as if reminding her there were still things she could create on her own.

By late afternoon, snow had thickened into a steady fall. She was staring at the half-painted nursery walls when the sound of tires on gravel pulled her back to the present.

Rickard Stark didn’t knock; he never did. He simply appeared in the doorway, coat dusted with snow, eyes grim.

“Catelyn,” he said, voice rough from the cold. “Where’s Ned?”

“In town,” she said, surprised. “Why—?”

“It’s Lyanna.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “She’s run off. Down to Dorne, of all places.”

Catelyn’s hand flew to her mouth. “With Rhaegar Targaryen?”

Rickard nodded once. “She’s nineteen now, old enough to make a fool of herself. But he’s married, and if the papers get wind of it—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “I need Ned to bring her home before this becomes something we can’t contain.”

Catelyn shook her head. “You can’t mean to send him after her. You have people for that.”

Rickard’s expression softened, but his tone didn’t. “No one she’ll listen to but her brother.”

“She’s an adult,” Catelyn said quietly. “Maybe she’s allowed to live her life, even if it’s a mistake.”

Rickard sighed, the sound heavy. “You married into this family. You know we don’t have that luxury.”

He left soon after, promising to wait for Ned’s return. The words hung in the air like cold breath.

By nightfall, Ned was home, snow on his shoulders, worry already etched into his face. She didn’t have to ask what Rickard had told him; she could read it there.

“When will you go?” she asked.

“Tonight,” he said. “If I leave now, I can reach King’s Landing by morning, and from there—”

“You can’t leave me alone here, Ned,” she said, hand unconsciously covering her stomach.

“I don’t want to,” he said, and she could hear that he meant it. “But she’s my sister. If I don’t go, this will destroy her. Father’s right.”

Catelyn turned toward the window. The snow had stopped, leaving the world pale and still. The lights from the old ruins flickered faintly in the distance, like a memory she couldn’t quite reach.

“I thought this family was different,” she said finally. “When I visited, everyone was so warm, so alive. I thought that’s what it would be like.”

“It still is,” he said.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s duty. It’s expectation. Everything already decided.”

Ned stepped closer, wrapped his arms around her. “I’ll come back soon,” he said into her hair. “I promise.”

She nodded against his shoulder but didn’t trust herself to speak. Promises were easy in this family; keeping them was the work.

When he left, she stood in the doorway long after the car’s lights had disappeared, listening to the silence settle around her. The baby shifted once inside her, a faint reminder of the future they were supposed to be building together.

Beyond the new walls and clean lines, the land still held the bones of the old castle, and in the dark glass of the window she could almost see both at once—the promise of what was coming and the ghost of everything that came before.

The snow had thinned to rain by the time Ned came home.
Catelyn heard the low hum of the engine first, then the heavy door closing, and for a moment she just stood at the kitchen window, watching the headlights sweep through the slush and fade. The clock ticked steadily in the silence.

When he stepped into the house, he looked older than when he’d left—a week, maybe less, but something in his face had been rubbed raw by travel and disappointment. He brushed damp hair back from his forehead, met her eyes, and managed a tired smile that didn’t reach all the way.

“Is she all right?” Catelyn asked.

He hung up his coat before answering. “She’s safe,” he said quietly. “But she’s not coming home.”

Catelyn’s hand went to the edge of the counter to steady herself. “She refused?”

Ned nodded. “She’s made her choice. She’s staying in Dorne.” His voice dropped, half disbelief, half weary respect. “She’s pregnant.”

The word echoed in the still house. Catelyn swallowed hard. “And Rhaegar?”

“He told her they were separated,” Ned said. “Promised the papers were coming through. They weren’t. Elia knows about it now.”

Her brow creased. “That poor woman.”

“She’s… stronger than you’d think.” He gave a faint, almost rueful smile. “She and Lyanna have decided to stand together. Said if anyone’s going to be hated, it ought to be the man who lied to them both. Not the women who believed him.”

Catelyn felt something ease, just a little. “Good for them.”

“She won’t come back here,” Ned said after a pause. “She doesn’t want Father trying to manage her life again. She wants to raise her child somewhere warm, somewhere quiet. She says the air in Dorne doesn’t taste like judgment.”

Catelyn’s throat tightened. “Can you blame her?”

He shook his head. “No. I can’t.”

For a while they stood like that, the rain tapping against the windows, the baby turning lazily under her hand. The house felt too big around them, all that newness humming faintly like a machine that never stopped running.

Then the front door opened again.

Rickard didn’t bother with pleasantries. His voice carried down the hallway before he even stepped inside. “I saw your car in the drive. We need to talk.”

Catelyn straightened, instinctively bracing.

Rickard entered the kitchen, removing his gloves with precise, impatient movements. “I’ve just come from a call with the Foundation board. The story’s already leaking. ‘Stark Heiress Runs Away with Married Prince.’ It’ll be in print by morning.”

Ned’s jaw tightened. “I told you, Father, there’s nothing to be done.”

Rickard’s tone was brisk, the rhythm of a man used to control. “There’s always something to be done. We can manage the damage, but we’ll need a new headline. Fortunately, Catelyn’s pregnancy is public now. The timing works in our favor. A new heir, a stable marriage—it’s the sort of thing that reclaims a narrative. People love redemption.”

Catelyn froze. “You’re talking about our child.”

Rickard’s gaze flicked to her, full of practiced sympathy. “I’m talking about optics, my dear. It’s what sustains us in difficult times.”

Ned’s voice cut through before she could respond. “Stop.”

Rickard blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t talk about my wife or my child like they’re a marketing strategy,” Ned said, low but firm. “We’re not fixing a scandal with a baby. This isn’t the Foundation. This is my family.”

Rickard’s expression cooled. “You’re letting emotion cloud your judgment.”

“I’m letting decency guide it.” Ned took a step forward. “Lyanna made her choice. I’ll respect it, even if you can’t. But my child will not be another entry in the family ledger. If you can’t see the difference, then maybe it’s time you handed over the reins sooner than you planned.”

For a heartbeat, the two men simply looked at each other—father and son, mirror and shadow. Then Rickard exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.

“You’ll see sense, eventually,” he said quietly. “You always do.”

He left as abruptly as he’d arrived, the echo of the door closing louder than his footsteps.

Silence fell like dust after a storm.
Catelyn realized she’d been gripping the back of a chair; her knuckles ached when she let go. Ned’s shoulders sagged once his father was gone, the fight leaving him all at once.

“I’m sorry,” he said, turning toward her. “You shouldn’t have to listen to that.”

She stepped forward, slid her arms around his waist. “Don’t apologize,” she murmured against his chest. “You did what he never does—you remembered what’s human.”

He held her close, his voice muffled in her hair. “He thinks I’m naive.”

“He’s wrong,” she said. “He just doesn’t know what kindness looks like anymore.”

They stayed like that for a long time, the only sound the faint patter of rain on glass. The baby shifted again, a small ripple of life pressing between them.

After a while, Catelyn pulled back enough to look at him. “Ned, I want to promise something.”

He nodded, listening.

“When this child comes—and any others—we’ll let them be children. No foundations, no headlines, no expectations they didn’t choose. They’ll get to play, and fall down, and make mistakes without the world watching.”

He studied her face for a long moment, then smiled—a tired, genuine smile that made him look like the man she’d fallen in love with, not the one groomed to take over an empire. “You think we can manage that? In this family?”

“I think we have to,” she said softly. “Otherwise, what’s the point of any of it?”

He brushed his thumb over her cheek, eyes steady. “Then we’ll protect it. Their childhood, their freedom. Even from our own parents, if we have to.”

Her breath caught a little. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

She leaned into him again, the warmth of him steady and solid against the cool air.

After a moment he said, almost shyly, “You know, I’ve been thinking about the nursery.”

She smiled faintly. “Oh? You’ve had opinions after all?”

“Only one,” he said. “Keep it simple. A warm green, maybe. Nothing perfect. Nothing that looks like it came out of a catalog.”

“Green,” she repeated. “The color of new things.”

He nodded. “We’ll do the rest when the child’s old enough to tell us what they like. Paint it however they want. Let them choose their own color.”

Catelyn laughed, softly. “Even if it clashes with the whole house?”

“Especially then,” he said, and kissed her forehead.

Outside, the rain eased into silence.
Somewhere beyond the new walls, the old castle waited—crumbling, enduring.
And in that bright, quiet kitchen, Catelyn finally felt the smallest, truest thing: that this—this promise, this shared defiance—was the real foundation they would build their lives on.

Chapter Text

The world had narrowed to the soft weight of her son against her chest.

Catelyn lay propped against the hospital pillows, her hair damp at the temples, the room dim and quiet except for the faint hum of the monitors. Robb’s breathing was shallow and steady, warm through the thin cotton of her gown. Ned sat beside the bed, his head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed. He’d fallen asleep sitting up, one hand still resting on her ankle as if to anchor himself there.

It was peaceful—fragile, stolen.

They’d kept everyone out for the first few hours, even family. Ned had told the nurse, No one yet. Not parents. Not press. Not anyone. The nurse, kind and harried, had nodded and shut the door like she was guarding a secret.

Now, hours later, the air smelled of antiseptic and snow—the faint crispness that sneaks in when the automatic doors down the hall open to the street.

When the nurse came back, her smile was soft but apologetic. “Time for a bath, Mrs. Stark,” she said, reaching for the baby. “We’ll bring him back before his next feeding, I promise. He can sleep in here tonight.”

Catelyn hesitated, pressed a kiss to Robb’s tiny forehead, and let him go. The room felt instantly too light.

“There’s also… quite a few people in the waiting area,” the nurse added delicately. “Your families. The lobby’s… rather full. Some press as well. Your father said you’d probably want to see them soon?”

Catelyn exhaled. Ned stirred, rubbing his face.

“Let them in,” he said quietly. “Before they start trying to charm their way past security.”

The nurse nodded and slipped out.

Moments later, the door swung open and her mother swept in with the Riverlands’ winter still clinging to her coat. “Darling, look at you.” She kissed Catelyn’s cheek, eyes shining. “And that beautiful baby—oh, where is he?”

“The nurse has him,” Catelyn said. “She’ll bring him back soon.”

Hoster Tully followed, already on his phone, muttering something about statements and congratulations. “You did well, sweetheart,” he said distractedly, kissing her forehead. “First Stark grandchild of the new generation. The cameras are eating it up.”

“The what?” Catelyn asked.

But he was already answering a text.

Lysa came in last, hovering near the door, eyes wide. “There’s, like, fifteen people outside. With microphones. And at least two news vans. You’re trending, Cat. I saw it on my phone.”

Catelyn felt the first cold edge of dread. “What—why?”

Her mother frowned. “Oh, darling, you really haven’t seen?”

She turned to the television mounted high in the corner, still tuned to the local news. On-screen, the hospital’s front steps were crowded with cameras and Stark Foundation banners. The caption at the bottom read:

RICKARD STARK ADDRESSES PRESS: INTRODUCES FUTURE HEIR OF WINTERFELL FOUNDATION.

Catelyn stared.

There he was—Rickard, standing proudly in front of the hospital doors, Lyarra beside him, all smiles and confidence. And in his arms, tiny and swaddled in white, was Robb.

Ned’s breath caught beside her. “He—he took him?”

Catelyn’s voice came out flat. “He’s out there right now?”

The audio came through the tinny speakers:

“The Starks are proud to welcome a new member of our family,” Rickard was saying smoothly, posing for the cameras. “Robb Stark will one day carry forward the values this family stands for—duty, service, and legacy.”

The reporters shouted questions. The flashes lit the screen like lightning.

Catelyn’s mother said softly, “It’s sweet, in a way—”

“No,” Catelyn whispered. “It’s not.”

Her heart was pounding. Her son—barely four hours old—was being passed between photographers like a symbol. A thing.

Ned was already on his feet, pulling on his jacket. “I’ll handle it.”

“Handle it?” Hoster said without looking up from his phone. “You should be grateful, Ned. Rickard’s taken control of the narrative. It’s good optics—family unity. It’ll blow over faster this way.”

Ned turned, his voice dark. “Optics?”

Hoster shrugged. “Politics is perception. You know that. I’ll be releasing a statement of my own when I get back to the Riverlands. A photo or two—of me holding the child. People like—”

“Don’t,” Catelyn said. It came out sharper than she intended. “Don’t you dare.”

Hoster blinked, affronted. “Catelyn—”

“I’m serious.” She was trembling now, but it was anger, not fear. “He’s not a headline. He’s our baby.”

But Ned was already gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

It didn’t take long.
Fifteen minutes later, the door opened again, and the entire room seemed to follow him in: Rickard Stark, all tailored calm; Lyarra, serene and smiling as if nothing were wrong; a harried nurse trying to keep up; and finally Ned, jaw tight, holding Robb close against his chest.

Rickard started speaking before anyone else could. “No harm done,” he said briskly. “It was just a short appearance. The press were waiting—they had to see something. Better to control the story before someone else does.”

Catelyn stared at him. “You took him from the nursery.”

Rickard didn’t flinch. “Our staff only wanted to help. You’ll thank me when you see the coverage. It’s good press for the Foundation—positive, family-oriented—”

“Positive?” Catelyn repeated. Her voice broke on the word.

Lyarra’s smile wavered. “Darling, please. It was only a few photos. You’ll have him back with you tonight. He didn’t even cry.”

Catelyn’s pulse thundered in her ears. “He’s not your story to sell.”

Rickard sighed. “Catelyn, you married into this family. We live in the public eye. It’s the price of the name. Your father understands—”

“I understand perfectly,” Catelyn said. “You all think that child is yours to use.”

Rickard’s patience cracked. “That child is the next generation of—”

“Stop.”

Ned’s voice cut clean through the noise. Every head turned.

He stood near the bed, Robb sleeping against his shoulder, the soft rhythm of the baby’s breathing loud in the stunned silence.

“You don’t get to call him the next anything,” Ned said. “He’s a person. Not a headline. Not a legacy. And from this moment, neither of you—none of you—will use his name or his face without our permission.”

Rickard’s jaw set. “You’re being naïve.”

“No,” Ned said. “I’m being a father.”

Hoster, still standing by the door, crossed his arms. “Careful, son. You don’t bite the hands that feed you.”

Ned turned to him. “If that’s what this family is—then maybe we need different hands.”

Rickard took a step forward. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” His voice was calm now, steady. “If this continues—if our family can’t exist without cameras and statements and spin—we’ll leave. Dorne’s warm this time of year. Maybe Lyanna had the right idea.”

Lyarra gasped softly. “You wouldn’t.”

Catelyn found herself speaking before she thought. “Try us.”

No one moved for a long moment. Then Rickard gave a single, stiff nod, the kind that ended conversations he didn’t win. “You’ll regret isolating yourselves,” he said quietly. “You can’t build a dynasty by hiding from the world.”

Ned smiled faintly. “We’re not building a dynasty, Father. We’re building a home.”

Rickard didn’t answer. He turned on his heel and left, Lyarra following after him, murmuring apologies that no one heard. The Tullys exchanged a look—half embarrassment, half irritation—then left as well.

When the door closed, the quiet returned all at once.

Catelyn let out a shaky breath and looked up at her husband. “Do you think they’ll listen?”

“Not for long,” Ned said softly. “But for now, maybe.”

He crossed the room, sat beside her on the bed, and handed her their son. Robb stirred, yawned, then settled again, small and impossibly calm between them.

Catelyn traced the line of his cheek with her finger. “I meant what I said,” she murmured. “He’s going to have a real life. No headlines. No flashing lights.”

Chapter Text

The rain had followed her all afternoon, thin and steady, needling against the windshield like a question she didn’t want to answer.

Catelyn hadn’t meant to drive this far.
She’d left Winterfell before sunrise, telling Ned she needed a few days at her parents’ estate to rest, to think, to remember who she was outside of being mother and wife and symbol.
But halfway there, the road curved east, and she’d just kept going. The map on the dash blinked through unfamiliar names, and suddenly the sea was visible again—dark, restless, endless.

The sign read THE FINGERS — 2 MILES.
She hadn’t realized until then how close she’d come to the place she used to joke didn’t even exist.

She stopped when the gas light came on, pulling into a roadside shop—a convenience store with a single flickering fluorescent light and a rack of faded postcards no one had bought in years. It smelled of coffee, salt, and diesel.

Inside, a man stood at the counter, waiting for his change. Tall, lean, coat damp from the rain. When he turned slightly, she froze.

“Petyr?”

He looked up. The smile started slow, uncertain. “Catelyn.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.
The rain hit the windows harder, as if to fill the space where words should have been.

She found her voice first. “I didn’t expect—anyone. Here.”

“I could say the same.”
He picked up his coffee, the paper cup steaming between his hands. “I’m just passing through. There was flooding at my father’s old place. The caretaker called—basement full of water, walls starting to rot. Figured I’d better come see before it all washed into the sea.”

“You kept the house?” she asked softly.

He nodded. “Didn’t know what else to do with it. I rent it out sometimes. Pay someone to keep it standing.”
He looked at her properly then, seeing the tiredness beneath the neat coat, the faint dark circles under her eyes. “What about you? You’re a long way from Winterfell.”

She laughed a little, more exhale than sound. “I just needed quiet. A few days to think.”
She hesitated, then added, “I told Ned I was going home, but I don’t know if my father will really let me be there. He doesn’t know how to let anything rest.”

Petyr’s expression softened. “No, I suppose he doesn’t.”

For a moment, they stood in the hum of the refrigerators and the rain and the soft, endless whir of the world outside. It could have been any two people, years erased by coincidence.

“You could stay there,” he said suddenly.

She blinked. “Where?”

“The house,” he said. “The main floor’s fine. It’s just the basement that’s flooded. I’ll be there for a few days anyway, trying to sort it out. You’d have space, quiet. No one would look for you in the Fingers.”

Catelyn hesitated. “Petyr, I can’t—”

“It’s a house,” he said gently. “Not a favor. It’s sitting empty, and you look like someone who hasn’t been alone in years.”

The words hit something in her chest. She looked down, nodding once. “Maybe just for a night.”

He smiled—not triumphantly, not even knowingly, just softly. “Then it’s settled.”

Outside, the rain had stopped, but the sky still hung heavy and gray.
He pushed the door open for her, the bell chiming overhead.

When she stepped out into the damp air, she caught a faint whiff of salt and old wood—the smell of the sea that had once been the edge of both their worlds.

The rain had softened to mist by the time they reached the old Baelish property.
The road narrowed until it was more suggestion than pavement, half-eaten by grass and sea fog. When the house appeared, it seemed to rise straight out of the gray—a sagging two-story building with paint the color of driftwood and windows dulled by salt. The porch light flickered once and went out.

Catelyn parked behind his car and sat for a moment, listening to the ticking engine.
“It looks smaller,” she said.

Petyr smiled faintly. “It usually does when you stop being fifteen.”

He led her up the steps. The front door stuck before it opened, groaning like something that had been waiting too long. Inside, the air smelled of damp wood and dust, but underneath that there was still the faint scent of the sea, the same one that used to cling to his jackets when he’d meet her by the river.

“It hasn’t changed,” she murmured. The furniture was old but neatly arranged, everything exactly where she remembered it being in flashes—crooked frames, the ceramic bowl that used to hold keys now full of unopened mail.

“I pay someone to keep it from falling apart,” he said. “Not the same as living here.”

“You could,” she said, turning slowly in the hallway light. “Rent it out. I heard about this thing, um—Air…B and something?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Air…B and something?”

She laughed, hand to her mouth. “I don’t remember exactly. People rent their houses to travelers online. It’s a way to make money without having to host anyone long term.”

“Airbnb,” he said, amused. “I’ve read about it. Strangers living in my house—what could possibly go wrong?”

“You’d earn enough to fix it,” she said. “Maybe a new roof, paint, the porch—”

“Maybe in the morning,” he interrupted gently. “You should rest.”

The stairs creaked under their weight as they climbed. She remembered that sound—how it had terrified her the one time she’d snuck up them after midnight, how his mother had caught them laughing and sent her home with cookies and a warning not to let the sea mist ruin her hair.

Petyr stopped at the top and pushed open a door. “You can take my old room. I’ll stay in my father’s.”

“You sure?” she asked.

He smiled. “I haven’t slept in there since he died. It might be time.”

She hesitated, then stepped inside.

The room was smaller than she remembered, and yet exactly the same. The curtains were thin, the wallpaper faded to a ghost of blue, but the desk in the corner still had initials carved into the wood. On the wall above the narrow bed hung a collection of photos—some printed, some yellowed, one or two framed.

She moved closer.

There they were: Petyr and Catelyn, both seventeen, standing on the pier. Her hair wind-tangled, his smile wide and uncertain. Another of them at a school dance—her dress borrowed, his tie crooked. A grainy shot of them at graduation, faces half in shadow.

Her throat tightened. He’d kept them all.

She touched the edge of one frame lightly. In the reflection of the glass she could see herself as she was now—older, lined with the quiet exhaustion of years spent being photographed by strangers who thought they knew her.

For a moment, the contrast was dizzying.
If she had chosen differently—if she had stayed—there would have been no cameras, no press, no headlines about heirs and scandals. No perfect house built on expectation. Just this: the sound of the sea, the smell of salt, a life measured in small things.

She sat on the edge of the bed, pressing her palms to her knees. The floorboards creaked softly beneath her, as if the house were remembering her too.

Down the hall, she heard Petyr moving around in his father’s room—doors opening, the sound of running water, the slow rhythm of someone reacquainting themselves with ghosts.

When the house went quiet again, she lay back against the pillows. The fabric smelled faintly of old laundry detergent and something that might once have been cedar. The sound of the waves came through the thin walls, steady and endless.

She closed her eyes, and for the first time in years, she slept without dreaming of cameras.

Chapter Text

Petyr was awake before dawn.
The house creaked around him, the kind of old-wood sigh that came from years of wind off the sea. He’d forgotten how cold it could be here—the damp cold that sank into the walls, the kind you couldn’t quite chase out even with a fire.

Downstairs, the caretaker was already there, boots muddy from the yard, cap pulled low. His name was Harlan, though most of the locals still called him Old Har, the same man who’d worked for his father once upon a time.

“Morning, Mr. Baelish,” Harlan said, rubbing his hands together near the stove. “She’s still standing, mostly. The water didn’t reach the foundation, but the basement’s another story. Foot and a half of it down there, maybe more.”

Petyr nodded, staring at the coffee dripping into the pot. “Get the basics done first. Dry it out, check the wiring. I don’t want it collapsing in the middle of the night.”

“I’ll bring in a pump crew,” Harlan said, scratching at his beard. “Could get you a quote for the rest while I’m at it.”

“Fine,” Petyr said. Then, after a beat, “Actually, do that. If I wanted to finish the space—make it livable. Second sitting room, maybe an office, half bath. What would that run?”

Harlan’s brows lifted. “You thinking of moving back?”

“No,” Petyr said automatically, then shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. Options don’t hurt.”

The caretaker gave a half-smile that was more confusion than amusement. “Aye. You’re the boss.”

When he left, the house felt too still again. Petyr stood by the window, watching the mist pull back from the cliffs. He’d spent his whole life trying to get away from this place, and now here he was, considering renovations.

Maybe it was time to decide what, exactly, he was building toward.

The smell of toast reached him before the sound of her voice.

Catelyn was in the kitchen, hair loose around her shoulders, wearing one of the oversized flannel shirts he kept hanging on the back of a chair. Morning light turned her hair to copper.

“I found the bread,” she said without turning. “And the kettle.”

“You found more than I have in years,” he said, half smiling. “I wasn’t sure the stove still worked.”

She looked over her shoulder. “It’s temperamental, but it listens if you ask nicely.”

He poured himself coffee, leaned against the counter. “Sleep well?”

“Better than I have in months,” she admitted. “I’ll only stay a day or two, though. I need to get back to Robb.”

“Of course.”

“He’s—” She hesitated, fingers tightening on the edge of the counter. “He’s not been well lately. Nothing serious, just colds, ear infections, those things babies catch. But he’s delicate. I worry.”

Petyr nodded. “I remember my mother saying the same about me. She thought I’d break if I sneezed too hard.”

Catelyn smiled faintly. “I could see that.”

They fell quiet for a moment. The sound of the sea filled the silence, a steady hush against the cliffs.

She looked around the kitchen—peeling wallpaper, warped drawers, the same table they’d once studied at. “You should fix this place up,” she said suddenly. “It’s got good bones.”

“I might,” he said. “Harlan’s getting me a quote. Maybe make the basement into an office or a second living area.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Really? I thought you never looked back.”

“I don’t. But options don’t hurt.”

She laughed softly. “You always said that—like the world was one big chessboard.”

“Still is,” he said. “Just with higher stakes.”

She studied him, curious. “What have you been up to all these years?”

He took a slow sip of coffee. “The internship at the Foundation turned into a full-time position. I live in King’s Landing now. Same work, bigger circles. Some people remember my name now. I make sure they remember for the right reasons.”

“And are you happy?” she asked.

He considered. “Happy enough. It’s a city that rewards ambition. You learn quickly or you disappear.”

She nodded. “That sounds like you.”

He tilted his head. “And you? Last I heard, you were building your dynasty.”

Her laugh was short. “It’s less glamorous than it sounds. Ned’s working all the time. Law, Foundation, politics—it all blends together. He’s good at it, but he’s never home. And I…” She trailed off, then shrugged. “I love Robb, I do. But the house is so quiet until it isn’t. He’s sick, he’s crying, and suddenly it feels like the walls are closing in. And then there’s the expectations.”

He watched her carefully. “Expectations?”

“Everyone wants something from us,” she said, the words coming faster now, like they’d been waiting to spill. “The families backed off for a while, but the world didn’t. There’s always someone asking for a photo, or a statement, or a donation. And now even Robb—he’s almost two, and people are already talking about what he’ll be.”

He said nothing, letting her keep going.

“There was a dinner last month,” she said quietly. “Society event, something for the Foundation. Robb was overtired, crying. I couldn’t calm him. Rickard was furious—he wanted him brought under control. Ned was trapped at the table, trying to keep things smooth, and I—” She swallowed hard. “I felt like I’d failed everyone at once. My son, my husband, the whole damned family.”

Petyr looked down at his coffee. “You didn’t fail anyone.”

“I know that,” she said, but her voice wavered. “I just needed to get away for a while. To remember who I am when I’m not being Mrs. Stark.”

He nodded slowly. “And did you?”

“I’m working on it,” she said. “Though I’m not sure driving into the middle of nowhere was the plan.”

“You used to like it here,” he said. “The quiet.”

“I still do,” she said. “It’s just harder to find quiet that doesn’t feel like running away.”

He met her eyes. “Maybe sometimes they’re the same thing.”

She looked away first, smiling a little. “You always did have an answer.”

“That’s what I’m paid for now.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Still smug.”

“Still right,” he said.

The moment stretched, the air between them warmer now, filled with unspoken things. Catelyn looked down at her mug, tracing the rim with her thumb.

“Thank you,” she said finally. “For letting me stay. For not asking questions.”

He shrugged. “You don’t owe me explanations.”

“No,” she said. “But it feels easier to breathe here.”

He nodded toward the window, where the mist was finally lifting. “Then breathe. Stay as long as you need.”

She hesitated, then smiled—small, real, tired. “Maybe one more night.”

“Good,” he said. “Then tomorrow, you can tell me what color to paint the kitchen.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “You’re really considering it?”

He gave her a small, careful smile. “Options don’t hurt.”

Chapter Text

The house had begun to breathe again.

Five days of steady work, of Harlan tramping in and out with tools, of dust and old salt shaken loose from the walls — and it felt alive in a way it hadn’t since his mother’s laughter used to fill it. Petyr had almost forgotten how easy it was to imagine a future when someone else was in the room.

Now, near sunset, the air smelled of wood polish and wine.
Catelyn sat at the kitchen table surrounded by catalogues and sketches, a glass half-full beside her hand. She’d pinned her hair up loosely, a pencil holding it in place, and every time she looked up to show him something the loose strands glinted like copper.

“See,” she was saying, tapping a page. “If you open the wall here, it’ll make the kitchen brighter. Then the light from the sea will actually reach the dining room.”

He poured more wine into her glass before sitting back down. “And double the heating bill.”

“Don’t ruin the mood,” she said, smiling. “You can afford a heating bill now.”

He smiled too, but it tugged something inside him. She was right. The boy from the Fingers was gone; the man sitting here was someone with accounts in King’s Landing, the kind who could make money disappear and reappear without anyone asking how. He had power now—quiet, invisible power—and yet here, in this decaying house, he felt something he hadn’t in years: peace.

They kept planning. The sketches turned into laughter; the laughter into stories about people they’d known, mistakes they’d made. He told her about the endless dinners in King’s Landing, the backroom negotiations, the way half the men he dealt with were thieves in tailored suits. She told him about the Foundation galas, how every conversation felt like an interview she hadn’t agreed to give.

“Maybe that’s why I came here,” she said after a while, swirling the last of her wine. “It’s quiet enough to hear my own thoughts.”

He looked at her, really looked, and felt something deep in his chest loosen. “You could stay,” he said quietly. “At least until you want to go.”

She smiled. “Don’t tempt me.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” she said, and for the first time that night, didn’t look away.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was slow and soft, like the end of a song that neither of them wanted to stop. Outside, the sea hissed against the rocks. The clock on the wall ticked once and then seemed to forget to keep time.

He leaned forward. She didn’t move.
When he kissed her, it wasn’t hurried or desperate — just inevitable.
Her mouth tasted of wine and memory. For one heartbeat he let himself believe it, the whole picture: the rebuilt house, her laughter in the mornings, the quiet rhythm of ordinary life.

When they finally pulled apart, she looked at him with something between sorrow and apology. “We should sleep,” she whispered.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

He dreamed of nothing.
The air off the water had gone still, the kind of silence that comes just before a storm.

The knocking started slow — one, two, then harder. A man’s voice through the door: “Catelyn!”

Petyr sat up, heart hammering. She was already awake, robe half on, crossing the room.

He reached the hall just as she opened the door.

Brynden Tully stood on the porch, rain on his shoulders, travel coat dark with salt and road dust. His eyes flicked past her, landed on Petyr, and narrowed slightly.

“How did you find me?” Catelyn asked, breathless. “How—?”

“You don’t think we let you wander off without a tracker on your car, do you?” Brynden said, not unkindly. His voice was rough from travel, tired. “We were giving you time, Cat. But we don’t have it now.”

Her hand went to her mouth. “What happened?”

“It’s Robb,” he said softly. “He had a seizure. Fever spiked high. Ned’s taking him to the hospital. He asked me to bring you home.”

The world seemed to still. The waves outside, the creak of the old beams, even the breath between heartbeats—all of it faded under that single word: seizure.

She swayed once, then steadied herself on the doorframe. “Is he—?”

“He’s alive,” Brynden said quickly. “But you need to go.”

Petyr didn’t remember when his hands had clenched into fists. The sight of her face—fear, guilt, urgency—made something inside him ache. She didn’t even glance back at him when she said, “Thank you for coming.”

He wanted to say something—anything—to make her stop, to make her look at him and remember the world they’d almost built in this house. But she was already moving, gathering the small pile of clothes she’d unpacked, the hairbrush on the dresser, the car keys she’d left on the table.

“I’ll drive you to the main road,” Brynden said. 

She nodded, shoulders trembling, and turned toward Petyr. For half a second their eyes met—his filled with the quiet plea of a man who had built a dream too fast, hers already far away.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”

And then she was gone, the door closing gently behind her.

Brynden lingered in the doorway, rain dripping from his coat. He looked at Petyr the way a priest might look at someone who’d just confessed too much—sad, pitying, inevitable. “She was never yours to keep,” he said softly.

Petyr didn’t answer. He stood where she’d left him, listening to the echo of the car engine starting, the tires crunching down the long wet road until even that sound was gone.

When the house went still again, he poured the last of the wine, sat at the kitchen table surrounded by their sketches of paint colors and half-finished plans, and watched the sea swallow the light.

Tomorrow, he told himself, he’d start the renovations.

Tonight, he just listened to the house breathe and tried not to imagine it empty.

Chapter Text

The movers were gone by noon, leaving silence and the faint smell of cardboard behind.

Petyr stood in the doorway of his new house and tried to convince himself it looked like progress.

It was the right postal code, at least—tree-lined streets, high hedges, the sort of neighborhood where even the dogs wore manners.  The walls gleamed a little too white, the floors a little too new.  Every echo reminded him that he didn’t quite belong here yet.

Qyburn wandered through the rooms like a man inspecting a specimen.  His coat hung open, a cigarette balanced between his fingers.  Behind him trailed a younger man—broad shoulders, half-smirk, the faint swagger of someone who’d never pretended to be respectable a day in his life.

“Bronn,” Qyburn said by way of introduction.  “He drives for me.  Occasionally keeps me alive.  Don’t ask which is the harder job.”

Bronn grinned.  “Usually the driving.”

Petyr shook his hand, measuring him.  “Welcome to King’s Landing’s quiet side.  Try not to scare the neighbors.”

Bronn shrugged.  “They scare easy.”

They moved to the kitchen, where a single television balanced on a crate hummed with the midday news.  The rest of the house was still a landscape of boxes labeled *LEDGERS,* *ARCHIVES,* *DONATIONS.*  The work followed him everywhere; it was the only thing that stayed consistent.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” Qyburn said, lighting another cigarette and watching the smoke coil.  “Half the city’s foundations use your ledgers now.  You’ve made yourself indispensable.”

“I’ve made myself useful,” Petyr said.  “There’s a difference.”

Qyburn smiled thinly.  “You always did prefer your morality with loopholes.”

Bronn leaned against the counter, pouring himself coffee from a paper cup.  “Heard you’re going legit.  Buying a house in the nice part of town, paying taxes, all that.  Must feel strange.”

Petyr ignored him.  “This neighborhood matters.  It’s proximity—appearances.  Everyone important passes through here eventually.”

“And you think they’ll start inviting you to dinner because you bought the right address?” Qyburn asked.  “You’ve bought the worst house in the best street, Petyr.  You’re still the Fingers boy.  They’ll never forget it.”

Petyr turned the key ring in his hand, metal clinking softly.  “Let them remember.  I’m not done climbing.”

“That’s exactly why I’m here.”  Qyburn exhaled smoke.  “One of my clients has purchased a new establishment—modern, lucrative, legally flexible.  A house of pleasure, if we’re being old-fashioned.  He needs someone to handle the money, keep the papers clean.”

Petyr didn’t hesitate.  “No.”

“Think before you refuse,” Qyburn said mildly.  “He pays well.  Enough to make this place look lived in.”

“I have enough,” Petyr said.  “The Foundation keeps me comfortable.”

“Comfortable men stop moving,” Qyburn said.  “You’ve never been that kind of man.”

Bronn chuckled.  “He’s right.  You don’t look like the type who sleeps easy.”

Petyr opened his mouth to retort, but the television’s volume spiked suddenly, the anchor’s bright voice cutting through the cigarette haze.

> “In other news, the Stark family has released an official statement.  Catelyn and Eddard Stark are proud to announce the birth of their second child—a healthy baby girl named Sansa.  No photographs will be released at this time, but both mother and daughter are said to be resting comfortably.”

The footage showed the Winterfell gates crowded with reporters, the family crest gleaming above them.  The sound of flashbulbs filled the room even through the screen.

Petyr didn’t move.  He just watched the headline crawl across the bottom of the image: **A New Era for the Starks.**

Qyburn glanced at him.  “Old friends of yours, aren’t they?”

Petyr kept his eyes on the television.  “Something like that.”

Bronn switched off the set with the remote.  “Smart of them—no photos.  Keeps the vultures hungry.”

“No photos,” Petyr repeated, softly.

He knew what it meant.  Privacy.  Control.  Ned Stark’s sense of propriety, Catelyn’s fierce protection.  But the part of him that still remembered her laugh by the sea whispered something else.

*No photos because maybe she doesn’t look like them.*

It was absurd.  Impossible.  They hadn’t so much as touched beyond that single, regretful kiss.  He could count the distance between them in the nights he’d spent replaying it.  He knew the math.  He knew biology.  He knew the truth.

“She isn’t mine,” he said aloud, half to himself, half to the ghosts in the room.  “Couldn’t be.”

Qyburn raised an eyebrow.  “And yet you wish she were.”

Petyr looked down at his coffee, the reflection of his own face warped in the dark surface.  “Wishing’s cheap.  It’s getting what you wish for that costs.”

Bronn tossed his empty cup into a box marked *FRAGILE.*  “So, about that meeting,” he said.  “Should I tell the client you’re in or out?”

Petyr took a long breath, then nodded once.  “I’ll come.”

Qyburn smiled, a thin slice of satisfaction.  “Knew you would.”

He and Bronn left together, the door shutting with a quiet click.  Their voices faded down the drive, Bronn’s low laugh cutting through the afternoon air.

Petyr stood alone in the kitchen, the silence settling heavy again.  The television’s black screen reflected him faintly—the outline of a man who’d almost built a different life and then watched it drive away.

He touched the countertop, the cool marble under his fingertips, and whispered, “Sansa.”

The name felt strange in his mouth—fragile, half prayer, half promise.

Then he straightened, picked up his phone, and called Qyburn back.  “Tell your client I’ll handle the books personally,” he said.  “Tomorrow night.”

He ended the call before Qyburn could answer.  The house was quiet except for the distant hum of the city beyond the gates.

 Outside, a single light flickered on the porch—new bulb, new address, same ambition.

 Petyr poured himself a drink, raised it toward the dark window, and said softly, “To the climb.”

 The glass touched the counter with a sound sharp enough to echo.

And that was the moment he stopped pretending he wanted to come back down.