Catelyn Tully's voice carried a warning:
"Petyr."
Littlefinger's fingers twitched, and he withdrew his hand.
"Lady Catelyn, I meant no offense. I only thought…" He broke off, shaking his head with a bitter smile.
That look brought back a flood of memories—Petyr had always been cunning as a boy, and whenever he caused trouble, he would wear that same face of contrition. It was second nature to him.
Seeing her distracted, Petyr spoke softly:
"Cat, you should not be here."
Catelyn blinked. His intimate address made her frown, and her voice sharpened with anger:
"Petyr, you will call me Lady Stark or Lady Catelyn."
He gave a slight shrug.
"As you wish, Lady Catelyn. You may call me Littlefinger, as you did when we were children."
There was a faint note of sorrow hidden in his jest, and Catelyn's heart softened for a moment. Littlefinger had been her father's ward, and they had shared bright days of childhood. She had loved him then, but it had been the love of a sister for a younger brother.
She pushed the thought away. For his sake as well as her own, there could be no intimacy between them now.
Her tone turned cold as she changed the subject:
"Petyr, you are Master of Coin. What are you doing in the Eyrie?"
He sighed.
"Lady Catelyn, did you not hear on your way here of the so-called Justiciar Alliance?"
He smirked.
"A fine name. I prefer 'the Rebel Alliance'—far closer to the truth."
With a graceful motion, he stepped aside and gestured for her to walk with him.
Catelyn inclined her head and moved forward.
As they walked, she cast him a sidelong glance.
"From my uncle Brynden I have heard tales most difficult to believe."
Petyr's eyes glimmered.
"Indeed… difficult to believe."
He looked at her with a faintly bitter smile.
"So now, you must understand why I am here."
She… Lysa… Littlefinger… If not for that sudden duel long ago, perhaps we would not stand as strangers now.
After a silence, Catelyn asked:
"Petyr, what do you think? Why would my sister Lysa do such things?"
Her tone was no longer quite so cold.
Petyr's lips curved.
"Lady Catelyn, you are a good wife. You choose to trust your husband. My choice is to trust Lady Lysa."
He touched his forehead lightly with a finger.
"Tell me—what is the Tully words?"
Her throat tightened. She forced it out stiffly:
"Family, Duty, Honor."
Then she turned to him, her voice cold again:
"Ned is my husband. Lysa is my sister. I came here hoping it was all some misunderstanding—otherwise I would never have entered that basket."
"You mistake me…"
Petyr sighed.
"Family, Duty, Honor. Each of those would demand you obey Lord Eddard's command and remain at Winterfell. Leave this to me. Let me see you safely away."
Catelyn stopped, frowning.
"You speak as if my sister means me harm."
He spread his hands.
"Cat, I am torn. I do not wish you to think I seek to drive a wedge between sisters. We are old friends. I only ask you to trust me this once."
Her eyes trembled. She searched Littlefinger's face.
"Petyr, I will trust only your truth."
He hesitated, then spoke slowly:
"The truth is, Lysa believes your family betrayed her. The truth is, I pleaded for her, yet your husband the Hand stripped me of my hard-won post and cast me into a cell."
Catelyn whispered:
"Impossible…"
Then, louder, fiercely:
"I believe in Ned. He has a just heart."
Petyr lifted his shoulders.
"Lady Catelyn, Lady Lysa cannot accept it."
There was helplessness on his face.
"You are right to trust your husband. Lysa is right to be angry. And I? My aim is the same as yours—to resolve this quarrel. We three should labor together as friends. Of course, I reserve my own judgment on Lord Eddard's actions, but that does not lessen my regard for you—or for Lysa."
He chuckled.
"At least for now I cannot quite like your husband. The cell he put me in let in no light at all. Truly merciless of him."
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Petyr, elegant as ever, rapped on the door with his right hand, his left resting at the small of his back. Without waiting for a reply, he opened it, then turned to Catelyn with a smile.
"Lady Catelyn, please enter. Lady Lysa ordered that you not be left waiting outside."
Catelyn gave a slight nod and stepped forward.
Before the vanity, Lysa sat in a robe, her long auburn hair uncombed, spilling over her pale shoulders and down her back. A maid worked to untangle her sleep-mussed locks.
"Oh, Cat—it is so good to see you."
The moment Catelyn appeared, Lysa leapt to her feet, ran across the chamber, and threw her arms around her sister.
"My dearest sister—we have been parted so long!"
She clung tightly, murmuring:
"Oh, so very long."
It had been five years since they last met. To Lysa, those years had been cruel ones. Time had left its mark: she was only two years younger than Catelyn, yet she now looked the elder.
Shorter than her sister, Lysa had grown stout, her face pale and heavy. Catelyn remembered her as the slim, straight-backed girl who had stood beside her at the sept in Riverrun, on her wedding day. Now only the cascade of auburn hair remained of that beauty.
Catelyn's eyes stung. Softly she said:
"Lysa—it is good to see you."
Lady Lysa looked past her to Petyr, who watched with gentle smile.
"Lord Baelish, thank you for bringing my sister."
Petyr bowed his head.
"A small service. I'll leave you now."
He gave Catelyn a nod, murmured a word to the maid, and withdrew.
The moment the door closed, Lysa's face darkened. She flung Catelyn's hand away.
Clouds swallowed her warmth.
"Cat, what plot do you and your husband weave? Why do you seek to ruin me?"
Catelyn stared in shock.
"Plot? Ruin?"
She tried to take her sister's hand, but Lysa pulled back.
"Lysa, how could I harm you? I came to help."
The hearth burned brightly, but Lysa's voice was cold as stone.
"I wrote to you to warn you against the Lannisters, and your husband named me a murderess! Gods above, Cat, did you come to trick me into confessing to the crimes your husband invented?"
She seized Catelyn's wrists, yanking hard enough to stagger her.
"The Vale is my son's. You will not take it from me!"
Catelyn's anger flared white-hot. Sisterly affection be damned.
She wrenched free and shouted:
"Lysa! Do you hear yourself? That is slander! The North has more land than any realm—we covet nothing of yours!"
Lysa sneered:
"Oh? And yet you always wrote to complain of your endless snows."
"The North stretches from the Wall to the Neck. Its size equals the other six kingdoms combined!"
"Ah. No wonder you complain—it is all snow."
"You—!"
"Admit it. You crave the Vale's fertile lands."
"Never. I swear it."
"My husband swore too—that he would always protect us. Did he? Gods above, damn those who make oaths they cannot keep."
"You… you…"
Their voices rose until both were shouting, faces flushed, eyes blazing.
The room fell into strange silence.
"Mother…"
The small, frail voice drew both women's eyes.
Young Robert Arryn stood in the doorway clutching a ragged doll, his wide eyes fixed on them. Sickly thin, small for his age, pale face trembling.
"Are you playing a game?"
"My sweet boy!"
Lysa whirled, her heavy robe swirling as she rushed to gather him into her arms. She gazed at him tenderly, then pointed toward Catelyn, though her eyes were still sharp as knives.
"This is your Aunt Catelyn. Lady of Winterfell. Do you remember?"
The boy blinked, confused.
"I think… I think I do."
Catelyn forced a smile, though her heart was still burning. The last time she had seen him, he had been an infant. How could he remember?
She cast another glance at her sister. Something felt wrong. She and Lysa had quarreled many times before—but never like this, never so smooth and practiced, as if her sister had rehearsed every accusation.
.
.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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