CATELYN
RIVERRUN, 277 AC
Dancing, dancing was the lesson Catelyn loved most. Among all the duties of a Lady, embroidery made her fingers stiff, sums made her head dizzy and sleepy, only dancing felt like freedom.
She had been doing this for as long as she could remember, in this same room, under her mother's gaze and now, her teacher's, Sherra. She was good at it. Unlike Lysa, whose movements were too emotional and sometimes unpredictable, or Edmure, who at seven years old was still as clumsy as a newborn foal, Catelyn had precision. To her, dancing was arithmetic in motion. Every step had its place. Every turn had a purpose. It was easy, it was simple, and most importantly, it allowed her to forget unpleasant things.
Right now, no music was playing. There was only the sound of her soft footsteps on the polished stone floor and the rustle of her practice gown.
She moved to the rhythm of the music in her head, music played by an unseen instrument. The steps had to be steady, unwavering. Perfect. That was what she wanted. Family, Duty, Honor. The words of House Tully. In dancing, her words were: Form, Tempo, Grace.
She closed her eyes. When she spun, her simple blue gown followed her movements, blooming around her as if caught by a wind on a green meadow. In her mind, the heavy stone walls of Riverrun and the tapestries depicting the Trident disappeared. She imagined a vast meadow stretching under a cloudless blue Riverlands sky, just like the one she saw when riding with her father. Wildflowers. blue, pink, and bright yellow blossoms, bloomed around her.
The scent was so fragrant, the smell of freshly cut grass and damp earth after a rain. Calming. In this meadow, she wasn't Catelyn Tully, Lord Hoster's eldest daughter, destined for great duties. She wasn't the betrothed of Jaime Lannister. She was just Cat. Free.
She leaped lightly, landing without a sound, then bowed deeply to an unseen sun. Something rose in her chest, a warm, overflowing feeling, so strong she almost laughed. Catelyn knew what it was. It was a feeling, a joyous feeling. A feeling of pure freedom.
The movement ended with her kneeling, one hand outstretched, as if to touch a flower.
Silence.
Then, the movement ended. Catelyn opened her eyes. The green meadow vanished in an instant. She was back in the cold Great Hall, replaced by the large room filled with dusty tapestries and a high, stone ceiling.
The sound of polite applause made her turn her head to the side. There, sitting on a bench near the wall, was her audience. Her middle-aged teacher, Lady Sherra, clapped with a proud smile. Beside her, her sister Lysa, who was nine name days old, two years younger than her, clapped with exaggerated enthusiasm, her braided red hair looking so bright in the afternoon light. And beside Lysa, of course, was Petyr Baelish, her father's ward here. He was clapping too, but not like the others. He wasn't just clapping; he was staring at her.
"Good movements, Lady Catelyn. You did everything well," praised Sherra, her voice hoarse yet friendly echoing in the hall. She smiled as she stepped forward, her posture still as straight as a dancer in her youth. "Even without music, you moved in time. It was as if you were playing the music in your own head."
Lysa followed, like Catelyn's shadow. "I'm sure when the same music for that movement is played again, it will be even more natural! It was so beautiful, Cat!"
"You move like a feather. So light." Petyr's voice sounded, quieter than the others, but more intense. His gaze was so sparkling, so adoring, that it made Catelyn feel uncomfortable.
She averted her gaze from Petyr and smiled at her teacher. "The music was indeed playing in my mind, Sherra," Catelyn explained. "When I close my eyes and concentrate, it all truly feels real."
"You are a true dancer," Sherra praised again, which made Catelyn smile genuinely. She had worked hard at this, practicing for hours every week until her feet were sore. At least it paid off, and she was becoming more and more proficient.
"Now, then." Lady Sherra clapped her hands once to get their attention. "Dancing alone is one thing, it shows discipline and beauty. But for a Lady, dancing with a partner is something you must be able to do. You will do that when attending grand feasts, and special events." Sherra glanced at Catelyn meaningfully. "And you, Lady Catelyn, will be attending many feasts soon."
Catelyn felt a slight blush on her cheeks. She knew what she meant. Feasts to celebrate her betrothal. Feasts to welcome her future husband, whenever he would come.
"Therefore," Sherra continued, "we will now begin to learn again. A partner dance from the Reach. Lord Baelish, could you be Lady Catelyn's partner for a while?"
Catelyn's heart sank at that. Not because she didn't want to learn, but because of the partner. She glanced at Petyr. The nine-year-old boy's grey-green eyes held a slight glint of triumph.
Catelyn knew that Petyr liked her. It wasn't a huge secret in Riverrun. The way he always stared at her during dinner, the way he always found an excuse to sit next to her in the Sept, the way he always offered to carry her books. And it had all become a hundred times worse in the last year, ever since the raven arrived from King's Landing with the betrothal offer from Lord Tywin Lannister.
Since that day, Petyr had become quieter around her father and Brynden, but around Catelyn, his gaze became more intense, more possessive. She was betrothed to Jaime Lannister. The good Jaime. The Golden Knight of the West. The young man who sent her funny letters and beautiful poems on smooth Lannister paper, the man she imagined as tall and strong and brave, like a hero from the songs.
She appreciated Petyr's interest, truly. She should feel flattered. But she didn't. More and more, Petyr would always be following her, or would suddenly be in front of her in the corridor, as if he had been waiting for her. It was truly annoying, unsettling, and made Catelyn very uncomfortable.
Besides, before all this happened, before she became a 'prize' to be married off, she had always thought of Petyr as a brother. He was small for his age, even smaller than Lysa. He was Edmure's playmate, and Catelyn saw him as just that, another little brother who was smart but harmless. Now, his gaze didn't feel like a brother's.
"It would be an honor, Lady Sherra." Petyr bowed slightly as he said it, his voice sounding too mature for his small body. He walked before Catelyn, stood in the middle of the dance floor, and held out his thin arm.
Catelyn hesitated slightly, though she didn't show it. A Lady must be able to hide her feelings and expressions. That was another lesson she had applied long ago. With a stiff, polite smile plastered on her face, she stepped forward.
Taking the hand, she felt how small and slightly damp Petyr's hand was. She suppressed the urge to pull her hand away and wipe it on her gown. They took their positions. Their arms each held the other's, then Catelyn moved forward while Petyr moved back, following an imaginary one-two-three rhythm. Slowly at first, as Lady Sherra called out the steps, then faster as they found the rhythm.
They made a slight bowing motion, spun slowly, then stepped to the side. The tempo was good, smooth, and regular. Catelyn had to admit, Petyr was a good dancer. Much better than Edmure, who would have certainly stepped on her feet by now. Petyr moved with the same precision as her, anticipating her movements, his eyes never leaving Catelyn's face.
Catelyn, on the other hand, focused her gaze slightly over Petyr's shoulder, staring at the tapestry on the wall behind him. She didn't want to see that adoring gaze. She concentrated on the steps, on her duty, turning the dance into just another exercise. She imagined dancing with her father, or Uncle Brynden. Anyone but Petyr. She imagined, for a moment, dancing with a tall, golden knight with brilliant green eyes, but that fantasy was too precious to be wasted on Petyr Baelish.
Then it was over. The music in her head stopped, and they ended the dance with a polite bow.
Catelyn immediately released his hand and took a step back.
"Wonderful, children!" praised Lady Sherra. "Lord Baelish, your footwork is very good! Lady Catelyn, your posture is perfect. You two make a harmonious pair."
Petyr smiled at the praise. Catelyn just nodded politely, feeling relieved that the small torment was over.
"I was just following Cat's movements," Petyr laughed lightly, stepping back as Catelyn released his hand. "She is a natural dancer."
Lady Sherra shook her head, her patient smile still playing on her lips. "You underestimate yourself, Lord Baelish. When two people dance, it requires good cooperation. If one makes a small mistake, or hesitates, then the other will be thrown off. Your movements were both in perfect harmony."
"Sherra is right," Lysa agreed enthusiastically. "You are so clever, Petyr! You must practice with me later!"
Catelyn saw Petyr glance at her briefly, a quick look she couldn't read, before looking back at Lysa with a polite smile. "Of course, Lady Lysa. I could do that all day."
"Amazing!" Lysa beamed, clearly happy with the prospect.
And so the lesson continued for a while longer. Sherra had them repeat some of the more complicated steps, correcting Lysa's posture—"Lift your chin, child, you're not looking for coins on the floor!"—and praising Petyr again for his ability to adapt quickly. Catelyn, as usual, performed her part with near-perfect precision, her mind already beginning to drift far from the dusty hall.
When the lesson finally ended, Catelyn quickly grabbed her shawl and bid a polite farewell to Lady Sherra. She ignored Petyr's gaze following her as she walked away, giving only a brief nod to her sister.
She walked alone through the corridors of Riverrun. The castle felt cool and quiet in the late afternoon. She felt a breeze through the open arched windows, carrying the damp scent of the river below. The sound calmed her.
She then arrived at her room. It was her sanctuary. Her room was neat and well-organized, like everything in her life. There was a Tully tapestry hanging on the wall, a well-carved four-poster bed, and a vanity with a silver comb and a few simple perfume bottles. Everything was beautiful and familiar. Her curtains were open, letting the golden afternoon light flood the room.
Catelyn threw herself onto the mattress, her practice gown rustling around her. She stared at the ceiling of her room, at the sturdy wooden beams, noticing small, unimportant details, a small cobweb in the corner, a fine crack in the wood. Her thoughts returned to Petyr.
What should Catelyn say to the boy? How could she politely tell him to back off without hurting his feelings? Catelyn did not love him, not in the romantic way Petyr clearly felt. She valued his friendship when they were children, but now his adoring gaze felt like a burden.
And most importantly, Catelyn was betrothed. Her engagement to Jaime Lannister was an unshakeable fact, a pillar that would support her future. It was wrong for Petyr to keep staring at her like that. It was disrespectful to her, and disrespectful to her betrothal. Someday, Petyr would have his own betrothed, wouldn't he? His father would surely arrange it. It was impossible that he would just keep thinking about Catelyn forever.
Catelyn then turned on her side, staring at her own palm in silence. The hand Petyr had just held. She rubbed it on the bedsheet.
Jaime. She thought of the name. If Jaime came to Riverrun, and he saw the way Petyr looked at her, what would he say? Would he be upset? Would he challenge Petyr, even though Petyr was just a small boy? Or would he laugh at him, treating it as a joke?
It was possible, but the chances were slim. After all, they had not met. Their entire relationship was built on words written on paper. But the letters she received every three weeks... that was a bond, wasn't it? It felt real.
Catelyn fell silent for a moment, spurred by the thought. She got up from the bed, her posture once again straight and purposeful. She walked to her small writing desk and opened the top drawer. There, stored neatly and tied with a blue silk ribbon, was a pile of "papers." Jaime's papers. They were all his letters since their engagement was announced.
She took the pile, feeling the smooth yet strong texture of the paper in her hands, so different from the rough parchment the Maester usually used. She untied the ribbon and took the top letter, the one she had received last week. She opened it slowly and began to read Jaime's clear and confident handwriting.
Catelyn skipped the first paragraph, where Jaime, as usual, asked how she was, how Lysa, Edmure, and even her Uncle Brynden were. He was always polite, always attentive. She reached the middle part, the part where Jaime always told a story.
"Something interesting happened yesterday, at least to me. Tyrion is only four years old, Cat. But he can already read those thick books. He said he was tired of waiting for me to tell him a new story every night, because I rarely see him myself now (Ser Tygett is a demanding master, but I am learning a lot). So, he snuck into Father's library, an impressive feat, considering how high the shelves are, took one thick book about the history of Valyria, and read it himself."
Catelyn smiled. She had heard the rumors about Jaime's younger brother, that he was a dwarf, a disappointment to Lord Tywin. But every time Jaime mentioned him in his letters, and he mentioned him often, it was always in a positive tone, full of genuine affection and pride.
"Then when I entered his room at night," the letter continued, "ready to tell a story about another Knight, he was not ready to listen to my story. Instead, he ordered me to lie down. Of course I obeyed, he is very persuasive."
"He started playing with my hair, he said my hair is very golden, he likes that, and told me the story he had just read. The story of the Valyrian dragons and the Doom that destroyed them. I had read that book many times, of course. But when I looked into his eyes, which held so much excitement and spirit as he told of fire and blood... I didn't have the heart to tell him. So I just lay there, listening to his slightly jumbled version, until he grew tired from too much excitement and fell asleep himself right in the middle of a story about a dragon named Balerion."
The letter continued a little more, with a few jokes, and ended with, "Take care of yourself, Cat. I look forward to your next letter. -Jaime."
Catelyn stared at the letter, the silence in her room feeling peaceful. She held the paper gently and hugged it to her chest.
Jaime and she might have never met. She might just be in love with the image of a man from a song, as she had told Uncle Brynden. But these letters... they were more than just an image. They were a window. A window that showed a young man who was kind to his younger brother, who had a sense of humor, who wrote poetry, and who, despite all his rumored intelligence and talent, was still willing to listen to a bedtime story from a four-year-old.
Jaime might feel distant, but through these words, Catelyn felt she had at least gotten to know a little of him.
And everything she knew so far... was good.
...
You can read chapters 26-46 early at Patreon.com/Daario_W