The morning sun broke over Harrenhal, casting pale light across the grand hallways and the frost-kissed courtyards. Althea awoke with a sense of purpose she had never known in her modern life. Boston had been predictable, Westeros, chaotic. And chaos was a playground for someone who knew the moves before they were made.
Petyr entered her chambers with his usual quiet grace, hands clasped behind his back. His gaze swept over her, sharp and assessing.
"Today, you will meet the minor lords of the court," he announced. "Do not underestimate them. The smallest dagger can pierce the greatest heart, and words, words can be sharper than swords."
Althea nodded, tightening the sleeves of her gown. Her pulse raced with anticipation. She had spent hours observing the castle kitchens, training yards, library but the court was an entirely different beast. Here, every glance, every tone, every pause was a thread in a web of ambition, loyalty, and deceit.
And I know how this ends. I know the betrayals. I know the deaths. I can use it.
The main hall buzzed with activity. Lords and ladies gathered, exchanging measured bows and cautious words. Their eyes flicked to Althea, sizing her up a new Baelish, a girl with sharp intelligence hidden behind a composed mask.
Petyr gestured toward her. "My daughter, Althea Baelish. She has returned from her studies abroad. I trust you will make her feel welcome."
The first to step forward was a young lord from the Riverlands, his dark hair slicked back, a faint smirk on his lips. "A Baelish at court is unusual," he said lightly. "I hope you have learned more than embroidery in your studies, my lady."
Althea's lips curved into a polite smile. "Knowledge is best when combined with action," she replied smoothly. Observe reactions. Test their arrogance.
The smirk faltered. A small victory. First thread pulled.
Behind him, others whispered, shifting their weight, trying to hide curiosity, suspicion, and perhaps fear. Althea noted each nuance with precision. Every lord and lady had weaknesses, and she intended to discover them all.
Petyr's gaze lingered on her. Good. You are learning to weave the shadows around you.
By mid-morning, the court gathered in the grand hall for a council meeting. Althea's heart pounded. This was her first real test to speak, to influence, to survive the subtle warfare of words and strategy.
The meeting began with mundane matters taxes, supplies, patrol routes but it quickly shifted to the tension in the North. A report arrived of Stark activity near the Wolfswood, and murmurs swept through the room.
Althea leaned slightly forward, listening, piecing together the subtext hidden beneath the words. Lords argued, each pushing their own agendas under the guise of concern for the realm.
This is it.
When a particularly vocal lord of the Vale began mocking the reports, implying that the Starks were incompetent, Althea raised her hand. Silence fell. Every eye in the hall turned toward her.
"Perhaps," she said carefully, "we should consider the source of the report and the reliability of the messenger. Assumptions often lead to miscalculations, and miscalculations can cost lives."
The lord's smirk faltered. "And who are you to question the men of the Vale?"
Althea's gaze was steady. "A daughter of House Baelish, and a student of history and observation. I have watched, and I have learned. Ignoring facts for arrogance is dangerous."
Murmurs rippled through the room. Petyr's lips twitched into a faint smile. Subtle power.
The lord flushed, realizing he had been undermined without Althea ever raising her voice. Small victories, she thought. Every word a knife sheathed in silk.
After the council, Althea was summoned to the library, where Petyr awaited. He gestured toward a pile of scrolls and letters.
"Study these," he said. "Each contains the alliances, grudges, and secrets of the minor houses. Knowledge is not enough, but it is the first step."
Althea sat, unrolling a scroll, her eyes scanning names, marriages, debts, and betrayals. She noticed a pattern many minor lords were dissatisfied with the status quo, seeking opportunities to shift allegiances when the winds changed.
Allies are born of necessity, enemies of pride. Always remember that.
Her first thought was to write subtle notes, planting rumors in the margins, to test reactions. A whisper here, a carefully placed story there the beginnings of influence.
That evening, Althea ventured into the gardens, ostensibly to enjoy the fading sunlight. But her mind was on the court, the lords, the alliances. She walked among statues of past rulers, imagining the games they had played, and how easily a well-placed word could change the course of history.
A figure approached familiar blonde hair, guarded blue eyes. Sansa Stark.
"You move like someone who has already learned the rules," Sansa said softly, almost a challenge.
Althea smiled faintly. "And you? Already plotting the downfall of every man who dares glance in your direction?"
Sansa's lips twitched. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I am learning who can be trusted. And who cannot."
Althea tilted her head. "Then perhaps we should observe together. There is much to learn, and the court is full of shadows."
Sansa considered her, then nodded slightly. "Very well. But know this if you betray me, I will not hesitate to strike back."
Althea's heart skipped a beat. A rival and an ally all at once. Perfect. "And I would expect no less."
Night fell over Harrenhal, the castle looming dark and imposing. Althea returned to her chambers, unrolling another set of scrolls. Petyr's words from earlier echoed Action is the terrain; knowledge is the map.
Her mind raced with possibilities, alliances to test, whispers to plant, subtle moves to manipulate the court without overtly revealing her hand. She began drafting letters, composing conversations in her head, plotting the interactions that could elevate her influence without exposing her modern knowledge.
Then came the dream.
A hall of mirrors stretched infinitely, each reflection showing a different version of herself victorious, betrayed, dead, queen. A voice, cold and melodic, whispered.
The game is long, child. And you will learn that power always demands a sacrifice.
Althea awoke with a start, her body trembling, her mind alive with both fear and exhilaration. She pressed her hand to her chest. I will survive. I will play. And I will win.
Her first day as a player in Westeros had ended. But the game had just begun.
The shadows of Harrenhal whispered in response, as if the castle itself recognized a new player one who could change the course of history, one calculated move at a time.
Althea lay back, staring at the ceiling, thinking of tomorrow alliances to test, betrayals to predict, and the first steps toward a throne that no one had yet claimed.
And in the distance, the Old Gods' voice echoed again, faint but unmistakable
The shadows are long, child. Walk carefully and rise.