Chapter Text
PART ONE, CHAPTER SEVEN (II)
The Crone’s Choice
“What we don’t know is usually what gets us killed.”
The morning of the bonding
Lysa had worked herself into quite a state, Petyr observed with detachment as he ignored the urge to rub at his mark – that would be like waving a red flag in front of an enraged bull. Or cow, as was the case. He inwardly congratulated himself on his self-restraint because the mark still burnt and it was most distracting. Ignoring Lysa’s yelling, the Master of Coin sipped at his wine and unsuccessfully tried to snap himself out of the shock. It was too early in the morning to start drinking, so he took only small sips and rolled them around his tongue to give an appearance of doing something.
Petyr’s mind was usually always busy but he found himself quite lost and unable to focus on the matters at hand. He couldn’t think about the young queen and didn’t want to focus on Lysa – but he knew he must try, he needed to. Petyr briefly wondered where the girl from their childhood had gone. Young Lysa had been a little bashful, always trying to please others, just begging for attention. There was nothing left of that person in the woman in front of him.
She had been waiting for him in the Master of Coin’s office, pacing around like the deranged hysterical she had become. As soon as Petyr had stepped through the door, she had pounced on him. He was used to Lysa’s more tactile shows of affection but as soon as she had started kissing him – and biting, for gods’ sake – he had grabbed her hands and pushed her away with as much gentleness as he had been able to muster.
“We can’t, Lysa, that’s treason now,” he had told her. The laws did not differentiate between a High King and a High Queen. If the Consort was caught cheating, off with their head. Petyr liked his head attached to his shoulders – not to mention that finally having an excuse to stop seeing Lysa was a great relief in itself. Her bashfulness had turned into impudence, she was pushy, unstable, tasteless and tactless, insipid, and downright bored him to tears.
Lysa’s face had turned an ugly purplish shade. That’s when the yelling and sobs had started and he had wandered behind his desk to pour himself that wine.
Yes, a part of him was glad that the charade with Lysa was finally over. Perhaps he could even dare to breathe freely and not be always on his guard not to upset her much. Lady Arryn had just stopped being an important element in his plans and good riddance. What a relief.
Petyr supposed that he too had changed from the boy he had been, he acknowledged with a small inward smile. It wasn’t a loss he would ever mourn because that pathetic child had been doomed to be nothing but a failure – a lord of sheep shit, fated to watch his dreams turn to dirt under powerful men’s boots. No, that boy was better off dead and Lord Baelish was just within arm’s reach of having almost everything he had ever wanted.
A particularly loud wail interrupted his thoughts. What nonsense had Lysa been spouting? Oh, right. Something about loving him and only him, how they belonged together. How tedious. He had adopted a devastated look, of course, and had expressed his regret over the situation several times to try and shut her up but it had been pointless. There was no stopping her once she had started.
Petyr eyed the wine jug thoughtfully. Perhaps he could offer her a goblet of wine, slip the potent sleeping drug he wore hidden in one of his rings into the goblet, and then just wait for it to do its job. How long had this been going on already? Half an hour? There were things he needed to do, things he needed to think through, and with Lysa’s hysterics getting in the way, he simply couldn’t.
He was also rather curious to see the mark. It was now tingling warmly. The urge to make sure that the queen had been unharmed had been surprisingly strong and he wondered how that fact was going to change things for him.
“You promised!” Lysa screeched loudly, interrupting his thoughts. “Oh, Petyr, you promised! My son should have been the consort! But no! She took you instead! That’s a betrayal of the worst kind, betrayal of our blood! How could she? How?!”
“Lysa! Mind your tongue, my dear.” His voice was sharp. Their affair was fairly common knowledge – Lysa hadn’t been subtle after the death of Lord Arryn – but he couldn’t let her talk about the High Queen like that in his own bloody office.
He was Sansa’s husband now. The thought forced his thoughts to a halt for a second and he blinked before his mind started to function again. It was expected of him to defend the queen’s honor and name and he knew damned well that there was always someone listening. The Red Keep was full of little birds, of eagerly watching eyes and listening ears. He himself had tons of spies planted around the castle.
“I assure you that my daughter did not plan for this!” came a short retort from the door and he recognized the voice immediately.
What she was doing here? Petyr briefly closed his eyes before turning with a smile toward the voice. “Cat! Thank the gods you’re here! Your sister is distraught!”
“Oh, Lysa,” she sighed and opened her arms. “You know she wouldn’t do that to her own aunt, don’t you?”
“Sister!” screeched Lysa and flew toward her. Petyr watched with a slight grimace as she fell against Catelyn and started sobbing anew. In moments like these, he was easily transported to much happier times when they had been younger and carefree. Catelyn had always been their rock, whenever Lysa had fought with their father, or when Petyr had been just trounced on the training grounds… The easy friendship between them when they had been children was the only thing he had truly missed from those times, the only loss he had mourned. How uncomplicated it had been, how genuine – long before Cat’s betrothal, Lysa’s unfortunate marriage to Arryn and his own foolish infatuation had taken hold.
Catelyn’s eyes were furious as she looked at him while she tried to console her inconsolable sister. Petyr shrugged helplessly. He disliked the situation that had been thrust upon him even more than the enraged Lady Stark. All of his cautious plotting and planning had been destroyed in one single moment, years and years of careful efforts were suddenly nothing but a waste of time and resources. Everything he had aimed for was gone.
Well, he should have expected it. Queen Sansa was both a Stark and a Tully and those two houses were exceptionally good at ruining him.
There was nothing to it. Petyr rose, turned his back to the Tully sisters so they wouldn’t see his hands, and poured Lysa a goblet. He slipped the sleeping draught into the wine and with a small, sympathetic smile offered it to his ex-lover.
“Here, my dear, it will help you.”
Catelyn coaxed Lysa to turn in her embrace and Petyr pressed the goblet to her lips, holding it as she drank.
“You look tired, maybe you’d like to sit down?” he asked next and moved to wrap his arm around her back. He mouthed to Cat over Lysa’s bowed head, “Let’s get her to the chair.”
Cat nodded and they helped Lysa to sit down. Her sobs had subsided and she was now softly muttering to herself incoherently. Petyr took extra care to make sure she wouldn’t fall off and then he heaved a deep sigh, carefully avoiding Catelyn’s sharp gaze.
“Forgive her, my lady. Lysa has been not feeling well.” His shoulders slumped and he feigned exhaustion, bowing his head away from her. Checking Lysa, he was glad to note that she was finally out of it. A blessed stillness settled over the office for a moment.
“I can see that.” There was a brief moment of silence which he had used to smooth out his expression. Only when Petyr was confident that he could present the face he wanted Cat to see, he turned to look at her.
“Would you accompany me to a stroll in the gardens, my lady?” he offered her his arm. “We could talk, as I assume you wanted to do when you sought me out.”
Petyr wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk to Catelyn. The woman was his weak spot and he realized it quite well. He had a fairly good idea what she had wanted to discuss – he wasn’t an idiot – but he didn’t know what an appropriate response should be. Damn it all, he hadn’t had time to think this through. His new position, how it altered his plans, how to turn it all to his greatest advantage.
It was a monumental mess and he hadn’t been allowed a moment of peace to reconcile himself with the fact that he was suddenly married to the High Queen, who happened to be the favorite eldest daughter of the only woman he had ever loved. Perhaps he should have taken larger sips, he mused as Cat graciously accepted his arm. If this wasn’t the time for a stiff drink, he wasn’t sure what else could warrant an early morning drinking.
“Yes, there’s a lot we need to talk about, Petyr.” Cat’s voice promised him that the following moments would be anything but pleasant. She had been married to that Stark dimwit for far too long, he mused as he led her out into the gardens. She had already turned into a mother wolf, fiercely protective of her cubs. It did not bode well for him at all.
They remained silent as they strolled through the keep but he could feel Catelyn’s agitation radiating from her in waves. She was probably worried – she had already expressed her concern for the queen, left alone in the viper’s nest that was the capital on several occasions.
She was right to be worried, Petyr agreed. This place was no rose garden even though it seemed there was suddenly an abundance of roses. He hoped that the Tyrells would be soon going home. Lady Olenna was too good at the game – with her keen woman’s eyes, she noticed things that easily slipped under the notice of the Great Lion and other noble lords.
And that a new game was about to begin, Petyr did not doubt. The chessboard had been just set, after all, and he had a sinking suspicion that it would turn ugly one way or another. While he would have been looking forward to the utter chaos that was bound to be unleashed just yesterday, Petyr was now apprehensive.
There was the bond to consider. The moment he thought about it, the impulse to rub at his mark returned. He supposed that stripping down in front of Cat so he could take a look was out of the question but he was getting more and more curious to see what he would find there. Thinking about the mark led to Petyr thinking about the queen and he was surprised to discover that he was curious to know when she would wake. They had been all assured of her perfect health but the fact that all seven of them had gathered in her chambers, agitated out of their minds, was telling.
He prided himself on his observational skills and the consorts – himself included – had been worried about Sansa. Some had hidden it better than Ser Jon, but even that stoic Northman had been anxious about the queen’s state.
They were unable not to care about the queen’s state. That realization was making things difficult. Was this how it was going to be from now on? Did Petyr have to now consider the queen’s wellbeing in every move he was going to make in the game? If that was the case, Petyr was most probably totally fucked up.
For a selfish man such as him, considering another’s safety first was a foreign notion. It went against his nature. He wasn’t sure how he would cope with it if that was going to be required of him for the rest of his life. The bond was for life, wasn’t it?
“I need you to promise me,” Catelyn finally spoke as soon as they reached the edge of the gardens. Petyr did not look at her, he was observing their surroundings instead, noting his own spy to his left and one of the Spider’s further down the path.
“Yes?” he prompted when she didn’t continue.
Cat stopped and urged him to look at her. Reluctantly, Petyr did so – his gaze only skimming over her face and never quite meeting her blue eyes. He focused on the bridge of her nose to keep up the appearance, though. Looking into the blue depths had always been a particularly sore spot for him. Lysa’s eyes were lighter, a watered-down version of Catelyn’s.
“You have to swear to keep my daughter safe.”
“I hope you know I would never hurt your daughter,” he said, uneasiness rising in him. “How can you even ask that of me, Cat? You are my dearest friend. I would never hurt your child.”
He doubted he could under these circumstances anyway.
“No, of course, I don’t doubt you, Petyr.” Cat took hold of his hand and gave it a firm squeeze. He stared down at their hands for a moment, wondering when she had last touched him like that... like they were close. They hadn’t been close for years.
“But the others… Oh, gods, my poor sweet child!” she cried out, lips trembling. Catelyn then had the grace not to turn in a blubbering mess and she mastered her emotions quickly. Only anger was left to simmer in her gaze. “Lannister. Bolton. Stannis Baratheon. They are all so very cold. Ser Arthur and Prince Oberyn are Dornish. They are all so much older than her… I’m very scared for my daughter, Petyr, with men like these.”
He was inwardly amused by the fact that Cat had not included him into the list of men her precious daughter needed protecting from. Somehow, he had the dubious honor of sharing the category of harmless with the almost bastard Targaryen. Letting Cat see his amusement was a bad idea, though.
Petyr instead thought about the others. He knew nothing about Lord Bolton expect some rumors that had followed the man even this far south but he knew plenty about Lord Lannister and Lord Stannis. While the men certainly were cold, they had been properly raised to at least respect their wife as a lord should. Arthur Dayne’s loyalty to the queen was unquestionable – the man was incapable of deception and the way he usually stared at the young monarch was rather telling. Prince Oberyn Martell was Dornish, that was true, but Petyr was certain that Cat harbored some serious misconceptions about the Dornish culture in general. Prince Oberyn treated his lovers with the utmost respect and consideration, it was only logical to assume that he would extend the same courtesy to his queen and wife.
“I will, Catelyn, of course, I will.”
She bowed her head in thanks and heaved a long, heavy sigh. He watched her, how silver slowly crept into the fire of her hair. Once upon a time, he had wanted to grow old with this woman but the gods had decided to give him her daughter instead, bind him to the child of his only love.
He had always thought that the gods were nothing but a bunch of sadists with a twisted sense of humor.
Catelyn lingered for a short time after that. It was obvious that she was anxious to be going. Petyr supposed that she needed to find comfort with her oaf of a husband. He wanted to scoff at the thought but strangely, the ire that usually bubbled inside of him when he thought about Lord Stark wasn’t quite there.
Rubbing at the mark absentmindedly, he bowed to Cat as she made her excuses and watched her go, his mind in turmoil. For years he had loved the woman but this was the first time when watching her go did nothing to him.
Petyr was certain that his days were about to become much busier. The queen was a young pretty thing. He had no idea if there was a brain somewhere in between her ears but he doubted that she had the stomach for the… shadier politics of the state. She would need… He grimaced at his own thoughts. Sansa would need a little helping hand. Unfortunately, Petyr was bound to her now and her wellbeing was of paramount importance to him – for obvious reasons. She would need his slyness, wouldn’t she?
There was a reason why the consorts were who they were, wasn’t there? The Great Lion had basically ruled the kingdoms before the queen had even been born. He was powerful and knew how to deal with rebellious houses and unruly subjects with great pomp. Stannis Baratheon was as levelheaded as they could get and just and rightful as the kings of legend had been. That Northman was pragmatic, ruthless, and not easily blinded by his pride or honor. Those three would have been excellent choices for her Small Council and would be a great help of ruling the kingdoms, coming from three different and distinct regions of the realm.
Now, there was the mater of the queen herself left. Arthur Dayne was without any doubt the best man possible to keep her unharmed in every sense of the word. His reputation alone would go a long way to assure Sansa’s physical safety and his unwavering devotion would take care of any emotional uproar the queen might face. Between the two Dornishmen, Sansa was going to be loved, cherished, and most probably fucked into oblivion every night.
That made him snicker and with a grin, the Master of Coin admitted to himself that he would definitely not mind educating the queen in those matters himself. Sex could be an art, and he dealt with all manners of luxuries.
The only consort that did not make too much sense to him was the Targaryen bastard. Binding a Tyrell to Sansa would have kept the Reach as close as the other regions were. However, Ser Jon had been the queen’s betrothed, and Petyr supposed that not even the gods would deprive a young woman of something nice to look at. The boy was pretty and young – which could not be said about the rest of the consorts.
It was quite clear what Petyr’s role was going to be – he’s to deal with the shadowy business of ruling, wasn’t he? He supposed that he would need to keep the Reach in line using his particular brand of cleverness, then. He would also need to make sure that Lysa wouldn’T do anything stupid and there were the Greyjoys to consider. Gods, those fools were certainly going to feel slighted.
He wandered through the gardens for a time and then sat down on a bench in full sunlight. He liked the warm weather of the capital mostly because it was a complete opposite of the cold and gloomy murkiness of the Fingers. It wasn’t long before he was joined by the Spider.
Watching the man approach from the corner of his eyes, he couldn’t help but grin inwardly. This conversation should prove to be interesting.
“How much of my private talk with Lady Stark have you been privy to, my friend?” he asked good-naturedly. Varys was… not quite a friend but he wasn’t an adversary either. As long as their interests did not clash, they were perfectly amiable to each other, and in those times when they were not, they were at least polite and each man could lose with grace. Sometimes, they were even allies.
“Your words wound me, my friend.”
“I’m sure they do.” Petyr looked around and grinned at the septa reading her book not far from them, who happened to work for Lady Olenna.
Varys sat down next to him and then leaned forward, his chin resting in one of his palms. Petyr assumed a similar position and both made sure that their lips couldn’t be read. They remained silent for several minutes. Petyr knew that Varys contemplated a serious decision – he himself was going through the pros and cons of a certain matter himself. Perhaps they could enter an alliance again.
“I was disappointed when Lady Stark did not ask you to promise her not to bed the queen,” said Varys then, his amusement evident in his tone.
“Yes, she looked like she was thinking about it, wasn’t she?” Petyr agreed, chuckling.
“The queen’s mother is a formidable woman,” continued Varys idly, giving him a sidelong glance.
“But the Starks are not well equipped to deal with southern climates, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Quite so. They could do irreparable damage to the realm… to the queen.”
“Best to send them on their way, then.” They shared a long look and Petyr was pleased to note that the Spider was on the same page as him. While the Master of Coin was certain that he was better at the game than the Master of Whispers, having Varys on their side was much better. He would hate to plot his dear friend’s murder.
Petyr placed his hand over his heart, over the mark, and kept it there as he continued his talk with the Spider. They traded tidbits of information, alluded to their joint plan to send the Starks home as soon as possible, and agreed to keep an eye on the Tyrells for the time being. The warmth of the mark was not unpleasant. It was actually something he could get used to.
Only after Varys excused himself, Petyr realized that sometime during the morning he had stopped thinking about his side as separate from the queen’s. It left him shaken. There had always been only his side as long as he could remember, he had always looked after his interest only. Now, there was their side, and it made him feel strangely vulnerable and uncertain. It also settled the turmoil inside him now that he knew where he stood and what he needed to do. Lord Baelish would do his best to keep his new wife in power, which in turn would keep him in power. It was as simple as that.
Better get to work, Petyr decided and made his way to his office. He had Lysa moved into her own chambers to rest and sat behind his desk, contemplating what needed to be done. He was sure that there was some dirt he could find about the Tyrell heir to keep him in line if Lady Olenna decided to be difficult. He’d have his best people working on it, and in the meantime, Petyr was sure that he could keep himself occupied.
Leaning back in his chair, his mind finally started to work on all possible scenarios the bond could lead to. Planning and plotting was his second nature, after all.