The wind off the White Knife was sharp enough to bite. It cut through cloak and wool alike, carrying the brine of the sea and the chill of the North. Catelyn Stark drew her cloak tighter as she and Ser Rodrik rode down the paved road toward White Harbor's gates.
"Maybe Robb was right, my lady," Ser Rodrik said as they passed beneath the portcullis, his whiskers trembling with the cold. "We should have sought young Arthur's help from the start."
Catelyn's fingers tightened on her reins. "The fewer who know, the better," she said quietly.
Rodrik only nodded, but she could feel his doubt like a shadow between them.
The truth was harsher. She had not wanted Arthur Manderly's help, not his gold, his ships, nor his smiling courtesy. Lysa's words still echoed in her mind like a warning: the Lannisters killed my lord husband. Whoever had sent the catspaw to murder Bran served that same cause. And if Lysa spoke true that her enemies reached even into the North, then trust was a luxury Catelyn could ill afford.
Arthur always troubled her. The boy was too clever by half, with his talk of trade and fleets. His curious prayers to the old gods, though he also keeps to the Seven. That was a strange, willful thing, unbecoming of a boy of his station.
He called Robb his brother. And Jon Snow as well.
Her jaw tightened at the thought. Robb was heir to Winterfell, trueborn, rightful, destined. Yet Arthur spoke of Jon as though they were of one cloth, and that she could not forgive. She had seen the way the Manderlys tried to overreach themselves, how Lord Wyman had smiled and spoken of betrothals for her daughters.
She remembered the day Ned told her of it, how his eyes had been warm with the thought. A good match, Cat. Manderly arerich and loyal. Arthur will make a fine lord one day.
But Sansa was meant for the courts of the south, for silks and songs, not ships and salt. No daughter of hers would live among these stone wharves and fishmongers.
Ser Rodrik cleared his throat, drawing her back. "I'll see what ships there are for hire, my lady," he said, dismounting stiffly. "There's bound to be a captain bound for King's Landing soon enough."
From the quay, Catelyn could see the fleet, twenty ships at least, sleek and strong, each bearing the silver-green of Manderly. Warships, by the shape of them, long-prowed and sharp, their hulls lined with ports for scorpions and catapults. White Harbor's fleet, she thought, and a chill passed through her that had little to do with the wind.
It was not so long ago that White Harbor had owned but a handful of fishing cogs and merchant cogs, poor cousins to the fleets of Oldtown and Lannisport. Now, under this boy, their harbor teemed with ships enough to make them envious.
Their city, too, had grown, broad white walls rising higher, towers of pale stone gleaming above new-built docks and markets. Where once had been a sleepy port, now stretched a thriving city of trade and coin and song.
Catelyn Stark had lived long enough to know that such wealth seldom came without cost.
She feared overmighty bannermen. Always had.
Then a voice called out from behind her, smooth, confident, and too familiar.
"Lady Stark. Ser Rodrik. It is an honor to have your presence in our humble city."
Catelyn turned. Arthur Manderly approached with half a dozen guards in his sea-green and silver, their cloaks trimmed with white fur. He seemed to have grown since she last saw him, taller now, shoulders broader, though his face was still young, his smile still warm. His eyes, the color of the shimmering sea, studied her with a calm she found unsettling.
"Arthur," she said, forcing warmth into her tone. "I had not thought to see you here."
"I might say the same, my lady," he replied, bowing with courtly grace. "Yet White Harbor is my home. It would be strange indeed if I were found anywhere else."
Catelyn inclined her head. "Forgive our intrusion. I had not meant to trouble you with it."
"You could never trouble me, my lady," Arthur said easily. "Still, you should have sent word. White Harbor would have been honored to host you and Ser Rodrik properly."
He paused, his gaze dipping briefly to her gloved hands. "My healers would have tended to your hands as well."
"My hand?"
His eyes flicked up, keen and observant. "The bandages beneath your gloves. I can see the linen."
She glanced down, heart quickening. So he had noticed even that.
"A small hurt," she said swiftly. "Nothing worth the telling."
Arthur's lips curved, not quite a smile. "If you say so, my lady."
He looked at her for a moment, and said, "How fares young Bran? I heard whispers only."
Catelyn's throat tightened. "He still sleeps," she said. "But he lives, and I will not forsake hope."
"May the gods watch over him," Arthur said softly. "And what brings you so far south, my lady?"
"I go to King's Landing," she said, her voice low, measured. "My daughters are there, and I would see them safe."
Arthur nodded slowly. "A mother's heart is a noble thing. Yet the sea is cruel this season. You'll not fare well in some half-rotted trader's galley."
She frowned. "We shall manage. I would not trouble—"
He cut her off with a raised hand, all charm once more. "You shall not sail in a merchant's skiff while House Manderly draws breath. You'll have passage aboard The Mermaid's Tears. She's the swiftest ship in my fleet and stout enough to face any storm the gods can conjure."
Ser Rodrik, who had returned just in time to hear, bristled. "That's a fine offer, lad, but—"
"I insist," Arthur said smoothly. "The sea is dangerous, and I would not forgive myself should harm come to Lady Stark on my shores."
Catelyn studied him. There was confidence in the boy, too much, perhaps, and something else beneath his politeness, something unreadable. But she could not refuse him without insult.
"You are most generous, Arthur," she said at last. "We shall accept your hospitality."
Arthur's smile widened just a touch. "Then it's settled." He extended a gloved hand toward the harbor, where the tall masts of his ships gleamed white in the morning mist. "Come, my lady. Adventure awaits."
The Mermaid's Tears was unlike any ship Catelyn Stark had ever set foot upon.
She had expected a carrack, heavy and slow, built for trade and tribute. What awaited her at the harbor was a floating fortress, vast and proud, its hull pale as bone, its sails silver-white stitched with the sigil of House Manderly, the merman trident in hand. When the wind caught them, they rippled like the surface of the sea beneath moonlight.
"It's a ship fit for a king," Ser Rodrik muttered beside her as they boarded.
Arthur Manderly only smiled. "A ship fit for the North," he said.
And indeed, it seemed so. Her decks gleamed with polished oak, her masts rose tall as towers, and her crew moved with quiet discipline, lean men with the look of seasoned sailors.
Arthur had given her the Merman's cabin, the finest quarters aboard, paneled with dark wood and hung with silken curtains. He greeted her each morning with polite deference. At table he had been courteous and charming, regaling her with the tales of his adventures in the Narrow Sea. Never once did he ask after her purpose, though Cateln doubted he wasn't trying to find out somehow. Arthur always had been too curious. Bran picked up that habit of his and now lay in the bed as a cripple, she thought bitterly.
The voyage south proved rougher than she had hoped. The first night, clouds rolled over the Bite, thick and black, and by morning the wind had risen to a howl. Waves crashed against the hull with a sound like thunder. Ser Rodrik had taken to his bunk, pale and sweating, clutching a bucket to his chest. So too did most of the knights who sailed with them, even young Donnel Locke, Arthur's sworn shield, had turned green as grass.
But Arthur…
Arthur stood upon the deck as if the storm had been made for him. Cloak whipping behind him, hair darkened by the spray, he laughed when the waves broke high enough to drench them both.
Catelyn could not help but marvel.
Even through her misgivings, she found herself wondering how a boy of fifteen had wrought so much from so little. Some said he had dubious dealings, that accursed coin found its way into his coffers. Dangerous, that.
When the sun rose on the seventh day, the cliffs of the Vale were far behind, and the air grew soft and salt-sweet. Gulls wheeled overhead, and before the ninth morning, they saw the red roofs of King's Landing glimmering through the haze. Arthur stood beside her at the prow, watching the city draw near.
Catelyn's eyes traced the city walls, "My father used to say never trust anyone from the capital," she said.
Arthur's mouth curved, faint and fleeting. "That'll serve you well enough in this city."
When the ship came to dock, he offered her his hand to disembark. His fingers were warm and steady despite the chill air. "King's Landing," he said as they disembarked. "A fair city from afar. Less so up close."
The docks teemed with men and carts, and she felt their eyes upon her, some curious, some lewd, some merely dull. She pulled her hood low over her face.
Arthur gestured to a groom leading a pair of fine northern horses, grey and sturdy. "For you, my lady. They'll serve you better than the nags from the hire-stables."
"You're too kind," Catelyn said, accepting with a nod.
He also offered her servants to bear her chests and goods. Catelyn declined, though courteously. "You have done more than enough, Arthur. I'll not take a man from your household for my own errands." Instead, she hired three porters from the docks, small.
Before leaving, Arthur bowed low. "May the Seven watch over you, Lady Stark. Should you need aid, my banner flies in the hills of Visenya. Send word and it shall be done."
Catelyn inclined her head. "Your courtesy honors your house."
When he was gone, she mounted her horse and turned to Ser Rodrik. "You spoke to his men?"
He nodded, stroking his whiskers. "Aye. One of his guards, a fellow from Ramsgate, told me of a few taverns where a northern accent draws no questions. There's an inn by the Fishmonger's Square, quiet, clean enough."
They had ridden scarcely a hundred paces from the docks when she felt it. The prickle at the back of her neck, that sense of unseen eyes. The streets twisted around them, narrow and wet, full of shadow and noise. Twice she thought she caught the flash of a cloak turning a corner just behind.
"Rodrik," she murmured. He glanced back, hand going to the hilt of his dagger.
Before he could draw it, a shout rang out. "Hold there!"
Five riders emerged from the alley ahead, cloaked in the black and gold of the City Watch. Their leader, a man with a trimmed beard and eyes like cold iron, raised a hand.
"No need for that, m'lady," he said, his gaze lingered on Ser Rodrik's hand. "We're to escort you to the castle."
Rodrik's brow furrowed. "On whose command?"
The man reached into his belt and drew out a narrow ribbon of grey wax, stamped with the seal of a mockingbird. Catelyn felt her breath catch. "Petyr."
The watchmen bowed low. "We've orders to see you safe, m'lady."
There was nothing for it. Catelyn exchanged a look with Rodrik, then urged her horse forward. The gold cloaks led the way through the crooked streets, their torches hissing in the damp air.
When they reached the Red Keep, the great gates were barred and the portcullis drawn down. The watchmen dismounted and led their horses to the stables. "This way, m'lady," their captain said, guiding her to a narrow postern gate. They climbed a steep, winding stair, the air growing warmer with each step.
At last, they came to a door of dark oak. The guardsman rapped once, then ushered her inside.
The chamber was small but richly appointed, tapestries on the walls, a single oil lamp burning low beside a heavy table strewn with parchment. A man sat there, quill in hand, the lamplight glinting off the silver mockingbird that fastened his cloak. When he looked up, she knew him at once. "Cat," he said softly.
Her name on his lips made her flinch. "Why have I been brought here in this fashion?"
Petyr Baelish rose with a smooth, unhurried grace. "Leave us," he told the guards. They bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind them.
He turned back to her, smiling that old, familiar smile, the one that had always seemed half-sincere, half a jest meant only for himself. "You were not mistreated, I trust? I gave firm instructions." His eyes dropped to her hands. "Your hands…"
Catelyn ignored the question. "I am not accustomed to being summoned like a serving wench," she said, her voice cold. "As a boy, you possessed at least a semblance of courtesy."
Petyr pressed a hand to his heart. "I've angered you, my lady. That was never my intent."
He looked contrite, just as he had as a child after one of his mischiefs, when she had scolded him by the hearth at Riverrun and he had looked up with that same sad smile. He had been small then, and he was small still. slight of build, barely to her height, with sharp features and clever, mocking eyes. Silver threaded through his dark hair now, and a pointed beard trimmed close to his chin. Even as a child, he had always loved his silver.
"How did you know I was in the city?" she asked him.
"Lord Varys knows all," Petyr said lightly. "He will be joining us shortly, but I wished to see you first. It has been… what, ten years? More?"
Catelyn's mouth tightened. "So it was the King's Spider who found me."
Petyr winced theatrically. "You mustn't call him that. He's very sensitive — comes of being a eunuch, I suppose. Nothing happens in this city without Varys knowing. Ofttimes, he knows before it happens. He has his little birds everywhere."
He smiled thinly. "One of them sang of your arrival. Thankfully, he came to me before he went chirping to anyone else."
There came a soft, deliberate knock upon the door.
"Enter," Littlefinger called, his voice smooth as oiled silk.
The man who slipped inside moved with the practiced grace of one who never needed to hurry. He was plump, perfumed, and powdered, with a face as soft and bare as an egg. His robe was of purple silk that whispered faintly when he walked, and over it a vest of golden thread shimmered like sunlight on a still pond.
"Lady Stark," he said, spreading his hands in welcome, "to see you is such a joy."
He took her hand in both of his. His skin was moist and faintly cool, his breath thick with the cloying scent of lilacs.
"Oh, your poor hands," he cooed, turning her palms upward. "Our good Maester Pycelle makes a marvelous salve. Shall I send for a jar?"
Catelyn drew her hand back. "I thank you, my lord, but Maester Luwin has already seen to my hurts."
Varys's smile never faltered, "Ah, Maester Luwin, a learned man, I hear. You are fortunate indeed. I was grievous sad to hear about your son. And him so young. The gods are cruel."
"On that we agree, Lord Varys," she said evenly.
The title sat strangely on her tongue. He was lord of nothing, save whispers and secrets. Yet here he stood, robed in silk and gold, courted by kings and feared by lords who commanded thousands.
He spread his soft hands as if in prayer. "On more than that, I hope, sweet lady. I hold your husband in great esteem, our noble Hand, tireless in his duty. And surely we both love King Robert."
"Yes," Catelyn said because she must. "For a certainty."
"Never has a king been so beloved as our Robert," Littlefinger quipped. His mouth curled in a wry smile. "At least in Lord Varys's hearing."
She turned to Varys, her patience thinning. "Lord Baelish tells me I have you to thank for bringing me here."
Varys tittered like a child caught in mischief. "Oh, yes. I suppose I am guilty. I do hope you forgive me, kind lady. I wonder if we might trouble you… to show us the dagger?"
For a heartbeat, Catelyn only stared. The dagger. Her mouth was dry. "How could you possibly know that?"
Varys smiled with patient amusement. "The whisperings of little birds," he said. "They sing to me in every corner of the realm. It is the nature of my service to know such things, sweet lady."
"Then your birds are too bold," she said sharply. "Yes, I have it. And if your whispers tell true, perhaps they can name the man who owns it."
She drew the knife from beneath her cloak and cast it down upon the table between them. Its blade gleamed pale in the lamplight, rippling with the smoky sheen of Valyrian steel. Varys lifted it delicately, as if it were some sacred relic. His soft thumb brushed the edge, then he gasped, dropped it with a little cry. A bead of blood welled up and rolled down his hand.
"Careful," Catelyn said, her voice flat. "It's sharp."
Varys sucked at his thumb and looked up at her, eyes wide with injured reproach.
Littlefinger chuckled lightly. "Nothing holds an edge like Valyrian steel."
He reached for the knife, testing its weight with casual familiarity. He flipped it once, caught it by the hilt, and smiled. "Such sweet balance. You want to find the owner, my lady? If that is the reason for your visit then you should have come to me."
"Had I come to you openly, what would you have told me?" she asked.
"I would have told you," said Petyr, turning the dagger in his hand, "that there was only one such blade at King's Landing."
He held it between thumb and forefinger, drew it back over his shoulder, and sent it spinning across the room. The blade struck the heavy oak door and buried itself deep, quivering like a living thing.
"It's mine," he said simply.
"Yours?" The word escaped her before she could stop it. "That makes no sense. You were not at Winterfell."
Petyr's grin turned boyish, almost rueful. "No, but I was at the tourney on Prince Joffrey's name day. I backed Ser Jaime in the joust, along with half the court. When Arthur Manderly unhorsed him, many of us were made a trifle poorer. Ser Jaime lost a hundred golden dragons, the queen lost an emerald pendant, and I…" He spread his hands. "I lost my knife."
He strode across the chamber and wrenched it free of the oak with a sharp twist. "Her Grace got her emerald back, but the winner kept the rest."
Catelyn's voice was scarcely more than a whisper. "Who?"
Petyr turned the blade, its rippled edge catching the light.
"The Imp," he said, smiling as Lord Varys watched her face. "Tyrion Lannister."
They left by torchlight through narrow alleys, faces cloaked and unremarked. The streets of King's Landing stank of smoke, rot, and spilled ale. In the distance, the Red Keep loomed above the city like a slumbering beast. When at last they reached Petyr's house of silk and sin, Catelyn could not hide her discomfort. Painted lanterns glowed red and gold, and laughter drifted through the open windows, low and throaty.
Ser Rodrik bristled, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "And you would take my lady to a brothel?"
Littlefinger's laughter was soft as silk. "Aye, Ser Rodrik, a brothel. Not for pleasure, but for safety. My walls are thicker than the sept's, and my girls' tongues are better kept than most lords' secrets. No one looks twice at who enters my door."
Catelyn's mouth tightened, her cheeks burning with indignation. "It is unseemly, Petyr."
"It is unassailable," he countered gently. "I give you my word, no harm shall come to you beneath my roof. Even Varys's little birds would not dare to sing there."
Inside, the air was heavy with perfume. A dozen women moved like shadows through the candlelight, bare arms gleaming. One curtsied when she saw them, her eyes curious but kind. "My lady, your room is ready."
Catelyn followed wordlessly. The chamber they brought her to was finer than she had expected, clean linens, soft pillows, even a little brazier burning to chase away the chill. Yet the scents of rose oil and musk clung to the air, and she could not forget where she was.
Petyr saw to every detail, his tone careful and gentle. "You'll be safe here, Cat. I've given orders that none disturb you. My girls will see to what you need, food, clothes, a bath, perhaps even rest."
That night, after Ser Rodrik had retired, Petyr came to her chamber. He had shed his cloak and swordbelt, looking almost the boy she had known long ago, the boy who had loved her once, and bled for it.
She told him everything then, of her life in winterfell, of Lysa's letter, Bran's fall, and the dagger meant for her son's heart. She spoke of the voyage from White Harbor, of Arthur Manderly's sudden appearance and unlooked-for generosity, of his ship cutting through the storm as though guided by some unseen hand.
Petyr listened quietly, fingers steepled, eyes glimmering in the lamplight.
When she had finished, he asked softly, "And what did you tell him, this young lord of White Harbor?"
Catelyn hesitated. "That I wished to see my daughters, that I would await Ned at the Red Keep. It was harmless talk."
"Harmless?" His smile thinned. "A wrong move, my lady. The boy has spies at the Keep. He'll know you're not there before the dawn."
She frowned. "Spies? Why would he need spies?"
Petyr chuckled, a quiet, mirthless sound. "Why does a lion have teeth? It's a foolish question, Cat. The better one is what does he want?"
"And what is that?" she asked, unease stirring in her breast.
"Everything," he said simply. "Power, influence, respect. The boy's grown cunning beyond his years. And unlike most, he has the means to reach for what he desires."
"He's only a boy," she said, almost pleadingly.
Petyr smiled faintly. "A boy who commands fleets, outwits lords, and breaks knights twice his age in the lists. A boy who calls your husband's bastard his brother and courts the favor of Lannisters when it suits him. Do you truly think such a boy will remain content with silver and salt?"
"What should we do?" she asked.
Petyr's smile softened. "For now? Nothing. We wait for your husband. He must be told, and he will decide. You've done enough, Cat." He reached to touch her hand, gently, reverently. "You need rest."
She looked at him long, her heart easing a little. The years had changed him, yes, but some part of the boy she had known still glimmered beneath the mask. "Thank you, Petyr. You are a true friend. More than that, a brother."
For a heartbeat, something flickered behind his eyes, a shadow, a hunger, quickly buried beneath a smile.
"A brother?" he said softly. "Aye, if that is what you wish me to be, beloved Cat."