aviary | OPEN | prompt three

[ Petyr only just barely meets Hoster Tully's eyes. His head is bowed, the set of his jaw squarer than it has ever been as tries to keep his mouth shut. (The scene hadn't been pretty. The aftermath hasn't yet been, either.) ]

If I could bear the scar in her stead, I would, my lord, [ he says, and that statement, at least, finds itself free of any bitterness. (He means it.) ] But her beauty is no less for the mark. [ There, he suspects, he oversteps his line. But he has always been a bold boy, and he fears nothing in telling the truth. (And besides, he is not the one who ought to have been called before Hoster; Brandon Stark is responsible for the blow. At least Petyr knows to keep that particular fact to himself.) ]

[ Behind her lips, Cat's teeth are set deep into the muscle of her tongue. It is the only way she knows to keep herself silent, her hands viced tightly one around the other in a bid for stillness in her lap. No, Petyr, no, she thinks but it is of no use. Cat knows the boy beside her as well as she knows her own flesh and blood, and if Petyr Baelish has ever been one thing, it has been bold. It is a boldness that has won him no favors, since coming to the Trident so many years ago. No favors, save Catelyn Tully's love (which, he would no doubt argue, was the greatest favor of them all).

When Petyr speaks, the wince that flickers across Cat's face is visible out of the corner of his eye. It will win him more punishment, that much is plain (that it wins him a firmer seat in Cat's affections is less so). ]

Lord father— [ Again, tries to speak, this time going so far as to sit forward in her chair, her posture slanting expectantly in earnest declaration. Again, Hoster Tully raises his hand and when he turns to look at his daughter, his eyes are not kind; she goes silent again. ]

You will not speak of my daughter's beauty. Nor will you look upon it from this day forward without my express permission. You are here as an extension of the riverlords' generosity, young ward. And that generosity can be withdrawn. [ His piece said, he turns on his heel and retreats to behind the vast expanse of his table. He waves his hand through the air somewhat dismissively, cutting some of the tension. ] You will offer apology to the Stark son. [ His eyebrows lift a fraction towards Cat in implication. ] The both of you.

[ What is important to remember is this: Petyr Baelish is just a boy. One who still has fire in his blood and one who still believes that good does win in the end, one who has only just begun to grasp exactly how twisted court is. As Hoster Tully speaks, he flares up, his brow furrowing, not even bothering to hide his reaction. But he holds his tongue, by some miracle. (That generosity can be withdrawn, Hoster says, and Petyr knows, if nothing else, that that much is true. There is nothing that Hoster Tully could do short of blinding him to keep him from looking upon Catelyn Tully while he remains at Riverrun, but to have him sent away is another matter entirely.)

He hovers an instant longer, frame crumpling back into his chair. (Young as he may be, he knows that he cannot win this immediate battle.) ]

Yes, my lord.

[ (And so the silver begins to gild his tongue.) ]

Yes, father, [ Cat's own obeisance comes trippingly after Petyr's and she ducks her head out of genuine admonishment, having been far more humbled at the prospect of Petyr being sent away than he was. She is the fiery-spirited Tully sister, but there is no denying Catelyn's dutifulness, her desire to embody those Tully words to the best of her strong-hearted ability.

(Family, duty, honor. Away from Lord Hoster's gaze, she is quick to be daring and bold just as Petyr is; but in the sight of her father, Cat knows the hows and whens of folding her hands, of dipping her chin, of being a silent but strong daughter.) ]

Good. [ Hoster Tully nods his head, giving a low thoughtful grumble. ] Good. Now you will leave so that I may speak to my daughter. You will not linger and you will not wait to see her again. Instead, you will go to the Water Gate and you will offer your services there for the fortnight. Perhaps your misplaced humility will find itself in the shadow of the great waterwheel.

[ Despite Hoster Tully's commands, as soon as Petyr has bowed and ducked out of the room, he lingers in the shadows down the hall, waiting for Cat to emerge. (Two weeks at the Water Gate. So be it. If it means that he must sneak up to the castle to see her and forgoing sleep, then he will.

That much, at least, is fairly common knowledge: there is nothing that the Baelish boy wouldn't do for the eldest Tully daughter.)

When she does, he waits until he's sure her father hasn't followed her out before whispering her name, a sliver of his frame visible from where she stands. ]

Cat.

[ Her father lecturers her and, beyond the usual postures of contrition, Cat feels deeply and genuinely sorry for having incurred such ire. Such carelessness showed poorly on the house, on her fiance, herself and — perhaps most importantly — on Petyr. Although she is never truly unaware of the rungs of birth and legacy that separate her from the Baelish boy, there are times when she has difficulty bringing them square into focus. And that Brandon Stark, her betrothed, had little love for her (save the agreement that bound them together) did very little to inspire Cat to try.

The halls are empty when Cat finally leaves her father's study with instructions to appeal to her Septa. Skirt gathered with both hands, her footfall is accompanied by the rustle of fabric — a sound with pointedly stops when Cat hears her name and hurries forward to steal into Petyr's swatch of shadow. ]

You're welcoming expulsion, Petyr, [ Cat whispers hurriedly, glancing this way and that. ] Who then will keep me company when your willfulness has made sure to send you away again?

OPEN | prompt three | PAIN

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