The Last Reyne

Petyr

Petyr swung the practice blade again and again as the master-at-arms told him. The man almost laughed him off when he told him he wanted to learn how to wield a sword stating, in a half-joking manner, that his arms were too spindly and his gait would never be able to withstand a blow. But Petyr pestered him day and night to accept him as a student and he finally gave way. 

And so here he was. Swinging the wooden thing they call a practice blade. He had insisted on sparring once and that had lead him with bruises all over and an embarrassing loss. 

98. The northern mongrel, Brandon Stark, would soon be here. 

99. He would take Cat away from here. Far away from here where he would never see nor feel her warmth again.

100. Petyr struck the dummy so hard he felt it reverbrate throughout his body. He would be damned if he ever allowed that to happen. Cat belonged in the south. She will never belong to that cold, dark shithole that they called Winterfell. He'd rather die before that happened. 

Petyr walked to the rack with all the practice swords, shivering as an early breeze made him fully aware of how sweaty he was now.

He'd heard about Brandon Stark. He was revered as the Wolf. Hot blooded, ruggedly handsome, was constantly on the hunt for women to bed. And good with the sword. Petyr placed his practice sword bitterly back in place. How could he ever win against that. He sighed dejectedly. 

Even if by some miracle that he would win, there was sure to be some repercussion and heavy opposition to him marrying Catelyn. She was beautiful. She was of age. She was of nobility. 

And he was nothing but a ward to her father. 

.........................

Afternoon tea didn't help lift up his mood. It usually did. 

When Cat was around for it.

But now he was stuck with an absurdly happy Lysa. No doubt savoring the moment where she was the center of attention now that her sister was whisked away to gods know where.

"Don't you think so Petyr?" Lysa blushed. 

Petyr had no idea what she was talking about, he was zoning in and out of her prattle. Absorbed in his own miserable thoughts of however he could stop the betrothal of his beloved. Why couldn't they just marry off Lysa...

"Petyr?"

"Ah, forgive me my lady. The morning sessions with sword practice has greatly taxed me these days." He said amicably, plastering a tired smile on his face. This silly little game of theirs.

Lysa looked dejected, miserably trying to hide her disappointment that he didn't hear whatever she was so enthusiastically telling him about. "Of course, I was being selfish. My apologies."

"Oh no, no Lysa. I shouldn't have been so absent-minded." He placed a hand over hers. "If anything, I'm very grateful to be blessed with such a sight. Your dress brings out the color of your eyes. Any lordling will fall for you." 

"Truly?" Her eyes sparkled, she was eating out of the palm of his hand. Her emotions would be the death of her one day, Petyr thought darkly. 

"Truly." He removed his hand from hers, focusing on the tea just as to avoid that love-sick gaze she constantly gave him whenever she thought he wouldn't listen. He cleared his throat. "Lysa, do you think Cat will be able to join us again?"

A dark mood flashed over Lysa for a moment before she started poking on the lemon cakes on her plate. "She's being groomed for her betrothal. That's what I heard from the serving ladies in the kitchen. She's usually with the maester and father these days. Apparently, this alliance is a must."

"A must you say?" Petyr sighed. "Why do you think so?" 

She squirmed in her seat, flicking her eyes to either side to see if anyone would listen in. "The North hasn't had any associations with South since Bran the Builder and the Storm King... Father has mentioned that it was as precaution should a war ever arise."

"A war?" Petyr raised an eyebrow at her. He'd heard a passing bard sing of a house' genocide. The Rains of Castamere was the song. 

Lysa nodded sullenly. "Father says..." She lowered her voice and leaned towards him. "The Lannisters are rising again."

Petyr's tea had gone cold, and the weirwood  almost gave him a foreboding feeling.  "I see. It's getting chilly my lady. Shall we go inside?" He offered her his arm. That colored Lysa's cheeks, clinging to him tightly. 

But Petyr didn't really hear her idle chatter, nor the way her body stuck too closely to him. He was despairing. 

Because if Cat was to become a bridge for a strong ally, how could he ever compete for that?