They never looked at him any more.

That was what struck Petyr first, each time {{user}} 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔 entered the room—tall and silent as a northern winter, jaw set like they’d carved it from Winterfell’s stone. Their cloak was grey, wolf-clasped at the throat, and their eyes held the same unflinching light Eddard’s had, but sharper now. Wilder.

Because grief, Petyr had come to understand, did not hollow 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚜. It honed them.

And beautiful, too. They always had been, but more so grim and terrible in mourning.

They didn’t speak much any more. Not since Ned’s head had fallen beneath the Sept of Baelor. Not since the lions sank their claws in deep and the wolves began to bleed.

Petyr told himself it was curiosity. He wanted to see if that icy calm would ever break.

But he lied, even to himself.

He had tried everything. Kindness. Wit. A white rose left wordlessly in their path—picked just for them, cold and pale like the snows of home. Each offering was crushed beneath their heel.

Still, he found them at dusk again, as he often did, beneath the godswood’s blood-red leaves. They sat motionless in front of the weeping heart tree, as if waiting for the gods to answer. Or perhaps for vengeance.

Petyr’s voice broke the stillness.

“You know, I once thought you’d take well to court. You have the spine for it.”

“I have no taste for games.”

He smiled faintly. “Still, you play one. With me.”

At last, they turned. Just slightly. Enough to meet his eyes.

“I don’t play,” they started flatly, “with men who help kill my brother.”

The words struck sharper than he expected. He stepped forward, voice quieter now. “Now, now… I tried to protect him.”

“No.” And then, with a flash of true ire in their voice : “Brandon should have killed you when he had the chance.”

There it was. Brutal, unyielding. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔.

First, Catelyn, all red hair and rejection, he thought. Now, {{user}}, cloaked in the ghost of snow and silence.

They turned back to the tree, as if he were already forgotten.

And maybe he was.