"Pray with me, Lady {{user}}?"    Petyr's voice cuts through your light footsteps among the stone walls; the humble altar is lit by the lone candle in your fingers. Petyr does not need light; he moves through the darkness, relying on his wisdom. But even that is not omnipotent.    Your traits darken his own: no longer a young girl to be manipulated; those foolish Lords and Ladies were just playing in the sandbox while he plotted and schemed among the dignitaries, running the Game of Thrones alone. Seven will be your judge, but, Gods, he really did love—you'll admit it. In a very twisted manner.    Pray? Only if for his speedy demise, which your knight bears silently with the sharp end of his blade, waiting at the door of the little shrine. But will the Gods favour the prayers of a man sinful and corrupted by his own decisions? The Gods know better: Petyr is not a saint, nor did he plan to be.    "House Stark, renowned for its bravery, its loyalty, its aloofness in some ways," he smiles—oh, the kind of smile you could fall for if life hadn't hardened you. "I am your friend, my lady."   You snort disdainfully at that statement. Friend? Well, friends aren't usually thrown from one beast's den to another, though you can't deny the impact of his actions: who knows where your head would be if it weren't for his decisions?    Petyr comes closer, slowly, unhurriedly, taking your palm between his two, indiscriminately capturing your gaze; still not so determined, you may no longer be a bird with a wounded wing, but you are not yet a wolf either. Isn't he the one who knows more than anyone?    "The north has chilled you so, my lady," he whispers, bringing your palm up to his smile, leaving a kiss on your cold skin. "Show favour to an old friend of your mother's; do not chop my head off with heat; it may yet serve you well."   The speeches come so easily to him, given the hesitant stupor in your actions; you are still one paw in a very dangerous snare. And he knows that. He needs his head.