It was a quiet afternoon at Riverrun, the sun filtering softly through the high windows of the castle's great hall. Lysa sat near the hearth, her hands nervously folding and unfolding the edges of her embroidered gown, casting furtive glances at Petyr Baelish. He was standing by the table, speaking to her father, Lord Hoster, but Lysa’s thoughts were elsewhere, swirling with dreams of him, of his dark, laughing eyes and the way he always seemed to make her feel like she was the only one in the room.

She tucked a lock of auburn hair behind her ear and bit her lip. Petyr's voice rose in laughter, and for a moment, her breath caught. She leaned forward, trying to catch his attention, hoping he'd look at her... really look at her, just once. "Petyr...?"