The morning air was cold and damp, a fog clinging to the stone walls of Harrenhal as if the castle itself were reluctant to reveal its secrets. Althea drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders, the fabric smooth and heavy, smelling faintly of lavender and dust. The courtyard was alive with servants, soldiers, and courtiers moving in a careful, orchestrated rhythm a dance of hierarchy she was only beginning to understand.
Petyr's words from the previous night echoed in her mind, Every alliance, every dagger, every whispered secret belongs to you now.
But nothing in her Boston life had prepared her for this. No television show, no book, no fan forum discussion could convey the crushing weight of reality when your life depended on knowing who to trust and who to betray.
"Come along, my lady," Petyr said from behind her, his boots striking the flagstones in a deliberate cadence. "First, the introductions. The court will be curious about your presence though curiosity here is a dangerous thing."
Althea nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. Curiosity is often a blade. A smile is a shield.
She followed him into the main hall, passing banners of House Baelish a black mockingbird on a silver field. Her eyes traced the intricate tapestries depicting battles and long-forgotten victories. Each thread seemed to whisper histories she had only read about, histories that were now hers to influence.
At the far end of the hall, a young girl sat in a corner, embroidery in hand, eyes wide and wary. Blonde hair framed her face in soft waves, and her posture, though polite, hinted at nerves. Althea knew her immediately. Sansa Stark.
Petyr halted beside her. "My daughter, Althea," he announced smoothly. "And Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark of Winterfell. Perhaps a friendship or a rivalry might bloom between you."
Sansa lifted her gaze slowly, assessing Althea as if sizing up a future threat. Her blue eyes were cautious but not unkind. "It is an honor to meet you, my lady," she said carefully.
Althea forced a smile, her mind calculating. Observe first, act second. Words are weapons.
"The honor is mine," Althea replied, voice steady, rehearsed. She could feel Petyr's eyes on her, approving, encouraging. Good. He's testing my instinct to charm.
Sansa tilted her head slightly. "You are different from other ladies of the court. I can sense it."
Althea's pulse quickened. Different can be dangerous. Different can be power.
"I hope for the better," Althea said smoothly. "Perhaps we can learn from each other."
Petyr intervened with a polite bow. "Enough of the introductions for now. There will be time for courtly lessons later. For now, my daughter must learn to navigate the castle. Observe the servants, the guards, the lords every glance, every hesitation is a story."
Althea's stomach churned with anticipation. She had watched and read about Westeros for years, but the reality the living, breathing people, each with their own agendas was infinitely more complex. Every eye that lingered, every whisper that skated across the hallways, was a thread in a web she would need to untangle.
"Where do we begin?" she asked, leaning slightly closer to Petyr, lowering her voice.
"The kitchens," he replied smoothly. "And the training yard. You must know your home before you manipulate it. Familiarity is camouflage."
The kitchens were a cacophony of heat, clattering pots, and shouted orders. Althea observed silently, noting which servants were confident and which trembled under scrutiny. Loyalty often follows opportunity, she reminded herself. Those who are strong or clever will bend toward advantage.
One cook, a plump woman with sharp eyes, caught her staring. "You are new," she said, voice blunt but not unkind. "Are you one of the ladies? Or a guest?"
"Both, perhaps," Althea replied lightly. "I hope to learn quickly."
The woman's lips pressed into a thin line. "Then learn who wields the knives and who holds the key to the pantries. Both are power, my lady."
Althea's mind raced. Even in the kitchens, alliances exist. Every detail matters. She made a mental note to remember the woman's name, and which soldiers she whispered to when the hallways were clear.
Next, Petyr led her to the training yard. The clang of steel and the shouts of soldiers filled the open air. Young lords sparred under the supervision of older warriors. Althea's eyes immediately found the boys who would eventually command armies, noting their posture, confidence, and subtle reactions to each other.
"Observe," Petyr said. "Every duel, every hesitation, is a story. Strength is not always physical. Pride, cunning, fear these are weapons."
Althea watched as a young lord, tall with dark hair, executed a perfect strike, only to falter when the opponent feinted. She smiled faintly. Fear. Even the strongest cannot hide it. And when you know it you can bend it.
Suddenly, a commotion at the far end of the yard drew her attention. A page had tripped, sending a bucket of water flying. One of the young lords sneered, ready to mock. But the page's eyes met Althea's, desperate for intervention.
Without thinking, she stepped forward. "Be careful, my lord," she called lightly, her voice carrying across the yard. The young lord froze, embarrassed. The page scrambled upright, grateful, and Althea felt a strange thrill. Small influence, immediate effect. This is what power feels like.
Petyr's eyes glimmered with pride. "See? Influence need not be grand to be effective. A word here, a glance there you are learning faster than expected."
Althea swallowed, aware of the dangerous exhilaration building in her chest. She could already see the beginning of her game. Small moves, big consequences. Observe, act, survive.
Later, in the afternoon, Althea retreated to a quiet corner of the library one of her favorite places even in Boston. Here, she could think, plan, and breathe without interference. The scent of old parchment, ink, and dust was comforting, grounding.
She opened a tome detailing the histories of Westeros, scanning the pages with familiarity. Kings and queens, alliances, betrayals all of it now felt real, and urgent. She paused on the chapter about the War of the Five Kings, remembering every plot twist, every death she had read or watched.
Her pulse quickened. I can't just survive. I can't just watch. I must act.
She jotted notes in the margins:
Who survives which battles
Potential allies and enemies
Key moments to manipulate outcomes
And then the dreams came again.
A dark stag, bleeding into a river of fire. A voice whispering,Trust no one. Your heart will betray you.
Althea shivered. The Old Gods were at work. Every choice she made now could alter the course of history and not always in ways she wanted.
I must be careful. But I will not be passive. I will win.
The day drew to a close, and Althea returned to her chambers, exhausted yet exhilarated. Petyr entered shortly after, observing her silently for a moment.
"You have potential," he said finally. "But do not mistake knowledge for power. Knowledge is the map; action is the terrain. You must walk it wisely, my daughter."
Althea nodded, her mind already racing ahead to the evening. Every whisper, every glance, every shadow could be used to her advantage. She would survive. She would outwit. And one day she would claim what the stories only hinted at her own throne, built from shadows and cunning.
As night fell over Harrenhal, the castle's corridors seemed to pulse with secrets. Althea lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of betrayals to come, alliances to forge, and a war that would sweep Westeros like wildfire.
And in the corner of her mind, the Old Gods whispered again
The game has begun. Let us see if you survive it
Althea smiled faintly. "I will not just survive," she whispered into the dark. "I will win."