Alayne Baelish
Petyr would not stop talking about the eldest Tully daughter. Catelyn. Cat, he called her, even as Alayne wondered if it was her son's place to call Lord Tully's daughter by the family's pet name.
"They have a pet name for me too," Petyr replied when Alayne voiced her concern. "Littlefinger. Edmure gave me that name."
Littlefinger? That did not sound like a name that indicated fondness. It sounded almost … mocking. Of Petyr's small size, perhaps? Her son had grown since she saw him last, but he was still short and small for his age. He would never grow to be as tall as his father had been, Alayne suspected. The men on her side of the family were mostly short and slender in build.
"It's because I'm from The Fingers, see?" Petyr explained to his mother. "And Little because we have so little land.
Contrary to her worries, her son did not act as if he was uncomfortable or embarrassed to be home, staying at their modest house with the constant smell of dung fire that was surely a far cry than the comfort and luxury of Riverrun. Petyr treated his mother and the servants as he always had, with no sign that he now thought they were beneath him. "He's just the same sweet boy as he was," Grisel who had been Petyr's wet nurse told her with amazement.
But Alayne knew better. She saw other changes - subtle changes, yes - but changes that disquieted her nonetheless. Petyr did not sound upset or embarrassed by the name Edmure Tully had given him, true, but she sensed a determination to return the mockery, somehow. One morning as they were watching Kella minding the sheep, he spoke of what a marvel it would be, if a boy born heir to some rocks and sheep pellets were to make a match with the daughter of Lord of Riverrun.
Was he talking about himself? Alayne had thought all his talk about Catelyn Tully had been foolish boyish affection, one that would fade in time as he grew older, as he became more aware about the way of the world.
"Catelyn Tully is not for you, Petyr. She is much too old for you, for one," Alayne told her son, desperate to make him see the impossibility of the match. Age was the least of the problem. Hoster Tully would never agree to it, Alayne knew with certainty. And Lord Tully might even be offended, appalled that the boy he had generously taken on as a ward had the temerity to think above his station.
"Only four years older, Mother. That is nothing. Father was more than ten years older than you were when you married him," Petyr replied.
"It is different for a man. And Lord Tully would want his daughter to marry well," she said firmly. It was time to put an end to this nonsense, for Petyr's own good. She did not want him to spend his life pining over a woman that could never be his. "Someone from a Great House, or at least a lord with significant power and holdings of his own."
Not people like us, Petyr. Not modest lords whose ancestors were sellswords and hedge knights.
"Don't worry, Mother. I will prove myself to be more worthy than a thousand of those lords," Petyr replied, smiling enigmatically.