Riverrun, Late 273 AC
The river whispered its lullaby outside Riverrun's walls, unchanged and unfeeling. Life flowed on, but within the halls, something had ruptured.
Minisa was gone.
And with her, the fragile peace of the Tully household had cracked into quiet fractures.
Catelyn found her brother in the godswood, just before dusk. Edmure was nestled in Tristifer's arms, gurgling at the flutter of Edgar's wings in the branches above.
"You know you don't have to do everything," she said, arms folded, tone half-playful, half-genuine.
Tristifer glanced over. "I know. But someone does."
He stood slowly, adjusting the weight of the infant. "Father barely leaves the solar. Lysa's become clingy. You're running the household. No one's exactly resting."
Catelyn gave a weary smile. "Still, you're only thirteen."
He handed Edmure to her with practiced ease. "So were a lot of kings when they started."
She looked at him sharply. "You're not a king."
"No," he said. "Just the one left standing."
They sat in silence on the stone bench beneath the old weirwood, the hush of the leaves gently pressing in.
"Do you hate him?" Catelyn asked suddenly.
Tristifer blinked. "Father?"
"Yes."
A long pause.
"I don't hate him," he said. "But I don't understand him anymore."
Catelyn studied the set of his jaw. "He's grieving."
"So am I," he snapped, more harshly than intended. Then quieter: "So are you. But we're here. With each other."
"He doesn't know how to grieve out loud, Trist," she said gently. "He never did. He loved her deeply. It's… too much for him."
Tristifer clenched his hands. "It was too much for me, and I still begged him to let me help her. I had herbs. I had methods. But he let the maesters take her."
"I know," she whispered.
That night, Catelyn visited her father's solar. Hoster Tully looked like a shadow of himself — thinner, eyes sunken, fingers stained with ink and wine.
"You shouldn't be awake, sweetling," he said without looking up.
"I couldn't sleep. I wanted to talk to you."
A pause. He looked up.
"I wanted to talk about Tristifer."
Another pause. A heavier one.
"I see," he said. "You've taken his side."
"There aren't sides, Father. Only the family we still have."
Hoster sat back in his chair. "He blames me."
"He's angry. He's hurting. You both are."
"He thinks himself wiser than men thrice his age. Calls on stranger's remedies and says he knows. Knows what, Cat? Because he reads? Because he fosters with Jason and builds ports?"
"He wanted to save her."
"He risked her," Hoster snapped. "Those methods were untested. Dangerous. The maesters—"
"—did nothing," Catelyn interrupted. "You refused him not because you were sure, but because you were afraid."
Hoster stared at her in silence.
"I watched her die," Catelyn whispered. "She was so tired. And Tristifer was trying so hard not to cry. He stayed strong for Lysa. For me. For Edmure. When will you see that he's not trying to undermine you? He's trying to be what she asked him to be."
The silence between them stretched long, broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth.
Finally, Hoster said, "He was her favorite, you know."
"I think she made all of us believe we were," Catelyn smiled sadly.
"She told me once he was born with eyes too old for a baby."
"He still has them."
That same evening, Tristifer sat beside the nursery window, watching the last pink streaks of twilight. Lysa was asleep, thumb in mouth. Edmure cooed in his cradle.
Catelyn entered quietly, taking a seat beside him.
"You talked to him?" he asked.
She nodded.
"He doesn't hate you, you know."
Tristifer gave a bitter smile. "He just blames me for believing I could do more."
"You could have," she said.
He looked at her, surprised.
"I believe you. And maybe, deep down, so does he. That's why he can't forgive you — because it means he failed."
Tristifer rubbed his brow. "Then we're both failures."
"No," Catelyn said. "You're just young. But you're not a child."
He exhaled deeply, shoulders slumping.
"I just… I didn't want her to die," he whispered. "She told me to protect you all. I don't even know what that means."
"It means you're here," she said, reaching out and placing a hand on his. "And that's enough. For now."
Outside, the river flowed on — ever forward, ever steady.
Like Tristifer.
Riverrun, 274 AC
The sky over Riverrun had remained stubbornly grey for days. The Tully banners hung limp in the still air, their crimson and blue dulled by mourning. Silence had found a permanent residence in the halls—not the comfortable kind born of peace, but the strained stillness of hearts not speaking.
Father and son had not shared a word in weeks.
Brynden Tully stood just within the solar's door, watching his brother in stony silence. Hoster Tully sat at the wide oaken desk, quill in hand, but he hadn't written in some time.
"She would've wanted you to talk to him," Brynden said softly.
Hoster didn't look up. "I'm busy."
"You always are."
"I have to be."
Brynden stepped inside, voice lower now. "He tried to save her, Hoster. You saw it. You felt it. He did everything he could."
"With methods he didn't understand. That no one could verify."
Brynden frowned. "You chose the maesters. They failed her too."
Hoster's eyes flicked up sharply. "She made her choice. I made mine."
Brynden stared for a moment, jaw set. "She's dead. And now you're burying your son with her."
Hoster didn't answer.
"He's thirteen. And you've left him to parent your other children because you can't bear to face him. Is that fair?"
Hoster's voice cracked, though he tried to steel it. "I didn't ask him to do that."
"No. But you didn't stop him either."
Silence stretched, brittle.
Brynden took a step back. "One day, he may forgive you. But you're not making it easy."
He left the solar with nothing more to say.
The nursery was lit with soft candlelight. Catelyn sat near the cradle, gently rocking Edmure with her foot as she read to Lysa, who was sprawled across a rug, playing with a carved trout.
"…and then the brave knight crossed the river with his banner held high…"
"I want a banner," Lysa mumbled around her thumb.
"You've a fine imagination," Catelyn said with a soft smile. "We'll make you one."
The door creaked. Tristifer stepped in, his expression softening when he saw the small scene.
Edmure gurgled quietly in his cradle, reaching tiny fists toward the wooden mobile overhead.
"He's looking for you," Catelyn said without glancing up.
"I doubt he remembers me," Tristifer murmured.
"He doesn't need to. He feels you."
Tristifer moved to the cradle and gently picked up the infant. Edmure nestled into his chest, cheek pressed against his tunic, tiny fingers grasping at his collar.
"He's gotten heavier," Tristifer said.
"Five months'll do that to a babe," Catelyn said with a smile. "He misses you."
Lysa padded over and leaned against Tristifer's side. "You smell like books again."
Catelyn chuckled. "He always does."
Tristifer looked down at the two girls—bright-eyed, unburdened, innocent in ways he no longer was—and felt a pang in his chest. They shouldn't need him to anchor them.
But they did. And he wouldn't let go.
Later, as the girls slept and Edmure lay bundled and dreaming, Catelyn found Tristifer alone in the godswood.
"You shouldn't carry it all," she said, stepping beside him.
"I'm the eldest. Who else will?"
"Our father, perhaps."
He said nothing.
She folded her arms. "You're angry."
"Yes."
"At him?"
"Yes."
"At yourself?"
"…Also yes."
Catelyn's voice softened. "I think he knows he failed her. And you. And I think it terrifies him."
"He'd rather lose me than admit it."
"No," she whispered, "he's just afraid he already has."
They stood in silence a long while. Ravens croaked in the trees above them. One of them might've been Edgar.
Catelyn nudged his shoulder. "You don't have to stop grieving. But don't shut us out either. We need you. I need you."
He glanced sideways. "Thank you, Cat."
She smiled. "Now come inside. Lysa's threatening to take your room if you don't start using it again."
Riverrun, 275 AC,
The air had grown colder. The Riverlands were slipping into the hush of pre-winter, when the land braced itself for snow and the hearts of men grew quieter in reflection.
Tristifer stood by the parapets of Riverrun, the wind tugging at his cloak. Below, the Tumblestone murmured, its currents dark with fallen leaves. Behind him, the castle was alive with daily rhythms—cooks shouting, servants hurrying, Catelyn's voice trailing from the nursery—but his thoughts drifted ahead, into the long seasons yet to come.
He had made his choice.
He would stay.
Not because he had nothing left to prove, but because he had everything left to protect.
Tristifer had been cordial to his father since the day after Minisa's funeral, when Catelyn pressed his hand and whispered, "You're not alone." There were no great apologies, no teary reconciliations. Just nods across hallways, measured words in council, and the briefest touches of respect when their eyes met.
And that was enough—for now.
He no longer hoped to heal what was broken. But he could still build something new. Stronger. For his siblings. For the people of the Riverlands.
The grief had not vanished—it had tempered him.
At thirteen, Tristifer had buried one mother and taken on the weight of many children. He had outpaced boys twice his age in study and swordplay. But now, he had turned his attention toward something far grander: the land itself.
He spent his mornings in the old stonework rooms, studying river routes and village layouts with aged maps. In the afternoons, he met with masons, carpenters, and merchants. He pushed for better irrigation ditches, safer mills, and reinforced granaries. Nothing flashy. Just the bones of a better Riverlands.
"Build quietly," he reminded himself. "So no one sees the storm until the dam is ready."
Riverrun, 275 AC, Late Autumn
The air smelled of river mist and woodsmoke, the sky pale with a steel-gray hue as the first hints of frost began to kiss the stones of Riverrun. Tristifer stood at the battlements, overlooking the gatehouse below, Grayhorn lowing softly behind him, Edgar perched like a feathery sentinel on his shoulder.
A retinue approached, modest but polished—four riders bearing the green banner of House Baelish, its grey stone hand upheld. The boy at their center rode small for his age, if a touch too stiff, dark hair slicked back and expression carefully composed.
"A guest?" Tristifer asked aloud, though no one stood beside him to answer. He already knew.
The steward announced their arrival with measured formality.
"Petyr Baelish of the Fingers, come to foster under the hospitality of House Tully."
Tristifer's brow twitched.
So it begins.
In the hall, they met as strangers.
Petyr bowed smartly before Lord Hoster and offered the practiced pleasantries of a boy eager to impress.
"My lord, it is an honor to be counted among your household. My father sends his deepest gratitude and regards."
Lord Hoster received him with a grave nod and the courtesy due a noble house, however minor. Brynden stood near the hearth with crossed arms, ever silent in his watchfulness.
Catelyn regarded the boy with a polite, if uncertain smile. Lysa stared outright, curiosity gleaming in her round eyes. Edgar ruffled his feathers, unsettled.
Tristifer observed Petyr with quiet calculation. He saw not yet the master of whispers, the architect of chaos, but the spark of him—a boy clever beyond his station, his confidence a touch too rehearsed, his gaze flickering between people like he was noting where to place pieces on a board.
"You'll be sleeping in the east wing," Hoster said. "You'll squire with Ser Varly for now. Study with my daughter, if you've the mind for it."
"I would be honored, my lord," Petyr replied, eyes flicking to Catelyn, whose polite smile remained.
He was careful. Controlled. But his eyes watched everything.
Later, after the introductions and formalities, Tristifer passed Petyr in the courtyard. The boy had stopped to examine a carving of the Tully sigil on the central fountain.
"Quite the place," Petyr said without looking at him. "Riverrun. Larger than I imagined."
Tristifer gave a short nod. "It grows on you."
Petyr turned. "And you are Lord Hoster's heir?"
"Tristifer," he said. "Just Tristifer."
"Just Tristifer, riding a beast twice the size of a horse," Petyr said, nodding toward Grayhorn who munched nearby. "Quite the first impression."
Tristifer didn't smile. "He keeps me grounded."
The pause stretched, and Petyr gave a short, tight smile before excusing himself to find his new chambers.
Tristifer watched him go, Edgar's claws shifting slightly on his shoulder.
"Watch him," Tristifer murmured to the raven. "He's not what he seems."
That night, Tristifer sat alone with his maps and scribbled plans for food storage and cold cellars. He had more important work than worrying over a clever boy with a minor name.
And yet…
He had read of Petyr Baelish. Of what he would become.
This Petyr was young, uncertain in his footing. He hadn't yet tasted heartbreak, ambition unchecked, or the twisting paths of court and coin. But if left alone, that path would come.
"I'll shape this land before he has a chance to twist it," Tristifer thought.
He looked again at the sigil he had drawn near the Forks. A new build. A fortified granary. A trade road extension.
He would lay foundations. Strong ones.
Let Petyr scheme if he wished. Tristifer would build.
Later after some months,Riverrun,
It was quiet in Riverrun's library that afternoon, save for the gentle tapping of rain against the stained glass and the occasional scritch of a quill. Tristifer stood half-hidden between the rows of shelves, watching the newest foster boy from the Vale squint over a pile of trade logs.
Petyr Baelish—small, slight, and sharp-eyed—sat with one leg curled beneath him, brows scrunched in intense concentration as he traced his finger down a ledger column.
He wasn't supposed to be here alone, but Tristifer had long since learned how to leave the guard hounds of propriety sleeping at the door.
He stepped into the light with a soft tap of his heel. "You're not reading a storybook," he observed.
Petyr blinked up. "They're boring," he said, voice slightly nasal but steady. "Knights and dragons—none of it's real. These numbers are."
Tristifer tilted his head, amused. "Most boys your age would prefer Ser Galladon's gleaming sword to a merchant's inkpot."
Petyr glanced at the ledger again, then shrugged. "Swords don't tell you where the silver's hiding."
Tristifer crouched beside him and glanced over the page. It was a record of dock tolls collected in Seagard three years past. The boy had been double-marking the tallies, drawing little symbols where the numbers seemed off.
"You noticed something wrong?"
Petyr looked up again, his dark gray eyes flashing with just a bit of pride. "A lot of the ships from Braavos say they unload twenty crates, but the toll's only paid for fifteen."
Tristifer raised his brows. "Well spotted."
Petyr's expression twisted. "I told the steward. He said I should go outside and play."
Tristifer couldn't help the smile tugging at his lips. Of course he did. "Most adults don't like being corrected by children."
"They should try being smarter," Petyr muttered under his breath.
Tristifer sat on the edge of the table, considering the boy. Petyr Baelish—just ten years old, already reading merchant records and sniffing out discrepancies most men would overlook. And already being overlooked himself.
"Do you want to learn more about this?" he asked, gently.
Petyr looked cautious. "Why?"
"Because the Riverlands is full of places where smart boys can do good work—if they learn to be smarter and wiser."
The boy didn't respond at first. Then he said, "Most people don't like when you're clever. They pretend to like it, but then they just call you names."
Tristifer nodded, his expression serious now. "That's because some clever people use their minds like hammers instead of tools."
Petyr's lips quirked into something uncertain—half smile, half sneer. "You think I'm a tool?"
"No," Tristifer replied. "I think you're a knife. Sharp. But knives are only useful when wielded with care."
He could see Petyr chewing on that thought, eyes flickering between Tristifer's face and the ledger. Then:
"What if I want to be more than a knife?"
Tristifer's answer was soft. "Then I'll help you."
That night, Tristifer thought to himself by candlelight. Edgar rustled sleepily on his perch beside him.
"Petyr is young, lonely, eager to prove himself. But he sees more than most. If I can teach him purpose, give him paths... perhaps I can soften the shadow he becomes. He doesn't need to be 'Littlefinger.' He can just be Petyr."
Outside, the godswood stirred with the hush of wind, and the future trembled like a coin mid-flip—waiting to land, either as blade or balance.