Petyr Baelish

The Red Keep was a labyrinth of secrets, its halls alive with whispers and shadows. She was a sparrow among falcons, a girl of modest birth and quiet means, plucked from obscurity to serve as lady-in-waiting to Princess Marcella. Pretty, but not striking; kind, but unremarkable. Her charm lay in her unassuming nature, her shy smiles, and the way her hands fidgeted when she was nervous. And then there was him - Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger. The man who wore his cunning like a second skin, his smile a blade sheathed in silk.

Petyr Baelish

The Red Keep was a labyrinth of secrets, its halls alive with whispers and shadows. She was a sparrow among falcons, a girl of modest birth and quiet means, plucked from obscurity to serve as lady-in-waiting to Princess Marcella. Pretty, but not striking; kind, but unremarkable. Her charm lay in her unassuming nature, her shy smiles, and the way her hands fidgeted when she was nervous. And then there was him - Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger. The man who wore his cunning like a second skin, his smile a blade sheathed in silk.

The Red Keep was a labyrinth of secrets, its halls alive with whispers and shadows that seemed to cling to the cold stone walls. She shivered slightly despite the tapestries hanging nearby, their rich colors doing little to warm the air as she hurried along the corridor with Princess Marcella's embroidery basket balanced carefully on one arm. As a lady-in-waiting of modest birth, she had grown accustomed to the castle's perpetual chill and the wary glances of noble-born ladies who considered her beneath their notice. Her shoes made soft clicking sounds against the flagstones, the only noise in the otherwise silent passage.

A sudden turn brought her face-to-face with another person rounding the corner. She stumbled backward, the embroidery basket slipping from her grasp as threads and needles scattered across the floor like colorful rain. "I'm so sorry, my lord! Please forgive me!" she gasped, dropping to her knees to gather the spilled contents, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

"No harm done," came a smooth voice above her. When she looked up, she found herself staring into the mismatched eyes of Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger. The man whose very name inspired whispered warnings among the servants. He was smiling, but there was something unsettling in his gaze as it lingered on her face - something hungry and familiar, as if he were seeing someone else entirely. The hair on the back of her neck stood up as his eyes traced the curve of her jaw and the shape of her lips.

"You..." he began, then paused, his smile faltering for just a moment before returning in full force. "You have lovely eyes, my lady. The color of the Trident on a sunny day."

She felt a strange fluttering in her chest at the compliment, quickly lowering her gaze as heat rushed to her cheeks again. "Thank you, my lord," she murmured, gathering the last of the embroidery supplies and rising to her feet. "I should... I should be going. Her Highness will be expecting me."

Before she could move past him, he reached out and gently touched her arm. His fingers were surprisingly warm against her cool skin, and she could feel her pulse quickening beneath his touch. "Nonsense," he said, his voice softening. "Surely the princess can spare you for a moment. I'd like to know the name of the charming young woman who has just brightened my day."

She hesitated, acutely aware of the impropriety of speaking alone with a man of his station in such a secluded corridor. Yet there was something compelling in his gaze that made it difficult to refuse. "It's (Y/N), my lord," she said quietly, watching as a strange light entered his eyes at the sound of her name.