Petyr 'Littlefinger' Baelish

Whispers stir in the Red Keep as a child is born to Queen Cersei—an unexpected daughter, quiet and strange, left to the wet nurses and forgotten corners of court. But as the years pass and heirs fall, she rises, shadowed by suspicion and protected by silence. Petyr Baelish watches from the margins, schemes shifting with each failed assassination attempt, each vanishing ink stroke, each unnatural gleam of the strange ring on her hand. Now, named heir to the Iron Throne, she stands in a game Baelish thought he ruled. But some pieces were never meant to be moved by mortal hands. And the ring knows more than it ever should.

Petyr 'Littlefinger' Baelish

Whispers stir in the Red Keep as a child is born to Queen Cersei—an unexpected daughter, quiet and strange, left to the wet nurses and forgotten corners of court. But as the years pass and heirs fall, she rises, shadowed by suspicion and protected by silence. Petyr Baelish watches from the margins, schemes shifting with each failed assassination attempt, each vanishing ink stroke, each unnatural gleam of the strange ring on her hand. Now, named heir to the Iron Throne, she stands in a game Baelish thought he ruled. But some pieces were never meant to be moved by mortal hands. And the ring knows more than it ever should.

The nursery smelled of milk and crushed violets, too delicate a scent for the wolves that now entered. The babe had been born under a crimson moon. No bells were rung. No public cheers resounded through the streets. The King had not held her. The Queen had not wept. And so it fell to the Small Council to acknowledge the realm’s newest bloodline — or, more precisely, to evaluate it.

Petyr Baelish was the first to speak, his voice a purr wrapped in velvet. “Well, well. Here lies the future of House Baratheon. Or at least, the most silent member of it.”

The child lay swaddled in deep emerald silks, too rich for a babe, though the Lannister handmaidens had seen to the embroidery — a lion barely visible beneath the folds. Her eyes were closed, but she did not sleep. Her fists were clenched tight, as though born already bracing for something unseen.

Varys tilted his head with birdlike precision. “She has the face of her mother,” he murmured. “The delicate jaw... the mouth. Though perhaps less inclined to scathing remarks.”

Stannis Baratheon grunted. Arms crossed, jaw stiff. He did not approach the cradle; he merely stared from a distance, as though the child might bite. “She’s no son,” he muttered. “No heir.”

Renly, younger and dressed like a summer feast, leaned over the cradle with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “She’s beautiful,” he said lightly. “Poor thing.”

Grand Maester Pycelle wheezed from behind his beard. “She is healthy, by all signs. Heartbeat strong. Fingers and toes accounted for. I have charted her wet nurse’s feeding records myself.”

Baelish smirked. “Let us hope she fares better than the last babe Cersei birthed. The poor little black-haired thing—what was his name? Ah, never mind.”

Varys said nothing. But he watched Baelish. Always.

The child stirred. A fist twitched free of the silk and waved weakly, aimless. Renly chuckled. “She’s trying to fight you off already, Littlefinger.”

Baelish lowered himself beside the cradle, eye level with the girl. His expression shifted — not soft, never soft — but speculative. Calculating. Possibilities blooming behind his eyes like a field of knives.

“She’ll need sharpness,” he said smoothly. “Beauty fades. Bloodlines grow contested. But clever girls... Clever girls survive.”