Littlefinger's eyes flickered, his heart already stirring.
He would never pass up a chance to get close to Catelyn.
But he was cautious—a fox in the snow, walking only in its own tracks. He watched Tyrion closely, taking in the green and violet eyes. Every movement was polite, every word measured, refined, and deliberate—each gesture revealing not only breeding but the cunning and calculation beneath it.
His smile was always mild and cultured, yet in his eyes glimmered that faint, sharp intelligence that gave him away. Even the smallest exchange seemed to carry some hidden intent.
With courtesy and subtlety as his weapons, he drew others into traps of his own design, all while maintaining that calm, polished air, as if everything were unfolding just as he intended.
"A fine proposal," Littlefinger said. "But my instincts tell me you're holding something back."
Instinct, my ass. It's your lifetime of scheming, Tyrion thought, though he wore the look of a man caught out. "Lord Baelish, nothing escapes you. You're right—there is another part to the plan."
"And what might that be, my lord?"
"I want you to stop this war," Tyrion said.
"My lord, you jest," Littlefinger replied with a short laugh. "What power do I have to stop a war? How would I persuade Robb Stark?"
"I told you, your business will be with Catelyn Tully."
"I was just about to correct you—it's Catelyn Stark," Littlefinger said. "And I doubt my acquaintance with her is strong enough to end this war."
"Eddard Stark is dead," Tyrion said, blinking slowly. "If you go as a suitor, you might shift the balance."
"What?" Littlefinger was genuinely caught off guard, not expecting that.
"You heard me," Tyrion said evenly. "Your mission is to propose marriage to Catelyn Tully—and through that, to influence the course of this war."
Littlefinger froze. To most ears, Tyrion's words would sound like madness. To his, they sounded like a dream he'd longed for but never dared to touch.
"That's impossible..." Littlefinger murmured. "She would never marry me. Not now... My station isn't enough to win Catelyn."
"I'll make sure it is," Tyrion said, leaning closer, his voice dropping.
"Lord Eddard's remains. The right to exchange Catelyn's two daughters. And... I'll give you Harrenhal."
Littlefinger stared, speechless. "My lord... Harrenhal? How could I ever deserve such a castle? That was once a king's seat—"
"If it ends this war," Tyrion said, "then you'll be Lord of Harrenhal. The castle will be yours. Fair enough, isn't it?"
Littlefinger was completely tempted. Catelyn had once been the woman of his dreams, but truthfully, whether he married her or not no longer mattered.
Robb Stark was grown and strong, master of the North. There was no foothold for Littlefinger there. Even if he did win Catelyn, it would mean nothing to a man who never moved without profit.
Harrenhal, though—that was another story. No man could resist its lure.
With Harrenhal and a Great Lord's title, he could reach for Catelyn if fortune favored him, or turn to Lysa if it didn't. For a man who always kept more than one burrow, it was the perfect play.
Tyrion watched him in silence, emerald eyes deep as a still lake, violet eyes bright as stars against the night. They seemed to see straight through the world, gleaming with a strange, dangerous allure.
In the tower, only their quiet breathing could be heard—along with the occasional shout from outside. The king had hit his mark again.
Tyrion didn't rush to speak. He gave the other man space and time to gather his thoughts, to decide whether he truly wished to open up. He knew that real negotiation began not with words, but with silence.
In that quiet, time seemed to slow, every second heavy with meaning. Under Tyrion's calm gaze, Littlefinger began to sense the weight of that stillness. He steadied his breath, forcing his heartbeat to slow.
"My lord," Littlefinger said with his usual courteous smile, "I must admit, your proposal is... very tempting. I see now—pardon me—I see why they call you the 'Lust Demon.' Your offers are always hard to resist."
"But," he went on smoothly, "I truly can't promise I'll achieve what you ask."
Cunning bastard, Tyrion thought. Getting this one to bite the hook was never easy.
"Lord Baelish, you worry too much," Tyrion said. "You don't need to end the war—just bring my brother back. Harrenhal will be yours."
"My brother Jaime's worth far more than Harrenhal."
That much was true, and Littlefinger knew it. If they could get Jaime Lannister back, Tywin and Cersei would hand over not one, but three castles without hesitation.
"Is that your offer—or the Queen's?"
"Both," Tyrion said. "As for my father, you needn't worry. When the three of us stand before him, I'll see to it you get your castle."
"And Slynt...?"
"He's an idiot," Tyrion said flatly. "You don't win a king's castle through betrayal. What matters is results. Bring my brother home, end this war, and settle things—and you'll have earned your reward."
"My lord, one last concern," Littlefinger said. "Stannis and Renly..."
"Stannis?" Tyrion chuckled. "Trust me, Lord Baelish—if Stannis breaches King's Landing, forget Harrenhal. Our heads will be side by side on pikes."
He laughed heartily.
"As for Renly? I've no clever plan there. But trust Stannis—he'll go after his brother first."
Petyr Baelish rose smoothly. "My lord, to serve you is both an honor and a duty. Your generosity overwhelms me. I'll depart soon to meet with Catelyn Stark."
Tyrion stood as well. "Then I'll leave it to you, Lord of Harrenhal." He exhaled quietly. The bird was finally in the net.
The two men clasped hands—warmly, firmly.
"One more thing, Lord Baelish."
"What is it?"
"While you're away from King's Landing, I'll need you to recommend a deputy."