Hello, Novaursa,
Can I request a Petyr Baelish x Stark reader where Littlefinger is rewarded for his betrayal of the Starks by being given the eldest Stark daughter as his wife following the events of the Red Wedding? Since he's lost Cate, he's planning on turning her daughter into a replacement goldfish. Probably helps that she resembles her a fair amount.
Also, autocorrect thinks Littlefinger betrayed the sharks, lol. That WOULD be an interesting story.
Thank you
The Shape of Her Face
- Summary: A story where Petyr gets what he wants. You.
- Pairing: stark!reader/Petyr Baelish
- Rating: Mature 16+
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial
- A/N: Game of Sharks does have a nice ring to it. 🤣🫶
The solar in Harrenhal reeked faintly of old stone, blood, and damp rot—the smell of a castle built on ruin and ash. Tywin Lannister stood at the long table, a map of the Riverlands splayed before him like a wounded beast. His gloved fingers traced over the charred remains of Riverrun’s banners, pressed between weighted stones and sealed fates. Behind him, torchlight flickered against the ancient blackened walls, casting elongated shadows across his crimson doublet and the golden lion clasp at his throat. The room was silent but for the crackling hearth and the quiet rustle of parchment as Lord Baelish stepped forward.
Petyr Baelish’s steps were soft, deliberate, his face carved into a polite smile that never reached the eyes. He wore dark green trimmed in silver, the mockingbird sigil gleaming at his throat, modest in size but gleaming enough to catch light. His eyes, ever calculating, rested on Tywin as if the old lion were yet another board on the game of cyvasse he played endlessly in his mind. Yet even he dared not speak first—not to Tywin Lannister.
“Your work in the Vale was commendable,” Tywin said without looking up, as if discussing some minor task like accounting grain. “Convincing Lysa Arryn to remain neutral until the proper time. We owe much to your careful tongue, Lord Baelish.”
Petyr inclined his head just slightly. “I serve the realm, my lord.”
Tywin’s mouth twitched—something between a smile and a sneer. “You serve yourself, Baelish. Let’s not insult one another with pretense.”
There was no offense taken, not truly. Petyr’s smile only deepened, thin as a razor. “Perhaps. But sometimes the realm and I have overlapping interests.”
Tywin finally turned. The fire behind him flared as if in emphasis, gilding his pale, gaunt face in flame. “Your ambition is limitless. That makes you dangerous. But even danger can be… useful. You asked for a reward.” His gaze narrowed like a trap springing shut. “And you shall have it.”
Petyr’s hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t breathe too quickly, though his chest tightened in anticipation. “I have always been a man who knows his place. And the value of rising above it.”
“Yes,” Tywin said. “You were born the son of a petty lord with nothing but coin tricks and a clever tongue. And now you shall be Lord of Harrenhal. With a bride fit for a king.”
He did not need to say your name. It lingered between them like a ghost. The daughter of Eddard Stark. The firstborn. The one who favored her mother so keenly that whispers claimed Catelyn Tully had risen from the dead and walked again beneath Winterfell’s godswood. Your grief had been quiet, they said. A stillness in the storm of loss. Not the wild screaming of a girl torn from home like your sister Sansa, nor the wolfish anger of Arya Stark, whose bones no one had yet found. You had remained behind. Captive. Mute. Watched. Preserved.
“You have her?” Petyr asked, though he already knew. Of course Tywin had you. The Lannisters owned everything now—Winterfell in ruins, Robb Stark’s corpse rotting at the Twins, and the North in chaos. There had never been a better time to pluck a Stark rose.
Tywin nodded. “She has been in our custody since before the wedding. It was necessary to keep her unaware until the outcome was secure. She will be yours by week’s end. The contracts are being drawn.”
Baelish’s tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, a flicker of something unnameable passing behind his eyes. He folded his hands tighter behind his back, nails biting into skin. It was not joy he felt, but a deeper, older hunger. You had haunted him once, as a girl in the shadows of the Red Keep, standing beside your mother like a specter returned from his youth. He had watched the tilt of your head, the exactness of your voice, the delicate grace of your fingers when you adjusted a pin. He had swallowed the ache and told himself it was admiration. But he’d known the truth long before he asked for you. It had never been about what was just. It was about what was owed.
“She is of noble blood,” Tywin went on, turning back to his map. “The last valuable Stark maiden, aside from the girl who vanished. You’ll wed her and bring her name into your house. And in time, her claim. The North remembers, Lord Baelish. But memory can be rewritten.”
Petyr gave a shallow nod. “I will be a gentle husband, my lord.”
Tywin did not look up. “See that you are. A broken woman is useless to me.”
The moment lingered, the fire spitting sparks behind them, as if protesting the quiet violence of the bargain struck. Baelish stepped closer to the map, eyes darting over your name written beside his in ink not yet dry. There it was—final, inevitable.
Your life had already been traded. Sealed with blood not your own. Promised by the men who killed your kin and smiled over the ashes.
Petyr Baelish looked down at the parchment, and imagined your face as it had once been, lit with Northern sunlight and touched with frost, the echo of Catelyn in your every glance. His mouth curled softly.
“You will be well-guarded, my lady,” he murmured, almost to himself. “And well-loved.”
Tywin said nothing. He had already moved on to the next matter. But Petyr Baelish stood there, eyes fixed on your name, already weaving futures in his mind where you sat beside him at Harrenhal, draped in silver and green, your mother’s fire tamed at last in your soft, uncertain hands.
The fire behind him roared louder.
The skies above Harrenhal were thick with looming gray, the clouds pressed low as if mourning silently for something that had already been lost. The lake beyond the keep sat still and glassy, unmoved by wind, a mirror reflecting nothing but gloom. Beneath the rusted portcullis, the air was damp and chill, clinging to the walls like the scent of rot and secrets. Ravens circled above the towers in slow, ominous spirals, as if they too knew what was coming.
Inside the great hall, Petyr Baelish stood alone, waiting.
The hearth blazed high in the corner, fed by blackened logs and sweet-smelling pine, but he made no move to warm himself. He wore black velvet today, high-collared and close-fitting, with his silver mockingbird brooch glinting at his throat. His hair was combed neatly, trimmed just so, and his beard was sharp and deliberate. No detail was out of place. It could not be. Not today.
He had spent years polishing his power behind smiles and half-truths. Years building ladders from shadows and knives. And now, at the top of one such ladder, he was to be rewarded with the one thing he had never been able to manipulate or seduce into his grasp: you.
Footsteps echoed through the high corridor, the scrape of booted men leading something—or someone. Petyr’s heart did not quicken, but there was a particular stillness in him, an anticipation that curled like a cat ready to spring. When the doors creaked open, they revealed two Lannister men clad in crimson and gold, flanking a girl cloaked in gray.
You.
You stepped into the hall like a ghost, your figure held upright by instinct rather than intent. They had dressed you well—plain but clean, your hair brushed and braided with care, your hands folded tightly in front of you. The wool cloak you wore was clasped at the throat with a small direwolf pin, one of the last fragments of your house they had not stripped from you. Your eyes, so like Catelyn’s—clear, cool, carved from northern waters—met Petyr’s as if through glass.
“My lord,” said Ser Ryman, the taller of the two guards, bowing stiffly. “As promised, the Lady Stark.”
Petyr did not answer him. His gaze was wholly fixed on you. Not with lust, not yet. Something deeper—older. A yearning calcified over years of denial, rejection, failure. He stepped forward slowly, as if you were a rare piece of glasswork newly delivered and not yet unwrapped.
You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. He imagined you might scream, claw, spit—but you didn’t. That, in some ways, unsettled him more. The stillness in you was not submission. It was frost.
“You’ve grown,” Petyr said at last, voice soft as parchment being turned. “So much like your mother. Gods, it’s uncanny.”
Your eyes flickered, but you said nothing.
“Lady Stark,” Ser Ryman prompted, nudging you with a gloved hand. “Greet your lord husband.”
You turned your face slightly, jaw tightening. “He is no husband of mine.”
Petyr’s smile twitched, but he covered it with a mild expression. “Not yet. That will be remedied before nightfall. The septon waits.”
You inhaled sharply, as though bracing yourself against a storm that had already broken. Petyr stepped closer, dismissing the guards with a single flick of his fingers. They bowed and backed out of the hall, leaving the two of you alone in the cavernous space. The iron chandeliers overhead swung slightly in a breeze that had no business there, casting dancing shadows across the stones.
He didn’t touch you. Not yet. He studied you as one might study a long-lost painting—trying to remember every line and hue that once haunted him. The curve of your mouth, the arch of your brow, the pale column of your neck. You were not Catelyn, and yet you were. And he had failed her. But he would not fail you. Or so he told himself.
“I asked for you,” he said, his voice growing more intimate, like a secret slipped between sheets. “And Tywin gave you to me. You’re a gift, my lady. One I intend to treasure.”
Your silence was a blade. Cold. Clean.
“I know what you think of me,” he continued, circling slowly behind you, his hands folded behind his back, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “A traitor. A snake. A man without honor. But what has honor brought your family? Ruin. Death. A king’s head sewn to a wolf’s body. Your brothers murdered or scattered. Your sisters lost.” His voice dropped. “Your mother’s throat slit open.”
You flinched, just slightly, your shoulders stiffening beneath the cloak. That pleased him. It meant you could still feel.
“But I—” He leaned close, breathing beside your ear. “I will keep you alive.”
You turned your head just enough to glare at him. “Alive. In a cage.”
He smiled, slow and measured. “Harrenhal has many chambers, my lady. Some warmer than others. I suggest you choose your words carefully. You’re not in Winterfell anymore.”
You looked away again, gaze fixed on the flickering hearth as though it might show you a path home.
Petyr stepped around to face you once more, extending a hand. “Come. There are things to prepare. Dresses. Vows. A feast. The bedding will be private, I assure you. I’m not unkind.”
You did not take his hand. But you followed him when he turned, because the alternative was worse.
And behind you, the great doors of Harrenhal slammed shut.
