Riverrun
Petyr Baelish came to bid farewell to Catelyn, who was hosting Elaena for supper. With so much having transpired over the last few months, Catelyn's feelings for Petyr had shifted fundamentally. She didn't hate him, but he had become an open book she could read at will. The mystery and charm were gone; his actions now seemed like simple, transparent tricks to her.
"You might harbor some grudge against Father, but don't—at least for now," Catelyn said, her tone maternal and guiding, as if speaking to a much younger child. Elaena, well-versed in the subtleties of courtly love, watched the dynamic with keen interest. "He won't tarnish his reputation, so take advantage of his support while it lasts. He knows a few reliable sellswords; ask him to act as your guarantor. They'll protect you for a while. When you are truly powerful, you can decide what to do. At that time, I won't hold it against you even if you treat him as a nemesis."
She continued her instructions like a nagging elder sister. "Don't go to the capital. Edmure is there, and he has a knack for rousing trouble. I don't want you to get hurt in the crossfire. Also, pay close attention to raids by the hill tribes when you enter the Vale..."
Petyr retreated after the lengthy lecture, burdened by contradictory feelings. He could see that Catelyn treated him as a friend rather than a crush, yet she genuinely wished him well. Lysa, on the other hand—his Lysa—had become complicated, a far cry from their shared childhood memories. With a heavy sigh, he went to meet Hoster Tully for the last time.
King's Landing Harbour
"Are you joking? I treated you as a friend, and you've robbed me in plain sight!" Edmure was shouting at Craghas, the leader of the Myrish traders. "I deposited a chest full of gold, and now I have only a few thousand left? I didn't even eat lavishly in the capital—I stuck to vegetables! And now I find I can't even afford to bail out my uncle?"
"Edmure, you should consult your conscience," Craghas replied smoothly. "You might live a modest life, but your spending is anything but. Five thousand donated to the Faith, ten thousand for the glassworks, and three thousand for miscellaneous items like horses, sheep, and spices. I even gifted you a Goldenheart bow for free! How am I defrauding you? We merchants value our conscience."
"Don't talk to me about conscience! How can some glass be that costly?" Edmure countered. "I simply asked you to build a glass garden at Winterfell because my sister is marrying the heir."
"Winterfell already has a glass garden," the merchant pointed out. "You wouldn't want the additions to be mocked as shabby, would you? Plus, your sister is marrying the second son, not the heir. You don't even know this, yet you argue arithmetic with an old man."
"No way—I can't let the Northerners look down on us," Edmure muttered, thinking quickly. Hoster had said, no matter the cost. Surely his father was hinting at spending without limit; truly, the brothers shared a deep bond. "Very well, you come with me. I'll take a loan if needed, but we'll use your ships. Plus, we'll bring a lot of spices this time—give me a discount, we're friends."
Edmure decided not to dwell on the loss, but a new thought struck him. "Now, tell me—what is this nonsense about Catelyn marrying Eddard? How did this rumor spread?"
"You really don't know? The word has been out for a week now."
"Do I look bored? Why would I care about another's marriage?" Edmure said, throwing an arm over Craghas's shoulder. "Let me tell you: marriage is all about inheritance. Love is a personal matter but marriage a social. Otherwise, why would those celibate monks around the world be so particular about wedding rites? Why would they care? Now, let's see your magnificent ships. I bet they have battle-hardened sailors, nothing like the ones in Westeros. We don't even invade anyone despite having such a long coastline."
Edmure strode toward the quay as if his father owned the very planks beneath his feet.
The Red Keep
Tywin, Kevan, and Jaime were gathered in the Tower of the Hand. Tywin was acutely aware of how the courtiers were mocking him; a lifetime of painstaking work erased by a boy. Worse, the King was hosting re-enactments of the fight using dwarfs—a cruel jab aimed directly at Tywin's younger son.
"Brother, we can't let this slide," Kevan growled, still furious. "Even if I have to face the King's Justice, I'll take men to raze Riverrun. The gall of the Tullys..."
"Father, this was his retaliation for my actions," Jaime interjected. "I know him well; he never keeps things bottled up. I'll handle it."
"No. You will do nothing. Both of you," Tywin commanded, and the hall fell into a heavy silence. He traced a finger across the map of Westeros, his eyes lingering on the region between the Tumblestone and the Red Fork—the Tully heartland. "Trust me, gentlemen. A Lannister always pays his debts. I hope the land can bear the weight of it."
He looked out the window at the city. "It is time to leave. We return to Casterly Rock. Jaime, tell your sister; we leave tomorrow morning. The next time I come here, I will make sure everyone hears me roar."
"I will stay behind," Jaime said, rebuking his father for the first time. Tywin was stunned; Jaime was the one child he thought was totally under his control. "You take everyone else. I will stay and train. I will learn from the legends, forget all chivalry, and be the monster if I have to. But one day, I will make him pay. I too will have a song—a song where rivers run red and a family is erased from the books."
Tywin sipped his wine in silence after dismissing them. He was no pompous fool; he knew a dagger often came from where one least expected it. But Jaime's rebellion for the sake of the family's honor hit differently. "Joanna, if only you were here..." he whispered. "If only..."
Riverrun.
Elaena was reading the juicy plot of President meeting the female lead for the first time. "They must feel the spark, as if they were meant to be together. All of world was conspiring to make their union a perfect meeting." She excitedly spoke. Catelyn, now veteran of many stories simply shook her head sighing, Oh sweet summer child. Even a demigod well educated in art of love can sometimes miss a dynamic catastrophically.