Prologue
It had begun to be present to him after the first fortnight, it had branched out with its dark tendrils, with the oddest abruptness, this particular wanton wonderment: it met him at every turn and hall which he wandered -- and it would be an outright lie if he said he was not thrilled and flushed with it, the passage of the strange figure just beyond his corporeal vision, this unexpected occupant.
Petyr did not fear her appearances like the servants did. He didn't change the pace of his stride nor cry out in fear (he did not fear, as a rule) instead he respectfully let this apparition, void of form follow him on his progresses through Harrenhal. At near every hour, this spectre quite hauntingly remained with him, as long as he was alone. It came to him in a dream during a brief span of rest he allowed himself, that this ghost was a 'she' though she was as shapeless as the night sky. A Lady of Harrenhal from days long passed. Or mayhaps older than that and Harren Hoare had built his behemoth seat right on top of her barrow. That she belonged here more than he, Lord Petyr was certain, with that certainty came the respectful truce betwixt his castle seat with its spirits and his occupation of its halls and galleries. There were still rooms and alcoves he had yet to discover and his spectral Lady of Harrenhal was his guide. Her cold, black and shapeless hand guiding him, ensuring him opening a door behind which he would have thought of finding nothing, a door into a room shuttered and void, disused for decades and yet occupied with a great suppressed yet comforting presence, something planted in the middle of the place and facing him through the dusk. The Ghost of Harrenhal gave him her secrets.
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In the months since relocating to Harrenhal, Lord Petyr could not fathom why anyone had believed it to be haunted. He had no trouble from its spirits, in fact he slept better, thought better and profited better since taking residence behind its charred walls. But when he needed to take his leave for the capitol on several occasions, servants had gone missing, hedge knights and sellswords found bloodied in the Flowstone yard. Perhaps its ancient hurts had found a home within the new liege's soul, only calming whilst he paced its cavernous halls.
And Lord Petyr did not mind it, playing keeper to lost souls. A smug satisfaction arose whenever someone in the King's council seemed disappointed his titles had not yet consumed his ambitions or his life. The Queen Regent for instance, her looks of anticlimactic sorrow as he'd approach the council table to report on the crown's debt after a long absence at his new seat. It was priceless.
Reconstruction and refurbishing efforts began at once. By time he'd occupied the broken castle for three months; the bear pit had been filled in and replaced with a small orchard, Hall of the Hundred Hearths had gone under a more colorful transformation with King Robert's old tapestries and new ones commissioned from Myr telling tales on every wall, the Tower of Ghosts in its most ruinous state had been razed with its bricks reused for a new more solemn lichyard and the Kingspyre Tower was nearly finished with its reconstruction, having a new nickname bestowed upon it at well...Birdsong Tower, for it had begun attracting the prettiest of roosting songbirds since Lord Baelish's arrival. It was in this largest of towers that the new lord dwelt untroubled and whole, unlike his predecessors. Had he been a different sort of man, he might feel guilty for living free amongst its ghosts where others had failed and died in doing so. He felt nothing here, but power.
Only a fraction of his monetary accumulations were spent restoring Harrenhal to its former glory. And Harrenhal thanked him. Only a fraction was needed. His wealth had grown by leaps no usual financier could wrap their mind around. He had investments everywhere, some he'd even forgotten until reports came in from their minders. But all this positivism aside, Petyr was still haunted.
It just wasn't Harrenhal that did the haunting. It was auburn hair wound with summer blooms, fish the color of the setting sun running upstream and away from his hooks, its was Riverrun, it was scars and favors ungiven that haunted him still. But not Harrenhal.