ALAYNE
When she threw back the shutters, the air on her face was as cold as winter's kiss. Giant's Lance, distantly visible through the window, had its brows buried in frowning clouds, and a fine trellis of frost climbed the pane. Below, the courtyard was almost deserted save for a mongrel hound digging in the mud for scraps. The Gates of the Moon was a much larger and more lively castle than the Eyrie, and such tranquility was not normally in its nature, but the feast last night had run into the wee hours. The household would be late and lazy in rising today, complaining of ale head and sour bellies.
Everyone but me – and Father. Alayne shivered. The feast as been full as magnificent as any half-grown girl could dream. The lush valleys of the Vale were unspoiled by war, and the harvest had been good. The hall lit with torches in sconces and candles in rings, servants scurrying, countless platters of food and flagons of wine, everything made rich and flavorful with spices, stews, savories, creams, sauces, garnishes. Myranda Royce had been in her element, conversing with every guest, from the villeins of humble smallholdings to the Lords Declarant themselves; all save Ser Lyn Corbray were in attendance. Alayne knew why. Publicly, Corbray continued to play Lord Petyr Baelish's most dogged foe, but privately, Baelish had him in his back pocket, giving him all the gold and boys and opportunities for murder his heart desired. Like the rest of us. Littlefinger pulls all our strings.
Alayne shivered again. The feast had not been held only to celebrate the bounty of the harvest, but also to introduce young Harrold Hardyng, Lady Anya Waynwood's ward, to the gathered nobility of the Vale. And my betrothed. To be sure, that was a secret she barely dared to think as yet. But her father had laid out the entire plan. With little Lord Robert sickly and failing fast, Harrold, the last distant remnant of Jasper Arryn's bloodline, stood to become Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale some time in the very near future. And when he does, I will be married to him, and my true identity revealed. And Father promised that when I emerge in the sept with my auburn hair flowing loose and a maiden's wolf cloak on my back, every lord will swear on the instant to win me back my birthright.
Alayne turned away and crossed the room, more than half tempted to seek sanctuary in the fading warmth of her quilts. She had not found Harry the Heir disagreeable – far from it, in fact. He was tall, lean, and rangy, with a mop of thick fair hair, blue eyes, a ready smile, and a familiar way with everyone, particularly the serving maids. He had kissed Alayne's hand and told her that she was beautiful, and for the better part of two hours sat next to her at the high table, relaying amusingly dirty stories about the various eminences who were present.
He seemed genuinely both friendly and funny, and for that time, she had almost allowed herself to be seduced, believing he might truly be the knight in shining armor that Joffrey never was. But he had a ridiculous, jaunty wisp of a beard and mustache, and whenever she looked at it, all she could see was Lancel Lannister, the queen's cousin. He too had had that same cocksure swagger, the confidence of youth and good looks, until he had taken a wound at the Battle of the Blackwater so grievous that he became a frail, broken, white-haired wraith. Lord Petyr told her that he had subsequently turned fervently religious, to the point of refusing to become Lord of Darry and consummate his marriage. "Understandable," he'd added, with Littlefinger's sly smile. "If I was wed to Gatehouse Ami, I can't say I'd be in any hurry either."
The knights of summer. That was all Lancel had been, and it was all Harrold Hardyng was either. And when Sansa went to bed that night, it was not Harry that she dreamed of. She dreamed of the Blackwater as it had been for her: green flames leaping like towers from the river, supper with the queen and the ladies and knowing that Ilyn Payne lurked in the corner to snick off their heads if the battle turned in Stannis' favor. And then when she'd climbed to her rooms, another shadow had been there, waiting.
I'll have that song you promised, little bird. So she had sung the Mother's hymn for him, at the point of his knife. They're all afraid of me. No one would ever hurt you again, or I'd kill them.
He had wanted to take her from the city with him. She had refused. So he took only a song and a kiss, and left me a bloody cloak. It was that kiss she'd dreamed of the most, her hand on the terrible scarred half of his face, the caked dried blood and the wetness that was not blood, his eyes that lived with flame, his mouth on hers. I could keep you safe.
Sandor Clegane was no knight of summer. He hated knights of any stripe, in fact. But perhaps he was as much a liar as the others. After fleeing King's Landing, she had heard, the Hound had turned rabid, butchering the innocent villagers of Saltpans with terrible ferocity, raping every woman and girl he happened across, burning and sacking every poor crofter's cottage. If I had gone with him, would that have happened to me too? Yet no matter how many stories she heard of that distinctive dog's-head helm being spotted at the site of this atrocity or that one, Sansa could not entirely believe it. A dog will die for you, but never lie to you. And it was Sandor's elder brother Ser Gregor, the Mountain that Rode, who was the real monster in House Clegane. It's said that he is dead too, slain by the Red Viper of Dorne as they dueled for Tyrion Lannister's life. The Viper had died first, but by his poisoned spear, the Mountain had died slowly, and agonizingly.
Tyrion. The Imp. Still – for the moment, until they received definitive word of his death – her own lord husband. She would have been arrested alongside him on suspicion of King Joffrey's murder, if Ser Dontos and Littlefinger had not spirited her out of the city that night. And Littlefinger repaid Dontos with a quarrel in the throat.
Alayne did not want to think about these things. She knelt before her trunk, pulling out smallclothes and shift and dress and mantle, all a sober dark blue and brown. It matched well with her hair, but she knew that it showed auburn at the roots; she'd used the last of the dye a fortnight ago. With winter setting in and the Vale remote and forbidding at the best of times, there would be no merchants arriving for the gods only knew how long. Best hope I become free to marry before then.
She found Lord Petyr in the hall, breaking his fast on fried fish, potage, and black bread with preserves. Upon seeing her, his face split in a broad smile, and he tugged out the chair beside him. "Sweetling! I've always said that those who rise early are those who will eventually rule the world. The sorts who can't lie slugabed when there is always so much to be done. Have you a tender tummy this morn? What can I have brought for you?"
"I will have what you have, my lord." She glanced nervously about, but they were alone save for the servants at the far end. Lowering her voice, she asked, "Does Harrold know who I am?"
Petyr gazed back at her, grey-green eyes all feigned innocence. "Of course he knows, sweetling. You are Alayne Stone, my natural and so very lovely daughter." He put one hand on her collarbone, just above her breast. "You are all the time, aren't you? In here."
"Aye." She tried to slide out from his touch. "But I meant – "
"Shh." Littlefinger placed his other hand to her lips. "Since you ask, the answer is no. Not yet. But he does know that there is a mysterious beauty who may not be entirely what she seems, who is being bruited about as his potential bride. And he might just have put two and two together last night, which is bound to make him feel very clever indeed." He smiled. "That's how you do these things, sweetling. No one will ever praise Harry's brains, I'm afraid, but with so much else to recommend him, why should it matter?"
"I suppose not," Alayne murmured, nodding her thanks as the maidservant set her breakfast before her. "But my lord – "
"Father, sweetling."
"Father." She'd somewhat fallen out of the habit during his absence. "How much time do we really have? Lord Robert was not at the feast."
"Taking our poor dear Sweetrobin to a feast would be like taking a bear to a baiting, don't you think? I suspected we might all find it easier to enjoy ourselves without him flying into shaking fits atop the cheese and attempting to suckle on Randa's teat – though yours are infinitely finer, I must say. But don't fret. I had Maester Colemon serve him his supper privately, in his rooms."
Maester Colemon, Alayne thought. Something about that disturbed her, but she couldn't put her finger on it. It occurred to her again how much he appeared convinced that her little cousin's demise was an unquestionable certainty. "Does he fare better this morning?"
"Doubtless not. Ever since Marillion killed his mother, may the gods assoil her sweet soul, I fear our Sweetrobin is a nestling without wings."
You killed Lady Lysa. Sometimes it sickened Alayne that she had to be grateful for it, seeing as her aunt had been trying to kill her at the time. And by now she had told the lie so often that sometimes she too thought of it as Marillion's fault. For nights and nights afterwards the blinded singer had played the harp and sung laments from his sky cell, haunting them all with his music. Sometimes she wondered why Lord Petyr had not had Marillion's tongue torn out. Did he never fear that he would spill the truth? It was just one of the things that Alayne Stone did not understand. Still more, why Marillion had confessed most eloquently to a crime which he had never committed.
Littlefinger, looking at her face, smiled again. "No one cares for my stepson's health more than I do, sweetling," he said soothingly. "But it would look awkward if he expired the moment we left the Eyrie, so let us hope he has the decency not to do so. Speaking of which, it was rather inconvenient of Cersei to take herself out of the game so prematurely."
"What?" The sudden shift in topic left Alayne bewildered. "The queen?"
"Do you know another unstable golden-haired Lannister wench? Thank the gods, neither do I. I did mean for her to be about some while longer – for one, it would ensure that whenever the Imp's ugly head does turn up, there will be no mistaking it. But I daresay that with a fugitive of such infamous stature, so to speak, we'll see it paraded on a pole from Dorne to the Wall nevertheless."
"But. . ." She still did not understand – entirely. From what Littlefinger had told her, he and the Tyrells had conspired to murder Joff at his wedding feast, with one of the black amethysts from Asshai in her hairnet. And he had manipulated Ser Dontos into rescuing her while ostensibly miles and miles away. But as Lord Protector, he hadn't left the Vale since they first arrived. How could he be so sure that he could have ousted Cersei whenever he wanted, with barely a finger lifted?
Petyr, reading her expression once again, leaned over and lightly kissed her nose, then her mouth. "Let me give you a clue, my darling. The queen is accused of fornication, incest, murder, and treason. Whose was the testimony that inspired the High Septon to order her seized on the spot? Why, the puissant Osney Kettleblack's, of course."
For a moment it remained a mystery – and then, as Alayne thought of the fierce old man named Oswell, one of Petyr's tenants on the Fingers, the one with the three sons, the Kettleblack – it suddenly fell into place. She looked back at Littlefinger with a start. "So was it – on your orders, did he – ?"
"He did confess to carnal knowledge of her all on his own, I will have you know." Apparently to emphasize the point, Petyr dipped his head and kissed her again, deep and lingering. "Not the most militant sparrows in the world could get him to say otherwise. Queen Margaery stands accused as well, but with her lord father presiding as Hand, I imagine she'll get off with her head still on her shoulders."
"Margaery?" Alayne was shocked. Margaery had been kind to her. "What is said of her?"
"Why, what is always said of queens – that she spread her legs for those whom she should not. Some fop named the Blue Bard, which doubtless underscores further why one should never trust singers. A few others, I misremember – Horror or Slobber, one of the Redwyne twins, and her own brother Ser Loras. Though whoever came up with that fable will be buggered in the afterlife by Lord Renly's shade, if the gods are just." Littlefinger chuckled. "As for Loras, he is sadly unavailable to defend either his own honor or his sister's. He was horrifically burned with oil while storming Dragonstone for Tommen, and is said to lie hourly at the Stranger's door."
Ser Loras? For a moment Sansa could not speak. He had given her a red rose once, and she had been dazzled by him, young and sword-slim and graceful as a dream, with the lazy smile and the tumble of mahogany-brown curls and the perfection of his flowered armor. She had once, however foolishly, dreamed of wedding him. Life is not a song, sweetling. In life, the monsters win.
She pushed back from the table. "I'm finished with my breakfast, I think. May I be excused, Father?"
He glanced at her slyly. "Of course, my sweet. But you ought know that Harry has requested to go riding with you this afternoon. If he attempts to squirrel you off to some romantic spot, I suggest refusing. We don't want him relieving you of your maidenhead before the wedding night."
Scarlet-faced, Alayne fled. There were too many thoughts swirling about inside her right now; she wanted peace and quiet more than anything, wanted just an hour where she could be alone and weep and not have to act every moment. But she could not. There was still too much at stake. So instead, she turned her steps toward Lord Robert's rooms. She pressed her ear cautiously to his bedchamber door; no sound came from within but squeaky childish snoring. A pang of pity gripped her. She knocked on the adjoining door.
After a moment, a flustered-looking Maester Colemon stuck his head out. "My – my lady! What may I do for you?"
"Might I come in?" Alayne asked quietly.
"Of course." The maester stepped back and pottered ahead of her, nervously plucking things up and putting them down. During the few weeks they'd had to settle into the Gates of the Moon, he'd already succeeded in building a veritable rat's nest in his solar. "What is it?"
Alayne paused. At last, she decided that the only way was to cut to the heart. "Who makes Lord Robert's meals?"
The maester blinked, startled. "Why, the kitchens, of course. Lord Robert's digestion has been of a delicate disposition this last fortnight, it is true. . . more so than usual, but I imagine that is down to the fact that the cooks at the Eyrie knew precisely what he did and did not care for, and what upset him. Lord Nestor's servants will soon learn the – "
Alayne held up a hand, and Colemon fell silent. Then she leaned close and whispered, "I think he is being poisoned."
The maester's eyes went very round. "But – but who would ever? Robert Arryn is just a boy, a sad small boy who is unwell to begin with, who scarce remembers his father and lost his mother – he would not – "
For me, Alayne thought, sick at heart. He is being poisoned for me. If Harrold was ever to inherit the Eyrie, marry her, and take her back to Winterfell, then Robert had to die. If she had had any doubts, they were gone. "That sad small boy is Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale. Men have done thrice as much for half the prize."
"That is so, my lady, but. . ." Colemon shook his head. "I will not believe that, even of – who is it, do you know? The Lords Declarant swore to protect the boy's rights at all costs, but I suppose it would have been a most convenient pretext for one who meant ill to smuggle himself among them. . . is it Ser Harlan Hunter? He already had his own lord father Eon murdered, it is whispered, it would be naught for him to do it again. His elder brothers still stand between him and Longbow Hall, it would behoove Gilwood and Eustace to take care. . . but how would Harlan Hunter profit from Robert's death?"
Alayne locked her fingers in her lap. "I do not believe it is Ser Harlan."
"My lady, then who?"
How can I tell? If I name Petyr, everything will collapse to pieces. Bronze Yohn Royce, at least, would take the accusation seriously, though he might be opposed by his cousin Lord Nestor, Randa's father, on whom Petyr had bestowed this very castle in order to buy his support. But then the Vale would break out in swords, and Harry would be heir to nothing, and I would never go home, but remain Alayne Stone for whatever little of my life there should be left. What was one small sick boy, against that?
"I do not know," Alayne lied at last. "But there are things I have heard. . . from my father. . ."
"Should I employ a food taster, my lady?"
I do not know that that would do much good. Sweetsleep was a gentle, kind poison, tasty as honey, and little Lord Robert loved his cakes and puddings and pies. And Maester Colemon had already become suspicious of how much he had taken, even though a pinch stopped Robert's shaking fits and kept him safely sedate. "I do not know what to tell you," Alayne said finally. "But have a man question the cooks." Are there any men left in Robert's household who are not in Petyr's pay? "Make absolutely certain of what goes into his food. That is all I dare say for now."
Maester Colemon nodded, eyes wide. "Aye, my lady. It will be done as you wish."
"Thank you." Alayne rose. "And one more thing. It would be wise that no one else learns of what has passed between us."
"Of course not." The maester bowed her out.
Alayne stood in the corridor a moment, irresolute. Then she quietly lifted the bedchamber door on its latch, and went in to visit her cousin.
He was tossing and turning restlessly beneath the quilts, but upon hearing her, he sat up so fast that he startled her. His fine, unkempt brown hair fell in his eyes, which occupied much of the available room in his thin face. "Alayne? Is that you?"
"Aye, Sweetrobin. It's me." She sat down on the foot of the bed, just out of his reach.
Lord Robert, ignoring this, scrambled out and crawled toward her eagerly, twining his arms around her neck and giving her a damp kiss. "Did you go to the feast last night? I wanted to go. I wanted."
"My Sweetrobin was sick last night, I heard."
Robert Arryn pouted. "It wasn't fair. I would have gone and sat in my high seat, like I used to do with Mommy. She would have let me go."
Doubtless she would have; she had let him do everything else as well, part of the reason for their current difficulties. Robert had now laid his head on Alayne's chest and was already in the process of attaching to her like a barnacle; gently, she loosened the grasp of his fingers on her dress. It was hard to tell if he felt any more rickety than usual. He always felt rickety and waiflike.
"I was sick," the little lord of the Eyrie said. "Maester Colemon purged me. I don't like it when he does that. You should make him stop."
"Sweetling, Maester Colemon wants only what's best for you." One of the few remaining men who does, I fear.
"But he's mean," Robert whined. "It hurts."
Alayne sighed, turning her head away from another attempted kiss. Between him and Littlefinger, it seems that is all I do anymore. Must I now add Harrold to the mix? "Sweetrobin, please. Can you not – "
"I want to go back to the Eyrie," Robert announced. "They know how to be nice."
"I've told you before, we can't. Not until spring comes. The snows have begun in earnest now, it's a cold white tomb."
His lip quivered. "But I want to!"
I want to go home too. More than you will ever know. "My Sweetrobin promised he'd be brave. Remember how brave you were coming down here? For me?"
"I was, wasn't I?" Robert said, pleased.
"Yes, you were," she said, and he gave her a gap-toothed smile of such shy sincerity that for a moment she almost forgot what a brat he could be. Just a little boy, as Maester Colemon said. Scared and ill and alone. This might not engender in her the sudden desire to become Lord Robert's permanent nursemaid; in fact, it only deepened her dilemma. But she gave him a quick embrace. "Are you well now?"
"Sort of," Robert said dubiously, and, snuggling closer, hastily emitted a cough. "Sing to me, Alayne."
It will take more than a song to cure what ails you, sweetling. "I will, if you'll get up and dressed. Take some air with Ser Lothor. Or Mya, you know Mya, don't you?"
"The mule girl? She's stinky." Lord Robert's nose wrinkled. "And it's cold."
"If you bundle up well, you won't feel it. Some fresh air will make you stronger." The bedchamber had a stale, shut-up smell to it, as if a detritus of spilled medicine and spoilt food and unwashed linens had combined to turn it into a beast's lair, not a small boy's. "And I'll get Gretchel or Maddy in here to clean this and make it nice."
"But I don't like them."
"Aye, but you are the Lord of the Eyrie. You should live as befits you, don't you think? Come." Alayne made an effort to pull him out of bed, but he resisted, stubborn as a hermit crab camped in a choice shell.
"I don't have to do what I don't want."
"Shall I tell your lord stepfather you said that, Sweetrobin?"
As always, the threat of Petyr Baelish exerted a profound incantation upon the boy. He is terrified of him, and with good reason. He even submitted meekly to having the maid Gretchel wash and dress him, or at least as meekly as Robert Arryn ever did anything. Then Alayne led him down the corridors in search of Ser Lothor Brune. Just leading Robert a few turns around the bailey on his pony would qualify as the most exercise he had had since they arrived at the foot of the mountain.
Ser Lothor was not in the kitchens; he might not yet be up, but if that was so, he should not be lying abed even longer than his lord. But as they were stepping into the courtyard, Robert's mittened hand clutched in her own, someone bumped into her. "Pardons, m'lady."
Alayne glanced up, and had to hastily quell her surge of alarm. Petyr's hedge knight Ser Shadrich, elsewise known as the Mad Mouse, was shorter even than her, with a profusion of orange hair and a narrow, leering face. But he was no joke with the blade he wore, and she did not at all like the way he looked at her. Nor was he making any especial effort to get out of her way. "Ser. Excuse us, if you'd be so kind."
Ser Shadrich grinned. "Taking the little lordling out of doors? You're a braver man than I am, my lady."
"It is for his health."
"His health. To be sure. Well, we all do care greatly about Lord Robert's health. I'd even teach him calisthenics, if there were a few silver stags in it."
"Have you seen Ser Lothor Brune about, by chance?" Alayne was not about to trust the Mad Mouse with unsupervised custody of Robert's person, even for an instant. Hedge knights were a notoriously fickle lot, and Ser Shadrich worse than most.
"That one? Likely still sleeping off his wine and his frustrated lust. Give him to me, get your father to settle the difference later. Then he can – "
"Then I can what?" Petyr's voice completed from behind them, and Alayne jumped. "Sweetling, Sweetrobin, and Ser Shadrich – shall I attempt saying that three times fast? What a surprise to see you all together."
Lord Robert, spotting his stepfather, shrank behind Alayne's leg. The Mad Mouse himself looked nonplussed, or as close to that as such a creature could ever come. "M'lord. I was attempting to assist your beautiful daughter in location of Ser Lothor, but I fear it defeated even our combined abilities. I'll bid you a good morrow." With that, and a clankingly insincere bow, he sidled off down the corridor.
Lord Petyr gave Robert a curious look. "What are you doing up?"
"Alayne got me," the boy said, somewhat less emphatically than usual.
Littlefinger's glance raised to Alayne. "Did you, now?"
"Aye."
"Well, I think it best if we did not test Lord Robert's constitution unduly. I'll fetch Maester Colemon to see him back to his chambers."
"But I want to ride," Robert peeped, despite the fact that he had wanted no such thing just a quarter-hour previously.
Lord Petyr paid no attention. When the maester had arrived to lead the protesting Lord of the Eyrie back to his room, he turned to Alayne and slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her close and kissing her hair. "That was a kind thing you did, as I know my daughter has a tender soul. But you'd not want Lord Robert having a relapse, would you? You do want to go home, don't you?"
Yes, Alayne thought. But not like this.