Though she had promised to share a bed with Miranda, dawn was already bleeding into the sky, and Alayne felt it improper to intrude so late. Guided by a servant, she entered a small, dim chamber that was nonetheless warm and inviting.
A small hearth crackled with pine logs, filling the room with a sharp, resinous perfume. She changed into her nightgown and climbed into bed. The mattress was exceptionally soft, perhaps stuffed with fresh hay or goose feathers, and covered in thick, luxurious furs. Alayne wrapped the blankets tight around her, waiting for the firelight to chase the chill from her bones.
The words of her "father," Petyr Baelish, drifted back to her. Ser Harrold Hardyng. The man who was to be her husband—but he was not hers yet. Just as a knight won glory with his sword, she, as a mere "bastard," had to win Harrold's heart with her charm, regardless of the ghosts of her past.
Harry was the son of Ser Elbert Arryn's sister and Ser Eon Hunter's cousin—carrying the blood of the Falcon through his mother. Since everyone closer to the Arryn line was cold in their graves, he was the heir to the Eyrie. According to Miranda Royce, young Harry already had two bastards of his own—one aged two, and another still in the womb.
What did it matter? Alayne thought bitterly. He had bastards, but she had been a wife. Though the Imp had never claimed his rights, they had shared a bed. He had kissed her. Sweetrobin had kissed her this morning. Petyr had kissed her just now. And there was that other kiss—the one she could never have—from the man with the burned face who had forced his way into her room on the night the sky turned green. He had asked for a song and a kiss, leaving only a blood-stained white cloak and a hollow ache in her heart.
Tears welled in her eyes. If her true father were still alive, she would not have to kiss any of these men. She sobbed quietly until sleep finally claimed her. When she woke, she was Alayne Stone once more.
"Miss Alayne, Lord Robert is having another fit. He threw his milk at the Maester's head."
A maid stood trembling at her door. Alayne took a deep breath, donning her invisible armor of courtesy. "I am coming."
Life at the Gates of the Moon moved both slowly and with a frantic, hidden pace. Since arriving at the foot of the mountain, Petyr had been consumed by business—lords to meet, ledgers to balance, whispers to hear. He had no time for his daughter. Alayne was relieved; Petyr's smiles were warm, but his eyes were as cold as the mountain peaks. She preferred the company of Sweetrobin, despite his tantrums and his frailty.
She was telling the boy stories of the Winged Knights when Mya Stone knocked. Mya smelled of mule-sweat and damp leather, straw clinging to her tangled hair. Her brow was furrowed, likely because Mychel Redfort was in the castle—the man who had loved her and then wed another at his father's command.
"My Lord," Mya said to Duke Robert, "Lady Waynwood's vanguard is an hour out. The Lady and your cousin Harry will follow. Will you receive them?"
Why did she have to mention Harry? Alayne thought.
Sweetrobin threw a pillow. "Tell them to go away! I don't want to see them!"
Mya looked lost. She could guide a mule up a cliff in a blizzard, but she had no experience with the whims of highborn boys. Alayne closed her book. "Thank you, Mya. I will speak with him alone."
"I hate Harry," Sweetrobin whined once Mya had left. "He calls me cousin, but he just wants me to die so he can have my valley. He thinks I'm stupid, but I know."
"My Lord, do not listen to such whispers," Alayne soothed. "I am sure Ser Harrold loves you." She prayed the gods would forgive the lie.
"He doesn't," Robert insisted, pulling a fur blanket over his acne-scarred chin. "He wants my father's castle. Alayne, I don't want you to marry him. I am the Lord of the Eyrie, and I forbid it. You should marry me. Then we could sleep together every night, and you could tell me stories forever."
"Sweetrobin, you must not say such things. You are a Lord and a Defender. You must marry a highborn lady of a Great House to continue the Arryn line."
"I don't care. I like you best."
Alayne's voice was tender, laced with pity. "But your lords care. Some call my father an upstart. If you wed me, they would say he forced you. The Lords Declarant would draw their swords again, and we would all die."
"I won't let them hurt you!" Robert shouted, his hands shaking. "Anyone who touches you, I'll make them fly!"
Alayne managed to soothe the boy and slipped away to find her father. She eventually found him in the cavernous, cold cellar of the keep, speaking with Lord Grafton and Lord Belmore.
"The merchants are fighting for grain, while the Lords are desperate to sell," the Lord of Gulltown was saying. He was a portly man with broad shoulders and messy blonde hair. "What are my orders, Petyr?"
"Place guards at the docks," Petyr commanded. "Seize any ship if necessary. Not a grain of wheat leaves the Vale."
"But the price—" Belmore started. "It's already sky-high."
"You think it's high? I find it lacking," Petyr smiled. "Winter is coming. The price will only climb. Let the other Lords sell their stores for copper now; when they are empty, they will come to us for gold."
"Bronze Yohn won't wait," Grafton noted. "His ships sail from Runestone, not Gulltown. And there's more. A red-robed Bishop of the Faith arrived in Gulltown with a squad of armed zealots. They demand we open the trade, claiming that hoarding grain is a sin against the Mother. They call themselves the Order of the Golden Dawn."
Petyr's brow arched. "The Faith? Their 'Warrior's Sons' are barely a hundred men, and the Poor Fellows are just armed beggars. I care little for them."
"This 'Bishop Clare' heard it was your order to bar the ships," Grafton warned. "He says he is coming here to see you personally. He's only two days behind me."
Petyr shrugged. "Let him come. When Lord Royce's granaries are empty, the monks will find my terms quite reasonable. Ah, but here is my daughter."
After the Lords departed, Petyr walked with Alayne deeper into the gloom of the cellar. "You met Harry. How was he?"
"He is insufferable," Alayne said flatly.
"Dearest, the world is full of insufferable men. You should be used to that by now."
"He called me your 'bastard' in front of the entire courtyard!"
"He doesn't know you. Royce has likely told him to beware of me, and as my daughter, you are beneath him. But he is Robert's heir, Alayne. We have lured him here; now you must trap him. He has no resistance to beauty, and who is more beautiful than you? Seduce him. Enchant him. Bind his heart to yours."
"I... I don't know how."
"You will." Littlefinger's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Tonight, you will be the sun of the hall. You cannot sit at the high table with me, but I will place you beneath the Great Sconce where the light will catch your hair. Ignore the boys. Look for the knights who seek your favor for the tourney."
"Who would seek a bastard's favor?"
"Harry will, if he has a brain. But do not make it easy. Smile, touch him as if by accident, and satisfy his vanity. If he responds, ask him to take you for air. No knight refuses a beautiful lady that request."
Alayne bowed her head. "I will try, Father."
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