Every promise Petyr made had reached its fulfillment.
Twilight, thick as amber, slowly saturated the stone walls of the Gates of the Moon. From the vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall, crystal chandeliers spilled waterfalls of light onto polished oak tables. Sixty-four dishes, each a masterwork of culinary art, were displayed in honor of the knights who had traveled from every corner of the Vale to compete for the silver-winged armor.
The air was a thick weave of scents: the savory char of roasted swan, the earthy depth of truffle soup, and the cloying sweetness of honeyed fruits rising in the warmth of the flickering candlelight. These young knights hungered for more than the feast. They sought to prove themselves in the coming tourney, to be named one of the eight Winged Knights who would serve as the personal guard for Lord Robert Arryn, fighting for the honor of House Arryn.
The guests received gifts as well, and they were fine indeed. Every competitor was presented with a cloak of silver-spun wool and a lapis lazuli brooch shaped like a falcon's wing. Their male kin received daggers of forged steel, while the ladies were gifted bolts of Myrish lace and silk.
"Lord Nestor is being exceptionally generous," Alayne heard Ser Edmund Blackstone remark.
"He can afford to be, with Littlefinger holding the purse," Lady Waynwood replied, glancing toward Petyr Baelish. Blackstone took the point immediately. The true host of this evening was not Nestor Royce, but the Lord Protector of the Vale.
When the final course was cleared, the long tables were whisked away. The hall was scrubbed clean with practiced speed, making way for the dance as the musicians filed into the gallery.
Ben Coldwater was Alayne's first partner, but he was far from the last. Just as Petyr had predicted, the young knights swarmed her, desperate for her favor. After Ben came Andrew Tollett, Byron the Beautiful, the red-nosed Morgarth, and the Mad Mouse, Ser Shadrich. Even Ser Albar Royce, Nestor's slow-witted heir and Myranda's brother, took a turn.
She danced with three Sunderlands from the Sisters. Rumor claimed the men of those islands had webs between their toes, and while Sansa couldn't verify that, she could at least confirm their fingers were normal. Ser Uther Shett complimented her incessantly while treading on her toes, while the semi-wild Ser Torgon proved surprisingly courtly.
Then came Ser Roland Royce, whose biting wit at the expense of his peers kept Alayne laughing, followed by his uncle Willis, who tried to mimic his nephew's charm but could not squeeze out a single word. Eventually, Alayne took pity on him and carried the conversation to ease his scarlet-faced silence.
When the music finally paused, Alayne excused herself to find a cup of wine.
There he stood. Harrold Hardyng himself. Tall, handsome, and looking thoroughly displeased.
"Lady Alayne," he said stiffly. "May I have this dance?"
She hesitated, letting the silence hang for a moment. "No. I do not think I wish to."
His face flushed a deep crimson. "Please. Forgive my rudeness in the yard earlier. I beg of you."
"You beg?" She smoothed her hair, taking a slow sip of wine. "Tell me, Ser, how does one forgive a man who is so determined to be unforgivable?"
Harrold looked utterly miserable. "Please. Just one dance."
Seduce him. Enchant him. Bind him.
"One dance, then."
He led her to the floor. As they waited for the music, Alayne glanced at the dais where Lord Robert sat. Please, she prayed silently, no fits. Not here, not now. Maester Colemon had surely dosed the boy with sweet milk, but with Sweetrobin, peace was a fragile thing.
The music began, and they moved.
Say something, she urged herself. He won't love you if you stay silent. Should she praise his dancing? No, he'd heard that ten times already. Petyr had warned her not to be too eager.
"I hear you are to be a father again," she said.
It was a sharp opening for a betrothed girl, but she wanted to see if he would lie.
"My second time," Harrold answered tentatively. "My daughter, Alys, is already two."
Your bastard Alys, Alayne thought. Aloud, she said, "And the other child? A different mother, I presume?"
"Yes. Saffron. She is... quite a beauty. Tall and slim, with honey hair. Her father is the wealthiest spice merchant in Gulltown. He says she's worth more than gold."
"And what will you name the babe?" she asked. "Cinnamon if it's a girl? Cloves for a boy?"
He nearly stumbled in his step. "My Lady, you have a sharp tongue."
"Oh, I wouldn't know." If Petyr heard me, he'd scream.
"Is she more beautiful than me?" she asked, looking up at him.
Harrold studied her face, his gaze finally softening. "You are quite beautiful enough. When Lady Waynwood told me of this match, I feared you might look more like your father."
"A pointed beard and a mocking smile?" Alayne laughed.
"I never—"
"I hope your swordplay is better than your conversation, Ser."
For a moment, he looked stunned. As the music ended, he burst into a genuine laugh. "No one told me you were clever."
She brushed a finger against his cheek. "If we wed, you must send Saffron back to her father. With me, you will have no need for other spices."
He grinned. "A bargain, My Lady. Until then, may I wear your favor in the tourney?"
"I'm afraid not," she teased. "I have already promised it to another."
Returning to her seat, Alayne watched the room. She needed a rival for Harry, someone strong enough to prick his pride but not so highborn that Harry would feel it was a lost cause.
Myranda Royce and Brienne Lyndly joined her.
"Are Harry's arms as thick as they look?" Myranda asked. "I know you like them thick."
Alayne's face went scarlet. "They are... sturdy."
"Ha! Harry loves a girl who blushes. A pity. He's exactly the husband I wanted," Myranda sighed. "I suppose I'll have to marry Lord Petyr instead so I can be your mother. Tell me, how small are his fingers?"
Alayne ignored the barb. "What of Lady Waynwood's sons?"
"The Waynwood men all have horse-faces," Myranda scoffed. "If I marry one, he'd best keep his visor down in the bedroom."
"There is a handsome one over there," Brienne Lyndly whispered, hiding her mouth behind a silk fan. "He keeps looking our way. Look! He's blushing!"
Myranda followed her gaze. "That's Lennard Turner. He came with Ben Coldwater. His father, John Turner, is Ben's vassal. Handsome, yes, but I suspect he's better with a needle than a sword."
The name "Turner" suggested tailor roots, which meant little to ancient houses like Royce.
"He's too shy to even ask for a dance," Myranda rolled her eyes.
Alayne watched him. Lennard sat in a simple coat of black wool, his boots made of rough cowhide. Among the peacocks of the Vale, he looked like a beggar knight. He was perfect.
"Would you like to dance with him?" Myranda asked.
"I... well, if the opportunity arose," Alayne whispered.
Myranda summoned a servant, whispered an instruction, and watched as a glass of wine was delivered to the young knight along with an invitation.
Lennard Turner's eyes went wide as he looked at Alayne. He stood, straightened his tunic, and approached with a nervous hand. "Lady Alayne. May I... may I have the honor?"
Alayne glanced at Harry, who was dancing with another, and nodded. "You may, Ser."
As they drew close, Alayne felt a momentary pang of regret. A sharp, sour scent wafted from Lennard's collar. He turned beet-red. "Forgive me, My Lady. I traveled in haste and had no change of clothes. I hadn't intended to dance..."
"It matters not, Ser," she said kindly.
"Are you Coldwater's man?" she asked as they moved.
"I was squire to Ser Lawson Tollett," Lennard said. "My father secured me a command of horse under Lord Coldwater after I was knighted. It is a great honor."
"But not the honor you seek?"
"I'd rather be under Lord Royce," he admitted. "At least there's a chance of a real battle. My father is old. Since my brother, Kevin, went east to join the Second Sons, I am the only one left. He wants me close."
"Your father loves you," she said. My father loved me too.
As the song neared its end, Lennard found his courage. "Lady Alayne... I have no great name like Ser Harrold, but I am loyal. May I ride in your name tomorrow?"
Alayne saw Harry watching them. She quickly pressed her silk handkerchief into Lennard's hand, offered a curtsy, and retreated to the sidelines.
"So? Ser Lennard is poor, but he'd make a fine match," Myranda teased.
"Landa, you know Harry isn't my choice," Alayne sighed.
"Well, you could always—"
Myranda was cut short by the sudden, discordant blast of a brass horn from the main gates.
"Strange," Myranda frowned. "Who arrives at this hour?"
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