ALAYNE
Alayne woke sometime in the night to the sound of worried voices outside the door. She rolled over and listened closely, heard someone asking if the maester had been fetched yet and another offering assurances that Colemon had come straightaway. The little lord was resting easy enough at the moment, but both the duration and the severity of the fit had given everyone concerned a right turn.
Robert, Alayne thought. She pushed back the heavy quilts – carefully, so as to not wake Randa – and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Ordinarily she would have been in her own chambers, but Randa had insisted on hearing every scandalous detail of her latest outing with Harrold Hardyng. They had now gone riding together thrice, and Harry was nothing but charm, gallantry, tenderness, and wit, hanging onto her every word and laughing even when her jests weren't particularly funny. He leapt at any chance to perform silly little romantic courtesies, and he was extremely difficult to say no to. Alayne could well see how he'd already left at least two other girls with bastards in their bellies.
Nonetheless, she mistrusted every moment of it. I was told to win him, was he told to win me? Joffrey could be the perfect knight when it suited. And with Petyr's admonitions about the wedding night firmly in mind, she had consented to do no more than chastely kiss him a few times. Strangely, this had not dampened Harry's ardor in the slightest, but rather increased it, which Randa told her sagely had a very simple explanation. "He's used to girls falling all over themselves to please him. Yet here you are, mysterious and beautiful, and you won't leap to his bidding or give him what he wants. It's enough to drive him mad with desire, wanting to prove what a man he is to win you. Very clever, sweetling. Did you come up with it on your own accord, or did your dear father instruct you?"
Alayne had not answered. She was always leery when Randa invited her to gossip. She knew that Lord Nestor's cunning daughter had already seen what many others must have as well: that Harry the Heir would not be expending this much time and energy paying court on a no-account bastard girl, even if she was the Lord Protector's daughter. Yet when she voiced her concerns to Littlefinger, he had assured her that this was all part of the plan. "Men must have a glimmer of suspicion in their minds by the time the wedding day rolls around. That way, they will feel clever and vindicated when you appear."
"But," she'd said, "the Lannisters. . ."
"Will trouble us no more, sweetling. The lion has lost both its claws and its roar, I'm afraid. They've made such an utter farce of things that if you walked outside the Bloody Gate right now and revealed your true identity to the first person who passed, they'd be a deal more likely to heartily sympathize and buy you a drink, rather than attempting to slither back into King's Landing to wring a few miserly dragons out of an insane, imprisoned, anduniversally loathed queen. No, my lovely daughter, we've already won. We only need wait on tidings of the Imp's death. Now go and enchant Harry some more – but since you won't give him a proper kiss, I'm sure you have one to spare for me?"
Alayne had managed to dodge away, claiming that she was already late. She liked kissing Harry somewhat more than she liked kissing Petyr, but that was hardly anything to go by. He is only kissing Winterfell, even if he does not yet know it. The only man who ever protected me with nothing to gain from it was the Hound.
Now, Alayne pulled a furred mantle over her shoulders and quietly eased Randa's bedchamber door open. In the hall, a few servants were talking in an undertone, but they broke off when they saw her. "M'lady," Gretchel said nervously. "Did we wake you?"
"No, I was already awake," Alayne lied. "But I heard something about Lord Robert. Is he well?"
"For the moment," Gretchel answered carefully. "But it was a terrible bad fit, m'lady, not even Maester Colemon had ever seen the like of it. We woke the Lord Protector, and we would have woken you – Lord Robert was calling out for you in his throes, but Lord Baelish said you should be spared the pain of seeing him like that, that you could comfort him better in the morning."
He didn't want to run the risk of me interfering, you mean. A flash of anger burned through Sansa. "What is being done for my – for Lord Robert?"
"Maester Colemon made him a sleeping draught, and had me and Maddy clean his room so it was more healthful." Gretchel shook her head; most of the Eyrie's servants alternately pitied or were exasperated by their fragile, flailing boy lord. "He said also that he sent for a healer, one of the best in the riverlands. The Elder Brother, from the monastery on the Quiet Isle."
A holy man. The sudden hint of a plan occurred to Alayne. If she spilled her fears and suspicions to him under the seal of confession, he could never reveal to anyone from whence he had learned them. And then he could. . . and then he could what? Formally charge Littlefinger with murder? Annul her marriage to Tyrion? He was only a brown brother, not a septon, and he was already unwittingly putting himself in enough danger by getting in the way of Littlefinger's pet plot. If the Elder Brother finds out what I already know – that Robert is being poisoned – and announces it to the Vale at large, then what? Littlefinger will arrange some tragic accident to befall him on the way back to his monastery, remind everyone how dedicated he is to his wife's memory and his stepson's welfare, and stop having sweetsleep slipped into Robert's food for a moon's turn or so. Without it, Robert's shaking fits will get worse, until he dies on his own accord.
The thought made Alayne shake a bit herself. I have to meet the Elder Brother when he comes here, I have to warn him. She forced a smile. "I was raised in the Faith for the early part of my life, though I ultimately chose not to become a septa," she said sweetly. "I would so much welcome the chance to converse with the good brother. Can you see to it that I am notified immediately when he arrives?"
"Aye, m'lady," Gretchel murmured. "Now, you best be getting back to bed yourself. It's cold out here, and we wouldn't want you taking a chill as well."
No, we wouldn't. Least of all Petyr. Alayne thanked the maid and slipped back into the bedchamber. She very much doubted she would sleep a wink for the rest of the night.
She was right; she didn't. She just lay with her eyes closed, chasing a thousand potential plans around her head and discarding them just as quickly, and yawned, blinked, and pretended to be groggy when Randa tickled her nose with her braid and said, "Wake up, sleepyhead! Your lord father is having Belmore and Templeton to breakfast this morn, and he's requested that you do them the honor of attending."
Belmore and Templeton. Two of the Lords Declarant whom Petyr had announced his intentions to assiduously butter up, Alayne recalled – Belmore by bribery, and Templeton by befriending. It seemed Littlefinger had also noticed that Lord Robert was expiring more swiftly than he had calculated, and was moving to shore up his defenses against any charges of misconduct. With them, the Corbrays, Lord Nestor Royce, and Lady Waynwood, that left only Bronze Yohn Royce as Littlefinger's last opponent. Lord Horton Redfort was elderly and ill, and Ser Gilwood Hunter, the late Lord Eon's heir, was too busy looking over his shoulder for his kinslaying little brother Harlan to get overly involved one way or the other. Only Bronze Yohn, Maester Colemon, and me.
"No," Sansa said, without giving herself time to talk herself out of it. "I'll not be attending the breakfast. Have one of the servants send word that. . . that my moon blood is come." That was sufficiently feminine enough to frighten all but the most determined men out of asking any further questions.
Randa gave her a curious look. "I thought you had your moon blood a fortnight ago, that day you wouldn't go riding with Lord Petyr."
I did. That at least had not been a lie, but she had never been more grateful for it. That had been after the first time she'd let Harry kiss her, and she had not at all liked the deceptive casualness in Littlefinger's voice when he suggested that she show him where Harry had taken her. His hand was resting on her back, in fact rather lower on her back than protocol dictated for a father and daughter, and she felt as naked as she had that time when Ser Boros Blount stripped and beat her before King Joffrey's entire court. Tyrion made him stop, and the Hound gave me his cloak to cover myself. And later he left it in my room, stained in blood and smoke, when he fled the Blackwater. It made her wish she'd been able to bring it with her before escaping with Ser Dontos, but that was madness.
"If you must," Randa said at last, with a shrug. "I daresay Lord Petyr doesn't need your help cozening anyone, and if he's uncouth enough to enquire, I shall tell him ghoulish tales to his heart's content." She flashed a teasing smile, but her eyes were sharp. "Where are you really off to, then? Eloping with Harry?"
Sansa flushed. "No. I. . . I only didn't want. . ."
"My dear, no one needs to apologize for not wanting to spend a beautiful morning like this with men like that. Lord Benedar Belmore would sell his aged grandmother if he saw a profit in it, Lord Symond Templeton is an amiable imbecile, and Lord Petyr Baelish, well. . ." She considered Alayne closely. "If I were you, I'd be concerned about him getting to your maidenhead first, rather than Harry. Not all of us are blind, sweetling. Littlefinger lusts after you so loudly it's a wonder it doesn't give the High Septon nightmares in King's Landing. Surely you don't feel it's proper, from your own father?"
My father was Lord Eddard Stark. But that was too dangerous. No matter how sanguine Littlefinger was about their apparently certain victory, the Lannisters were still dangerous – and not her only enemy. I must still be Alayne, always. "My father. . . means well." She almost choked on the lie.
Randa continued to eye her. "So does my father, but you don't see him grabbing my arse or fondling my breast or wheedling kisses every chance he gets. Come on now, love, it's just us girls, naught to be afraid of. Has anyone ever told you that you look very like a Tully? Lady Lysa was one, of course, and her sister, Lady Catelyn. . . you could venture into the riverlands right this instant and they'd bend the knee to you, assuming the outlaws didn't get you first. Blue eyes, and your hair is growing in quite red at the roots. And of course, your beauty. . a young maid, four-and-ten, while men of every breed and character search for Sansa Stark, of the same age, coloring, and uncertain whereabouts?"
Cold horror swam down Alayne's spine. She knows, she realized. Randa knows, and most like has known for a while. What was she saving it for? When did she plan to spill it?
"Oh, sweetling," Randa said, seeing the expression of numb shock on her face. "Don't look at me like that. This changes nothing between us, you know. It's plain you're none of Littlefinger's blood, in more ways than one, and it's a testament to your ability that you managed to keep the secret as long as you did. For instance, my father does not know, and nor I think do any of the others. Well, I must say this explains a great deal. You're meant to be married to Harry, then, and when that is so – "
Sansa was so relieved that someone finally knew who she was that she was almost tempted to confess everything, but she held back. If anything, she would have to be even more careful with Randa now that the cat was out of the bag, not less. "That is far in the future," she said. "Anything can happen."
"Can, or will?" Randa shrugged. "Well, Alayne. Whatever it is you truly intend to do, no one shall hear of it from me. But if you mean to make this a habit, I'd advise – "
However, Sansa did not hear what she would advise. At that moment there was a knock on the door, and Gretchel's voice called, "M'lady, the monk is here. You said to be told when he arrived."
"I did." Alayne scrambled out of bed. "I need to dress. Tell him I will attend him shortly in. . ." It would not do for her to beg off Littlefinger and then be spotted absconding to some other mysterious appointment. "Bring him to my solar, and quietly."
"As you will, my lady." Gretchel departed.
Alayne dressed in haste. She chose her favorite dress of modest brown wool, braided her hair in a long rope down her back, and judiciously added a necklace with a silver seven-pointed star. She would have to play the devout ingénue with the Elder Brother, and where anyone else could see.
Heart in her throat, Alayne hurried through the corridors, expecting every moment to be accosted and dragged off to breakfast, but all appeared sedate. She reached her own rooms, opened the door into her solar, then twisted the key in the latch behind her.
"Lady Alayne," a deep voice said. "I am honored that you chose to receive me so promptly."
Alayne swallowed hard. Then she turned and smiled. "Brother. It is my pleasure."
In the flesh, her potential accomplice was tall and strong-shouldered, with a bald head, big hands, and a broken nose; he looked more like a sellsword than a monk. He was midway through his fourth decade or so, and his eyes were searching and shrewd. "I understand you wished to see me even before I examined Lord Robert."
"That is so." Alayne moved closer. "I can both save you some time, and give you a warning. Brother, Lord Robert is not merely sick. He is – " She looked around, lowered her voice, and leaned as close to him as she could. "He is being poisoned."
The Elder Brother stared at her in shock. "You're. . . you're sure?"
"Extremely."
"But by whom?"
Alayne hesitated. "If I tell you, it is under the seal of confession. You must go back to your monastery and only then reveal it. But never say who gave it to you."
"Of course not, my lady."
The words almost died in her throat. But that little girl was long ago. This time, her hesitation lasted only an instant. "Lord Petyr Baelish, Brother."
That truly shocked the monk, but there seemed to be no question at all that he believed her. "My lady. . . you are his daughter? Child, the danger. . ."
"There is more. The world believes the singer Marillion killed Lady Lysa. He never did. Little – Littlefinger did it. He pushed her out the Moon Door. I saw it with my own eyes. And before. . ." Alayne's heart fluttered in her chest like a dying bird. "Lady Lysa was. . . not in command of herself, and she spoke at length of a plot the two of them had devised. To murder her first husband, the Hand of the King, and frame the Lannisters for the crime, and write to my lady mother and tell her that it was so. . ." At the end she realized what she had said, but by then it was too late.
The Elder Brother was transparently floored. He raised his free hand to his face, and dropped it. "Lady Alayne. . ." he said at last. "But then that would not be your true name. . ."
"No." She dug her fingernails into her palm. So long holding this so close, and now divulging it to two people in the same day. She must be mad. "It's S-Sansa. Sansa Stark." The name felt almost queer on her tongue, like a favorite dress she had worn as a child and now could not quite slip over her head.
Something flickered in the Elder Brother's eyes. For a moment he seemed about to speak, to tell her – what? Then he shook his head and said, "The murder of Lord Jon Arryn was the spark that started the War of the Five Kings. If it can be proved that Lord Baelish, not the Lannisters, was the one who struck it. . ."
"It can't. Only he and Lady Lysa knew."
"And now you as well," the brown brother said. "My lady, think of what that means."
"But it can't. It would be my word against his, and he would say that I was lying, that Lady Lysa was mad and raving with jealousy, and that I myself swore that Marillion murdered her. And he. . . he saved me from King's Landing, I can't. . ." Her words trailed off as she realized that she in fact could, was doing it right here, right now.
The Elder Brother put both hands on her shoulders. "Child," he said. "Listen to me. The moment I return to the Quiet Isle, I will send a letter to the High Septon and the Most Devout. They have their own extensive intelligence network, and with the Faith armed again, there will be no shortage of volunteers to see justice done for these sacrilegious crimes. The Faith will send inquisitors here to the Vale, and if Lord Baelish cannot satisfactorily and completely account for himself, he will be placed under arrest and called to stand trial for his life."
Sansa's stomach was rioting with butterflies. What have I done? Petyr had saved her life, arranged her marriage to Harry, he was going to give her back the North. . . but Littlefinger had done at least as much ill as the Lannisters ever had. Mayhaps more. And she could not, not in any conscience, step aside and let him add the murder of Lord Robert Arryn to his list. The decision had been made as sharply and completely as turning a key in a lock. Whatever it may cost me.
"Child," Elder Brother said, reading her face. "By the time these accusations do come to light, Lord Baelish will know that there is only one person who could have made them – anonymity or otherwise. And I do not think he will suffer such a betrayal meekly. You would do well to come with me. The Quiet Isle is a refuge for all those who have no other place to go."
"I. . ." Sansa tried desperately to keep her thoughts straight. "No. . . he'd know, they'd all know too early that something was wrong, if I vanished. . ."
"Better too early than too late," Elder Brother urged. "The Faith will keep you safe, Lady Sansa. Stay here, and you will fall deeper into Lord Baelish's power than ever – and he will use you as a pawn against us, when the time comes."
Sansa knew he was right, but she could not possibly see how they would ever make it back to the Quiet Isle, the instant Littlefinger had even an inkling that she was gone. But how on earth could she simply ride out of the Gates of the Moon with him, when he'd only come with an escort of four men, all of them Warrior's Sons? Panic threatened to overtake her, and she closed her eyes until it receded.
The Elder Brother touched the seven-pointed star on her necklace. "Be strong but a short while longer. I must still examine Lord Robert and see if there is anything that can be done to slow this, but I will do it as fast as I can. At midnight tonight, meet me in the Small Hall. I will manage the rest."
"Yes, Brother," she said. Louder, and somewhat more steadily. "I will."
Sansa felt as if she was in a dream as she floated out of the solar. She went back and forth at least a half dozen times as to whether she actually dared to do this, thinking over and over of that note brought to her room in King's Landing: Come to the godswood tonight, if you want to go home. She did, and she had, and it had been Ser Dontos, who had brought her not home but to here.
She did her best to behave innocuously for the rest of the day, and ate but little at supper. Then she returned to her rooms and tried to sleep as she waited for the castle to go to bed, but it was sheerly impossible. So she got up, dressed warmly and darkly, and slipped a dagger inside her bodice. She pulled her heavy cloak and boots on over it, and, soft and silent as a ghost, stole down the tower steps. The moonlight splintered witchy shadows on the floor. She could see the doors of the Small Hall just ahead. The bells would be calling the midnight hour soon. And then she'd go – she'd be free, she'd fly –
She was aware of footsteps behind her an instant too late. Then a hand shot out of the darkness and clapped over her mouth. An arm thin and strong as an iron cord linked around her waist, lifting her almost off her feet, and the point of a dagger kissed the nape of her neck, giving a lazy turn just deep enough to send a hot drop of blood rolling down her back.
"Sansa Stark, is it?" Ser Shadrich whispered in her ear. He had taken the liberty of donning leather gauntlets, and laughed softly when she tried to bite him. "I thought so. You'll not be going with the monk tonight. Oh no. You'll be going with me."
Sansa tried to scream. It came out as a gurgling choke, and he pressed his hand harder over her nose and mouth, making spots dance before her eyes as she fought to breathe. With one arm locked across her chest, he used the other elbow to force her head down so far that she gagged. Then, her feet skimming the floor like a broken puppet, he maneuvered her quickly and quietly out a side door and across a dark, narrow yard. His horse was waiting.
"Now, my dear," he said. "Do understand that this isn't personal. In fact, I'm doing you a tremendous favor. You want to go back to Winterfell, don't you? Of course you do. Well, I'm going to take you there. The tale is that Lord Ramsay Bolton has let the younger Stark girl slip through his fingers, so he'll pay a king's ransom to get his hands on the elder and have his claim to the north confirmed beyond all questioning. You can be his lady. Just like you want."
Sansa began to struggle in earnest. The Mad Mouse sighed. "You could have made this much easier, you know. But if this is the way you choose. . . so be it."
Sansa had just enough time to try to bite him once more, to claw him, to fight the way that Arya would have fought. I am a Stark, a Stark, I am a wolf too. Then something struck her a smart blow across the temple, and the world turned upside down into darkness.