( Sansa POV )
"Bronze Yohn knows me," Sansa insisted. "He was there, in Kings Landing, at the Hand's tourney. He saw me in the crowds."
"Ah," Petyr said, nodding as he put a finger under her chin and grazed her lip with his thumb. "But back then you were only a pretty face in the crowd. A man fighting in a tourney has far more to concern himself with. And your hair was red then, not black. My daughter is tall and fair, as Sansa was, but her hair is black, and that will be enough. Men only see what they want to see, Alayne."
Sansa swallowed as Petyr's eyes locked on hers, and then she looked away. The memory of their kiss in the snow still lingered in her mind. The kiss that had killed Lady Lysa...
"Have a servant prepare the solar," he said as he pulled back. "I will receive our Lords Declarant there, not in the High Hall, lest they think I mean to take the seat of the Arryns. A man as low as me should not be seen to have such lofty ambitions."
"So you will give them Robert?" Sansa asked, though she knew better.
"And the Vale?" Petyr asked, amused.
"They already have the Vale," Sansa said.
"They have much of it, I'll grant, but not all. I still have friends in a few places. The Graftons, Lynderly, Lyonel Corbray, and then all the lords around my own seat in the Fingers. Nothing to match the might of the Lords Declarant, of course, but enough to give me leverage."
"But we needn't stay here and suffer the risk," Sansa said. "You still have Harrenhall."
"A seat surrounded on all sides by armies of the crown, far too large and lying in ruins. It'd cost a fortune just to light a fire in every hearth, and that's without even mentioning the curse. I'd put no stock in such things, of course, but I cannot deny there is something ill about that place. Harrenhall has withered every hand to touch it." Petyr shook his head. "I needed a great title to marry Lysa, Alayne, to bring her back into the fold. And now she is gone. My claim could be too easily challenged."
"Then give it back to Cersei," Sansa said. "And let us pray the curse is real."
Petyr laughed and teased her with a little smile as his knuckles brushed her cheek. "There is something to that," he said. "Yet you mustn't fret, Alayne. Cersei's time will come. In this great game we all play even the littlest pieces have a will of their own. Sometimes they'll refuse to make the moves you plan for them. It is a lesson Cersei has yet to learn, one she refuses to learn. You must remember never to make that mistake, Alayne."
Sansa nodded solemnly. "I will."
"Good," Petyr said. "Now, unless I am mistaken, we both have duties to attend to."
Sansa nodded and straightened her dress, and the two of them set off in separate directions. She set upon the food, seeing to it that the wine was mulled and appropriately spiced, and gave commands to the cook to make enough bread and cuts of beef for twenty. She saw to the salt as well, making sure it was only of the finest quality. Once they have taken our bread and our salt they become our guests and cannot hurt us, Sansa told herself. Had Robb thought the same, she wondered, on that night where the Freys betrayed all their oaths and cut their throats?
Yet Yohn Royce was no Frey. She remembered him from the Hand's tourney, resplendent in his bronze plate, brave and valiant and even chivalrous in his victory against the Red Priest Thoros of Myr. No, Sansa tried to convince herself, he would never stoop so low.
Once Sansa had made all the necessary preparations, lighting the hearths in the solar and laying out the table, she went to bathe and wash her hair. Then, once this was done, she went and looked over her choices of clothing. There were several gowns that gave her pause and made her heart flutter, yet a bastard such as she supposedly was would not presume to wear such fine silks and furs, no matter how pretty they would have looked on her. She was no longer Sansa, but instead Alayne. And so she went for a dark brown lambswool dress with a simple cut.
It was modest and becoming, showing only the tiniest hints of her smooth skin with silken embroidery on the fluttering sleeves and tight bodice, yet it was only a touch finer than what a favoured serving girl might wear. It would work well enough as the dress of a baseborn daughter of a minor lord. She forwent much in the way of jewels as well, choosing only a simple gold-threaded choker with a silver clasp that wrapped tight around her neck and blended well with her darker hair and distracted from the Tully blue of her eyes.
I hardly know myself, Sansa thought, perhaps with a touch of melancholy that she quickly quashed. Lord Royce will never recognise me, and that is all that matters.
Emboldened by her new dress, a still somewhat nervous Sansa - nay, Alayne - went down to greet their guests. In Westeros, the Eyrie was the only castle who's main entrance sat below the dungeons. Steep stone steps took guests most of the way, but nearest to the Eyrie the ascent went entirely vertical, and all visitors had the choice of a straight climb up six-hundred feet of wall littered with handholds, or else an ascent in an old wooden basket at the end of a chain, fit only to haul supplies.
Lord Redfort and Lady Waynwood opted for the basket, by far the oldest of the Lords Declarant, and then it was lowered down for fat Lord Belmore. The rest seemed happy to make the climb, and over the course of hours more lords and knights entered the Eyrie than even Sansa had thought fit to prepare for. There were fifty of them, all armed to the teeth. She knew not their names nor their faces, but their heraldry she had made a point of learning.
She greeted each lord and knight after the gruelling climb in the Crescent chamber in Lord Robert's name and served them cups of wine. Last of all came the Royces; Lord Nestor and Bronze Yohn. Yet though Yohn's hair was grey and his face seamed with wrinkles and cracks, he looked about with shrewd eyes, his hands ready at his sides, large and strong enough to rip any man in twain. That face, that plate, it brought the memories all rushing back.
She saw him supping at their table in Winterfell, saw him smashing her father to the ground with a practice sword in hand, and then turning to see to Ser Rodrick as well. He will know me, Sansa suddenly knew, in the pit of her stomach. She considered throwing herself at his feet and begging for protection, but thought better of it. He never fought for Robb. Why should he fight for me? The war is finished and Winterfell has fallen.
And yet, as she approached, she noted how closely Lord Yohn's gaze followed her. She presented him with a cup of wine, her head bowed, and timidly said: "Lord Royce, will you take this cup of wine, to take the cold away?"
Yohn's brows - the bushiest she had ever seen - furrowed over his slate-grey eyes. He cocked his head to the side as he studied her face, and a tense silence seemed to fall over all the other lords as they watched him. Then he nodded and accepted the cup, and silence fell away again to chatter as he took his first sip and asked: "I know you from somewhere, girl. Might I ask your name?"
"Alayne," Sansa nervously supplied. "I'm Lord Petyr's natural-born daughter. And I don't think we've ever met, my lord."
"How old are you, child?" Lady Waynwood interjected, the crows feet around her aged eyes crinkling gently.
"Fourteen, my lady," Sansa said. "A maiden flowered now."
"But not deflowered, one can hope," Lord Hunter said, his bushy moustache bristling as he spoke, even as Lord Yohn and Lady Anya shared a meaningful look.
"Hush, now!" Lady Waynwood said with a scowl. "This girl is young and gently bred, and has suffered horrors enough. Best take us quick to your father, Alayne. The sooner we are done with this the better we will be."
...
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