So when would her time to speak come? Alayne noted a meal had been sent to her room whilst she had prepared herself, but it was all she could do to take a few unenthusiastic bites and force them down to keep up her strength. She felt sick.
At any moment she could be called down to offer testimony before all the Lords of the Vale, and she would have to stand before them all and lie through her teeth.
...
What does Lord Yohn know? Alayne asked herself again. Could he catch me out in a lie? Condemn me right besides Petyr?
Alayne nervously flattened the creases in her dress. Petyr had given her access to Lady Lysa's wardrobe after her death; a wealth of silks and furs and fabrics far beyond anything she had ever dreamed, but since the arrival of the Lords Declarant she had not touched so much as a single garter. She observed herself in the mirror - yet another luxury - the gown she presently wore more than adequate. It was a brown dress - brown had become her colour, now that she was Alayne - embroidered with periwinkle blue silk, but nonetheless it was a respectably drab design. She checked her hair - the black dye held strong, but Alayne felt a short moment of panic when she brushed her hand through her hair and saw her roots red.
If she settled her hair to the side it was not visible, even up close, but what happened when her hair grew out yet more? The Tyroshi dye was strong, but it couldn't colour hair that hadn't yet grown. And Alayne could not be caught colouring her hair black, lest it reveal her to be anything other than Lord Baelish's bastard daughter.
Nevertheless, it would suffice for today.
Alayne sat and waited, occasionally pacing, occasionally sat. She dared not leave her apartments, and so the normally vast rooms suddenly seemed tiny - like a cage. Every so often she would shoot nervous glances at the door, and then venture to her privy, her stomach unsettled. Her chest felt tight. What was happening out there?
And so when her time finally came, Alayne could not help the swell of relief in her chest. The guardsman offered the same half-bow as before, and led her down to the High Hall in silence. Gods, why didn't anyone speak? The silence was fast becoming intolerable.
When she arrived, Alayne was greeted by the sight of all the lords of the Vale flanking the sides of the High Hall, standing tall, shoulder-to-shoulder. Every eye fell one her as she walked, their gazes critical. Petyr stood to one side, Lord Royce to the other. Marillion was on his knees in the corner, still clad in irons. Alayne presumed he had just finished giving his own testimony. Now it was her turn.
"Do you know why you are here, girl?" Lady Anya Waynwood began.
"To offer my testimony?" Alayne said.
"Regarding the death of Lady Lysa Arryn, aye," she agreed, shooting a look Lord Yohn's way. He turned from his place and walked her way. "Now," Lady Anya continued, "I want you to know that whatever you say, none of us will hurt you. I swear that to you. On my mother's grave. You mustn't feel compelled to say anything you know to be a mistruth."
"My daughter is no liar," Petyr chimed in.
Alayne observed the lords. Their critical gazes suddenly seemed a great deal more compassionate. It seemed they leaned towards siding with Petyr, but that knowledge did little to settle her stomach. Alayne knew just how fickle some men could be.
"I never said she was, Lord Baelish," Lady Anya retorted. "I was just making sure she knew she was safe. That no matter what none of the lords in this room would allow an innocent girl like yourself to be hurt."
"I know," Alayne answered. "You won't hurt me."
Anya offered a soft smile just as Lord Yohn arrived behind Alayne, a crumpled piece of parchment in his hand. He offered it to Lady Anya, who in turn pressed it into Alayne's hand. "However, before you give your testimony, I would like you to read this."
Petyr frowned. "What is that?"
"A letter from Kings Landing," Lord Yohn supplied. "Worry not. I'll have it read out to all of us once the girl is done with it, so you can be assured that nothing untoward is occurring, and that nothing is being done to compel an answer from your daughter."
Petyr did not seem placated, but had little choice but to plaster a smile on his face and nod his assent. Alayne met his gaze, and he offered her a reassuring look. Beside her, Lady Anya smiled as well. "Go on, my lady. Read the letter."
Alayne observed the parchment in her hand. It was still sealed with the sigil of House Baratheon. Unopened. So none of the Lords Declarant had read it. Which begged the question of why they were offering it to her. Or perhaps they had read it and had resealed it. Alayne took a deep breath, and pulled apart the seal, unfurling the letter. Her fingers ran over the parchment. Her eyes ran over the letters on the page, slowly reddening. Suddenly, the ink on the page went blotchy in a spot, then in another.
Tears were falling down her cheeks, Alayne realised. She was crying. Arya...
Alayne - Sansa - briefly wiped the tears from her eyes, on the verge of sobbing, and ran her gaze over the script again. ...I forgive you... you had a hand in killing Joffrey... Tommen's king now... hide me from his mad bitch of a mother... Jeyne Poole... raped and whipped and forced to whore for him? There was no mistaking the chicken-scratch, nor the foul language. My sister is alive, Sansa thought, fingers trembling. I'm not alone anymore.
Below, Petyr's placid face had become a confused frown. Disbelief mingled with a happy relief, fear, desperation, confusion and a sudden surge of venomous hatred in her mind when she met his eyes from across the Hall. He's kissed me more than once, Sansa thought. Does he mean to make me whore for him too? Using sweet lies instead of stinging lashes to take me to bed? Lady Anya placed a comforting hand on Sansa's back, rubbing in soothing circles. "Well?" she asked in a soft tone.
Sansa nodded, sobs wracking her body even as she clutched the letter tight to her breast. Suddenly, the future Petyr had proposed to her didn't seem to possess the same appeal that it had just a day ago. And before she knew it, the words came spilling from her lips.
"It was him..." she confessed. "It was Petyr... he killed her... he killed Aunt Lysa..."
...
( Jaime POV )
A horn cut through the cluttered air.
The riders were already dismounting when Jaime emerged from within his tent; the sounds of hooves and boots and armour mixing in with all the others noises of camp. It seemed to be a half-dozen knights, with two-dozen other men in tow. "Jaime!" roared a shaggy-haired man from the front of the lot, the Lannister sigil proudly emblazoned on his surcoat in all it's red-and-gold glory atop his ring-mail. "We feared for you after the Whispering Wood," he said, clasping Jaime by the arms and pulling him into a brief hug. "Heard Stark's direwolf tore out your throat."
"Did you weep for me, Daven?" Jaime asked, a smirk on his face.
Daven snorted and shook his head. "I don't weep," he said. "I rage." Then his gaze softened and turned pitying when he saw the gilded hook at the end of Jaime's arm. "So it's true," he said. "The bastards took your hand. Which one was it?"
"Hoat," Jaime said. "Don't fret, he's long dead. And don't worry for me. I find there's much to recommend having one hand. Fewer urges to scratch my arse, for one."
Daven's smile returned with roaring bark of laughter. Jaime couldn't help but grin back. His cousin's laughs were infectious. But alas, the moment could not last. He had his duty to do, and wolves to watch out for. Jaime straightened himself. "Come inside, cousin. We have much to discuss."
Daven nodded, and followed him behind the tent-flaps. In the corner, Pia was mulling wine for them, occasionally chattering with some squire from his retinue. She shot him a look, and Jaime refused to meet her gaze. Another pang of guilt hit him, then disappeared again. He was here to decide the fate of an entire kingdom, not fret over the feelings of some smallfolk girl. And so, with the wave of his hand, Jaime sent them both away.
"I need to know what awaits me," he began once they were alone.
...
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