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Just as Sansa's red hair was beginning to bleed through Alayne's black tresses, so did Sansa's thoughts begin to grow through Alayne's. Sometimes she would smile up at her father's cunning face from some embroidery and a small voice would insist he is not your father. She might be talking with Mya, and a feeling of shame – as though she were a fraud – would creep up her neck, usually accompanied by the image of a boy with a pale face and large, sad, soulful eyes. Almost every time she looked at the old, blind wolfdog now, she would inexplicably hear a harsh voice ringing through her head:
“A dog doesn't need courage to chase off rats!”
Harsh and scraping though the voice was, something about it gave Alayne great comfort. It held the promise of honesty. The honeyed lies of the likes of Marillion gave her little comfort now. Now? A child of Baelish, legitimate or not, would be far more pragmatic; the Septas who had brought her up would have raised her on a diet of the Seven-Pointed Star. There would be no time for fanciful songs, and empty nonsense about knights. (I'm no ser! A voice growled from the back of her memory).
As a bastard, she had a great deal of free reign about the castle. Since poor mad Lady Arryn's death she had even more, she was practically her father's chatelaine! Consequently, nobody questioned where she went and what she did. They each had their purpose and they assumed that she had hers. The rooms next to Sweet Robin's had always been left empty – presumably for the children that never came – and Alayne decided that they ought to be aired out; one never knew when one might need the space.
The room next to Robin's was clearly dusted only on a semi-regular basis, but the hangings on the bed were in a poor state of repair; she wondered if there might be bolts of silver velvet in storage from when they were put up, or if she would have to see what could be done with a needle. An image of a messy little girl, scowling at her crooked stitches brought a smile to her lips. She had no idea why. She shook her head and caught sight of a cedar trunk at the foot of the bed. Perhaps there might be cloth in there?
An inexplicable feeling of anticipation crept over her as she wiped the lid free of dust. A wolf was inlaid in a pale wood. Weirwood, Sansa whispered to her as she traced the design. The traitorous Eddard Stark must have left it here after his fostering was cut short by Robert's Rebellion. (… Have mercy on him, your grace...) The scars on her back that Alayne had never been able to explain began to throb slightly. She opened the chest.
There were clothes hastily bundled on top, as if a servant had shoved them there to maintain an appearance of tidiness whilst the chambers were vacant. She tutted and picked up each individual piece of clothing and folded it neatly to be put back on top later. Each item was simple, but finely made from good quality, hardy material; somehow she wasn't surprised that Ned Stark wasn't one for the vagaries of fashion. Perhaps some of these might do for Sweet Robin if he grew a little. She suspected that if she were to look in dead King Robert's old chest, she would find him a fool for the fashions of the time; once upon a time he apparently cut quite a figure. (You got old... You got fat). The first thing which caught her eye was the dagger, shining silver, grey and blue against a brown leather jerkin. The second was a bundle of letters, tied together with a faded black ribbon by hands that Alayne, somehow, knew would be clumsy with the ribbons in a little girl's hair but kind and comforting all the same. She picked up the dagger first, aware that the letters would take significantly more time.
The handle shone silver in the light. The pommel took the form of a wolf howling up at an invisible moon, the cross-section appeared to be wings of some kind. She unsheathed it a little and saw a falcon's head crying into the blade. The scabbard appeared to be some kind of embossed leather, all blue and grey geometric designs with silver metal work. She couldn't see a strap anywhere, in spite of there being holes for it. Maybe this was made to celebrate the amity between Houses Stark and Arryn? She fingered the teeth in the gaping maw of the wolf. (Lady is good!) Something in her chest grew tight. Alayne didn't know why, but it was suddenly very important to her that she read the letters as soon as she could. They should mean nothing to her, but the faded ink seemed to be calling to her with such a sweet song...
She gathered up the dagger and the letters and closed the trunk for now. Anyone could walk in at any moment here; she would need both time and privacy to peruse the small bundle of papers in her hands. But, she could hardly walk through the Eyrie with a dagger and not expect comment, de facto chatelaine or no... Struck by inspiration, she pulled down the bed's velvet hangings and carefully concealed both the weapon and the the letters in its folds. If anyone saw her it would look like sewing to be done. She picked up the bundle gingerly, taking great care to maintain its shape, and left the room.
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“Alayne, my sweet, what do you think you're doing?”
Alayne froze at the door. She turned around and smiled at her father. He couldn't know. She tried to read his dark, inscrutable eyes by the firelight. The remains of dinner were still being taken away by the servants.
“Father?” She cocked her head to the side, and looked up at him through her eyelashes in a manner that she had often noticed made Father better disposed towards her.
“You haven't given me a good night kiss. Are you so keen to get to your bed?”
“Oh! I am so sorry Father.” No you're not, that rebellious little voice muttered.
“Come here, sweetling.” His smile didn't reach his eyes. It rarely did.
She walked over to Baelish's chair and bent over to plant a kiss his cheek. He turned his face at the last moment and pressed his lips to hers.
...Her perfect model of Winterfell lay shattered in the snow about their feet. Sweet Robin had destroyed it out of the same pettish, jealous rage with which Theon Greyjoy had burnt down the real thing. His lips tasted like mint as they moved against hers. Her heart beats fast and heavy and she doesn't know why...
A distinctly un-familial feeling jolted in the pit of her stomach as she straightened up.
“You'll never be too old for a kiss from your own father, will you my sweetling?” She wasn't sure if fathers were meant to use such low and enticing tones towards their daughters.
“No. Never, Father.” She smiled. They're all liars here and every one of them better than you. “Good night.”
“Sweet dreams.”
She had fled the room no sooner than the words had left his mouth. The torches threw shadows on the wall, and Alayne's chest hammered with Sansa's heart.
…The shadows in her chambers danced with a ghoulish green light that leant a quality of unreality to everything within. She might have thought it beautiful if the screams of burning men weren't ringing still in her ears. She clutched the tattered Kingsguard cloak to her chest in one hand and traced the ghost of his kiss on her lips. May the Old Gods watch over him. May the Mother gentle his rage and the Father temper his judgement. May the Warrior give him victory and the Maiden give him hope. May the Smith forge him a kinder future than his past; let the Crone lend him her wisdom so that he may avoid the Stranger...
She gained her room and scrambled to light a candle. She thrust the dagger under her pillow and took the letters into her trembling hands. She inhaled deeply and gathered the swathes of silver velvet about her like a blanket, and began to read:
Dear Eddard,
I am glad to hear that you have arrived safe and sound. You carry the honour of your House with you and I pray to the Old Gods that you will acquit yourself accordingly. Now that you are there you may open the package that you have, doubtless, found at the bottom of your trunk; if you haven't found it, then unpack at once – don't be lazy just because you're not at home! I had it commissioned from young Mikken to remind you of the friendship between Houses Stark and Arryn; it should always be at the forefront of your mind in your dealings as Lord Arryn's ward. Learn to use it and I know that you will do us proud.
Benjen and Lyanna miss you terribly and keep asking when you will return. Although I am half-convinced that they are causing even more noise and chaos than usual to make up for your absence.
Your Father,
Rickard Stark
Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.
She smiled as she traced the word “Winterfell.” She imagined Rickard Stark as an older version of her own father frowning as he struggled to formulate the right combination of stern words and encouragement. Did Grandfather miss him more than he dared let on? Sansa remembered the sensation of her father's arms around her and suddenly she knew that he did. Fiercely. She picked up another letter. Her heart lurched as she saw a child's clumsy hand:
Deer Ned,
Is it nise at the Eery? Lyanna sez there ar lots of mowntuns and snarks there. Old Nan told us abowt the mowntun clans and sed they are like wildlings so its just like home!
Pleese come home soon. I miss playing with you. Lyanna is ok but she is a gule.
Love
Benjen
Sansa's heart lurched. Just how young had Uncle Benjen been when his brother had been fostered? Four? Five? He can't have been writing for more than a year at most. The writing itself reminded her of how Arya's used to be, down to the inability to spell “girl.” Her sister had never quite developed the looping cursive that she herself favoured; the last time she'd seen it the words had been small and spiky, but rather neat in their own way. Not that Sansa had admitted it. She was too busy sneering that it didn't look ladylike. Sometimes, she wanted to go back in time and slap herself.
Her heart jolted. Had Rickon even started learning to write when Theon had him murdered? He could leave no letters, no ink and paper record of himself on this earth – he didn't even have a tomb. All that was left of her baby brother was in the memories of those left clinging onto life. And she had betrayed the memory of him, Bran, Robb, Father and Mother by choosing to forget them all in order to protect herself. Shame roiled in her stomach. She didn't even know if Arya was alive, but she knew Arya would never have pretended another man was her father – not in her mind. She reached for another letter to distract herself from the tears rolling down her cheeks and soaking her neck.
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… Maester Walys and Father have been discussing the subject of betrothals. Again. Namely Brandon's and mine. It always amuses me terrifically when you and Benjen are left out of such conversations, but such is the lot of the heir and daughters. As a rule, I have observed, a lord will concern himself primarily with the marriage of his eldest son and marrying each and every one of his daughters off before dealing with his other sons. Girls are expendable, but powerful, pieces in politics with a one-time use attached to them. Nothing like a marriage to curry or keep favour, but we are apparently useless thereafter – save for the creation of heirs. I am but two and ten and they are so keen to “secure my future.”
But I digress. They have narrowed down Brandon's betrothal to either Lady Cersei Lannister or Lady Catelyn Tully. Why he can't just marry a Northern girl I'm not sure, I dare say it's something about strengthening ties with the South. They don't appear to have come to any conclusions about my intended yet, thankfully. As long as they don't force me to sew I suppose it will all work out in the end.
Your own sister,
Lyanna Stark of Winterf-
The candle sputtered out. Sansa sighed and rubbed her eyes wearily. She had read through about six years' worth of intermittent correspondance and was exhausted. Even if she could find another candle in her room, it would probably be wise to stop for now. She had duties to fulfill tomorrow and it would not do for people to be asking why she seemed tired. She gathered the letters that she could feel in the dark and dressed for bed. Even though she had not read a single word written by her father, she felt she knew him better than ever before; the words of others had left a hole shaped unmistakeably like Eddard Stark, but with details that she'd never known before. Sansa had known Eddard the father, but now she saw flashes of Eddard the son and Eddard the brother.
She felt safe for the first time years as she fell asleep that night.
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It was harder than ever to be Alayne again the next day. She had to constantly remind herself that Alayne would hold her head high, but not too high and that Alayne was refined, but not too refined. The other treasures that the direwolf chest might yield preyed on her mind too much and divided her attention. She had a dagger and the proximity of the ghosts of the past, what else might the magic trunk produce?
She paid a bit more attention to her father's former chambers the next time she entered them, hungry for any details of his life that they might provide. Aside from the silver of the remaining bed hangings, the room was frustratingly free of any personal details. Nothing to indicate a Stark had ever been here but the direwolf on top of the travelling chest.
She rifled through the trunk carefully until the feel of some slightly rougher fabric caught her attention. She pulled it out tentatively and shook it out. It was a tabard, like those she had seen knights wear at tourneys in King's Landing. It was snow white depicting a grey direwolf courant, but there was something... Off about it. The actual direwolf itself was on the wonky side and the seam on one shoulder seemed sort of... Scrunched up. Thinking about it, the direwolf was also a tad ambiguous in its shape. A smile stole onto Sansa's face. Aunt Lyanna must have made this for him. Her contempt for and inability to engage with the art of sewing had been made plain in several of her letters, but she must have put her personal feelings aside to make this for her brother. It looked shoddy, but a great deal of stress, pricked fingers and frustrated tears must have gone into it. If they had never gone to King's Landing, would Arya have ever made something similar for Robb or Jon?
Sansa's smile slid off her face. No. Not for Jon. She supposed Jon would have taken the black if they had left Winterfell or no. And nobody wore the sigils of their renounced families at the Wall. Even if that hadn't been the case, Mother would have pitched a fit if Arya had chosen to finally make an effort in the womanly arts – only to gift it to her bastard half-brother. A bastard who looked too much like his sire for her mother's comfort. Sansa had experienced much of the bastard's lot in the last few months; the contempt, the scorn, the lack of basic respect. She swore that if she made it out of everything alive and regained Winterfell she would embrace Jon for all the world to see and call him “brother.” She swore it on Eddard Stark's bones. It wouldn't make up for her past cruelty, but it would certainly be a start.
On an impulse, she raised the cloth to her face. She choked back a gasp. Underneath the smell of mustiness and cedar, there was a faint metallic smell – like the chainmail Sandor had favoured – and underneath that... She didn't know if her mind was just playing tricks on her, but she swore that she could smell leather, leaves and horse. It was as though Eddard Stark had never died and might be coming through the door at any moment to scold her playfully for going through his things, before joining in and explaining the stories behind everything. She swallowed back her desire to cry and put the tabard to the side. She sat there for a moment to gather herself. She turned the tabard inside out and folded it neatly; at a casual glance it looked innocuous – no wolves to see here! She carried it flat in front of her and left the room...
********************************
Sansa was desperate for dinner to be over. Not only was she keen to go and finish the letters, but she had suddenly become uncomfortably aware of her so-called father's gaze. She had been so used to looking at Petyr through Alayne's eyes that she had never interpreted his attentions anything other than paternal; unfortunately Alayne also had a tendency to remember things somewhat selectively. It was Sansa that had been surprised by a kiss, so why should it colour Alayne's judgement? Only, Sansa couldn't delude herself that his gaze was anything other than that of an animal staring down his kill, anticipating the moment that he might pounce. Only Cat. Never had she been more uncomfortably aware of her resemblance to her late mother. In hindsight, that was when she had really thrown herself into the role of Alayne – as though the thin veneer of falsehood might protect her a little longer.
She helped Robin to some more chicken. If she put some skin on his bones he might live and she might never be forced to marry Harry the Heir, she reasoned in jest to herself.
“Alayne my sweet, the servants tell me that you have been seen carrying around rather a lot of cloth over the last two days. Do you have a special project in mind?” Petyr interrupted her musings.
“I've only been trying to make myself useful, Father.” She forced herself to reply. “I noticed that some of the curtains were in a bad state of repair and I thought I might use my skills instead of sitting idle.” It wasn't not true exactly, those had been her intentions before she'd found the trunk...
“Hm. Well. Don't. That's what we keep servants for, my love. You wouldn't want to do them out of a job, would you?” He sliced a potato with care. “If you want a project, you could start on your maiden's cloak – couldn't you?”
Without missing a beat, she replied:
“What a wonderful idea, Father. I think I'll do just that.” Privately, she was screaming. That meant Sweet Robin was to die soon, and she was to be sold off to his heir like so much chattle. Another Seven-be-damned marriage she didn't want. Perhaps Arya hadn't been the only one to take after Lyanna.
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Dear Ned,
Little brother you needn't worry yourself on the account of my honour, or Lady Catelyn's. I assure you that my dalliance with Barbrey is long-since over, although I think you'll find that it's standard practice all over the Seven Kingdoms for a Lord to honour his wife and bed his mistress – and “ne'er the twain shall meet!” Except in Dorne, but they have such peculiar ideas about everything. Not quite so peculiar as you, though, Ned. Honestly, you have such a quaint notion of marriage – one might take you for a maid if it weren't for the beard at times. Although I hear that there are women with beards in Essos, so you may prove one yet!
Father bids me to remind you that Lyanna will be accompanying Benjen and I to the tourney at Harrenhal, and if Baratheon wants to meet his intended that would be a good opportunity.
Bring your smile and who knows? You might even meet a girl.
Brandon
Uncle Brandon didn't write quite as often as his siblings, but marginally moreso than their father. He seemed to truly live up to his nickname of “the Wild Wolf.” It was so peculiar to see him refer to her mother as his intended! It was such an uncomfortable glimpse into what might have been.
However, the letter made Sansa frown slightly. It sounded as though her father had given his brother a lecture on the matter of fidelity to his intended; it was a bit rich – given the existence of Jon Snow. Maybe he had taken Uncle Brandon's advice after all? There were only two letters left. Her heart lurched. Harrenhal and the inevitable march of history were approaching. She opened a letter:
Dearest Ned,
I am so looking forward to seeing you again! It really has been too long since you were back at Winterfell. We'll almost be a family again. It's sad that Father has to be the Stark in Winterfell, but I'm sure we'll be able to amuse ourselves without him. He seemed rather glad not to be going, truth be told; apparently tourneys are “a load of old Southern nonsense.” I chided him by reminding him that his grandchildren by me would be a load of old Southern nonsense. That shut him up!
Don't think that I've come round. I stand by what I said when you were home last. I haven't accepted his affections, I've just accepted that this marriage is going to happen whether I like it or not. If I were to ever let myself love him, my heart would break every time I heard of one of one of his “insdiscretions,” as you so tactfully termed them. If I can hear the echoes of gossip in the far North, how loud shall they be by his side? I know that a lady wife is meant to stop her ears to such talk and do her duty, but I was never such a lady Ned; I will hear the plain truth, no matter how painful it might be.
I hear that Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia are going to be at Harrenhal as well, Brandon appears to be under the impression that he will win against him in the lists. The poor lamb didn't take too kindly to me laughing at him. Benjen's earnest faith in him bolstered his spirits, however. He recovered sufficiently to race me round the keep. I even let him have the inside track; sadly it wasn't enough and victory was mine (again). He'd forgiven me for it for it by dinner, so all was well.
It's so strange to think that there will be another lady in the keep soon. I hear that she is kind and virtuous sort; I hope that she will be a good influence on Brandon! Truth be told, I'm slightly nervous. Will she find me wanting as a lady? Will she like me? Will I like her? The future is full of mysteries, but I sincerely hope that Lady Catelyn and I might be at least friends before Father ships me off to Storm's End.
Your ever-loving sister,
Lyanna
Lyanna had never married. She had never had the luxury of being in love. She had never met Catelyn. Rhaegar Targaryen had seen to that. Sansa swallowed and unfolded the last letter. It puzzled her considerably. It simply said:
Forgive me.
A
Who was “A”? A friend? An enemy? A lover? Why would they need forgiveness? Her stomach twisted to think that her father could ever have been in love with someone other than her mother. But for Robert's Rebellion, who knows what might have been?
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It felt as though the ghosts of the past watched over her the next day. As if they knew there was a decision to be made and they waited for her to make it. She fashioned a strap for the dagger out of the Stark silver velvet and secured it around her wrist, taking care to angle her wrist just so – with her long sleeves concealing anything she might have underneath it. She had a feeling that it would be a good idea to have it close to hand today.
First, she visited Maester Colemon. She told the thin and nervy man that her father asked that he reduce his leeching of little Lord Arryn and to reduce the dose of Sweetsleep. The man had frowned,but ultimately agreed. Next she had to find the man that she had been calling “Father” the last few months.
“Father.” She smiled sweetly at Petyr Baelish as she sidled next to him in a corridor. “Do you think that I should sew my maiden cloak with mockingbirds or the sigil of my grandfather?”
He blinked, as though he himself had forgotten that his grandfather's sigil had not been his own. Comprehension quickly flashed into his beady eyes as he understood the real question she was asking: Do I reveal myself as a Stark at my wedding to all the Vale, or shall I continue to hide?
“Hm... I think perhaps that some revelations are best left for the honeymoon. Or whenever I think best, don't you sweetling?”
“Of course. I expect I should finish it with some haste?”
“That might be a prudent course of action.” Baelish conceded with an incline of his head.
“Might I then go to the Gates of the Moon for a few days? Myranda is a fine seamstress, and has a fine store of materials she would not mind yielding to a soon-to-be-wedded friend,” she bluffed. Alayne was a natural liar, she kept cool and pale where Sansa would have blushed under Petyr's suddenly intense stare. “I'm sure that Lord Royce would be a most attentive host to the daughter of the man who gave him his title.” She couldn't run, even if she wanted to; or at least, that was what he hoped that he took from the comment.
He stopped in his tracks and gave her a shrewd, apprasing look. She just stood stock still and prayed to the Old Gods and the New that he took the bait.
“Are you sure that there is nothing in the Eyrie's stores which might suffice?”
“Well.” She gave a cautious look over her shoulder as if to check for passers-by. She inclined her head towards his, so close that they were practically touching. “I hope that it might do for a marriage cloak in the future. Gods forbid that anything should happen to Harry.” She looked up at him through her eyelashes and let a little of old Sansa through, the one who would have considered the current situation as worthy of a song. Petyr swallowed.
“Gods forbid...” He straightened up and cleared his throat. “Well. I suppose that the future Lady of the Vale should be married in the appropriate style. Go with my blessing, daughter.”
“Thank you Father.” Sansa kissed him on the cheek and left him where he stood.
Petyr had just failed a test and he didn't know it. He thought that she had been asking about cloaks and identities, she had really been asking about power. She motioned for a guard to follow her. What she had gleaned from his reply would be that she would never be free of him, if she were to throw her lot in with him wholeheartedly; any partnership would be an unequal one and on his terms. She opened the door of Eddard Stark's old room.
“You see that trunk..?” She flashed him a brilliant smile.
“Erryk,” the young guard supplied hastily. She swore there was a blush peeking out from his helmet. She had never seen him before.
“Erryk. What a strong name! Could you please carry it to my room? I need a travelling trunk and I can't very well bring everything I need here, can I?”
“N-no m'lady.” He must be very new, she mused.
“Thank you Erryk.”
Erryk followed behind her with her father's old chest. Sansa sighed. For a moment she had truly entertained the thought of allying with Petyr, but as long as he dictated the terms she would only ever be his pretty puppet claimant to three kingdoms. She would be cast aside the moment she ceased to be useful or convenient to him. She opened her door as the screams of Aunt Lysa falling through the Moon Door echoed about her mind.
“Just there, Erryk – if you don't mind.”
“N-not at all, m'lady.” He placed the chest down by the bed. “Will that be all?”
“Could you just run down and let Mya know that I'll be needing her help to get down to the Gates of the Moon? Thank you.”
“Right away m'lady!” With that, Erryk was gone.
With great efficiency and delicacy she began unpacking her father's things and hiding them with her own wardrobe. As... Intrigued as she was gradually becoming by Petyr, she couldn't allow herself to trust him – never mind -
Her fingers touched something smooth and wooden as she reached down to remove another pile of clothes. She frowned before rummaging and retrieving the mystery object that she had missed before. It was a comb, fairly simple and plain – but for the flowing carving of wolves going down the side. Her breath hitched. There were still a few strands of dark hair tangled in its teeth. The last time she had seen it in person, it had been attached to her father's lifeless, staring head.
Suddenly she felt a great burst of anger at the injustice of it all. Had the young man – boy, really – who had combed out his hair known that his head was going to end up moldering on a spike on the whim of a mad, cruel boy king? Had he foreseen his younger brother fleeing to the Wall out of grief as much as duty? Had he known that his sister – beautiful, and free and wild as the wind – would die a Targaryen captive in Dorne? That his father and brother would be dead within mere seconds of each other for the amusement of a madman on a throne? Did he know that most of his family would be dead within two years? All of them scattered and dead, and for what?
She heard howling and she knew that it was many, many miles away – far out of her hearing – but it seemed to echo in her heart. She wasn't going mad. She could feel a tug towards the sound that reminded her of her all too brief time with Lady. Her pack was calling. It was time to join them, preferably with an army at her back. She did not wish to rule the North, but by the Gods would she take it back so that no more Northmen would have to die on the whim of the power-hungry and the mad.
Sandor Clegane had been fond of telling her how much she was like a bird, chirping courtesies and singing on demand from her gilded cage. She had thought that with the Mockingbird she might be able to fly at last; but in her heart she knew she was no bird. She belonged among the wolves and the dogs on the ground.
She had packed what she thought she might need, along with the tabard and her father's letters. She called for someone to take her luggage down to Maya and the mules. If she couldn't convince the Royces to take her side and help her with the Lords Declarant, she had a contingency plan in place. She took one last look around the room. She took a deep breath and touched the wolf's head pommel of her concealed dagger for courage. Only one thing was certain: Winter was coming.