Chapter Text
Goodbye, was all the note read.
Sansa gaped at the letter for a long minute before spinning on one heel and running outwards- there were only a few places for a person to- to say goodbye from in the Eyrie, and only one that would be left unattended at the moment. Sansa took the stairs swiftly, racing down and hoping she wasn’t too late-
She skidded into the Moon Tower, just in time to see Alayne step onto the ledge before the window.
“Alayne,” she cried, hands going up, and Alayne paused; she turned slightly to look at Sansa, and there was only a furious, red-eyed sadness in her eyes.
Sansa stepped forwards, numbly, and Alayne turned away. The window was narrow and small, but Alayne must have broken it- there were bloody shards surrounding the floor, shifting and scattering due to the wind.
“Please,” begged Sansa, because she knew no life but this one. Because she could not bear to lose the most important person in her life, because she would just as surely die under another’s thumb. “Alayne-”
“I’ve nothing left,” replied Alayne, and forces her shoulders through the gap.
You have me, thought Sansa. You have me, Alayne, am I not enough?
Alayne did not look back. She stepped forward, graceful as always, as if she were simply stepping off a staircase- she stepped off of the Eyrie, and it was Sansa who dropped to her knees.
You are a bastard.
You will never be enough.
She had been, once: Sansa had led Alayne away from this very window a fortnight previous, when they received news of Lord Arryn’s death. She’d been quicker, then, or perhaps just luckier. But nobody would care for what Sansa’d once done- they’d remember her failure now, and they’d call a quick death merciful.
But Sansa couldn’t move. Her feet wouldn’t get up. She could only stare at the empty window and wish Alayne back. The grief cut at her lungs like shredded diamonds. For a moment, she wondered if she’d died already: the pale, dark-haired bastard, taken in by Jon Arryn, dead of a bewildering sorrow. It was like a song. Like a particularly cruel, cold-edged tragedy.
“My lady!” A woman snapped, hurrying forwards. Sansa blinked, slowly, but before she could speak the lady’s face twisted in sympathy at the broken glass. “Oh, dear girl, what happened?”
“She- fell,” Sansa whispered. There were still no tears in her eyes. “I… I tried to stop her-”
“I’m sure you did,” the lady replied, hand warm on Sansa’s back. Then, voice shifting into something approximating hurried patience, she said, “But, my lady, there’s no time. Your- Lady Arryn will be given her sky burial tomorrow. And tonight you must speak to the Vale lords. Now come along.”
She chivvied Sansa along, and Sansa let her, too tired and numb to even hear her words beyond a faint buzzing in her ears. She was thankful, she supposed, that she wouldn’t be pushed out of the same window Alayne stepped off of, unceremonious as a bastard’s death ought to be.
It was only later, locked inside Alayne’s chambers and alone, that Sansa realized: nobody called bastards my lady. And nobody would ask a bastard to speak to the Vale lords.
They do not know who I am.
Alayne had lost her life to a proud, defiant sort of grief. She’d decided what would happen when news of her father’s death came, but she’d remained for her mother’s sake. When Lady Rowena died in the early morning, Alayne, too, died- she only breathed for a little while longer. And with her ended the trueborn line of Arryn.
But Sansa wasn’t an Arryn. She did not know who she was, entirely; only that she was a bastard. Only that there was nothing left to her in these snow-shrouded mountains.
Sansa was a bastard. She was an Arryn raised, perhaps, but a Stone at heart. She could not imagine dying for grief, not here, not ever. There was always hope, if one was alive, wasn’t there? And there could only be darkness, if there was death.
They do not know who I am, thought Sansa, and reached for the warm, blue-tinted furs of Alayne Arryn, of her oldest friend in the world. So I will become whatever they want.
…
Alayne had always been quiet.
A peculiar sort of quiet: proud, partially, but more than anything else, disdainful. She’d little patience for the favor lords attempted to curry from her father, even as a young girl, and absolutely no respect for those she named fools. Sansa’d been one of very few who hadn’t been sneered at and summarily dismissed when she was little, and both Lord and Lady Arryn had been so glad to see it that they’d immediately made her Alayne’s companion in everything, from lessons to meals to even sleeping.
The lessons were of great importance, now that Sansa was to become Alayne, because it was how she knew the names and titles and methods of addressing the nobility.
Sansa had no maids to do her hair, because Alayne had never kept any. First it had been Lady Rowena, braiding both their hairs; and when she fell too ill to do it regularly, it had been Sansa who’d done it for both of them- though Alayne’s mother had tried to do it for them at least some days.
So she dressed, quickly and quietly, taking the gowns that were at the back of the cupboard, meant for Alayne to grow into. But Sansa was taller than Alayne, even if she was slimmer, and to keep this charade she needed to look as noble as she could. It was simple enough to slide into the gown, and after that, she brushed and pinned her hair as elegantly as she could.
“My lady?” The woman- Sansa recognized her as Anya Waynwood, now- called. “Are you ready?”
“Just a moment,” replied Sansa, and glanced at her reflection in the looking glass. There was something missing, there.
She picked up Alayne’s oldest piece of jewelry: a smooth blue stone, rounded with age and strung on a piece of string that was barely holding together. Her hands trembled as she looped it around her neck and tied it off.
Hopefully, Alayne would understand why Sansa did what she did. She’d always been forgiving to those she called her own, even if she was never particularly soft. And what use would Alayne, a dead corpse six hundred feet below, have for her furs or her jewelry?
Forgive me, she thought, and firmed her jaw, and walked outside her room.
…
“What say you, Lady Alayne?”
Sansa looked at each of the lords assembled before her. Had Alayne been there, she would’ve sneered, would’ve lifted her pale nose into the air and twisted her lips.
But Sansa wasn’t Alayne.
She swallowed and stepped forwards, pressing her hands together, tight enough to whiten her knuckles.
“I am the last Arryn,” she said quietly. “And I have already lost so much: my father, to this war; my mother, to her grief.” My dearest friend, to despair. “The Vale has lost good men, my lords. We cannot comfort their widows or their children with more blood.” She nodded, slow and firm as an ocean’s implacable tide. “There must be an end to it somewhere, mustn’t there?”
“An end to what?” One of the younger lords asked impatiently.
Sansa remained coldly dignified.
“An end to vengeance,” she replied. “An end to war, and blood, and loss. If King Rhaegar wishes me to go to King’s Landing, I shall. There is no use to be found in defying the Targaryens now.”
“Isn’t there? They killed your father!”
“Yes,” she murmured, heart pounding in her chest, as afraid as she’d ever been in her life. “And I will bend the knee, my lords, for the Targaryens have men we do not, gold we do not. I am no fool, to wage a war for revenge that we can only lose. I will not have more blood upon my hands.” She breathed in, stood taller, and looked the lords in the eye. “I will go south, my lords, as soon as is possible. I beg of you to ready the mules to lead me down the Eyrie.”
Sansa spoke nothing more for the rest of the meeting. Tears clogged her throat when she tried to open her mouth, and it was only a stark awareness of what failure meant that kept them from welling up in her eyes. Her body felt very cold, despite being in finer clothing than ever before- guilt, perhaps, circling around her and waiting for her to falter.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will some warmth into the tips of her fingers.
“My lady? Are you- alright?” A ruddy-cheeked girl asked, looking concerned.
Sansa scraped up a smile. “Of course,” she murmured. “Though I’m afraid- I would like to visit my mother. Before the sky burial, I mean. And I don’t believe I’ll be of much use here any longer.”
“You’ve been very brave,” the girl agreed. “Nobody would dare to stop you, my lady, if you left. That you even came here surprised many people: we supposed you’d be too deep in mourning for your parents. Would you wish me to accompany you?”
You thought I’d be locked in my rooms, weeping.
If I was Alayne- she breathed deep, felt something catch deep in her chest. If I was Alayne, I would be dead. I am not Alayne. I must forget her.
“Yes,” she said, and rose; offered the girl her arm. “Please, tell me your name.”
“Jeyne,” said the girl, and they walked out quietly.
…
I am sorry, Sansa thought, kneeling beside the white-pale corpse of Rowena Arryn. I did not mean for this to happen. But I refuse to give up quietly- I have never been so soft-spined as Alayne. I do not know if I will die for this, but I know that I will live longer. I know that I shall always carry you with me.
But I refuse to spend the rest of my life weeping.
I am a Stone.
She brushed a stray lock away from Lady Rowena’s face. It was as dark as Sansa’s own hair, and looked ugly against her papery skin. When she was young, Lady Rowena had gathered her to her chest and told her that there was nothing to fear from storms. She’d been kind, far kinder than any other lady would’ve been to a simple bastard- but there had yet been a distance between them.
Sansa would miss her, and she would miss Lord Arryn as well, but she missed them with the distant ache of far relations; not blood-kin. Not as she grieved for Alayne.
I am a Stone, thought Sansa, kneeling and pressing a cold, dry-mouthed kiss to Lady Rowena’s cheek. I am Sansa Stone, and if it is the bastard in me that gives me strength, then so be it. I will not be a candle they get to pinch out. I will be as undying as the stars themselves.
I am a Stone, and I will be a bastard brave.
…
She was still with Lady Rowena, gently braiding her hair into the tight knots that would be cut and burned the next morning, when there was a great commotion in the hall outside. Sansa frowned at the door.
There were some courtesies to be observed in the funeral halls, and among them was absolute silence: when the great lords and ladies died, they were entombed in halls of dark, silent, star-edged marble. The quiet was only broken when they laid them out for the sky burials, with the oldest dirges. It was absolute blasphemy to break it.
“-my lord!” A woman shrieked, voice much closer, and Sansa stood, abruptly; a moment later, the door crashed against the far wall.
“My lady,” said a man, resplendent in Targaryen black and red.
He bowed, a little; stiffly. And then he continued to speak, paying as much attention to the Vale’s sacred rituals as one might a particularly irritating gnat. Sansa bit her tongue before she could start shouting.
She might not have loved Lady Rowena, but she’d always had a great amount of respect for her. This- this sacrilege- was too great an insult for a woman who’d only ever been kind in her life.
There were pale, apologetic faces lining the door, watching Sansa carefully. How she reacted would determine so much more than just a simple daughter’s grief. Suddenly, she was aware of the power she had claimed, by slipping into this dress.
The man was still speaking. Sansa hadn’t bothered to pay attention before, and she certainly didn’t do so now. Tossing her braid over her shoulder, she stepped forwards and twisted her fingers in his sleeve, dragging him out of the room.
Speaking in the hallway wasn’t quite taboo, but it was frowned upon. Sansa couldn’t have cared less, at the moment.
“Who do you think you are?” She demanded, before, reflexively, biting her tongue; after a moment’s pause, she continued: “Has no one told you of our funeral rights? It is Lady Arryn dead there, in the death room. How dare you break her mourning silence?”
“My lady-”
Sansa swallowed, hard, when she saw the pity twist in his eyes. She clenched her hands, straightened her back until it was painfully stiff- what use had she for pity? Pity would not bring back her parents. Pity would not bring back Alayne.
You are Alayne.
“If you ever do something like this again,” Sansa whispered, “I will have you thrown out the Moon Door. Do you understand me?”
The man recoiled. “Do you know who I am?”
“I do not care,” Sansa said, lips thinning into a white line. “I am Alayne of the House Arryn, last trueborn daughter of the Lord of the Vale, and I will not let any Targaryen warmonger disturb my mother’s death silence.” She inhaled, and remembered: nobody would dare stop you. “I beg you to remember that I was the sole voice speaking against war, my lord. And that the Vale only ever bent the knee to your dragons.” Head tilting, she asked, “Where are the dragons now, my lord?”
He flushed angrily. “How dare-”
They are dead.
“The Vale is a part of your kingdom by choice,” she continued, unforgiving as the rising tide. “Remember that, the next time you decide to commit blasphemy inside these walls.”
Head held high, cheeks flushed with a rage pure and true, Sansa walked away.
…
They brushed Lady Rowena down with the oils and stinging soaps, cut away her braids and brushed the silk-soft fuzz that remained, wrapped her arms in moonflower vines and dragon’s breath stems. They crowned her with pale nightshade and carried her body out, wending along the slippery paths at the mountain summit until they reached a clearing.
Lady Rowena had been well-loved in the Vale. She was the daughter of a good man, and the wife of another, and she was known for her charity and her gentle nature. When news of her death arrived, more than a hundred women climbed the Giant’s Lance to bid her goodbye.
As her daughter and heir, it was Alayne’s right to begin the first song: the first verse always sung alone, the second a chorus.
Slowly, carefully, she began.
“Gentle Mother, font of mercy,” she began, and on the second line Anya Waynwood took up the song; by the end of it the clearing seemed to tremble with the high, plaintive notes.
…
Hours later, she stood in the High Hall and watched her men feast. Her hands didn’t quiver even a little, but it wasn’t triumph she tasted along her throat- it was grief, the sort that seemed too overwhelming to even consider swallowing.
Alayne would never get the burial her mother received.
It burned like a brand inside her chest, this truth. Sansa wondered how the lies could be so easy to accept, but the truth was so much more painful. She wondered if, when she left this place, it’d make things easier or harder, to be in a place that didn’t ache like a tomb.
“My lady,” said a man.
Sansa turned, and felt herself flinch inwardly; go stiff and cold, outwardly. It was the same Targaryen man from the death halls.
“Is there something you wish?”
“I wished to speak to you of your trip to King’s Landing,” he told her, ignoring the cool note in her voice with an ease that Sansa hated. “I will be accompanying you to the capital, my lady, and I believe it would be best if we set out as soon as possible. We cannot delay much longer before the rains come and make the roads nigh impassable.”
“We buried my mother only hours previous,” Sansa replied flatly. “My father’s bones haven’t even been offered back to me. We shall leave when I wish it, my lord, and not a moment before.”
He looked frustrated.
Good, thought Sansa, sharply, irritably. Let someone else feel half as helpless as she did, right now.
“Lady Alayne-”
“If you simply wish to repeat your old arguments, I’ve no desire to hear it.” She waved a dismissive hand and made to stride away.
“Take care, my lady,” snapped another man, stepping up to the Targaryen lord’s shoulders. “Have care of how you speak. Lord Jon-” Sansa flinched, slightly, at the name, “-is no mere lord. He is a prince born and bred, the second son of King Rhaegar Targaryen and her Grace Lyanna Stark, and you shall show him the respect due his station!”
Sansa felt her cheeks flush, at both the upbraiding and the attention that was being focused on them. The hall had started to stare somewhere between the man’s loud voice and his sharply pointed words.
...which hadn’t been insulting in the least. Damn the man.
“I apologize for any disrespect offered to you,” Sansa said finally, inclining her head towards Jon Targaryen. “However, I stand beside my words. We shall leave when I see fit, and not a moment before.” Seized with a sudden, reckless idea, she went on: “And I say that I shall not leave the Eyrie until my father is laid to rest in our fashion.”
“I-” Jon blinked, looking startled, and Sansa took full, shameless advantage of his silence to curtsy, excruciatingly polite, and leave.
…
It’d been absolutely stupid of her to say that.
Sansa knew it as soon as she said it. The only question was towards the magnitude of her mistake- and even that, she was sure, was immense. Gods, if she could’ve just kept her mouth shut, there wouldn’t have been any issue.
Which all boiled down to the fact that she had no choice. She didn’t want to start a war, and thus she could either swallow her pride or gamble with everyone’s lives by defying the King. Sansa bit her tongue and headed towards Prince Jon’s study.
Her pride wasn’t worth anyone’s life, much less an entire kingdom’s.
It was with her hand upon the door, almost knocking, when she heard voices inside. Sansa let her hand fall and instead pressed an ear to the door, unwillingly curious about this new Targaryen prince and his thoughts.
“These customs are quaint,” said one man. “Though foolish, overall. Just set fire to their bones, I say. Quicker funeral- and longer time spent drinking to their memory.”
“Aye, because you’ve never lived in the Vale,” another said dryly.
“Fuck you, Targaryen,” said the first man. Then, after a pause: “And I didn’t. Spent most of the time playing in the mud, and by the time the funerals started I was in the Crownlands saving your sorry arse.” He coughed slightly. “We should leave soon. The snows’ll cover the passes easily enough, and then we’ll be stuck.”
“You know why we haven’t,” Jon said.
Sansa’s eyes narrowed.
“Because of that Arryn girl? Jon, she’s mad with grief. She isn’t being reasonable.”
“I know that,” Jon said wearily. “But Father doesn’t want to start another war. It’s because of Viserys’ that we’re here at all, and- well. The least I can do is let her have some illusion of power, isn’t it? Once we get to King’s Landing, she’ll be eaten alive.”
Illusion of power? Sansa’s hands clenched into fists. Illusion of power! I’ll show him what an illusion of power looks like!
But back in her rooms, Sansa saw the silent, shadowed reminders of her oldest friend- and for all that she’d like to remain here, she couldn’t wait to live in a place that didn’t consist entirely of loss. If Jon Targaryen thought she’d be eaten alive in King’s Landing, she’d prove to him exactly how wrong he was.
She sat, and gazed out of a window she’d looked out of a thousand times before, and then Sansa began to write.
…
They traipsed down the Giant’s Lance within two days’ time.
Jon was- confused was a good word for it, though bewildered might be better. One day, Alayne Arryn sneered at him and issued a challenge; the next, she announced in the High Hall that she was going to leave as soon as possible.
When he told her his father’s instructions, she didn’t even seem the slightest bit fazed. Her blue eyes measured him and just as easily dismissed him.
“I’ve no need for maids on the road anyhow,” she said, level as a blade. “I am thankful for your father’s worry, Your Grace. Though I daresay it is unwarranted.”
“One does not tell a king that his interests are unwarranted,” Jon replied.
He’d meant it in a joking fashion; Lady Alayne clearly didn’t see it in the same manner. Her features hardened, minutely, and Jon realized that she took his words for a rebuke. Before he could dissuade her, she’d curtsied and walked away.
And- well.
All that might have been contradictory enough, but this outstripped everything else by far.
“She doing it again?” Edd asked. When Jon sent him a look, he arched an eyebrow. “Don’t go pretending like you’re any less confused than me. A lesser man would’ve thought her doing witchy things, you know that. Burning rosemary- gods, if we get off this mountain without being snowed in, I’ll put a sprig of rosemary on the Stranger’s altar myself.”
“She’s a lady,” Jon said mildly.
“A half-mad one, at that. Look at her!”
Jon turned.
Alayne had taken to wearing heavy black cloaks, and they made her pale face seem even paler; in the misty mornings, she looked almost ghostly. Her hands cupped a small wreath of rosemary that she’d spent the whole day weaving; and, as Jon watched, she began to light the edges- the smoke traveled up, framing her face in gentle grey. She kept burning the wreath slowly, carefully, never letting the flame truly catch, only blacken the rosemary sprigs. When all she held was an ashy circlet, she crumbled it between her fingers and wiped the smears on the grass, and then walked away.
She did this every night.
Nobody knew why.
Jon knew some called her a witch; they thought she prayed for mercy from the king. Others thought she prayed for vengeance for those who’d killed her father. Others named her a grief-mad lady and pitied her.
But if Edd thought it’d gone far enough to bring it to Jon’s attention, then it meant he could no longer ignore it. It was one thing for a girl to play at children’s games, but another thing altogether for a lady to do it- and as much as Jon might personally feel sorry for her, he had to be his father’s son here.
“My lady,” he said, following her to her tent. When Alayne looked back at him, features as if carved from stone, he felt himself flush awkwardly. Abruptly, he wished Aegon were there in his place. Surely he wouldn’t have found this half so uncomfortable. “I- hope you aren’t finding the trip too difficult.”
“I daresay it is your men who find it difficult,” she said coolly.
Jon’s flush deepened. It was true: Alayne found it ridiculously easy to climb down the mountain, scaling it with an ease that put both Jon and his men to shame. That afternoon, they’d found her at the second waycastle, awaiting them with the same expression she’d worn since Edd had corrected her about Jon’s true lineage- a sort of polite disdain.
“Still.” He coughed. “‘Tis the first time you’ve left the Eyrie, isn’t it? It must be a change.”
“I’ve been to the Gates of the Moon,” she replied. Then, eyes sharp on his face, “Was there something you needed, my lord?”
“The wreaths that you burn- they’re discomfiting my men. If you could perhaps refrain-”
“I cannot,” Alayne interrupted.
Jon frowned thunderously. For all that he wasn’t raised a Targaryen prince, he was unused to people deliberately refusing to follow his orders. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Alayne placed the decanter that she held on the table decisively, and then turned to face him fully, eyes pale and gleaming and deadly. “I have left my mother’s funeral unfinished. I have left my father’s bones in you and yours’ care, for I do not wish for war. I have watched you blaspheme my people’s sacred rituals, and I have followed you down this mountain, following your father’s orders, because the lives of the living are worth more than the weights of the dead. And you dare, you dare, to stand before me and tell me that I not grieve the greatest man and woman that I have ever known? How dare you? How dare you?”
Jon stumbled back at the sudden, sharp flood of words.
Mourning, he thought. That’s what the wreaths are for.
“I didn’t mean-”
“Get out,” she snapped.
Jon blinked, still unmoving, and Alayne seemed to take some sort of rebuke in his actions- her mouth snapped shut, and she straightened, and her posture became almost conciliatory; but when Jon looked closer, he could see the way her jaw remained taut, and the hard look in her eyes.
“I do not care for your men or their discomfort,” said Alayne, after a long pause. When he still didn’t move, she asked, neither firm nor gentle; merely weary: “Was there anything else, my lord?”
“No,” he said, still a little shell-shocked. He sketched a slight bow and strode out of the tent quickly.
Gods. When Edd called her grief-mad, he didn’t lie.
…
Before she left the Eyrie, Anya Waynwood had pulled her aside and wrapped her arms in a shawl the blue of a midnight sky. Her eyes hadn’t watered, but she had looked tired in a way that made Sansa guilty.
“The King shall not kill you,” Lady Anya had said, quietly. “You are the last Arryn. But keep your head down, Alayne, in King’s Landing: the city is full of liars and killers, and you’re too kind for them by half. Don’t give them an excuse to hate you.”
If all King Rhaegar wished to accomplish by calling Alayne Arryn to the capital were to kill her in full view of the city, then he would do what he wished. But the Vale hadn’t fought in a war in over a decade, and the Crownlands were still recovering from Robert Baratheon’s second rebellion. If the King killed the defenseless daughter of Lord Arryn without reason- the Vale would rise up.
But the Targaryens always ran too close to madness, and Sansa couldn’t afford to forget that.
Every sunrise she saw, she wondered if it would be her last.
…
“Your Majesty,” Sansa murmured, sweeping into a curtsy. “It is an honor.”
“The honor is mine,” said King Rhaegar. “You’ve traveled so far, so quickly- in such grief. I assure you, your acquiescence shall be amply rewarded: as soon as the snows lessen, your father’s body shall be taken up to the Eyrie.”
“Your Majesty’s kindness knows no bounds,” Sansa said quietly.
“And that is not the end.” He nodded, waving at the people arranged behind her. “For the Vale’s understanding, and their loyalty, I wish to offer them a reward. It is my will that you, Lady Alayne, marry my son, Prince Jon Targaryen.”
Sansa blinked, her lips parting in sheer shock.
I was ready to be clapped in chains. Not… marriage.
Dimly, she heard Jon ask, “Aegon?” His voice might’ve been weaker than usual, but the ringing in Sansa’s ears outweighed all else.
“Your brother remains on Dragonstone,” said King Rhaegar. “What of him?”
“Is it not the will of the Seven that the elder marry before the younger?”
Sansa inhaled shakily. The flash of Jon’s black-leather arm against the corner of her vision left her feeling at least a little better. He wants this as little as I do. At least that was a kindness.
“It is the will of the Seven that the elder is betrothed before the younger,” replied King Rhaegar. “And Aegon has been promised to Rhaenys for more than a decade.” He turned to Alayne. “What say you, Lady Alayne?”
She felt herself go rigid.
…
Alayne’s face remained blank, a feat that Jon wished himself capable of- her face had paled at his father’s announcement, but she’d held fast to her composure. As it was, he felt both anger and confusion war inside him until his hands trembled.
For his father to have decided upon this betrothal, he’d need to have planned it for at least a length of time, which in turn meant he could have told Jon. Instead, he chose to spring it on him at the same time he made it public.
“I-” Alayne’s voice caught on the syllable as if it were thorned, but before anyone could truly comprehend it, she’d sank into a graceful curtsy, her long dark hair shielding her face from view, and when she spoke next her voice was steady. “I am honored, Your Grace. I can think of no greater reward.”
“Then go,” said his father, a pleased smile pulling across his lips. “Rest. We shall speak further on the morrow.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” said Alayne, turning and walking away.
Jon watched her leave, and turned back to his father. The majority of court seemed to lose interest in them; Jon kept his back straight and stiff and his eyes locked on his father.
“Where is my mother?” He asked, after a long pause. It was curt, and likely too disrespectful when addressing a king- but Jon was angry. And if he stayed there for much longer, he was like to start shouting.
Rhaegar’s eyes hardened slightly. “Lyanna rode north to Winterfell months previous,” he said lowly. “Lord Stark arrived a fortnight previous, with two of his children.” As Jon started to walk away, he added, “Jon: you might be grateful. Lady Alayne is lovely, and looks to have a good head on her shoulders. You could have done far worse in marriage.”
“I do not claim to dislike this match for distaste of Lady Alayne,” Jon said stiffly. “Rather for the lack of warning.”
But it was useless, as Jon well knew. When he’d come to King’s Landing two years ago, Rhaegar’s personality had fascinated him; after a few months, he’d understood that Rhaegar was more self-absorbed than anything else, with sporadic bursts of possessiveness that alienated all those close to him.
Rhaegar essentially paid as much attention to Jon as he did a dancing monkey, which was none at all when there were more important things at hand and a vague sort of fascination when there was nothing else around. It’d been insulting at first, but Jon quickly realized that it wasn’t just him that was treated that way: from Jon’s mother to Queen Elia to Queen Rhaella, Rhaegar simply disdained to observe those closest to him.
With an irritated sigh, Jon left the throne room. At least his uncle was here, and he’d likely brought Arya with him. They’d be able to talk, and he’d be able to relax a little in their rooms.
…
The next few weeks were- boring.
Sansa didn’t know anyone in King’s Landing, and even her maids were paid and vetted by the Targaryens. But even more than that, people ignored her. Perhaps it was because she was the only daughter of an attainted traitor. Nevertheless, Sansa was bored, and lonely, and rapidly getting tired of the wary looks from servants and nobility alike.
One small mercy were the gardens, where few people roamed; the heavy blooms scented the air, and the tall hedges muffled the noise. If she was very careful, people didn’t even know she was there.
Which was why Sansa spent hours there.
And when she turned a corner, she saw a little shadow dart into a larger man and heard the distinctive clack of wooden swords. Upon further examination, she saw that she’d happened upon the practice yard- and yet the people there weren’t the white cloaked Kingsguard, as Sansa might have expected; it was a thin little boy thrusting his wooden sword around a man, in a practiced rhythm.
But he has braids- oh.
A moment later, Sansa realized that it was no boy holding the sword: it was a girl, tall and skinny, with dark hair braided away from her face. Once she paid attention, she could see the slight swell of the girl’s hips, the way she moved higher, arcing gracefully as opposed to the more stiff style favored by men- it was obvious, thought Sansa, once you knew what to look for.
So girls are allowed to use swords, in King’s Landing? Sansa bit her lip. What else could be different here?
Lady Waynwood had told her to keep her head down.
But Sansa had done that, for longer than a fortnight now, and still people acted as if she’d die at one wrong step. And anyhow, it wouldn’t be too difficult to dress as a servant- there were even a few dresses that she’d brought from the Eyrie that were overly simple for any Arryn to wear.
I’ve been coddled for long enough. If all they’ll do is ignore me, I’d be best served finding out why. And if girls can bear swords- then I can wear a servant’s gown. I’ll be careful.
But it’ll be something to do, won’t it?
…
A week later, Jon came up to her.
“Would you like to- take a walk, my lady?”
I would wish to never see your face again, blasphemer, thought Sansa waspishly, before sighing and taking his offered arm. Perhaps she was being unfair, pushing King Rhaegar’s orders onto Jon. It wasn’t as if he’d forced her to stop burning the rosemary wreaths, even if he’d asked her to; and after, he’d never held her sharp words against her.
“It is a bright day,” she said, struggling to offer up some conversation. “And the gardens here are particularly lovely.”
“Everyone says that you spend much of your time here- I’m glad you could find something of note in King’s Landing.” He grimaced. “I confess, I rather dislike it.”
“Oh? Do you have a city that you prefer more?”
“Winterfell,” Jon said simply.
“Ah, yes.” Sansa cocked her head to the side. “I’d heard you lived there until you were twelve. Is that true?”
His face hardened slightly. “Yes.”
“Ah,” she repeated, a little lost when he didn’t respond; slightly helplessly, she went on, “Your mother left for Winterfell a few months previous, didn’t she? How is she, my lord?”
“As you’d expect,” said Jon.
“And your- uncle? His two children? How do they find-”
“I’m certain everyone is fine,” he snapped abruptly, yanking his arm away.
The distance he put between them, the way he stood- they were still in full view of the more crowded parts of the gardens. And he’d said that last sentence so loudly that those closer to them were starting to stare. Hurt warred with offense, and offense won. Cheeks bright red with humiliation, Sansa almost went to slap him- it was only an acute knowledge that doing so would likely result in her imprisonment that she didn’t.
“How dare you,” she bit out instead, voice forcefully low.
“How dare you?” Jon retorted. “I try to get to know my future wife better, I try to make peace between us, and you spend the entire time mocking me?” Sansa gaped, mouth open soundlessly, and he strode forwards, face flushed. “Well, Lady Alayne, I’d suggest you reconcile yourself to this marriage, for my father will surely not call it off. I am to be your husband, for better or for worse, and the sooner you accept that fact, the sooner you’ll find yourself happy.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Sansa said slowly, when Jon paused. “I simply asked-”
“You think I don’t know what people say?” He demanded. “That they don’t talk about how my own father forces my mother to send her family to court if she is to leave, as if all they are- are hostages?”
Sansa felt her confusion twist with pity; but then Jon ruined it by opening his mouth.
“So stop acting as if you’re that much better than me, and start trying.”
“You aren’t the only person to try to make this a better match,” Sansa flared back. “I might have wanted a husband who didn’t shatter my mother’s death silence, I might have wanted a husband who didn’t represent my father’s killers, but I’ve bent my head as easily as I could! I’ve kept the Vale from war! I’ve been a loyal citizen, an obedient noble, beyond any other duty I could have sworn. You think sending my father’s bones is a gift, my lord? It is a right. The basic rights granted any lord. So stop thinking that you are the only one who dislikes this match!”
“I,” he hissed, “am a prince.”
Everything went still and quiet. Sansa felt herself straighten, felt her anger go cold as the waterfalls surrounding the Eyrie, felt a faint ringing in her ears. He might not have said it, but she could read it in his eyes easily enough: I am a prince, and you are the daughter of a traitor. You ought to be on your knees, begging me for mercy, thanking me for my kindness.
I am an Arryn, Sansa thought, hands quivering slightly. I have a moon’s chill, a falcon’s pride. If you thought I’d beg you for anything, you will choke on your mistakes.
“Yes,” she said. “And you are also a killer. You are the son of two killers.”
His nostrils flared, and for the first time Sansa felt a twinge of fear at the dark fury in Jon’s eyes. But before she could flinch away, he’d turned on his heel and left.
How dare he? She thought, sinking down to sit on a nearby bench. And yet, for all the anger she felt, she couldn’t help but feel that the thought rang false. Sansa had been the one to overstep this time, and she knew it. I shouldn’t have gone so far. But he should not have done as he did, either.
Oh, gods above- was she to never properly speak to her husband? Was she to face a marriage of long, cold silences interspersed liberally with both of them acting no better than harridans?
And yet- for a heartbeat, she’d felt more alive than ever before. There had been something in feeling something so proud and frozen and unyielding, something that she’d never before tasted. Perhaps it was not offered to bastards. Perhaps Sansa, in wearing Alayne’s skin, had gained other, more eldritch things.
…
The next day, Sansa was brushing her hair- alone, a habit she’d gotten into on the ride to King’s Landing, the weight a pleasant one that reminded her of Lady Rowena’s hands pulling at her hair when she was younger, when a glint caught her eye.
It was her hair: the strands, always dark enough to rival the night sky, had lightened at the crown of her head, to a shade different enough to stand out. Sansa frowned, peering at it, and after some fumbling plucked one of the strands.
The dark color hadn’t just lightened.
Sansa’d seen this on Lady Rowena, when they cut her braids away. This wasn’t naturally done- this was a dye. She frowned and looked closer, and felt her brows pull together further: the red ran beneath the brown.
My natural hair is… red. Someone’s been dyeing it all along.
...why?
…
“My lady,” called a man.
Sansa turned and offered a placid smile to the lord- one she’d seen walking about the keep but never truly spoken to. She thought she remembered Jon talking to him, but she couldn’t be certain.
“My lord,” she said, inclining her head. “I- regret to say that I don’t know your name. My sincerest apologies-”
“None needed.” He smiled, slightly, and his grey eyes warmed considerably with the expression; there was something very fatherly in his face, Sansa thought. “My name is Eddard Stark.”
“Lord Stark,” Sansa murmured. “Was there something you wished to speak to me of, my lord?”
“Nothing important. Am I stopping you from a previous commitment?”
“Not at all.”
I spend most of my days either in the gardens or the sept. Surely you know that I’ve no friends here.
“I knew your father,” he said suddenly. “Jon was a good friend of mine- like a father to me. He raised me, in the Vale, when I was younger than you are now. And I knew your mother as well, of course. You’ve much of her grace.”
Sansa felt her smile freeze, slightly, at the edges; she held fast to her composure. “Some would say I’ve her pride, as well.”
“Yes.” Lord Stark coughed, slightly, and then looked back at her. “I meant to ask you, my lady, of a girl you’d likely have heard of while in the Eyrie. Perhaps not well, but if you could only tell me of where I could find her, I’d be grateful.”
“A girl, my lord?” Sansa frowned. “I knew few enough people. But tell me her name; I’ll see if I know it.”
“Sansa,” he said, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. “Sansa Stone.”
She knew she was paling, and that her eyes had widened. She knew that everything hinged on her acting, and gods why would a proper lord be asking after a bastard left behind in the Vale-
“My lady?” Lord Stark asked, alarmed. “My lady!”
You are Alayne. Stop thinking of yourself as Sansa. You are Alayne .
“I’m fine,” Sans- Alayne said, waving him away. “No, my lord, truly- you’ve caught me unaware, that is all. I… I confess, I’m surprised, that you know of a bastard in the Vale.”
“I knew her when I was there,” he confessed.
Alayne frowned, yanking thoughts together. “You couldn’t. She’s more than a year younger than I, and I was born right after the Rebellion. Perhaps you speak of a different girl.”
“But you do know of one?”
“I- yes.” You are Alayne. She swallowed. “But it might be more accurate to say that I knew her. The morning that my mother died, Sansa threw herself off the Eyrie.”
It was Lord Stark’s turn to go white. He staggered back a half-step before remembering himself; eyes wide and shocked, he asked hoarsely, “She’s dead? You’re certain of this?”
“I watched her die in front of me.” From somewhere, she found the strength to step forwards and press against his arm; even summon up a sympathetic smile. “I tried to stop her. She was a dear friend to me. But she is gone now, my lord. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be of more help.”
“No,” he said, averting his face. When he looked up at her, his eyes were colder than ever before. Alayne shivered slightly. “Thank you for your time, my lady.”
He bowed stiffly, and strode away.
Alayne rounded a corner and sank against the nearest bench she could find, scrubbing at her face furiously. She needed to get better. The next time someone asked any questions, she had to be better prepared.
But, still: what does the Warden of the North want with a bastard girl from the Vale?
She’d started pulling her hair on top of her scalp, favoring the high braids that Cersei Lannister made fashionable- it hid the brightest red hairs from view. But now her neck ached, and her eyes stung with unshed tears, and all she wished for was to throw herself atop her bed and weep for a kinder, simpler time. She wished Alayne were there beside her, a cold hand resting on top of Sansa’s own, a tongue sharper than any blade to defend against Sansa’s demons.
Alayne died, Sansa thought, and clutched her composure close to her chest. Alayne died, and you rose from her ashes. You are Alayne Arryn of the Eyrie, a falcon of the Vale.
You will be strong.
…
“Who is that girl?” Cersei asked, cocking her head to the side.
Jaime turned slightly to see whom she referred to- he’d arrived at court a few days before Cersei herself. “Ah. That’s… Alayne Arryn, I think.”
“Jon Arryn’s daughter?”
“Yes.” At Cersei’s arched eyebrow, he elaborated, “She’s a friendless little waif. Nobody wishes to call the king’s suspicion on them, so they’re leaving the girl alone. She spends most of her time in the sept or the gardens.”
Cersei arched the other eyebrow. “A pious little waif? Oh, then she’ll be easily called to heel.”
“What are you thinking?”
Cersei glanced around, ensuring nobody listened to them. Rhaegar had thought her loyal, because her father hadn’t pledged any men to the Baratheon rebellion, and so he’d invited her back to court along with her three children. It felt good to be back in a place that was happening- after banishment for so many years, she’d almost forgotten how bright and deadly court could be. It wouldn’t do to let anyone name them traitors, after all, and so she leaned in, breathing in Jaime’s ear, “Joffrey will need a queen soon enough. And who better than the key to the Vale? Than a quiet, friendless chit who wants nothing more than to be acknowledged by someone of power?”
Jaime caught her arm, his green eyes flashing. Cersei held her breath, watching him closely, and he smirked slightly.
“You know that, do you?”
“That’s what any girl her age wants,” said Cersei, eyes narrowing back on Jaime. “Now, go on, darling brother: there are many women here who wish to speak to you. You ought to speak to them.”
“Should I?”
“So long as you know whose bed you’ll be in tonight.”
…
Alayne wrapped herself in the dark woolen cloak walked outside.
It was easy enough, to hide her high braids under the hood and keep her head down. Alayne knew where she was going, and she knew that she had to get there quickly and quietly- and that was made much easier by the fact that nobody ever truly looked at her, anyways.
Down three corridors, out into a small, private courtyard; she cut across the grass towards the same secluded area she’d seen the girl practicing with a sword in, and hesitated in the shadows for just long enough to realize that Arya Stark’s lesson was finished, and she was starting to leave.
Startling, Alayne stepped forwards and grabbed her arm.
Before Arya could tear herself away, however, Alayne spoke.
“I’d like to talk to you. In private.”
“Who-” Arya stared up at her, and then recognition flooded her face. “You’re Alayne Arryn. Jon’s betrothed.”
“I- yes.” Alayne hesitated. “Please, just for a little while. I wouldn’t be asking if it weren’t urgent.”
Arya blinked warily. “I… suppose. Talk away, if you want to.”
“Not here.” Alayne looked around her, and then yanked Arya along with her, further into the hedges until there was absolutely no chance of someone seeing them.
“What’s with all the secrecy?”
“I don’t want it getting back to your father,” said Alayne.
Arya’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Because I’m asking about him.”
“Asking- as in?”
“A week ago, your father came up to me and asked me about a girl- I knew.” He asked me about a girl I was. “A bastard I knew in the Vale. I’d like to know what’s of such importance that a Lord of Winterfell would know about a bastard girl in the Eyrie.”
“Is that all?” Arya asked impatiently. “Seven hells, woman! I’m sure it’s nothing great. Father’s always thinking about such people- the smallfolk. Perhaps he saw her when he was fostered there. I don’t-”
“The girl was born after he left,” Alayne said in a rush. “He refused to entertain thoughts as to why he knew her, as well. Are you not at least curious?”
Everything she’d seen of the girl from afar said Arya would be. Surely, surely, a girl who explored the dungeons in her spare time could be driven to consider this mystery.
Arya sent her a slightly disdainful glance and made to leave.
Alayne could see everything spinning out from here: Arya would tell Jon, and likely even her father. They’d both start investigating, and for all that she was good at lying, who knew what could happen if she weren’t careful?
Gods above, swore Alayne, and threw back her hood with one hand; dug her fingers into Arya’s arm with the other.
“L- just see this.”
With one hand, she began undoing her high braids. Arya glared up at her, though she didn’t throw Alayne’s hand off her own. When she let them fall freely, she bent slightly and turned so Arya could see.
“Do you see?”
“See what?”
“The red.”
“...yes.”
Alayne turned around and looked at her, heart pounding in her chest. “It’s at the crown of my head. And- I’ve seen the like before. It’s a dye.”
“So you’ve been dyeing your hair dark.” Arya rolled her eyes. “Big deal.”
“Not me. My- Lady Rowena. She insisted on washing my hair every few months. But the last time she was strong enough to do it, it was almost three moons ago. The roots are growing in.”
Arya frowned. “What does this have to do with my father?”
“Your father asked about a bastard named Sansa Stone,” said Alayne, softly. “A girl who knew neither father nor mother. And I have told you this because-” she breathed deep, and let the truth finally rise up, “-because I am not Alayne Arryn.”
“What?” She asked.
“Not so loud,” Alayne- no, she was Sansa now- admonished, and swallowed.
“If you’re not Alayne Arryn, who are you?”
Sansa swallowed. “Sansa Stone,” she said. “A bastard, born and raised in the Vale.”
Arya gaped at her. “You’re Sansa? Then- where’s Alayne?”
“Dead.”
“You killed her?”
“Of course not!” Sansa said, horrified. “She threw herself off the Eyrie, when news of her mother’s death reached us.” Arya still looked unconvinced, so she added: “I loved Alayne. If I could have bring her back and place her where I stand, I would. I wouldn’t hesitate for even a breath.”
Arya chewed over that for a long moment.
Sansa felt her breath get shorter. “You understand why I wish to know your father’s curiosity?”
“Yes,” said Arya, eyes flicking up to meet Sansa’s. “I do. And I’ll keep your secret, don’t worry.” Abruptly, her face hardened, and she stepped closer, nails piercing Sansa’s forearm. “But if it turns out you’re lying, I’ll not hesitate to tell the truth. I’m a wolf, Sansa Stone: and no wolf ever truly cares for anything outside of its pack.”
Sansa felt her lips press together, thinning until it was almost painful. She stepped away from Arya. You’ve a father, a brother; a cousin, who loves you as if he were your own brother. You’ve a man to teach you to wield a sword. You have an entire world, Arya Stark: and I have nothing. Sansa pulled her hair back under her hood, letting the shroud of Alayne’s persona fall over her once more.
“My name is Alayne Arryn,” she said quietly. “Do not fear, Lady Arya: I do not ask for your loyalty, or your love. Only your help. And I am not lying- I am afraid. People have lied to me for years, people I trusted- and I still do not understand so much. You are one of very few in a position to help me.” And even if you reveal me, who will trust the words of a wolf-wild child? “I thank you for your assistance.”
Arya looked away, face tense as if warring with some emotion- and then, she nodded decisively.
“Fine. I’ll speak to my father tonight, then. Can you come to my quarters tomorrow morning?”
Hope blossomed in Alayne’s throat like an unfurling flower. She nodded.
“I shall see you then,” she murmured.
…
When your hair is high, she thought, you are Alayne.
And when it falls free, you are Sansa.
…
The next morning, however, when she went to Arya’s chambers, Arya was nowhere to be found. A servant told her to stay put; his eyes conveyed a sort of sympathy for her position, though he didn’t say anything. She waited quietly.
Before Arya ever arrived, though, her brother stepped out of his rooms- tall, lanky, with hair a few shades lighter than Arya’s own. His eyes swept over Alayne, and he tilted his head curiously.
“You’re to marry Jon,” he said.
“Yes,” acknowledged Alayne.
He nodded in acknowledgement. “My name is Bran. Please- are you waiting for someone? Here?”
He looked fairly dubious at the prospect. Alayne felt her lips twitch in faint amusement.
“Your sister,” she replied. Bran looked even more dubious at that answer, and so she continued, “She asked me to meet her here. Though- she clearly isn’t here herself.”
He blinked, but then laughter lightened his features in a manner she hadn’t seen in either his sister or father- perhaps a gift from his mother. “Arya runs around whenever we come south,” he explained, snorting slightly. “Father tried to stop her the first time, but… let’s just say that didn’t work out too well. And after that, she just does what she wants. So long as she doesn’t get hurt, Father doesn’t worry too much.
Alayne smiled, softly. “I can see that. Not many women know to wield swords.”
“Is that what she calls it? Her teacher’s from Essos- he calls it water-dancing.”
“So Arya is simply learning- a foreign type of dance,” Alayne commented, amused. “Why, that ought to be a song, shouldn’t it?”
Bran grinned at her. “You like songs, then? Which one’s your favorite?”
Poor boy- neither Arya nor her father seem particularly interested in songs. And if Jon is any indication of your elder brother, I’d say Robb Stark is also far more likely to jump into battles rather than listen to songs.
“The one of Aerea Targaryen,” said Alayne.
Bran frowned. “I’ve not heard that one.”
“Aerea escapes to the godswood when her Uncle Jaehaerys takes King’s Landing,” Alayne explained. “How she stays there, and weeps, and refuses to name him king so long as she yet lives, for King Maegor had named her his heir.” She shivered. “It is a haunting melody- there was a minstrel in the Eyrie who could bring tears to the most hard-hearted person’s eyes with the tune.”
“That sounds…”
“Sad,” said Arya stepping into the room. She rolled her eyes when she saw who her brother was talking to. “Gods, don’t you have better things to do with your time than bully my friends?”
Bran’s face shifted from interest to irritation.
“Lady Alayne’s a friend now?” He retorted. “You were calling her an unworthy tr-”
Arya lunged, hand coming up and pinching Bran’s ear. Alayne retreated, serenely ignoring the scene; within a few moments, Bran’s protests faded as Arya kicked him out of the room. Only when the door clicked did she turn around, and tug at her hair, letting Alayne fade into the background.
“I thought you didn’t want my father knowing about your interest,” Arya stated flatly.
Sansa’s lips tightened. “I don’t. But- if you’ve found out why he’s asking, then I can be better prepared. I didn’t wish to be rude to a boy so young, simply for the sake of…”
Arya arched an eyebrow. “Your safety,” she said bluntly. After a pause, loud enough that Sansa couldn’t pretend to not hear, she added, “Gods, that’s irritating. You’re actually a nice person under all the frippery.”
Sansa waited, unsure if she should be irritated or not; Arya didn’t care for such careful considerations and instead flung herself at a chair, sprawling across it. After a hesitant moment, Sansa followed her and perched herself on the edge.
“So did you ask him?”
“I did.” Arya made a moue of something close to distaste. “He didn’t answer, and instead went on a rant as to why I ought to be more careful of whom I speak to. Apparently the only people who are capable of telling me of your fate are secretly rebels, and our fate is precarious enough here without me endangering us further.”
“Does he not know that I’ve spoken to a sum total of- five, no six- people after arriving here?” Sansa inquired, polite in the same way a shard of glass to the face might be. “That two of those are the king and my betrothed, the other three being himself and his children? If anyone thinks the Starks to be rebels, it is because of him, no one else.”
Arya blinked at her, startled, before sighing. “Try telling him that.”
Sansa sighed as well, and then rose. “Very well, then. Thank you for the attempt, I suppose.”
She was almost at the door when Arya called out, “I do think there’s something we can do about your hair, at least. I’ve a- friend. I can get a dark hair dye easily enough, and if you’re careful-”
“Nobody brushes my hair but myself,” Sansa assured her. “I’ve told them it’s a Vale custom, and they know enough to keep quiet about it.”
“Good,” said Arya. Briefly, her eyes softened, so she didn’t look so wary- only pitying.
Sansa bit back the instinctive, prideful answer that threatened to rise, and took her leave politely as she could manage.
I am a Stone and an Arryn. Through the worst hells people wish upon me, I will be honorable. Let the stories say that if the line of Arryn ends with me, it ends by our words: as high as honor.
…
On the way back to her rooms, Alayne met Joffrey Baratheon.
“My lady,” he said, bowing far deeper than necessary. His blue eyes met hers through his blond fringe, and Alayne felt her cheeks flush at the look in them.
“My lord,” she said, dipping into her own curtsy.
“Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you?”
“Of course,” said Alayne, cheeks heating further. “Though- I’m only headed to my chambers. I thank you for your gallantry, my lord, but I fear it unwarranted.”
“Unwarranted?” He stepped closer to her and offered her his arm. “If all ladies were as lovely as you, my lady, there would be no need for gallantry. Surely you receive such treatment everywhere you go.”
I receive pity everywhere I go, followed closely by wariness. The only men I’ve known to speak such lies are liars themselves, so tell me- what do you wish for, my lord? Why risk branding yourself a traitor by speaking to me?
Alayne, tentatively, tested the waters. “Was there anything you wished to speak to me of, my lord?”
“Yes,” said Lord Baratheon, and Alayne braced herself for the demands. “My mother wishes to invite you to a private tea tomorrow afternoon. She sent me to ask you.”
Alayne swallowed, taken off guard- though she recovered the pace quickly enough. “I’d love to,” she said.
It will be nice to speak to someone of gossip and tea, she thought. In her disguised excursions across the keep, she’d happened over bits of gossip that at least didn’t leave her entirely ignorant of common knowledge- such as Renly and Loras Tyrell’s affair, or the Lady Darry’s tendency to water down her gold to appear richer than she actually was, or even the number of brothels owned by Petyr Baelish. But neither Jon nor Arya would ever be interested in what she had to say- and likely, Cersei Lannister would be. It will be nice to relax for a bit, won’t it?
…
Back in her rooms, she glared up at the ceiling.
Couldn’t Jon be more like Joffrey? She wished to demand the gods. A man who is kind and honorable and gallant. A man who is fair-haired. A man who is actually capable of stringing two words together in my presence that aren’t insulting.
…
“Everyone knows that story,” said Cersei, her voice ugly.
Sansa bit her lip and sank further into the shrubbery, wanting nothing more than to disappear from her current position- she wasn’t visible to either Lady Cersei or her brother Jaime, but her invisibility was only by the slimmest of margins. If either became suspicious or went looking, the charade would be up.
“Cersei,” said Jaime Lannister.
“No,” snarled Cersei. “No. Gods above, Jaime, half of it is your fault! After Robert was defeated at the Trident, you should’ve kept your sword sheathed and not struck Aerys down. After Rhaegar decreed that I was the bride-price to keep the Westerlands from outright war, you should’ve stopped him!”
“I? What could a single man have done?”
Cersei threw something, the dull thud echoing through the garden. “You killed one king. What’s another?”
“Cersei-”
“And what of now?” She demanded. “Twenty years later, and the same damn mistakes are being made. When Robert called his banners, you said nothing. And then not only Robert, but Jon Arryn- the most honorable man in Westeros- dies in a crossfire that was engineered by Viserys Targaryen. And your gamble only failed due to my interference! Do you think they’d have allowed you back to court if Rhaegar knew you were one of Robert’s lieutenants?”
Cersei and Jaime turned the corner and their conversation became muffled once more, leaving Sansa alone.
She frowned, throwing the hood of her cloak over her head and starting back to the keep once more. Sansa’d known that Jon Arryn had died in Tumbleton, after Robert Baratheon won three battles, but that was common knowledge. The assumption was that Lord Arryn had died in a battle, but a crossfire implied something different- particularly an engineered crossfire.
If Prince Viserys killed Jon Arryn in anything less than pitched battle, then the Vale would have been furious, Sansa realized. The Vale would have been furious, and they would have had an army that outnumbered anything the Crownlands could muster.
She entered the keep and froze, eyes widening with the epiphany. This is why I’m marrying Jon. The King doesn’t want another rebellion on his hands.