Part two

He shouldn't be here in this place. The cretin to his right was yapping something about the weather, wolves and what-not. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone but he had been lured to the feast by the smell of roasted boar and mawmeny. It had been several days since he'd had a decent meal and the opportunity to eat for free had seemed too good to pass up. He grunted something to the half-wit said and gave the man a critical once-over. He was a hedge knight of some sort, perhaps thirty years old with an ugly mop of brown hair, a round face and pouting, fat lips.

"This mawmeny is luscious don't you think?"

'Piss on you and your mawmeny', he thought but gave an assenting nod instead.

"Lord Royce wants to impress the lord protector of the Vale no doubt. The hedge knight grabbed a tankard of ale from a passing serving wench and gave her a pat on the rear. "I've heard that it was Littlefinger who raised him to Lordship."

'Fucking Littlefinger, he seem to be everywhere these days...'

"Look, here he comes."

He gave the lord protector of the Vale a fleeting glance and noted that the sly bastard looked much too healthy with slightly round cheeks and twinkling eyes. He was dressed in rich colours and had his greying hair swept back.

"Who'd have thought that a man like him would be so important?" said the hedge knight between chews, a mixture of saliva and chicken landing on the table.

'Every man with a pair of eyes in his head', he thought. 'That one is much too clever for his own good... and much too dangerous.'

"The tale has it that he's brought his natural daughter with him." the hedge knight rambled on. "A fair thing they say, a young maid with brown hair and blue eyes. I've never seen her myself but a bard I know said she was the stuff of legends and songs."

'Why in the seven hells would I care about some air-headed bastard?' he wanted to rage but held his tongue.

The serving wench passed by them again with flagon of wine on her tray. "Would you like some wine brother?" she asked and offered him the flagon with a smile.

His mouth went dry. It had been a while since he had been offered wine, nearly two years. "No thank you." he rasped and shook his head. The serving wench smiled again and went on her way. By chance he glanced toward the door at the far-end of the hall as it opened. A tall and graceful woman entered the hall. She wore a blue grey dress that was much too nice for a servant but not nearly as elaborate as the high-born ladies wore with their pearls and gemstones. His breath caught in his throat. He knew her; the high cheekbones and vivid blue eyes. How could he not? She haunted his dreams, plagued his memories. He would recognize Sansa Stark anywhere. She could don a peasant's rags, smear mud all over her porcelain skin and still look like a lady. Suddenly he wished that he had that flagon of wine that the wench had offered him to wash down the excitement he felt.

'She looks like a woman now', he thought. The child had developed curves and high, firm teats. She had been a beautiful child and now she was a breathtaking young woman.

"That must be Alayne Stone, the lord protector's daughter", said the hedge knight who must have noticed the intensity of his stare. "The bard wasn't wrong, there is no man alive who wouldn't want to screw that piece of ass."

He almost throttled the cretin - hang the consequences - but he restrained himself and grabbed hold of the half-wit's collar instead. "Watch your tongue." he growled.

"I-I-I'm s-sorry brother." The hedge knight tried to wriggle free from the grip but to no avail. "I didn't mean any offence."

"Be glad that lord Baelish didn't hear you. Imagine what he would do." he rasped. "But one couldn't be too sure, Littlefinger could have many ears and just as many daggers if needed be."

The cretin turned as white as a sheet and closed his mouth firmly. Finally there was some peace and quiet. He turned his gaze to her again where she was seated at Littlefinger's side. It had never been this tantalizing to watch anyone eat before. Some gravy trailed down her bottom lip and when she swept it away with her tongue he almost came undone.

'Little bird', he thought. 'This time I will not ask. You will come with me.'


She ate the mawmeny and replied to her father's questions and idle talk like the good daughter that she was but she couldn't help feeling detached. Her thoughts were with little Robert, finally sleeping. It was with sorrow in her chest when she realized that he might not live through the week. What would happen then? Would her father wait until spring to wed her to Harry the Heir or would she stand before the septon only days after Robert's funeral? She glanced at her father, all smiles and jolly chatter. He was such a changeable character, so unreliable. She stiffened when his hand brushed her thighs. He did not seem to have noticed but the touch sent shivers of revulsion down her spine. He did nothing unintended. Sansa sat rigid and stared out in the empty air, the mawmeny on her plate forgotten. She licked her lips and thought about excusing herself and going to bed but her father wouldn't like that. Sansa glanced down toward the tables where the lesser lords and the knights were seated and found herself transfixed by the monk she had seen earlier that day. He was seated beside an ugly hedge knight who seemed very busy with his food. Sansa couldn't see past the shadow of the brother's cowl but it felt like he had her pinned with his gaze. Her mouth went dry and she had to take a sip of wine, a blush crept over her cheeks and she cast her eyes down to her plate. It wasn't unusual for men to stare at her, she had become accustomed to it but the brother's gaze was so heavy that she thought she might get trouble breathing if he didn't stop.

"Is something the matter sweetling?" Petyr put a hand on her forehead. "Are you coming down with a fever?"

"No Father, I'm only feeling a bit faint."

Her father tsked and caressed her cheek. "You don't have to stay through the whole feast. Go to your room and I will call on you later on to see if everything is all right."
"It's nothing to worry about father, I'm-"

"Alayne, sweetling, I don't want you to get sick." her father said and she could hear the underlying warning. "Now, be a good girl and go to your room."

"Yes Father."

She rose and excused herself. Her father and the brother both followed her departure through the room and she could feel their gazes on her back. She closed the door and leaned against the cold stone wall outside the hall. Her chest felt tight with fear as she climbed the stairs up to her room. She didn't want to be there when her father called on her. She went to the window and stared out in the darkness. There was no moon this night and no stars. Instead the sky was dark and heavy with the promise of snow. She wanted nothing better then to run away but knew that is was impossible. She wouldn't last a single day in the road with bandits and wild beasts all around. She could barely ride and forget hunting.

"I'm just a pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught me to recite." she whispered, remembering how the Hound had growled them to her in that mocking tone of his. "He always spoke the truth."

'Arya wouldn't let them keep her prisoner', she thought. 'She would've run away long ago.'

None of her siblings would suffer through what she did now. They would have run away or killed their captors. She watched as one lone snowflake slowly fell by the window. Soon it was joined by several more. Sansa bit her lip to keep from crying. She went over to the bed and sat down, waiting for her father to appear.