CHAPTER 3

SANSA

Sansa raced up the stairs to her balcony, so happy she could sing. Arya is alive! She wanted to shout it aloud, to turn it into a song of her own, but she didn't dare, and she didn't have the lungpower to run and sing.

She ran out onto the balcony gasping for breath. The open meadow of the Vale stretched out before her, ringed by a chain of purple mountains. Behind them, the sun was a flaming yellow ball that kept the sky swathed in strips of pink and orange. Somewhere beyond those mountains, Arya was probably alive. Sansa didn't know for certain, but if she'd made it as far as Sandor said there was a good chance that she was still alive. That was already far longer than she'd supposed Arya would live, anyway. She had pretty much given her up for dead after she went missing from King's Landing.

With a pang of guilt, Sansa realized she had never mourned her sister. She had cried so much for Robb, Bran, and baby Rickon, but she had never shed a tear for Arya.

The tears came now. Sansa was ashamed that even these were not for her sister, but for herself.

"My Lady? Is something wrong?" Her handmaid came out to feed the climbing roses, which were dying in the cold, and noticed her wet cheeks. Inwardly, Sansa cursed herself for snivelling.

"No, Megga. Thank you." She was bad at lying. I'm really the heir to Winterfell, and I've learned my long-dead sister is alive. Words hung from her open mouth as she sought the ones that would explain her tears, but not arouse the suspicion of her blinking handmaid. "I came out to watch the sunset, and it's so beautiful that I—just look at it!—I started to cry."

"You'd best go inside, my Lady, before you catch a chill from the wind." Megga gave her half a smile and then turned to the plants, but not before Sansa caught her true expression. She thinks I'm a putz, she realized.

Not wanting to stand there and feel condescended to by a maid, Sansa swept past her and grabbed her harp on her way to the parlour. She sat in the cushioned armchair and let her mind wander as freely as her fingers over the strings.

She and Arya had never gotten along well, that was true, but if she ever saw her again she would hug her and kiss her and apologize for everything. She and Arya could never be friends, they were just too different, but they were sisters. She clung to the hope that Arya was alive and that they would meet again someday.

She doubled over her harp with a laugh when she thought of the serendipitous chain of events that had led her sister to the Hound, and then the Hound back to her. When she first saw him here she didn't know what to think, but talking with him made her feel like an old friend had come to visit her. What were the chances he'd find her sister, and then find her again, holed up in the Eyrie as she was, to tell her of her sister's fate? It was odd to imagine them traveling together. She wondered if Arya had been any polite to him at all.

She heard the voices of men coming from the hall and recognized one as Petyr Baelish. A moment later he and Ser Morton entered the parlour. Sansa knew Ser Morton was the son of the Lady Waynwood, a powerful family in the Vale. She had not met the Lady Waynwood, but judging from her son's age she was probably advanced herself. He inclined his head to her and she bowed hers in turn. They were in the midst of a discussion, so Sansa kept strumming her harp.

"As I was saying, I doubt your mother could supply a more fitting arrangement," Petyr was saying. He strode over to the cabinet and poured two cups of wine. "You'll keep playing for us, won't you dear?"

"Yes, Father," Alayne said. She wondered if she should have jumped up to pour the drinks herself.

"That may be true, but the boy is old enough to decide for himself," said Morton, taking his glass and standing with Petyr near the fire. Sansa quickly zoned out of their boring conversation. Petyr was always plotting something, and if it was important he would let her in on it. Her thoughts were on Sandor Clegane.

I should thank him somehow. Surely the few words she said to him were not adequate thanks for the best news she'd had in years. She wanted to give him something in return so that he would know how happy he'd made her, but what?

I know! She rushed to finish the song she was playing, her fingers dancing over the harpstrings in a rush, just as a lull in the conversation turned the men's attention back to her.

"You play beautifully, Alayne," Ser Morton complimented her.

"Thank you, Ser. Will you be joining us at the feast tomorrow?"

"I will, as will Ser Harry, my old squire. He should be coming up from Castle Sky about now."

Littlefinger smiled at his daughter's display of good manners. "Father," she asked him, "will there be music at the feast?"

"Of course, my sweet. Why do you ask? Perhaps you wish to play as well?"

"No. Actually, I was hoping I might sing."

Ser Morton looked impressed to learn that Alayne had more than one talent, and Littlefinger beamed. "I would be honored if you would grace us with a song, and so would our guests. Don't you agree, Ser Morton?"

"If her singing's half as lovely as her harp playing, aye."

Sansa blushed.

"It's better. My daughter has a lovely voice. What do you want to sing?"

"Uhm," she plucked a few notes on her harp. "Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, I think."

"Very good, Alayne. Classic. I'll tell one of the singers to accompany you. Now if you would excuse us, I believe Ser Morton and I have something more to discuss."

"Yes, Father. I'd like to go to my room and practice, anyway."

It had been a long time since she used her voice. Once as clear and strong as an oriole's, it now sounded more like the lamentable cooing of a dove. Since her aunt had died she was not as partial to music, nor did she have much occasion to sing or even raise her voice, locked inside the high walls of the Eyrie as she was. She had been speaking above a whisper for so long that now she found her voice hard to project. It cracked at the top of the scale and Sansa huffed in frustration.

"Megga," she ordered her maid, "get me honey with a bit of lemon, if we have it." She used the mixture to keep from working her throat raw. After a few hours she'd sufficiently exercised her voice to an echo of its former strength and resolved to practice again in the morning. She had to rest because she didn't want to push herself too hard and risk losing her voice.

She said not a word all afternoon, and greeted everyone who spoke to her that evening in a voice as soft as falling snow. This was how she greeted Ser Morton, who introduced her to his former squire, Ser Harold Hardyng. He had a shock of straw-blond hair and piercing blue eyes. At first impression, Sansa found him quite dashing.

"Harry is a new-made knight," Ser Morton said.

"Yes, and I've got my own squire now. There he is; Timory!"

A youth about Sansa's age stepped over shyly. From looks they could have been brothers, but Timory did not have Harry's swagger or sharp features.

"What did you say your name was?" Harry asked. He leaned in to hear her better.

"Alayne."

"Lovely." The bell signaling the start of dinner rang. "Timory, show the lady to her seat."

Sansa's place was farther down the table than if she had been Petyr's true-born daughter, but she still sat near the top. Timory pulled the chair out for her and took his place behind her chair with the other servants. Sansa was surprised when, a minute later, Ser Harold took the seat next to hers.

Her stomach was in a flutter from a nervousness she hadn't anticipated. She ate less than she would have otherwise, taking just a taste of the dishes that past her way. Hundred-year-old duck eggs (which Sansa knew were really only from last spring) and wheels of assorted cheese were some of the delicacies, and most of the fare was made from granary staples that wouldn't keep through the winter. And of course, lots of wine.

Eventually, Petyr called a musician over for her. The servants cleared some space on the table for dessert while Petyr made an announcement that she was about to sing, and Sansa felt half the eyes in the hall turn to her. Most of the guests were polite enough to quiet down, but a few down at the far end were too drunk to notice that a small girl took the stage.

The band started, the musician next to her plucking his fingers over the harpstrings, and the ones behind her with their pipes and tambourines, and Sansa sang:

"To love a lady teaches men,
There's strength in soul and spirit.
That's what the Dragonknight learned when
He fell in love with Naerys.

Being the younger brother he
Had no claim to throne or land.
King Aegon, called the Unworthy,
Had the right of Naerys' hand.

Prince Aemon loved her anyway,
Though she married a monster.
And promised on her wedding day
He would always protect her.

Before the tournament he placed
Three tears upon his sigil
And donned a helm that hid his face
So he could keep his vigil.

Her husband would have liked her shamed;
He did not love her truly.
But Aemon won so she was named
The Queen of Love and Beauty.

She never smiled, but for him.
Prince Aemon served her every whim.
Even the strongest knights are helpless
Confronted by a lady restless.

None doubted her magnanimity
But for one knight, Ser Morgil.
He accused her of adultery,
Because he was so evil.

When Aemon heard the slander
Of his lady love's virtue
He rode to defend her
And slammed his lance home true.

Just knights are not defeated;
In battle they are never floored.
Yet faced with love what can they do?
The heart is never conquered by the sword."

As soon as she finished, she gave a deep curtsy to much applause. Little Robert cheered the loudest. Her nervousness had passed, and Sansa found the smiles of their guests were infectious. Before she returned to her seat she remembered to look to Sandor Clegane, so he will know I thought of him, but he was not smiling at her, he was staring at her with his jaw set.

"Good show, my lady," Ser Morton told her when she passed. Petyr gave her a warm smile and passed dessert her way. Others shouted compliments over the heads of other guests. She thanked them graciously and two gruff bannermen set to outdo each other as soon as she took her seat across from them.

"Your voice was lilting," said one.

"High enough to reach the heavens," the other said, more to his neighbor than to Sansa.

Harry inclined his head to her. "You were so quiet I could barely hear you." His tone, she thought, was critical. Before she could respond, Littlefinger was calling for a toast.

"For we of the Vale of Aryyn, the Harvest Feast marks the end of autumn. It is the last celebration before the coming winter makes food scarce, nights cold, and travel next to impossible. Enjoy the hot food and warm hospitality our Lord Aryyn has shown you tonight, because soon we will not even be able to inhabit the Eyrie." Robert nodded violently, but only from agreement, and Petyr went on. "Winter will test the bonds between our houses and our families, as scarcity burdens those of us responsible for others with the mean task of survival. Winter is also a time for families to come closer together, as hardship tests our loyalties, and difficult weather keeps the outside world distant. So I would like to use this gathering of our extended family as an opportunity to announce the formation of a new couple. May they grow close over winter. Congratulations Ser Harold Hardyng on your engagement to my daughter, Alayne Stone."

Sansa's stomach dropped as sure as if she'd jumped out the moon door. Hoots and cheers went up, and the clatter of mugs and wine glasses. The band played a lively song. She looked from Petyr to Harry. Men clapped him on the back. He jested back with them, but did not have any words for Sansa. She would not be able to make them out anyway. She was watching this from outside herself; this was not really happening to her; this was the fate of some other girl. Alayne.

She looked down the table at Sandor Clegane, who knew she was really Sansa, but he had no words of praise or sorry for her, his mouth busy on the end of a goblet. The sellsword on his right made some bawdy joke, and he finished the cup in one draught. Despite the congratulations of the people around her Sansa found no joy from them could reach her, and sought her solace in the fudge.

I worked hard on the poem for this chapter and am quite proud of it, what did you think? :) Is Sandor Sansa's "Dragonknight"? :o Love to hear your thoughts + stay tuned!