"Remember, sweetling. You disappeared the night of our beloved king's murder."
Sansa recalls how she noticed a missing amethyst from her hairnet after Lady Olenna had fixed her hair at the wedding feast. She sees even still Joffrey clawing at his own throat. Blood trailing through his frenzied fingers, a Lannister crimson for his crown of golden hair. Sansa's own throat tightens as the meaning of Littlefinger's words hit her. "But I didn't know, I didn't mean…" Her voice cuts off. She couldn't say she hadn't wanted Joffrey dead, because that was a lie. She had longed for his death as much as she longed for Robb's triumph, the comfort of her lady mother's arms, and for Winterfell. Thoughts of Joffrey dying had strengthened Sansa like a babe at the breast during the long torment of Kingslanding; the place she had dreamt of coming to a thousand years ago.
"Of course." Littlefinger's green eyes are locked on the blue of Sansa's own, and she forces herself not to look away. "But Joffrey was our grieving queen's golden boy. Truth matters little to a woman who would rather feast upon suspicion, and Cersei has never had any regard for her Imp brother. She would sooner think him guilty, and his little Stark bride as well." Littlefinger takes Sansa's hands into his own. "A Stark bride," he continues, "with every reason to want Joffrey dead."
Beginning to tremble, Sansa pulled her hands out of Littlefinger's. She remembers how the queen once told her that love was weakness, and if she must love anyone it should be the children she bore her husband. "On that front, a woman has no choice." Sansa's mother had loved her and her siblings. Why would it be any different for Cersei? She did not want to imagine what the queen would do to her if she was ever taken back to Kingslanding.
Tears came to Sansa's eyes unbidden. Would she ever feel safe? It seemed like she hadn't felt safe since the day Joffrey had taken her lord father's head off, while she had wept and screamed as the crowds roared. She had lived in fear since then. Fear of Joffrey's violence, and of being made his queen a future that was now like a threat then a promise. Fear that Ser Ilyn would be sent for her if something had happened to the Kingslayer, or fear that Lord Tyrion would decide to claim his rights. Fear that someone would discover her plans to escape the city with Ser Dontos.
"So, you see what we must do." Littlefinger said, brushing Sansa's tears away gently. "You must be Alayne Stone. Can you do that, sweetling?"
Alayne Stone. Alayne, the bastard daughter of Littlefinger. Alayne, who birth meant she was never once betrothed to a prince and someone who was one day meant to be a queen. That was Sansa Stark, not Alayne Stone. But Alayne… Alayne didn't have siblings or a mother to mourn. Alayne was an only child, and her mother had died birthing her. Alayne never had to watch her father die. She never had her dearest friend taken from their rooms that day, with no answers but cold suspicion that she was dead like everyone else Sansa knew. Perhaps not dead, but still lost. Because Alayne never knew Jeyne Poole. Alayne was never beaten by Joffrey's Kingsguard, never made to marry Tyrion Lannister. That happened to Sansa Stark, Alayne Stone.
And didn't Sansa want to forget? No, that was only half a lie. She didn't truly want to forget, but it hurt so much to remember. And Alayne…. Alayne promised survival. Sansa had been consumed with that since the moment she found herself alone among the lions.
She nodded and then Alayne spoke.
"I understand, Father." She said softly, trying not to think how strange it felt to address Littlefinger that way. "I am Alayne, no one else."