A week had passed when Petyr approached her in her chambers.
When Willas had left, it seemed as if another small part of Sansa had disappeared, disappeared to a place where the pieces of her that belonged to her father, her mother, Arya, Robb, Bran and Rickon had disappeared to, pieces that belonged to Jeyne Poole and Septa Mordane and Lady, even Theon. She couldn't help but reimagine their shared kiss that exciting, scary evening, his earnest eyes so warm and kind and intelligent on hers, a warmth and intelligence that matched her own. She missed him, it was true. But she could not miss him.
She was forced into cruel reality when Petyr took her hand gently and said "Harry the heir is coming to the Eyrie on the morrow. Make sure you continue to court him, for he is your future, the future of the North as well. Do not forget that, sweetling." His cool hand squeezed her own, an attempt at reassurance. "Do not let… distractions veer you off the course of your birthright."
Sansa's initial feeling was of a selfish distaste. She had submitted to the idea at first, quite content to have a handsome husband to help her take back Winterfell. But now she wavered, and Sansa was shocked. He knew about Willas? Of course he knows, she thought, what doesn't he know? "Petyr, I have not forgotten." She swallowed as his green-grey eyes grew warmer. "My duty is to us, and to our goal." My goal, she though internally. She had learnt from Petyr himself that in order to climb to where you want to be, you must use others as rungs on a ladder to reach it. Harry was one such rung; Petyr was the ladder himself.
"I am glad to hear that." His hand rose to cup her cheek. "Sweetling, I do not want you to come to any harm." Petyr's voice was verging on tenderness as he wound a lock of rusted brown hair around his finger, and sent Sansa's heart racing with discomfort.
"Thank you, father. I… I am so grateful that you care for me." The dusk light shone through the window on his face, Petyr's pointed beard slightly overgrown.
"I do care, Alayne. And that is why you must forget Willas Tyrell. He is an infringement. I had not thought you to be so… brazen, for want of a better word, as to give yourself to him. Hardyng cannot know about your lost maidenhead."
Sansa blinked, then shook her head wildly. "I… father, I am a virgin! I did not… give my maidenhead to Willas Tyrell." She swallowed. "Why would you even think such a thing?"
Petyr was clearly surprised, but his lips curled into a sly smile. "I saw you leave his chambers the night before he left for king's landing. I do hope you're not lying to me, daughter."
Sansa locked eyes with Petyr, stoic. "I am not lying, father," she replied evenly.
"Then I am happy to hear. I did not want anyone who did not care for you to… besmirch you in such a way." The purring undercurrent of his voice caused Sansa to shiver.
He did care for me, Sansa wanted to scream, a young girl again. He did. "I am touched, father."
Harry the Heir arrived at the Eyrie the next morning in a flurry of knights. Sansa was busy with Myranda, dressing Robert for the new day. The Maester had been with him most of the night, as apparently he had been coughing profusely. "Not a dry cough of a simple rheum, Lord Baelish," he said. "He has coughed up some blood."
Sansa and Petyr received Harry and his men in the Crescent Hall, after they had made their ascent up the Giant's Lance. He's very handsome, Sansa thought as she considered him, but the cocksure way he sneered was enough to relay her into thoughts of Willas' gentle and grounded nature. Flanking Harry were Lady Anya Waynwood and Lord Yohn Royce, both windswept and flushed.
"Lord Baelish. My thanks for receiving us." Harry bowed, his golden fringe falling into his eyes. She was reminded of the warm brown bedraggled curls that rested on Willas' pensive forehead, but only momentarily.
Harrold Hardyng looked up enticingly through his eyelashes as he took Sansa's hand, kissing it. "Lady Alayne. It is truly a pleasure to see you once more." Sansa could see how this boy had fathered so many bastards- his charm and handsome face were enough to make any maiden's knees weak. However, Sansa remained composed.
"No, my thanks for taking the time to come to the Eyrie, my lords and Lady Anya," Petyr took Harry's hand and shook it. He did the same with Lord Royce, and kissed Lady Waynwood's hand as she looked elsewhere. "Tis such a grievous time, with the winter settling in." Harry nodded, still eying Alayne with his clear blue eyes.
"I am intrigued as to why you have invited us into your home and hearth yet again, my lord," Lady Waynwood cocked an arched eyebrow. Sansa was as well. Surely she was not revealing herself so soon? Her stomach flipped at the thought. She did not trust these people. She could not do that, not yet.
"Indeed." Lord Royce sniffed, taking in his surroundings. "Have you had visitors recently?" He smiled amiably as he approached the table where sweetmeats and oatcakes had been set out by the handmaidens. "You seem quite prepared."
"Two weeks ago Lord Willas Tyrell of Highgarden and his men took solace here as they headed to Kings Landing. I supplied Willas with a number of men in repayment for his work in the Reach, to keep out the impending, ha, joy." Petyr smirked at his own jest. "Iron Islanders."
"Willas Tyrell? Isn't he that cripple?" Harry guffawed. "He is rallying men? He can hardly walk or even ride a horse, let alone keep out whichever Greyjoy it is."
Sansa's stomach twisted in anger. She fought back the urge to protect Willas' name.
"He is an intelligent man, my lord," Petyr replied steadily.
"He's hardly the man to do it, though. He's not even a knight. Where are Ser Loras and Garlan Tyrell? Hell, even the Kingslayer or the like would be more suited," Lord Royce shook his head.
"I believe Lord Tyrell knows the intricacies of battle and protection of his own lands, my lord," Sansa blurted. Petyr raised his eyebrows, annoyed but perhaps also impressed.
Lady Waynwood smiled. "I would have to agree with you, my lady. I have met the eldest Tyrell child, he is not some feeble minded cripple who lazes about all day. He is a man of knowledge and wisdom beyond his seven and twenty years."
After the initial courtesies, Lord and Lady Royce were invited to converse in Petyr's solar, while Sansa was left to "amuse" Harry. Or, court him.
They wandered the towers for a few hours filled with banter before Harry finally said something with a vague bit of weight to it.
"You have grown more beautiful since I last saw you, Lady Alayne," Harry smiled, his straight white teeth glistening. Sansa flushed, though it didn't mean as much to her as it would had he been complimenting her wit.
"And you more handsome, Lord Harry. I must say your hair is ever reminiscent of a golden lion." Sansa's heart twinged when she realised she had said "I must say," such a quintessentially Willas-like idiosyncrasy.
Harry chortled. "Am I a Lannister, then?"
"No, no, much too charming to be a Lannister," Sansa giggled. Harry laughed as well. Perhaps this was not so bad, after all, Sansa thought.
"Alayne, you are a mystery. I do enjoy your company, and your beauty is unmatchable. Are Mya Stone or Randa about?" They had reached the top of the tower, the bleak sunlight cool as the snow outside fell. From where they were, through the window they could see the majestic waterfall, Alyssa's Tears, the glacial flow gushing from the top of the crag.
"Randa is most likely with Lord Robert. He has not been well. Mya is probably tending to her mules."
"Of course she is," Harry said gently. Then, "When isn't Lord Robert ill? I'd wager he's dead in two moons."
Sansa gasped. She had thought that niggling thought once or twice, of course, but she had never verbalised it, especially not in such a nonchalant manner. "Lord Harry!" She chided. The way he spoke briefly conjured up a memory of Jon saying something similar about Theon, when isn't he an ass?
Harry shrugged, running a sinewy hand through his hair. Sansa noticed his forearm was wired with muscle. "Apologies. Still, I am just speaking the truth. I am his heir, and what kind of lord is Robert Arryn? I would be a better lord of the Vale than him or your father."
Sansa studied him, her eyes slightly narrowed. How do you know that, Harry? "You would?" she quipped.
Harry frowned, clearly annoyed, but tried to brush it off. "Of course I would," he said, puffing his chest. "What do you know about ruling, Alayne? Pray tell."
"Only what my father has told me, my lord. But I am sure, you would be a wonderful lord of the Eyrie. That is, if Robert does die. But if he does not, what then?"
Harry stared out the window, and Sansa could swear he was pouting. "Lord Royce and Lady Anya will find me a wife of good birth and see where it goes from there, I suppose." He frowned. "Why am I telling you this? You're but a bastard girl."
Sansa breathed a laugh through her nose. "Bastard may I be, I am not stupid. I can talk of important matters with men and women alike." Jon's a bastard, he'd be proud that I am being as smart as him.
Harry turned to face her, his piercing blue eyes catching hers. "Such a mysterious bastard girl. I do wonder who your mother was, because I see no Littlefinger in you, perhaps besides your fast tongue. You are much too beautiful. Was she a whore, or highborn?"
"I do not know much about her, except that she was beautiful, and of high birth. A Red Apple Fossoway, perhaps. I do not know."
Harry smirked beguilingly. "You said you would not wear my favour to the tourney. What displeases you about me, Alayne?" he purred.
The way you talked of Willas. "Nothing displeases me about you, my lord. You are every inch a lord and a very comely one at that. I simply did not take your favour as I am only a bastard girl; you should perhaps give your favour to another girl, of higher birth." Sansa's mouth kept filling with saliva. She realised she was nervous- the way Harry spoke reminded her of Joffrey, and she knew she had to tread carefully as he was just as handsome, if not more so, than Joffrey had ever been.
"No highborn girls around here are half as comely as you are, my lady," he bit his lip, obviously an action that was meant to entice. Court him, sweetling, Petyr had said. But now she felt as if she were a betrayer.
No. She had to look past a fleeting tryst, look at the bigger picture. She could do this. Willas was gone now, as much as it pained her to believe it; his kindness and his gentle humour and his limp and his way of treating her equally were gone. He was gone.
"You are too kind, Harry." She grinned, then turned around to return to the winding staircase. She had to find Petyr and ask where to go from here. That was when she felt hands on her waist, pulling her backwards.
His breath was hot on her cheek from behind her, his hard body pressed against her back. "You do unthinkable things to my person, Alayne," Harry breathed in her ear. Sansa wondered how many women he had said that to. She paused, imagining someone else saying those words over her shoulder, someone whose grasp would be gentler, whose leg would be hurting. Sansa's breathing quickened, and warmth built up in the base of Sansa's stomach, moving downwards as she imagined it was not Harry's hands but his hands on her waist, moving towards… oh! Snapping back into reality, Sansa shivered, scared and uncertain of this situation. She tried to pull away.
"Harry, I… what are you doing?" She whispered. "This is not appropriate. You hardly know me."
Harry laughed softly into her ear. "Not appropriate? Fuck appropriate. Alayne, wear my favour," his voice was husky.
Sansa squirmed against his grasp, turning to face him. Her face was glowing. "Fine. I will wear it. Unhand me." She was beginning to feel frightened.
Harry's hands moved down her front, but Sansa pulled away. "No, Harry," she said firmly, backing away. "Let us go and find my father, shall we?" Sansa smoothed her hair and dress and smiled, rushing down the stairs.
Harry shook his head, bearing his teeth. "Alayne, you know you feel what I feel! Do not leave me so unsatisfied!"
Sansa swallowed, her hands shaking. She left him upstairs as she descended the stairs, pondering her situation. Where did she go from here?