Chapter Text
-The Eryie-
Lord Peytr Baelish , King Joffery's Lord Protector of the Vale placed one hand behind his back and forced his silhouette taunt, the fire cracked and a log fell into the bed with a soft thud. The dark wood shutters engraved with the falcon, its wingtips tightly closed covered the window, and they stared down leering over anyone in the room with their yellow glass eyes. A servant was expected but dared not come to Little Finger while he saw to his daughter.
“Your father wants you bastard. Ge’move on.” Said a guard. In those moments Alyane felt her name Stone weigh her down. Her significance relied on Lord Baelish’s kindness but Sansa floated in the back of her mind indignant. She was a Stark of Winterfell, no bastard, but a true highborn daughter though it had been a long time since anyone had called her such. She couldn't let it show. It was better than the King Joffery the Blackthroat who would make her his whore, a live doll to fuck and beat.
Bitterness was a new taste in her throat and she had no hideaway to sweeten her tongue again. No lemon baths now. Porcelain child, Ivory woman, Stark steel to Stone, Alyane Stone. No one. Nothing. Three years hiding in the Vale and three years blackening her mother's gift of Tully red hair. Three of learning to play the game, the game of thrones and still her adoptive father taught her he was the better player.
Alayne shook the bottom part of the skirt of imaginary dirt, a nervous habit. Something Sansa would never do. She would wear the blood of Winterfell like a shroud. She fought to control herself but the memory of his last kiss flickered in her mind like eels slipping against each other in the marketplace waiting to be bought, and sold into cooking pots. Alayne steels her resolve but prays when she shakes her skirts again that her father isn't hungry to educate her.
He isn't facing her when she enters. A calculated effort she understands now to try and unnerve her, to create an opportunity for his lesson. Alayne doesn't want a Maester lesson of lips, and her mother’s name on his lips but she chooses caution over fear.
"Father?" She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from adding more; choosing to stand opposite from him. He doesn’t turn or look away from the map he has draped over the table.
She feels the wind push in from the landing cool and dry, if she squints it might look like snow and trees. It might look like home. When father turns to look at her now she puts a small smile on her face.
‘Like a mirror I will let him see what he wishes. Where is your caution Alayne?’ She thinks and dismisses her own thoughts, she feels: ambitious, and playful with him.
"I have unfortunate tiding, sweetling." He says. Alayne can't tell if he is gleeful. Her confidence shoots out of her like a crooked arrow, making her queasy. "I've discovered plans that I'm afraid would upset you." He pauses coming close and taking her hand. He rubs each digit, looking at her nails. His closeness pushes her into hyper awareness of his fingertips as he squeezes her wrist tightly. Tyrion’s broken face flashed in her mind, ‘I vow, I shall not savage you.’
"Plans father?" She hears her voice and cringes at its hollowed steadiness.
"Yes, I'm afraid young Jon has been given advice. Advice that would send you into the hands of old captors." He pressed his nail down into her wrist, leaving half-moons on her veins.
Surely her cousin wouldn't. Sweet Robin was kind, they were betrothed. He’d marry his cousin to keep her safe.
‘I love you Sansa. You are lovely our babies will be pretty. You can rule the Vale, I’ll be your Lord and then we’ll marry our babies to people we like.’ Alayne outside of the room, always Sansa as they laid next to each other and she petted her little cousins shaking, sweating form.
Little Robin's head guard would sell her, the Lord wanted his son the Young Hawk to rule the Eyrie. Her father's control over the Eyrie has been slipping since Aunt Lysa went missing. Her voice shrills suddenly in her mind "I saw what you did. You led him on didn't you? I saw you kiss him!" And the sound of the air as she fell down and down the moon door.
Petyr grips her chin hard and rubs his knuckle on her jaw. How long had he been talking? Did he ask her a question? She flicks her eyes up to him, he gives his side smirk. Grabbing onto her shoulders he pulls her closer chest to chest crushing her and brushes her hair back he whispers into her ear.
"He would sell you to the Targaryen Queen.” Daenarys Targaryen had come and taken King’s landing after several months siege, no other word of her victory but that King Joffery was safe in Casterly Rock with the Queen Dowager. His breath was hot on her ear, she could feel his manhood on her thigh as he gripped her shoulders with his sharp fingers, his body was warm but she still shivered.
"What does the Targaryen Queen want with me father?" It was the wrong thing to say because Peytr's thumbs dug into her shoulders bruising them as he hissed into her hair with his breath.
“She doesn’t know you are alive, but if you were given up in the name of the Vale. She would forgive the Vale and all the lords therein. No executions, no fire and blood. You’ll find no safety with King Joffery, although marrying you to young Jon, may be a better choice." He waits watching her. Marry Sansa to her cousin? Of course, by now little Robin would have given up her secret to his councilors. They would sell her. Jon was eleven now but with no mother and her in hiding little Jon was ignorant of the hurt he did. A secret she knows her father did not approve of her sharing.
Sometimes she sees Petyr Baelish’s stone disapproval shake into irritation spiced, in lightening anger which makes her mind tumble in panic. She wants so desperately to see his eyes grey. Grey and with a small smile in them just for her, but as hard as she tries, Alayne’s father cannot put her at ease the way Sansa’s father Lord Stark's had.
“My Lord? His Lordship’s councilors ask you to come, milord.” The guard called in, he didn’t come in so he knows she is in here.
“Of course, at once.” Petyr answers. “You may go.” When he moves away from her in deliberate slowness as though the pupil has deeply offended the teacher with their lack self-discipline.
"Obey your father sweetling." He says.
“By your will, father.” An automatic curtsy and a small voice. Just like with Joffery, King Joffery the Blackthroat. He had barely survived his poisoning, at his wedding feast, he had been sick for months, gone to Casterly Rock for his recovery. A full year before he was well now it was whispered he was uglier than his kinslaying Uncle Tyrion.
"I have a different way. I have found a way to send you home." Lord Baelish said. She could feel herself brighten but tempered and shook it down to her belly. He said many things that were true but not the truth she knew now. She looked into his forehead feeling her courtesy armor clang around like a squire’s first shield, shaking with effort. "By your will, Lord father."
"I will be taking you to the Highgarden. Dearest, where you will marry Willas. There we shall reveal your claim and the roses shall take Winterfell in your name."
Highgarden to marry sweet Willas. With the puppies and horses and all the flowers. Sweet cousins like Margaery. Her good sister. She need never be alone with Peytr who sometimes called her Cat, who pushed her Aunt out the moon door, saved her from her and Blackthroat. Who hid her but wants?
"But we must be careful Alyane. The horses are already waiting to take us tonight. They will take us to a ship which will sail to Highgarden. As soon as it is dark we shall away to make you a rose bride." He held his hand out and she took it, leaned up and kissed his cheek because a grateful daughter would.
Baelish smirked and put her lips to his. His lips were dry and thin, no eels, no wine and his fingertips she was sure would leave bruises on her bottom. This is what he wants she thought.
She hoped he would be brief but when his tongue touches her open mouth she could feel that bitterness pinch her throat and flood her stomach with bile. Sansa moved her palms up on his chest and gently pushed him back from her.
"Father we should take care.” Willas is waiting for me she added silently. Willas, Highgarden and Winterfell.
“Come.”
----
The guards all leaned over at their posts when they dropped to the great baskets out of nest. Poisoned she thought. But a loud snore from one who always gave her sweet smiles, assures her, drugged.
She would probably never see her cousin again As the Lady of Highgarden she'd write him he was some of the last of her kin. The wind pulled her darkened hair around her in a tangle, the smell of the stone and damp.
She hardly felt the horse ride, or the hours, the days to the ship but the closer the smell of the ocean came upon them the more she worried for the length of the trip.
Lord Baelish was insistent, but a few hours of sleep and full light came upon them and Baelish was on deck speaking to a man he seemed to know. She would make plans with the roses and pull the mockingbird out of garden.
She stayed in cabin looking out the small window letting the saltwater drain some of the poison out and dreaming again at last. She imagined her beautiful children who would all be named for the family she'd lost. Thinking of their young children and only the tales she could tell them stabbed her into her last flesh part of her heart. Stabbed until that too was ice and stone. She'd warn them of winter and they would withstand them all.