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Harry looked puzzled. “What’s so terrible about ‘sweetling’?”
It had taken three dances before Ser Harrold Hardyng followed Alayne Stone back to her chair to continue their conversation. What Petyr had managed to hear of their talk all night seemed to consist largely of his daughter making cutting observations - borderline insults, even - and the lordling attempting to justify himself. It was a risky flirtation tactic, riskier than any of the suggestions he might have made, but all the moons she'd spent at his elbow had imparted the value of a big gamble.
He wasn't sure where she'd learned how to poke holes in a man's courtesies like this. Or why she expected it to work so well.
“It’s so uninspired,” Alayne sighed. “Is that all men really want from a woman? For her to be small and sweet? That can’t truly be all that comes to mind when you look at me. I rather think I deserve a pet name that’s my very own.”
“Like what?”
Alayne cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t know - what is it you like about me?”
“Well…” The young knight slowly raked his gaze down her bodice, following the twisting vines that adorned it from bust to hip. “Mostly things I’d prefer to praise when we’re by ourselves, if it pleases you to know.”
When his eyes returned to hers, she leaned close. “Try me,” she breathed.
Petyr was impressed. Alayne was so demure when he brought her to her private study, but here was the fire he always imagined was there. Lysa’s lustiness with Cat’s wits, and a fresh sort of beauty that was all her own, even in disguise. Harry was no match for her.
No more than he’s a match for most of the knights here when they brave the lists, but the odds must be stacked to suit him.
It would all be fixed, of course. Harry was to share in tomorrow’s honours, alongside some of the finest tourney jousters in the realm, and so burnish his martial reputation without the nuisance of actually going on campaign. The Lord Protector nodded in greeting to Ser Shadrich, who’d approached to loiter by Alayne’s table with Ser Morgarth and Ser Byron.
Puffed up by his victory, he ought to be that much better-disposed towards a betrothal so far below his station. Oh, it was like to confuse the maesters and the matrons of the realm, who wouldn’t be privy to the transfer of Petyr’s vast bribes to Harry’s guardians. But any red-blooded man in the feasting-hall could see the boy was half-ready to follow his cock anywhere Alayne led him.
He couldn’t see the boy’s expression without turning fully, but Petyr’s seat at the neighbouring table was close enough to hear him sigh in frustration.
“Your eyes… your smile… your, I don’t know, your beauty? You’re a fine woman, Alayne, don’t make me try to spell it out.”
“Horses are often said to be fine. Women should be special.”
“All right, then, what did your last suitor call you?”
In the time it took for Alayne to answer, Petyr had time to motion to a serving-boy to come over and refill his cup with the better of the two reds being served this evening.
“I don’t know if you’d call him a suitor exactly,” said Alayne slowly.
Good girl. You may not blush as coyly as a septa, but don’t let him forget you’re still innocent. Petyr sipped his wine in a silent toast to his own self-control.
The appearance of an unexpected Royce cousin on the far side of the chamber meant his supervision was at its end now, but as Petyr passed by the young couple, he heard Harry sneering, “‘Little bird’?” apparently in repetition.
One of his knights had spilled his drink, but Petyr Baelish straightened the brooch that bore his sigil and stepped lightly around the mess, his blood singing with ambition and desire. It made no matter who he married the girl off to: she was his, through and through. That was a victory all on its own.
My last suitor, Alayne thought, surprised that Harry had actually posed a question this time instead of batting hers away, and shocked that he was already referring to himself as a suitor. But a suitor is meant to care for the lady’s wishes, so that rules out Littlefinger, Sweetrobin and Marillion - and probably Harry, too.
That left only the men she’d known in King’s Landing, and that meant she had to choose her words carefully. Littlefinger was only a few steps away at the next table, no doubt straining every sinew to hear their conversation over the instruments. But behind Harry, her view of the dancing was blocked by the tall broad form of Ser Byron and the two hedge knights he’d arrived with. A serving-boy was topping up Ser Byron’s drink, as he held out his cup he chanced a backwards glance at her.
That one is listening for certain.
There was something about the hedge knight that tugged at her memory. The way he stood, the way he moved, the way his eyes lingered on her - it reminded her of a man who was his utter opposite in look and manner, and who was the closest thing to a real answer Alayne could give.
She decided to run with it. “I don’t know if you’d call him a suitor exactly,” she said carefully, “But the last pet name that gave me butterflies was probably… ‘little bird’.”
“‘Little bird’?” Harry repeated, his derision plain as when he met her. But behind him, Ser Byron’s shoulders had stiffened. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
Alayne felt a surprisingly strong rush of rage, but didn’t let it show. “What could be more delicate and precious than a little bird?”
“I didn’t think you’d be one for riddles,” he said, shaking his head, “but I can’t say you haven’t surprised me all night. Wait here for me.”
Without staying for a response, Harry the Heir spun from his seat and picked his way through the crowd. Alayne seethed. She hadn't expected to feel so defensive when it came to those memories from King's Landing; they’d been locked away for so long that she’d forgotten how personal they were. She was annoyed - irrationally so - with Harry for daring to pick them apart.
“Will you keep an eye on him, m’lady?” Ser Shadrich interrupted.
It seemed that in her few seconds of inattention, one of the knights had dropped his drink and been steered into the empty seat in front of her by his comrades - and, of course, it had to be Ser Byron. Alayne replayed in her head the moment he froze, apparently at her words.
What does he know, exactly? Alayne wondered. What did that nickname mean to him?
She was sure Sandor Clegane hadn’t called her ‘little bird’ openly; if there was a man alive who’d heard it out loud, it might be Tyrion Lannister. It was possible that what she’d seen was a reaction to some other event in the chamber that had nothing to do with her conversation with Harry, but that didn’t feel like the truth.
“Are you well, Ser Byron?” Alayne asked politely.
“Quite well, my lady,” said the hedge knight. “You are kind to ask. My arm was jogged, that’s all.”
“I’m sure you’ll keep a firmer grip on your lance on the morrow,” she teased. The big knight blushed, and she made a calculation. It wouldn’t do to still be here when Harry got back, if he meant to return at all. Besides, she had one last errand to run before the night ended. “Ser Byron, would you be so kind as to help me get some air? It is stuffy in here.”
The tall knight was still flushed, but the red stain on one of his dress-shoes was the only other sign of his momentary frailty. Rather than offer his arm, he fidgeted with a jewelled cuff on his wrist that seemed unusually showy for a man of his means.
As they crossed from the hall to the outer gallery, Alayne let herself look up at him properly for the first time. Apart from being tall and strong, Ser Byron the Beauty was as different from the Hound as noon was from midnight. His long hair was blond and wavy, not dark and straight. He was fair, too, with even features and a nose that did not even appear to have been broken before.
Too pretty for a true fighting man.
Why was she so eager to see a face from her past? The Hound brought her little but hurt and confusion when she was a girl in King’s Landing.
But he saved me when I needed saving. Is there anyone who really watches out for me now?
The castle’s light spilled out into the cold night air, but fell well short of the lists in the field beyond. She'd planned to walk where the ground was firm, but faced with the yawning darkness and the chill of the breeze, the portico seemed far enough to come for privacy. Alayne leaned on the wall and looked out across the emptiness.
“It seems strange that there’s such excitement tonight when the competitors will be put into harm's way tomorrow. Are you nervous, Ser Byron?”
“Not really,” said the knight quietly. “The true tourney is on the second day.”
“You aren’t worried at all about the early rounds on the morrow?”
Ser Byron clenched his jaw, stood a little straighter and looked her in eye. “No butterflies before a tourney of gnats,” he scoffed.
The turn of phrase felt… oddly familiar. “I must admire your candour, and your confidence,” said Alayne with a smile. “Might I offer you my favour to wear in the tourney?”
The big knight gave her a long, slow look. “I’d be honoured, my lady,” he said at last. Then the fire she’d glimpsed before returned. “And if I win, little bird, what then?”
In the back of her head, Alayne knew Ser Byron was another one of her father’s catspaws, and if the man valued his life (let alone his livelihood) then he posed no true threat to her. And yet, just for a moment, she could pretend he was that other man, and that things were different.
But he was a catspaw too, whispered a treacherous voice, and he turned on his master in the end.
“If you win a set of silver wings? Then I’ll be sure to sing you a pretty song to celebrate.”
"Florian and Jonquil?" Ser Byron rasped.
The earth beneath her feet felt unstable all of a sudden. Alayne swallowed. "I know plenty of songs, ser, even if most of them are hymns. I'm sure we can find one to your liking."
"Tell me, little bird: what if I decided to fly away on those silver wings? North, maybe?"
Sansa looked up at him, wondering wildly if perhaps she was not lost at all, but found. "Then... maybe we could fly together."