Dusk bled across the tournament grounds like thick purple ink, seeping into every canvas tent and stretching their shadows long. Campfires spat embers that spiraled upward, stitching brief constellations into the darkening sky.
Servants moved through the crowd with clay jugs, tilting long spouts to fill silver cups with amber wine. The liquid caught firelight and threw it back in ripples.
Alayne held her cup, fingertips tracing the raised vine patterns on the silver. Her eyes moved past the rim to the heart of the camp, where the night's revelry had already taken hold.
The wine swayed with her breath, but never touched her lips.
Tonight the camp was an enchanted city that never slept, every corner dripping with intoxication.
Minstrels sat on long benches before Lord Nestor's pavilion, their lutes, mandolins, and pipes weaving a cheerful melody. The music carried the scent of roasting meat and sharp spices, drifting through the twilight like smoke.
A juggler bared his forearms, bronze skin beaded with sweat. His fingers worked with practiced precision, tossing flaming clubs in high arcs. Each rotation painted an orange trail against the dark, drawing gasps from the gathered crowd.
A fool in a colorful pointed hat—Copperpip, they called him—staggered through the crowd on stilts, his motley coat jingling with every step.
"I hear one knight's boots are heavier than his head!" he shrieked, his eyes darting as he pointed a dramatic finger at a knight in the corner. He twisted his body in an exaggerated wobble, and the crowd roared.
Even Brienne, who had been quiet since witnessing the day's death, found herself laughing. Her cup tilted, spilling amber wine down her violet velvet gown in dark streaks that soaked into the grass.
Alayne watched the scene unfold, drawn into the joy of it, until a steaming plate was set before her.
Thick barley-and-venison stew glistened with a sheen of fat. Brown chunks of meat and golden barley peeked through the broth, and the rising steam carried a rich, meaty warmth. Her throat moved.
Beside it sat a dish of pickled beets, sliced thin and drizzled with crushed walnuts and honey syrup. The deep purple slices gleamed in the candlelight. A spinach-and-plum salad followed, green leaves and red-purple fruit scattered with crumbled white goat cheese—a painting on a plate.
"Try this." Ser Harrold Hardyng's long fingers pinched a silver fork, spearing a snail glazed in honey-garlic sauce. He leaned in, offering the fork to Alayne, his lips curved in a gentle smile, blue eyes full of warmth. "Press the fork into the shell and twist it out."
Sansa had eaten snails in King's Landing. Alayne had not.
She copied his motion, carefully extracting the meat and bringing it to her lips. The soft snail melted on her tongue—honey's sweetness, garlic's bite. Her eyes widened with surprise.
When the trout arrived, sealed in a thick clay crust, it still sizzled. Ser Harrold's right hand trembled slightly, but he used his left to work the dagger, cracking the clay with visible effort. Shards fell away to reveal white, flaky flesh. Steam carried lemon and rosemary.
He cut the fattest belly portion, carefully removing every bone, before placing it on Alayne's plate.
"Mind the heat," he murmured. Sweat beaded at his temple from the effort, but his smile never wavered.
Course after course arrived. Soft bread, golden with butter that gleamed in the candlelight. Pigeon pie with flaky crust that shattered at the touch of a knife. Roasted apples dusted with cinnamon and brown sugar, their flesh soft and sweet. Lemon cake piled high with white sugar, splitting open to reveal pale yellow curd.
Alayne's plate grew full. Her stomach stretched tight, but she could not bring herself to set down the silver spoon.
The feast roared on until the moon climbed overhead, and still the camp blazed bright as day. Alayne looked at the mountain of food before her, sighed softly, and dabbed at her lips with a silk cloth.
Then Ser Harrold's hand covered her arm. The warmth of it pressed through her sleeve.
She flinched. The spoon clattered against the plate.
"It's late," Ser Harrold said, his voice low and gentle. "Shall I see you back?"
Alayne opened her mouth to refuse. Then her eyes caught Myranda—Lord Nestor's daughter, slumped over the table, rose-pink lips parted in an even snore, strands of golden hair fallen across her cheek.
She remembered her task. Heat rose to her cheeks.
"I mean—yes. Thank you. That would be kind. I am tired, and the road is dark. It would be good to have an escort." She dropped her gaze, fingers twisting the fabric of her skirt.
"Then allow me to help you to a carriage." Ser Harrold rose and offered his arm.
Alayne shook her head, her eyes fixed on a hitching post nearby. His horse stood there, a chestnut with a neatly trimmed mane, grazing quietly.
"No. I would not care for a carriage." She bit her lower lip. "Your horse is beautiful. Can it carry two?"
Ser Harrold's pupils dilated. His throat bobbed.
"It—it can," he said, his voice rough. "To share a saddle with you would be its honor. No. My honor." He strode to the horse and untied the reins, his movements clumsier than usual.
They rode together, leaving the noisy camp behind. Hooves clicked against the gravel road.
Night wind carried the scent of distant flowers and turned earth. Alayne's heart hammered against her ribs.
But Ser Harrold's hands wandered. Once. Twice. Three times, reaching where they should not. Her patience frayed, then snapped.
On the third time she pushed his hand away, she slid from the saddle almost without thinking.
Her feet hit the ground. She stumbled, nearly fell.
Harrold dismounted in a rush, reaching to steady her. She slapped his hand away.
"Ser Harrold Hardyng," she said, her voice shaking, "do you take me for some simple village girl? Is that how you stole the innocence of that saffron merchant's daughter in Gulltown?" Her eyes were red, her voice thick with fury and hurt.
"I—no, believe me, it was the wine," he stammered. Then his hands seized her shoulders and pressed her against a tree.
His breath came hot against her face, heavy with drink. "You are too beautiful. I am lost in you." He leaned in, his mouth crushing against hers.
Alayne struggled. Her hands pushed at his chest, but it was like shoving a wall. Despair began to close in—
A cold voice cut through the night. "Release the lady."
Harrold froze.
Alayne twisted her head to look. Lennard Turner stood with his longsword drawn, the blade gleaming cold in the moonlight. His grey wool cloak snapped in the wind. His eyes burned with fury and disgust.
"You again." Harrold turned to face him, his expression twisting into a snarl. "This is between Lady Alayne and myself. It does not concern you."
Lennard ignored him. His gaze found Alayne, soft and warm. "Lady Alayne. Are you unharmed? If you are afraid, I will see you home."
Alayne pulled herself free and stepped back several paces, clutching the torn collar of her gown. Tears brimmed in her eyes.
She drew a breath, forcing her voice steady. "It is nothing, Ser Lennard. Ser Harrold is only drunk. I think he can still see me back. But if you wish, you may ride with us."
She watched them both like a startled doe.
Lennard sheathed his sword slowly, but his eyes never left Harrold.
Harrold opened his mouth, closed it, and let out a sharp snort. He took the horse's reins. The ride back passed in dead silence, broken only by the rhythm of hooves in the empty dark.
After Harrold's foolishness, Alayne did not mount his horse again. She walked ahead, keeping seven or eight paces between herself and the two men.
When the castle's silhouette finally rose against the sky, Alayne broke into a run toward the West Tower.
Harrold watched her go, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked. He turned to Lennard, eyes sharp as ice. "Ser Lennard. When did you—did your father teach you only swordsmanship, and not manners?"
"A drunken knight escorting a beautiful maiden home. I have heard many tales of what happens on such roads." Lennard's voice was steady, unyielding. "Let me ask you, Ser Harrold. Do you not know that rape is a capital crime? Even if you are the heir to the Vale and escape gelding, the Wall awaits you at best."
"Alayne and I are betrothed. She is meant to be my wife." Harrold's laugh was cold. "If you were clever, you would know not to interfere in a husband's affairs."
"I have heard no word of a betrothal ceremony. And after tonight, I wonder if Lady Alayne would still have you." Lennard's voice carried a thread of mockery. "Your reputation is not so fine. The Defender of the Vale will not give his daughter to a man who forces himself on women."
"Do you think Littlefinger has any choice but to give her to me?" Harrold swung onto his horse. "As long as I am the heir to the Eyrie, he has no better option. Everyone knows this. And you—the vassal of my vassal's vassal—think carefully about what you are doing."
He raised his whip and cracked it against the horse's flank. The animal screamed and bolted toward the camp. As he passed Lennard, Harrold spat: "Country knight."
Alayne burst through the door of the West Tower and pushed open the wooden door to Petyr's chamber. She threw herself into his arms, tears streaming like a broken dam. "Father—"
Petyr held her gently, his palm stroking her back. "Alayne. My good daughter. What happened?"
Between sobs, she told him everything that had happened on the road back. "I don't know," she finished, her voice breaking. "I don't know what to do. He went too far."
Petyr's brow furrowed. Anger flickered in his eyes. "An impatient young man. If you are truly angry, I will punish him severely."
Alayne looked up, startled, her eyes wet. "But—you mean for me to marry him. If you punish him—"
"If I punish him and he no longer wants to marry you? Is that what worries you?"
Petyr's voice was soft as honey. He reached out and gently wiped the tears from her cheek. "Even if you marry Harrold Hardyng, I doubt Bronze Yohn will support me. The future is a tangled knot. Who can say what will happen? The only thing I know for certain is that you are Catelyn's daughter. I loved her, and I love you. If Harry is a lecher who does not know how to respect a lady, I will not throw you into that fire."
Sansa's tears came again. She held Petyr tight, burying her face in his chest. For the first time, she felt warmth and care from the man who called himself her father.
When Alayne had calmed, Petyr sent her to attend the young lord. She dried her eyes, kissed Petyr's cheek, and left.
She climbed the stone steps to the largest chamber on the top floor of the main keep. The carved wooden door swung open to reveal a room thick with soft incense. Warm candlelight painted everything in gold.
Young Lord Robert lay alone in the wide feather bed, a wool blanket pulled to his pale chest.
At the sound of the door, he rubbed his eyes and struggled to sit up. His voice was stronger than it had been in days. "Alayne! You're back. Petyr said you would read me the Winged Knight when you returned."
His hair spilled across the pillow like a dark waterfall. His eyes were red and swollen, like rubies soaked in water.
Alayne sat on the edge of the bed and gently smoothed his tangled hair. "Sweet Robin. Did Maester Colemon give you your sweet milk tonight?"
"No. Today Petyr brought an old septon into my room. He did a trick with light that glowed. After that, Petyr told Maester Colemon I don't need sweet milk anymore. And if I feel poorly again, Colemon is not to bleed me with a knife. Petyr said the old septon will take care of me. He also said I can watch the tourney again tomorrow!"
Robert waved his thin arms as he told the story, his eyes bright with excitement. A flush of color touched his pale cheeks.
A flicker of confusion passed through Alayne's mind. A trick with light? What was that?
But seeing Robert so happy, she smiled and picked up the storybook from his bedside. In a soft voice, she began to read the legend of the Winged Knight.
The girl's gentle voice filled the room. Outside the window, the moon had climbed to its zenith. Its silver light streamed through the carved window, falling across them both, adding a touch of warmth to the quiet night.
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