Twilight bled into the horizon like spilled ink, staining the Vale of Arryn in deep, suffocating shadows. The towering spires of the Gates of the Moon loomed in the dark like a prehistoric beast, punctuated only by the flickering orange tongues of torches along the battlements.
Suddenly, the sharp, discordant blast of a brass horn shattered the stillness. The sound was thin and jagged, a cold hand that gripped the hearts of everyone within the keep. It was the signal for a high guest.
Inside the Great Hall, the sixty-four knights and their retinues were mid-revelry. The hall was a kaleidoscope of velvet and jewels, a hum of highborn gossip and the shrill laughter of children. But as the horn's echo died, the noise vanished. Men froze with goblets halfway to their lips, eyes darting in confusion.
The hour was late. The feast should have been winding toward sleep. Who would dare knock at the gates at such a time?
In the crowd, Alayne Stone stood perfectly still. Her face was a mask of courtly composure, but her pulse hammered against her ribs. Only yesterday, she had overheard Lord Grafton mentioning that an Archbishop Clare of the Faith had expressed intent to meet Petyr. She had dismissed it as clerical business, but now, the weight of that news felt like a physical pressure.
She looked toward Petyr Baelish. His brow was a jagged line of tension, his eyes sharp and predatory.
Petyr's position was a castle built on clouds. He held the titles of Lord Protector of the Vale and Lord of Harrenhal, yet his foundation was brittle. Joffrey was dead, and Lysa Arryn was in her grave. He was a man ruling through ghosts. In this delicate balance, the attitude of the Faith was a dagger. Before the Targaryens, the Faith Militant had been as powerful as any Great House. If the Church chose to question Petyr's legitimacy now, his carefully laid plans would dissolve into ash.
Petyr signaled Ser Shadrich, the Mad Mouse. He whispered a few lethal instructions into the knight's ear. Shadrich nodded, his fox-like face grim, and slipped from the hall to make "preparations."
"Lord Nestor," Petyr said, his voice instantly shifting into a warm, welcoming lilt as the master of the keep approached. "Pray, represent the people of the Vale and welcome the emissaries of the Seven!"
Lord Nestor Royce hurried to the gates, shouting for the drawbridge to be lowered.
The Vale was unlike the Reach or the Riverlands; it was the original landing site of the Andals. Here, the First Men had been purged with a cruelty that surpassed all other kingdoms. Those who survived fled into the peaks to become the savage Mountain Clans, while the fertile valleys became the fiefdoms of Andal lords. Thus, the blood of the Vale was pure, and their devotion to the Seven was iron-clad.
A procession emerged from the gloom. Several figures in hooded habits walked forward, led by a middle-aged man in robes of silver thread and a crystal crown. Archbishop Clare radiated a quiet, terrifying sanctity. His face was gaunt, his hair a shock of white, but his eyes were as sharp as a falcon's.
Behind him marched a guard of fifty men. They wore uniform black surcoats and carried ten-foot pikes. Their discipline was silent and absolute. Several heavy wagons groaned behind them, wheels churning the autumn mud.
Nestor Royce knelt, kissing the Archbishop's ring. "Archbishop Clare. Years have passed, yet you remain as steadfast as the Mother's mercy."
"Lord Nestor, may the Seven guide you. Forgive the lateness of our intrusion."
"You are always welcome," Nestor said, though his smile was strained. "However, the keep is overflowing with tourney guests. I fear many of your men must camp without."
Clare smiled thinly. "Naturally. It would be unseemly to displace your noble guests. Brother Ryan, Captain Leopold—see to the camp."
A young monk and a brawny knight led the soldiers toward the dry fields outside the walls. Clare, accompanied by three monks and four knights, followed Nestor into the keep.
"Is that him? A real Archbishop?" Myranda Royce whispered, her face flushed with excitement. She gripped Alayne's hand so hard the skin turned white. "Alayne, look! I never thought I'd see one in the flesh!"
Alayne did not share her friend's thrill. She lowered her eyes, her stomach churning. During her time as a prisoner of the Lions, she had visited the Great Sept of Baelor many times as Joffrey's betrothed and then as Tyrion's wife. She did not know this Clare, but did he know her? If he recognized the daughter of Eddard Stark, he could hand her to Cersei as a 'pious' offering.
"He's coming this way!" Myranda hissed.
Nestor stopped before them. "My daughter, Myranda. And this lovely girl is Alayne, the natural daughter of Lord Petyr Baelish."
"Lovely indeed," Clare said, his voice like velvet over gravel. "The Seven use the Maiden as their vessel. May you find joy and a worthy husband, child."
Alayne offered a perfect, trembling curtsy.
Clare ascended the dais, taking the seat to the right of the drowsy Sweetrobin. Petyr sat on the other side, a cup of red wine in hand.
"Archbishop. Long years since the King's funeral," Petyr noted.
Clare took a sip of plain water. "Indeed, Lord Petyr. Who could have known the King's death would unleash such... darkness upon the realm? Is it the gods punishing our sins?"
"One can only hope the sinners find their end quickly," Petyr replied smoothly.
The feast resumed, but the atmosphere had changed. The young knights, who had been focused on Alayne, now swarmed the Archbishop. Even Ser Harrold Hardyng stood in line for a blessing, his face glowing with a fervor Alayne hadn't seen when they were dancing.
When it was the ladies' turn to be blessed, Alayne tried to shrink into the shadows, but Myranda pulled her forward. After blessing Myranda, Clare turned his sharp gaze on Alayne.
"Lady Alayne," he said softly. "Are you truly from the Riverlands?"
Alayne's heart skipped a beat. "No, Your Grace. I am from Gulltown. My father and mother met there, and there I was born."
"Ah," Clare whispered, a hint of something unreadable in his voice. "I had a friend once. Her daughter looked much like you, though the hair was... different."
Alayne felt a cold sweat on her neck. "Perhaps. Ordinary girls are everywhere, Your Grace." She curtsied and fled.
Later, the hall emptied. The Archbishop's presence had effectively castrated the usual post-feast debauchery; the knights returned to their rooms without their usual trophies of maids and wine. Alayne tucked Sweetrobin into bed and then hurried to Petyr's solar.
"Father, I think he knows!" she gasped.
Petyr sat behind his desk, a quill in hand. His eyes flashed with a momentary anger. "Who are you?"
Alayne froze. "I... I am your daughter, Alayne of Gulltown."
"And is that what you told the Archbishop?"
"Yes. I told him you were a customs officer when you met my mother."
"Good." Petyr signaled her over and pulled her into a stiff embrace. "The Archbishop is an old man. He sees ghosts in every shadow. He likely mistakes you for some girl from the capital. But you must be careful. It is not time for the wolf to show its teeth."
He pinched her nose. "Forget the priest. You did well with Harry. I saw you dance."
"It was... as you instructed," Alayne said, recounting their conversation.
Petyr smiled, a genuine, cold satisfaction. "Excellent. You are Catelyn's daughter, but you have a wit she never possessed. Keep him on the hook."
"And Ser Lennard Turner? If I use him to bait Harry, Harry might hurt him."
Petyr's eyes turned to ice. "If a tailor's son is foolish enough to dance with my daughter, he must pay the price of his ambition. Whether he lives or dies is his own concern. Archbishop Clare's purpose here is secondary. Your marriage to Harry is the only truth that matters."
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