Petyr's chambers, as they so often did, lay cold and barren within the stout waycastle. Despise him they might, yet the lesser lords oft required the presence and blessing of he who possessed the powers of Lord Protector over keeps and lands long held by Arryns and their kin. Well accustomed to the solitude granted by so elevated a seat, Alayne yearned for his return only in that his remained the most familiar presence in an ever-contracting life. He knew her secret. Their secret. She still had to pretend, of course, take on the shroud of bastard and sit dutifully at his side as a daughter rediscovered. Even alone they could not speak of who she truly was, what the chestnut dye concealed; the queen may yet have rats scurrying through the Vale mountains, while Alayne stared at every arachnoid weaving with chilly suspicion.
His authority hardly mattered now, the Stone at ease with directing others to her will. How fitting, perhaps, as true slabs of basalt or schist did not yield before the demands of interlopers either. True, her influence waned at the Gates of the Moon, granted to Lord Royce and his descendants by gracious decree of the Lady Arryn's widower. In his stead Myranda, true born daughter of the keep's lord, oversaw the same daily questions and trials Alayne weathered upon her good-mother's passing. Although by rights she might stand of equal or higher rank to the sharp-witted elder girl, her status remained that of a guest as well, and so what few liberties in command the bastard took restricted themselves to small matters of personal comfort.
The fire of her chamber lit a half hour earlier than
was customary. (Sansa Stark might have relished
the chill, but Alayne knew naught but the warm
breezes of Gulltown.)
Her door, once latched, remained so until dawn broke
or fire threatened to scorch the castle walls. (For all her
toils, Myranda had yet to divert Sweetrobin from the
ceaseless pursuit of his sister by marriage.)
Firmest of all, the request that once every moon she be
left to tend her own bath; a moment of privacy, she begged,
amidst the warm and constant presence of others. (Lest
Alayne's dull brown grew too swiftly, overtaken by the weed
of Tully red just beneath.)
It was then she bent over a steaming basin, trembling in a shift inconsequential should it be burned for a spattering of dye. Oftentimes Petyr aided the endeavor, another's hands more easily reaching every hidden lock of hair, sealing it away behind a darkened mistruth. Though managing such a task alone stood difficult, Alayne succeeded in his frequent absences: thoughtfully barring her door, watching her efforts with a meticulous eye in polished silver, scrubbing at her nails with a rough bristle-brush until the thin black lines of stain disappeared. She often used a dollop of precious rose oil, reserved for her hair, on her hands in those evenings, ravaged as they were by hot water and boar hairs. Perhaps Petyr would gift her a new vial when he returned, always so conscious of when her cosmetics dwindled.
That night Alayne struggled more than was customary, Lord Robert rattling at her door after the first rinse of dye, demanding to be admitted. For the rest of the ritual her attention wandered, nerves primed with an expectation of calamity; every passing set of footsteps - and there were several, intermittently - became a Lannister emissary; each creak of snow on her windowsill was instead the groaning of hinges as a maid or squire came upon her in the act. In a haste to stow away all evidence of her deceit, Sansa rubbed several fingers raw to clear them of contamination. Drying beside crackling flames, usually an act of relaxation, only set her teeth to an uncouth grind. When a raised palm fell away dry from her scalp, she nearly wept at the relief of sweet slumber, and though an ivory pillowcase remained pristine beneath her crown, Sansa drifted to sleep with the sensation of a thousand eyes upon her labors and their fruits. Watching. Judging. Waiting.
