Petyr Baelish had completely lost the lively brilliance Sansa remembered from before.
His clothing was still rich and resplendent, glittering with jewels. He had never been stingy with coin, and Aunt Lysa had lavished generosity on the man she loved.
His gray-green eyes followed Tyrion's ascent up the steps, or flicked cautiously over his shoulder to fall upon himself. Anger, jealousy, fear, hatred… emotions a husband might have voiced, yet Sansa saw none of them in his gaze.
"Lord Petyr Baelish." Tyrion pulled out a chair and sat beside Littlefinger. "Long time no see since King's Landing. How's the Spider?"
Littlefinger's mouth opened and closed. Sansa noticed several missing teeth—replaced by gold ones. What had happened to him?
"All is well." In a heartbeat, Littlefinger smoothed away the darkness on his face and extended his hand. His littlest finger was gone. Tyrion took his hand and shook it.
"My dear Sansa, it has been many days. You grow lovelier each time I see you."
Sansa embraced her uncle, and everyone took their seats.
"Where are Lord Robert and Lady Lysa?" Bronze Yohn asked.
"Lord Robert requires milk to soothe his fits," Petyr Baelish explained as he rose to pour wine for the guests. "They will return shortly."
Bronze Yohn and the other notable men toasted one another. Only her husband drank nothing and ate nothing. Sansa watched them all—laughing, smiling—even Bronze, foul-mouthed as he was, managed a grin now and then.
"A pack of smiling wolves," Arya muttered beside her. "Did you hear that? Great Lord Robert Arryn still needs to nurse!"
Needs breast milk? Sansa didn't understand. From everyone's stories, Robert Arryn was frail and sickly, yes, but supposedly cheerful and brave. But needing milk… how old was he?
Before long, Aunt Lysa appeared carrying Great Lord Robert Arryn. The great lords rose at once, and cheers rose from the crowd below as though she were the bride of the day.
Little Robert nestled against his mother. What was he doing—searching for a nipple? Sansa felt a ripple of disgust. Her own husband had once done such things, but at least… not in front of everyone.
"My dear lady," Tyrion rose. "See? A Lannister always pays his debts. Lord Baelish has returned to your side, hasn't he?"
Sansa, help your aunt look after the Great Lord.
Sansa hurried forward. "May you share honor and harmony, enjoy long life and fortune, grow old together, and be blessed with many children." She touched cheeks with her aunt and took Robert into her arms.
"What's your name?" the boy asked.
"Sansa," she said. "I'm your cousin."
"Cousin," Robert repeated. "Sansa, do you have milk? I want milk."
"My lord," a tall, sturdy young woman rushed over. "Forgive me, Lady Sansa—let me tend to him." Her jet-black hair was uneven and messy, her eyes a deep, striking blue. Sansa thought she looked oddly like Gendry.
"No, I don't want you! You smell like a stinking mule!" the young lord shrieked, burying his head against Sansa. "I don't want you! Go away!"
"My name is Mya, my lady," the woman said with a small bow. "Alayne, come here. Help the lady."
Behind her stood a beautiful girl with black hair and brown eyes. She stood frozen, staring at Sansa without moving. Sansa stared back.
"What's the matter, Alayne?" Mya tugged her arm. "Come help the lady."
Only then did the girl called Alayne snap back to herself and move to take Lord Robert Arryn. "My lady, I am Alayne, Lord Baelish's bastard daughter."
No—you are Jeyne Poole, daughter of Vayon Poole, Winterfell's steward. My dearest friend, Sansa thought. She placed the little lord into her friend's arms and turned toward her husband.
Aunt Lysa didn't bother to hide the disgust in her eyes. She held out the back of her hand for Tyrion to kiss, and the great men settled back into their seats.
Sansa sat beside Tyrion. Even amid the noisy square, with jesters and singers clamoring without pause, she could clearly hear her husband speaking with Lord Baelish.
"You have daughters?" Tyrion asked, nodding toward the two girls tending the young lord.
"Alayne?" Littlefinger said. "Her mother was the daughter of a good family in Braavos, and your grandfather was a magnate of the trade guilds. When I oversaw customs here in Gulltown, we were pledged. She died in childbirth abroad, and the newborn was given to the church."
"When she came of age, she refused to become a septa," Tyrion cut in. "So she wrote to you, and you brought her here."
A lie, Sansa thought.
"Ha ha, my lord is as sharp as ever. She's a pretty girl—are you interested in her? I fear Lady Sansa might grow jealous."
"And the dark-haired one?"
"Mya Stone," Littlefinger said. "She works at Gates of the Moon as a guide, leading visiting nobles and knights through the dangerous mountain paths. She came down with us to tend to Little Lord Robert and my wife."
"Another bastard daughter," Tyrion laughed. "Perhaps I should acquire a few myself—servants to mind the children. Casterly Rock and Harrenhal are both large enough!"
"A single castle can't hold a brood of children," Lord Baelish offered mildly. "Your wife is seated right beside you."
"I say what I please. Especially with a Robert present—he'd enjoy talk of bastards." Tyrion grinned at Little Robert Arryn. "Wouldn't you, lad? A lord can do whatever he likes!"
Robert Arryn shrieked with delight, splashing soup all over himself. "I'm going to fly!" Mya Stone hurried over to clean him, only to receive a spoon to the forehead. "Go away!" he shouted, forcing Alayne to take her place.
It seemed that aside from nursing him, Lady Lysa did not tend to her sweet Robin at all.
"A sturdy little fellow," Tyrion said. "Tell me, does Lord Baelish intend to return to King's Landing? King Joffrey could greatly use your abilities. My dear nephew never stops praising you."
"King's Landing needs Lord Baelish's talents more than the Vale does," Bronze Yohn Royce agreed with a nod.
Horton Redfort, looking even smaller in his chair, nodded vigorously as well.
"And Lord Tyrion still finds time to worry about my whereabouts?" Petyr Baelish smiled. "The rough roads of the Mountains of the Moon must have delayed news reaching you. King Joffrey is dead."
...
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