Tyrion remained distracted until the wedding finally ended.
The guests stayed the night in House Grafton's castle at Gulltown. He lay in bed with his wife nestled close beside him.
"Joffrey… is he truly dead?" Sansa asked.
"I don't know," Tyrion said. "I haven't received any word. King's Landing may not even know where I am. And of course, there's always the chance Littlefinger is lying."
"You're both liars," she said. "Why not send a letter to King's Landing and ask?"
"No." Tyrion shook his head. "Sending a direct inquiry would draw too much attention. And if the information is false, my sister will take it as an insult."
"Then let's go back. To King's Landing. We'll find out ourselves." Sansa rested her head on his shoulder. "We've already visited Aunt Lysa, haven't we?"
"No. I'll send someone—someone my brother knows—to carry a message. No loose ends, no trace. Do you think we went to all this trouble just to see Lady Lysa?" Tyrion chuckled. "And to make Bronze Yohn come greet us personally?"
"To drive away Lord Baelish?" Sansa guessed. "You and Bronze Yohn, taking the Vale together?"
"Hahaha, on what grounds?" Tyrion laughed so hard his stomach hurt. "Why would Bronze Yohn ally with me? Because Lady Lysa is your aunt? That's an awfully distant connection."
"Then…" Sansa had no idea.
"Bronze Yohn and I intend for Robert Arryn to marry Arya."
"What?" Sansa nearly leapt upright. "Impossible! Arya would never like Little Robert, and he'd never like her!"
"Did you like me very much before you married me?" Tyrion sat up. "You're her sister, I'm her brother-in-law. If the two of us decide it can be done, it can be done."
"I…"
Even if Sansa and Arya weren't very close, Tyrion could see her hesitation. Great Lord Robert Arryn might have a lofty title, but he was a sickly, fragile child—hardly suitable as a husband.
"He's eight years old and today he was still crying for milk," Sansa said uneasily. "Arya could beat him across the floor with a stick. She'd never agree to marry him."
"There's plenty of time, my dear," Tyrion said. "It's only an engagement. The marriage itself might not happen for ten years. And who knows what a decade will bring? Perhaps the young lord will grow handsome and strong…"
"No. Robb was never like this at that age," Sansa shook her head. "The old septa always said, 'Three years old shows the man.'"
"There's nothing to negotiate here. Betrothing Robert Arryn and Arya Stark, then sending him to Bronze Yohn as a ward—that's our plan," Tyrion said. "It's the only way to keep the Vale out of Littlefinger's hands."
"I understand." Sansa straightened, then quickly pulled the velvet blanket up to her chest. "So that's why you can't leave the Vale. And why Lord Baelish might be lying to lure you away. Does he know your plan?"
"He may have guessed," Tyrion said. "He should—no, he must have. Otherwise he wouldn't be Littlefinger."
Sansa lowered her head. "Will Aunt Lysa agree? Arya's a wild girl. She's not likable."
"What choice does she have? Can she find a better match?" Tyrion stretched lazily. "Aside from those fawning opportunists—and I'm not saying I'm one—who else would want to marry their daughter to that milk-sucking, bed-wetting, seizure-ridden brat?"
"You are one," Sansa said, rolling her eyes. "You're throwing my sister into the fire."
"Bronze Yohn is the one negotiating with Lady Lysa. We have different roles," Tyrion continued. "Little Robert needs a companion. Bronze told me that on his last visit to the Eyrie, the young lord played with Vardis Egen's son and the steward's children—until the lady drove them all away."
"Why?"
"She thought they were too rough," Tyrion said. "A neurotic mother always believes her child is the world's most delicate blossom, damaged by the slightest breeze."
"Then Arya truly isn't right for him."
"Exactly. Bronze and I have our roles, and so do you," Tyrion said. "You'll need to spend time with Little Robert in Arya's place."
"Why?" Sansa asked again.
"You already gave the answer—Arya isn't right for him." Tyrion slid beneath the covers. "But you're different. You're already sensible and clever. If the young Great Lord comes to like you, he'll naturally imagine your sister is the same."
Of course, the two sisters could not have been more different.
"What if Lord Baelish refuses? He is Lady Lysa's husband—he might…"
"Rely on that bastard daughter of his?" Tyrion snorted. "He has no bastard daughter. Which one is the fake?"
"How do you know?" Sansa asked, stunned.
"No lie escapes my eyes." Tyrion pointed to his mismatched pupils. "One eye sees through lies, the other sees through disguises. But how did you know?"
"Alayne is Jeyne Poole. The steward of Winterfell's daughter. She's my good friend. We traveled south together." Sansa drifted into memory. "Her father—he must have been killed. Poor Jeyne. I wonder how Lord Baelish treats her."
"Like any tool," Tyrion said with a wicked grin. "Well cared for when needed, tossed into storage when not. Littlefinger owns several brothels in King's Landing. I'm sure the girl received professional training… for professional use."
Sansa closed her eyes, as if praying for her friend.
"You recognized her?" Tyrion asked. "Did the two of you acknowledge each other?"
"No. I treated her only as Alayne."
"Smart. Don't expose her yet," Tyrion said thoughtfully. "Women must enter battle as well. This Jeyne Poole, and that bastard girl Mya Stone—they're yours to manage."
"Mya Stone? The tall dark-haired one? What's special about her?"
"She's Robert Baratheon's eldest bastard daughter. Get her to see you as a sister, someone she can confide in." Tyrion rolled onto his side. "And Arya—don't tell him anything yet. Bronze and I still have details to settle."
Tyrion closed his eyes. Was Joffrey truly dead? The crow hadn't witnessed the exact moment, but could Margaery really have done it? If it was true, King's Landing must already be in chaos.