Heirs Part 4: Hunting
Title: Heirs Pt 4: Hunting
Author: PrettySiren/prettysirenx
Rating: MA/NC-17
Genre(s): smut, romance, humor, angst, drama
Spoilers: No spoilers -- just spec.
Disclaimer: ASoIaF characters belong to GRRM.
Warnings: Graphic smut. With Petyr and Sansa. Don't like it? Don't read it.
Notes: The is the fourth part of "Heirs". (Check my journal/links/posts for previous installments.) Unbeta'd.
The Lord Protector decided it was time that his daughter meet her betrothed. Lord Nester facilitated the meeting by hosting a hunting party, bringing many knights and minor lords from the Vale together. The Lords Declarant who did not belong to House Waynwood made a point not to show up.
It was with great ceremony that Alayne Stone, bastard daughter of Lord Petyr Baelish, received her betrothed. Harrold Hardyng was just as she perceived him: handsome, smiling, and oozing charm. With broad shoulders and a man’s man personality, it was no wonder they called him The Young Falcon. Everyone loved him. But to look at him made her sick. He simply reminded her of a more physically fit Joffrey Baratheon. He’d try to seduce with a smile and an air, but really, he was nothing on the inside. It was easy to harden herself to him, and even easier to endear herself. If she could survive Joff’s wroth, she could survive this young man’s smarmy smile.
“Ser Harrold,” she said amicably, curtseying. “I am delighted to finally meet you.”
“And you, my lady,” he said with a bow. Everyone around them was in raptures. Even Lady Ironoaks looked pleased; the crow’s feet around her eyes crinkled as she smiled approvingly.
“So oft have I heard tales of your handsomeness, but I daren’t believe them. And indeed, they were false.”
“They were?” he asked carefully, keeping good humor. Everyone waited with bated breath for Alayne’s response.
“Indeed. They didn’t do you justice, ser.”
Everyone laughed at that. Petyr gave a broad, amiable smile that didn’t meet his eyes.
“If it pleases you, my good ser, allow me to introduce you to my father, Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale of Arryn.”
Harry strode over to Petyr and bowed in deep reverence. “My lord, you do me a great honor in giving me your daughter’s hand.”
Petyr kept smiling. “The deal is not sealed yet. I was unequivocally told that there would be no betrothal if you did not approve of my girl.”
Harry looked up; he was clearly unnerved by Petyr’s statement. Perhaps he was even less intelligent than Sansa’s initial surmising.
“I beg pardon my lord, but I would’ve thought my approval was obvious.” Silence for a beat, then both entourages broke into laughter, diffusing what had been the small makings of a tense situation. Sansa knew that Petyr was doing it on purpose; Alayne wisely bit back her giggles and smiled meekly.
“Now that this talk is over, we can begin the hunt!” Lord Nester cried and many men murmured their agreement.
Alayne had been fitted by Randa’s dressmaker in new-fashioned hunting gear. Randa was an avid hunter, and it was definitely the season for stags. Sansa liked the idea of that; she could pretend each one killed was Joffrey.
But the dress was certainly binding. A corset was worn under the bodice to cause a stiff, rigid torso that was supposed to “make the lady appear more elegant on horseback”. The woman also tut-tutted about Alayne’s increasing waistline, but Randa came to her defense, telling her of how offerings were meager at the Eyrie, and she was making up for lost food. It was certainly the truth. Sasna made it a point to be nicer to her that day.
Now that the day had come, she was nervous about riding on horseback. It had been a long time since she’d ridden a horse, and she was scared for the child growing inside her. Would if the horse jiggle it out of her? She wasn’t sure how it all worked. However, she brushed all of that aside; she’d look like an idiot if she road pillion with one of Lord Nester’s knights. So, when they placed the mounting block in front of her tame white mare, she climbed gracefully in the saddle, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. She promised herself it would be okay.
She briefly caught Petyr’s eye who gave her a reassuring smile. Strangely, he looked very natural on horseback. She never would’ve imagined so in King’s Landing, but the southlands were his home. He was raised by her grandfather to be a proper gentleman; proper gentlemen rode horses, and Petyr rode quite well. Sansa hid her approving smile under the guise of Alayne looking to her father for reassurance. She heard Randa remark to Harry how close father and daughter were, joking it was unnatural.
“I wouldn’t know, my lady,” he replied evenly. “I am but an orphan.”
“The handsome ones always are. It further adds to the mystery.”
Randa flirted shamelessly. And it irked Sansa to no end, because she was going to have to flirt even harder to make up for it. As his betrothed, she had to come out looking better than Randa. She had to gain his trust.
She urged her horse ahead and rode between them. “My dear Randa, Father was asking me if perhaps you knew the name of those flowers over there. He said he’d never seen such flowers. I fear his curiosity knows no bounds. Pray go see to him, or he will be forever curious.”
“I can work with curious,” she said loudly, winking. She cracked her reigns and her trotted over to Petyr, who was completely unaware, but went easily with the flower story. He was good with stories.
They were deeper into the woods now. The lowlands of the Vale were covered in trees of gold and burnished copper, so red, it made Sansa ache for her own true hair. Soon enough, she told herself.
She rode beside Harry and they meandered away from the others.
“Do you think we shall see any stags today, Ser Harrold?”
“Please, my dear, you must call me Harry, if we are to be wed.”
“Do you think we will see any stags today, Harry?” Alayne amended; she forced herself to look down meekly and batted her eyelashes for extra affect.
“I shouldn’t think so, my sweet Alayne. Our party is so many, we’ll scare them all away. Stags are stealthy creatures. They leap away from the slightest noise. No, I fear Aunt Anya has made sure we will never see a stag today; I begged her not to bring so many of her knights. I supposed it might seem...ostentatious. It’s not a secret our family owes your father a good deal. You do know the real reason they are marrying us, do you not?”
“No,” Alayne said softly.
“You need a title; we need money. It is all business for them. But it doesn’t have to be for us,” he reached over and stroked her leg.
She flushed angrily, but prayed he thought it simple girlishness. She looked away from him and spoke plainly. “I was raised in a sept, ser. In Braavos.”
“I’m aware of your origins.”
“Then you know that I was raised to believe it a sin to have relations before we are joined in the light of the seven.”
“Rather ironic coming from a bastard.”
He didn’t just remind her of Joffrey; he was starting to sound like Marillion. Young Falcon indeed. Instead of arguing or playing the victim, she deflected.
“In Braavos, it is the custom to have a great engagement feast before the wedding.”
“But we’re not in Braavos,” he said lowly, trying to be persuasive.
She moved her horse away from his in a sort of dance that would keep him distracted as she finished her selling point. “Not just any feast, but a great feast, Harry. With a tournament and swordfights and-The Girl’s Dance.” Her mouth was just saying things now, but it all sounded right enough. His brow knitted in serious thought.
“Girls Dance, aye?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “With the wedding to follow under the light of the moon. And after the wedding...”
“I should very much like to bed you, Alayne.”
“I know.”
“I already have two bastards.”
“I know.”
“It would be poor form to make more so close to the wedding.”
“Precisely why we should wait.”
“How soon can we feast?” he asked desperately.
Alayne thought for a moment for effect. Then she replied simply. “I see no reason we cannot feast in a fortnight. The moon is full then, and that is supposed to be good luck.”
“I just want to touch you,” he told her.
“After the feast,” she said quietly. “You can touch me all you want then.”
They rejoined Lady Anya and Petyr who were talking casually and watching Lord Nester’s squire proffer his lord freshly fletched bows with feathers didn’t look like any Sansa had seen in her days at Winterfell.
“What kind of arrows are those?” she asked generally.
“These are the sort made by the hill tribes of these parts, my lady,” the young squire happily supplied. “Contrary to popular belief, the barbarians aren’t just good at smashing things. They make an arrow that flies so swift and true, it can split a hair from a mile away.”
“Sounds horrid,” Alayne said. Inwardly, Sansa smiled.
That night, she argued with Petyr. He thought she was being ridiculous. They’d never fought before. She liked it; clearly, he did not. His face was red and he paced relentlessly.
“It’s no good, sweetling,” he told her. “It’s dangerous.”
“Precisely why it has to be done,” she countered, leaping up from her seat. He searched her eyes and they were alight like blue flames. And he knew he’d lost.
“Then,” he said slowly, “I’ll go. I won’t have you-I won’t have the woman I love-you’re carrying my child-“
“Shh,” she quieted him with a soft, sweet kiss. She felt him yield in an instant. Kisses were few and far between lately. “It has to be me. They’d think of you first. It has to be me.”
“Then you’ll take Brune.”
“First I want to take you,” she said, smiling. She pushed him against the wall. They hadn’t been together since that first time and it was driving her absolutely mad.
He ripped open her dressing gown; she was completely naked. And she wasted no time unlacing his breeches and sliding herself onto him, her foot against the wall for leverage. He plowed into her like he would give their son a twin.
A son, she thought.
She came twice and would’ve again, had it not been getting too late to set out.
“I love you,” she told him. “I love you, I love you, but I’ve got to go.”
“You will come back to me.” It wasn’t a question. He kissed her fiercely. “I’ll tell Brune to be outside your chambers in an hour.”
Lothor waited for her, just as Petyr said he would. He silently led Sansa out of the Gates of the Moon, through ways she was sure even the servants didn’t know about. It was cold. She wore an old black cloak; she pulled it tight to her as the night air hit her, biting her cheeks.
“It’s windy,” she said.
“It’s the Vale,” her guide replied.
“Did Petyr tell you where you are taking me?”
“Aye, my lady.”
“And you brought the gold?”
“Aye, my lady.”
“Good man.”
“Aye, my lady.”
It took them an hour’s walk down hill before they saw the firelight from the small hill tribe band. They were a rough folk, just as Sansa had been warned, but oddly she didn’t fear them the way she did anyone in King’s Landing. With these people, she knew where she stood.
She threw the sack of gold in the center of their circle, by the fire. Its contents spilled out, and gleamed enticingly.
“I’m here to do business,” she said solidly, digging her boots into the ground beneath her feet. “Who is in charge?”
A burly man with a ridiculously messy beard stood up and threw aside a chicken bone. “Dagga, brother of Bragga.”
Sansa tried not to laugh at the rhyming names and kept her voice even. “Dagga, brother of Bragga. I offer you money in exchange for a job, a job I think you’d be very happy to do.”
“What does the little lady want exactly? You risk a lot coming here,” he said gruffly.
“The little lady wants you to go falcon hunting.”