The Brotherhood of the Winged Knights

It was her suggestion. And a sound one. To keep the brave knights of the Vale entertained with a tourney, make them butt heads and throw each others from their horsebacks was a delightful occurrence. She was learning fast. Everything he had promised to her had been delivered. Sixty-four dishes were served, in honor of the sixty-four competitors who had come so far to contest for silver wings before their lord. From the rivers and the lakes came pike and trout and salmon, from the seas crabs and cod and herring. Ducks there were, and capons, peacocks in their plumage and swans in almond milk. Sucking pigs were served up crackling with apples in their mouths, and three huge aurochs were roasted whole above firepits in the castle yard, since they were too big to get through the kitchen doors. Loaves of hot bread filled the trestle tables in Lord Nestor’s hall, and massive wheels of cheese were brought up from the vaults. The butter was fresh-churned, and there were leeks and carrots, roasted onions, beets, turnips, parsnips. The true gem was the large lemon cake shaped like the Giant's Lance: delicate sugar towers imitated the marbled beauty of the Eyrie. The subtlety was a gift to her, even if very likely Robin believe it was to honor him. No expense was spared to glorify the occasion, the gallant display of knighthood that would come to pass the next day, and every guest was handed handsome gifts, formally coming from Lord Nestor, but the old Royce had no coin enough to afford all that, it was his purse, actually, the one covering the bountiful largesse displayed that night. 

Petyr looked as she danced, one lordling after another, including the Waynwoods, which was most pleasing. The Lord Regent was always watching, albeit very subtly, stealing glances when he sipped wine, while turning to speak to Lord Nestor or when a noblemen came to offer their respects to the regent and his ward. Controlling the room from the dais was an easy effortless thing, he dominated the whole hall sitting at the carved throne. He, more oft than not, leaned to please Sweetrobin, that frail thing, pouring honey into his ears: a tantrum or a seizure would greatly ruin the impression on the gathered Valesmen and Valeswoman. The man called Littlefinger smiled proudly -or so he pretended- when his precious daughter danced with Harry. Alayne was so beautiful that day, like her mother when she flowered, but different, better. Cat. And young again. The fireplace lit up her hair most beautifully, with red reflections, flame lurking under the crow-like darkness of the dye. He planned as much. The bigger prize was right under the surface, no bastard, but the Lady of Winterfell, a smuggled diamond. The looks of the Tullys. When the song ended -after what seemed ages- and Harry and Alayne stopped dancing and parted ways, she taking a seat again, waiting for her next dancing companion, Littlefinger allowed himself a smile -one that didn't extend to his grey-green eyes, which remained cold-. She was learning fast, indeed, even if he couldn't presume what she talked with the recently knighted noblesman. Every inch an Arryn, that one. Music and chattering filled the large hall, the sound bouncing, towards the vaulted ceiling, in the walls covered by tapestries; those which had belonged to that dead drunken fool of Robert Baratheon. Tomorrow all the proud lords would wreck each other for the promise of