Chapter Text
She poured the wine out of the jug and into the goblet as she spoke, carefully dropping in the strangler when she saw him absorbed in his papers. "And what should I tell Maester Colemon? He keeps saying Lord Robert should not be given sweetsleep--he wants to call the Elder Brother from the Quiet Isle to take a look at him; he's even mentioned a place called the House of Healing in Braavos. Have you heard of it, Father?"
"I think, my dear, you should ignore what Colemon says--everyone knows the boy is sick and could die any minute. Why should we send to the Quiet Isle or go to Braavos? It is winter now and the seas are rough--do you think he would survive the crossing even if we were to go?"
"But, Father, won't his death make it more difficult for you to hold the Vale as Lord Paramount? Won't Harry want to rule as Lord of the Vale?"
She watched him as he drank the Dornish red, relishing its sourness. "You can go now, my dear Alayne," he said, "Don't worry so much about Sweetrobin and the sweetsleep--if you play your part well with Harry the Heir, we can hold the Vale and get you Winterfell and the North too." She got up to leave just as he swallowed the last of the wine and began to cough and choke.
"Father, shall I get you some water?" she asked, concerned, and opened the solar door to call Luthor Brune. She turned to look at him--he nodded his head at her, his eyes streaming, as he tried to tear open the collar of his tunic. She ran out of the solar, looking around--Luthor was nowhere to be found. She shut the solar door quietly. Mya had done as asked and enticed him away. She slowed down to a walk and paced the corridor slowly. She wondered how long it had taken Joffrey to die--she had hated him, but what she had hated even more was being blamed for a murder she had not committed. And what had enraged her was to have someone who had been kind to her, who had never forced his attentions on her when she knew he found them distasteful (unlike Petyr), proclaimed a kinslayer and a kingslayer.
She walked up to the solar door, opened it and glanced inside--he lay there, his eyes vacant and unseeing, with his blood all over his chin and his chest. She closed the door and walked away--if anyone asked, her father was not to be disturbed for an hour or more, till the feast began. She went up to her room to bathe and dress, even as she composed a letter that Maester Colemon would send, as soon as possible, to the Elder Brother at the Quiet Isle.