[ She wonders about this Anthony Stark — not often, but sometimes. Wonders if he is truly a Stark in blood as well as name, wonders if the same tenets of honor and duty run through his veins as it does Robb's and his father's before him. Alayne wonders about his family, whether or not he misses them, or if he is much as Sansa had been — the last living Stark, sole survivor of a once-great legacy. Beaten and broken by the tides of time. (If he was, oh how her heart would sing sorrow for him, for it is never a friendly lot.)

She wonders what makes him sad and what makes him happy. Be a Northern Stark — that prospect seems to cheer him — and then Alayne wonders instead if Anthony understands what precisely that means. ] I think I would like to hear of your south, and of you Starks — if ever you are taken to telling stories. Some Starks are and others aren't. Some prefer the listening to the telling and some do not enjoy stories at all. [ A beat, and then she adds:] Or so I am told.

[ The tendril of hair that'd been tucked behind Alayne's ear slips forward again and gets tucked a second time. She almost laughs. ] How else might one sleep? With one eye open? Sounds like something a giant would do, in a tale.