She has severely miscalculated.
With Fa- no, with Petyr's plan soon coming to fruition, the time had come to reveal herself to Bronze Yohn Royce, to give the Lords Declarant the evidence they needed to turn the Vale away from Petyr's influence, and to finally, maybe, find her way home again. To remember her name.
But now she's been found out. She'd been so careful, too. Careful to always be Alayne, to never trust any one, and to only confess lies so carefully crafted they had become truths. She'd squirreled away funds, mapped more than one route out of the Eyrie and the Vale, but in the end, her discovery had come down to a momentary whim on Petyr's part to return just as she was making her move.
Oh, he's so angry- teeth tight, his voice sibilant, and he is going to hurt her- not in a way that depreciates her worth, of course not, but a violation all the same. She knows all his faces, yet this one is new. You'd think by now she would be used to how unfair life is. She has survived so much already: a docile singing bird in the Red Keep amidst all the humiliation and cruelty, the deaths of her family in a relentless march that battered her hope, and yet here she thinks to risk fighting.
A bird does not fight, why had she thought to?
You are a Stark. You are a wolf.
The animal rouses itself from her bones, coursing through her blood. Before Petyr can hold her down and tear at her skirts, she is snarling and snapping her teeth, clawing him away. But the force of her push propels him backwards, his weight hitting the beautiful painted glass window behind him, shattering. There is a moment where he looks so utterly surprised- eyes wide and hands scrabbling for purchase. He finds none. She watches as Petyr Baelish disappears from her sight with a desperate shout, but then he's gone.
All the rest happens in a daze of dawning horror.
It's Ser Lyn Corbray who comes bursting into the room, not Ser Lothor Brune. “You fucking cunt,” he spits out, face twisting with menace. There's no time to tell him she remembers her name. It's been so long since she allowed herself to think of it anyways, and the sounds don't come to her tongue fast enough. I am Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, the blood of Winterfell, and with my brother Robb's death I may well be Queen in the North and the Trident.
Hands, callused from years of handling a sword, wrap around her throat, making her choke on the words. They wouldn't have meant anything to Ser Lyn anyways. Except maybe a reward for turning over a traitor and a Kingslayer to Queen Cersei in exchange for a reward. “Why I ought to...” Except Ser Lyn thinks otherwise, a trail of spittle trickling down his chin. It's all so horribly ugly as she's dragged over to the open window, twisting and kicking at empty air.
This can't be how it ends.
How unfortunate, then, that she should remember she is not a bird but a wolf, for she does not fly, she simply falls