CONTACT | on the tranquility

[wont]

— » 003 » 005 QUARTERS | THIRD LEVEL SEAMSTRESS | FIFTH LEVEL PETYR'S LIBARY | FIFTH LEVEL DEVICE, IN-PERSON, BY RAVEN

Comments

action;

[grndnpnd]

[ This ship is no place for children. Tommy's seen lots of people talking about how much they hated it here or how much they wanted to get back where they came from and except for short moments, Tommy does't really get that. Where he came from isn't any less dangerous than here. People don't die any less. He can try to get on with life just as easily here as there. But it isn't a place for children.

If he got stopped and asked, he'd say he wasn't looking for Alayne when he ends up in the kitchen, but the reality is he'd checked a few places before he found her, just to make sure her and her friend are doing okay. When he sees that he's found her, he stops in the entrance to the kitchen, thinking about that first time they met and how easily startled she was, and clears his throat. ]

Hey.

action;

[wont]

[ Tommy's right, the Tranquility is no place for children, though both Alayne and Bran come from a world where childhood is a brief and fleeting concept. A little one may be young, but a child — and in particular, a child of the North — is expected to grow as per the demands of the kingdom. (And war has very little need for wet-eyed babes.)

When Tommy finds Alayne, she is bent at the waist and peering into one of the ice boxes used for the storage and keeping of food. Never before had she seen such a thing, a box of metal as big as a man which kept meat from spoiling without salt. According to the others it did not require great slabs of ice or frozen snow to function; in fact, it made ice in turn. A curious and strange device, to be sure, though wonderfully convenient in making fruit last for weeks on end.

At his greeting, she turns, her grip on the door slipping, causing it to swing open slow but wide. She looks startled and is startled, no doubt, but far less so than their first meeting. Carefully, she dips when she realizes that it is simply Tommy, her hands gathering her skirt on either side as she bows modestly. ] Greetings. Have you come to break your morning's fast?

( ACTION )

[seem]

[ It's late (or so Petyr assumes — the passage of time is hard to measure without the rise and fall of the sun) when they make their way to the oxygen gardens. The ship is still an alien thing to him (sterile, too clean, too enclosed), but there's something near comforting in the gardens, despite the blue light that pervades each level. It's a blue he's never been familiar with. Not the blue of the sky over the Trident nor the blue of any jewel he has ever seen.

So he seeks out the blue of the eyes of his daughter, his gaze inevitably finding her again no matter how fascinating his surroundings might prove. (Admittedly, it isn't necessarily so much a need to find some grounding anchor as it is to make sure that she is by his side, that she is still his. It's something that paints itself as simple concern, the concern of a father looking after his daughter, making sure that she stays safe in an environment that has yet to prove itself strictly friendly. They make quite the picture. They always do.) ]

( ACTION )

[wont]

[ She has been to the oxygen garden a few times already. Once with Bran and the Pie Maker whose name is Ned, and once with simply Bran himself, though the latter proved much more of a struggle with only Alayne to help Bran's chair along. With only Petyr to accompany her now, she is given much more reign over where she can go and how eagerly she can make her way. And so armed with that newfound freedom (as well as the boldness provided by her father's nearness), Alayne ventures more readily into the farther reaches of the cultivated wilds, straying from the neatly arranged plots of land separated by metal walkways and paths. In the further reaches, the land has been left to grow wild, the plants have been allowed to grow tall and unkempt, the crowns of which brush the illuminated ceilings above (blue, but not the color of sky, the color of space — metallic and cold).

There are no animals here save the various insects that buzz and chatter and alight on the fabric of Alayne's dress, but Alayne does not know that and so remains weary of every soft rustle of leaves and every pitch and sway of boughs in the distance. Here, the air is rich with moisture and is heady with the smell of exotic blossoms and heavy-hung fruit. To Alayne it is an amazement, unlike anything she has seen before or heard of songs or stories. Even though the dampness of the air makes her dress cumbersome, she does not complain, her spirits bouyed on by her enthusiasm and the opportunity to walk a while by her father's side.

(There is a rift in her heart, a hair-line crack so finely wrought that is impossible to discern by sight alone. One one side of the divide stands Petyr and his mockingbird, on the other sits Bran and the promise of wolves.)

A hand touches Petyr on the elbow as Alayne pauses beside him, distracted by the clusters of red-faced flowers which seem to bloom from the knots of a nearby tree. It makes Alayne smile brightly to herself, bending at the waist to look upon them closer. ] Sometimes I think myself dreaming, father, [ she says to one of the flowers. ] Have you ever before seen such a place?

( ACTION )

[wont]

[ She is not herself, though that is to be expected. Were she a girl with a single heart and a single mind she would not be expected to find herself recovered so simply or so soon. But Alayne Stone has more than one heart, just as she has a second name and a hoary host of ghosts the follow it. (By rights, she should be a ghost too but— she is not.)

She spends the first few hours crying then the hours that follow that sleeping. She does not say a word, she does not let anyone touch her, but if she is left alone for even an instant she rouses from whatever sleep or daze holds her and shrieks as if she were ravaged anew. Her dress, having been torn and stained by the attack, is stripped of her but is kept nearby because, for some reason, she will not let it be put away. Given that the only other clothes are the uniforms provided by the lockers, she spends the day in her small clothes, bundled in blankets and draped loosely with her winter's cloak. The fabric and fur gathered to her, the collar of bruises she wears around her throat are barely visible though those that watch her will catch glimpses of it here and there (angry and ugly, a telling reminder of Magneto's wrath). On her stomach, hidden beneath the covers, there is a terrible grinning scar. Absently, she touches at it through the layers of cloth as she stares at nothing at all. Her red hair, loose and unkept, spills over her shoulders in need of a brushing. Slowly she blinks and slowly she breathes. (No, she is not herself.)

Death changes everyone — those that grieve, those that survive, those that remember and those that forget.

Death changes everyone. But it changes the dead most of all. ]

( ACTION )

[seem]

[ He stays with her as long as Robb allows it.

(There is much to be done, much to be processed, but he does his best to concentrate on what is immediately at hand. At some point he will either have to tell Ned the truth of his relation to Sansa or try to explain away the comment that Robb had made as to being her brother. He'll have to deflect the questions that will inevitably come with Alayne's reappearance, as well. And then there is the matter of caring for the girl herself. He will stay until she has recovered, he thinks. And then he will take his leave. The climate doesn't suit him anymore.

He doesn't like Robb's raised hackles. He doesn't like the way that she had spoken before she'd died. He's seen the scar that she bears, now, one that he supposes is fitting for the mockingbird and his daughter. He doesn't like the weight that she seems to settle in his very blood.)

Still, he sits by the foot of the bed, back against the wall, his fingers threaded through each other like a short patch of latticework.

(He is not himself, either.) ]

action

[swagneto]

[ The gift is simple enough, left there in front of Alayne's room with a note attached. A silver mockingbird crafted through spare parts Erik had found throughout the occasional trips he took throughout the ship, bolts here and there, broken down and recrafted as a means of testing his own mutation and its limits. For Alayne however, it's a token for his trust in her, a bird small enough to sit in the palm of her hand, beaded eyes and a bow attached though Erik doesn't know how to truly handle a young girl in the first place, and what sort of gifts she'd like.

Attached is a note written in Erik's script, formal cursive though he hopes it's legible enough for Alayne to read, even if the language isn't English in the first place. ( On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux ) A simple enough statement, but it's the ending that signifies its source; the word Magneto written in ink, and subsequently crossed out with a single line and an addendum in the form of Erik Lehnsherr right next to it.

He doesn't stick around to wait and see her find the object, the note indication enough of its source. She knows how to reach Erik, where he's likely to be in these times, often found in the gym or in the libraries, keeping to himself, not out of loneliness, but a solitude he finds comforting. Whether or not Alayne comes isn't something Erik expects; she's entitled to her own privacy, surrounded by men who trust her, willing to guard her after his deeds, though part of him still yearns for the chance at conversation. ]

action;

[wont]

[ It is a precious thing, isn't it? So small and lovely and smoothly wrought, small enough to sit in the palm of her hand, the bottom of it curved just so as if moulded specifically for the hollow bowl of her fingers. She almost misses it the first time she leaves her room, her skirts swishing about her feet, the bell of her dress full. But Lady whimpers and snuffles along, the smell of Magneto still a sharp, wary thing in her nose and Alayne pauses and turns only to find the gift waiting for her, her bow low and careful as she stoops to retrieve it.

The metal is cool and the handwriting unfamiliar and the message left to her is writ in a language she does no recognize nor understand. Still, the sender is clear, her attention catching and then pausing on the single line drawn through the name Magneto. (A man with two names, Alayne thinks, her breath catching. We are more alike than perhaps you know, Erik.) She traces that strike with the tip of her finger, imagining it to be a wound dealt by the edge of a blade, and then sounds out the name given in its place. ]

Erik Lehnsherr, [ Alayne whispers and smiles to herself. (She cannot tell which gift is more precious to her.) ] Erik Lehnsherr.

[ When she looks him in the hour that follows, it is not until she searches the library that she finds him. Direwolf padding obediently behind her, the suggestion of a growl in her through quickly hushed and chastised to silence; the token is still cradled in her hands when she happens across him, the card tucked away into the folds of her dress, scurried to a secret place where she knows the gift of his name remains safe. Alayne bows — deep and low and sincere — when she greets him, that secret smile still playing across her features. ]

Erik Lehnsherr, [ she says softly, her chin dipped low but her large blue eyes lifted to look at him always. ] Humbly, I greet you.

[audio]

[yardbird]

[He's been staring at his device for awhile now. When you're used to sitting alone in your four-walled cage for long periods of time, one can't help but get used to hearing only their own thoughts. After awhile, the sound of your voice becomes your anchor to sanity.

[Sometimes, Murphy forgets that he can simply walk out whenever he pleased. Or pick up that communicator and just listen to the sound of someone else's voice instead of his own...

[It's with that in mind that Murphy breaks the habit that he's become so accustomed to. Jaw clenched, mouth dry, he reaches out to the familiar line in hopes of an eventual answer, tearing the loudness of his mind's chatter:]

Alayne...? [He pauses. Swallows.] You, uh. Got a minute?

[Of course, he can wait, if she doesn't. Murphy has all the time in the world.

[But if recent events have told him anything, it was that most people did not have the same kind of time to kill. It would only kill them instead. In some ways, Murphy was okay with that -- but for Alayne, he wasn't. Stories like these never ended well, no matter how much he hoped for the best...]

[audio]

[wont]

[ There is part of her that is surprised to find a message for Murphy waiting for her on her device though, in truth, there is a greater part of her that is not surprised at all. He was, after all, a father who grieved, a man who oftimes struck her as uncomfortable in his own skin or with his own existence. Such unhappiness can only lead to such few places and while some men were content to follow their own darkness down down down into the seven hells, some men chose to lift their faces upwards in some desperate attempt to find the light.

Alayne knows that, for Murphy, she is — or can be, if she moves correctly, if she says the right things — that light. Something hopeful and shimmering and still not wholly ruined; something to protect. (Redemption or hope.) If she feels some glimmer of guilt at knowing that she could be such a thing for such a sad, desperate man, she covers it with the knowledge that she is not unkind, that she can be good or some estimation of it. (And that is absolution, isn't it? Can't it be?) ]

Murphy, [ comes her reply, her voice slightly harrowed if only for effect. (He will more readily grasp for her if he thinks she is in peril, won't he?) ] Murphy, are you well?

[text]

[doggedly]

Dearest Lady Alayne,

May I ask you a question?
(don't tell me that I already have, I know I asked a question when I was asking if I could ask a question)
(actually you can say it if you like I wouldnt mind it from you)

Yours always
& deepest thanks in advance for any answer,
S. BLACK

[text]

[wont]

[ Oh, what is she to do with you, Sirius Black. ]

Dear Sirius Black,
I take this to mean you did not fall victim to the maze,
nor do its terrifying denizens,
nor to the sickness that plagued us all.

Truly,
A. Stone.

( V I D E O | encrypted 100% )

[starked]

[ It takes Tony a very long time to even decide that telling Alayne (no, Sansa) that he had noticed the comment (the poorly encrypted comment, so poorly encrypted comment) about Jon being her brother. It's what forced him to lock the majority of the conversation to just the three of them. No one needs to know that Alayne is Sansa, there's a reason she hides her identity just like he hides his weakness (take it out and I'm as good as dead). But she needs a warning just this once. ]

You should be more careful.

( V I D E O | encrypted 100% )

[wont]

[ This is an unexpected surprise, one that makes Alayne smile with genuine pleasure to see Tony well (or if not well, at least better than before; he had looked dreadful in the halls of healing). But that smile is quickly tempered by his words, the corners of her mouth falling slightly.

She does not ask immediately, instead dipping to a small bow. ] Anthony, you are looking much recovered.

[ Now that he knows the truth, perhaps he sees it now. The way Alayne looks at him with slight hesitation, as if constantly asking herself is this truly my blood and what would I give to protect you. ]

action;

[wolfinthesnow]

[He knocks because it's polite, because that's what you do when entering the room of a lady - any lady, even a sister, or maybe especially a sister.

The night's been odd, different, bringing on them all conversations that they would normally not have, and Jon wants to follow the course of that, to see where it leads them. To mend the relationships that never were, like two pieces of steel joining together for the first time to close a link to a chain that was otherwise left open.]

Alayne, it's Jon Snow.

action;

[wont]

[ She makes herself ready to see him, something that Alayne — nor Sansa before her — has ever had to do before. True, when Sansa was younger, she preoccupied herself with her face and her hair; before feasts she would spend hours fussing over the stones of her hairnet and how they failed to match the filigree of her girdle or the fur trim of the day's riding cloak. Useless, meaningless things at the time — Alayne knows that now — and although she does take the time each morning to make herself presentable, it is more about the picture she wishes to present to the outside world. The painting of herself as a bastard, a daughter, a not-quite lady, a secret sister.

She wears her hair up, for that is what Sansa would do, and leaves her mockingbird pin on the nightstand rather than wear it round her neck. The ribbon she chooses for her throat is silver grey, the color of Lady's fur; her dress is the one given to her upon first arriving, the dress she'd died in and bled upon; the dress she'd dyed black to hide the stains and whose torso is affixed with little rosettes, stitched on to hide where the blade had tore her open.

Alayne smiles when she finds Jon standing out in the hallway and steps back and to one side to let him in, dipping once lowly in a modest bow. ]

Jon, [ she says. No Snow. ] Welcome.

text;

[tumbleweeds]

i have some stuff for you from the outpost
books and jewelry and clothes and hair stuff
should i come there or do you want to come to my room?

text; 1/2

[wont]

Dearest Jaye,
Are you well?
Did they hurt you?
Is everything alright?

I read the accounts of others and it all seems terribly dreadful.
I would not have wished it upon you in all the world.

Yours always,
Alayne Stone.

action;

[siring]

[It's been a while since he's thought to approach her, this one remains more a whim than a piece to a puzzle. Maybe it's his recent loss that has him indulging again.

Under her door a piece of paper is slipped. It's a sketch in charcoal - a face of a girl on one half and the face of a wolf on the other.

There's no signature or any words on the paper.]

T E X T

[andblockbuster]

[Topher wouldn't do this kind of thing for just anyone and he's not sure which of his two friends he's more concerned about, but here he is. There's a casual link to this now infamous post for reference.]

I... apologize for him. He's not used to dealing with human... anything, and he's probably gonna either say something really offensive or refuse to shut up and see reason. I'll try to reign him in.


[Well, that's a fool's errand, but the point is he said TRY.]

T E X T

[wont]

[ It is the first time that he has sent private word to her and it makes her feel oddly happy despite the topic at hand. ]

And you claim to make a poor champion.

text;

[grndnpnd]

hey alayne
should be careful about your birds

text;

[wont]

Dearest Tommy,

What manner of threat is there to the birds?

Worriedly,
Alayne.

t e x t | backdated to the 10th, because i haven't tagged alayne in too long

[unparental]

They have cake in your world, right? I know this is probably a dumb question, but humor me.

t e x t | asjklf JENNA GET INTO MY ARMSSSSs

[wont]

Dearest Jenna,

What a lovely surprise to see your number winking from my little speaking machine!
It has been too long since last we spoke, it pleases me greatly to receive word.

I do not think your question dumb, simply curious and implying cake.
We've all sorts in Westeros, yes.
Though few are familiar with them there.

Truly,
Alayne.

[A letter!]

[jurisimpudent]

[This comes to her room handwritten on paper. By the complete lack of marks of hesitation, it is not the first draft.]

Lady Alayne,

I write you this not because I wish you to regret your words; I write you this because I beg you to reconsider your prior position. Please do not share this letter or what I have said herein with anyone, because it's not something I want anyone to know.

What you hoped would not come to pass already did so long ago. My father was murdered before me, and the guilty party walked free because there was insufficient evidence. I was a child and therefore an incompetent witness, and the murderer's defense attorney was immoral and scheming, so he was free to continue his life when everyone else's life came to a stop. To this day I detest him, and I detest all criminals who would harm the innocent, like those who hurt my father, and like those who hurt you.

I therefore also detest this woman, without ever having known her or spoken with her. But here more than anywhere else, we cannot act from hatred. If Robb Stark takes his justice out on her without due process, then perhaps Jaime Lannister will take his justice out on Robb, or on you. If we don't bow to one authority, then we will begin to feud at best, war at worst. Our authority must be separate from any individual on board; it must be the rule of the law.

I cannot stress to you how much I would like to see punishment meted out. Indeed, at times my hands ache with the desire to take the lives of those who would do people like you harm. I eagerly anticipate the day when she suffers for what she has done. But that day cannot be today, lest blood be spilled.

We spoke both in the heat of emotion. I beg you to consider all of this with cold rationality. It is all right if you come to detest me for saying such things; I am accustomed to that, and I am unbothered by sentiments of hatred, as I know well that sometimes feeling such sentiments is deeply satisfying, even comforting. If I might provide that release to you, I'll not feel regret.

I am deeply sorry for any pain I might have caused, because it is not ever my wish to cause pain. My hopes for your happiness and continuing health. My regards also to Sansa Stark; I hope that she will feel safe enough soon to show herself. I hope someday that we can build some sort of society upon this ship that will allow people like her to stand without fear, without defenses, where she can live with joy.

With deepest respect,
M. Edgeworth

( l e t t e r | b a c k d a t e d )

[wont]

[ Two warring banners look for dominion over Alayne's heart as she reads the prosecutor's words. The grey wolf — hot-blooded and impulsive — bays in frustration, but the little bird — so easily moved by a sad refrain — sings a gentle song of lamentation. Perhaps if we were crueler, she would find some satisfaction in knowing that Edgeworth suffers just as she suffers, but neither Alayne nor Sansa before were born with a hard heart.

Eventually, he receives a reply. ]

Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth,

I beg you listen and with an open mind, for though it was with hot-blooded anger that we last exchanged words, I write to you now with an even hand and with surety in my heart. You misunderstand the Starks and it saddens me to believe you think so poorly of them. You say to me, 'we cannot act from hatred' and I say in response that we do not. Though there is anger in our hearts and ire in our blood for what was suffered both by own persons and by those we love, the Starks are of the old way and keep to old justices and, in all things, we bow to duty before we bow to personal satisfaction or gain. I know you know this, at least in some measure, for you have heard Bran's wisdom and allowed it to give you pause. Though we were of wolves and are wolf-blooded, we do not bay mindlessly for blood and ask for justice much the same.

You wish us all to bow to one authority, but I ask, why must the Westerosi kneel to you and your justice, when we were born to lands with justice of its own? Robb Stark does not ask for the queen's head upon a spike but, by rights and writ of our kingdom he is beholden to make its demand. He shames himself and the seat of Winterfell, as well as the memory of our father for asking any less. And yet, he stays his hand, he swears upon his honor not to wring a drop a blood from the lion that carved our house to ribbons and allowed me to suffer such great indignities as I will not repeat. A victory in your eyes, no doubt, but know that your justice would see my brother shamed in Westeros and so, I have love for it not.

You ask a great deal from us all, we Starks. The injustices we have suffered in the past, we suffer again in knowing that our father's death will not be answered in kind. But we take no satisfaction in seeing the land bleed, nor would we have war find us once again upon this ship. Robb is a warrior, but he is not that kind of king; he is a man of dignity and honor, though bereft. I ask humbly that you remember this the next time you treat with him.

Just as you have asked for your correspondence to be treated with utmost discretion, I ask the same of mine.

Truly,
Lady Sansa Stark.

left outside her door.

[mansuetus]

[ It is a piece of parchment rolled to a small scroll. added to it is a dried flower. ]

To my kindred spirit, my graceful lady, the one with the sweet smile; to my beloved Alayne,

I write this to you in great haste. I had planned for my first letter to you to be sweeter; but the ship wished it otherwise and so I shall attempt to deliver my message and also my love.

I, like many others, have read the message of your King in the North, of the arrival of she who had caused harm to his family. I know it has caused you much distress, for how can it not when such a woman appears who has delivered harm to those you love.

I write this to you now to assure you that I shall stand by you in these troubling time, as loyal as your Lady. I may not be of your Westeros and yet you must know I love you dearly and have vowed to love you for the rest of our time here. As such, I shall remind you, Alayne la Dolce, that you are graced with a strength that others are not. It is not a strength man have with their weapons and anger, it is your sweet heart, the grace with which you carry yourself and your charm.

Such shall always attract people to you, it is the nature of your very being. As I was captured by you in our first meeting, so charmed that I would drop to my knees and place a kiss upon your hand as a knight does his lady.

For those traits you shall never face a harsh day by yourself. I send you my love and my support, my utmost loyalty and whatever comfort I can offer you. My thoughts have escaped me and fled to you since the moment I have read your King's message and even now as I write this, I think of your smile and frown at the thought that it has left your lips. Promise me that you shall let me try and restore it; it shall break my heart not to.

Your adoring friend, your tender shield, your humble devotee,

Lucrezia Borgia.

( a c t i o n | b a c k d a t e d )

[wont]

[ The letter makes her weep, as do all true confessions of the heart. Many times Alayne does not find herself deserving of such care and thoughtfulness, but she does not tarry in doubt when it comes to Lucrezia Borgia. No, the golden maid was much to Alayne like a boon sent to her from the distant gods of Westeros — a vision of poise and graciousness to both aspire to and love. A kindred spirit. A friend.

Alayne thinks to write Lucrezia back but no, she wishes her first letter to her beloved friend to be light and effervescent, not made heavy with toil and Cersei Lannister's shadow. Though the queen's presence would touch many a thing, it would not touch this. No, this would remain unsullied.

Instead, she sends a raven in reply — coral-beaked and white feathered, with black eyes (proof that it is not an albino, but a rare creature bred for such pristine snowy-ness). To his ankle there is affixed the briefest of correspondence. ]

Beloved Lucrezia,

Your letter has filled me with both strength and happiness, and for it, a dozen dozen thank yous.
Though it would please me endlessly to tire both hand and arm in long, drawn-out reply, I think it best to call upon you instead,
for the contents of my heart can be most easily read upon the pages of my face and in the note of my voice.
Will you allow me such an audience, if only to clasp your hands in mine and kiss you upon the cheek?

Know in brief that I love you and that I swear to the Old Gods and the new that I would return the blessing of your favor with nothing short of loyalty and faith.

Your most grateful companion, your guide and friend,
Alayne Stone.

( T E X T » action? )

[ripstides]

[ he turned around and climbed back into the lift three times. each time he pushed the button to return to the seventh floor and each time (just before the doors closed) he caught them, spun out through the crack and faced an empty hall. he has to force himself forward, instead of standing still like a freak of nature (smack dab in the middle of the row of doors) staring down it like it's going to answer him.

eventually, he slides down a wall near to Alayne's room number. he doesn't know that she's actually staying there, only that these numbers coordinate with her device and her tattoo, same as his. ]

can i talk to you?

( A C T I O N | T E X T )

[wont]

[ She does not expect to hear from him. Not for some time, at least. Unlike some of the others who had taken readily to Alayne's tale, Percy had reeled from it — as much for her own sake as his own, though Alayne cannot fault for him that (she cannot and will not; she was the one who had been unfaithful).

For a long moment she does not open the message that makes her device chime upon the bedside table. When she finally does, it is trepidation. Alayne is quick to respond: ]

Dear friend Percy,

You are always welcome, both in company and conversation.
Though we have a great obstacle set before us,
I never have and never shall turn you away.

You have my ear and my thoughts, as always.

Yours truly,
Lady Sansa Stark.

action;

[bruxisms]

[ As the fog begins to clear, you find yourself in a dark corridor, with only torches of green flame to light your way. As you continue on, the torches seem to increase, and you can almost feel their heat warming you. Or, perhaps it is the black stone beneath your feet, smelling of sulfur that is providing the warmth. Regardless, your mind may be elsewhere, glancing around at the statues of dragons that adorn the corridor. Some of them almost seem real.

But it is not them that you should fear.

You move on, through a seemingly never-ending labyrinth of corridors and dragons (or perhaps you haven't moved at all), until you come to a set of stairs. For a moment, you stop, contemplating your next move. It is then that you may begin to hear the bells. Cling. Clang. Cling. They warn of the approach of a fool with a checkered face and a crown of antlers.

"The shadows come to dance my Lord..."

He sings his song, just out of full view, and as you catch a glimpse of your shadow moving as it should not out of the corner of your eye, you know full well that it will not do to linger. Yet, should you choose to, a sad little girl might be there to urge you on. "I told him to stop, but he won't. It makes me scared."

"Dance, my Lord..."

"Make him stop." But you know full well that you can't. You try to urge the girl on one of the paths, but she seems to flee, half-terrified of the fool, and half terrified of you. (Or perhaps it is your shadow). Regardless of the reason, you know that you must run. For he is not alone.

"Dance, my Lord..."

The air smells of death and the room seems to grow cooler, as if at its own accord. They will all soon be upon you, and your options are running out. Should you choose the staircase, you will find you pursuit seems to almost vanish. Bit it is hardly over yet as you come to the chamber at the top.

"The shadows come to stay my Lord..."

A knight warns you to not advance any further, out of fear of your own safety. For when you see her, she will judge. You are to be her messiah, the one to save them all from this, but first, she must find you worthy.

By any means necessary.

For the Night is dark and full of terrors. ]

[wont]

[ She lingers long enough to find the girl with the sad eyes and the ruined face. No, she tells herself not ruined, not completely; but it is impossible to ignore the greyscale that stiffens her cheek, like a dead thing's skin. It makes Alayne think briefly of Jon's tales beyond the wall, of wights and terrible things that move beyond their death. She wonders if she should avoid the girl, but she proves flighty and skittish and more afraid of Alayne than Alayne of her.

She calls to the child, asks after her name and what she might fear, though she suspects the clang of bells in the encroaching distance. Sansa Stark knew a fool once, a man she saved from beneath the king's boot, and though she did not fear him, she loathe the way he breathed upon her face as he promised her the hope of home.

It is in flight of the child that she crosses paths with Lord Stannis, her dress still ruined and bloody from her passage through the ruins of Winterfell. Without hesitation, despite her fear and confusion, she dips in a bow, her knees weak and wobbly so she almost stumbles. ] Your Grace— [ she says, her look wary. Was it truly Lord Stannis or just an apparition? ] —it is you, isn't it?