[ Alayne knows that she should speak, and in response to her father's words a thousand answers — from the very modest to the very clever to the petty and cruel — bloom and then die upon her tongue. The only sound that escapes her lips is air: a slow release, the emptying of lungs; but one that brings no satisfaction nor release, for the look in Petyr's eyes does not waver. (No, instead it grows stronger, like a tide that comes in with the creeping of waves — strong, stronger, then stronger still — until all the boats that were once moored upon dry land finally find themselves submerged and pulling at their tethers.)
Hers is a breath that trembles garishly against the new nearness of Petyr's face. Like the weeping leaves of a tree that is pelted by rain, Alayne shivers and her stomach rebels but what she feels crawling beneath her skin is not fear, it's expectation. No one, not a soul in the Seven Kingdoms, has seen Petyr Baelish in this light; and none have known Littlefinger and the ambition of his plans so plainly as she has. So only Alayne can look now at the man who searches her with the grey-greens of his eyes and understand the breadth of his immediate desire. (Move or be moved, but Alayne is made powerless by Petyr's closeness, by the smell of mint and jungle and wildblossom.)
His gaze tells her: What is not given will be afforded in any case. And I'd rather not take from you, sweetling. In truth, Alayne would rather he not take from her either, but her means are meager and her father is waiting. (Everyone wants to be loved. The reminder is quick and cruel in its simplicity. Even Petyr.)
When she kisses him finally it is in the most daughterly manner — chaste and close-mouthed and brief — just shy of his lips, nearing the corner. Her eyes beg a silent: be satisfied. ]
( ACTION )
Hers is a breath that trembles garishly against the new nearness of Petyr's face. Like the weeping leaves of a tree that is pelted by rain, Alayne shivers and her stomach rebels but what she feels crawling beneath her skin is not fear, it's expectation. No one, not a soul in the Seven Kingdoms, has seen Petyr Baelish in this light; and none have known Littlefinger and the ambition of his plans so plainly as she has. So only Alayne can look now at the man who searches her with the grey-greens of his eyes and understand the breadth of his immediate desire. (Move or be moved, but Alayne is made powerless by Petyr's closeness, by the smell of mint and jungle and wildblossom.)
His gaze tells her: What is not given will be afforded in any case. And I'd rather not take from you, sweetling. In truth, Alayne would rather he not take from her either, but her means are meager and her father is waiting. (Everyone wants to be loved. The reminder is quick and cruel in its simplicity. Even Petyr.)
When she kisses him finally it is in the most daughterly manner — chaste and close-mouthed and brief — just shy of his lips, nearing the corner. Her eyes beg a silent: be satisfied. ]