So long, in fact, that Alayne's hands go from loose at her sides to tiny, balled-up fists to lifted in the space that barely exists between them, hovering just shy of Petyr's chest. Palms flat, fingers splayed, arms trembling; another silent bid of reap quickly, reap mercifully, and be satisfied. But despite the urgency that thrums through her forearms, the impulse that tells her to fly (to fight), Alayne does not push, does not pry the mercy from him. All things — even dye, even a song — have their costs. Her agency is no exception, nor is the illusion that she is loved.
Perhaps, Alayne tries to reason, this is the price of salvation. One more figure added to an already hefty sum. How many had died so that I could live? Chief amongst them had been that red-haired girl from Winterfell, that foolish little bird Sansa Stark. Petyr risked his lfe to salvage me from King's Landing. He promised to return Sansa's bones to the lands that birthed her. Is this not worth such a reward?
It is a reasoning that does not spring from the soil of Alayne's mind; instead, it has been placed there by Littlefinger and his smile in the dark. He had said as much on their last night in the Vale — a night which had been frosted with ice and deepened with snow, a night on which he had used both hands to draw Alayne into his lap and tell her the tale of Sansa's re-inheritance. (As for Alayne's on thoughts on the matter, she has none. Simply a blankness inside herself, a well of blindness that she fills with excuses and Littlefinger's songs. Some truths are too terrible to twist to a perfect light, just as some justifications lie too far beyond one's reach.)
She does not shut her eyes. No, they remain open but unwide, their lids drooped and fluttering, revealing more than a sliver's worth of Riverrun blue. (An accusation, perhaps; a plea of some kind.) When finally he releases her, Alayne is breathless and flushed and there is a horrible feeling insider herself, gathered in a tight knot just below her navel.
This is the true cost. Alayne knows. It is the weight of my shame. ]
( ACTION )
So long, in fact, that Alayne's hands go from loose at her sides to tiny, balled-up fists to lifted in the space that barely exists between them, hovering just shy of Petyr's chest. Palms flat, fingers splayed, arms trembling; another silent bid of reap quickly, reap mercifully, and be satisfied. But despite the urgency that thrums through her forearms, the impulse that tells her to fly (to fight), Alayne does not push, does not pry the mercy from him. All things — even dye, even a song — have their costs. Her agency is no exception, nor is the illusion that she is loved.
Perhaps, Alayne tries to reason, this is the price of salvation. One more figure added to an already hefty sum. How many had died so that I could live? Chief amongst them had been that red-haired girl from Winterfell, that foolish little bird Sansa Stark. Petyr risked his lfe to salvage me from King's Landing. He promised to return Sansa's bones to the lands that birthed her. Is this not worth such a reward?
It is a reasoning that does not spring from the soil of Alayne's mind; instead, it has been placed there by Littlefinger and his smile in the dark. He had said as much on their last night in the Vale — a night which had been frosted with ice and deepened with snow, a night on which he had used both hands to draw Alayne into his lap and tell her the tale of Sansa's re-inheritance. (As for Alayne's on thoughts on the matter, she has none. Simply a blankness inside herself, a well of blindness that she fills with excuses and Littlefinger's songs. Some truths are too terrible to twist to a perfect light, just as some justifications lie too far beyond one's reach.)
She does not shut her eyes. No, they remain open but unwide, their lids drooped and fluttering, revealing more than a sliver's worth of Riverrun blue. (An accusation, perhaps; a plea of some kind.) When finally he releases her, Alayne is breathless and flushed and there is a horrible feeling insider herself, gathered in a tight knot just below her navel.
This is the true cost. Alayne knows. It is the weight of my shame. ]