[ It is a bitter sort of humor that blooms in Alayne's chest then. To pretend was to lie and in that way, yes, Alayne's father is better at pretending. Better than anyone Alayne has ever known, and that was a blessing, wasn't it?

She stops for a moment, considering. ] Perhaps, [ she says quietly and then resumes her work. There is a delicacy to the things that she does, a sliver of Sansa that shines through whatever seams exist in Alayne's otherwise perfected facade. Her hands, pale and white, dance from task to task and all the while remain clean, avoiding this stain and that effortlessly. (She is her father's daughter.) ] I think, perhaps, we are all pretending.

In one way or another, for own sakes. For each others.