[ Now, relief finds her as Petyr's (or is it Littlefinger's) shadow slips from her face, her face whose cheeks are still warm and speckled pink with both her own embarrassment and his nearness. The flower is but a whisper of weight in the hollow of her hand but Alayne feels every bit of it threatening to pull her down down into the depths of her shame. Still, despite this sentiment she keeps his gaze; it is the only bravery she knows against Petyr — not to flinch when she is so encumbered, not to cower the way Sansa had with so many of the others. This is the contradiction that lies within her, Alayne's greatest weakness and her saving grace. Her ability to long and to surivive, even in the face of such suffering — to know how to bend and how to yield to such great iniquities, but not to break.
Her fingers close around the bud regiven, forming a pale-barred cage around the bloom, protecting it. She and it are not so different, Alayne thinks: two flowers plucked before their time, removed from the roots that had given them birth, harvested for their beauty. But would Petyr relinquish her as easily as he had given up the blossom which she now carried? No. Alayne is convinced of it. I am dear to him, surely. Why else would he hide me with such care, risking life and limb to whisk me away from the Lannisters' grasp?
At length, she nods, grasping the flower to her breast as if it were a precious gift. ] Yes, father, [ she says, ever dutiful, though her mouth is moist and her eyes are wet. ] We will.
( ACTION )
Her fingers close around the bud regiven, forming a pale-barred cage around the bloom, protecting it. She and it are not so different, Alayne thinks: two flowers plucked before their time, removed from the roots that had given them birth, harvested for their beauty. But would Petyr relinquish her as easily as he had given up the blossom which she now carried? No. Alayne is convinced of it. I am dear to him, surely. Why else would he hide me with such care, risking life and limb to whisk me away from the Lannisters' grasp?
At length, she nods, grasping the flower to her breast as if it were a precious gift. ] Yes, father, [ she says, ever dutiful, though her mouth is moist and her eyes are wet. ] We will.