[ Don't, he says and the word strikes her sharply, the brunt of it ringing against the inside of ribcage the way an open palm would sound and then redden the cheek that it looks to chasten. And the girl, whatever her name or her blood may be in this moment or the next, she is chastened, visibly so. (Chastened and wounded again.) Startled she blinks and draws back further, a hand appearing again at the mouth of her robes to touch her cheek, which has suddenly grown hot beneath her fingers.
It takes her a moment to realize that that heat is not blood boiling beneath her skin. It is shame, mixed with more pain and made wet with the tears that suddenly rise in Alayne's eyes. She wants to sob, wants to wail again or beg forgiveness but no, that would do nothing but drive him farther away, would inspire him to shed the dead weight of her quicker. (It is Littlefinger, she tells herself but is unconvinced by her own lie. Not Petyr, no, Petyr would never—)
He turns from her and hastily Alayne moves to wipe her cheeks clean, looking to rid herself of that weakness and make herself light again (see, father, I can be strong). But each pass of her fingers over damp skin is another tear upon the surface of her heart, another lie she looks to convince herself of but which refuses to stick. As she lay in his arms and ruddied his hands with her blood, he'd told her that he would be strong in her stead, that she would no longer have to be brave.
But those words had been hollow (as they say, wind) a promise to a dying girl, a truth that needed to survive mere minutes before turning once more to ash. My time is not now. I cannot rest.
It is only after the slows her breath that she speaks. Though Alayne does her best to sound certain and strong, her voice is a piteous song in her throat, made rough by the necklace of bruises she still wears. ]
( ACTION )
It takes her a moment to realize that that heat is not blood boiling beneath her skin. It is shame, mixed with more pain and made wet with the tears that suddenly rise in Alayne's eyes. She wants to sob, wants to wail again or beg forgiveness but no, that would do nothing but drive him farther away, would inspire him to shed the dead weight of her quicker. (It is Littlefinger, she tells herself but is unconvinced by her own lie. Not Petyr, no, Petyr would never—)
He turns from her and hastily Alayne moves to wipe her cheeks clean, looking to rid herself of that weakness and make herself light again (see, father, I can be strong). But each pass of her fingers over damp skin is another tear upon the surface of her heart, another lie she looks to convince herself of but which refuses to stick. As she lay in his arms and ruddied his hands with her blood, he'd told her that he would be strong in her stead, that she would no longer have to be brave.
But those words had been hollow (as they say, wind) a promise to a dying girl, a truth that needed to survive mere minutes before turning once more to ash. My time is not now. I cannot rest.
It is only after the slows her breath that she speaks. Though Alayne does her best to sound certain and strong, her voice is a piteous song in her throat, made rough by the necklace of bruises she still wears. ]
No, [ says Alayne. ] No, never.