[ She says nothing, does nothing, barely allows herself the space to breathe as more silence settles upon them, encasing them together in a cocoon of something not-quite complicity (something that threatens to smother them at any moment if their step proves too uncautious). She had told Littlefinger upon his arrival that there was a game here upon the ship, different from the game of kings, but a game nevertheless. Is that what this is, a deadly game of some sort, the knife's edge upon which they both suddenly walk? And if so, who was us and who was them in this match — surely they would not be made to fight one another?
The thought is too terrible so Alayne pushes away, her gaze dropping to the only motion left in the room. Petyr's fingers touch the ragged edge of frayed silk and she remembers how that silk had felt pressed to her belly as he'd tried to staunch the blood, the torn swatch providing little assistance in the face of such an impossible task.
He could have left me. The bitter realization that follows. Littlefinger could have taken hold of his heart and left me, but Petyr. It grieved him to see me die. It grieves him still, and yet—
(And yet, he remains.)
Again, Alayne feels her eyes burn and her face grow flush with emotion, and then she is moving again, nearer to him, thinking father, father, do not grieve. As careful as anything a hand curls over one his shoulders; then, at length, the other. Then suddenly, without warning or word, she is pressed flush against his back, her face buried in the mess of her red hair upon his neck, hidden out of both mercy and shame. (Forgive me, the words are there in the way her arms tighten feebly around him. Forgive my burden, forgive me.)
Tears swim again in Alayne's vision and when she attempts to shut her eyes against it, she finds herself crying again. ]
You once taught me to be brave, [ she weeps softly against his back. ] Robb and Bran— [ And you, Petyr, you. ] —they need me brave. Please—
[ Her arms tighten around him with a sob and then grow loose and limp. ] —teach me again.
( ACTION )
The thought is too terrible so Alayne pushes away, her gaze dropping to the only motion left in the room. Petyr's fingers touch the ragged edge of frayed silk and she remembers how that silk had felt pressed to her belly as he'd tried to staunch the blood, the torn swatch providing little assistance in the face of such an impossible task.
He could have left me. The bitter realization that follows. Littlefinger could have taken hold of his heart and left me, but Petyr. It grieved him to see me die. It grieves him still, and yet—
(And yet, he remains.)
Again, Alayne feels her eyes burn and her face grow flush with emotion, and then she is moving again, nearer to him, thinking father, father, do not grieve. As careful as anything a hand curls over one his shoulders; then, at length, the other. Then suddenly, without warning or word, she is pressed flush against his back, her face buried in the mess of her red hair upon his neck, hidden out of both mercy and shame. (Forgive me, the words are there in the way her arms tighten feebly around him. Forgive my burden, forgive me.)
Tears swim again in Alayne's vision and when she attempts to shut her eyes against it, she finds herself crying again. ]
You once taught me to be brave, [ she weeps softly against his back. ] Robb and Bran— [ And you, Petyr, you. ] —they need me brave. Please—
[ Her arms tighten around him with a sob and then grow loose and limp. ] —teach me again.