[ Pity to the man who can no longer discern the song of his own heart. Pity and, in some portion, compassion (she is merely the mockingbird's daughter, not the mockingbird itself). In the game of move or be moved, such blindness (willing or otherwise) can cost a man his titles or, worse still, his life. Of the many lessons taught to her by Petyr Baelish and Littlefinger, this in particular was among the first and its hard truth resonates now through Alayne — a low ominous toll of realization that rings in reply to his confession. Perhaps he lies, as they both know him to lie (mockingbirds are known for stolen songs, not for the steadfastness of their hearts) but Alayne feels something tighten within her chest as she looks at him now and cannot bring herself to think him false.
It makes her want to weep again, but she cannot, having just dried her eyes. No, she will not, for Petyr's sake. (You may be false in this but know that I am not.) More exhaustion settles in her bones (she wants to be held, not to hold herself high) but Alayne refuses to let it bend her spine too low or stoop her shoulders too sharply in her father's eyes. ]
I would, could I help you remember, [ she confesses, ashamed in part by the audacity of the suggestion (she's just a girl). Again Alayne's hand reaches for Petyr but does not touch him, just curls into the blankets between them as her arm trembles from shoulder to wrist. Her voice is an entreatment, again for his sake not for hers. Alayne had made the mistake once of looking to move Petyr Baelish, and it won him nothing but torment (she would not do it again). ] Petyr, please. Do not be lost. [ How will I know where to step if the both of us go blind? ] I need you just as they need me.
[ And now here is the truth of her, something so base and fundamental that no song can ever hope to erase it from her heart — neither Sansa's nor Alayne's. A willfulness of spirit that is her greatest hope and her greatest disappointment: a belief in love. For all that she knows that the world is a treacherous place and that any heart may give birth to a pack of lies, Alayne — Sansa — refuses to believe that certain souls are rotten, that their deeds are beyond salvage, that they cannot be made better, made human, through the offering of love.
Queen Cersei had once told her that love was a poison, that it was a sweet but deadly thing that would ravage a person through and through if they proved careless enough to be pricked. But no, no, Sansa cannot believe it, Alayne refuses to let those words have dominion over her heart. Love was the strength of Winterfell's walls, was the baseblood of the Young Wolf's honor and the tenacity of the wolf-dreamer's spirit. Love was what had steeled Sansa Stark against the lions and made Alayne Stone as brave and as bold as her lord father. It was what provided hope when all hope was lost — the promise of holding it once again a faint glimmer against an otherwise overwhelming dark.
The love Petyr offers (no, not offers, but carries within himself nevertheless) may be a scar or a wound left to fester, may be nothing but bitterness and the promise of defeat. But what Alayne offers in return is nothing short of its opposite: an armor and shield, a salve meant to heal. In a world were life is not a song and where monsters sometimes win, there must be some last line of defense for those that survive.
And for Alayne Stone, for Sansa Stark that last defense is love and though it may prick her, may leave her to bleed, it will never lead her to ruin.
She does not say the words again (know you are loved), but they are here now, hung heavy over the both of them. Not a weight meant to suffocate, but a cloak to don and warm, a reilience. In her eyes, again more entreatments (father to daughter, student to mentor, Sansa to Petyr):
( ACTION )
It makes her want to weep again, but she cannot, having just dried her eyes. No, she will not, for Petyr's sake. (You may be false in this but know that I am not.) More exhaustion settles in her bones (she wants to be held, not to hold herself high) but Alayne refuses to let it bend her spine too low or stoop her shoulders too sharply in her father's eyes. ]
I would, could I help you remember, [ she confesses, ashamed in part by the audacity of the suggestion (she's just a girl). Again Alayne's hand reaches for Petyr but does not touch him, just curls into the blankets between them as her arm trembles from shoulder to wrist. Her voice is an entreatment, again for his sake not for hers. Alayne had made the mistake once of looking to move Petyr Baelish, and it won him nothing but torment (she would not do it again). ] Petyr, please. Do not be lost. [ How will I know where to step if the both of us go blind? ] I need you just as they need me.
[ And now here is the truth of her, something so base and fundamental that no song can ever hope to erase it from her heart — neither Sansa's nor Alayne's. A willfulness of spirit that is her greatest hope and her greatest disappointment: a belief in love. For all that she knows that the world is a treacherous place and that any heart may give birth to a pack of lies, Alayne — Sansa — refuses to believe that certain souls are rotten, that their deeds are beyond salvage, that they cannot be made better, made human, through the offering of love.
Queen Cersei had once told her that love was a poison, that it was a sweet but deadly thing that would ravage a person through and through if they proved careless enough to be pricked. But no, no, Sansa cannot believe it, Alayne refuses to let those words have dominion over her heart. Love was the strength of Winterfell's walls, was the baseblood of the Young Wolf's honor and the tenacity of the wolf-dreamer's spirit. Love was what had steeled Sansa Stark against the lions and made Alayne Stone as brave and as bold as her lord father. It was what provided hope when all hope was lost — the promise of holding it once again a faint glimmer against an otherwise overwhelming dark.
The love Petyr offers (no, not offers, but carries within himself nevertheless) may be a scar or a wound left to fester, may be nothing but bitterness and the promise of defeat. But what Alayne offers in return is nothing short of its opposite: an armor and shield, a salve meant to heal. In a world were life is not a song and where monsters sometimes win, there must be some last line of defense for those that survive.
And for Alayne Stone, for Sansa Stark that last defense is love and though it may prick her, may leave her to bleed, it will never lead her to ruin.
She does not say the words again (know you are loved), but they are here now, hung heavy over the both of them. Not a weight meant to suffocate, but a cloak to don and warm, a reilience. In her eyes, again more entreatments (father to daughter, student to mentor, Sansa to Petyr):
Take it. ]