[ Almost immediately she is leaning towards him, her cloak slipping from her shoulder as she abandons it to offer both of her hands up to him now. Alayne's pose is almost one of supplication, the way her elbows bend and her forearms extend and her hands show the faces of their palms, each shadowed by cupped fingers. ] All that Alayne is, is what you have given her. All of it, save this. This— [ Her nostrils flare and her voice breaks as she shakes her hands once in the space between them. This offer, this compassion, this boon that he sees as only weakness. ] —belongs to Sansa, I remember her well. [ Fretfully: ] Do you?

[ And just as his temper had waxed and then waned, so too does Alayne's fervor. She is a fire that sputters and sparks only to dwindle at the snapping of a log, and with that dying flare goes the strength in her harms and her shoulders. (I'm so very tired.) Again she droops like wilted flower and despite herself, tears wet her cheeks again.

Only these tears are not weeping. They are not wracked with sobs. No, these tears are silent and resigned and she will not look at him while they are wrung from her eyes. ]

I do not know how to lie to you, [ Alayne says, her voice small and wet with crying. ] You did not teach me and I do not wish to learn.