[ She feels the weight of Petyr's hand upon her shoulder, the pressure of it so slight as to be insignificant were it from someone else. But her father is a deliberate man — even in his carelessness he is deliberate, he's gone so far as to admit as much — and so Alayne turns her head to look at him, her eyes curious but silent in their questions. Her smile beats brighter for the slightest instance and it is clear that she is glad to have his company; Alayne had grown (in turns) both weak and resilient in her time alone upon the ship, but with her Sansa had become bold as well, making her voice heard from time to time in Bran's most secret counsel. ] I once heard whispers of a trader who had traveled south, all the way to Sothoryos. Only to be beat back by the sea and the poison of homesickness. [ Alayne says this with a childish enthusiasm though she knows that most stories, like most men, were false. What is true is less important than what other men believe is true. She glances down at the hand on her shoulder and then back to the flora once again. ] They've wilds such as these, don't they, father.
[ Silence then as she reaches to touch the petaled face of one of the blooms. Unlike most flowers Alayne knew of it, it did not feel soft beneath her fingers but hard like the wings of a beetle — waxy and sharp. She wonders if these flowers bloomed much the same way in the wild, or if the lack of sun forced them to be different — smaller, ruddier, more modest in face. It would not be so strange a thing and perhaps even wise (if flowers could be considered such a thing in the first place). Better to change oneself, better to grow hard or small or hardy, than to cease completely when forced into a false cage. And that was what the ship was, wasn't it? A cage without bars, without clear captive.
The thought worries Sansa as she pinches one of the hardened blossoms by the base and then plucks it free, offering it now to Petyr to examine better or do what he will. The implication is clear from the look in her eyes: I have been given over to comfort as well, father. ]
( ACTION )
[ Silence then as she reaches to touch the petaled face of one of the blooms. Unlike most flowers Alayne knew of it, it did not feel soft beneath her fingers but hard like the wings of a beetle — waxy and sharp. She wonders if these flowers bloomed much the same way in the wild, or if the lack of sun forced them to be different — smaller, ruddier, more modest in face. It would not be so strange a thing and perhaps even wise (if flowers could be considered such a thing in the first place). Better to change oneself, better to grow hard or small or hardy, than to cease completely when forced into a false cage. And that was what the ship was, wasn't it? A cage without bars, without clear captive.
The thought worries Sansa as she pinches one of the hardened blossoms by the base and then plucks it free, offering it now to Petyr to examine better or do what he will. The implication is clear from the look in her eyes: I have been given over to comfort as well, father. ]