[ She makes herself ready to see him, something that Alayne — nor Sansa before her — has ever had to do before. True, when Sansa was younger, she preoccupied herself with her face and her hair; before feasts she would spend hours fussing over the stones of her hairnet and how they failed to match the filigree of her girdle or the fur trim of the day's riding cloak. Useless, meaningless things at the time — Alayne knows that now — and although she does take the time each morning to make herself presentable, it is more about the picture she wishes to present to the outside world. The painting of herself as a bastard, a daughter, a not-quite lady, a secret sister.
She wears her hair up, for that is what Sansa would do, and leaves her mockingbird pin on the nightstand rather than wear it round her neck. The ribbon she chooses for her throat is silver grey, the color of Lady's fur; her dress is the one given to her upon first arriving, the dress she'd died in and bled upon; the dress she'd dyed black to hide the stains and whose torso is affixed with little rosettes, stitched on to hide where the blade had tore her open.
Alayne smiles when she finds Jon standing out in the hallway and steps back and to one side to let him in, dipping once lowly in a modest bow. ]
action;
She wears her hair up, for that is what Sansa would do, and leaves her mockingbird pin on the nightstand rather than wear it round her neck. The ribbon she chooses for her throat is silver grey, the color of Lady's fur; her dress is the one given to her upon first arriving, the dress she'd died in and bled upon; the dress she'd dyed black to hide the stains and whose torso is affixed with little rosettes, stitched on to hide where the blade had tore her open.
Alayne smiles when she finds Jon standing out in the hallway and steps back and to one side to let him in, dipping once lowly in a modest bow. ]
Jon, [ she says. No Snow. ] Welcome.