Have we not proven our mettle already? Was not the game enough?
[ Whenever Petyr takes a hold of her face as he does now, Alayne knows that she should be mindful — that she should pay attention and be dutiful, that her focus should belong to no one but him. It is no difficult task; back in Westeros, ensconced within the impenetrable Eyrie, there were few companions for Lord Baelish's natural born daughter, no friends with which to pass the time save Gretchel — who hardly managed to be company at all — and the ever-needy Sweetrobin — who seemed more a labor than a friend with all of his constant tugging at Alayne.
No, in that time she had learned (again per her father's instruction) that there was no one among Lady Lysa's house whom she could trust, no other person save Petyr himself to which she could give herself to in both allegiance and love. It is a terrible sort of starvation to wield against one's supposed flesh and blood but where Alayne has grown blind to the lie, Petyr saw it bare-faced, being both the hand that draws the curtain closed upon the truth and the curtain itself. And in seeing it, he wielded it against Alayne, wheedling many an unfatherly token from her.
The pad of Petyr's thumb is but a whisper and so Alayne's voice quiets, her hand stills, its fingers still dipped lightly into the bowl of her father's hand, fingertips pausing in their absent study of the blossom and its foreign shape. Even her breath holds itself within her lungs, her lips parted in expectation of an exhale that does not come. ]
( ACTION )
[ Whenever Petyr takes a hold of her face as he does now, Alayne knows that she should be mindful — that she should pay attention and be dutiful, that her focus should belong to no one but him. It is no difficult task; back in Westeros, ensconced within the impenetrable Eyrie, there were few companions for Lord Baelish's natural born daughter, no friends with which to pass the time save Gretchel — who hardly managed to be company at all — and the ever-needy Sweetrobin — who seemed more a labor than a friend with all of his constant tugging at Alayne.
No, in that time she had learned (again per her father's instruction) that there was no one among Lady Lysa's house whom she could trust, no other person save Petyr himself to which she could give herself to in both allegiance and love. It is a terrible sort of starvation to wield against one's supposed flesh and blood but where Alayne has grown blind to the lie, Petyr saw it bare-faced, being both the hand that draws the curtain closed upon the truth and the curtain itself. And in seeing it, he wielded it against Alayne, wheedling many an unfatherly token from her.
The pad of Petyr's thumb is but a whisper and so Alayne's voice quiets, her hand stills, its fingers still dipped lightly into the bowl of her father's hand, fingertips pausing in their absent study of the blossom and its foreign shape. Even her breath holds itself within her lungs, her lips parted in expectation of an exhale that does not come. ]