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[ Oh, but she does worry. Between the throes of her own nightmares both real and imagined, both remembered and forgotten (both Sansa and Alayne), there is another fear even deeper felt. The fear of unworthiness, of trespasses that can never be repaid — no never, not through truth or lies or the greatest of efforts. (A sister who forsook her own name to survive, a daughter who is not daughter at all and yet is as loyal as one, loyal to a man who has proven faithful to none. A little bird who died.)

For all that she has suffered through death, she imagines that Sansa's brothers and Alayne's father have somehow suffered more. (She knows what it is to live when those you love do not. And perhaps it does not rend to ruin the way a tear to the stomach or the slice of a sword might, but it is an agony that lingers and then festers. It is a pain that does not die.) She wonders as she looks at Petyr now if he regrets whatever pang of emotion he'd felt upon her passing (there is no doubt, he must have felt something, hadn't he); something moves across the features of his face as she watches, like the brief shade of a cloud that momentarily blots out the sun, and Alayne knows (oh gods, she knows) that the love she had offered in her last moments had not made him strong. It had made him weak.

(Love is the poison, the queen had taught her. Why had she not lied in this, just as she'd lied about all the rest?)

The corners of her mouth turn downward in realization and she glares at the hand offered, pulling back again, her slender arm disappearing as she cocoons herself once again in sheets and blankets and robes.

(No, don't touch me. Don't look at me. Don't.) ]

It was better left—

[ Alayne shakes her head and then falls silent again. ]

Edited 2012-04-29 20:19 (UTC)

[ And immediately, something blooms in his chest, frustration or anguish or any combination, he doesn't much care. What did you expect? he wants to ask. What do you want? This is a storm that he is not made to weather and, up until this point, had steered clear of with nothing but ease. He feels young again, in the worst sense of the words, once again at the mercy of a girl who spurns what she has coaxed forth, who will not take what he has to offer, who would rather have died than confront the truth that lies sewn over his heart. At the end of day, even with empires brought down and kings disposed of, Petyr Baelish is only a man.

But no, he tells himself. He will never be caught again, not by her, not by anyone. ]

Don't, [ he says, and it is the closest thing to harsh that he has ever been with her. (More negligence, more mistakes. He cannot persist in this.) ] What is done is done. [ And what is said is said. You cannot take it back.

Still, like hers, his fist curls in thin air, dropping back down to the mattress as he turns away. With each moment that passes, there is a slow, insidious fear that grows within him, one that recognizes that he is becoming careless, that she has seen too much already and will see even more if he is not diligent. (He should have known better.)

Quietly, his face still turned away: ]

Do you wish me to leave?

[ Don't, he says and the word strikes her sharply, the brunt of it ringing against the inside of ribcage the way an open palm would sound and then redden the cheek that it looks to chasten. And the girl, whatever her name or her blood may be in this moment or the next, she is chastened, visibly so. (Chastened and wounded again.) Startled she blinks and draws back further, a hand appearing again at the mouth of her robes to touch her cheek, which has suddenly grown hot beneath her fingers.

It takes her a moment to realize that that heat is not blood boiling beneath her skin. It is shame, mixed with more pain and made wet with the tears that suddenly rise in Alayne's eyes. She wants to sob, wants to wail again or beg forgiveness but no, that would do nothing but drive him farther away, would inspire him to shed the dead weight of her quicker. (It is Littlefinger, she tells herself but is unconvinced by her own lie. Not Petyr, no, Petyr would never—)

He turns from her and hastily Alayne moves to wipe her cheeks clean, looking to rid herself of that weakness and make herself light again (see, father, I can be strong). But each pass of her fingers over damp skin is another tear upon the surface of her heart, another lie she looks to convince herself of but which refuses to stick. As she lay in his arms and ruddied his hands with her blood, he'd told her that he would be strong in her stead, that she would no longer have to be brave.

But those words had been hollow (as they say, wind) a promise to a dying girl, a truth that needed to survive mere minutes before turning once more to ash. My time is not now. I cannot rest.

It is only after the slows her breath that she speaks. Though Alayne does her best to sound certain and strong, her voice is a piteous song in her throat, made rough by the necklace of bruises she still wears. ]

No, [ says Alayne. ] No, never.

Edited 2012-04-30 00:38 (UTC)

[ The truth: Petyr would leave her, and would again. (He sees the realization dawn and the impulse to run plants itself deep in his gut. She knows too much. She knows him.) He was born with nothing, and in a way, that is still all that he has. He had had the loyalty of men, loyalty that had been bought with gold coin and silver words. And no, he is not an unhappy man — or so he tells himself — but he is not a happy one, either. He works. And he fills his life with nothing else. Some would call him cruel, no doubt, but a nasty nickname is a small price to pay for one's life. Besides, there is no one to know the extent of the damage that he has done, and he has lived under a name not his own for some time. (Littlefinger. Edmure had thought it so clever, then. And who amongst those who had fostered him had even imagined that he could rise so high?)

Her voice is a warble and (for a moment, he thinks he could kill the man who had put those marks around her neck) he glances back at her, though his gaze soon finds the floor again, nearly cowed, as if in some kind of apology (I'm sorry, I'm sorry). He had not meant to be harsh (had he?).

He had not meant to tell her a lie, either. It had been his duty to be strong, to be the groundwork for the construction of a new identity, but she had cracked its foundation, rendered it untenable in a single word. (Know you're loved. A weakness, a liability, and a cruelty, too.)

Another tell: still, he stays. He says nothing, but he stays there at the foot of her bed, one hand simply toying with the torn edge of his sleeve. ]

Edited 2012-04-30 03:53 (UTC)

[ She says nothing, does nothing, barely allows herself the space to breathe as more silence settles upon them, encasing them together in a cocoon of something not-quite complicity (something that threatens to smother them at any moment if their step proves too uncautious). She had told Littlefinger upon his arrival that there was a game here upon the ship, different from the game of kings, but a game nevertheless. Is that what this is, a deadly game of some sort, the knife's edge upon which they both suddenly walk? And if so, who was us and who was them in this match — surely they would not be made to fight one another?

The thought is too terrible so Alayne pushes away, her gaze dropping to the only motion left in the room. Petyr's fingers touch the ragged edge of frayed silk and she remembers how that silk had felt pressed to her belly as he'd tried to staunch the blood, the torn swatch providing little assistance in the face of such an impossible task.

He could have left me. The bitter realization that follows. Littlefinger could have taken hold of his heart and left me, but Petyr. It grieved him to see me die. It grieves him still, and yet—

(And yet, he remains.)

Again, Alayne feels her eyes burn and her face grow flush with emotion, and then she is moving again, nearer to him, thinking father, father, do not grieve. As careful as anything a hand curls over one his shoulders; then, at length, the other. Then suddenly, without warning or word, she is pressed flush against his back, her face buried in the mess of her red hair upon his neck, hidden out of both mercy and shame. (Forgive me, the words are there in the way her arms tighten feebly around him. Forgive my burden, forgive me.)

Tears swim again in Alayne's vision and when she attempts to shut her eyes against it, she finds herself crying again. ]

You once taught me to be brave, [ she weeps softly against his back. ] Robb and Bran— [ And you, Petyr, you. ] —they need me brave. Please—

[ Her arms tighten around him with a sob and then grow loose and limp. ] —teach me again.

Edited 2012-04-30 04:13 (UTC)

[ He is unspeakably glad that she cannot see his face. As she presses herself to his back, the unsteady rise and fall of her chest easy enough to feel, he allows himself one moment of weakness. (He had never thought he would be moved by tears.) His eyes close, his expression shifting into one that is undeniably of pain, one that betrays how deep the poison has run. (You must know I am false.)

But even though his face is turned away, there is a shudder in his breath.

(What is he to answer? I cannot teach you. I will not. Or worse still, you don't need me.)

When he turns to face her, all trace of that is gone, replaced by something close to surety. (You need not be brave for me. Although whether that is a be brave for yourself, too or a kinder I don't need you, it is impossible to tell.) One of his hands finds her cheek, wiping the tears from her face. ]

As you wish, [ is what he says, and it is either resignation or assumed kindness that colors his voice. ] Now dry your eyes. When your brothers return, I will not have them think that I made you cry.

[ She does as she is told, obediently gathering the corner of a blanket and using the rough cotton to dry her cheeks. Alayne's eyes are red and swollen, but they have been ever since she woke from death's slumber, the perpetual struggle with her own unhappiness having rubbed them to a permanent raw. Even so, she knows that Petyr is right, that her brother's anger would rouse once again at even the slightest indication that she had been wronged anew. The Young Wolf's ire has been woken and his hackles are still raised days later. Even though the debt of Sansa's life still hangs to Petyr's credit, Robb has come to bear the lie of Alayne Stone across his shoulders and so whatever great margin Lord Baelish once had has been made less, for lying lacks the kind of honor that Starks bear in their very blood.

Meekly, turning her face into his hand, the soft sole of his palm still damp with salt tears: ] I would never let them believe it. [ Just as Sansa would do all that she could to protect her brothers, so Alayne would strive to protect her father (her teacher, her lord protector, Petyr not Littlefinger). It's a tenuous balance between one loyalty and another, one life another another, one blood and another. So newly rescued from the thralls of death, it has been difficult (near impossible) for Alayne to salvage. But salvage she must, for there is no other choice and no other party to make compromise between the two compass points of Alayne's life.

The truth now: she knows that he is false, but blinds herself to the depths of it, refusing to believe that it reaches to the very bottom of his soul, that it cuts through skin and muscle and blood and has become part of his very bones. Everyone wants to be loved and everyone loves something in turn. Bran loves Summer, Robb loves his family, Littlefinger loves power and Petyr—

(Yes, she knows that he is false. But to whom does Petyr truly lie?)

It is a question whose answer is beyond her (she is the mockingbird's daughter, not the mockingbird itself). She would know only what he wished her to know; she would divine only what portion he revealed to her. Tiredly, Alayne shuts her eyes to that thought and, gathering the blankets to her once again, allows her shoulders to droop and her head to loll low. ]

And what do you wish?

[ To see me restored, to see me gone. To be free of the yoke of me, perhaps. ]

[ It isn't a question that he has an answer for. Under other circumstances, he might have had an answer. Power, influence, everything there is. But as he looks at her now, there is only ash upon his tongue. The singer can no longer distinguish where he ends and the song begins. That in itself is another terrible realization, one that he cannot avoid facing. He has made a mistake. He has erred. And with every mistake, there is a price to be paid, whether it be by blood or by coin or by anything else. For mistakes made for the sake of love, that price is all the greater, and he knows he will not survive a second round.

It is that part of him that makes to run when she pulls her hand away, when she asks his forgiveness (when she doesn't repeat the words again, making it that much easier to believe that they might have been a ploy, that they might have been madness inspired by the onset of death). It sits poorly with him to be laid so low, to be stripped so bare. This is more than he has ever wished for anyone to know about him — that had been his greatest deception, after all: convincing everyone that he was true, that he was good. But she — just a girl — had stripped back the veneer and seen what laid underneath. (He would not blame her for eating her words. You cannot love me, not truly.)

But, still, still, he remains. That is his mistake. That is his own foolishness. (That is the part of him that had fought on even when Brandon Stark had opened a dozen wounds upon his body.) Littlefinger loves power and Petyr cannot answer the question. (Petyr cannot believe that the balance would swing in his direction. Blood runs thicker than water, and at the end of the day it is not blood that runs between them, no matter how much hold the name Stone should set in her heart.)

His voice is barely a rasp when he speaks. ]

I no longer remember.

[ He thinks he had known, before her death and resurrection, but no longer. Prior to the events of the past few days, he would not have hesitated to wring some token of affection from her, no matter how cold she should prove, but as things stand, he is afraid even to touch her (despite what appearances might indicate), as if contact might bring the worst truths to light, as if it might destroy him completely.

This is not love as he remembers it.

This is the aftermath — the bitterness that remained, the wound, the scar.

This is the shape that he had learned love took, a death warrant signed and sealed, not good nor kind.

(And yes, that is an admittance. That is the way that he chooses to make it.) ]

[ 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):

Take it. ]

Edited 2012-04-30 14:23 (UTC)

[ Even as she speaks, even as concession settles in the recesses of his heart, Petyr Baelish builds his walls back up again. (Old habits are hard to break and he has only survived by one alone.) She offers herself as his strength and he nearly balks. Dependence is an ugly word, codependence even more so. What does it mean but weakness, too easily exploited? (And what does it mean that she would offer herself at all?)

He can see pity in her eyes, pity and compassion, and as an ache blooms within her chest an unease blooms within his. He has never taken kindly to pity — what use has he for it? — even when Cat had begged for leniency from Brandon prior to their duel. It means a world of underestimation and low expectations, a lens through which the world has viewed him since his birth and which he has striven to shed for his entire life. (He can see pity in her eyes and he sees a contradiction in the way the she refuses to touch him. Am I so monstrous as that? Or do I seem so weak? He does not need an answer to the question.)

With each moment that passes, the mask settles more firmly in place, though whether it is Littlefinger or Petyr's face that regards her now, it is hard to say. It is a poor estimation of either, no matter which — an indication of exactly how close she had come to striking home. But this, this is his last defense. The mockingbird's song has kept him alive, has led him to prosper and thrive as nothing else has. This is what he knows. This is his armor and his sword, both. Not a salve, perhaps, but a way of preventing any further injury. (Whether or not the bird who wears that armor has bled out or remained in stasis, it is hard to tell.)

Petyr Baelish is not a Stark. Love does not live in his blood, not in the way it does in theirs. It has pricked him, left him to bleed, and led him to the edge of ruin. For that is what this is, is it not? ]

Then I shall find the path, [ he tells her, and even he is not sure if he means the words, ] and I will remain as long as you have need of me.

[ She does not say the words again, and the longer the silence persists, the more sure he is in his claim.

You cannot mean that love for me. ]

[ He is lying to me.

A familiar refrain by now but where once there had been reticent acceptance there is something else. Again, an ache, like a bruise rising up along the underside of Alayne's skin, dusting her complexion with reds then purples then ugly unwelcome yellows. (One collar of welts set around her throat, another rising round her heart.) She should not be surprised to see the way his mask now begins to settle back into place. Littlefinger is an island, a man without scruples nor equal measure, and he was able to teach Alayne the methods of survival only because he has survived himself by whatever means. But what need did he have for Littlefinger now — what treachery did he hope to hatch or what threat had placed itself at his keep walls that he would need such a villan to escape its nets? Surely, it could not be her, not the offer of herself and her loyalty, not Alayne (his daughter) nor Sansa (the girl he salvaged), not this, not love—

Alayne's gaze drops to her hand, still clutched in the blankets between them. When she looks up again her eyes are sheened but she will not cry, not in this. (You may suffer my offer, but I will not. I refuse— but still her chest aches.)

Perhaps it is bravery that forms the word. Perhaps it is foolishness and folly. But for a girl so recently dead and newly awoken, her gaze is obvious (she has been wounded again). ]

Have I— [ A flounder, caught quickly. ] —have I offended you? [ Father. She should call him father. Petyr. Neither pass her lips. ] Do you not want me to love you?

[ It is his turn to look stricken, now, his entire frame tensing in reaction to the blow. And finally, there is hurt written all too clearly in his eyes, a surrender and confession both. You win. ]

You say you love me, and yet when I offer you my hand, you draw away, [ he hisses, and there is no pretense in his voice, now. Just the very worst (or the very best) of him, stripped of absolutely all else. ] You say you love me, and yet you seem to regret the words. [ Slowly but surely, whatever anger had poisoned his voice previously fades away, leaving behind only exhaustion and a misery that he has not felt in a long, long time. (You know what happened the last time I fell.)

It is only in knowing that he has nothing left to lose that he puts every last card he has upon the table. She knows he is false, knows who he is even if she does not fully understand the song that he sings. It is not her that he fears but himself, the weakness that he had tried so hard to stamp out that, once more, rears its head and roars his ruin. He cannot believe — not does not want — that she loves him and as a result cannot suffer to love her in turn. ]

What would you have me believe?

[ 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.

[ She wilts and he relents. (I give in.) He leans forward, his hands finding her cloak and tugging it back over her slender frame. (And no, he is not fatherly in this; he knows not what to be.) He still sees this as weakness, yes, but it is hers. He offers her the boy cut down on the banks of the Trident, offers her a part of him that had been kept in stasis and locked away for far too long. (Know that I am false, know that I am nothing, and tell me that you love me still. This is the sum of me, the best and the worst and everything in between, the hallways covered in dust and the parts rusty with disuse. I am sorry for the lies, I am sorry there is so little to give.)

This is the one instance in which, stripped of his coat of feathers and the notes of his song, the mockingbird knows not which way to turn. He looks to her for help, he looks to her to want the meager total that he has to give and, to a certain extent, to guide him. ]

Forgive me, I do not know this song.

[ He hardly believes that the words leave his own lips. His voice is small, earnest, and afraid, and there is a pallor to his face that makes him seem almost faint. Almost as soon as he has spoken, he lets go of her, in disbelief still that he has said so much. He turns away once more, unable — at least for the moment — to look at her. ]

I should not have spoken, [ he says, although he seems to know that it is useless to say so. (You cannot take it back.)

Again: ] Forgive me.

[ Perhaps there is a comfort to be gleaned there, couched somewhere in the echoes that resonate between one confession and the other. I do not know how to lie to you, she says and he replies with forgive me, I do not know this song. Surely that means only one thing and that one thing is no doubt profound. The hope of it blossoms from the aching well of Alayne's chest but still she does not reach for him, tempered by his vulnerability — the obviousness of it, the rawness. But in this, she believes, they should be without falsity, and in this they should be us, insular and joined and without the need of a them to define themselves against.

It is a frightening thing to see a man so composed be so suddenly stripped down; and it is all the more frightening to be the one responsible for setting such terrible wheels in motion. But unlike others who would look to gain the advantage, who would descend upon Petyr in search of an opportunity to glean favor or control, Alayne wishes only the chance to offer herself in kind. For just as an embrace can be given or taken, it can be equally shared — both sets of arms encircling one another, in it as much sacrifice as there is gain.

Again, Alayne reaches for Petyr but this time she does not hesitate, does not draw back, her knees once again inching her closer so that she may rest the delicate curve of her fingers over the rise of one shoulder and then down the slender length of his arm to rest there at his elbow. ] There is nothing to forgive, my lord, [ she tells him and in her eyes there is no judgment or rejection, just acknowledgment and gratitude (and yes, still a neediness). ] If it please you, I will sing to you instead.

[ (I cannot take it back.) ]

But know that my song is not false.

[ It is frightening to experience that sudden loss, too. For once, he has no plan, no thought-out route upon which to travel. He stumbles, just as she does, along a path that only reveals itself as it is traveled upon.

When she touches him, he looks first at her hand and then at her, the usual laughter in his eyes replaced by something infinitely more plaintive. It is the need in her gaze upon which he allows himself to concentrate; it is, after all, the single tenet upon which he had long ago taught himself that everything — even love — was built. It is the only cord that he believes ties them together. If that need dissipates, then there is nothing to keep her from severing that tie and letting him go free. (He has never believed in anything resembling inherent goodness and, though much has changed, he won't start now.) ]

It would please me greatly, [ he tells her, as one of his hands comes to find hers. And perhaps it is too much to ask for a girl who has just died and been brought back again, but his words are failing and he can only offer her so much.

He knows that she is not false but fears of what may come to pass. Promises can be broken by circumstance as well as by fickle hearts and as things stand, he feels far from easy. But they have this moment, at least, and perhaps, in that, there is a sort of grace. ]

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