wont | CONTACT | on the tranquility

[ 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. ]

Jon, [ she says. No Snow. ] Welcome.

[He catches her bow, because there is only so much formality he likes. There is a part of him that still feels that the formal, the etiquette, it's a means of mocking him. Although he knows his manners, the Wall is no place for them.

(No place for a lady, either, even one who is running from a life in the south, otherwise Jon would corner Baelish and demand he run her to the North, to where he can protect Sansa without having to deal with the Southron politics. But this is fallacy, falsehood. The Watch does not get involved in matters of Kingdom.)]

May I come in?

[ He stops her before the full dip of her curtesy is complete and where Sansa would have scolded Jon Snow for interfering in these he did not understand — you are a bastard, you'll never be a lord; that is what Sansa would say and cruelly — Alayne simply stops and rises again to full height. Her brow pinches in brief confusion, her eyes (bright blue, Tully blue, her mother's eyes, the one thing Petyr had been unable to hide) search his face for understanding, but it doesn't come (not completely, anyway).

She nods and gestures him inside. The room is tidy and the walls are adorned with flowers that the Black boy had made grow out of paper and silk. One rose in particular hovers over her nightstand, just above her mockingbird pin; made of pink paper it blooms and withers with each morning and night. Now it seems to dwindle and droop, its petals losing some of its early morning vibrancy.

Beyond, on the bed, Lady dozes, snoring softly. ] You may.

[He does, Ghost lowering his tremendous head to peer in, decide it's boring, and snuffle to lay down in the hall. Everyone can tell where Jon Snow is; Ghost is always nearby, looming, enormous.]

Flowers?

[ Alayne peers out into the hallway, making sure that Ghost is properly settled before shutting the door behind Jon, both hands pressed into the small of her back as she leans against it, feeling it click closed behind her. The bridge of her nose pinkens, though Alayne's voice is exasperated. ]

I've a suitor, I suspect. He is fond of turning things into new things, and he's of the opinion that flowers win a girl's heart.

Suitor?

[ Alayne presses her lips together and tries not to smile, that pink of her cheeks darkening to red. ] He seems rather determined in winning my favor.

But not to worry.

[Jon watches that, and there's a darkening about him, then - no matter what Robb does he will never have this talent that Jon has, the ability to look more like their father (more like a Stark) than any of the others here, with their fairer, Tully coloring, with the blue eyes that is truly blue and the ruddiness to their hair.]

If I had reason to worry, would you share it?

[ Alayne remembers Ned Stark's countenance, far better than she remembers any of the other faces that came and went from Sansa's times in King's Landing and the life that came before it — blissful years spent in ignorance and happiness in Winterfell. When Jon's countenance darkens, she is reminded of him and that time and so, rather than fearful or cautious, she feels — sad.

Alayne nods. ] I would. And Robb as well.

Robb.

[Jon snorts. Not a lot of people would, he's the King in the North now, but Jon remembers a boy tumbling over snowmounds and crying over skinned knees.]

I'm sure he would be glad to hear of a suitor. I hope the boy can run quickly.

[ Alayne looks slightly chastened when her thoughts pass over her last suitor — Joffrey Baratheon. He had proven to be not only poorly, but angry and craven and cruel. She'd promised herself then she would never make the same mistake twice, but Sirius was so handsome—

She presses her lips together, like she's hiding a smile. ] He sings a fair song. I wonder if he can fly.

He may have to if he wants to get away from your Lord Brother.

Perhaps he will look to charm Robb as well. [ A beat and she adds without a hint of hesitation: ] And you.

Robb is not easily charmed.

[He pauses]

And I am not, either.

He's charmed easily enough by me, [ she says with a pleased sort of pride. Then, after a moment, she adds with a touch more modesty: ] Robb, at least.

[ She and Jon are not near enough for her to be so bold. ]

You are different. You are the first of his true siblings, the one handed to him to take care of.

[Jon finally sits down. There are no deep feelings behind his words, simply the truth that Sansa is Robb's favorite sister, just as Arya is Jon's]

He takes that seriously.

[ Too seriously, Alayne thinks but does not share the thought. Just as Sansa can make Robb smile more readily than anyone else, she can set his jaw most quickly to worry or unhappiness. (He has no love for Petyr; she knows that.)

She is quiet for a long time, as if mulling her answers. Then: ] He feels very guilty, I think.

Yes, that's not surprising in the least.

[Jon watches her, as if he can glean a secret from her motions.]

He was told to take care of you and instead you were trapped in King's Landing.

[ If he watches her close enough what he sees is this: she is different, older, harder, but at the same time softer as well. There is a restrained sort of desperateness to Alayne-who-is-Sansa, hidden behind all of her skirts and her manners. It is the burden of knowing too much too soon, of having the curtain of the world be ripped away too quickly. Behind all her courtesy, despite all of her blessings, Alayne is choking slowly upon all of her lies, drowning in two names, neither of which she can hold properly.

And, beyond that, there is guilt. A sense of: I should not have lived while others died. ]

That was not his fault. He fought bravely and won every battle.

[He nods. Those are true things. He fought bravely, was brave, but never got close enough to save their sisters]

It doesn't matter.

[ She tips her head and tries to sound brave, but it comes out willful and childish instead. ]

It matters to me.

Have you told him that?

[Jon's actions in this matter have always been strictly to avoid.]

[ Without even the slightest hesitation. ] Yes. Often and well. Every victory was a star of hope, even if—

[ Alayne stops. Even if Joffrey beat me, after. ]

[Jon turns at that. There is something here, something that Sansa is not telling]

Even if?

[ Alayne bites her tongue behind her teeth. She'd been careless and now the choice was before her: the truth or a lie. She looks at her brother guiltily for a moment and then chooses her words carefully. ]

Joff— did not take kindly to defeat.

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