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CONTACT | on the tranquility
 — » 003 » 005 QUARTERS | THIRD LEVEL SEAMSTRESS | FIFTH LEVEL PETYR'S LIBARY | FIFTH LEVEL DEVICE, IN-PERSON, BY RAVEN |
[ This ship is no place for children. Tommy's seen lots of people talking about how much they hated it here or how much they wanted to get back where they came from and except for short moments, Tommy does't really get that. Where he came from isn't any less dangerous than here. People don't die any less. He can try to get on with life just as easily here as there. But it isn't a place for children.
If he got stopped and asked, he'd say he wasn't looking for Alayne when he ends up in the kitchen, but the reality is he'd checked a few places before he found her, just to make sure her and her friend are doing okay. When he sees that he's found her, he stops in the entrance to the kitchen, thinking about that first time they met and how easily startled she was, and clears his throat. ]
Hey.
If he got stopped and asked, he'd say he wasn't looking for Alayne when he ends up in the kitchen, but the reality is he'd checked a few places before he found her, just to make sure her and her friend are doing okay. When he sees that he's found her, he stops in the entrance to the kitchen, thinking about that first time they met and how easily startled she was, and clears his throat. ]
Hey.
[ Tommy's right, the Tranquility is no place for children, though both Alayne and Bran come from a world where childhood is a brief and fleeting concept. A little one may be young, but a child — and in particular, a child of the North — is expected to grow as per the demands of the kingdom. (And war has very little need for wet-eyed babes.)
When Tommy finds Alayne, she is bent at the waist and peering into one of the ice boxes used for the storage and keeping of food. Never before had she seen such a thing, a box of metal as big as a man which kept meat from spoiling without salt. According to the others it did not require great slabs of ice or frozen snow to function; in fact, it made ice in turn. A curious and strange device, to be sure, though wonderfully convenient in making fruit last for weeks on end.
At his greeting, she turns, her grip on the door slipping, causing it to swing open slow but wide. She looks startled and is startled, no doubt, but far less so than their first meeting. Carefully, she dips when she realizes that it is simply Tommy, her hands gathering her skirt on either side as she bows modestly. ] Greetings. Have you come to break your morning's fast?
When Tommy finds Alayne, she is bent at the waist and peering into one of the ice boxes used for the storage and keeping of food. Never before had she seen such a thing, a box of metal as big as a man which kept meat from spoiling without salt. According to the others it did not require great slabs of ice or frozen snow to function; in fact, it made ice in turn. A curious and strange device, to be sure, though wonderfully convenient in making fruit last for weeks on end.
At his greeting, she turns, her grip on the door slipping, causing it to swing open slow but wide. She looks startled and is startled, no doubt, but far less so than their first meeting. Carefully, she dips when she realizes that it is simply Tommy, her hands gathering her skirt on either side as she bows modestly. ] Greetings. Have you come to break your morning's fast?
Ate already, [ Tommy says before realizing that he shouldn't have said that. Why's he in the kitchen then? Since he's not going to own up to the real reason. (Dumbass.)
Instead, of wincing at the slip, he looks away and sticks his hands into the front pockets of his hoodie. It takes him a few seconds to figure out how to work his way out of it, but he's notice people give him a lot more time for that these days than they did when he was a kid, and Alayne's definitely got manners to spare. He looks back. ]
I was up early. Figured I should get something to last me to lunch.
Instead, of wincing at the slip, he looks away and sticks his hands into the front pockets of his hoodie. It takes him a few seconds to figure out how to work his way out of it, but he's notice people give him a lot more time for that these days than they did when he was a kid, and Alayne's definitely got manners to spare. He looks back. ]
I was up early. Figured I should get something to last me to lunch.
[ Alayne watches, but in a way that is not overtly watchful, as Tommy shoves his hands indelicately into the pocket of his shirt and hunches. There was no question, he was something of a brute, but unlike so many others Alayne had known throughout her life, Tommy seemed to glean no satisfaction from all that brutishness and did not seem to gloat in all of the ways of his crassness. He seemed constantly uncomfortable, as if there was something unpleasant itching away beneath the bulk of him. What that something was, Alayne could not say, but he felt as though he was hiding something (perhaps from her, perhaps from himself; people could be blind in many ways, Alayne knew).
She is about to ask if he is looking for someone when he provides his excuse. It's inelegant but reasonable and so Alayne doesn't question it, simply bows again and moves away from the coolbox, whose door still remains flung wide. ] I hope me being here provides no inconvenience. Bran— [ She catches herself and looks immediately chastised. Like a servant just caught talking about of place. ] —the young Lord Stark is hungry. And it is difficult for him to come on his own.
She is about to ask if he is looking for someone when he provides his excuse. It's inelegant but reasonable and so Alayne doesn't question it, simply bows again and moves away from the coolbox, whose door still remains flung wide. ] I hope me being here provides no inconvenience. Bran— [ She catches herself and looks immediately chastised. Like a servant just caught talking about of place. ] —the young Lord Stark is hungry. And it is difficult for him to come on his own.
[ Tommy nods a bit, enough to show that he's listening so that she doesn't think he's stopped paying attention just because he doesn't reply immediately. She's a good kid, watching out for Bran even when this all has to be hard for her too. It doesn't replace having a parent here or being able to go back home, but it's better than nothing.
He steps forward and takes a hand out of his pocket to brace it against the fridge door, keeping it open for her. ]
Chair not working for him yet?
He steps forward and takes a hand out of his pocket to brace it against the fridge door, keeping it open for her. ]
Chair not working for him yet?
[ He holds the door open for her and the gesture makes Alayne smile slightly in earnest bemusement. A brute who is capable of courtesy, she thinks as she dips for third time. The ship in the sky has more than its fair share of curiosities. ]
It is far better than having me carry him, [ she says, her tone skirting the edges of fond. The overall gesture between Bran and Alayne is meant to be that of Lord to servant but there is no hiding her heart-felt care for the boy. Devotions to one's better was not a crime, was it? ] Or having to rely to readily on the kindness of strangers, but— [ Alayne's attention cants, back towards the icebox and its contents, before finding Tommy again. ] —but still we remain sorely unaccustomed to such things. They say, over time, he will have strength enough, but. I have little choice but make a poor substitute until then.
It is far better than having me carry him, [ she says, her tone skirting the edges of fond. The overall gesture between Bran and Alayne is meant to be that of Lord to servant but there is no hiding her heart-felt care for the boy. Devotions to one's better was not a crime, was it? ] Or having to rely to readily on the kindness of strangers, but— [ Alayne's attention cants, back towards the icebox and its contents, before finding Tommy again. ] —but still we remain sorely unaccustomed to such things. They say, over time, he will have strength enough, but. I have little choice but make a poor substitute until then.
[ Tommy knew a guy in his unit who ended up in a wheelchair. (It could've been worse, but he still wasn't happy about it.) And Tommy spent a month on crutches in high school after a bad sprain. But coming from a world like the one Alayne and Bran came from, where people call each other Lord and Lady and don't even know what wheelchairs are, Tommy thinks that Bran must've been pretty stubborn to deal with it. Though if he had Alayne to give him a hand when he needed it back there too, maybe it wasn't so bad.
Tommy presses his lips together for a second and then focuses his gaze on his fingers against the icebox door. ]
It's good you're helping, [ he says but doesn't feel comfortable leaving it just at that. ] Should get him lifting weights.
Tommy presses his lips together for a second and then focuses his gaze on his fingers against the icebox door. ]
It's good you're helping, [ he says but doesn't feel comfortable leaving it just at that. ] Should get him lifting weights.
[ The suggestion makes Alayne hesitate but imperceptibly so. To cover her doubts, she turns fully to the illuminated shelves of food and ducks low to retrieve one of the many containers labeled with what Alayne now recognizes as Ned the Pie Maker's hand. He spent much of his days and nights preparing food and many of the passengers subsequently benefited from this past time (Alayne and Bran among them). Carefully she pops open the lid and gives its contents a dainty sniff. It makes Alayne's nose crinkle and quickly she trades it for another box, then another, all the while stealing glances back at Tommy while she speaks. ]
It is my duty to help him. And my sworn oath. Though my father's house is of the Vale and not the North, a lord must have his bannermen, and may collect fealties where they lay. [ She pauses only when she finds something that offends her less, then peels the lid back to offer it to Tommy to smell in kind her expression silently curious. An is it safe coupled with what is it. ] Weights, you say.
It is my duty to help him. And my sworn oath. Though my father's house is of the Vale and not the North, a lord must have his bannermen, and may collect fealties where they lay. [ She pauses only when she finds something that offends her less, then peels the lid back to offer it to Tommy to smell in kind her expression silently curious. An is it safe coupled with what is it. ] Weights, you say.
[ Tommy looks down at the container she's holding out, not sure what she wants from him at first but getting the idea pretty quickly. He resists the urge to reach out and poke it around a bit, which is usually how he figures out if something's still good enough to eat but which he gets no one on the ship's going to appreciate since they all share food. So he leans down and gives it a sniff and then shrugs his shoulders in a kind of assent, like saying Yeah, seems good enough to me. ]
We've got something kinda like that where I come from. [ Or they were supposed to, Tommy's always thought. Family looks out for family. Big kids look out for the little ones. It's how it's supposed to work. ] For his arms. Build up muscle faster.
We've got something kinda like that where I come from. [ Or they were supposed to, Tommy's always thought. Family looks out for family. Big kids look out for the little ones. It's how it's supposed to work. ] For his arms. Build up muscle faster.
[ Reaching back, Alayne recalls how Sansa Stark had once held onto the memory of the yard at Winterfell. Quite often the young lady was ensconced within the hold's walls whenever her brothers took to practice, but there had been times when Sansa and her dear friend Jeyne Poole would abandon their sewing to steal giggling glances and whisper gossip from the perch of a high tower window. In Sansa's memories Bran had been a climber — quick and nimble as a cat, not strong and solid like a bull — and so Alayne is left to wonder how well the exercise would now suit him. Would he grow frustrated, discouraged? Would his brow pinch that sullen way which Sansa had once known and which Alayne can now recognize? ] Is it dangerous? Can you teach him?
[ Having garnered Tommy's silent approval, Alayne closes the container again and sets it aside before fetching a single fruit with intention of paring it down into smaller pieces to be shared between them. He looks at him with her bright, curious eyes. ] Will you tell me about your home, Tommy? I'd like very much to hear of it. Is it quite different than here?
[ Having garnered Tommy's silent approval, Alayne closes the container again and sets it aside before fetching a single fruit with intention of paring it down into smaller pieces to be shared between them. He looks at him with her bright, curious eyes. ] Will you tell me about your home, Tommy? I'd like very much to hear of it. Is it quite different than here?
Edited 2012-04-06 17:04 (UTC)
It's fine if you don't try to do too much. I could show him a few things, [ he says. Pop taught him how to do that, at least. How to build up muscle slowly so it stays and so you don't stretch and strain and tear stuff like the idiots who'd show up at the gym and work so hard they hurt themselves and then never come back from "taking a break."
Thinking about pop's not easy, though, just like thinking about Brendan and thinking about Pilar and thinking about home. Thinking about how he left things and how he's been able to put off thinking about how he feels about that. She looks like she's done with the fridge, so he eases it shut and leans up against the door. ] It's not like here, but it doesn't sound like where you're from either. I dunno. It's a pretty boring place.
Thinking about pop's not easy, though, just like thinking about Brendan and thinking about Pilar and thinking about home. Thinking about how he left things and how he's been able to put off thinking about how he feels about that. She looks like she's done with the fridge, so he eases it shut and leans up against the door. ] It's not like here, but it doesn't sound like where you're from either. I dunno. It's a pretty boring place.
[ The door to the icebox is shut, the unnatural chill swirling about Alayne's feet disappearing only moments after. It's her wish to remain attentive to Tommy, but experience has taught Alayne that people are more truthful whenever they believe themselves to be unobserved, and so she begins her hunt for plates and forks — opening this drawer and shutting another, her skirts swishing as she moves along the countertops. By all outward appearances, Alayne seems preoccupied, though she keeps her inner gaze fixed upon Tommy.
There is part of her that thinks she should feel more wary, that she could be mindful of keeping the company of a man who could easily hurt her if he was so inclined. But there is a larger part of Alayne that cannot see past his awkward gestures of politeness, the uneasiness that seemed to come from being with himself as much as with other people.
Alayne glances over her shoulder, then returns to the business of cupboards. ] We've no means to repay you, [ she tells him, and it is not the first time the matter of payment has arisen in conversation with Bran and his companion Alayne. In fact, they seemed somewhat preoccupied by it, always wary to accept a favor without understanding its ultimate cost. ] Save sewing, of course, though you'll pardon me in thinking it is not a skill that holds much use to you.
[ A pause, Alayne's hand on the handle of a cupboard. ] Do you miss it? Your home.
There is part of her that thinks she should feel more wary, that she could be mindful of keeping the company of a man who could easily hurt her if he was so inclined. But there is a larger part of Alayne that cannot see past his awkward gestures of politeness, the uneasiness that seemed to come from being with himself as much as with other people.
Alayne glances over her shoulder, then returns to the business of cupboards. ] We've no means to repay you, [ she tells him, and it is not the first time the matter of payment has arisen in conversation with Bran and his companion Alayne. In fact, they seemed somewhat preoccupied by it, always wary to accept a favor without understanding its ultimate cost. ] Save sewing, of course, though you'll pardon me in thinking it is not a skill that holds much use to you.
[ A pause, Alayne's hand on the handle of a cupboard. ] Do you miss it? Your home.
[ Back home, he wouldn't have offered to help if there wasn't any money involved. But back home, he had things to worry about, like keeping his promise to Manny, taking care of Pilar and the kids. He feels bad about that more than anything, being here and not there, hoping they're doing okay even without him. He hopes Brendan's heart and head are too soft to forget about them, even if he's got his own kids and wife to take care of first.
He shrugs his shoulders again now to let her know he doesn't mind. He's teaching Jenna already. It gives him something to do and something to occupy his head with and around here, that's kind of repayment in itself. ]
Nah, [ he says in answer to her question, scratching at his nose with the fingernail of his index finger. ] There ain't much back there worth missing. [ He pauses, sucks on his teeth. ] D'you?
He shrugs his shoulders again now to let her know he doesn't mind. He's teaching Jenna already. It gives him something to do and something to occupy his head with and around here, that's kind of repayment in itself. ]
Nah, [ he says in answer to her question, scratching at his nose with the fingernail of his index finger. ] There ain't much back there worth missing. [ He pauses, sucks on his teeth. ] D'you?
[ It's late (or so Petyr assumes — the passage of time is hard to measure without the rise and fall of the sun) when they make their way to the oxygen gardens. The ship is still an alien thing to him (sterile, too clean, too enclosed), but there's something near comforting in the gardens, despite the blue light that pervades each level. It's a blue he's never been familiar with. Not the blue of the sky over the Trident nor the blue of any jewel he has ever seen.
So he seeks out the blue of the eyes of his daughter, his gaze inevitably finding her again no matter how fascinating his surroundings might prove. (Admittedly, it isn't necessarily so much a need to find some grounding anchor as it is to make sure that she is by his side, that she is still his. It's something that paints itself as simple concern, the concern of a father looking after his daughter, making sure that she stays safe in an environment that has yet to prove itself strictly friendly. They make quite the picture. They always do.) ]
So he seeks out the blue of the eyes of his daughter, his gaze inevitably finding her again no matter how fascinating his surroundings might prove. (Admittedly, it isn't necessarily so much a need to find some grounding anchor as it is to make sure that she is by his side, that she is still his. It's something that paints itself as simple concern, the concern of a father looking after his daughter, making sure that she stays safe in an environment that has yet to prove itself strictly friendly. They make quite the picture. They always do.) ]
[ Tommy shrugs. A coarse, boorish gesture and what that carries with it the implication that payment is not necessary. If Sansa were here, she would no doubt be eager to accept it — hungry for both Tommy's approval and whatever glean of favor may have come along with it. It was only right for a sister to want to see her brother made stronger and that is what Tommy now offered. But where Sansa would nod and bow and say thank you, Alayne allows her glance to linger (not wary or suspicious, but present). All things come at a cost; whether that cost is hidden or writ plain makes no difference, and although Tommy does not seem eager to deceive Alayne she does not speak the words of agreement that Sansa would no doubt say.
Turning back to the cabinets she withdraws a bowl, then two, before shutting it again. ] My homelands are afflicted. The war that rages through its veins has spread to every corner, like an unbidden sickness. My father and I have done all that we can to remain free its thrall, but— [ Alayne ducks her head. ] It would not grieve me to be here were he with me.
Turning back to the cabinets she withdraws a bowl, then two, before shutting it again. ] My homelands are afflicted. The war that rages through its veins has spread to every corner, like an unbidden sickness. My father and I have done all that we can to remain free its thrall, but— [ Alayne ducks her head. ] It would not grieve me to be here were he with me.
Edited 2012-04-12 03:17 (UTC)
[ She has been to the oxygen garden a few times already. Once with Bran and the Pie Maker whose name is Ned, and once with simply Bran himself, though the latter proved much more of a struggle with only Alayne to help Bran's chair along. With only Petyr to accompany her now, she is given much more reign over where she can go and how eagerly she can make her way. And so armed with that newfound freedom (as well as the boldness provided by her father's nearness), Alayne ventures more readily into the farther reaches of the cultivated wilds, straying from the neatly arranged plots of land separated by metal walkways and paths. In the further reaches, the land has been left to grow wild, the plants have been allowed to grow tall and unkempt, the crowns of which brush the illuminated ceilings above (blue, but not the color of sky, the color of space — metallic and cold).
There are no animals here save the various insects that buzz and chatter and alight on the fabric of Alayne's dress, but Alayne does not know that and so remains weary of every soft rustle of leaves and every pitch and sway of boughs in the distance. Here, the air is rich with moisture and is heady with the smell of exotic blossoms and heavy-hung fruit. To Alayne it is an amazement, unlike anything she has seen before or heard of songs or stories. Even though the dampness of the air makes her dress cumbersome, she does not complain, her spirits bouyed on by her enthusiasm and the opportunity to walk a while by her father's side.
(There is a rift in her heart, a hair-line crack so finely wrought that is impossible to discern by sight alone. One one side of the divide stands Petyr and his mockingbird, on the other sits Bran and the promise of wolves.)
A hand touches Petyr on the elbow as Alayne pauses beside him, distracted by the clusters of red-faced flowers which seem to bloom from the knots of a nearby tree. It makes Alayne smile brightly to herself, bending at the waist to look upon them closer. ] Sometimes I think myself dreaming, father, [ she says to one of the flowers. ] Have you ever before seen such a place?
There are no animals here save the various insects that buzz and chatter and alight on the fabric of Alayne's dress, but Alayne does not know that and so remains weary of every soft rustle of leaves and every pitch and sway of boughs in the distance. Here, the air is rich with moisture and is heady with the smell of exotic blossoms and heavy-hung fruit. To Alayne it is an amazement, unlike anything she has seen before or heard of songs or stories. Even though the dampness of the air makes her dress cumbersome, she does not complain, her spirits bouyed on by her enthusiasm and the opportunity to walk a while by her father's side.
(There is a rift in her heart, a hair-line crack so finely wrought that is impossible to discern by sight alone. One one side of the divide stands Petyr and his mockingbird, on the other sits Bran and the promise of wolves.)
A hand touches Petyr on the elbow as Alayne pauses beside him, distracted by the clusters of red-faced flowers which seem to bloom from the knots of a nearby tree. It makes Alayne smile brightly to herself, bending at the waist to look upon them closer. ] Sometimes I think myself dreaming, father, [ she says to one of the flowers. ] Have you ever before seen such a place?
[ At that touch, Petyr turns, eyes darting from the brown of her hair (once red, and threatening to be red once again) to the red of the flowers she inspects. He pauses, too, there by her side, shoulders angled toward her. He cannot deny taking some pleasure in this time, as the little lordling's presence on board the ship and his condition means that they are rarely out of his company. (He knows, he suspects, what lies in the boy's heart. Whether that takes certain root in the heart of his daughter — whether that rift will grow or sew itself shut — has yet to be seen. He knows better than most the kind of damage even a hair's breadth can do.)
Absently, one of his hands comes to rest upon the round of her shoulder as he leans in to inspect the flowers as well. (They are beautiful, yes, but lose something — in his eyes, at least — in the absence of sunlight. Perhaps it's hypocritical of him to think that way, but it makes no difference, in the end, what he thinks of the flora kept here.) ]
I cannot say that I have, sweetling, [ he answers, straightening up and allowing his gaze to wander to her as opposed to the knots of the tree. ] I, too, would think it a dream were the evidence to the contrary not so indisputable. But, at least, I have your company to bring me some comfort.
Absently, one of his hands comes to rest upon the round of her shoulder as he leans in to inspect the flowers as well. (They are beautiful, yes, but lose something — in his eyes, at least — in the absence of sunlight. Perhaps it's hypocritical of him to think that way, but it makes no difference, in the end, what he thinks of the flora kept here.) ]
I cannot say that I have, sweetling, [ he answers, straightening up and allowing his gaze to wander to her as opposed to the knots of the tree. ] I, too, would think it a dream were the evidence to the contrary not so indisputable. But, at least, I have your company to bring me some comfort.
[ 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. ]
[ 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. ]
It would be no surprise to me if they did.
[ Yes, he is nothing if not deliberate. In that touch: stay by my side. Be bold, and remember — anyone who isn't us is our enemy. And perhaps it is true that the secret of Alayne Stone has never taken as well in his heart as it has in hers — it was Sansa he had kissed, out in the snow, and Sansa to whom he had brokered the engagement to Harry the Heir — but here, where names mean nothing and there is nothing to be won by them, the identity of Alayne is to his advantage. Here, the Stark name is not tarnished. She is no longer a hunted girl. There is nothing, in the strictest of terms, to bind her to him. But as long as she takes his name, she is his.
To that end, there is a little of both of the men that she has come to know — both Petyr and Littlefinger — in the way that he looks at her. He knows the way of placing himself in her heart is to open his, but in having to have that motivation in order to do so taints the action already.
Gently, he takes the blossom from her with a nod of thanks, balancing it in the palm of one hand as he inspects the petals with the other. ]
Sothoryos would be the place for anything so exotic, I suppose; I recall no flower so strange in Westeros.
[ Yes, he is nothing if not deliberate. In that touch: stay by my side. Be bold, and remember — anyone who isn't us is our enemy. And perhaps it is true that the secret of Alayne Stone has never taken as well in his heart as it has in hers — it was Sansa he had kissed, out in the snow, and Sansa to whom he had brokered the engagement to Harry the Heir — but here, where names mean nothing and there is nothing to be won by them, the identity of Alayne is to his advantage. Here, the Stark name is not tarnished. She is no longer a hunted girl. There is nothing, in the strictest of terms, to bind her to him. But as long as she takes his name, she is his.
To that end, there is a little of both of the men that she has come to know — both Petyr and Littlefinger — in the way that he looks at her. He knows the way of placing himself in her heart is to open his, but in having to have that motivation in order to do so taints the action already.
Gently, he takes the blossom from her with a nod of thanks, balancing it in the palm of one hand as he inspects the petals with the other. ]
Sothoryos would be the place for anything so exotic, I suppose; I recall no flower so strange in Westeros.
[ In that touch: stay by my side and the reminder strikes upon Alayne's heart like an unyielding mallet upon the inside of a tower bell. The note intones in her is conviction, laced with incredulity for: is there any doubt that she would remain anywhere else? It had been Littlefinger who had absconded with her from the lion's den and Petyr who then enshrouded her with his name and hid her from the Lannisters' hounds. He had given her the only weapons afforded to her since birth — having been born with armor enough in courtesy but no means with which to return a blow, no matter how well forded with grace. No, no, there was no question. She would no leave him, not now. With Bran here, she needed him more than ever. Both Petyr and Littlefinger (oh what a terrible pact). ]
Why us, father? [ Alayne then asks at length, her lids lowered and her lashes reticent as she follows the sheen curve of one of the petals with a fingertip, her head bowed before him. ] Why have we been chosen?
[ When she lifts her eyes again, they are not wet but hold some similar sentiment — a sadness and suffering, one that is foreign and ill-fit to Alayne Stone's features (though perhaps an eco of the once lamentable Sansa Stark and all of her hidden shame). Surely if anyone knew, it would be him, he would divine what she could not and — in doing so — would forge them a path to both safety and home. ] Are we being punished? For our sins?
Why us, father? [ Alayne then asks at length, her lids lowered and her lashes reticent as she follows the sheen curve of one of the petals with a fingertip, her head bowed before him. ] Why have we been chosen?
[ When she lifts her eyes again, they are not wet but hold some similar sentiment — a sadness and suffering, one that is foreign and ill-fit to Alayne Stone's features (though perhaps an eco of the once lamentable Sansa Stark and all of her hidden shame). Surely if anyone knew, it would be him, he would divine what she could not and — in doing so — would forge them a path to both safety and home. ] Are we being punished? For our sins?
[ Perhaps it's those echoes that keep the lie from taking the lie from holding full sway, the echoes of the girl with red hair, the hair of her mother. But no, no, if he stopped to give it thought, he would know better. The reason that he still calls her Sansa, still can't distinguish the two souls that take root in her body as clearly as she can is because he cannot admit to being able to make the distinction in himself. Petyr Baelish and Littlefinger, two roots to one tree that have grown so far apart as to be completely separate and yet one and the same. She thinks them separate — she can see when one reigns and the other does not — but the truth is this: the line is blurry. Blurry enough, perhaps, to be irretrievable. To an extent, he has fallen upon his own blade.
It is Sansa that he sees now, when he raises his free hand to cup her cheek, his eyes searching her face. ]
No, [ he murmurs, his thumb brushing over the crest of her cheekbone. (As it stands, he knows less of their circumstances than she does, but it is his place, now, to know, or at least to pretend to.) ] This is no punishment. A test, perhaps. Regardless, we will make the best of the circumstances, will we not? [ He tips her chin up, then, holding her gaze. (I will keep us safe, I will get us home.) ]
It is Sansa that he sees now, when he raises his free hand to cup her cheek, his eyes searching her face. ]
No, [ he murmurs, his thumb brushing over the crest of her cheekbone. (As it stands, he knows less of their circumstances than she does, but it is his place, now, to know, or at least to pretend to.) ] This is no punishment. A test, perhaps. Regardless, we will make the best of the circumstances, will we not? [ He tips her chin up, then, holding her gaze. (I will keep us safe, I will get us home.) ]
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. ]
[ 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. ]
[ There is little pleasure to be taken from tokens given unwillingly — in this sort of instance, at least — but there is no use in being ungrateful and Petyr had learned long ago to glean pleasure where he could. Under the paper-thin guise of duty, he had gently pulled this and that from her hands, in exchanges not nearly as polished or refined as those through which he had engineered her place by his side. (And the lie is bare-faced, indeed; each time, the name upon his lips is Sansa, Sansa, not that of his daughter. A bird in a gilded cage, loved — if it could be called that — in all the wrong ways, kept there by a song.)
He leans in, then, head crooking to one side as he keeps watching her, his eyes bright. ] The game was never played through to completion, [ he notes, although not as any sort of reprimand. It's a simple statement of the fact — the plans that he had set for the immediate future, at least, had not spooled out. She had not yet married Harrold, nor had she yet reclaimed the identity of Sansa Stark. (Part of him now doubts that she ever will, in as far as he recognizes the difference.)
Though close enough that he can see the different colors that make up her eyes, he doesn't yet close the gap. Instead, he simply hovers there, as if in expectation, watching her, filing away the slightest movement and wondering exactly what it is that goes through her mind. Her hand stills and her breath hangs in the air and he watches her, his fingers still there upon the line of her jaw. (And yes, yes, it is a horrible thing to wield such power over anyone at all.) ]
He leans in, then, head crooking to one side as he keeps watching her, his eyes bright. ] The game was never played through to completion, [ he notes, although not as any sort of reprimand. It's a simple statement of the fact — the plans that he had set for the immediate future, at least, had not spooled out. She had not yet married Harrold, nor had she yet reclaimed the identity of Sansa Stark. (Part of him now doubts that she ever will, in as far as he recognizes the difference.)
Though close enough that he can see the different colors that make up her eyes, he doesn't yet close the gap. Instead, he simply hovers there, as if in expectation, watching her, filing away the slightest movement and wondering exactly what it is that goes through her mind. Her hand stills and her breath hangs in the air and he watches her, his fingers still there upon the line of her jaw. (And yes, yes, it is a horrible thing to wield such power over anyone at all.) ]
[ Alayne knows that she should speak, and in response to her father's words a thousand answers — from the very modest to the very clever to the petty and cruel — bloom and then die upon her tongue. The only sound that escapes her lips is air: a slow release, the emptying of lungs; but one that brings no satisfaction nor release, for the look in Petyr's eyes does not waver. (No, instead it grows stronger, like a tide that comes in with the creeping of waves — strong, stronger, then stronger still — until all the boats that were once moored upon dry land finally find themselves submerged and pulling at their tethers.)
Hers is a breath that trembles garishly against the new nearness of Petyr's face. Like the weeping leaves of a tree that is pelted by rain, Alayne shivers and her stomach rebels but what she feels crawling beneath her skin is not fear, it's expectation. No one, not a soul in the Seven Kingdoms, has seen Petyr Baelish in this light; and none have known Littlefinger and the ambition of his plans so plainly as she has. So only Alayne can look now at the man who searches her with the grey-greens of his eyes and understand the breadth of his immediate desire. (Move or be moved, but Alayne is made powerless by Petyr's closeness, by the smell of mint and jungle and wildblossom.)
His gaze tells her: What is not given will be afforded in any case. And I'd rather not take from you, sweetling. In truth, Alayne would rather he not take from her either, but her means are meager and her father is waiting. (Everyone wants to be loved. The reminder is quick and cruel in its simplicity. Even Petyr.)
When she kisses him finally it is in the most daughterly manner — chaste and close-mouthed and brief — just shy of his lips, nearing the corner. Her eyes beg a silent: be satisfied. ]
Hers is a breath that trembles garishly against the new nearness of Petyr's face. Like the weeping leaves of a tree that is pelted by rain, Alayne shivers and her stomach rebels but what she feels crawling beneath her skin is not fear, it's expectation. No one, not a soul in the Seven Kingdoms, has seen Petyr Baelish in this light; and none have known Littlefinger and the ambition of his plans so plainly as she has. So only Alayne can look now at the man who searches her with the grey-greens of his eyes and understand the breadth of his immediate desire. (Move or be moved, but Alayne is made powerless by Petyr's closeness, by the smell of mint and jungle and wildblossom.)
His gaze tells her: What is not given will be afforded in any case. And I'd rather not take from you, sweetling. In truth, Alayne would rather he not take from her either, but her means are meager and her father is waiting. (Everyone wants to be loved. The reminder is quick and cruel in its simplicity. Even Petyr.)
When she kisses him finally it is in the most daughterly manner — chaste and close-mouthed and brief — just shy of his lips, nearing the corner. Her eyes beg a silent: be satisfied. ]
[ And herein, the problem: Petyr Baelish has never been satisfied, and never will be. So when she kisses him, quick and chaste, his brow creases, and the line of his mouth thins, and then he moves to claim his prize. The question is never if she will or she will not yield (she has to, says the debt unpaid, says the sway that he knows he holds over her heart and her head), but how; if the tree will fall on its own or be cut down.
No, no a soul in the Seven Kingdoms has seen Petyr this open or this ugly, save her, and no one else ever will. Where he hides one lie, he opens up another for her inspection, and allows her to grasp for whatever justification she needs. It is a luxury he affords no one else, for no one else is so completely a product of his own two hands as she is, and if he is ever brought down, it will be by his own blade, not that of another.
When he kisses her, the gesture is not chaste nor brief, not fatherly in the least. There is no one to see them, no one to judge or to suspect them, only the plants and insects that make up the garden, and there is no one to know the worst of their secrets save each other. ]
No, no a soul in the Seven Kingdoms has seen Petyr this open or this ugly, save her, and no one else ever will. Where he hides one lie, he opens up another for her inspection, and allows her to grasp for whatever justification she needs. It is a luxury he affords no one else, for no one else is so completely a product of his own two hands as she is, and if he is ever brought down, it will be by his own blade, not that of another.
When he kisses her, the gesture is not chaste nor brief, not fatherly in the least. There is no one to see them, no one to judge or to suspect them, only the plants and insects that make up the garden, and there is no one to know the worst of their secrets save each other. ]
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