how darest you child defy your father

[wolfdreamer]

CHARACTERS: a cripple (wolfdreamer), a bastard (alayne), and a dad (seem)
LOCATION: the locker room, after the fifth jump! (log takes place after/during jump log)
WARNINGS: SPOILERS/implied spoilers for later ASOIAF books--not much otherwise.
SUMMARY: Alayne Stone introduces her father to Bran. Awkwardness and lying and plotting ensues from all parties, some more than others. Basically your standard ASOIAF stuff.




There are those on this ship that had suffered several of these experiences--these "jumps", the others called them, though this did not feel like jump so much as a sleep and a long waking dream afterward. All the small world of the grey ship fades in around Bran as he waits, piece by piece: the constant lights above, unflickering, unmoving--the pods in the next room, as empty as seed pods with all their seeds flown--and the shapes of people moving by, some of them familiar to Bran, now that he has lived through two of these jumps.

None of them are the familiar shape that he is watching for, so he politely declines all offers of help beyond the very basic. Blankets, cloaks, things to warm him and cover himself with--why does the ship insist on nakedness, he wonders, as he tugs his blanket closer around his thin shoulders--these, Bran accepts. He accepts conversations, kind words, smiles, introductions--he even asks after these things of strangers, some of them more newly arrived than others, wearing a dazed expression that he knows his own face was fixed in not long ago, though he has not marked the time with any regularity. He should, he knows, and resolves to ask this of Alayne when she comes.

Alayne--Sansa, he corrects himself, determined to remember her true name and nature. She has tried to forget, so he must remember in her place. He will come to save her, and he vows this as he sits useless and waits for her. A broken champion is a poor champion, but he is her brother, and he will save her.

The thought blazes fierce in his mind, touched at its edges with some loyalty Bran cannot put a name to--for it goes deeper than mere loyalty, something still more real. It has something to do with being a Stark, but there's something savage to it, too.

As the world filters in, as colors come in more sharply and his thoughts begin to order themselves. Sitting crumpled like something discarded, waiting, as a cripple must wait--the thought ought to bring him some feeling of shame--but it does not, because suddenly Bran looks up, like a dog with a scent.

No. Like a wolf with a scent.

"Summer," he says aloud. This is what he said before, when first he arrived--Summer, but there was desperation then. There is no desperation now, there is only a rushing feeling in his head, like standing at the mouth of some cave and hearing a thousand echoes beyond. "Summer," because he feels his direwolf, he feels him, just as sure as he feels the press of his bare legs against the floor of the ship. Summer is here, he knows it--

The fervor of this tugging is interrupted by footsteps--several footsteps, soft, and they would be familiar if Bran were paying them any great heed. But he is not, not with Summer so close and present--footsteps, coming louder, more than one person, and the squeak of a wheel--and only then does Bran look around wild-eyed and startled, his want to slip into Summer's skin nearly too great to resist. He feels half a wolf already, so some defensive savageness might still be in his eyes when he realizes who is approaching, finally--Alayne, only--

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[wont]

There is a darkness moving across the hidden places of Alayne Stone's mind. Dark upon dark, like the inky spill of a shadow shifting against the deepest, blackest night; it moves without sound, without sight, without shape. The suggestion of an idea or the ghost of a memory. Ever since waking from the pale blue sleep of the pods, it has accompanied Alayne wherever she goes. A misplaced seed of thought looking for damp soil in which to take root. But Alayne does not allow it room to sow, for her mind and her heart is her own dominion now. That is the gift that Littlefinger gave her, along with his sigil and his silver tongue. The only lies that are allowed to bloom within her are theirs and this figment, this stranger, is unwelcome at every turn.

She distracts herself by focusing on father instead, by reminding herself, now that he's here, he will know what to do. Alayne will not tell him of that creeping doubt that she feels from time to time, the one that tries to whisper to her remembrances of a life long-abandoned and which passes over her like a cloud covering the sun briefly on an otherwise glorious day. There is nothing that father cannot see, besides. Whatever truth or lie there is to me, he will see it. He will know it, and he will show me what to amend to keep us all safe.

Her skirts are held in one hand, the fabric familiar and weighty, the hem sodden with some of the slick. In her other she holds the rest of her possessions: cloak refolded and ready for the young lord. As they walk side by side, her and the Lord Baelish — Alayne in her brown woolen dress, Petyr in his handsome yet modest robes — they present quite the picture, the image perfect. A man of modest standing but definite means, accompanied by his daughter. Why, even with her roots threatening to peek Tully red, there is no denying something similar in the slope of her nose to his — or is that a trick of the light?

When they come nearer to Bran, Alayne moves forward, ahead of her father and the chair that he pushes so that it is her that greets him when they turn the corner and—

Bran!

The name almost leaves her lips, but Alayne has mind enough to stop it. What was the look there upon his face? What was the stirring she felt then in her heart? Panic. Worry. A sister's love. But Alayne is no sister and so she says instead: "—Lord Stark," and rushes to him, dipping so lowly to a bow that is near to kneeling before him as makes no difference. Without hesitation, she reaches for Bran, her hands coming to curl over his narrow, blanketed shoulders. "Lord Stark, 'tis I. 'Tis Alayne." Hurriedly, before her father can see, she searches Bran's face, looking for both truth and lie.

"The ship has brought us tidings from Westeros, my lord. It has brought us my father, the Lord Baelish." Hopefully and without a trace of fear— he must not see how I worry; he must think I am brave — she smiles at Bran, nodding once encouragingly. When she turns to look at her father, the smile remains true, no flaw or seam. "Father, the young Lord Stark is in need of aid. The floor looks to chill him quick."

[seem]

Behind his daughter, Littlefinger brings the chair to a halt, coming around in front of it to retrieve the cloak upon the seat. (He does not need to watch the reunion; he can hear it well enough. The shadow of winter casts itself across Alayne's heart and the mockingbird's wings beat it back. He knows the dance, and he knows — he knows — that she has learned it, too, so the mask of kindly father and benefactor is fully in place when he turns to face Bran. The bow that he offers is deep, in acknowledgment of the respective standings of their houses despite how little he knows that hierarchy means upon the ship. While he gets his bearings, at least, he will take some comfort in what he finds familiar.

(There is no denying something similar in the slope of her nose to his, in the glint of the eye, in little things here and there that cannot quite be quantified. And every time one such thing catches his eye, he cannot help but remember that, had things transpired differently during his wardship, she might have been his daughter.

Might have been. And therein lies the key.)

"Lord Stark." As he straightens up, he holds forward the cloak that he holds in silent question, just inches away from draping it over the boy's shoulders and picking him up to place him in the chair. It's quick, perhaps, but necessary. (Will you trust me?)

[wolfdreamer]

Alayne should be a calming presence, but over her shoulder stands the stranger whose face Bran does not know--the stranger Alayne calls father, and Bran's chest feels tight as he stares at them both. His hands move to grip her arms, as if to hold her to him--or else to draw out the Sansa part of her. Lord Baelish can have his Alayne Stone--but no, they are the same, hopelessly the same. And she is more Alayne now than ever, he thinks. She takes turns shutting Sansa away, hiding her face in turn.

What should be a sadness in him is tempered by a slow anger, somewhere deep in his stomach. My father, she says, but Bran knows her father. Somewhere, a direwolf snarls--Summer, he thinks again, and his fingers close still more tightly on her arms. He must tell her. But not here, not now, not when she is Alayne. Alayne will not understand--and nor will her lord father.

Bran swallows hard, swallows down his wolf's blood and all the truths that threaten to spill past his lips. There are so many lies right here, right in front of him, and he must swallow those, too. For Alayne. For Sansa. For safety and help and her life, she has said as much--but only for now. Only until I save Sansa.

"Lord-- Baelish." The name and title come haltingly. Bran feels a prickle at the back of his neck, a wolfish feeling, like hackles rising--but he remembers his courtesies. His gaze flickers to the Lord Baelish's hands, holding that cloak--smaller hands, not a father's hands--and then the wheeled chair, standing empty and waiting.

She is his daughter, and she has applied to him for help. That is a sadder thought than any other, and another that he must needs swallow. "I am pleased to meet you."

[wont]

Everyone has secrets. Everyone lies. If someone says otherwise, then they lie even more (lies upon lies, Alayne knows of it well). When she looks at Bran now, what she sees is this: a boy struggling to swallowing someone else's secrets, a brother attempting to force his mouth around his sister's lies. It is important to Alayne that he does — for Alayne's sake, for Sansa's sake and (yes) for his own. For now, all three of them walk the path of Alayne's devising; it is her version of the lie that they all tell, her retelling of the story put forth between them — the details of which had been set in her heart by circumstance and the greater game. Alayne knows, if the lie does not keep, if the fault between Sansa and herself becomes clear, then it will no longer be Petyr who plays (Petyr who can smile gently, who can lie kindly), but Littlefinger. And Littlefinger and Bran must never ever meet.

Her heart gives a nervous trill as the two exchange words, Alayne silent but watchful, her hands still steady on Bran's shoulders. Were Sansa here, she would be more gentle, she would weep and cry 'help me help me'. But I must not be weak. I must have Alayne's boldness. In the end, both will love me better for it. In the end, I will do my part to join us, to keep us all safe.

Although her father gives offer to help the little lord, it is Alayne that settles the cloak on his shoulders and readies him to be lifted into the chair (her own arms too week to do it with much grace and Alayne intends for Bran to keep his dignity, even before her lord father). "We've much acquaintance to make, but not before my lord is dressed," she says softly and smiles again, more warmly this time, more hopeful (a silent bid for them both to be strong). Her hand squeezes one of his and then lifts to touch the side of his face. It is a gesture closer to friend, to sister, than perhaps a mere bastard should be allowed of a high lord but there is no one to see her indiscretion (no one save Baelish, who still lingers over her shoulder).

[seem]

(But even Baelish is one person too many. Though his glance does not linger and his expression does not change, he files the gesture away, any doubt or concerns he might have hidden away under a polite smile that is as near to infallible as anything can be.)

At Alayne's words, he bows once more, moving around them to lift Bran into the chair. In this, he is careful, and the transition is easier than the slightness of Petyr's frame would suggest. (He begs pardon, just once, after Bran has been seated. There is no dignity in having someone else move you, after all, much less someone you hardly know, and he must strive, despite what doubtless lies in Bran's heart, to make a good first impression. He will try to win the boy's trust, for Alayne's sake. How long the boy's trust will be good for, who can tell. But it isn't so hard to see how much trouble he has swallowing down the lie. Petyr doesn't blame him.

But it is his own influence, he knows, that will be made antagonist of, and as such, he leaves most of the talking to Alayne. Do not speak unless spoken to, et cetera, et cetera. Anyway, in relation to the Stark name, he is but a lowly lord.)

[wolfdreamer]

It is not in Bran to be suspicious. What is in him is wariness, and he is wary now in the way that he looks at Lord Baelish, to try to see what lies beneath. He has a plain face, he notes, and he is smiling, which means nothing--and he is stronger than he seems, though many men are.

And Alayne trusts him well. Her hands are as strong and sure as the man she names father, tucking the cloak around Bran in the wheeled chair. Bran looks to her instead. He can read her face better, even with Alayne's mask strapped tight; it is more than a blank and smiling slate. He meets her eyes and feels a sudden and sharp tug, as if someone has pulled at his hair--but it runs deeper than his hair; it runs somewhere beneath his skin. Summer. He must tell her.

But it would be too direct an entreatment, too great a call for Sansa--and he yet does not trust this smiling Lord Baelish, known to him in name only. A smaller supplication for Sansa is to reach silently for Alayne's hand again, to slip his fingers into hers--a boy's gesture, perhaps, but one that will win her heart and bind her more closely to him. A brother and sister might clasp hands like this--and there is no place for a false father in it.

"Thank you," he says to her, quietly, and then raises his eyes to Lord Baelish's face. He does his best to think of his father, of Robb when he was acting as Robb the Lord--pinch his mouth tighter, hood his eyes a little--a hard face, though not entirely unfriendly. A lord's face. It might seem comical on someone as young as he is, but Bran does not let this show.

"And thank you too, Lord Baelish. Your service and help, I will not forget. Nor your help toward Alayne Stone." It is a little bold to say; it stakes some small claim on Alayne, but Bran softens it a little with a smile.

[wont]

Bran takes her hand and she does not refuse it, for one does not refuse a lord anything when pledged in service (that is the unwritten rule). But it is more than obeisance that spurns her forward; there is a desire dug deep, laid low beneath the bedrock of all that Alayne Stone is. A seed that sleeps in wait for summer's thaw, a truth that will never die but slumbers beneath winter snows. To bring Bran comfort, to offer him protection, to succeed where poor Sansa had failed — this is duty, but it is also love. Not a lie, nor a blindness, nor a half-truth that Alayne tells herself to keep the true weight of sorrow at bay; but something profound and unshakeable — untouched and unwritten by circumstance, concealed from sight by necessity. And that simple truth is this: that Sansa Stark loved her family, loved her Northern blood more than anything, even when she traded it for a bid at survival and a silver-tongued song. Even when they all died and she lived, she'd bore it and would not trade it for all the succor in Westeros.

Alayne feels it now as Bran squeezes her hand a second time and she knows what it says is sister, sister. But she cannot bring herself to reply — not when her father will see, though he needs no proof from his eyes to know all of Alayne's thruths. Nervousness roils about in her belly but she gives it no dominion over her expression as she stands and straightens, her free hand smoothing the crinkles in her skirt while the other remains secure in the netting of Bran's fingers. Alayne's gaze flickers between both lords Stark and Baelish in an attempt to see who will move and who will yield, but there is no victory to be had here. (That much is clear.) When she speaks it is with a voice that suggests warmth.

"In all things you may trust us, my lord," Alayne says and then looks to her father to provide unspoken direction. First the washroom, then the halls of holding. What will follow on the heels of that — she cannot say.