i knew this one girl, drowned in her own curls

[seem]

CHARACTERS: petyr baelish & alayne stone
LOCATION: » 005
WARNINGS: spoilers for a song of ice and fire.
SUMMARY: a discussion as to new arrivals, secrets, names, and the keeping of lies.

[ There isn't much to mark the passage of time on board the ship, what with no sun or moon and no seasons by which to tell it. (There are the more modern methods to keep track, of course, but on a purely physical level, it's easy to simply forget.) By Petyr's estimation, it's been nearly five months since his arrival. Time enough to settle into a routine of sorts, time enough to get acquainted with the ship and its surprises, and time enough to get complacent, too, though he's been careful to try to avoid the last.

Still, a certain ease colors his actions as he sits in the spare room he'd appropriated for use as a library, one of the books propped open upon his lap as a means to pass the time. He has less on his schedule than his daughter does, a fact that still comes as something of a surprise, though it isn't the sort of thing that he has any particular inclination to complain about.

And, of course, on the subject of his daughter —

She's been troubled since the last jump, that much has been easy to divine. (She doesn't lie to him — can't, arguably — though she has yet to voice any specific malaise.) It isn't an obvious sort of hurt; rather, it's the sort of thing that he can see fester and twist. And, he supposes, it's overdue that he do something about it. His voice cuts through the silence of the room soon enough, one hand paused in the middle of turning a page, his chin still pointed down as if he were still reading, though his eyes fix themselves upon her from across the room. ]

Clouds ill become you, Alayne.

Comments

[wont]

[ Petyr Baelish has taught Alayne many things — things about stories and songs, about monsters and men. He and Littlefinger both, the later being the name of the dark half of his face (not the mask that she had once thought it was, but a different part of him, turned away from her now in the wake of her death and all that has followed; a cruelty turned kindness in his winnowing it from her life). Together, both halves of the same man had conspired and then won the right to her heart and, in winning, had rewritten both her name and her past. Alayne Stone, a new mantle, albeit an ignoble crown, and Sansa Stark, cast off like an unwanted shroud of sorrow (only not truly cast-off, held onto in secret, a ghost that whispers to her most-hidden thoughts and reminds her of things better left buried beneath the snow). More and more these days, that old wisp emerges from the dark and drapes itself upon her, clinging to her hair and her heart like cobweb, spinning her up so tight that she sometimes forgets the truth from the lie.

(I am Alayne Stone, she tells her friends. I am Sansa Stark, she tells her family. Neither are true and neither are a lie and that is the real tragedy of her plight.)

The jump is counted as the ninth, according to the marks bore upon the newly-arrived's arms. And with the ninth jump have come unfamiliar names and unexpected faces. (Stannis Baratheon calls himself the new King in the North. Rickon roams the hall, Shaggydog by his side. And then the woman, the knight and lady Brienne from Tarth; she'd told the Kingslayer herself that she searches for Sansa Stark.) Alayne checks her device more often than she once did, some of that old paranoia from her days in the Eyrie creeping back into her posture. (One slip and I am dead.)

At the sound of her father's voice she turns from where she's been studying a few volumes upon a shelf. There are very few books in their library, but even this modest cache is richer than anyone else's. ]

—father?

[ Where once she would be nothing but attentive to him, she has grown distracted and privately unhappy. For all that Petyr had looked to teach her, lying to him was not amongst her lessons. ]

[seem]

[ He does not wonder if he had taught her too much or too soon, but that the truth and the lie splinter into each other for her is a complication that has not escaped his notice. (How could it? She is his biggest investment upon this ship, in more ways than one, made to lie to everyone but to him.) Bearing two names is no easy task, he knows, and for once he derives no pleasure from watching another's struggle. Back in the Eyrie, he had loved goading her, loved laying the pieces of the puzzle out for her to put together and watching the realization bloom across her face. But, all things told, there's no profit to be had from this particular problem. (Alayne is not the name he calls her when they are alone — when he takes advantage of the time, at least — but, on the other side of the same token, the Starks bear no love for his house.)

Alayne Stone, Sansa Stark — it is left to him to understand both, given that he had stripped down one to make the other with his own hands. (But — a confession he is loathe to make — there are times that he cannot tell which she means to have address him. A job done too well, perhaps.)

He allows his gaze to remain upon her just a moment longer before he shifts, straightening up where he sits upon the bed given the lack of a proper desk and chair, and closing the book he'd been reading. ]

I said, clouds ill become you.

[ His voice is patient more than anything else, the worst of its edges worn down or else turned away. ]

We have moved past the keeping of secrets from each other, have we not?

[wont]

[ Clouds ill become you, her father says and Alayne, though thoughtful and sullen, manages a small smile in reply. He speaks to her often that way, with language couched in her beauty or her cleverness, both observation and compliment spun effortlessly together to gild his language with so much silver thread. Once, Petyr — Littlefinger; both — had used such words to woo her, to win her loyalty and her trust. But now the exercise is unnecessary, the battle fought and the spoils gathered; the lines redrawn, the mockingbird adds to his number. (He never taught Alayne how to lie to him but, given the allegiances of her heart, she has never felt the need to.) Still, a hesitation makes manifest in her expression. (He once claimed that she'd never disappointed him; would the same hold true now if she gave voice to her doubt?)

Gathering her skirts, she goes to him and seems to consider whether to sit opposite or kneel there upon the floor at his feet. (The former is the posture of equals; the later is a supplication, an entreatment. Help me.) In the end, she draws the chair nearer to him and folds herself into it, rearranging the cobalt blue satin of Miss Adler's dress over her knees. This close all he need do is reach out and the hands held restlessly in her lap would be within his grasp. ]

I would not keep anything from you, father, [ she says obedient, her chin dipped as she speaks to him, her unhappiness making her shy and withdrawn where otherwise Alayne would be more frank. ] Secrets are things withheld and my heart is as open to you as many one of these volumes, collected.

[ Her language is but fringe and frosting — the reassurance earnest, but simply the sidestep of a true answer. After a moment she nods herself into continuing. ] Our numbers grow greater by the day. [ Our, she says. Westerosi, she means. Alayne wrings her hands uncharacteristically for a moment then stills them. ] The space in which I may move grows smaller.

[seem]

[ It is when she begins to wring her hands that he sets aside his book entirely, leaning forward to take one of her hands in his, fingertips brushing her wrist. Again, as always, he is endlessly patient, eyes bright as they fix upon her. (How many times had conversations passed like this in his solar? Things have changed since then, of course. He keeps no correspondence, nor does he still sing the song of gold dragons and stags across seas and continents. But he still speaks to her, still smiles when he draws her into his lap — though he refrains from doing so, now — and still kisses her when there are no other eyes to see it.)

She's right, of course. The more people from their world find their way onto this ship, the harder the lie becomes to maintain. Some pose no problem, but there are others who have seen her face before and others still who would take issue with both the sudden appearance of a bastard child as well as the signs that point away from the mockingbird and in the direction of the direwolf. ]

Of course, [ he murmurs, eyes flickering past her shoulder just once. ] Arrivals — regrettably the one thing we cannot account for.[ Along with disappearances and the whims of the ship, but he keeps those thoughts to himself for the moment. ]

You feel yourself confined?

[wont]

[ He could draw her nearer if he so wished; he could pull her close and feed her lies to mouth from smiling mouth, and Alayne would raise no hand to stop him. She would offer no argument, nor tug back in resistance. There is a part of her that might even welcome it, if only to push the heaviness from her thoughts and fill her mind with more immediate secrets. Lies can just as readily be made a kindness as a poison, both sweet but the later deadly. Once, Alayne thought to question Petyr's lies, to wonder endlessly at whatever truths lay hidden underneath his skin. But death, much like life, changes many things.

(It changed him, Alayne's passing and startling revival after. Truly, it changed them all.)

Looking down upon her hand in his, she readjusts herself in her seat, hoping to smooth the slumped line of her shoulders. There are days when Alayne feels it — a gross and physical thing — pressing down upon the dip of her shoulder blades, looking to stoop her spine and break her. (Once she had been steel, but no longer. That strength comes and just as quickly goes. Instead of stand, instead of break, she bends like a pale swamp reed weighed down by snow. Graceful but suffering, and in that suffering somehow elegant.) ]

I feel the lies upon me like some terrible weight. It lies upon my shoulders and 'round my throat and I fear— [ Alayne shakes her head. ] —I fear I will drown while they all watch and jeer or—

I have no head for numbers or figures. I think I understand the games we play but truly, father, I do not. [ Looking to Petyr again she grasps his hands. ] What will it cost me — to be revealed a liar? Will they all hate me and never trust me again?

It is only a matter of time now. Or— help me fix the song and shore the lie.

[seem]

[ It's a difficult question, even at best, not because he doesn't have an answer but because he doesn't know which one to give. In neither case does he believe the fallout will be too severe — for her, at least. He had spun the lie, after all, and draped its colors about her shoulders. In doing so, he had kept her alive — a fact that he assumes will be his own salvation — but the question remains as to why they'd stuck to the lie in an environment in which none of that truly mattered anymore. While this place wasn't a blank slate, there were none, he knew, that would let any harm come to the girl known as Alayne Stone. The deception was the sort of thing that did nothing, in the long run, to further the chances of her survival. Why, then, would he keep it? ]

Fix the song, [ he echoes, gaze flickering away — for a split second, but still long enough — to a point in the middle distance. ] I would protest that there is no guarantee as to a reveal, but if you haven't the stomach for it— [ It isn't criticism, to his credit, voice trained to take that callous edge off. He falls silent again, the line of his mouth twisting to one side. ]

You'd reason to lie. These people cannot blame you for that.

[wont]

These people, [ Alayne echoes in dire reflection, her voice weighed down by both suffering and lifted by hope. These people could be her salvation, much as Petyr had once been during her flight from King's Landing. In their grasp they held the possibility of redemption; but equally likely, damnation too. It is a power she wishes none could have over her, but such is the sacrifice of investment and the true price of love. (Love is a selfish sentiment,she once had told Topher, but also selfless as well. Would her friends look beyond the measure of her lies; or would the wounding of betrayal blind them and bitter them, sewing seeds of resentment. ]

These people love Alayne Stone. They swear their oaths to her and look to carry her meager banner. [ Alayne Stone is who I am, she thinks but does not look to speak it readily. That is what I made myself — in your image. The name is not so easily cast aside. ] What do they possibly know of Sansa Stark? [ She shakes her head, her hands twitching within his grasp like two restless, flightless birds. ] How could they ever bring themselves to care for such a feckless girl?

[ She speaks of herself as is neither Alayne nor Sansa, though perhaps the better truth is that she is both. Two names, written over the surface of the same heart: a princess in the North and the lord from nowhere's bastard. Both Petyr Baelish's protegés, though the history of one greatly differs from the history of another. Where once Alayne had the only seat in her heart and her mind, a great divide is now formed, cleaving her into separate parts, Alayne ruling over the cowering ghost of Sansa like a strong-handed queen. ]

[seem]

What they know of Sansa will be in Alayne's color, [ he hums, thumbs running gently over her fingers. ] If they love one, they will love the other, as well. The matter of names and their distinctions is, ah. Not one made clear, to most. [ Even his, kept right in the open as they were, had been given no regard. Though their circumstances differ, he doubts that most will see one name as being so distinct from the other. Alayne, Sansa — how did the saying go? A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet. ]

And besides — you had not meant to wound or offend.

[ Raising her hands to his lips, he presses a kiss to the ridge of her knuckles, the gesture a reassurance more than anything else (more than the cloying affections that it had become his habit to lavish upon her). If nothing else, he will take the initial blame for having placed the lie upon her tongue, but if Robb — despite the lack of good will the boy bears him — can be grateful for spiriting the girl from the capitol, so, too, might those who would take offense. There are none on board, after all, who know of the extent of his influence back home, and none who might suspect any ulterior motives beyond simple human decency or an old family connection. ]

And remember, it was not Alayne that I stole from the lions' keep.

[wont]

[ He kisses her hand, the scruff of his beard coming to scrape against the back of it, and his mouth s surprisingly soft and yielding upon the hard ridge of her knuckles. Littlefinger would not be half as kind, Alayne thinks, even though Petyr has told her on more than one occasion that he and the mask were one and the same. The Lord Protector was a man of appetites in either case (some harmless and others snaked-coiled), but unlike Littlefinger, Petyr did not cloy, nor not claw or paw or otherwise condescend. Where Littlefinger looked down upon her (looked down upon everyone, she suspects), Petyr held her in high regard. Not a child, not a piece, but something nearer to an equal, allowed to walk with him side-by-side.

Her brow pinches and though she does not pull away, her hand twitches restlessly in his grasp before her fingers twist and curl around his, seeking out a single squeeze before slackening again. ] I would not have them think you— you stole me. [ But that is what he had done, using her drunken Florian as a guide, luring her from the Keep before whisking her away as poor Ser Dontos sunk deep. ] I do not wish to salvage my honor for the sake of your own. What sort of gratitude would that be — to you, the one who saved me. The one who taught me how to be bold.