⊰ maidenofllyr ⊱

            “Lord Baelish?” From what she’d seen of the man, Eilonwy couldn’t help but wonder at how feelings along the lines of affection, let alone love, might come to blossom and develop. Especially in a lady as inflexible as Lysa Arryn. That she had loved her son fell under a different category for maternal instinct was a sentiment dictated by the laws of nurture. “I must say, I am rather… Shocked.” Shocked and somehow uncomfortable without quite knowing why. Her blunt honesty was wont to garner disapproving looks, hushed reprovals and tutting sounds from either septas or relatives, the girl’s wild manners still in need of a refining required by social conventions and tacit etiquette. Manners found in aboundance in the dark-haired girl suffering her company with grace and poise.

     “I tend to speak my own mind,” she quickly added in lieu of an apology. “Mother always said it’s not proper for a lady.” The shrug that ensued spoke volumes. Whilst there was some pleasure to attain in conforming to certain standards, Eilonwy failed at embracing a set of expectations lain down for her by status and age. “Please, do not think any less of me, my lady. My words meant no harm and your father seems to be a decent man. None of us knew he had a daughter, it was quite unexpected.” Yet the man strove to provide the image of a dotting father in spite of what had been put on display. She knew little and less about the protector of the Vale but she knew that she disliked his eyes. Cold and grey and devoid of anything likely to  warrant trust.

          Surprise registered in slightly arched brow, that soft blue which must have been a mother’s gift slanted towards honored guest. No lord or lady in the capital failed to adore Baelish, forever helpful, complimentary, non-threatening. Those from the Vale exhibited a decidedly more varied opinion; ‘twould seem that whatever tale of his childhood with Tully wardens they heard colored later feelings, leaving some to admire his wit and tenacity, whilst others saw the man only as a poor upstart from desolate holdings. It would not shock you so had you known her, the girl thought in wry retort. Since childhood Lysa had believed herself destined for the Mockingbird’s arms, half-delusional with want of affection; had she not tried to fling the girl towards icy death, such loneliness might have inspired greater sympathy. 

             “Love can be the most difficult of sentiments to understand,” Alayne murmured. “One can only accept what they see in others.” She ate as the other girl continued speaking, spooning up the last of bland porridge with an overripe berry well past its prime. In her mouth it had lost all tartness, deflating with anemic defeat rather than a sharp burst of juice; soon they would turn entirely to preserves and cured meats for sustenance, their fresh stores quickly dwindling through consumption and rot. Ample food sat cloistered in dark, dry cellars, yet Alayne would miss freshly gathered foods all the same. “Indeed, it came as quite a shock to myself as well.” Another laugh floated softly across the table. “Only recently did I learn of my father’s name, the great prestige he had cultivated with the royal family. All these trappings of wealth and plenty have come with no little amount of surprise, though I was quite happy not to take my holy vows instead.”