⊰ 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.”

⊰ oflastingloyalty ⊱

♘ : silksongsandchivalry.

                 HE KNEW IT WOULDN’T BE EASY to consolidate their power. Too many had fallen foul and become accustomed to the regime of a cold u s u r p e r. The SEVEN KINGDOMS seemed to care l i t t l e for the rightful claimant to the throne; ironic seeing their OBSESSION with their many gods. He thought they would have been overjoyed at the return of the dragons, at a peaceful rule devoid of the evil that had crept within from the BARATHEON usurper. Yet it was not so, and Aegon had been f o r c e d to send delegates to try and sue for peace with the minimal amount of bloodshed. 

It was most like the best choice, yet somehow it sat WRONG with the griffin. Did they not owe Aegon their loyalty? Did they not see the g o o d he had brought with his accession? Still, that was how he found himself in the VALE, dressed proudly in the Connington colours that had been lost to him only a few months previously. It was the one saving grace of this whole mission. 

He was stood in the main hall ( as far as he could tell ) waiting for somebody to meet with him. Growing IMPATIENT, Jon clasped his hands behind his back and tapped his fingers against the back of them, dark hues eyeing the space about him. But soon he heard the opening of doors, and quickly dropped into a low bow. He had to remind himself this was for Aegon, no matter how d i s t a s t e f u l.  ❛ Good day, my lady. I am here on behalf of King Aegon. ❜

         Alayne could not help but wonder if their lofty heights and snow-capped mountains influenced this dragon’s choice to negotiate rather than to slaughter. Winter bore no patience for spies and ravens, frost decimating her father’s once-impressive cadre of informants. Those huddled in the Eyrie’s lower keeps had heard nothing of the invasion save its arrival; how many had perished, what lands had surrendered, even who sat the Iron Throne remained a mystery to those stubbornly neutral until now. Her role as escort originated as much from Petyr’s trust as it did his understanding of the girl’s curiosity; not only would the lord spare himself some breath in explaining those early moments, so too would he benefit from certain astute observations once their guest departed. 

             She took care in dressing: well enough so as not to offer insult, yet not so finely that this exiled lord might think to exploit hard-earned wealth. A great deal of Winter remained, were the maesters’ words true, and the Vale could ill-afford any frivolous expenditure. In a gown of pale lilac prettily embroidered with silken thread, rather than pearls or gems, Alayne swept down into the main hall, two guards at her back whilst another pair pushed open doors which groaned low their protestations.

             “My lord.”  No bastard curtsied near so well as she, skirts held aloft as knees bent and straightened in customary show of deference. “You must forgive this castle’s ignorance, for I fear we none of us have heard news of your liege’s crowning. My father has ever held to a staunch belief in the Throne, however; I know he shall be most anxious to hear of these changes.” One hand extended, invitation to follow back along her previous path. “Matters of grain and meat keep him quite occupied, as they do so many others,” Alayne offered in glancing apology for his absence. “Mayhaps you would indulge a girl’s curiosity? Have you— is there any news from the North, perchance?”

⊰ maidenofllyr ⊱

            “Lemon cakes are a luxury!” Eilonwy beamed in spite of the harsh truth, one which had prevailed in her lord father’s kitchens. Lemons tasted of a land bathed in warm, a pool of sun in which trees the likes of which she had only dreamed about grew, their branches heavy with fruits tasting of summer. “Mayhaps we could coax him into trying more berries. The ripe ones are soft and sweeter than the others.” They would go bad in no time at all, bruised by the faintest nudge of an inquisitive finger. For a little while, her companion’s words were left unanswered, simply acknowledged with a nod, blue eyes cast down as they settled on the dark patches scattered upon the lighter canvas of the porridge.

      “You speak wisely and with utmost sympathy,” she eventually murmured. Lost in musings summoning a world of her own, a web of memories she wouldn’t allow to take shape, the girl nodded again. “Of course, the poor little thing is grieving.” However difficult it was to see grief in tantrums and bouts of anger. “Did you know his mother well?” Of the late Lady Arryn, Eilonwy had only heard unpleasant tales, stories of her secluded life atop the Eyrie, of her involvement in some southron scandal, of her tragic and untimely death at the hands of her own singer. “Dreadful rumours have circulated in the Vale and I wouldn’t know how to sort the lies from the truths.”

          Lord Petyr had all but cleared Westeros of the tart fruits, an expense justified with naught more than a knowing smile. Yet no matter how his daughter or his charge enjoyed such confectionery delights, it remained unwise to allow growing children to subsist on pastries alone. Royce’s larders were bursting with produce and grain, his household still bringing in choice game for butchering and salting ahead of the winter freeze; with careful management all in his castle would eat quite well until the thaw, aided in no small part by the Lord Protector’s own generous expenditure. Yet be it stewed beef, roast quail, or vegetables drowning in rich gravy, poor Sweetrobin wailed and gnashed his teeth until the weakest will succumbed to bringing him more treats. 

             “I must assure you, ‘tis not always the prevailing circumstance,” she told their fair-haired guest with a self-deprecating trill of laughter. Petyr but thinly masked his own disdain, whilst the maester often teetered between appealing peace and the health of his charge; meanwhile Alayne could only smile through tedious mealtimes…and take care to bar her doors at night. “Briefly.” Hesitation punctuated her voice. “Lady Lysa did not expect a child alongside her bridegroom, though she showed me hospitality all the same. She had but two loves in her life: Lord Baelish and her son. Such devotion that dreadful singer could not abide, a tragedy if ever a bard has written one…”

⊰ oftheseam ⊱

                            ” You don't look like
                                                      Lord Littlefinger— too Southron. “

             “Father has spoken of a resemblance to my mother, though no likeness survived her death. Most would find such a topic uncouth to broach when so poorly acquainted, however.”

⊰ maidenofllyr ⊱

            The lordling was proving as detestable as his face had suggested, pouts and frowns heralding a tantrum which unraveled whilst they were all gathered to break their fast. Alayne’s apology, as gracefully disguised as it was, garnered a smile, sympathy and dismissal sweeping away a previous disapproval. “I’m quite sure of that, Lady Alayne. Don’t trouble yourself, please.” Whilst the dark-haired girl’s preferences were quite plain although established with propriety and affable manners, the little lord’s were yet to be known.

      “Perhaps if we were to serve what he does like, we might manage to feed him something. Has he always looked so sickly?” In his shadows, a maester never failed to lurk, ever observing and ready to intervene. “You have a great amount of patience,” Eilonwy observed, hand flying from cup to plate to flagon as she helped herself once again.

          Trouble served as her sole companion with regards to the tempestuous lordling; he accepted the care of hardly any other following a mother’s death, leaving Alayne caught between the demands of an exacting lord commander and a maester’s half-hearted twittering. Would that for a singe day he might enjoy the company of Myranda, or even one of her maids, yet the boy’s loyalty knew no end. Looked on as one of the few who could exert any measure of soothing control over him, it oft fell upon the girl to offer apologies when fits turned inexcusably riotous. 

             “Were the kitchens to produce only what his lordship prefers, I fear you would dine on lemon cakes morning, noon, and night, my lady.” That Robert enjoyed such sweets simply in mirror of a bastard girl, she left unspoken. “His mother always feared for the boy’s well-being,” Alayne acknowledged, “mayhaps beyond any reasonable cause. Her loss affected him greatly, as it would any young child.” Smiling, the girl prodded at colorless porridge, aided little by purple-blue blots of berry mixed into its depths. “One much always strive to sympathize with another’s grief, no matter the form it takes.”

⊰ @maidenofllyr requested a friendly starter — accepting ⊱

          Breakfast had gone disastrously. Though Lord Royce’s castle, much more easily supplied upon the valley floor than the highest keep from which they came, contained more of the luxuries Sweetrobin demanded, the little lord wasted no time in fitfully refusing all that was set before him. He wished only to remain in bed, read stories whilst Alayne stroked uncut locks. Petyr soon ended that. From then onward the boy’s mood only darkened, stoked to absolute, shrieking fury before their guest until Maester Coleman carried him away.

             “You must sample the blackberries, my lady. Like many other children, our young Lord Robert prefers sweeter delights, but I assure you no finer fruit graces any table in Westeros.”

⊰timeweary ⊱

If his clothes weren’t a clear indication of what an anomaly he was, then his instrument should’ve sufficed. ( As if he needed anachronism to wave a big flag over his head that denoted him as a stranger from a foreign land. Foreign time, more like. )  He let out a sigh at the young woman’s demanding inquiry before composing himself into the part of a humble low-born. With careful manoeuvring, he might be able to continue peering around the halls.

“A THOUSAND PARDONS, M’LADY.” His head dipped, averting his gaze to the floor as custom dictated he should for a highborn like her. ( Both the clothing and haughty air - as if his very presence was an intrusion - hinted at her noble blood. ) “I’d hoped the lord of the castle would be in need of a bard.”

          Unlike any other she had seen before, this traveler who wandered so boldly. I must have a word with father’s guards, Alayne thought. The tournament has turned them too idle. Many came seeking the Lord Protector’s favor, be it through a scrap of food or employment that would see them through the Winter in relative comfort; in this he was hardly alone. Yet no Gulltown peasant wore garb so strange, nor so clean after such a journey. Alayne might have scolded him for such an impudent noise were it not for burning curiosity.

             “A bard?” Tongue clamped between her teeth, a faint coppery tinge stung her mouth as the girl bit back a shaky retort. Singers do not fare well here. Yet, had not every household from the Giant’s Lance to Gulltown’s salt-stained alleys heart what befell poor Lysa? And who then would dare suggest themselves as replacement for poor, jealous, treacherous Marillion? Though she knew not what, this man came in search of something — or someone — not a few silvers tossed his way for songs strummed out on that odd harp. Alayne offered her warmest smile, tinged with false regret. “Lord Robert now detests the sound of music, after his mother’s death. I had thought all in the Vale would have heard tell of such tragedy by now, ser…?”

⊰ @timeweary ♥’d this ⊱

             “ —— And just what do you think you are doing?” Strange faces rarely graced Lord Royce’s halls, least of all with autumn now quickly tumbling into the white frost of Winter; should her father hear word of an uninvited guest, surely his wroth would fall without delay.

⊰ hangtherules ⊱

It was a bold statement, one she would not have expected from a stranger. For a few moments, she remained silent, uncertain as to whether the sentiment had been meant for her ears or merely for the young woman’s own contemplation.Eventually, however, the urge to comment became too overbearing. “ Perhaps, then, you ought to realize that learning to put yourself above others is, on occasion, a show of strength in and of itself. ”

          Drawn from reverie, Alayne blinked — her only concession toward surprise — ‘pon hearing an answer to idle mumblings. I must guard my tongue more carefully; spiders and birds lurk amongst these walls as well. “Alas,” she began with a properly chagrined smile, “a lady’s duty shall ever compel her to ensure the care of others before herself. My lady mother— ” Is dead. Stumble hardly acknowledged, pain flashing confusedly across ivory feature before vanishing, the girl continued unperturbed. “My lady mother would have instructed me in no other way, though women of the Faith served nearly so well as she.”

⊰ lipsoftheredrose ⊱

             “ —— What a beautiful travelling cloak you wear! Have you a brother in the joust, or do you mean to watch for amusement alone? They say the Gates shall not have known such a spectacle in more than a generation’s time.”

⊰ cleverindeed ⊱

       ❝ And people generally do as you say, then, when you ask them not to think on it? ❞ He finds that strangely hard to believe, and brows rise at the thought of it. No, certainly this was no place for a fair maiden such as herself to be. This was no place for anyone to be, where any man might be accused of regicide and none would think to disagree. Bile rises in the Hobbit’s throat at the news, and he teeters on the balls of his feet looking faintly disturbed. Regicide. It reminds him distinctly of false heirlooms and frigid battlements. Bilbo shivers.

       ❝ Essos. And where shall I go, once I find myself there? It seems to me more
          beneficial to travel northward. The faster I shall reach home for it. …At least,
          I believe so. ❞ 

       But the Shireling possesses no map and no bearings, a too-little being lost in a too-large world. His lips purse and he glances down at his feet, wondering at his predicament before he matches gazes with her again. ❝ Eriador. Have you heard of such a place, madam? For it is that port which I seek. Perhaps you might be able to tell me if I… if I travel to Essos. ❞ 

             “Many here respect what faith my father settles upon me.” And some here do not, the girl might have warned, though this hobbit seemed perturbed enough by tidings of Queen Cersei’s indiscriminate wroth. Would that she could offer him shelter within the Vale, as yet untouched by strife which tore North and South asunder, yet ‘twas overcaution that granted idyllic lands an enduring peace. Accused of cowardice by some boasting greater fire in their veins, many there remained content in placid acceptance of the crown’s sovereignty, though gods forbid knights cloaked in cream and blue march forth in its name. Kin mattered far more than strangers in lean times, least of all those unfamiliar faces too easily mistaken for one hunted.

             Alayne refused his suggestion with a vehement shake of chestnut waves. “Winter comes for us all, ser, the Northerners swifter than most. Soon every road shall lie beneath feet of snow, all food or shelter for your mount vanished under ivory drifts. You will find no such impediments across the Narrow Sea.” 

             Though she looked upon him with immovable candor in azurine stare, still the girl felt a welling of sympathy. Had Alayne not once been so lost? So alone? And how possibly could he journey across the world on only a strange girl’s directive? “Alas, I have not. But — ” What she meant to suggest presented great risk, least of all a father’s wrath, but the bastard girl could not so flippantly urge him onward towards safety, whilst blinding the poor traveler before he dared even set out. “We have a maester here, and a great library besides. No doubt one of them might reveal the way back to your home, if you should care to come with me and look.”

⊰ umop-epis-dn ⊱

Cold demands and implied threats surely carried weight from this girl, the authority with which she spoke was a sort not easily performed by pretenders. Even so, not even a hint of fear appeared. In fact, her little display only seemed to sharpen the harsh lines of his mouth and brow. And instead of the doubt and concession she likely expected, the King dared to laugh, a cold, mocking chuckle that illustrated just how ridiculous he found her to be.

“This is no farce, as I said before. The child is mine and he was given to me the moment you spoke your selfish wish. Oh yes! I heard your cruel, conceited plea and only did as you asked by taking the boy. And he shan’t be returned for threats nor war, and believe me when I say I fear neither. –But perhaps you STILL persist in your foolish disbelief.”

With a flourish of his hand, the King produced a crystal, its round depths swirling with ominous possibility. “Look here. See the reality of what you’ve done.” And there appeared the sickly face of her charge, red-eyed monsters all around him giggling with delight.

          Pomposity reminded the girl of her father, how grey-green eyes would turn silvery with ill-concealed mirth, victorious position assured no sooner than his opponent dared relinquish their ground of reason for emotional ploys. Yet no matter what manner of threats this stranger made Alayne could concede none of her outrage; though she bore him little love, Lord Robert remained heir to all his father’s lands, a sickly child, undeserving of a madman’s twisted schemes. “I said no such thing!” Not where any serving girl or stable boy could hear. Oh no, her contempt expressed itself most slyly, held deep within a resentful heart, let out only when Alayne felt assured no other would find themselves privy to such sentiment. 

             Azurine gaze narrowed, wary eyes turned to the crystalline globe. For a moment she could see how perfectly formed it was, free of impurity or blemish, before within fogged depths an image swirled into view. Sweetrobin, surrounded by the sort of creatures spoken about in whispers, meant to keep unruly children mindful of their parents’ wroth. Brows rose, heels ringing out with two sharp taps against marble-paved floor, the girl driven backwards in shock. “What have you done with him? Bring him back!” Alayne raised a single finger, accusatory, authoritative, jabbing at air turned frosty by such magical revelations. “I demand you end this at once!”

⊰ maddcst ⊱

                                                     gulltown was little more than a fisherman’s village to his eye,    all the  RICHES  of the port may as well have been made of  dirt  &&  ash.       his crew seemed not to share his dissatisfaction,        racing along the streets with their arms full of loot  &&  hands bathed in crimson blood  –  they paid the  IRON  price for their spoils.        but as with all things,         the greenland lords begged him not for  MERCY  (  as he would have liked  )  but instead to  TALK.        the iron king preferred battle to parleys  –  as if euron crow’s eye would ever bend to peace terms  –  but the green armies wouldn’t be brought to him without him first listening to their lord,       no matter how  LITTLE  he cared what they had to offer him.      it drove him  MAD  –  this reaver’s work was not for the  KING.        

                                                                                         “  tell your  lord father  that  PEACE  is a greenland notion,     &&  ironborn  KEEP  their blades.  “          he glared down at her  –  a  BASTARD  daughter to some perfumed lord asking anything of the iron king was ill met,        &&  his smiling eye seemed not to smile at all as it fixed on her.       “  if he is too  CRAVEN  to meet me with a sword in hand then there will be no negotiations,       &&  we’ll take this reeking pile of rotting fish you call a  PORT  within the fortnight.   “

             “‘Tis the Lord Protector’s terms I carry, not his requests.” In truth she would have preferred carrying nothing at all to blue-lipped raider, instead bolted safely within her rooms as Myranda was. Yet despite impassioned outrage over Gulltown’s unprovoked assault few lords or their households wished to meet this self-styled king in the field of battle — or across a table set with wine. Petyr would not abide such disrespect and nor should I. Her father preferred the sharp nubbin of eagle’s feather to any wound wrought by polished steel, a decidedly placid warfare whose mismatched skill nonetheless failed to frighten him as it might another. Would that Alayne could feel so bold now, suffocated by the wash of salt and sea rolling off their swaggering guest.

             He would not ask of me any duty I cannot fulfill. With such dubious assurance the bastard girl squared cowed shoulders, chin lifted so that she stood near as tall as he. “Lord Baelish invited you here to treat, not to spar. If I stand misinformed then pray forgive me, my lord, but I am not to take you further until all who mean to sit at his table relinquish their arms.” At last she dared look affronted, brows pulled high with a lady’s insult. “We in the Vale have no lack of honor: my father’s offer of safe passage back to your men shall remain.” So long as it suits him, a stipulation any Greyjoy must respect.