aviary | CLOSED | prompt eight

[ It had been an ugly affair, even by his standards. A tragedy, first, that such happy news would be met with such rage and vitriol. Then a cruelty, too, that where once they had been so keen to restore her name, they were now so quick to cut it away because of something so simple as love. No, life is not a song. Never has there been clearer proof. (But there is a melody, at least, in his enduring love.) ]

Songs are all I have for a bride price, I'm afraid, [ he says, shifting to wrap an arm about her shoulders. ] And you cannot deny me the pleasure. Where others might win joust after joust, I can offer you this.

[ Even as taken as she is, as wholly claimed as she has been by him already in both heart and body, Alayne still finds it in herself to blush at those words. Bride price, Petyr says, as if ready once again to pay forfeit. There is no godswood to speak of, no sept and no septons, but whatever means they have aboard the ship will be taken before her belly swells too heavily. When the news had come and she had told Petyr (still her father), he'd sworn to her that the child would be born its father's child — not a Stone, as Alayne had been, not a bastard.

The thought still fills her with a giddy sort of excitement that manages to liven her but then tires her quickly. Hands moving, she pulls aside the wrap of her robe to expose her bare belly, the swell of it slight (near imperceptible). ] If you must sing, sing not for me. Sing for the sparrow. Gild the babe silver and gold.

[ In accordance with her wish, Petyr shifts to slide down the length of the bed, brushing a hand over her belly before pressing his lips to her skin. (Never once since he had been struck down had he thought such a blessing a possibility for him. From time to time he still cannot believe it. He had kissed her until there had been no breath left in his lungs when he had first heard the news, and even as he looks at her now, well aware of the swell of her belly, he seems young, an effusive and bright sort of joy to his countenance.) ]

Be as clever and as beautiful as your mother, [ he whispers, the curve of his lips betraying his smile. (I shall sing for the both of you. For you, my love, and for our child.) ] Be half that, even, and I should be mad with joy.

[ It was by no means a practical thing, to have been taken with child at such a young age and during a time when pretense meant he was still her father in the eyes of many. The reveal had first been awkward and then painful, as shock gave way to betrayal and then scandal. Accusations flew and cut deep into Alayne's heart like knives, but all the while Petyr (once, so pragmatic) had remained by her side and did not flinch at the worst of the slings volleyed in their direction. For all that others had tried to cleave them apart, to convince Alayne of the error of her ways and to reveal Petyr as some sort of charlatan, every effort did nothing but tether them more strongly together — fortified as are the walls of a great keep, tenacious against enemy arrow and winter snow.

His breath is a tickle in her belly and Alayne giggles, giving a wriggle that quickly gives way to exhaustion as she cards her fingers lightly through his hair, fingertips lingering at the temples. ] No, be as bright and as bold as your father, [ she hums. ] I will not abide him raving mad, even by way of joy.

[ Once, so pragmatic, and to a degree, pragmatic still. The business of lies has taught him much about words; first and foremost that standing alone, they cannot cut as well as a blade. They must move to be effective, but without a true force behind them — or at least one in sight — they are as useless as waves crashing upon the rocks. So he keeps his place by Alayne's side, unmoved by anything save her sentiments and her heart.

Still, his hand runs circles over that slight swell, chin tipped up so that his gaze can meet hers, smile wavering about his lips. (He cannot deny that her frailty worries him — strong though she is, the birthing of a child is no easy process and the technology on board the ship, being unfamiliar to him, provides little comfort.) ]

Be both, and we may share in that madness.

[ The maester's say — no, doctors; they are doctors — that the odds lie in Alayne's favor even if her body proves poor in the delivery. There are methods and means, or so they claim; there are medicines that ease pain, that loosen muscle, that provide verve. Alayne's in good hands, they reassure Petyr and even though she will survive the labor in the end, the road there will be long and difficult for her and the birth will be breeched and bloody. Still his happiness gives her an unearthly strength. ]

Gods forbid, [ she laughs wearily, her hand drifting from his temples to touch that trembling smile. ] Were we mad we'd be unfit and this babe— [ Alayne still his hands upon her belly, covering it with his own. ] —our babe, deserves only the greatest of welcomes. Together, we shall see that they know only love.

Together, [ he murmurs, the echo tentative as if he were simply testing out the word as he lays his head down on the mattress beside her. He likes the sound of it — the bond that it implies, like a candle left on through the night or a hand held in passing. A reassurance. Something he's never needed before, but something that he holds onto more tightly than anything else he's ever had.

The doctors say that the odds lie in Alayne's favor but still, he worries to the point of exhaustion. Traces of it read in his features, though it is overwhelmed, for the large part, by a simple sort of contentment. ]

Without question, of course.

[ Alayne often wishes there were a way to help Petyr seem less tired. She knows, of course, it's a matter of concern on his part — that he spends hours, sometimes entire nights, doing nothing but remaining wakeful and attentive by her side while she sleeps. If she is taken with pains, it is he who fetches the doctors; if she wakes in the night with terrors, it is Petyr who holds her and soothes away those bad dreams. Sleeplessness is met with a story or a song and restless longing is met with a kiss and a touch and, if he is bold and she is persistent, the most careful making of love.

For each bout of discontent, for each malady, there is a bevy of remedies (some untested, some true) and Petyr &mash; to his credit — seems acquainted with many, though Alayne often wonders what previous circumstance would win him such familiarities with a woman with child.

Lightly, her fingers trace the lines of his face, fingertips pressing along the corners of his mouth to smooth away that tiredness. ] You don't think me foolish? To want such a thing and to wish it for the child?

[ Once, he would have called her foolish. But now, as he lies by her side, the word is the last to come to mind. Slowly, he lets his eyes close, shoulders rising and falling in a quiet sigh. ]

No, never, [ he murmurs, knowing that the exhaustion that colors his features is but one of many ways in which his age shows. ] With our wits combined I should think it an easy task. Or, if not that, at least not out of our reach. [ Besides, he would not once in a thousand years wish upon their child the sort of troubles that had plagued the parents. And what good would their suffering have been if they could not keep it from the baby? As if to say so, he shifts to push himself to lie properly next to her, the bridge of his nose pressing to her cheek as he wraps an arm about her. (Still, their circumstances amaze him. They have borne their share of woes in the process, but the point remains. Just months ago, had he thought this kind of bliss possible?) ]

And I would never think you a fool.

[ He lies by her side and Alayne turns towards him gingerly to meet him, her body seeming small against his even though time as proven her to be longer in both leg and torso. Her mouth presses soft kisses to the lids of his eyes, to his cheeks and chin, the effort making her breathless and flush, a damp fever threatening to sheen her face and neck. ]

You're being too generous, I was a fool once.

[ She had been many things once upon a time: foolish, innocent, blind. Once she'd been a daughter of the North and though winter still sings through Alayne's veins, the wolves no longer count her among their own. Now she is a Baelish or will be soon; vows, once spoken, cannot be unspoken and she'd swore in the eyes of her familial blood that she would not be broken from Petyr, not at any cost.

She puffs out a shallow exhale. Her whole body trembles in his arms; it'd be best that she rest but Alayne is filled with a restless anxious feeling, like she fears this happiness will somehow be shortlived (the baby stillborn or some other way afflicted, herself ill or dying, Petyr once again alone). ]

You changed me. [ Alayne kisses him again, lingeringly. ] You made me strong. You helped make this happiness possible.

[ Once loneliness had meant nothing to him, but now, the prospect — as much as he may try to ignore it — sets its claws into his heart and threatens to tear it apart. (He's told her, more than once before, that he would die without her. The passage of time has not made it any less true. With a child, perhaps the pain would ease, but it is a path down which he has never before traveled, another endeavor in which he knows he needs the guidance of her hand.)

Whatever fears or doubts plague his heart, he sets aside for the moment. He had promised to be brave, and as often and as well as he had lied to the world before, he refuses to do the same to her. ]

I was nothing before you, [ he hums, and it is a testament to the love that he bears for her that he says so without the least hesitation, that there is not the faintest note of insincerity in his voice. ]

And I will not hear otherwise. Rest, beloved. I will still be here when you wake.

[ Once she would have asked will you — the voice of girlish self-consciousness, of lingering doubt. For a long time, Alayne had known nothing but uncertainty, both in herself and in her guardian and their ultimate fate together. But both she and Petyr have been put to the fire, and instead of burn they have made a new amalgam. Brighter than silver, more sure than steel, as beautiful and as precious as gem-studded gold. The crucible of their love served as the most steady forge and even though Alayne's health waxes and wanes, her heart is now steadfast and true. The girl made woman by way of an unexpected child, the very last of her doubts casted off as she becomes a mockingbird through and through.

Her eyes crease sleepily as she smiles up at Petyr, a hand carding his hair. ] I fear sleep, my love. Fear what it will take from me. [ Hours, more preciously spent awake than dozing, half-caught between the waking world and a fever dream. Sometimes, when she dozes, she hears the ghosts of Winterfell and with them in chorus, whispers their unborn child. It is a dreadful vision, more terrible than the worst tortures she ever suffered as Sansa Stark. She never tells Petyr, though she suspects that he knows, given how she cries out in her sleep at night.

Her smile thins and her eyes flutter shut as if bid to sleep against her best wishes. ] I would rather stay here, and look upon your face. [ Demonstrably, she opens her eyes again. They smile, even though her mouth does not. ] Look upon the utter lack of nothingness to you.

[ At that, he huffs out a breath, halfway between a quiet oh and a laugh, the resulting smile lingering on his features. ]

I cannot beat back demons that I cannot see, but I will do my best. Sleep, or there will be nothing left of you in waking. [ And fitful though her dreams might sometimes be, proper sleep would do her a little good.

Could he fight the worst of her dreams, there is no question as to if he would, armed with nothing but his bare fists if it was demanded of him. That fervent spark flickers in his eyes, its edges given softness by the adoration that wells there, too, in the grey-green that, for the moment, seems not lively, but bright in the way of the embers of a flame. He is old (old beyond his years, as she is), and though it becomes all too apparent upon occasion (when exhaustion catches up to him and the lines on his face seem sharper than ever), there is still youth in his love for her. ]

Dream of me, [ he tells her, nose wrinkling for an instant. ] Better equipped to fight the worst of your fevers. Perhaps it may come to pass.

CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN

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