dear_mun | on odds & ends

Such tenacity should be commended, shouldn't it, father?

[ She has her own reasons, of course; everybody did. But Alayne does not give them voice, for she is certain her lord protector knows them all already. ]

[ He lets out a breath, at that, eyes closing for an instant before he ducks his head, the line of his lips drawing into a half-smile. (It is an expression of mock defeat rather than reproach or anything of the like. She has learned quickly, and learned well — enough to, on occasion, prevent him from cutting corners.) When he looks up, just a moment later, his gaze is nothing short of intent, that familiar laughter (warm, this time) dancing in the grey-green. ]

Commended so long as it is backed by reason, sweetling, [ he says, holding up a single finger. ] Tenacity without purpose or plan can easily end in ruin. If the bull is blind, it can hardly strike.

[ Alayne dips her chin in a pose of modesty that, at the very core holds a genuine feeling of chastisement. Though there was no mistaking that she had progressed by leaps and bounds under the mockingbird's guidance, there is still very much for her to learn and it's good to be reminded of it. It makes Alayne both humble but eager, her hands moving over the folds of her skir to smooth is fullness down to seamlessness. ]

If a bull is blind, can it not still strike? Though where the blow is dealt is for only fate and fortune to decide. [ Though she tries to assert her point — see father, see how I grow — Alayne's voice turns up at the very end of the sentence, revealing her uncertainty. ]

[ His smile widens, and he nods again. (Good girl.) ]

Too much fate and fortune for my tastes, don't you think?

[ Alayne feels her face grow warm. Though he does not offer the praise aloud, she has learned how to glean it from his looks — the glint of an eye, a particular curve to his lips. ]

But— is it not best if there are some things serve which no purpose? And who better to steer such happenings than fate?

[ With one hand, he beckons her closer, his neck craning forward in feigned confidentiality. ]

Controlled fate, [ he tells her. ] Let nothing get the better of you. Even if you must pretend that it has.

[ He beckons her and so she draws near, ever the dutiful daughter, ever the attentive student. ]

And what of things that refuse the yoke? [ Alayne thinks of the blinded bull, of King Joffrey the golden lion. She knows what fate he'd earned himself. ] If such things look to wound, will they not wound — better or not?

Of those that refuse the yoke ... [ He reaches up now, to cup her chin with one hand. ] Of a variable that cannot be mastered —

— what do you think?

[ Alayne's back straightens, the muscles of her arms tensing and then releasing again as she allows the hands that she'd rung before her to fall away at her sides. When Petyr — or is it Littlefinger now — takes hold of her chin, she tips her jaw and inclines her face and hopes he will not ask her to be too dutiful. ]

One slip and you are dead, [ she whispers. ] The game's rules are many and its penalties are grave. Better— [ A pause, trying to find the words. ] —better to bend the knee and take the yoke than to be removed from the board entirely.

[ Live or die And Sansa had chosen live.

No. Alayne had chosen it. ]

[ This is the extent to which he asks her to be dutiful: when she answers, his thumb traces a line over her cheek. He leans in, perhaps a little too close, but as she finishes speaking, he straightens up and lets go. (Again, praise in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, in the curve of his mouth.) ]

And to plan, in the guise of service.

[ It is not until he has released her chin that she gathers her hands together again, one gasped in the other. Her face feels warm but Alayne refuses to acknowledge it by rubbing her cheek. ]

And who is it that we do serve, father? [ Perhaps it is a silly question or, if it isn't, perhaps he will not answer. There were something that were not for Alayne to know. (Or perhaps she knows the answer already. ] Serve truly.

The lord Baelish, complain? [ She knows the way these things work. Obsequiousness is next to comeliness. ] I have never heard of such a thing. No, by all accounts, the Master of Coin is quite agreeable.

[ Obsequiousness is next to comeliness, so the Lord Baelish bows, the gesture unnecessarily large (although, notably, he keeps his head bowed, too; like recognizes like and he knows that she knows how to play the game). ]

You do me too much honor, Your Grace, [ he tells her, as he straightens up. Though his tone is gentle (easy), there's still a sort of teasing to its edges. ] Or, as it may be, you may have drawn from too few accounts yet. [ A truth in the guise of a lie. Whether or not she takes it as jest or not is yet to be seen. ]

[ Just as the Greyjoys are born to the sea and the Starks are born to the North, so too are the Tyrells born to court — a family of knights and ladies, of movers and players, and in the respect Lord Mace's only daughter is very much a Tyrell. Something bright and amused alights in her eyes when he bows and so she courtesies in turn. (Like recognizes like and there is no bed that Littlefinger cannot worm his way into, not even the lofty Reach. There are plans and plans within plans, and though Margaery herself is not privy to all of them, she is mindful of what her grandmother tells her. ]

It is a rarity for such modesty to be found in court, [ she says, cheerfully, the jest taken and returned with equal knowing. ] I will make sure all know that such a gem is stowed away amongst the coppers, Master Coin. Lest you fear someone may steal you.

[ Another bow; not quite as deep, this time, but still under the guise of humbleness. (A thin guise, a weak one, as a sign of respect. She knows him better. Much better than most do. It makes it that much more fun. And, to an extent, that much more of a liability.) ]

I doubt I shine enough to even be considered for the crime.

You of all people should know— [ And he does know, Margaery is certain of it. ] —just how greedy men can be.

[ He was the Master of Coin, was he not? If there are implications beyond that, well. ]

Of course, [ he says, feigning modesty once more. ] It is my duty to moderate that greed, after all.

[ A beat, and a nod of his head. ]

Well. To moderate it, or control the damage done.

[ She nods in turn, her smile unfettered. Margaery has what Cersei does not — an easiness about her, an effortlessness and charm. Was it any wonder that she held the love of the people? ]

The kingdom is made richer by your service, Lord Baelish. And, if I understand correctly— [ She has it harmlessly, as if she has no real understanding of such matters. ] —your lordship is made richer in return. [ Her eyebrows lift in innocent curiosity. ] What deed was it so newly won by your house? I seem to recall talk of it in court.

I was gifted with the Riverlands, Your Grace. [ Another blink, another smile. (She is comely, certainly, and for that reason alone most of the court underestimates her — and he of all people knows how much of a weapon that can be. Cersei is too sharp, too bold with the power she has.) ]

I can only hope to do the honor justice.

The Riverlands. [ Margaery feigns surprise. The answer is not news to her though she had pantomimed shock upon learning of it earlier as well. She knows the measure of its gain for Baelish — the councilor from nowhere, now Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. Margaery wonders if there is no end to what Littlefinger can accomplish. ]

What a befitting honor, I can think of none better. The Trident served as your childhood home, did it not? [ Everyone knew how that had ended. His history with the Tully daughters were a hearty whisper in court and a whisper that Littlefinger fed and nurtured. Curious for a man who'd lost the duel that ultimately saw him returned to the Fingers. ] I am sure you will go to great lengths to see the favor of your wardship returned to the lands that gave it to you.

[ Curious, indeed, but dig deep enough, and it wasn't too hard to see that that was almost all that Littlefinger was: curiosity after curiosity, lie after lie, deal after deal, a mecca of gold and treachery, hidden behind the crest of a mockingbird. ]

I seek only to repay the favor — and to serve the crown.

[ It is easy to dismiss a man like Littlefinger, just as it is easy to dismiss a face half as fair as Margaery's. And therein lies the error of so much of Westeros, to glean intent and desire from a creaseless brow or a slightness in stature. Margaery knows better than to think little of a little man with a little name and an empty title — for his title had grown far less empty through his machinations. (A fact that most would forget and overlook, but not the Tyrells. Oh, no. ]

To serve the crown or its king, Lord Baelish? [ A distinction many would not make. She presents the question harmlessly. ] Or, better yet, its queen.

[ Silver mockingbird, silver temples. By rights, she should recognize him, but the years separate them — long and unkind. ]

In what ways do you know?

[ Cat. The name dies before it ever reaches his tongue. It is telling, perhaps, as to exactly how deep he has buried the memories of the years past in that his expression doesn't change at all. He doesn't flinch, doesn't smile, simply stares in what is almost appraisal — pragmatic, as though assessing a new piece of artwork. The years separate them — long and unkind — and he wonders if this version of her has lost him yet.

The thoughts pack themselves into a single instant, and soon, he's smiling, as polite and genial as ever. (But there, there is the seam, in the line of his jaw and the dearth of mirth — sincere or bitter — in his eyes. The love that he bore her is long gone, but that does not mean it never existed in the first place.) ]

More than I care to count, some quite literally and others less so, [ is his answer, following a pause for consideration. ] But, more often than not, the promise of a blank slate is a false one. No matter where one goes, there is always something that will follow.

[ Another pause. Then: ] Not, I suppose, that I would give utterance to any objection.

[ (Some small, miniscule part of him is glad to see her as he remembers her, something hidden away beneath the scar tissue. The wound had never completely closed, after all, and the poison never quite drawn, and if this is something to be gained from giving up the possibility of tabula rasa, then so be it. And in the midst of all that he has ever done, this is the only thing he will ever loathe himself for, partially because to even think this way is to open oneself to weakness, and partially because even now, with all that he has, with how young she is, he knows:

He will never be able to make her love him.) ]

[ No, not lost, not yet. Petyr Littlefinger still remains ward to Lord Hoster Tully and his daughters still hold the boy within the circlet of their slender arms (each loved or loving, in turns). That tenuous web of childhood longing and sisterly duty has yet to be broken and torn, though her name day will be soon upon her and the match made. There is part of her that knows what lies ahead, knows of the ways in which responsibility will bare its weight down upon her narrow shoulders. But even Cat, in all her cleverness, has always been somewhat blind when it comes to Petyr, has always underestimated his boldness and the places that it will take him (no one loves another as much as that).

Slowly she nods, a resolve in her eyes. ] A man may strip himself of his belongings and may cast aside his name, but there will always be his blood. And the contents of his heart.

[ Family, duty, honor. Those are the Tully words. ]

[ (She still doesn't recognize him. The mask falls more firmly into place. No one loves another as much as that, she had said, and now, now he thinks she was right. That kind of love doesn't exist. And any kind of love is nothing but a weakness. So he cut it out, through the gap Brandon had left those many years ago, and he makes no exceptions, not even for her.) ]

Do you really believe that?

[ A flaw: an unnecessary question. It's rhetorical, more than not, since he knows what her answer will be. ]

[ It was a betrayal, it had to be. Petyr promised and she believed and now Ned was dead. Maybe it hadn't been his fault but family, duty, honor were her words before she was ever Catelyn Stark, back when she was just Catelyn Tully and there was a boy with a head filled with too many romantic notions named Petyr Baelish who loved her. (More than a sister, while she no more than a brother.)

A Stark can keep their promises, she should have known better. (Family. He was a family of sorts in her heart, even now.) ]

But you've learned to play many games in the years we were apart, have you not?

[ A simple question of sorts, have you played me, the one who asked for your life to be spared all those years ago? ]

[ As she speaks, Petyr's expression changes, shifting to something that is almost confusion. It is a question in turn: is that an accusation? ]

We all learn, with time, [ he replies, each word picked with care. (There's a waver in his voice, one that suggests horror that she would even suspect him of crossing her or her kin.) ] We must.

[ The implication: I would never play you. You know how much I care for you. (The truth: there is no one he wouldn't play. And he did love her, once upon a time.) ]

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