at magicdraft; post may contain spoilers for ASoIaF

[kindlymeant]

It is not that I am ungrateful for your attention, my lady, though I cannot share in your renewed enthusiasm. I would have you remember, please, that even away from my lord father - especially then, perhaps - I must be careful to conduct myself as is befitting. I will not give him reason for disappointment, least not when I walk alongside such noble names.

As for - circumstances as they are, it is far better this way. That door may be closed now, as it should be, and so it shall remain.

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[kindlymeant]

[Something in her sharpens, but she keeps wolf teeth well-hidden.]

And when one cannot run, my lord? What is wisest, then?

[longshanks]

The first choice should always be to fight. If you cannot look fear in the eye and raise your sword, what can you be said to be doing? What men will sing your praises for putting a tail between your legs? How can you live with yourself for knowing you have drawn up toe to toe with your fate and backed down?

[ He holds her gaze, blue eyes just as piercing but holding none of her challenge. ]

Even so, there are times when to live and fight harder the next day, we must walk away from this one. True courage is in knowing when to strike hardest, not fastest, and holding out until such a moment comes to pass.

[kindlymeant]

[She swallows, acutely aware of the weight in those steely eyes, but refusing to balk before him all the same. This time, it's Sansa Stark's father that he thinks of, just for a moment.

Let men sing each others praises, then, for their songs are empty.

Holding out. Waiting. (The direwolf, dormant within her.)]

I have no sword, and my armour is forged from something else than steel. I do all I can, my lord, and all I shall do - my duty. That of a daughter.

[A daughter of the north.]

[longshanks]

Even a daughter may carry arms. [ A glance. ] Unless your fine fingers are given solely to needlework.

[ Andúril hisses smoothly as he draws it from its sheath, the blade twirling as he flicks it around in his hold and regards her. Turns the blade on a bent arm to offer her the hilt. ]

Are they?

[kindlymeant]

[Her face might change, just a little, just a touch, at the sound of steel being drawn. It's been some time since Sansa Stark was held at the whims of a cruel king, but Alayne Stone remembers. But it is mainly surprise, confusion that makes her falter. She looks from him, to the blade, before meeting his eyes again, expecting - she isn't sure of that. Scorn, amusement, both, perhaps.]

One sword is capable of little, my lord.

[longshanks]

[ The offer remains, the long handle extended to her so that she might hold it. It's a pointed gesture, not done lightly; he can count the people who have held it on one hand. ]

You are wrong, my lady. One sword may make all the difference in the world.

[kindlymeant]

[Her fingers flex, as if she might reach out, even if only to touch the hilt. But she stills them, stills herself, her eyes wary and guarded, the blue banded in iron.

One sword would not protect me from those who have done me harm and would do so again.

One sword would not take me home.

Sombre, she balls her hand into a fist, as if to quell the thought. It is not the ingrained sense of wrongness that stays her hand, though, not the ideal that ladies should not hold swords, let alone use them - it is the wall built up around her.]

Perhaps, my lord, in the right hands, or against a single foe. [I am being too daring, and the words come too easily.]

...But really, you speak as if it is a story.

[longshanks]

You trust little in the hearts of men.

[ Shhhk. Replacing the blade at his side, he surveys her hesitation and makes a mental note not to reach out with a sign of goodwill again without first being plied for one. ]

If a shield-maiden is legend, then I have stories enough to tell but am weak with the words of a scholar. It would make for a poor tale on my account.

[kindlymeant]

Should I?

[The words are out before she can stop them, her countenance turning flinty. The grief-stricken girl lingers somewhere in the cracks, but she chides herself for it.

Moments pass, and then she smiles. It is small and wan and rather too knowing, but she gives it all the same.]

You have been kind to me, my lord, but I have no need to be regaled with stories as a child would, and - I doubt I have strength in my arm to even lift such steel.

[longshanks]

[ Taking in the sharp edges to her tone, honing sleeker until she dismisses any stories she could have applied for altogether, he takes a step closer and rests a hand on his sword's hilt. Whatever hurt she's undergone, he's had no part in it and can only sympathise. ]

You assume, lady, that I would abandon you to lift a blade alone.

[kindlymeant]

[And she could weep then, or she could laugh. She does neither.]

If I thought you a sellsword you would be a poor one, but as it stands you must have better causes than bastard girls, my lord.

[longshanks]

Here I realise my mistake. Offering my sword for the amusement of a lady sharper even than the reforged blade of kings, Andúril indeed looks pitifully dull set next to your wit.

[ A hand touches his chest briefly, a nod given. ]

I am humbled.

[kindlymeant]

Now you tease me, my lord. [From anyone else, she'd likely think they were making mock - and the suspicion is there, certainly, but he does not seem the type. Another thing to chide herself for, that she should let such judgements cloud her.

(She should trust her instincts better, but she feels such matters of the heart have only betrayed her before.)]

It is I that is humbled. I shall endeavour not to cut you, my lord, for it would be illdone to spill such noble blood.

[longshanks]

And I shall curb my curiosity, though it may roam free and require a lady's gentle touch to swat it back into its place.

[ He could give her a pseudonym, but since the Argonath ... ]

I am Aragorn son of Arathorn and am called Elessar, the Elfstone, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, the heir of Isildur Elendil's son of Gondor. [ A bow. ] Well met, little lady.

[kindlymeant]

[She knows nothing of Gondor, of Dúnedain. She knows of no Isildur, and all the words are strange to her ears. But she knows a royal title well enough, and though he does not dress as a king does, she finds herself somehow unsurprised. With widened eyes drops to one knee, head bowed. A lady, baseborn or not, always remembers her courtesies.]

Forgive me, I did not - [She sucks in a breath, and looks up at him, but does not yet rise.]

As it please your Grace, I am Alayne Stone, daughter to Lord Petyr Baelish, Protector of the Vale and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. [Sansa Stark is restless within her, but it is not Alayne Stone's place to speak of wolves.]

[longshanks]

No, do not kneel to me. Come ...

[ Uncomfortable even now when people bow their heads, as convicted as he is to avenging Boromir and assuming his rightful place on the throne, he's still very much Strider.

A hand lightly touches her arm. ]

I bid you rise and show me no special deference. I only wished to be honest with you, Lady Alayne.

[kindlymeant]

[Her surprise is evident then, when she looks up at him directly. He is kingly, indeed, but not like Joffrey, nor like Stannis - not even like Lord Renly, or her brother.

Appearances are deceiving, in their way. She cannot picture this man - in travel-stained clothes and with his scruffy hair - wearing a crown, or sitting a throne, and yet she cannot find his claim refutable.]

You are... a strange sort of king then, your Grace. [She says, sure and tremulous in her speaking all at once.