WORDS ARE WIND, AND NAMES ARE WORDS.
Sansa had felt the boy creep into her bed sometime during the night. At the time she had allowed it, thinking the weeping child deserved any small kindness she could afford him. Robert had spent the last two days screaming himself into hysterical fits. She had purposely turned onto her side so that her back faced him, but he curled up tightly against her anyways. His little hands grasped her waist tightly and she had felt hot tears burning themselves through the fabric of her nightgown and into her skin.
“Sleep, Sweetrobin,” she murmured.
Sansa’s sleep had not been pleasant and she drifted in and out of dreamland. The world was still dark outside her window when she felt something hot and wet touch her back. For a moment her clouded and sleepy judgement thought Robert was crying again, but as her head cleared, she realized the wetness was too low and too much to be tears. She cried out in disgust and leaped out of the bed. Robert lay shivering in his own urine. Her movement had jolted him out of his slumber and he started to weep when he realized he had soiled the bed.
Sansa hurried from the room, wanting to be rid of the soiled nightgown she had donned. Her fingers clawed at the material as she entered the bathing room. A tub sat in the middle of the room, and the only water available was ice cold. But she did not care. She sobbed and sank into the icy water. It was not long before the water numbed her body. Only then did she stop sobbing.
The door opened rather abruptly, Sansa looked up into Petyr’s face. The smile he gave her was almost pitying, but she accepted the warmth in his eyes anyways.
“You’re hurting yourself, Alayne,” Petyr chastised. “Water this cold could kill you if you stayed in it long enough.”
Sansa just bowed her head. Warm fingers pushed her chin up and Sansa wondered when Littlefinger had moved so close. She felt like covering her body, but his eyes were fixed on her own.
I am not Sansa anymore, she reminded herself. He’s looking at Alayne, his daughter. He’s touching Alayne, like a gentle father.
“Let me help you,” he offered. His fingers left her chin and part of her missed the warmth that briefly penetrated the numbness and the chill in her life.
Petyr pulled off the outer coat he wore. Underneath the coat he wore his day clothes and Sansa realized that he man had not gone to bed that night. Seeing her curiosity, Petyr smiled thinly.
“A lot of preparation must be done now that Lysa is dead.”
Sansa didn’t prod any further. His smile softened and he opened the coat for her. Sansa realized he expected her to get out of the tub. Moe aware of her body than ever, her mind repeated that she was now Alayne and Alayne had no reason to hide her body from her father. Even so, she could only bear to let her back face him. Petyr’s gaze did not linger, but his hands helped her into the overcoat. Every so often his fingers brushed her skin as she moved her arms stiffly and clumsily through the sleeves. His touch raised her skin and his eyes noted the goose prickles.
“Are you cold, Alayne?” Petyr asked.
Sansa finished buttoning the overcoat and turned to peer into his hooded eyes. He leaned forward and kissed her. This time she pulled back immediately.
“My name is Alayne,” she whispered. “I’m your daughter.”
“Sansa,” Petyr said, hands coming up to hold her by the shoulders.
Sansa closed her eyes and when she opened them again, it was not Petyr’s face, Petyr’s voice, or Petyr’s touch that she acknowledged. “Littlefinger,” she whispered.
He smiled. “The game of thrones isn’t won with just swords, it’s won with words.”
“The queen told me it could be won with bodies,” Sansa replied, her body trembling. “But I do not want to win; I just want to go home.”
“This is your home now, Sansa.” Littlefinger’s hands tightened on her shoulders.
Sansa shook her head. “If this is now my home, then my name is not Sansa. It is Alayne. I am Alayne, your daughter, and a bastard.”
Something dark flashed in Littlefinger’s eyes, but the hands removed themselves and Sansa found herself looking at Petyr again. He stepped back and gave her room to breathe.
“I can protect you, and I can give you a home,” Petyr said kindly. “And although you look like your mother, you are still Ned Stark’s daughter. You will never escape the game of thrones and I intend to win it.”
“Sleep, Sweetrobin,” she murmured.
Sansa’s sleep had not been pleasant and she drifted in and out of dreamland. The world was still dark outside her window when she felt something hot and wet touch her back. For a moment her clouded and sleepy judgement thought Robert was crying again, but as her head cleared, she realized the wetness was too low and too much to be tears. She cried out in disgust and leaped out of the bed. Robert lay shivering in his own urine. Her movement had jolted him out of his slumber and he started to weep when he realized he had soiled the bed.
Sansa hurried from the room, wanting to be rid of the soiled nightgown she had donned. Her fingers clawed at the material as she entered the bathing room. A tub sat in the middle of the room, and the only water available was ice cold. But she did not care. She sobbed and sank into the icy water. It was not long before the water numbed her body. Only then did she stop sobbing.
The door opened rather abruptly, Sansa looked up into Petyr’s face. The smile he gave her was almost pitying, but she accepted the warmth in his eyes anyways.
“You’re hurting yourself, Alayne,” Petyr chastised. “Water this cold could kill you if you stayed in it long enough.”
Sansa just bowed her head. Warm fingers pushed her chin up and Sansa wondered when Littlefinger had moved so close. She felt like covering her body, but his eyes were fixed on her own.
I am not Sansa anymore, she reminded herself. He’s looking at Alayne, his daughter. He’s touching Alayne, like a gentle father.
“Let me help you,” he offered. His fingers left her chin and part of her missed the warmth that briefly penetrated the numbness and the chill in her life.
Petyr pulled off the outer coat he wore. Underneath the coat he wore his day clothes and Sansa realized that he man had not gone to bed that night. Seeing her curiosity, Petyr smiled thinly.
“A lot of preparation must be done now that Lysa is dead.”
Sansa didn’t prod any further. His smile softened and he opened the coat for her. Sansa realized he expected her to get out of the tub. Moe aware of her body than ever, her mind repeated that she was now Alayne and Alayne had no reason to hide her body from her father. Even so, she could only bear to let her back face him. Petyr’s gaze did not linger, but his hands helped her into the overcoat. Every so often his fingers brushed her skin as she moved her arms stiffly and clumsily through the sleeves. His touch raised her skin and his eyes noted the goose prickles.
“Are you cold, Alayne?” Petyr asked.
Sansa finished buttoning the overcoat and turned to peer into his hooded eyes. He leaned forward and kissed her. This time she pulled back immediately.
“My name is Alayne,” she whispered. “I’m your daughter.”
“Sansa,” Petyr said, hands coming up to hold her by the shoulders.
Sansa closed her eyes and when she opened them again, it was not Petyr’s face, Petyr’s voice, or Petyr’s touch that she acknowledged. “Littlefinger,” she whispered.
He smiled. “The game of thrones isn’t won with just swords, it’s won with words.”
“The queen told me it could be won with bodies,” Sansa replied, her body trembling. “But I do not want to win; I just want to go home.”
“This is your home now, Sansa.” Littlefinger’s hands tightened on her shoulders.
Sansa shook her head. “If this is now my home, then my name is not Sansa. It is Alayne. I am Alayne, your daughter, and a bastard.”
Something dark flashed in Littlefinger’s eyes, but the hands removed themselves and Sansa found herself looking at Petyr again. He stepped back and gave her room to breathe.
“I can protect you, and I can give you a home,” Petyr said kindly. “And although you look like your mother, you are still Ned Stark’s daughter. You will never escape the game of thrones and I intend to win it.”