[A song of ice and fire]
Pairing: Alayne, Sansa/Sandor more or less.
Disclaimer: They're not mine. Sad but true.
Rating: PG-13 because The Hound is there
Warnings: Spoilers all the way till A Feast for Crows.
Summary: Alayne does not like the Vale.
A/N: Originally written ages ago in Spanish, only translated now. Unbetaed.
Alayne Stone does not like the the Vale. It is cold and rid, and she feels her father is not welcome. In the Vale, she can only take care of Robert and think about her fiancee and her father. Alayne does not like any of them, but she can not complain. She has spent all her life in the smallest of the Fingers where there was nothing but goats, and now she has been giving the chance to marry the heir of House Arryn. Robert is not going to last much longer, of that she can be sure, but she suspects - Alayne thinks Petyr does too, even though he says nothing - that Harrold will be not able to keep the Vale under his comand. He is just a brat and there are too many interests playing there, too many powerful and ambitious lords fighting to be the new Warden of the East. Alayne does not really care. She does not like the Vale, and she has lots so many things already; one more, she thinks, would not make much of a difference.
Alayne does not like thinking about the past. She does not like thinking that actually she has never been in the Fingers, that her name is not Alayne, not the name of a bastard, that Petyr Baelish is not his father, that the only real family around her is her sick cousin. She does not like to think that she was once Sansa Stark, that her home was Winterfell, that she could have been the Queen of Westeros, that she had other parents and siblings and a hyrewolf puppy. However, sometimes she can not help it.
Sansa would have not liked the Vale either. She would have not minded the cold, because it is not colder than Winterfell, but it is not her home. At Winterfell, even under the thick snow she could guess the summer that was now ending in Westeros and had long ended there. Sansa liked summer. She liked the songs about the knights of the summer, and the gentle men they were about. Like Loras Tyrell. Loras was handsome, noble and gentle, a real knight like those in the songs. The Hound would have laughed at her for thinking like that.
But The Hound was not like Loras. Sandor was rude, cruel and horrible. Sansa was scared of his burnt face, his deep, hoarse laugh and his dark eyes. She shivered everytime his enourmous rough hands grabbed her and he brought his face close to hers, and called her “little bird”, sending his breath full of rot and wine right onto her. Her voice broke when she sang for him, and then he would laugh and call her little bird again before taking her to Joffrey, because he was The Hound and obeyed without questioning, or going to drink again. Loras would have never done anything like that. Loras would have smiled, would have called her by her name and treated her like a lady. Loras would have protected her from Joffrey, would have put her save in Highgarden. Loras had given her a red rose, would have given her another one for every single day they spent together.
Sansa - thinks Alayne - would have not liked the Vale. But Sansa, in her opinion, was not but a silly little girl. Sansa, who dreamt about roses and knights in an unending summer. But summer is already ending, winter is coming. And in winter roses die, and what is left for a little bird to shield from the cold is a cloak as white as the northern snow, even if it is torn up and stained with blood, and still smells to ashes and wine.
Disclaimer: They're not mine. Sad but true.
Rating: PG-13 because The Hound is there
Warnings: Spoilers all the way till A Feast for Crows.
Summary: Alayne does not like the Vale.
A/N: Originally written ages ago in Spanish, only translated now. Unbetaed.
Alayne Stone does not like the the Vale. It is cold and rid, and she feels her father is not welcome. In the Vale, she can only take care of Robert and think about her fiancee and her father. Alayne does not like any of them, but she can not complain. She has spent all her life in the smallest of the Fingers where there was nothing but goats, and now she has been giving the chance to marry the heir of House Arryn. Robert is not going to last much longer, of that she can be sure, but she suspects - Alayne thinks Petyr does too, even though he says nothing - that Harrold will be not able to keep the Vale under his comand. He is just a brat and there are too many interests playing there, too many powerful and ambitious lords fighting to be the new Warden of the East. Alayne does not really care. She does not like the Vale, and she has lots so many things already; one more, she thinks, would not make much of a difference.
Alayne does not like thinking about the past. She does not like thinking that actually she has never been in the Fingers, that her name is not Alayne, not the name of a bastard, that Petyr Baelish is not his father, that the only real family around her is her sick cousin. She does not like to think that she was once Sansa Stark, that her home was Winterfell, that she could have been the Queen of Westeros, that she had other parents and siblings and a hyrewolf puppy. However, sometimes she can not help it.
Sansa would have not liked the Vale either. She would have not minded the cold, because it is not colder than Winterfell, but it is not her home. At Winterfell, even under the thick snow she could guess the summer that was now ending in Westeros and had long ended there. Sansa liked summer. She liked the songs about the knights of the summer, and the gentle men they were about. Like Loras Tyrell. Loras was handsome, noble and gentle, a real knight like those in the songs. The Hound would have laughed at her for thinking like that.
But The Hound was not like Loras. Sandor was rude, cruel and horrible. Sansa was scared of his burnt face, his deep, hoarse laugh and his dark eyes. She shivered everytime his enourmous rough hands grabbed her and he brought his face close to hers, and called her “little bird”, sending his breath full of rot and wine right onto her. Her voice broke when she sang for him, and then he would laugh and call her little bird again before taking her to Joffrey, because he was The Hound and obeyed without questioning, or going to drink again. Loras would have never done anything like that. Loras would have smiled, would have called her by her name and treated her like a lady. Loras would have protected her from Joffrey, would have put her save in Highgarden. Loras had given her a red rose, would have given her another one for every single day they spent together.
Sansa - thinks Alayne - would have not liked the Vale. But Sansa, in her opinion, was not but a silly little girl. Sansa, who dreamt about roses and knights in an unending summer. But summer is already ending, winter is coming. And in winter roses die, and what is left for a little bird to shield from the cold is a cloak as white as the northern snow, even if it is torn up and stained with blood, and still smells to ashes and wine.