Chapter Text
The sun was setting, blood on the horizon. A cool breeze swept up from the water of the Trident to meet her, and it almost felt like Winterfell. Almost. Alayne sighed and leaned back against a tree, feeling the strength of it. Would that I were as strong as the tree. She closed her eyes and remembered the Hound, his eyes full of fury and terror. He might have helped me. If she’d gone with him, would she be any less damaged? Would she still be Sansa, still be a little bird?
Alayne refused to cry. Carefully she unstoppered the little vial she’d stolen. Snakesbane. The maester had been proud of this one, showing it to her while he poked and prodded at her, bandaging the scratches and rubbing smelly salves over her bruises. The most potent poison this side of the Narrow Sea, he said. Alayne squinted through it, seeing the sunset distorted through the glass. Before she could discourage herself, Alayne tipped the vial over her mouth and swallowed, the liquid burning horribly down her throat. Darkness stole over her.
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She dreamed of a girl, dark and slight, walking away from her. There was pain, and a thirst for wine. A pool of dark blood, seeping from her leg. In her mind's eye, a dying fire burned pitifully a few feet away, and a wineskin on the ground. The dark girl... She recognized her. Alayne knew her, but she couldn't think of her name. Another girl's sister. Not mine.
Another few hours passed. Darkness set in, and she heard footsteps, soft on the grass around her. She heard the sound of flint against steel, and a flame lit in her face. The brightness hurt. Alayne whined and turned away, and the flame was doused. Then hands on her, gently lifting her from the ground. The movement made her nauseated but she felt too weak to get sick. Dead girls don’t get sick. She opened her eyes but they stung and she closed them tight again. Had she been stronger, she would have twisted out of the grasp, but she couldn’t. Alayne wondered who had found her. Petyr. Suddenly she was struck with a wild fear. Alayne had killed him, slit his throat, but he was taking her back to the Eyrie now, back to be punished, to be hurt. She clenched her fists tightly, feeling raw skin stretch over her knuckles. She moaned, and it felt like water was rushing into her mouth, and she couldn’t breathe.
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It wasn’t Petyr carrying her. Whoever carried her now lifted her like she was a doll, a child. Petyr was a small man. Petyr wouldn’t spend so long without touching her, without pinching her arm or digging his nails into her wrist. He wouldn’t be so slow to insult her, to call her stupid or ugly or useless. The man carrying her was silent, and Alayne was grateful for it.
Alayne felt too tired to stay awake for long periods of time. In truth, she would have slept whether she’d felt tired or not. Sleeping was a comfort; respite from old nightmares. So she dozed, the rocking motion of being carried lulling her into a half-sleep.
After a long time Alayne felt him come to a stop and she opened her eyes, but it was too dark to see anything. She heard voices, at least five, and the popping of a fire. An inn. There should be light from a window, but there was none. All was black. “I can’t see,” Alayne whispered, her voice grating painfully. “I can’t see,” she repeated, louder. A calloused hand covered her mouth and the contact brought foreign emotions to flood into her consciousness: anger, remorse, fear. The feelings weren’t her own; she hadn’t felt anything so intense in a long time. She didn’t know where they’d come from and she didn’t much want to know. She twisted away and the hand lifted, her thoughts becoming her own again. Alayne sighed in relief and relaxed as they entered the inn. The voices inside quieted. Alayne felt herself being carried up some steps, then she was laid on a soft bed. Automatically she curled into a ball, like a child. Several steps sounded near her and the door opened and closed.
A hand was shaking her shoulder. Alayne flinched away from the touch, feeling the stings and the aches return to her limbs. Weeks ago. Shouldn’t hurt anymore. She sat up slowly. The warm edge of a cup pressed against her lips and she drank gratefully. It was broth. The smell of it almost turned her stomach but she pushed back the feeling.
The cup was soon empty. Alayne heard it being set down on a surface... A table, maybe. The broth soothed her for a few seconds, but soon her throat burned again and she coughed.
Her companion gave her bread. Alayne ate it slowly, and when she was finished, she lay down again and fell back asleep.