Snow Maid

RP Blog for Alayne Stone, bastard daughter of the Lord Protector of the Vale. Independent RP.

[askalaynestone]

Attention!

Please follow maidalaynestone. This blog was a sideblog, and I have since made a standalone one. 

[askalaynestone]

I don't know you but I found your page and story through baelishandblood and I saw your post about if people were enjoying your rp. I'm in love with your thread so far. I love stumbling upon new rpers who capture my attention and you definitely do!

((Thank you so much! I just have no way to really tell if people are liking it, unlike my fic and AO3, so I was being paranoid. If I do anything OOC, please let me know!))

[askalaynestone]

((Are people enjoying my rp? Because I'm having fun, but I have no sense of how I'm being received by the non-rpers. 

I suppose it only matters if I'm having fun, but today's the day to be fandom insecure! I mostly just want to know if I'm staying in character.))

[askalaynestone]

Is this how you imagined your life would end up?

Not in the least, truly. 

Which is not to say that I'm ungrateful for all that has been done, but I did not expect to be so tainted by the South, to pass my time as a bastard, to have everything destroyed and reconstructed for me. 

I also did not expect to survive, and to survive with such power. 

So yes, I have to say it has been a surprise--life has not proved as simple as I thought it would be. 

[ilaurens]

Reblog if you want anonymous questions.

[askalaynestone]

GET IT GIRL. I'm sorry I'm so awful.

::tries to remain composed, mouth tight:: 

I’m sure I have no idea what you are speaking of…

[anicelybandiedword]

{ Denouement }

[anicelybandiedword]

Mercurial eyes fixated on her mouth as it pursed to brush lips over his passing thumb. Small gestures of intimacy, familiarity, comfort – was it comfort she sought? Was there a gleam on his digit, a passing grace of spit or fever? The thought of it was nearly so obscene as Petyr’s burning mind was oblique. Having forced himself to slant his eyes elsewhere, he was therefore nearly startled when her body rose and pressed against his, her arms curling about him in bold embrace.

It took him by surprise, this gesture, and for a moment, Petyr was still. When her nails sought to dig into his back, biting even through the thick cloth of his doublet, he hissed out a quiet breath, moving his own arms to wrap around her, pressing his hands to her back, holding her against him. Petyr stirred. The words she spoke were but sounds, vague and indistinct. He could focus only on the warmth of her leaning against him, and he found himself wishing he had worn something thinner. Much thinner. Petyr’s mouth felt suddenly papery, dry. When she pulled back to regard him, the hue of her eyes seemed to him like the abyssal blue of the night sky, stars glittering in their wide and wondrous firmament. “No,” he spoke, quietly. “Surely he will provide you with a retinue of able-bodied soldiers of the Vale.” A hand rose from her back, fingers trailing along the silk of her hair before they again settled against her face. “Such precious cargo can not be left unguarded.” No one would expect Sansa Stark to be heading South; all assumptions would point to the heir of Winterfell to go Northward seeking to rebuild her home and reunite the broken houses of the North. Enemies would not be searching the roads to Highgarden. But she was of a unique sort: no creature of equivocal status or beauty. The red-headed maiden of the North. If anyone were to see her, to get wind of her traveling so lightly, it would not be difficult to send a snake to snipe her whilst she slumbered, or a brute-axed fiend to butcher her in the broad of day. His fingers inched towards the line of her hair, their tips brushing against it. Petyr leaned very close, his lips poised at her ear. “I will take my leave to Harrenhall,” he spoke low, hoarse, the scratch of his beard against her cheek. “Thereupon, your husband’s objections will die on his tongue.” Petyr pulled back. Hardyng would have no mind to send Littlefinger to escort his lady wife; and what man, even one of such obtuse reasoning as the Young Falcon, would trust their wife alone with Petyr Baelish. Harry was a fool, but not fool enough. With reason. Petyr turned his head, his lips grazing against the corner of Sansa’s mouth.

[askalaynestone]

She no longer questioned why she so often thought of them as ‘we.’ They had become so entrenched in each other’s tales, their hands equally stained, that it seemed more than fitting.

Sansa knew that he was far more wicked than she, and yet she had stood by as little Lord Robert had breathed his last, had she not? What would her parents say to her, were they still in a state to speak?

It was not that she did not feel guilt about it—she did, plenty, even though her hands were cleaner in that matter than Petyr’s, even though he whispered sweet words in her ear, again and again, in an attempt to soothe—it was that the grief dulled with time. Petyr said it would, had killed it with his soft words, with assurances that it needed to be done, that he was suffering, words that Sansa ate up like a starving child.

 And as Petyr killed the guilt and doubt that lingered in her mind his eyes grew warmer to her, his praise stronger, and the curious power that lay in having this man’s respect grew sweeter.

She was a player, she felt he would say. She knew that wasn’t something to be proud of, even as her heart raced when he whispered her upcoming victories in her ear, one by one, as soft as a lover. 

In the mornings the contents of her stomach would leave her—perhaps that, and the wane appearance it gave her, had as much to do with her childlessness as any lack of passion—as the reality of it set in. But she would sit and listen to politics throughout the day, and watch Harry carefully, would go through her courtly movements, and little by little her strength returned, until she was hardened and sure by evening.

She wondered when that guilt would finally die. She knew it would, knew that Petyr would continue to draw her down this path—but to what end?

His lips brushed the side of her mouth. It could have been an innocent gesture, nothing more than a misplacement, but she knew it wasn’t. Nothing with him was innocent.

She leaned into it, parted her mouth under his, pressed against him tightly. Nipped at his lips, tasted the wine and mint that lived there, dug her hands into his soft clothing. His frame was lean—nothing like Harry’s, but one that felt pleasant under her, against her. His skin was warm with wine, and she found herself wondering what it would feel like without the press of clothing.  

Sansa was melting into him, moaning softly, when that sharp pang returned. Her vows rang out in her mind, clear as a bell, and she moved away from him, hand in front of her mouth as if she had said something horrid, the blush returning. “I’m sorry!” She moved one step back, trying to put some respectful distance between them.

[anicelybandiedword]

Sexually frustrate my character. I dare you to.

[anicelybandiedword]

{ Denouement }

[anicelybandiedword]

  When her pale skin flushed with color, Petyr could not stop himself from lifting his hand to caress the pad of his thumb over a cheek. There is nothing half so beautiful as a reddening blush on a flustered maid, he thought, never mind that Sansa was no longer a maid, no longer pure. The blue of her eyes fell, so too the tilt of her brow. With her words, Petyr felt a frown crease at the corners of his eyes. “Sansa…” he soothed. The thought that Sansa may be infertile had not even crossed his mind, until she spoke of curses. Never a superstitious man, never one to take heed to such things, not openly – there still yet must have been a reason Petyr had never once set foot within the crumbling walls of his lordship’s Harrenhal. During the battles which had raged in the North for months, it had been said by many a man that the Starks were hard to kill. Red Wedding. Thirty northern highborn corpses uprooted like dead weirwood, branches bloodless and white; leaves shorn; bones bare, parsed of flesh, trembling. Slit throats, slit hearts, dreams broken open like sore vestibules. Hard to kill. True, the young wolf was butchered along with his bannermen, his family, his ambitions for reclaiming the sovereignty of northern homeland. Yet the greatest tactician in living memory, Tywin Lannister, couldn’t bring the Wolf down on the battlefield; and the greatest living swordsman in Westeros, Jaime Lannister, fell victim to this confusion about the invulnerability of the Stark scions. It required the reprisal of heaven and earth and souls mortal and immortal; the annihilation of all sacred belief and sacred tradition since the days of the Andals and the First Men, to bring down the unkillable Stark King. And there were times when Petyr even – wondered – feared? – how invincible the new Stark Queen, his Queen, might prove to be. With her Winterfell in ruin, her crumbling keep near-annihilated and her family crypt near-bursting with corpses, Sansa had understandably balked at the notion that Starks were hard to kill. And yet…there she remained. Cursed with life. Perhaps cursed with the inability to create life. But alive, nonetheless. The last known remaining Stark. “Now sweetling, take care,” Petyr said, brushing Sansa’s lips with his thumb as she confessed her loathing for – what? Their location, truly, is that what it was? It was all the snow and ice of Winterfell, without the painful memories, the mournful ghosts seeking solace that would never come. “Speak with your husband. Convince him the time to reinforce our pact with the Tyrells is now. Post-war relations are always tenuous, and it would do well to reaffirm peace and congruence in person.” His words were soft, gentle. Harry would be unable to vacate the Eyrie so soon after his victory in the North; the Lords of the Vale needed the assurance of his presence in times when retaliation was likely if not inevitable. His wife, however, would make an ideal ambassador. Petyr had already planted the idea in Hardyng’s head; with Sansa bolstering it, the man would bow and break. “Perhaps Highgarden will be more to your liking.” Petyr smiled, briefly, before his hand drifted away from her face.

[askalaynestone]

Highgarden. It had been floated as a promise before, held just out of her grasp. Willas, the puppies, the barge. It all seemed so silly now, and to go back seemed impossible.

Still, the Tyrells had proved kind enough while she was in King’s Landing, a rare solace in the cesspool of the South. Sansa had little doubt that her return would break her, would prove too much, but it still left a horrid taste in her mouth. 

Everywhere I could go is tainted with death.

When Petyr pressed his thumb against her lips she pushed them forward, kissing it slightly. She loved to watch him break, loved to undo him, but in the silence of this room she knew why she still clung to him. He spoke to her as an equal, gave her advice, gave her a plan for how to proceed. She hated it here and he was offering her a reprieve, drawing her into his own plans, his confidence. She wasn’t naïve enough to think he was being truly open with her, but she knew that he allowed at least some layers fall when they were alone together. They hadn’t been alone together in quite some time and Sansa was no longer used to this strange feeling of openness mixed with unease that characterized all their interactions. They both knew far too much about each other than they were comfortable with.

When his hand left her face she stood and, almost without thinking, wrapped her arms around him, falling against him. She was nearly as tall as he was these days, and yet there was a perverse sense of comfort in the gesture—if only because it allowed her to dig her nails into his back. “Shall I go to bed and attempt to coax Harry into this plan?” With those words, she moved to look him straight in the eye, one eyebrow raised. “Surely he won’t wish to send me alone?” The words hung in the air, gaining weight.

[theclashofqueens]

And later I dreamt that maid again, slaying a savage giant in a castle built of snow.

[anicelybandiedword]

{ Denouement }

[anicelybandiedword]

Sansa sighed and Petyr’s eyes were unblinking. Such sounds were the sweetest of sounds; something like surrender. In those moments where she allowed him to glimpse the girl untethered to obligation – that is when she appeared most beautiful. “Yes…” Petyr breathed, almost as if he did not hear her words. Her touch was a terrible distraction, and his gaze tilted away from her face to instead behold her flesh forming a bracelet about his wrist. Manacles, he thought. There his gaze lingered, only looking back to her face when the silence became cancerous. “Yes,” he said again, more convincingly. “Though I dare say he’s had well-enough time for that.” With his index finger, he softly traced the line of her jaw upwards to the nape beneath her ear. The thought of Sansa raising Harry’s children wounded Petyr in a way he could neither justify nor voice; many evenings had been spent drowning such wounds in wine and frustration. Sansa’s lack of pregnancy therefore was both a boon and an irritation to him. Harry’s seed needed to quicken inside of her if they were going to keep the Eyrie – they needed the Vale, of that there could be no question or compromise. “Have there been…issues?” Petyr asked. Hardyng had two bastards to speak of – Petyr was certain the man was at least capable. His eyes shifted over her face. To discuss such topics was an impropriety, Petyr understood. More so given their familiar and yet altogether unfamiliar relationship. “There are…other options.” Petyr offered, fingers now trailing down the column of her neck. Such options, however, Petyr knew, Sansa would balk at, find unsavory, bristle over. Sansa was no Cersei – the little wolf would neither abide the slaughtering of Harrold’s bastard children, nor agree to surrogate means. To even suggest would be…traitorous. Petyr smiled.

[askalaynestone]

His silence, as he looked intently at her hand about her wrist, hung heavy in the room. Sansa could feel her blood surge at this moment, at the appearance of this odd form of power. She could render him speechless with a touch of her hand. She wasn’t yet sure how best to use this; at the moment, she simply savored his pauses and false starts. 

In her past life, she had not been one to crave power. But to have it now—and to have such a subtle power over this cunning man—it has almost a way of proving, clearly, that she would never be hurt again.

His words, however, rattled her a bit and despite her best efforts she could feel the color rise in her cheeks, a blush worthy of a maiden. To speak of such things raised emotions in her that were less clear, and suddenly she was afraid that they weren’t as alone as she thought. It simply wouldn’t do to allow this to bleed out of this room and she turned her head to ensure the door was locked, his hand still lingering near her ear, his fingers warm. 

They were alone, but still his words got under her skin. “No,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. She was not meeting his eyes.

She knew of Harry’s bastards, though to her they existed only as whispers. She had never seen them, though she hoped that they were happy and safe; she bore them no grudge so long as they were not held up as something to mock her with. But still she felt that ridicule, as each month passed and brought with it her moonblood. Nothing came of it—strangely fitting for their union, but it was as if the Gods had not yet finished tormenting her. She longed for a child to ground her, to hold and love as her mother had loved her.

 And at night, as she laid abed and prayed, she longed for a child release her from here.

“I must be cursed,” she suddenly said, turning to Petyr and giving him a soft smile. 

The mention of other means brought the blush back. It was another part of the flirtation, one that made her heart race. It was as if they were dancing around the edges of something, speaking around it, grazing it with their fingers.

“I hate it here,” she muttered into her lap, her voice broken. It was a naked statement, and she did not for a second question allowing him to see it, for she had no one else who knew her—the new her—quite as well as he. Nothing but death and madness and fruitlessness existed in this place. She feared being swallowed. 

[askalaynestone]

Snow Maid turned 2 today!

[anicelybandiedword]

{ Denouement }

[anicelybandiedword]

Sansa always took her time replying, as if she were carefully mulling her words, ensuring she spoke exactly as she meant to. At first, Petyr had assumed it was a habit she had picked up in King’s Landing, under the hands of a cruel boy king, knowing that whatever word she said may very well be her last. Such treatment would force anyone to hold their tongue. Yet as the months drew on the habit did not wane, and Petyr realized it was simply part of her careful nature. Clever, he’d thought, pleased at how aware she was of everything, how prepared she arrived to each situation. So when she spoke, when she replied, Petyr could not stop the pleased smile that curved his mouth, knowing that the words she’d arranged had been carefully chosen, carefully plucked, and given to him for a reason. “Whatever do you mean?" Petyr slyed. “I only seek to provide counsel in matters that would further the interests of you and your husband." The way he said the word, hus-band, was dour and pointed. “As always, my dear, I am happy to be considered at all." Perhaps this was the wine talking, though Petyr had not quaffed nearly as much as Harry had, and usually didn’t. Harry drank until his belly sloshed and seemed nary affected the next morning. Petyr drank until his cup was empty, perhaps two or three, or four times, depending on his mood. And his privacy. When she reached up to meet his flesh, however, Petyr stilled. It was only the briefest contact, but far from worthy of being ignored. Taking cue, and encouragement, his own fingers roamed to touch gently beneath her chin, turning her face towards him. “Unless my lady has other designs?" and his voice was very soft. He looked down at her, a trace of a smile on his face. Seeds, once planted, may never grow. Or, with enough nurturing, with enough nourishment, they may flourish, even in the most dismal and arid of conditions. If Sansa thought not to include Lord Hardyng in the discussion, Petyr would make no motion to object. If the idea could be left to germinate as hers, all the better.

[askalaynestone]

She did not miss the way he spoke the word “husband,” his barely contained disgust, and was a little worried at her lack of reaction to this. Harry was a good man—yes, he was—but it seemed as if a wall had existed between them since their marriage. He made no secret of his desire for an heir, and seemed to watch her with impatient eyes as that, again and again, failed to materialize. 

Petyr seemed impatient on that front as well, but for a different reason. He was eager for Harry to fulfill his one purpose.

And me? Sansa wasn't sure what she was eager for, what she needed. She just felt the walls closing in. The specter of her aunt hung over everything, the dread of madness in every corner. She needed out, even if it meant a return to the South.

She wasn’t afraid anymore. She survived before, when her skills her at a minimum. She could win now.

When Petyr cupped her chin to draw her eyes to him, she couldn’t help the soft sigh that escaped her lips, though she did not give in any further. It was a bit of a game, really—she wanted to watch his carefully constructed self fall, was eager to see just how much sway she had over him. It made her feel good, powerful—a feeling long denied her, but one that she had gotten more and more used to.

His words left so much open, allowed a multitude of scenarios to flourish in her mind. She reached up to wrap a slim hand around his wrist, smiled coyly. “Harrold must get me with child, yes? This is the plan?” She lingered on the word child, smiled throughout, and watched him. All of the implications in that statement left a sour taste on her lips, though one that did not seem as sharp as it would have months before. She wasn’t sure what to make of that, wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Though she noticed—when it was too late—that she did not say, his plan, she said the.

[askalaynestone]

Threads

Denouement - with baelishandblood. Set post Sansa's marriage to Harrold Hardyng. 

[huntingandorgies-deactivated201]

5th gif in your folder is how your muse feels about your ships

[irohthesecond]

[machiavellianpetyr-deactivated2]

[silkssongsandchivalry]

[askalaynestone]

[anicelybandiedword]

{ Denouement }

[anicelybandiedword]

"Off to bed?" he asked, silkily. “With a pat on the head and a kiss?" Petyr smiled. “No, I’m afraid our arrangement no longer calls for that." There was a distinct hint of bitter lingering on his tongue. He watched her, all of her little mannerisms, everything so careful, so precise. I taught her well, he thought to himself, often, though he gave credit where it was due; Sansa had taken to things in a way that could only be described as natural. A natural player. Only needing a gentle hand to guide her in the right direction. “I had hoped you would have time enough to speak with me," he said. What he did not say: about your insipid husband and his refusal to do as asked. “The North is conquered and yet here we remain. I wonder, have we all grown obstinate as the Eyrie mules? Complacent, perhaps?" Though it was obvious he described only one person. Sansa was to control Harry. Sansa was Harry’s wife, Sansa had Harry’s ear, Sansa shared Harry’s bed. A thought no less palatable than Harry’s uncooperativeness. Petyr had not given Sansa away for the game to end here. Leaning forward, he set the cup, empty now, back to the table. Petyr rose, a hand smoothing easily down his dark doublet, a flash of gold tunic beneath at the wrists. Slowly he stepped around the table, until he was able to place his hands upon her shoulders from behind. Since the marriage, Petyr had spent precious-few moments alone with Sansa, even less in which their pretenses had been allowed to temporarily crumble. “Has your husband not yet tired of the cold?" A set of fingers ghosted up the side of her neck, until he was able to gather the waves of red – such beautiful, flawless Tully red – into a hand, in order to pull them back over her shoulder. Familiar motions, intimate motions, filial motions, played out in some sort of mimicry of the impressive ruse long since passed. Her hair was soft, dotted with the oils that made a lady’s hair lustrous, it slid easily through his fingers. Petyr felt a tightness in his chest, and he stepped aside. “You have ways of…compelling him, which I lack," Petyr’s smile barely concealed his displeasure. “I think it is time you convinced him there is little left in the Eyrie for anyone."

[askalaynestone]

As he spoke to her, she was careful to note not just his words, but also his tone of voice. There was an element of unmistakable flirtation there, as there always was; she was beginning to wonder if he was conscious of that. When she had first arrived in the Vale she hadn’t noticed it, but these strangely close confines had given her better access to his character than he perhaps realized.

The tone caused her chest to tighten a bit, the same as the realization that they were alone after what felt like weeks of suffocating company. There was an element of fear in the wash of emotions that were currently spreading through her body, pinning her to her chair, but it was not true terror. She knew terror.

 She had conquered terror. 

This feeling was chased with excitement, with thrill—unmistakable, palpable, tasting sweeter in her mouth than the wine.

Sansa wasn’t sure what to make of it. She held his gaze throughout his prodding questions, her eyes passive. The truth of it was he looked at her as no other man had before, and she was used to the weight of the gaze.

There was a sense that she was a tool, yes, something to help him get the glory and respect he so blatantly craved. Yet there was a slyness to his smile, a glimmer of praise in his eyes, that suggested pride, understanding. That made her a confident, even though that might not have been part of his design.

Sansa Stark of Winterfell would have pushed that aside without a word, would have retreated to her songs, would have died battered and bruised and destroyed.

 She liked to think she was not as bitter as Petyr was—and perhaps, when she looked at him and saw the broken romantic in him, that was the root cause of her fear.

He makes his way to her, grazes his fingers along her neck. She tries to will herself still, despite the fact that just the brush of his hands almost makes her whimper. Somehow his strange playacting makes it worse. It seems all the more perverse, and when he touches her hair it was with an intimacy that her dutiful husband didn’t seem to possess.

His words were soft but seemed to fill the room, the implication clear. Sansa can't see his eyes but she knew what she will find there, that mix of ambition and jealously that thankfully Harry could not pick up on. That wouldn’t do at all, especially when she did not feel nearly as calm and sure as she projected.

“Little left for him? Or for me and you?” She kept her words clipped and cool, but reached up to touch his hand, brushing his fingers with her own, a tease, a taste.

[endofeva1997]

[askalaynestone]

but i can’t deny the way he holds my hand