002 » video

[seem]

[ When the video feed flickers to life, it bobs for a moment, accompanied by the sound of hissing breath. As it rights itself, Petyr's face comes into view, his features unusually drawn and the expression upon his face unmistakably something close to grief, to panic (and if it is feigned, if it is another lie, then it is one of the greatest that he has told). There's dark red staining his hands, or at least what is visible of them through the comms device. His voice is hushed but urgent, its tone unsteady but still clear enough. ]

My daughter— Alayne Stone has been gravely injured. I fear to move her — I fear for her life. Please, should anyone possess the capability to help—

[ He glances away, now, out of the frame of the screen. Even through the feed, one can see the hollows of his cheeks cast a stronger shadow as he clenches his jaw, the stricken father played to the hilt. (He doesn't have the time to play coy or cautious.) ]

— please hurry.

[ ooc: after this. ]

Comments

( video )

[archimedeia]

[ Her tone is sharp, no-nonsense. ] Can you get to the medbay from where you are?

( video )

[seem]

[ His mouth draws itself into a thin line as he shakes his head, the faintest glimmer of teeth visible just before he speaks. ] She bleeds too much for me to think it safe.

( video )

[archimedeia]

It's not safe anyway. [ And it looks—bad. Something was severed, certainly, judging by the amount of red. She doesn't mention that—there's a lot of blood on his hands, coating his fingers like paint; he probably already knows the extent of the damage—and the amount of time it would take to get to restorative medical equipment would probably take too long. The nanites can only work at such a pace, and Alayne might be dead before they have a chance to do their job. ]

I can't get there in time. [ Not even if she ran. Downside to a ship this colossal; minutes turn into hours when you most need them to be seconds. ] Has anyone contacted you who's close to you? Who can bring something?

[northerner]

[ no, no, no, no... ]

What happened?

[ there is nothing kingly in robb's face. the mask is fallen, the mask is shattered (you must be a king always, sansa had said, but not now. not now, now he cannot be anything but himself, a panic-striken boy and he can't...

he was meant to protect her. this was meant to be the place where he could protect her, keep her from harm in ways that he couldn't in westeros where great distances seperated them but he'd failed. he'd failed and gods be good, that was his sister's blood on littlefinger's hands, and robb knows he's shaking but he can't stop.

i should never have let her go alone. ]

Where are you? Tell me where you are.

[ demands. a king can demand and order and robb will do both, speaks as if he expects petyr to bend to his will. and robb is newly crowned and even less experienced in the way of commands, but in this moment it comes to him easily, the snap-crack of royal decree. ]

[seem]

[ It's almost laughable. (He's just a boy.) But still, still, the mask stays in place, and Littlefinger is quick to respond, his face still wan when the feed flickers back to life. ]

The passengers' quarters, [ he answers, with a duck of his head. ] Her room.

[ A beat. ]

I'm afraid I do not know what happened.

Text. 1/5.

[fly_like_pie]

[You're lying.

That's what he immediately thinks to say. Alayne Stone, the name leaving an unsettling beat in his chest. It's a reminder that knocks once, patient for an answer. These few days have been hazy, he admits. He has been looking to his affectionate Chuck with fear, stealing every relaxing moment to prepare for hiding. The Pie Maker could not allow himself to lose her again, haunted by the unfortunate events in his life now taking form into demonic beings. Nightmares among nightmares.

—And that's where he made his mistake. His mind slipped from that girl and that boy. Two floating in mystery, but layered in fondness he could not easily forget... and yet he did. His greatest mistake.

The facts were these: Ned was in the middle of folding various fabrics and tucking away valuables when he just happened upon the message. It came as a rush, wiping his memory clean of any intentions he had for the blanket in his arms. He abandoned it and willed his trembling fingers to type a reply:]

hello are you there? is alayne alright is she

Text. 2/5.

[fly_like_pie]

[Yet he could not will that final word to take form. The slip of his fingers reminds him to breathe. It's a broken, fragile breath that he struggles to smooth out.

Breathe and take it easy, Pie Maker. She's fine. You can type. You can help. If this man were to see you like this, you're useless.

The moment is extremely brief, as he barely waits long before typing again:]

hello????
tell me where you are????????

Text. 3/5.

[fly_like_pie]

[Another short moment:]

im ned iam a friend of alayne pleas.e answer me

Text. 4/5.

[fly_like_pie]

i

Text. 5/5.

[fly_like_pie]

i can help. please.

video;

[grndnpnd]

[ She wasn't anyone to him, and she certainly wasn't his to take care of -- not with a whole family here, people from her world who know and understand her -- but Tommy feels the failure to do so anyway, like someone's punched him in the chest.

The last thing he said to her was "Sorry." Like a fucking asshole. Like the idiot he obviously is never going to grow out of being. It's hard to get words out through the feelings, all of them circling around and becoming anger because he doesn't know how to feel anything else sometimes. ]

You know who did it?

[ He doesn't even think about it being an accident because he can't heal her, he can't do anything to help her right now. But if someone did this, that is something he can deal with. ]

video;

[seem]

[ Tommy is met with a wry smile, though even that expression doesn't last very long. (There isn't room enough to find humor here.) ]

I do not. But I promise you, had I a name to give, I would give it gladly.

ACTION.

[seem]

[ A fact: Alayne Stone — Sansa Stark — is expendable to him. Her name and her birthright mean nothing here in space, and those of her family who also reside upon the Tranquility only make her a liability. What she could tell him about the ship, he has no doubt some other passenger could. If she dies, that death will come at no personal expense to him. She brings him no coin, no direct benefit; only the burden of a crippled little boy, a watchful older brother, and a couple of direwolves. She is not his daughter, she is not his blood. He has no need for her.

A fact: Petyr Baelish — Littlefinger – is not a man easily given to grief. (An amendment: he is not a man easily given to emotion.) Frustration and exultation, yes, from time to time, but not grief, nor pity. The world is cruel and he has no reason to expect it to be otherwise, or to try to reverse nature through actions of his own. Lives and loyalties are things to be bought and sold. Sentimental attachment is a weakness, and he had had its root cut straight from his chest long ago. He had fought with a Stark over a girl with red hair before and he has yet to forget how the duel ended. He does not love Sansa Stark.

What should be the sum: he should leave her for dead. Let her bleed out upon the floor and move on. This is a weight off of his shoulders, surely. He could say that he never came across her at all, that he hadn't known that she'd been attacked. No one would be the wiser.

The actual sum: he stays.

It's a foolish move, in immediate retrospect, although he doesn't leave himself the time to consider the thought. He could easily be blamed, he supposes, but the network has already been alerted and her blood is already on his hands. To leave now would be more suspect than to stay. So he stays, with her head cradled in his lap, one hand gently stroking her hair, the other forming a shell over the wound in her stomach, holding a torn strip of cloth there (dark grey, taken from his sleeve) in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of blood. Lady sits by him, as quiet as her master, and for a moment, there is simply quiet. His slender frame seems even smaller now, his spine bent and his head bowed as he wonders that he had not had a contingency plan for something like this.

(A lie. He had had a contingency plan. That plan had been to leave.)

When the news had reached him of Catelyn's death, he had not cried nor grieved. Perhaps it had been easier, then, being removed from the actual event, with a myriad of other things to tend to. But here, upon the Tranquility (what a name) he has nothing else. (The irony of it does not escape him. He's right back where he had started.) His gaze flickers as he looks down at her, that near-negligible movement the only thing to give away the fact that he stays not for some ulterior motive or personal gain, but simply for her.

It is a pity, perhaps, that none are there to see it. ]

Alayne, [ he murmurs, hesitant to try to rouse her but unwilling to simply watch her slip away. ] Sansa.

ACTION.

[wont]

[ She dreams the she is in Winterfell, not the ruined shell of a once-great house but Winterfell as she remembers it — as Sansa Stark lived it — a memory, not a dream. Her father is there, as is her lady mother, and her siblings from Robb to Rickon and all inbetween: Arya and Bran and even the bastard Jon Snow. Jory and Septa Mordane and the direwolves, Lady among them. The snow is falling and and they're all laughing and against the white blue of a world dressed in ice, Winterfell's windows burn yellow and gold with the promise of heart-warming fires.

Happily she turns, as if partaking in some swirling dance. She turns and turns and so her skirts turn with her and Winterfell blurs around her dizzingly with the sound of wind and the howling of wolves and the flapping of wings. When Alayne stops again, she finds the court empty and silent around her, Winterfell's stone no longer polished and gleaming but melted down to ruin as if touched by the first flames of dragon fire.

(Alayne, someone says at a distance, and Alayne thinks yes, I am listening.

Sansa, someone then says instead, and Sansa thinks, yes, I am here.)

Only then does Alayne remember that she isn't dreaming, she's dying and the bloated feeling in her belly is simply pain in disguise. ]

I was— I was dreaming— [ she murmurs and attempts to open her eyes — her lips sluggish and stuck one to the other, her lashes encrusted with dried tears. Alayne recognizes the voice that calls her and almost smiles, but the muscles of her face ache and her jaw feels bruised by the effort. ] —father.

[ not here ]

[faderbroderson]

[Godric does not know Petyr, but he knows Alayne. They have spoken little, but he finds her polite, charming, and altogether pleasant. He will mourn her if she dies. However, for Godric, the most expedient way of ensuring Alayne's survival is very probably not the wisest or kindest. Nor is it something he gives away easily. Healing blood has its consequences, and Alayne would likely not care for it. It's a last resort only.]

[So he's going to stalk this transmission, to make sure help gets there in time and he doesn't have to intervene. (He doesn't yet know it, but it's really too bad he's about to be horribly distracted.)]

[wolfdreamer]

[Bran's breath is caught in his throat, and he cannot at first reply.

Summer has been restless today, and here is why. He should have trusted. He should have trusted, but--

There had been too much good, surely. They were allotted too much good: to have Robb and Bran and Sansa, no matter what name she wore, and Summer, and Lady, long lost--and that was too much good.

He must go. He cannot help, but he must go. She will be all right. If there are wheeled chairs, if there are legs that let cripples walk, and magic and ships that fly in the sky, there will be something to save his sister, and it's then that Summer begins to howl, and Bran shuts his eyes and bends over his useless legs, gathering his strength.

When he replies, his face is drawn and pale and Summer has fallen quiet in voice, at last, though he paces.]

Where is she?

[not here]

[syllogism]

[If he'd paid more attention sooner, would Dirk have known that her last name is 'Stone'? If he'd kept better track of Bran's all-in-one caretaker, assistant, and companion, could he have protected someone close to Bran? Should he have better strove to meet with, befriend, and protect Bran? In turn, would he have possibly become closer to Alayne--close enough to have perhaps prevented this?

The most likely answer is "no", but it doesn't stop Dirk from thinking otherwise. He knows that he's not responsible but feels like he is. It almost seems like a really stupid feeling. Almost. If something like this were to happen while playing the game, he'd still feel this way and think that he could've somehow prevented it.

What if this is another game not unlike the one he's supposed to play? What if the passengers are players chosen by an intergalactic random number generator and tossed into this game like a giant starship salad? Because if that's indeed the case, then Dirk has overlooked something, and a player is now going to die because of it. Who even knows if there's a way to revive her?

He wants to reply to Alayne's father but doesn't know what to say that no one else has covered. Help is on the way; there's no point in going if he won't be of any use. So he's silent.

And then, there's Bran.

Dirk watches and waits because now's not a good time, but he'll one day draw closer with the aim to protect and pave the way toward Bran's betterment. For now, however sick of the waiting game, he still plays it.]

[seem]

[ Littlefinger knows that the boy does not trust him. (He doesn't blame him for that.) He doesn't bother trying to smile, his expression something closer to simply neutral when he answers Bran's communication. ]

Her quarters, [ he answers, with a duck of his head. ]

[theshabbiestofmen]

Have you found help? I can transport her instantly to the medbay, but I am no healer.

[seem]

I am to believe that help is on its way; I know not in what form it will arrive, but —

[ He shakes his head, cutting the sentence off. ]

I would entreat you to stay wary. The less chances taken, the better.

[statsraaden]

What? Where are you? [Stats is shocked and on the verge of freaking out. Who did this? The guy semms creepy enough to be a suspect, but why would he call for help? To make himself look less suspicious? No, he sounds too sincere. But... you never know.

Stats will start to gather a few things. Stripes from extra sheets, soap, water. There may be no time to go to Medical first.]

[seem]

[ Stats doesn't get an answer. Doppelgangers aren't a phenomenon that Petyr has been made aware of, and as such, the feed almost immediately goes dead.

Ned Stark isn't someone that he has the time or presence of mind to deal with. (And if he's questioned for it, he'll come up with some explanation, one way or another.) ]

action; ( ned )

[northerner]

[ robb's calling his grey wind, because he ran so fast.

once upon a time robb stark had been a boy with four siblings (five siblings) and a direwolf at his side, a direwolf that ran faster than all the others to robb's whistle, and jumped up in demand of robb's affections, all sleek grey coat and high puppy whines. but that was a long time ago.

and perhaps now is not the time to think of it, but he does, thinks of it as he tears down corridors and skids around corners. he thinks of his direwolf and how much faster grey wind would have arrived, and prays to the gods that he can be fast enough to reach sansa's room in time. he must be swift as grey wind, quick as the mockingbird, and please, please let him get there in time.

except he doesn't.

when he arrives, his sister is motionless upon the floor (robb has killed men, enough men to know that the amount of blood on the floor is too much) and petyr baelish is hung back, soaked in blood, and a man robb does not know is there, by the bod--by sansa ( she is not a corpse, my sister is not a corpse ) and robb wants to scream. he wants to break his knuckles against the wall and howl out his pain and then take up his sword and put it through the throat of whoever did this.

but instead he falls on his knees beside her and maybe he's speaking, maybe, but he isn't aware of it, of the anguished murmur of no, no, no, sansa, please...

he was meant to protect her. why had he ever let her go alone? his sister's blood is on his hands and what sort of failure of a brother is he, that he could not keep her safe even here? ]

[fly_like_pie]

[Time had it's own grasp on the Pie Maker. He liked to believe he held time as if it belonged in his own hands, but he was always the one eying the watch strapped onto his wrist. He would look at it now, but the disappointment would take form in mere flesh. No watch, just alone with the blur of time itself. It could speed up or slow down as it pleased, playing tricks and heightening the anxiety slipping throughout his body like a poison. He had stumbled along his way. Bumping. Stumbling. Time ticking by, tick, tick, tick.

Now, the deafening ticking ceasing it's chant, the Pie Maker is looking at Alayne Stone. Everything still, along with his expression. The look of death took many forms, most painful and painted with such horrors that made an average man cringe in place. But he is familiar with it. The stillness decorated in bright color that drew his attention close, the source of life and breath that spilled and stained.

But it was the familiarity of the face that went along with this image—he wanted to take his hand and wipe it away. Exchange it for another face, selfish and desperate. Yet his eyes flickered there, as if it were inevitable. Studying it, trying to decide whether it hinted any peace.

The idea was resurfacing, leaving the faint twitch of his fingers. He could easily lean forward and the ticking would continue. He can... 't. He should... n't. He doesn't have the right to play with Life and Death. How would that make him—

A sound.

The reality of the world surrounding him gives in a light knock on the head. He turns towards the other man, his stoic expression heavy against the sight. That man said he was her father, so... so...]

Are you— [Her brother? A relative? Another friend? He wanted to ask, but the break in his voice betrays him. It feels tight and dry.]

[jilt]

[ irene looks at this for a long time, considers and weighs each of the replies. bereaved friends and family, irene had never really considered such things, nor allowed them to touch her life. people died and life went on and you moved along lest you were overrun.

( irene does not think of cups of poisoned tea, and how no impassioned pleas for help were made upon her behalf... )

but alayne had been a sweet child, had tied irene to her with velvet ribbons and the flicker of something like potential in the curve of her smile. and irene had pinned up her braids and promised her friendship, and sometimes irene adler kept promises. sometimes.

what an inconvenient time to have kept one. ]

I'm so very sorry.

[ and then the feed cuts. because irene has already involved herself past the point of comfort, and any more would simply be unseemly, for her. ]