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witticasterI wrote asoiaf!fic for Pelly last night at 2am, and I do not think it is very good at all, but Pelly indicates that it is not terrible. So I am putting it up here anyway, because IT IS A MILESTONE or something, and because the universe could always use a little moar Mya/Sansa, amirite?
So yeah, post-AFFC, femslash, short, and basically rated G. We've gotta start out slow.
Alayne's stomach was bothering her, as it had begun to do in the days leading up to her moon blood. This evening, it was especially bad, and she couldn't help but wonder if the time of the month was the sole reason for it; Robert's tantrums and fits had grown more wearying since their descent from the Eyrie, and he had begun to demand the sweetmilk she could not give him. She called him Sweetrobin, petted and consoled him, and patiently explained and reexplained that her lord father had come to the conclusion that his thin blood would not allow for another cup for some time. And still he worked himself into feeble rages.
At this moment, however, he was soundly asleep, and Alayne retreated from his bedchamber. She leaned against the wall for a long moment and let the chill of the stones seep through the fabric of her gown and spread across her skin. The air was more easily breathed in this corridor than in his chambers, which currently held a heavy, sickly scent, and she drew it in gladly.
When she was ready to move once more, Alayne found herself walking away from her own bedchamber and the respite of sleep. She could not quite answer the question of her destination and settled for wandering passageways--carefully--without considering overly where it was she was going. For the most part, she succeeded in evading encounters with anyone who might attempt conversation with her, though the approaching figure of a young woman with a ragged crop of hair like a raven's wing gave her pause.
It needn't have, as Mya clearly had an end in mind to her travels. As they exchanged greetings and Alayne made a minimum of forgettable but polite small talk, Mya's clear blue eyes looked beyond her, though she replied in a brief but polite fashion and bade her a good night with a genuine smile.
Half mule herself echoed from her memory, and no maid, but the words had a hollow ring to them as she turned slightly to watch the bastard girl continue down the passage. There was a queer feeling in her tummy--in her stomach, she corrected herself, for a grown baseborn girl had no use for the words that had come most naturally to Sansa--a curious, twisting sensation that she suspected had nothing to do with her approaching moon blood. The muted howls of winter winds raged beyond the castle walls, and she couldn't help but note that for all Mya dressed as a man, she had a lithe grace that kept Alayne from forgetting that her leathers and ringmail shirt concealed someone more a woman than she.
So yeah, post-AFFC, femslash, short, and basically rated G. We've gotta start out slow.
Alayne's stomach was bothering her, as it had begun to do in the days leading up to her moon blood. This evening, it was especially bad, and she couldn't help but wonder if the time of the month was the sole reason for it; Robert's tantrums and fits had grown more wearying since their descent from the Eyrie, and he had begun to demand the sweetmilk she could not give him. She called him Sweetrobin, petted and consoled him, and patiently explained and reexplained that her lord father had come to the conclusion that his thin blood would not allow for another cup for some time. And still he worked himself into feeble rages.
At this moment, however, he was soundly asleep, and Alayne retreated from his bedchamber. She leaned against the wall for a long moment and let the chill of the stones seep through the fabric of her gown and spread across her skin. The air was more easily breathed in this corridor than in his chambers, which currently held a heavy, sickly scent, and she drew it in gladly.
When she was ready to move once more, Alayne found herself walking away from her own bedchamber and the respite of sleep. She could not quite answer the question of her destination and settled for wandering passageways--carefully--without considering overly where it was she was going. For the most part, she succeeded in evading encounters with anyone who might attempt conversation with her, though the approaching figure of a young woman with a ragged crop of hair like a raven's wing gave her pause.
It needn't have, as Mya clearly had an end in mind to her travels. As they exchanged greetings and Alayne made a minimum of forgettable but polite small talk, Mya's clear blue eyes looked beyond her, though she replied in a brief but polite fashion and bade her a good night with a genuine smile.
Half mule herself echoed from her memory, and no maid, but the words had a hollow ring to them as she turned slightly to watch the bastard girl continue down the passage. There was a queer feeling in her tummy--in her stomach, she corrected herself, for a grown baseborn girl had no use for the words that had come most naturally to Sansa--a curious, twisting sensation that she suspected had nothing to do with her approaching moon blood. The muted howls of winter winds raged beyond the castle walls, and she couldn't help but note that for all Mya dressed as a man, she had a lithe grace that kept Alayne from forgetting that her leathers and ringmail shirt concealed someone more a woman than she.
