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“It is only the wind through the mountain,” Sansa, no, she was Alayne now, Alayne whispered to herself and brought a pillow over her head to smother the melodies climbing insistently to her ears. Day and night without any sign of stopping, no matter what corner of the Eyrie she lingered in, Marillion’s woeful, pained singing followed her. Every tragic tale she ever knew echoed through the walls and licked at her eardrums, there was never a second of blissful silence.
Marillion had been imprisoned following Lysa Arryn’s death. The singer was kept in one of the Eyrie’s sky cells with the swift and terrible drop down the mountain if he so much as stumbled or placed one tiptoe wrong. He had been tortured, Lord Baelish had told her, and cruelly too, sometimes she was sure the songs sounded like screams, so believed it. Baelish also told her Marillion deserved it, and that while Sansa Stark had a bleeding heart, Alayne Stone should not weep for such a man. Baelish said he deserved it for the murder of Lady Lysa, a crime that was never his to begin with, but also his advances on Alayne too, his attempted rape. He’d sung sweetly and tried to lure her to bed like a sailor’s siren. She’d been spared then, and Baelish said she wouldn’t need to fear again if Marillion perished.
Marillion’s voice was not so sweet now as it burrowed through her every sense. It was eternal torment that she felt in her bones, shaking at her like a wind through derelict castles, aching where she was hollow. She could stand it no longer. If he were not so miserable, she thought, maybe his singing would cease.
Alayne crept through the Eyrie’s marble white halls clad only in her thin nightgown, a clean and pure fabric that clung to every curve she had when the wind caught her, she carried a silver candlestick in hand so that she would not lose her footing on the narrow, polished staircases. She was a slender little thing, and easily slipped past the first guard at the entrance to the sky cells, then quickly found the key master, Mord, who was asleep and clutching an empty flagon of ale. He was a dim, lumbering man, and slept peacefully as Alayne hooked the key off his belt and nimbly stepped over his prone form.
When she stepped out onto the cell, the snow-capped world tilted and she felt so dizzy she thought she’d vomit. The sky cell was true to its name, where a wall should have been, there was only the deep and endless blue of the night sky, the silver lined clouds of the mountain, and the stars so bright and gold above, like fairies winking at her from afar. It was beautiful, a fine sight that she preferred to appreciate behind a window or wall. But here, on this ledge, one false step, and she would tumble miles and miles to her death.
Marillion had been humming loose melodies in a spattering of minor and major notes, not quite strung together, deciding on which chivalric tale to cry out in woe next. He stopped abruptly when he heard the cell door close behind her. His face was wrapped, his eyes covered and not visible, and Alayne’s mind drifted back to the tortures Baelish had mentioned, but spared her the details of. Marillion appeared blind to her, she cleared her throat to test if he’d know her.
”Oh, and what now? Too late for supper, too early for breakfast. What torments are coming to me now?” The singer drawled, unimpressed, and leaned his head back against the stone with a soft thunk.
”Alayne Stone, if you’ll have me,” she whispered into the night, so gently it was almost caught in the wind and stolen from them.
Marillion snorted. “Come back to see what a wretch they’ve made of me? You saw it with your own eyes, yet you’ll still lie for your father, hm? Damned Littlefinger.”
”You sing all through the night, ceaselessly,” Alayne said softly. “I cannot sleep.”
“I cannot see the edge like this. If I stop singing I’m likely to rest, then I’m likely to roll off the ledge and plummet to the valley.”
Alayne winced and pressed her back more firmly to the wall.
”Why are you here, girl?”
Alayne sunk down against the wall until she was sat an arms length from him. “I thought you’d be less miserable if someone was kind to you,” she offered meekly. The mountain’s winds were cold, they bit her through the nightgown and made her shiver so much that she regretted not bringing a cloak.
”Kindness. Aye, I should think you owe me kindness,” he grumbled.
Alayne swallowed thickly. She thought of the Hound then and his brutal snarl, softened to a quiet murmur. He’d wanted a song from Sansa Stark, then a kiss. A singer like Marillion would have no use of a song, and Alayne Stone wasn’t a lady.
”What kindness would you have?” Alayne regretted asking the second she’d spoken it.
There was silence between them for a moment, only the wind howling.
”Come closer, girl.”
”I’ll fall,” she protested.
”I won’t let you,” he murmured, and felt around blindly until he caught her arm. He tugged her onto his lap, his deft fingers palming at the supple flesh of her hips, and too afraid of falling to pull away, Alayne went and clung to his shoulders with a shaky exhale.
He pawed and groped from her waist to her thighs and then down her calves until he found the hem of her nightgown and started to lift it. She felt the breeze brush ice cold fingertips against her slit and gave him a startled gasp. “Shh…” he hushed her gently and kept one hand firmly on her waist, steady. “You will not fall. Calm yourself.” He pressed kisses against her neck. He was bloody, dirty, surely staining her skin, smearing his own filth where she was still clean. “I nearly had you, remember? You wouldn't give yourself over freely, thinking you’re better than me. I was going to rape you sore, little bastard. Until that guard stopped me. But you didn’t bring a guard here to stop me now. So listen, you’re going to be good and kind, just like you said, or I’ll throw you over the edge. They’re already going to kill me, that won’t change, whether I rape or kill you or just let you run back to your bed.”
”Alright,” Alayne whispered. “Alright. I promise, I’ll be good.” The words slipped from her tongue before she’d had time to think them.
One small mercy Alayne was afforded was that Marillion was exhausted from keeping himself awake in the sky cell, he had no desire to take her roughly or move much at all, and he intended to be quick about it.
Two dirtied fingers slid across her untouched cunt and gently pumped, forcing them in, to the first knuckle, then the third, prying her open like he was searching for a pearl in a clamshell. She bit down on her lip to stop herself from whimpering and grasped his shoulders tighter.
”That’s it, pretty girl. Can feel how wet you are, all ready for me,” he mumbled and rubbed a soothing circle over her back.
”I’m not…” she protested meekly, the words coming out in small sobs.
”No?” Marillion murmured. “Too pious to like it, are you?” He pinched her clit between his thumb and forefinger, making her thighs shake and a pained little gasp slip from her lips.
He didn’t draw this out much longer, he tugged down his breeches enough to free his hard cock, already leaking, and held her by the waist to force her down on it.
Her vision blurred for a moment when he first entered her, a tremulous moan escaped her throat, hardened at the edges by little sobs.
”There, there, now you like, your hungry little cunt squeezes it like you do,” Marillion nipped her ear lobe as he slowly guided her to move her hips and ride him in shallow thrusts. “Always sweet girls like you who take cock the best,” he praised her.
She hated him at that moment, hated his singing, his hands, his cock spearing her open. He was awful, disgusting. She’d only wanted to be kind, and now he was using her like she was some common brothel girl. Her chest ached with how low she’d fallen, no one was going to save her, and for the first time she truly understood why, Sansa Stark was dead, and the bastard girl was all that remained. Alayne was a common girl, baseborn and worthless, she had to remind herself. Sansa wasn’t impaled on a singer, bouncing like a whore, Alayne was.
Alayne tried to quiet down, to hide her pain and stop acting like a scared little girl. She buried her face against his neck as he palmed at her arse and coaxed her to speed up a little. He moaned and clutched her tighter against him, his hips lifting as he continued to use her. “Just like that… such a sweet cunt you have…”
She went a little longer, until he groaned loudly against her skin and she felt a sticky warmth fill her. Warmth didn’t spread further than her naval, instead her torso felt as though it had filled with ice. Her tears stopped in an instant, she felt too empty to cry anymore. Alayne slowed and rested her head on his shoulder.
”Is it over?”
Marillion nodded. “Go back to your room, girl. A cell’s no place for you.” He pushed her off his lap. His tone was bored, he had no guilt about raping her or hurting her, he only wanted her gone. She stumbled to her feet and grasped at the stone before the wind could take her.
Alayne looked at him in the dim candlelight the wind hadn’t managed to snuff out yet. Shadows danced across the cell, flickering and letting the light catch on sparse spots. Alayne saw her maiden’s blood on his member, crimson as sin, and she felt angry. So angry. She stared out into the deep, dark blue, let it call her.
His eyes were bandaged, he was blind, if his clumsy pawing was any indicator. If she was quiet, he’d never expect it.
As he lifted his hips to pull his breeches back up, Alayne kicked him sharply. He rolled and grasped blindly at nothing, Alayne never bent, never reached to help him, then Marillion slipped over the edge with a harrowing scream. She decided it was a much sweeter sound than any of his forlorn songs.