⟪ For gold, for land, for peace, for the gods only knows what. Their captors do seek to keep them in some shape of health – bruised pride and chafed skin notwithstanding. There must be a purpose to their capture beyond death, or at least, this is what she tells herself and others as soon as they guide the conversation to that particular place. She does not want all to have been for naught. She does not wish to die now that she has defeated Robert once and for all.
Even less does she want to die now that she is reunited with her twin, for all his irritating ways, of which such overt affection is the one she knows to fight the least. If she could cast him to the side in truth, she would not so readily have met his kiss, or thrown herself against him with such abandon. Or perhaps it would have been the first of such incidences, but that would be a lie, too: their reunions tend to be cataclysmic, and even after months of travelling side by side, she has failed to deny him that interlude in Winterfell's tower which had caused them such trouble.
At least, she should tear her eyes away to see what their fellow prisoners are doing – are they watched, is there a flicker of disgust on someone's face, a hint of recognition that joins understanding? The lion should not fear the opinion of the sheep, but the sheep are dead ever so often, and their skin is worn by enemies with far more fearsome teeth. Even in her protesting, though, she cannot and will not do more than offer some struggle – the threat of his death is too fresh in her mind, and the knowledge that he has never been more hers than trapped in this dungeon a twisted thing indeed.
Of course, he smiles his most infuriating smile, so of course, she must push back, or else crane her neck just to offer him a moment's more ammunition, a ready spot to be claimed by his teeth. ⟫
Someone might know.
⟪ And her eyes are torn away from him, cat-green flickers to find any spot that could hide their embrace. The prison yard offers little to that respect, though she means to draw him to some bench, where they might sit close, but seem otherwise docile. ⟫
Think of our son. ⟪ And his reign, made legitimate by a construct of lies that remains robust only so long as no one of sound mind can question it. ⟫
no subject
⟪ For gold, for land, for peace, for the gods only knows what. Their captors do seek to keep them in some shape of health – bruised pride and chafed skin notwithstanding. There must be a purpose to their capture beyond death, or at least, this is what she tells herself and others as soon as they guide the conversation to that particular place. She does not want all to have been for naught. She does not wish to die now that she has defeated Robert once and for all.
Even less does she want to die now that she is reunited with her twin, for all his irritating ways, of which such overt affection is the one she knows to fight the least. If she could cast him to the side in truth, she would not so readily have met his kiss, or thrown herself against him with such abandon. Or perhaps it would have been the first of such incidences, but that would be a lie, too: their reunions tend to be cataclysmic, and even after months of travelling side by side, she has failed to deny him that interlude in Winterfell's tower which had caused them such trouble.
At least, she should tear her eyes away to see what their fellow prisoners are doing – are they watched, is there a flicker of disgust on someone's face, a hint of recognition that joins understanding? The lion should not fear the opinion of the sheep, but the sheep are dead ever so often, and their skin is worn by enemies with far more fearsome teeth. Even in her protesting, though, she cannot and will not do more than offer some struggle – the threat of his death is too fresh in her mind, and the knowledge that he has never been more hers than trapped in this dungeon a twisted thing indeed.
Of course, he smiles his most infuriating smile, so of course, she must push back, or else crane her neck just to offer him a moment's more ammunition, a ready spot to be claimed by his teeth. ⟫
Someone might know.
⟪ And her eyes are torn away from him, cat-green flickers to find any spot that could hide their embrace. The prison yard offers little to that respect, though she means to draw him to some bench, where they might sit close, but seem otherwise docile. ⟫
Think of our son. ⟪ And his reign, made legitimate by a construct of lies that remains robust only so long as no one of sound mind can question it. ⟫