Stannis has no claim, Renly has no claim, the little wolf has no claim. It does not stop them from claiming.
⟪ And they will be struck down, of course, the cold steel in her gaze suggests as much. Now that she is reunited with him, the wars ahead are nothing to fear. None of the rest could command an army the way he can, and none of them could defeat him if he placed himself in the path to their children. Her son's – their son's – claim is as tightly secured now as it has ever been, and she does lean herself staunchly against his chest then. Her rock, her keep, and her most dedicated protector, his mere presence is a balm to the weeks and weeks of growing terror spent in helpless fury.
Even if he laughs at her concerns and makes of himself a creature of hunger and desire both. This cannot be, not here in this yard full of convicts and commoners. Not in plain sight of the sun and the guards alike, not when she is wearing the same shift she is doomed to be wrapped in for days, if not weeks now. This is not how she wishes to be seen and it is not how she wishes to be touched.
Held, though, to be held is an option, and to cling to him for her own sorry, sordid life. To kiss him, too, when his lips slide hot over hers once more, and their parting betrays her hunger, even as she turns her head away once more. There is a guard looming, and she cannot afford to be parted from him. ⟫
I have missed you so much. I have needed you like never before.
⟪ And her voice, in all its fullness, betrays what her eyes fail to conceal themselves: she still needs him, yes, but she has feared for him, too. ⟫
no subject
⟪ And they will be struck down, of course, the cold steel in her gaze suggests as much. Now that she is reunited with him, the wars ahead are nothing to fear. None of the rest could command an army the way he can, and none of them could defeat him if he placed himself in the path to their children. Her son's – their son's – claim is as tightly secured now as it has ever been, and she does lean herself staunchly against his chest then. Her rock, her keep, and her most dedicated protector, his mere presence is a balm to the weeks and weeks of growing terror spent in helpless fury.
Even if he laughs at her concerns and makes of himself a creature of hunger and desire both. This cannot be, not here in this yard full of convicts and commoners. Not in plain sight of the sun and the guards alike, not when she is wearing the same shift she is doomed to be wrapped in for days, if not weeks now. This is not how she wishes to be seen and it is not how she wishes to be touched.
Held, though, to be held is an option, and to cling to him for her own sorry, sordid life. To kiss him, too, when his lips slide hot over hers once more, and their parting betrays her hunger, even as she turns her head away once more. There is a guard looming, and she cannot afford to be parted from him. ⟫
I have missed you so much. I have needed you like never before.
⟪ And her voice, in all its fullness, betrays what her eyes fail to conceal themselves: she still needs him, yes, but she has feared for him, too. ⟫
Stark is dead.