⟪ Never would she consent to linger so long in his embrace under any other circumstance. Even his victorious return after the Greyjoy rebellion saw first enthusiasm, and then a gentle but firm reminder that the rest, alas, must wait. Wait until there is but the two of them to share a room, with not a soul to witness their secret made undeniable sin. Privacy here and now is a more relative thing by far, with bored guards on the prowl and discontent prisoners milling about the rest of the yard. Yet she has yet to recognise another soul beside him, and with this in mind, she can permit herself not just the lingering kiss, but also the huff and smile when she feels his hot breath at her throat.
He speaks true all the same: they are best kept together. His fury is more fearsome than that of any stag, all leonine in its intensity, and he would fight and slay and overcome anyone who dares to separate them. She has her ways, too – but, truth be told, neither one of them can do much in their precise situation. If they are truly so far from home, even talk of the gold of Casterly Rock is a questionable thing indeed. Never mind the gold of the crown, that has been long-squandered. ⟫
You will not let them separate us. ⟪ Better not to think of anything else but to focus on the simplest of truths.
He returns to his impatient dissipating of her most commonly flowering concerns, and her fingers tighten against his shoulder. ⟫
It is ours, but our return won't end this war. ⟪ If anything, it will make it bloodier – which is the way she likes it, all told. She leans further against him, her forehead resting against his chest. Like this, at least, most common dread simply vanishes, allows her to think with more clarity, even if there are too many unanswerable questions, too little pieces of knowledge to craft of them a plan of any kind.
More so, as much as they need to escape, as much as she agrees that they need to escape, they will still be trapped in this foreign, unheard of kingdom. How will they be brought to King's Landing? How will they find their way?
Worse – and at that, her breath hitches in a way he must know well, a way that suggests she might shed a tear if she does not regain her composure within moments – they might be returned as they were. Torn from one another's arms, her surrounded by spiders and little birds at the Red Keep, and him with what little remains of the wolves' pack. On the verge she is now of acknowledging what she has fiercely denied if any other soul as much as dared to make a mention of it: he might never return to her alive, if the worst comes to pass. She will have none of him, no living, breathing brother, no arms wrapped around her as much as shackles will permit, no scorching kisses. Bones. Only bones. ⟫ What if you are returned to the Stark camp? I won't have it.
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He speaks true all the same: they are best kept together. His fury is more fearsome than that of any stag, all leonine in its intensity, and he would fight and slay and overcome anyone who dares to separate them. She has her ways, too – but, truth be told, neither one of them can do much in their precise situation. If they are truly so far from home, even talk of the gold of Casterly Rock is a questionable thing indeed. Never mind the gold of the crown, that has been long-squandered. ⟫
You will not let them separate us. ⟪ Better not to think of anything else but to focus on the simplest of truths.
He returns to his impatient dissipating of her most commonly flowering concerns, and her fingers tighten against his shoulder. ⟫
It is ours, but our return won't end this war. ⟪ If anything, it will make it bloodier – which is the way she likes it, all told. She leans further against him, her forehead resting against his chest. Like this, at least, most common dread simply vanishes, allows her to think with more clarity, even if there are too many unanswerable questions, too little pieces of knowledge to craft of them a plan of any kind.
More so, as much as they need to escape, as much as she agrees that they need to escape, they will still be trapped in this foreign, unheard of kingdom. How will they be brought to King's Landing? How will they find their way?
Worse – and at that, her breath hitches in a way he must know well, a way that suggests she might shed a tear if she does not regain her composure within moments – they might be returned as they were. Torn from one another's arms, her surrounded by spiders and little birds at the Red Keep, and him with what little remains of the wolves' pack. On the verge she is now of acknowledging what she has fiercely denied if any other soul as much as dared to make a mention of it: he might never return to her alive, if the worst comes to pass. She will have none of him, no living, breathing brother, no arms wrapped around her as much as shackles will permit, no scorching kisses. Bones. Only bones. ⟫ What if you are returned to the Stark camp? I won't have it.