[ Master of Whispers was not a vocation he could ever aspire to. He did not have the patience, the subtlety, the requisite furtiveness. He could not blend into the shadows - he was, and preferred to be, garishly gilded - and he did not care to read secretive scrolls and conspire in the trading of indirect messages and betrayals. No, a sword would do, achieving twice as much work in half the time. If he was going to be master of anything, it would seem to be Mater of War, but even that title had unsavory connotations of council meetings. He was made to be a knight. Let anyone else have the drudgeries of court and law. ]
It might just be worth it, to see Varys in the armor of the Kingslayer, rousing fear and wonder all across the realm.
[ But he could never have his own name so defamed, a mockery of a mockery. It is his own, no matter how tarnished, like his scabbard or his helm, and no one else shall wear it. He glances down as her opposite fingers find his arm, the muscle beneath the drab roughspun rising to the touch. One might wonder how long it had been, for him to react this way - and one would have to make do with the fact that such was the ardor of his response to her, always, even if he'd last seen her at breakfast. It has been longer, it has been much too long, and his teeth are already gritting at the inevitable confrontation they will face when some fool seeks to part her from him.
Perhaps for now they can simply savor that the sun is sweet, that he is not the Master of Whispers, and that she has not been loomed over by some idiot looking to coerce her into some kind of understanding. They will make allies as they need them and eviscerate their foes as dictated by their situation. This need not be so different from their days spent in the capital. ]
It's wise to count on no one. [ She is his only exception to this rule. Knights and commanders and lords can be relied upon for a time, but in whom has he ever placed his indiscriminate and unwavering trust? She has been the only one, and he has never had cause to doubt her. His wandering seems to have led him back to the weights he'd first devoted this recreational time to, and now with an audience - the audience he most wishes to awe, as ever - he releases her to reach again for a sufficiently large and imposing piece of iron. ]
A blessing and a curse, don't you think? Any fool from our own world could be persuaded to loyalty. [ Their own ilk were easily bought with gold and promises, after all, or, if those failed, bodily threats. It was the suggestion of magic that unnerved him most. ]
no subject
It might just be worth it, to see Varys in the armor of the Kingslayer, rousing fear and wonder all across the realm.
[ But he could never have his own name so defamed, a mockery of a mockery. It is his own, no matter how tarnished, like his scabbard or his helm, and no one else shall wear it. He glances down as her opposite fingers find his arm, the muscle beneath the drab roughspun rising to the touch. One might wonder how long it had been, for him to react this way - and one would have to make do with the fact that such was the ardor of his response to her, always, even if he'd last seen her at breakfast. It has been longer, it has been much too long, and his teeth are already gritting at the inevitable confrontation they will face when some fool seeks to part her from him.
Perhaps for now they can simply savor that the sun is sweet, that he is not the Master of Whispers, and that she has not been loomed over by some idiot looking to coerce her into some kind of understanding. They will make allies as they need them and eviscerate their foes as dictated by their situation. This need not be so different from their days spent in the capital. ]
It's wise to count on no one. [ She is his only exception to this rule. Knights and commanders and lords can be relied upon for a time, but in whom has he ever placed his indiscriminate and unwavering trust? She has been the only one, and he has never had cause to doubt her. His wandering seems to have led him back to the weights he'd first devoted this recreational time to, and now with an audience - the audience he most wishes to awe, as ever - he releases her to reach again for a sufficiently large and imposing piece of iron. ]
A blessing and a curse, don't you think? Any fool from our own world could be persuaded to loyalty. [ Their own ilk were easily bought with gold and promises, after all, or, if those failed, bodily threats. It was the suggestion of magic that unnerved him most. ]