The thought that anyone laid a hand upon your armour...
⟪ The jest has turned bitter, and she knows she need not finish her sentence for him to understand all there is to understand of her meaning. The depth of shame that lies beneath his capture is offset by the fact that he is living at all, living and able to return to her, living and able to avenge himself. Yet the insult to their family's name remains: that one would have dressed him in less than the gilded armour he was worth, that another would have weighed his golden sword in his unworthy hands. They are lions, and what is theirs shall not be treated as trinkets.
It is not a measured, circling stroll he envisions, and yet, some of the shadows lift from her expression once she understands just what his plan has been. The weights, of course, always the weights. In their youth, before the world had tried and failed to part them, it had not been weights – it had been a hound tamed, a technique of the sword learned, a bucking horse defied. He had always taken her to watch him, and she has taken to that like one lost in a desert takes to a cool drink of water.
A thousand times her old septa had chided her for gazing to where her brother trained in the yard, his shirt cast aside, when she was meant to embroider another golden lion. No matter how hard she fights it now, there is the edge of a smile on her face.
And so she steps to the side, to sit with her ankles nobly crossed on a bench, watchful, attentive. ⟫
I would rather have every one of our enemies here than to know them loose in the seven kingdoms. ⟪ At least then, they could make a move to prevent whatever their next shoddily plotted step might be.
There is a distinct pause, as she measures how wise or unwise it might be, to say what crosses her mind next. ⟫ Tommen rode in his first joust. Against a foeman of straw, but he rode all the same.
no subject
⟪ The jest has turned bitter, and she knows she need not finish her sentence for him to understand all there is to understand of her meaning. The depth of shame that lies beneath his capture is offset by the fact that he is living at all, living and able to return to her, living and able to avenge himself. Yet the insult to their family's name remains: that one would have dressed him in less than the gilded armour he was worth, that another would have weighed his golden sword in his unworthy hands. They are lions, and what is theirs shall not be treated as trinkets.
It is not a measured, circling stroll he envisions, and yet, some of the shadows lift from her expression once she understands just what his plan has been. The weights, of course, always the weights. In their youth, before the world had tried and failed to part them, it had not been weights – it had been a hound tamed, a technique of the sword learned, a bucking horse defied. He had always taken her to watch him, and she has taken to that like one lost in a desert takes to a cool drink of water.
A thousand times her old septa had chided her for gazing to where her brother trained in the yard, his shirt cast aside, when she was meant to embroider another golden lion. No matter how hard she fights it now, there is the edge of a smile on her face.
And so she steps to the side, to sit with her ankles nobly crossed on a bench, watchful, attentive. ⟫
I would rather have every one of our enemies here than to know them loose in the seven kingdoms. ⟪ At least then, they could make a move to prevent whatever their next shoddily plotted step might be.
There is a distinct pause, as she measures how wise or unwise it might be, to say what crosses her mind next. ⟫ Tommen rode in his first joust. Against a foeman of straw, but he rode all the same.