[ They had done more than lay a hand upon his armor. They had stripped him of it, as winter strips the trees of their finest foliage, and left him with nothing. His honor, such as it was - that was his. Memories and dreams, thin as brown water; he could have those, too. Food and water he was allowed by their barest definitions, so he would not perish, and darkness. All else had been taken, and it would not be returned until the wolves had been paid his worth, a laughable notion when they held him in such contempt, of such hollow value. They were not so dim-witted as to waste the opportunity in their hands, however, and they knew the gold Tywin Lannister kept in his storied Rock. They would take everything from him, naturally, but leave him living.
He did not take kindly to being without his armor, and he took even less kindly to being denied his own blade. The cell was a torture of monotony and silence, but worse was being without his customary gold. A blight not only upon himself, but upon her, too, and he knows it, can taste the salt of it in her tone. No one laid a hand upon the lions. No one touched purest gold. Yet the wolves had, and surely all the realm by now knew it, and she must endure the laughter just as much as their father did, just as much as himself did. But who would be laughing when Northern blood ran in rivers, just as the dragon's had? ]
They've had their jest. [ That was all he would deign to think of it. A jest, a fool's mistake, a massive error of judgment. They would pay the full price for such a flagrant transgression, and it would be to him directly that they would pay. The promise of this satisfaction, secured by his own golden blade, serves him well now, as he selects his weight. A bulky one, heavier than he need have, but this is the one he chooses, especially while he has her eyes upon him. He would have stripped his unflattering tunic if his shackles would have allowed, but for now he will have to trust that the bunching and flexing of the muscle beneath will show.
For no sensible purpose, he takes a second weight in his free hand, and begins lifting the two together. ]
A standing offer. I am happy to face them all at once, a decisive trial by combat. [ Him against twenty, thirsty, a thousand, and he does not doubt that he would leave the whole craven lot in bloody ribbons. His thoughts just as abruptly turn to their youngest son, however, and he barks a bright laugh at the image she paints. The pudgy golden lion, strapped to his pony, charging a strawman - what in seven hells did he do to deserve being denied such a sight? ]
We'll put him on a courser when we return. [ Planned as absently as if they are slated to return on the morrow, this is. The iron is hard and sweet and bracing in his hands. ] He's near enough to jousting with proper steel. I was, at that age. [ A generous memory, probably. It might not have been with the armorer's explicit permission that he claimed his first sword. ]
no subject
He did not take kindly to being without his armor, and he took even less kindly to being denied his own blade. The cell was a torture of monotony and silence, but worse was being without his customary gold. A blight not only upon himself, but upon her, too, and he knows it, can taste the salt of it in her tone. No one laid a hand upon the lions. No one touched purest gold. Yet the wolves had, and surely all the realm by now knew it, and she must endure the laughter just as much as their father did, just as much as himself did. But who would be laughing when Northern blood ran in rivers, just as the dragon's had? ]
They've had their jest. [ That was all he would deign to think of it. A jest, a fool's mistake, a massive error of judgment. They would pay the full price for such a flagrant transgression, and it would be to him directly that they would pay. The promise of this satisfaction, secured by his own golden blade, serves him well now, as he selects his weight. A bulky one, heavier than he need have, but this is the one he chooses, especially while he has her eyes upon him. He would have stripped his unflattering tunic if his shackles would have allowed, but for now he will have to trust that the bunching and flexing of the muscle beneath will show.
For no sensible purpose, he takes a second weight in his free hand, and begins lifting the two together. ]
A standing offer. I am happy to face them all at once, a decisive trial by combat. [ Him against twenty, thirsty, a thousand, and he does not doubt that he would leave the whole craven lot in bloody ribbons. His thoughts just as abruptly turn to their youngest son, however, and he barks a bright laugh at the image she paints. The pudgy golden lion, strapped to his pony, charging a strawman - what in seven hells did he do to deserve being denied such a sight? ]
We'll put him on a courser when we return. [ Planned as absently as if they are slated to return on the morrow, this is. The iron is hard and sweet and bracing in his hands. ] He's near enough to jousting with proper steel. I was, at that age. [ A generous memory, probably. It might not have been with the armorer's explicit permission that he claimed his first sword. ]