[ As with every jest he cared to make or cared to entertain, they began and ended by his own leave. If his amusement was short-lived, and faded not half a minute after the mirth had bloomed, he would deem the joke done. If he took no amusement from it at all, he would not grace it with the title of a jest. He had named himself the judge of japes, a king who could not be usurped, whose taste in humor could not be denied or argued or bested. The wolves, by that unfailing judgment, were not a jest. They were an insult, and he derived no pleasure from their treachery. He was not amused by the shame they'd brought upon his name - could it hold any more? - and he had not gone laughing to his cell. He had come laughing to this one, that was true, because there came a point where the whims of the gods must be endured with humor. Where sword and rage would not serve, laughter must. ]
Their howling will fill the space between our stars, soon enough.
[ In this vision, the howling of wolves is as desperate as the wailing of tortured men. The cry that hails blood, the keening of the vanquished, the sorrowful song that will hang above them as they take what is theirs, indulging their sin in full view of gods and kings and rebels. The weights come to a firmer grip in his hands as he gnaws these fantasies, and the familiar clench and stretch of muscle is the same solace he has always savored. These are the muscles that will wield his blade against wolf and kraken and stag and dragon. The jest would be his in the end, as all jests were.
He glances to where she sits, poised even in her rags, her hands folded as if she is holding court, as if nothing has changed. As if Tommen is even now rounding his pony in the yard, Joffrey gutting some poor kitchen cat, Myrcella embroidering lions and roses in bright thread. His own youth had been just as carefree and sweet, and he dives hungrily back into the memory. ]
And I haven't won my last. Lions will rule the lists again. [ Tommen would ride, and Joffrey, too, if the boy ever turned his eye to true, disciplined valor. Battles and blood would still be their age-old legacy, and he holds fast to the belief that he will be the one to teach them, to guide them with his own hand. ]
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Their howling will fill the space between our stars, soon enough.
[ In this vision, the howling of wolves is as desperate as the wailing of tortured men. The cry that hails blood, the keening of the vanquished, the sorrowful song that will hang above them as they take what is theirs, indulging their sin in full view of gods and kings and rebels. The weights come to a firmer grip in his hands as he gnaws these fantasies, and the familiar clench and stretch of muscle is the same solace he has always savored. These are the muscles that will wield his blade against wolf and kraken and stag and dragon. The jest would be his in the end, as all jests were.
He glances to where she sits, poised even in her rags, her hands folded as if she is holding court, as if nothing has changed. As if Tommen is even now rounding his pony in the yard, Joffrey gutting some poor kitchen cat, Myrcella embroidering lions and roses in bright thread. His own youth had been just as carefree and sweet, and he dives hungrily back into the memory. ]
And I haven't won my last. Lions will rule the lists again. [ Tommen would ride, and Joffrey, too, if the boy ever turned his eye to true, disciplined valor. Battles and blood would still be their age-old legacy, and he holds fast to the belief that he will be the one to teach them, to guide them with his own hand. ]
Myrcella?