[ How can he not laugh? Of course the old, noble wolf would have agreed to a lifetime spent freezing his manhood off at the far edge of the world. He'd proudly seen his bastard off to the same fate, hadn't he? A man's life was no longer worthless once he pledged himself to the black. Stark would recover the shards of his dignity when he ranged out to cross swords with those most horrible nightmares made of ice. The greying lord would be a jest and little more, but of course it would've been a deal made in the rotting dark of the dungeons. Who would trust a bloodthirsty lion to keep a promise of any greater freedom? Ned had been a fool to trust the promise even of a desolate swath of ice, and now the war would drag on at the behest of a thousand sullen wolves. ]
Just try not to misplace Sansa in the same way, or the Young Wolf might grow surly enough to take my head after all. [ A dismal trade, the Kingslayer for a quailing girl, but wars were predicated on less glamorous bargains. This could all be soundly settled, of course, and she knows it; if she would forget her designs of scheming and alliances and silky deceptions, they could dispense with all the rest. She need only take his hand and accept the offer he'd been making for as long as he'd known that there was no one else he would ever marry, they would take the realm, and his sword would glitter the most splendid crimson and gold for each enemy he slew in her name.
Why she refused to understand this simplicity, he would never understand. ]
I am flattered to know the soft-hearted body cherishes his dear uncle more than his fawn. [ He is not convinced this is true. Their son has a heart most tender for animals, and he knows that if the choice were placed before Tommen, the round boy would rescue his helpless deer rather than his uncle's freedom. The uncle is known for his misadventures and his successes with the sword, after all. What does the fawn have?
He sets the weights aside, fingers flexing, as if he is hungry for something heavier, something that will try his strength, offer some kind of balanced challenge. A toss of his head flicks sweaty golden hair from his face, and he doesn't look at her, regarding flat iron instead. ]
Tyrion is not the enemy we need give a second thought to. [ Tyrion was not an enemy at all, but he does not make a point of this, having suffered her ire too often for doing so. ] It might just be his nimble little mind that devises a way out of this mess for us. Aside from the solution I have given you a thousand times over, which you still haven't developed a taste for. [ A taste for blood and gold, that was all she must agree to, and he would see to the rest. Once they were free of these walls, that is. ]
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Just try not to misplace Sansa in the same way, or the Young Wolf might grow surly enough to take my head after all. [ A dismal trade, the Kingslayer for a quailing girl, but wars were predicated on less glamorous bargains. This could all be soundly settled, of course, and she knows it; if she would forget her designs of scheming and alliances and silky deceptions, they could dispense with all the rest. She need only take his hand and accept the offer he'd been making for as long as he'd known that there was no one else he would ever marry, they would take the realm, and his sword would glitter the most splendid crimson and gold for each enemy he slew in her name.
Why she refused to understand this simplicity, he would never understand. ]
I am flattered to know the soft-hearted body cherishes his dear uncle more than his fawn. [ He is not convinced this is true. Their son has a heart most tender for animals, and he knows that if the choice were placed before Tommen, the round boy would rescue his helpless deer rather than his uncle's freedom. The uncle is known for his misadventures and his successes with the sword, after all. What does the fawn have?
He sets the weights aside, fingers flexing, as if he is hungry for something heavier, something that will try his strength, offer some kind of balanced challenge. A toss of his head flicks sweaty golden hair from his face, and he doesn't look at her, regarding flat iron instead. ]
Tyrion is not the enemy we need give a second thought to. [ Tyrion was not an enemy at all, but he does not make a point of this, having suffered her ire too often for doing so. ] It might just be his nimble little mind that devises a way out of this mess for us. Aside from the solution I have given you a thousand times over, which you still haven't developed a taste for. [ A taste for blood and gold, that was all she must agree to, and he would see to the rest. Once they were free of these walls, that is. ]