[ Wolves wept no more than lions, surely. The Young Wolf would not be shedding tears of joy or gratitude for the harm that his sister was kept from; he would only be nursing his sense of righteous justice. All the blood to be shed, all the vengeance to be reaped, all the valor to be demonstrated. They would probably be better off, actually, keeping the Stark girl locked in a dungeon. Trouble would be hard-pressed to find her there, and she was at much less risk of vanishing into the night. He sincerely doubted her courage on that front, but desperation drove men - and women - to all sorts of madness. It would be best to limit her expressions of recklessness. ]
They don't know that she hasn't.
[ What would the Starks gain from trusting any word that came from the capital? Growing too complacent with the assumed mercy that came with political bargaining would never play in their favor. The wolves would be just as wary as they themselves must be, suspicious of dungeons and torture, even if it is a torture that bears no physical scars. In what corner of the realm would a mother not fear for her daughter, not suffer nightmares of the worst possible cruelties, even against letters avowing the girl's safety? He would never be so trusting of word of his own children's capture, or his sister's. But then, he would never allow them to be captured.
She interrupts the progress he means to make with the weights, and his eyes dart up to her face, reading what he can of the scale of her displeasure. Her hands are gentle enough at his forearms, as gentle as can generally be expected, and he stills obediently. There is little to reliably soothe his restlessness, but she still wields that power, even here. Her words, however, rankle him with the regularity that they always have, and he is insulted as if for the first time by her blunt certainty that he could be outnumbered. That he could be defeated even if the odds were stacked against him. Has he ever given her any indication that this is true? ]
Do you think that matters? Do you think there's anyone who could stop me when it comes to you? [ Not Robert Baratheon, not Tywin Lannister, not the Father, not the Stranger. All her doubt should have been thoroughly eliminated by now. ] There's nothing I couldn't give you. There's nothing they couldn't have. [ Their children, he means, though he also knows she will refute this: their crown, their throne. If it is gold they are owed, he will present it to her. If she craves steel for their chairs or their hands, he will amass that, too. What is conferred by all the misery of ruling that he cannot secure for them in a comfortable anonymity across the sea? ]
no subject
They don't know that she hasn't.
[ What would the Starks gain from trusting any word that came from the capital? Growing too complacent with the assumed mercy that came with political bargaining would never play in their favor. The wolves would be just as wary as they themselves must be, suspicious of dungeons and torture, even if it is a torture that bears no physical scars. In what corner of the realm would a mother not fear for her daughter, not suffer nightmares of the worst possible cruelties, even against letters avowing the girl's safety? He would never be so trusting of word of his own children's capture, or his sister's. But then, he would never allow them to be captured.
She interrupts the progress he means to make with the weights, and his eyes dart up to her face, reading what he can of the scale of her displeasure. Her hands are gentle enough at his forearms, as gentle as can generally be expected, and he stills obediently. There is little to reliably soothe his restlessness, but she still wields that power, even here. Her words, however, rankle him with the regularity that they always have, and he is insulted as if for the first time by her blunt certainty that he could be outnumbered. That he could be defeated even if the odds were stacked against him. Has he ever given her any indication that this is true? ]
Do you think that matters? Do you think there's anyone who could stop me when it comes to you? [ Not Robert Baratheon, not Tywin Lannister, not the Father, not the Stranger. All her doubt should have been thoroughly eliminated by now. ] There's nothing I couldn't give you. There's nothing they couldn't have. [ Their children, he means, though he also knows she will refute this: their crown, their throne. If it is gold they are owed, he will present it to her. If she craves steel for their chairs or their hands, he will amass that, too. What is conferred by all the misery of ruling that he cannot secure for them in a comfortable anonymity across the sea? ]