TEST DRIVE MEME #1

[abraxasmods]

TEST DRIVE MEME

Welcome to the very first test drive meme for Abraxas! This meme is run a little bit differently than most in that you'll be asked to choose one of the two different arrival scenarios below for your character to take. If you have any questions about this mechanic or anything else related to the TDM, please take a look at the questions below or ask one of your own here. For general game questions please still use the FAQ.

Arrival

You awaken suspended in the abyss, silent darkness stretching out in all directions. If you try to yell, you'll find that the sound doesn't carry. If you try to move, you'll find it's impossible to tell whether or not you're actually getting anywhere. If you reach for an item you were carrying last time you remember being awake, your hand will only touch bare skin.

You're naked and floating helplessly through the void, and what little air you have in your lungs is running out.

There's a pinprick of light that almost looks like a faraway star but as it grows it becomes clear that it's actually quite close. Through the opening you can see a bright room, but it's hard to make out any individual objects, as if you're looking from beneath rippling water.

A hand plunges through and you realize water is just what it is. Whether you take hold of the hand or not it will grab you and yank you up through the surface, lifting you out until you're sprawled on solid ground. Once you catch your breath, you can get a better look at the surroundings: tall trees and even taller stone pillars surround the platform you're laying on. Behind you is an ornate fountain, the base of which is so deep and so dark you might be compelled to scramble away from it lest it suck you back in to that endless abyss. Ahead of you are the walls of a large castle with several tall towers reaching up towards the sky.

If you had any powers, they feel unusually weak. Attempts to use magic or enhanced strength or powers of any sort fizzle out without any effect, but they don't feel completely gone, either.

Set into an indent on a marble slab behind the fountain is a card baring the image of one of the arcana.

An apprentice mage - the one whose hand lifted you out of the fountain - brushes the water off on their robes and runs back to join a group of three others, who all stare intently at a mage with highly decorated robes and a large, heavy book. He peers up at you for a moment and starts flipping through the book.

"I beg your pardon," he says, so absorbed in the pages of the book that he doesn't bother to look up, "I am Ambrose Rhett, the High Mage of the Kingdom of Thorne. One of my apprentices will explain everything in a moment, but please refrain from yelling and thrashing about until then. You're quite alright, and screaming gives me a hell of a headache."

Regardless of your response, he keeps flipping through the heavy tome, until he stops on one specific page, stares at it for a moment, and then exclaims:

"Aha!"

Scenario One: Welcome to Thorne

Ambrose's expression brightens, eyes twinkling with delight. He waves one of the apprentices over with a fine silk tunic, pants, and some basic sandals and with a wave of his hand they reshape to fit you perfectly.

"Success! It's a success!" he exclaims, slamming the book shut and scurrying towards you.

Now that he's not hunching over the book, he doesn't seem quite so stuffy and inapproachable. The apprentices all seem quite relieved at his jovial outburst, and the one that handed you the tunic stops to take the tarot card down from the marble slab. If you show any curiosity about the card, they'll let you take a longer look, but won't let you touch it.

"Please, come with me, you're an honored guest here," he says, motioning for you to follow him towards the castle, "As promised, my pupils will explain your current situation. And, ah - if you had any magic of your own, or other special abilities you can't access right now, fear not, they'll return within the week. The summoning takes a lot out of you."

One of the apprentices steps forward and rattles on and on about the castle, Thorne itself, the names of a bunch of royals and nobles, and of course, your reason for being here. The Kingdom and the world itself is in great peril, and tales of your exploits have reached far and wide across universes. If asked about these exploits, the apprentice will simply smile and shrug. The High Mage was happy to see you and that's good enough.

Once inside the castle you're taken to the North Wing, which has been set up as living quarters for you and your fellow newcomers. There are four people to a room, but each generously-sized bed has opaque curtains that can be drawn around it. You can meet your roommates here and discuss your shared situation (everyone appears to have arrived within the last few days), or you can wander around and meet the others.

There's also a dining hall stocked with all sorts of fancy food to meet every possible dietary need, and a library filled with epic tales and legends and the history of Thorne. Given that this is the Thorne library, it may be a biased account that makes the Kingdom look a fair bit better than the rest of the world sees them. Last but not least, there's a study hall where a few junior mages (younger and less experienced than the apprentices from earlier) might be willing to teach you some simple elemental magic. Think holding a small flame in the palm of your hand, or blowing a door shut with a gust of wind.

You may also notice that your sign is embroidered on your tunic: the same image you saw on the card from before with the name of the sign itself beneath it. If you ask the castle residents, they'll tell you a little bit about your sign (and will mostly stick to the positives, although some might point out the negatives).

Last (and, if you ask anyone else in the castle, least) there is a worn stone staircase leading underground to the dungeon. You can go there, if you wish, but all powers are restricted in the dungeons and spending too much time with the prisoners will lead to some suspicion being cast upon you. If you ask anyone why the prisoners are being held there, you'll be told that they pose a great threat to the Kingdom (and, by extension, the entire world).

Scenario Two: Imprisoned

The High Mage scowls, grinding his teeth as he slams the book shut. "Another failure!" he barks at the apprentices, "You lot wouldn't know your ass from a hole in the ground, would you?"

All four of them lower their heads, and two of them mumble an apology that Ambrose either doesn't hear or refuses to acknowledge. "Well, don't just stand there," he says, waving a hand in the air, "We've put all this effort into getting this wretched creature, we may as well put it to good use."

One of the apprentices drops a baggy, rough-feeling tunic, a pair of pants, and some worn sandals in your lap and glares down at you until you put them on (if you refuse, they'll tell you they can kick you back down that well if you don't want to cooperate). They're glaring at the High Mage as much as they're glaring at you (when they're sure he isn't looking, anyway). You might catch one of them long enough to ask them why they're so upset with you, but all they'll say is that the High Mage knows something they don't, and he's awfully upset about it.

Once you're fully clothed, another apprentice clamps some heavy iron shackles around your wrists and leads you on. The High Mage is far ahead of you already, muttering some long string of Thornean curses before he stands up straight and pauses, spinning to face you.

"One more thing," he says, holding one hand in the air and chanting something under his breath, "Can't have you getting too troublesome."

If you had powers, the slight connection you still had to them slips away completely and you're left with nothing as the four apprentices drag you towards the castle. They may answer a few of your questions (with some insults and curses peppered in), but they won't tell you anything important.

Once you arrive at the castle you're brought to the dungeons and thrown into a locked cell. There are four people to a cell, and two sets of bunk beds with a thin and lumpy straw mattress. If you're over six feet tall, these beds are going to be awfully uncomfortable. You might as well meet your roommates. Once per day you're dragged out to an enclosed courtyard for one hour of recreation (with some crude weights, benches, and balls lying around but not much else), where you can meet the rest of the prisoners, but you can also talk to your immediate neighbors in the cells on either side and across the hallway. Just don't yell too much or the guards will snap at you to be quiet.

Everyone in the dungeon is fed one meal a day, and for a prison meal it's decent: a bit of meat, a bun, and a salad. It would seem that the Thornean chefs take too much pride in their craft to send bad food to the dungeons. The meals are all served in equal portions, though, so the smaller prisoners may be overfed and the larger ones may be getting hungry. Feel free to fight for food or share with your cellmates.

Crudely embroidered on the back of every prison tunic is the same image that was on your card and the name of the sign beneath it. A guard may explain a bit about the sign, and tell you some negative stereotypes they hold about yours.

You may be blessed with a visit from one of the more welcomed newcomers, and they may sneak you some extra food or a small book to read or they may share some of the information they've gathered. However, rumors travel fast and some people believe the honored guests in the castle above are somehow responsible for the lot of the prisoners below. And although you may hope for kindness, there's nothing stopping them from being cruel to you if they wish. The guards will certainly turn a blind eye if one of them wishes to take out their frustrations on you.

---

Questions

How do I choose a scenario for my character?
Pick whichever situation appeals to you most. Whether your character is honored or imprisoned has nothing to do with their personal morality, or how highly they regard themselves and their own accomplishments. Anyone can be put into either situation.

Can I try out both scenarios?
You can! But please keep in mind that only the one you eventually choose can be game canon, if you decide to keep any of your TDM threads.

What happens if my character refuses to comply with Ambrose?
Prisoners will be dragged against their will. Honored guests will be forgiven for their moment of panic or anger if they have one, and Ambrose and the apprentice mages will try to calm them and persuade them further. If they put up too much of a fight and/or start actively attacking anyone, Ambrose will warn them once that he's willing to put them back in the well where they came from (see below), and if they continue to fight he will make good on that promise.

My character intends on causing a lot of trouble (destroying parts of the castle, murdering the castle staff, etc.), what would happen to them?
Characters who make too much trouble for the mages and other staff would be thrown back in the well (which will mean drowning in the void, not returning home). Brawling with other PCs and causing minor damage is fine and will be greeted with a cranky attitude (if they are an honored guest) or a punishment like denial of food or temporary solitary confinement (if they are a prisoner), and there will be plenty of opportunity for destruction and murder later, but for now the Thorneans have no desire to keep huge liabilities around.

Ambrose will take it especially personally, as this experiment was his idea and too much trouble would risk the summoning spell being scrapped and potentially result in him being demoted. Rest assured it does not take much for him to throw someone back in the well at this point in time.

Is the power loss for the prisoners permanent?
No, although honored guests will regain their powers first due to the lack of interference from Ambrose, the prisoners will be able to regain theirs soon enough as well.

Can the prisoners talk about anything private, or will they be overheard at all times?
There are guards patrolling the dungeon, but they aren't always within earshot. Most of the attention is being focused on the new guests, so the prisoners will have some opportunities for privacy.

Can my character leave the castle?
For now they will be prevented from leaving the castle, even if they are an honored guest. A bit of a gilded cage, isn't it? They'll also find that any powers they regain cease to work outside of the castle walls (this is also a temporary effect) so flying outside is not an option.

Can my character eventually side against Thorne if I choose to make them an honored guest/can they side with Thorne if I choose to imprison them?
Yes, characters in Scenario 1 will be able to betray Thorne, and characters in Scenario 2 can work themselves into Thorne's good graces.

How much will my choice of scenario affect my character's plot later on?
This choice will have a major impact on gameplay throughout the first few months of the game, and potentially a bit beyond that depending on where our players guide the plot. This decision - and every other major decision you make in game! - will also be used to flavor some mod surprises that will be coming down the line.

Don't get too anxious about this choice, though; this is just one choice you'll get to make in a game that has a lot of them, and every character in both scenarios can work their way towards many, many individual goals and outcomes. You're not locking yourself out of anything in the future via the choice you made on the TDM. It will primarily impact the immediate future with the far-reaching effects being up to each player.

Are TDM threads mandatory for my application?
No, you may use other samples, but we encourage you to post to the TDM and get a feel for this game and its mechanics before you join. If you do not have a TDM thread you will still need to choose one of the two scenarios on your application.

What if I haven't settled on a sign yet?
You can ignore sign-related prompts if you're undecided (or try out different signs in different threads).

Can a put a character on the TDM if their canon is less than 30 days old?
Yes. For this app round, anything that's at least 30 days old when the game opens on June 12th can be applied from.

Do the apprentice mages have names?
Their names are Jeffrey, Grigory, Noelle, and Jolene.

---

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Comments

cw: incest, because of course.

[reignfall]

⟪ A weaker man would turn meekly, a lesser man would turn graceless and without a fight in him. Her twin is a lion, and like a lion does he turn, almost snarling, and only a lioness would not fear him. There has never been a surer cure for fear, in truth, than his presence.

It is him she seeks when paranoia rises high within her, when her crown turns to ash upon her tongue, when cracks appear in the kingdom's walls. It is not her father she had sought the night their mother died, but him. It is not the gods she ran to, after Melara ceased her screaming, but her twin next to whom she had found soundest and most peaceful sleep. Ghosts, real and imagined, violent or merely scathing, all come to nothing against her brother's shining light.

His name on her tongue is the one benediction she would ask for in her haughtiness, though of that, there is less now in her bearing than just a moment before. He is meant to save her from this plight, not share it, but even that accusation, so ready in her heart, cannot compare to the bliss of knowing he is alive, breathing, here.

He asks her not to go, and he has asked this of her before. When she had slipped from his arms and into her robes, when she had left him in some darkened corner to return to the gruelling marriage that awaits her in the light. Never has his voice sounded like this, but never has he returned to her with any marks of imprisonment upon him, either.

It did not matter. Had anything else ever mattered? ⟫

Of course we share this fate. ⟪ How else could it be? They are one, she and him, one from their very first breath.

What she does next may well be unexpected, though it has happened before when he had returned from war: what comes next is an embrace, a thing that flings itself around him and holds him tight. The fear for his life leaves her with a shuddering breath, and for once, it matters little that there are onlookers without a doubt. Who are they to know of their sins? Any sister would embrace her brother, under such dire circumstances. ⟫

Gods, Jaime. ⟪ It is said against him, more prayer than has escaped her lips since the day of their mother's death, and she is, for the first time, unashamed of her prison garb, her hair that is not so silken now that she has but her fingers to comb through it, the lack of finery to hide a human truth behind. So long as he is real and solid – so long as he is real and solid, not all can be called lost. ⟫

[perforo]

[ No, she does not falter before his fury. If he is a lion, she is the lioness made to temper him, to match and challenge him, to come to him and prove that they are two halves of the same whole. The shade of her eyes, the steel-shine of her hair, unkempt as it happens to be, the regal bearing despite her rags - it is her. Hadn't he always known he would see her again? No matter how far he rode, no matter the unkind hands he was dealt by gluttonous gods, no matter the insults all the world sought to feather him with, quarrels from a tireless quiver - he had known. He came into the world holding onto her, and that was the only way he would consent to leave it.

His ire bleeds out of him like a wound awash in a basin, and when she tosses herself to him, against him, around him, he knows he is too full and too rough and too sudden in how he meets her. There are eyes here, after all, and he has yet to determine who precisely they belong to. Enemies, that much is obvious, given the roughspun they both wear, the half meals they are given, and the refusal to be turned loose. A lion would not stand for it, but he feels like a beast who has had his claws blunted and his fangs rasped. He can prowl and menace and rattle the bars of his cage with a deafening roar, but one day rots all the same into the next.

Of course they share this fate. The gods never did bother with seeing them to the luxury and glory they were owed. That responsibility had fallen on him, and he has failed, to have her standing before him now dressed like this, a captive. The absence of his rage is short-lived. ]

Who brought you here? Who? [ He wants from her a more sensible story than his own. He wants a name to hunt, a face to corner, and a life to claim with his golden blade. But he is without his blade, a slight that leaves him chagrined each time he thinks it, teeth gritting. He threads his fingers through the scarcely brushed length of her hair, feeling twice the failure for how he is without his armor, without a tale of robust victory with which to regale her, without a destrier that he cannot swing down from, to pull her into a kiss behind his mount's noble, crested neck. He has nothing at all, when he had always known himself to be the one to give her the most.

He is as bodily defensive of her as any carnivore would be of the flesh that nourishes him, as possessive as any creature starved, as wild with relief as any brother, any husband. As livid for vengeance as any worthy knight, and as helpless as any beast penned for slaughter. That is not the fate they have endured so many years to find.

She seems to have forgotten that they are surrounded by strangers, faces unfamiliar at best and dangerous at worst. She speaks his name as if in prayer, and he has always been driven to madness to hear her voice leave her so. Rarely does she lay bare her love, and he knows this is the work of bewilderment and fear and gratitude, so it may still be discarded as the warm reunion of brother and sister. He cannot, in this instant, bring himself to be concerned with the problematic existence of others, however, and he finds her face with the palm of his hand, turning her head up so he can taste her as he always has. ]

I will kill them. I will kill them all.

tw: incest for pretty much all the rest of this thread, proceed with caution tyvm

[reignfall]

⟪ A caged lion is a lion still, his coat the same gold and his body still made in an image that would have the Warrior himself grind his teeth in envy. He does not have his gilded sword to wield or his lion-crested suit of armour to wear, and their embrace is hindered by the shackles they are made to wear, but so much else remains the same. He is rough against her, but that is what makes him true: no dream has lasted this long, and in no dream had he ever been more than a brush, a hint of his scent, a promised dragged from sight. The itching fabric of his prison tunic is as real as her own, and his hair, too, could do with a combing, and by the gods, he is real.

Absurd is the thought that comes next, but it comes to her all the same: she is saved, or perhaps closer to being saved than she fancied herself just a moment before.

Of course, a caged lion is no less caged, and there is no one to bite or claw, no one but the hand that feeds. What little privilege they have, in being fed, housed, let out into the sun, and breathing, may well be robbed from them at the sight of increased disobedience. ⟫

The mage, Ambrose. My tale seems to be the same as that of every other man and woman I have encountered here. ⟪ How bitter she sounds of it, as though a special tale would befit her more.

And there he goes to kiss her, and like this, she cannot resist. One, because she has him tangled in her shackles, so hastily has she thrown her arms over his head, around his neck, and two, because she has, for worse, feared the kiss they shared the morning before he went after Stark may have been their very last. Heedless she is of watchful eyes, of enemy or friend alike – gods, as if there is a friend who would remain one if they witnessed the depth of their sin. The kiss she gifts him in return is not a half-blooded thing: it is full and it is treason to gods and men alike, and it is only broken when she needs air more desperately even than she needs him. ⟫

You will free us.

⟪ And just like that, she seems to waken from her mad, loving slumber, makes to untangle herself, conscious of the broad daylight, the prying eyes, the people who are, more like than not, strangers to them and their world, but how could they ever be certain of it? ⟫

Gods, have you gone mad?

[perforo]

[ The shackles, he could have forgotten the shackles entirely if they were not hindering every grab and clutch made by his hands. Nearly - he is not troubled, after all, by the scraping and chafing of iron against skin, and if it means he can have his fingers in her hair, or have her own arms flung around him, he will defy his binds with not a care for what it will cost him. Her tunic is a rustling scrape against his own, but he is close enough to catch on a breath her scent, and while it may not be the essence of a hundred rare flowers, some elegant, intoxicating fragrance to cling to his collar or cloak for the rest of the day, it is hot and gold and her. No wear and neglect can rob her of this, and thus cannot rob it of him.

She grants him a name, with which he can do approximately nothing, but it is as sturdy as a hilt gripped in his hand. With this he can pursue those who have wronged her, can hold this craven's name in his head until he assigns it to a face, and then the stewing rage he keeps at an unpredictable boil will know its target. But of course it cannot be as simple as this, because they all share the same vague tale, have been taken prisoner by the same hollow names that mean nothing to him. How can he ride against an opponent he cannot see, let alone bring within hand's reach? ]

The fools don't know who they have. [ If their captors had any notion of the value of their prisoners, they would be kept right now as honored hostages, and treated accordingly. This is not colored like a wartime capture, where if he was not going to be granted the luxury of a noble hostage, he would be treated, in stark comparison, as a detested enemy humbled on the field of battle. He is treated as neither, he is treated as nothing, and that indifference is more insulting than any torture he might've been made to suffer.

And her - not even the most witless imbecile would think to treat so carelessly. It was as senseless as tossing gold into the gutter.

He feels himself snared in her shackles, has her bungled in his own chains, and the kiss that opens beneath his lips is not meek and frightened and underfed. She does not hiss in bitterness at his being trapped here, the shame of somehow being confined to this space meant for petty criminals and lesser men. It is that fearless treason he has long known, the taste to which he is irrevocably addicted, and if she did not break from him to breathe, he might happily have perished on his own.

He will free them, he will cut through as many guards and lordlings as he needs to, and he will see her out of the worn and rustic scraps she wears. In the back of his head, a guilty flicker of excitement - to see her this way calls to mind a night when he beheld her in a serving wench's garb, when only the inn's thin walls had shielded them from the eyes outside. Now there are no walls, only the unwitting companions they have been given, and he steps forward as she steps back, frustrating her efforts to disentangle from him when he refuses to be parted from her again.

The twitch of a smile comes to the corner of his lips - has she ever known him as anything less than mad? Was that not the source of his insurmountable skill with sword and horse, the source of his bravery and his resilience and his love? He ducks his head to bury his mouth against her throat, as if he can feed on the thrum of her pulse, can taste how vividly she lives, maneuvering his body in against her, corralling, claiming. ]

Yes.

[reignfall]

Or else they do know, and mean to trade us.

⟪ For gold, for land, for peace, for the gods only knows what. Their captors do seek to keep them in some shape of health – bruised pride and chafed skin notwithstanding. There must be a purpose to their capture beyond death, or at least, this is what she tells herself and others as soon as they guide the conversation to that particular place. She does not want all to have been for naught. She does not wish to die now that she has defeated Robert once and for all.

Even less does she want to die now that she is reunited with her twin, for all his irritating ways, of which such overt affection is the one she knows to fight the least. If she could cast him to the side in truth, she would not so readily have met his kiss, or thrown herself against him with such abandon. Or perhaps it would have been the first of such incidences, but that would be a lie, too: their reunions tend to be cataclysmic, and even after months of travelling side by side, she has failed to deny him that interlude in Winterfell's tower which had caused them such trouble.

At least, she should tear her eyes away to see what their fellow prisoners are doing – are they watched, is there a flicker of disgust on someone's face, a hint of recognition that joins understanding? The lion should not fear the opinion of the sheep, but the sheep are dead ever so often, and their skin is worn by enemies with far more fearsome teeth. Even in her protesting, though, she cannot and will not do more than offer some struggle – the threat of his death is too fresh in her mind, and the knowledge that he has never been more hers than trapped in this dungeon a twisted thing indeed.

Of course, he smiles his most infuriating smile, so of course, she must push back, or else crane her neck just to offer him a moment's more ammunition, a ready spot to be claimed by his teeth. ⟫

Someone might know.

⟪ And her eyes are torn away from him, cat-green flickers to find any spot that could hide their embrace. The prison yard offers little to that respect, though she means to draw him to some bench, where they might sit close, but seem otherwise docile. ⟫

Think of our son. ⟪ And his reign, made legitimate by a construct of lies that remains robust only so long as no one of sound mind can question it. ⟫

[perforo]

[ A trade, that was a likely tactic. But for whom? For what? And why were deliberations taking so long? Their captors would be slavering for their gold, and their own father would be demanding their release. Not out of any paternal love or tender sympathy, but to keep their hallowed name from taking on a single blemish. Tywin Lannister would not stand for this. The realm was bound to be in chaos until all was sorted out. The last coherent memory that sticks like a bur in the hide of his mind is his capture by the Stark boy - was it their own folly that had seen him change hands, then? He doesn't know. He can't even honestly say he cares.

Not now, not when he is back where he has known he must be, the backdrop to their reunion be damned. That is a trial he will overcome, a problem he will solve, and without any maester's gentle wisdom or lordly cunning. There will be blood, and they will be freed. They would take their freedom when they were escorted out of the dungeon and taken onto whichever road would see them returned. A trade was only worthwhile once it was completed, the bargain made real in gold; all was for naught if they were left to languish here.

The curve of her neck deepens beneath his mouth, and he digs his teeth into the velvety flesh of her throat, an invitation never declined. Who, in the dank dark they must keep, would glimpse the marks he left upon her? What objection could they rouse even if they did? Their gaolers will know she is his, everyone in this yard will know she is his, the world at large will, one day, know she is his. He pushes his body against her, his pulse thickening. ]

They don't know. [ These words are little more than reflex now, the assurance he has murmured into her hair times beyond counting. When he has her lifted against a stairwell wall, when he'd had her pinned to the bed that was Robert's by all the laws of marriage, when he'd driven himself into her from behind in Winterfell's broken tower. No one knew, no one would ever know, not until she finally agreed to be his before gods and men, but until then, his sword kept their secret. If only he'd had the damned thing.

He can feel her hesitation the way any carnivore would feel the fluttering of a flightier animal's heart, and he moves with her, knowing this yard will not afford them the luxury of privacy. The purpose of such a space is to keep each prisoner under some surveilling eye, isn't it? Of course it is. He has never taken issue with flaunting such laws, and he turns his taller, heavier frame to back her against the nearest wall, blissfully blind to whoever might be milling nearby. It doesn't matter.

It matters for their son, she is already beginning to remind him, it matters for the hold their family keeps on the throne. But he is not thinking of their son, a boy who would rather debone a living bird than take up the lance, and the shackles continue to be an annoyance, but he reaches to have his hands on her all the same, more ravenous now than he has been for any meal thus far. ]

No. I'm thinking of you, I've thought of nothing but you. [ An agonizing curse, taunted for days, for weeks, by glistening memory. A hot breath escapes against the corner of her mouth, and there his lips hover, caution thoroughly abandoned. ] What can they do? Imprison us?

[reignfall]

⟪ They don't know, do they? Just as a serving wench's dress and the thin walls of the inn on Eel Alley had kept their secret, this courtyard might do the self-same duty. For all the infernal frustration it is to not be recognised for who she is – a queen, the Light of the West, a lioness of the Rock – in this moment, it could be a blessing. And what a gift it is, to afford themselves the sort of reunion any pair of lovers, any husband and wife, could give to one another after so desperate a parting.

Someone could, she tells herself, under a renewed struggle against his binding arms, wager a guess. The shade of their hair, the colour of their eyes, the cut of so many of their features speaks for itself. Yet (and this part of the thought is where she draws closer against him) who would accuse them of such a sin? Is not the fact that they would seek one another out like this something that would dash such a suspicion? Likewise, some servant picked up by the same spell that had brought them here could be easily silenced, with gold or blood or both. ⟫

Do you think my thoughts would have been with any other?

⟪ Lancel can choke on the secret, but he was a cheap copy, and even a copy would be a compliment. A means to an end, and the end had been Robert's, and now he could well take the fall for her treachery. No one could consume her thoughts the way Jaime can, no one was deserving of the word love but him and their children. ⟫

I told Stark as much.

⟪ Is so bold an admission enough to get him to straighten himself? He has her backed against a wall, and the way she pushes against him will do little to discourage him, so instead she holds herself stiff, tries to force him to look her in the eye. ⟫

There are rumours now. Stannis spread his claim through the kingdom.

[perforo]

[ He has never been so skittish as to wonder where her thoughts might wander. Even after he had been captured, with leagues and weeks between them, he had not troubled himself to think that either her eye or her mind would have strayed. Why wouldn't she have thought of him as frequently and as desperately as he had thought of her? Why would anything have changed? He had been weeks away before, and just as he had then, so he would return after his scuffle with the Starks. She was his and he was hers, and so it would always be. His mind, his dreams, his blood - they were all hers. As they are reflections in every last way, the opposite must also be true. It must.

To his aggravation, she goes stiff in his arms, does not arch herself against the wall as he had hoped she might. Her confession, he suspects, is meant to give him pause, to make him wonder how far now their secret has spread, to unnerve him into stepping back and considering with great gravity the consequences of their sin. But how he can feign fright now, after all they'd done in full sight of the gods? If they were going to be struck down, they would have suffered their punishment long ago. Stark is the last man he fears. Second to last, maybe; Stannis is at the bottom of the barrel, dredged in scorn.

He laughs at how ominously she intones this, as if the fool is here now, ready to scale the walls and point down and proclaim them treasonous heathens. ]

Stannis has no claim. [ Stannis has never had a claim; the realm would not rise for him, no matter the laws of royal succession. Stark, if he really did know, would be too careful and too noble and too slow to ever mount a proper retaliation, a storm of justice. These are the names of lesser men, imposter lords, and he is provoked not by the news she brings him, but by how the spirit withers out of her when she is cowed by caution. ]

You are afraid of the two most dismal men in the realm? [ He doesn't move to release her, instead taking her mouth again, sliding his shackled hands over the cage of her ribs. If it's his eyes she wants, he will give her those, shards of smoky jade. ]

They've had your thoughts, I would say. Rumors, instead of what we've made true. [ A lower breath, as his body continues to reawaken to the nearness of her own, a flood of fire he hasn't felt for days uncounted. ] I've missed you like you can't imagine.

[reignfall]

Stannis has no claim, Renly has no claim, the little wolf has no claim. It does not stop them from claiming.

⟪ And they will be struck down, of course, the cold steel in her gaze suggests as much. Now that she is reunited with him, the wars ahead are nothing to fear. None of the rest could command an army the way he can, and none of them could defeat him if he placed himself in the path to their children. Her son's – their son's – claim is as tightly secured now as it has ever been, and she does lean herself staunchly against his chest then. Her rock, her keep, and her most dedicated protector, his mere presence is a balm to the weeks and weeks of growing terror spent in helpless fury.

Even if he laughs at her concerns and makes of himself a creature of hunger and desire both. This cannot be, not here in this yard full of convicts and commoners. Not in plain sight of the sun and the guards alike, not when she is wearing the same shift she is doomed to be wrapped in for days, if not weeks now. This is not how she wishes to be seen and it is not how she wishes to be touched.

Held, though, to be held is an option, and to cling to him for her own sorry, sordid life. To kiss him, too, when his lips slide hot over hers once more, and their parting betrays her hunger, even as she turns her head away once more. There is a guard looming, and she cannot afford to be parted from him. ⟫

I have missed you so much. I have needed you like never before.

⟪ And her voice, in all its fullness, betrays what her eyes fail to conceal themselves: she still needs him, yes, but she has feared for him, too. ⟫

Stark is dead.

[perforo]

[ Every petty lord in every petty corner of the realm could stake a claim, and none of them meant anything at all so long as their son sat the throne. No army could hope to rise against him, no threat against the boy's life would ever see daylight, and no evidence of treason would ever be placed before the realm to discredit his rule. The war had already proven how lost the cause was; while allegiances were being bought, kings were cropping up like weeds after a summer storm, and none of it would hold. All would be ravaged under the tide of steel he himself would bring to bear against their enemies. As soon as he had his sword to hand; as soon as they were free of this place. No claim would outshine their son's. The gold of Casterly Rock had never proven false.

He leans himself into the small shape of her body, making himself wall and stone and shield, and he had resented how long it had been since he'd felt her come to him this way. Like she trusted him to hold her, like she needed him, truly needed him, relied upon him and still looked to him when she needed answers. In this way she does cling to him as he desires, she does make true of those vows that bind her to him and him to her, godless though they might be. All as it was before he'd blundered in the woods, before she'd suffered the insult of being called to this place, when too-short hours were the height of their worries. The height of his, anyway. ]

May their valiant efforts be remembered fondly in the histories. [ Sorry tales of rebellion and defeat, more like, and he turns his own head to bury his face in the glow of her hair, breathing deeply, greedily. Of his many untoward addictions, another is this bare confession of her need, of her own demand for him. The assurance that there is, in her life, a space no other can fill. Even here, even like this, when he bears the shame of being without his sword, herded with the others, when they have never counted themselves among others. They were something separate. ]

They cannot part us. [ Some of their foes were unchanging - their father, for one, who would never permit this while he lived - while the others arrayed themselves as befit the whims of war. But steel would not part them, lies would not part them, and neither would the truth. He fears their present guards no more than he fears stag or wolf, and the revelations cast before him are trod upon like any cobbles. Honorable Ned would have made a profitable hostage, that's so, and now the war would rage, but was there any more efficient way to rid themselves of enemies than to kill them? ]

How noble of him to lead the way. The rest will follow. Who else?

[reignfall]

⟪ Minutes into their reunion they are, and only now does the tension begin to seep from her, a black tar finally washed away by a clear river's waters. Only now does she permit herself what she has longed to do since the moment she fell into his arms, only now does she permit herself to let comfort wash her ashore. Likewise, it is only now that his most immediate focus no longer seems to be on how to swift-most undress her, that she embraces all she can feel of him: the rise and fall of his chest with the deep breath he takes, the heat of his body that she so fiercely presses against.

The wall behind her, too, is something she only now truly becomes aware of, solid, cold, and unpleasant through the thin, itchy fabric of her tunic. All the more reason to flee herself more deeply into his arms, embraced and embracing as much as is possible with all their hands shackled between them. The fear, at least, is melting like snow in the sun: once more, they are blessed and doomed to share one fate.

She even gives a huff of laughter when he mocks the efforts of their enemies, even as she had not for a moment felt like laughing during their separation. ⟫

None will part us. But we must protect what we have.

⟪ And what they have is a secret, the secret being the heart and blood of all they have shared. ⟫ I trust you with all.

⟪ All but a handful of secrets, but those secrets are kept to protect him more than herself. Her lips brush once more against his, a breath shared that she fails to draw herself away from. There is more warmth to this than any creature's fur, any fire, any keep bought with gold. ⟫

Not a one that deserves to be mentioned. The younger Stark girl is gone, I have but the elder one. And with Eddard dead – I cannot trade him for you now.

⟪ This bears truer to her fears than she cares to speak aloud: retribution could see him dead. Retribution could be the worst by far of any loss she has ever suffered. ⟫

[perforo]

[ Here she comes back in against him - once he withdraws enough to permit her to do so. Only once he has called back his runaway, hounding lust does she meet him in an embrace, or at least the remains of an embrace they are allowed in their shackles. But, as it has always been, if there is room enough to breathe, there is room enough to feel the press of her body against his own, radiating warmth like a small sun. There is room to feel the shape of her against him, two halves carved one from the other, made to fit this way without exception, without substitute. There is room enough to drown in the swarming gold of her hair, to drive himself drunk on her scent, and to feast in glorious defiance against the gods upon the fact that they have been returned to one another again, again, without fail. They cannot be separated.

What we have, she says, and it is only now, like this, that he is reminded of what remains. He has been furious over the loss of his sword, the loss of his pride and liberty, and the power once commanded by his name. To have her back in his arms now - insofar as the cursed shackles allow - is to repay those losses tenfold, a hundredfold. Gold is cheap as tin against what he holds when he holds her. If he could hold her true. ]

They'll see the value of keeping us together. [ Because if they were going to have their freedom bought, who wouldn't wish to sell them together, demanding an undreamed-of price for the queen and the Kingslayer? Not even the most witless fool could fail to see the benefit of keeping them closely bound. Perhaps not as close as they themselves preferred to be, but what was decency in a prison yard, or a dark prison cell? When she finds his lips again, he follows her taste for as long as she will let him have it, heaving a disbelieving sigh against her mouth. It has been so long; how could it have been so long?

She returns to her fretting over the Starks - one dead, one lost, one kept - and he snorts softly against her jaw, down into the bow of her throat. The wolves were being scattered, the stags bold or blind but failing all the same, and as their father had always declared, only madmen would dare to rise against lions. None deserved the honor of mention. ]

I am not a bargain you must make. [ He was not made to be traded or bought or bartered. He'd been made to raise his sword in her defense, to leave the world and all the men and all the gods in no doubt that she was his, that she was his in life and she would be his in death and war was but a game in the face of his conviction. Of course Stark would not feature in that fated equation. ] We don't need them. Stop counting.

[ Gold, days, hours, advantages. How often he had tired of sums when steel was so much closer at hand. ] When this farce is over, we will come back to this place because it is our own, to do with what we like. It is already ours.

[reignfall]

⟪ Never would she consent to linger so long in his embrace under any other circumstance. Even his victorious return after the Greyjoy rebellion saw first enthusiasm, and then a gentle but firm reminder that the rest, alas, must wait. Wait until there is but the two of them to share a room, with not a soul to witness their secret made undeniable sin. Privacy here and now is a more relative thing by far, with bored guards on the prowl and discontent prisoners milling about the rest of the yard. Yet she has yet to recognise another soul beside him, and with this in mind, she can permit herself not just the lingering kiss, but also the huff and smile when she feels his hot breath at her throat.

He speaks true all the same: they are best kept together. His fury is more fearsome than that of any stag, all leonine in its intensity, and he would fight and slay and overcome anyone who dares to separate them. She has her ways, too – but, truth be told, neither one of them can do much in their precise situation. If they are truly so far from home, even talk of the gold of Casterly Rock is a questionable thing indeed. Never mind the gold of the crown, that has been long-squandered. ⟫

You will not let them separate us. ⟪ Better not to think of anything else but to focus on the simplest of truths.

He returns to his impatient dissipating of her most commonly flowering concerns, and her fingers tighten against his shoulder. ⟫

It is ours, but our return won't end this war. ⟪ If anything, it will make it bloodier – which is the way she likes it, all told. She leans further against him, her forehead resting against his chest. Like this, at least, most common dread simply vanishes, allows her to think with more clarity, even if there are too many unanswerable questions, too little pieces of knowledge to craft of them a plan of any kind.

More so, as much as they need to escape, as much as she agrees that they need to escape, they will still be trapped in this foreign, unheard of kingdom. How will they be brought to King's Landing? How will they find their way?

Worse – and at that, her breath hitches in a way he must know well, a way that suggests she might shed a tear if she does not regain her composure within moments – they might be returned as they were. Torn from one another's arms, her surrounded by spiders and little birds at the Red Keep, and him with what little remains of the wolves' pack. On the verge she is now of acknowledging what she has fiercely denied if any other soul as much as dared to make a mention of it: he might never return to her alive, if the worst comes to pass. She will have none of him, no living, breathing brother, no arms wrapped around her as much as shackles will permit, no scorching kisses. Bones. Only bones. ⟫ What if you are returned to the Stark camp? I won't have it.

[perforo]

[ She has at least had the grace not to forget that there is no one who can stand him against him: there is no outcome, even here, where he can predict nothing of a people and a land he does not know and has never seen upon any map, that will see them separated. They will never again have so many acres of wood and vale between them, so many weeks elapsed and lost without even the quorking of a raven to announce that a most wonderfully sordid letter has been delivered. There had been nothing, only silence and the haughty contempt of his captors. Only his pacing imagination to wonder what had befallen her, how she passed her hours, what threats the fools of the realm were daring to make against her when they knew him to be captured. If rage could have melted iron, he would have been rattling free of his shackles the first night of his imprisonment.

But now she is his, and he does not give the dustiest of fucks who sees them, because she will remain his, now and after. He has never in his life encountered a guard who did not shrink before him. It will be no different here, and he will not think of his absent sword. How often has he dreamt of spilling blood for her with his bare hands? He has always had the impression that she would throw herself upon him and kiss him most hungrily for this. ]

I will end this war. [ It was well past needing to be completed. All of the false kings would be silenced, and their son would rule in all the golden splendor she desires for him. Oh, he would need other battles, to be sure - his blade craved blood the way his mouth craved the satin skin of her inner thigh - but he would have them. Battles begun and won before she could ever have time to resent him for leaving; battles that would not endanger the Lannister name upon the throne. They would have all they wished to have, and suffer no slander for it.

He could guide her now away from the wall, as would probably be more fitting, and perhaps more comfortable - there must be a bench nearby that he could ease her onto, or he could escort her back in, as she pleased. But he is not a servant of sense or comfort, and it has been weeks and weeks since he's felt the flare of pride that is his when she leans her body into him, her had against his chest. If he was not bound, he would have his arms around her to hold her there, but for the present his body will serve, and to have her depending on the plain fact of him this way is a gift he will not have taken from him.

She is, as ever, thinking not only of the blissful present, but of the dangers lurking on the horizon. The enemies waiting to seize them the moment they are free, the perils they have never been without. He keeps his mouth hovering against her hair, his fingers sliding where he can reach her side, and the dark heat in his voice is a violence that has never wavered in its devotion to seeing wolves slain. ]

Do you truly believe there is any man in this world that could compel me to return to that cell? [ No trickery, no wartime prowess, no luck, no gods. Nothing would compel him. He would not be in the Stark camp again, unless it was with his sword drawn, and the blood of wolves darkening the earth. ] I will have you, or the rest of this sorry world will never know peace again. [ There would be blood until he was where he was meant to be. For now, that is here, like this, even with the inconvenience of rags and chains. All the world should know it. ]

[reignfall]

⟪ It is easier to cling to him than it is to hold onto the world's petty dangers, this much is true. He has a way to take from her shoulders the burden to every threat, every enemy, every risk, and to make her see what else could be. Together, they have ever been victorious, unconquerable, and if there is a man in the seven kingdoms whom she would trust to end every last one of her foes, it is him. Her other half, her only way to wield a sword, and wield it more deadly than any other. He has made of himself a knight without flaw, a knight who cannot be cowed, and she is convinced that all this has been done for her and her alone. ⟫

You will kill them all.

⟪ There is nothing she thirsts for the way she thirsts for blood, and it is half envy over never having held a sword of her own, and half the desire to see him fresh from the battle. Better than when she has come to him after a tourney won it would be.

Yet he goes on, and there the nagging doubt returns. He has been captured once before, what would make another time impossible? They are both trapped in this place, too, in an unmapped castle, with no weapon to their name, no gold to fend off the guards with, and none of the magic that seems to be wielded here. The tensing of her shoulders suggests to him her misgivings, but his lips in her hair do soothe her, and she is, for once, grateful for the wall that hides at least half of what is between them.

For a moment, before she shoves at him again as though her fight is its own twisted expression of love – and perhaps that is the truth of it. She rarely, or perhaps never, takes well to emotions aside from fury, and she is never quietened long. Less so when the situation is averse, less so when she is pushed close to a point where she might have to concede to powerlessness. ⟫

If you have a sword, and a key to the dungeons. ⟪ And a way back, for what she fears most in this moment is that their immediate escape will not bring them within an inch of the throne, either. In the meantime, the realm is left to their boy – doubts on this frontier she cannot permit herself now – and any who strive to be his advisors, which may, for once, be the bigger problem.

There is not much she can use for a weapon against her own ever-hungry need to be held by him, but there is the remains of her luncheon that she had wrapped in the napkin and meant to use for trade in the yard, and she shoves that at him. ⟫ Eat. You need to be strong, if we are meant to outlast this hell.

[perforo]

[ He has always believed that he would kill them all; he had been born knowing it. There has never been anything more certain in his blood, and he recognized that ferocity the instant a sword was first place into his hand. This was what he was made for - killing his enemies, killing his sister's enemies, and thereby making the world their own. No one could overcome him, that was swiftly proven by his natural talent with dog and horse and blade, and his ascent into the most noble brotherhood of knights was all the proof he could've needed: even kings recognized and bowed before his might. He will not think of that bittersweet moment as a footnote in another man's history, as a slanderous grievance in his own. He was the most feared knight across the realm, and there was no one he could not kill. Kings fell to his sword as helplessly as woodland bandits.

Tension forges her shoulders as stiff as wood, and he is as familiar with this pose as he is with that breath that comes before tears. But just as he will not let her fall to fear or grief, so he will not let her give to doubt, and he lifts a hand to brush along her jaw, the pad of his thumb finding her cheek. ]

I will kill them all. [ Guards, husbands, foes, any man she pointed out for him to unsheathe his sword against. Or to lunge at with nothing more than his hands and his teeth, but those would serve in a pinch, when he seems to have lost his steel. And even so, despite this solemn vow that he never tires of swearing, she is pushing against him, intent on freeing herself, it would seem. His breath leaves him as an impatient growl when he commands himself to take a step back, to create measurable space between them once again.

She remarks, of course, upon his stolen sword and the lack of a key to be procured, and he casts a glare out over the hapless fools in the yard, as if they are responsible for how he has found himself disarmed. Before he can remind her that he needs neither sword nor key in order to see the two of them released, his restless green eyes flick down to the hand she extends - the gift she shoves at him. Food, plain food, and something deep in his stomach coils in anticipation at the sight. He has not been fed to his own satisfaction - nowhere near - and he knows she has not, either, so it is without a moment's hesitation that he refuses her hand with a shove of his own, returning the meager gift to her. ]

I've outlasted twice as many hells as you, sweet sister. You eat.

[ Then, more carelessly - ] I'll tear someone's throat out if I get peckish, fear not.

[reignfall]

⟪ It is an ongoing war, and so many half-private moments that she spends with him are turned into a battle within her. She needs him, her confession of this has been nothing but the truth, but she loathes this needing as much as she loves it. The inherent superiority of being born a soul split into two bodies, of having known nothing less than love through him - all this stands in stark contrast to her need to be insurmountable, unconquerable, high above the rest. How can she claim any might at all, if she is so terribly trapped in love's claws? Yet without him, she cannot feel complete. Without him, she is not whole.

So shoves him away for some semblance of her own power, and then she reaches for one of his hands to hold, a gesture courtly enough to pass for nothing, if they did not know better. In her other, she holds the food he so gallantly returned, the bun still wrapped in its napkin. ⟫

I have conquered my hell in your absence.

⟪ With Robert finally dead, she has been freed, or has, as she fancies, freed herself. For a decade, he had sworn he would do it for her, slay another king and live to tell the tale once more, and for a decade, she has stalled him. It wasn't the time, it was never the time – he would be found out, the kingdom would be in uproar, there were too many rebels, then too many witnesses. The time had come in his absence, or else her patience had ran too thin once too often, and nothing, nothing would ever compare to the taste of the boar that killed the most vile, the most repulsive of her foes.

She pushes the food toward him a second time, more insistent. ⟫

We need allies. You can slit their throats as soon as we are out of here ⟪ and, leaning in, her voice warm with the truth of it and you will fuck me with their blood still on your hands. ⟪ Barely withdrawing: ⟫ But for now, we need allies.

⟪ That means no fighting for food, if it can at all be helped. Much as she hates it – her brother is superior to every man within this dungeon, and he could defeat every last one. Some of this might even lead to others following him, now that she dwells on it – is this not how some men win their loyalties?

It is not, this much she can say for certain, a path available to her. ⟫

Eat.

[perforo]

[ They were not meant to conquer their hells separately. They were meant to raze through them together, and to emerge as one on the other side, blood-spattered and golden and victorious. The gods could not condemn them, mere men could not subdue them, and there was no hell they could not conquer so long as they were side by side, always within reach. The hells he knew were made twice as brutal this way - when she was near, but not near enough for him to touch. Or when she was near enough to touch, but always slipping past, always wary of being glimpsed. Close enough to hear the catches in her breath, close enough to steal a hint of her perfume, close enough to recognize the dark flash in her eyes when he knew she was glancing at him, thinking.

That was hell, and being leagues apart, truly out of reach, that was hell, too. His dreams were hell, his darker certainties of what could befall them were hell. He had bred enough hells to be familiar now with all their shapes and sizes, and this place would not be a new one. They had suffered their hells apart and their hells together, and they have earned now a reprieve in paradise. This could be theirs.

She takes his hand and it is instinct that curls his fingers - defensive, possessive and territorial. It has never mattered less who sees them. They know no one in this place, none that he has yet seen, and his blood is so hungry for a fight that he almost wishes someone would confront them. Another push sends the wrapped food his way again, and he once again blocks it, intent on not feeding himself until he has seen her fed. She shouldn't be hoarding food, anyway; suppose some brawny fool took note and then approached her to take it? He drags his lingering gaze back up, leaning in as she does, baited by the warm lure of her breath, and then he breaks into a grin, giving her hand a ravenous squeeze. The future she offers is more appealing than any he has summoned for himself. ]

And the more allies, the more blood. [ And the more blood, the more vigorously she will have him take her, and in lieu of seizing that reality right this moment, he takes her mouth instead. Just for a moment more, just to lend to the kiss the suggestion of how hungrily he awaits their freedom, and then he draws back, even if his eyes don't. He has never been displeased by the sight of her in anything at all, from her most exquisite gowns to her simpler shifts, made for furtive trysts. They all flatter her, though there is something primally appetizing about her rather glorious body draped in a wench's garb, or a prisoner's. ]

You eat. I'll make allies. [ This was another of his natural abilities, wasn't it? Convincing men that it was their great honor to follow him? Winning their loyalty with little more than a roguish smile and his promises of valor and glory? She did not need to starve for this to happen. ] I'll bring you more food than you know what to do with, soon enough. But I do expect to be duly rewarded.

[reignfall]

⟪ Their hands link the way they always have, and if she had to choose what she deems to be the first sensation she truly knew, it must be this one. She had held onto his hand while they took their first toddling steps and she had held his hand while she brought their first son into this world, and she would hold onto his hand now that they are captives in an unknown realm. There is nothing that could separate them, and there is nothing that she could not face so long as he is by her side.

And still he denies himself her offer of food. Blessed is the kiss that mollifies her infuriation at such stubbornness, for as often as she calls him her knight, her only knight, as often does she come into conflict with one of his more chivalrous moments. It is, then, the rising annoyance that battles with the sweetness of the kiss, the promise of what is to come once they are freed. Much she would give for an hour's privacy now, though that is not a fresh thought, either: much as her loathing of Robert had defined that marriage, this underlying longing was equally corrosive to any shameless life she might have lead. ⟫

Have I ever left you unrewarded?

⟪ Her tone settles between sweetness and annoyance, then, thus landing squarely on the teasing. Yes, she has left him starved and ignore before, she has cast him away, sent him on foolish errands below his rank and ability. Yet with their hands linked so seamlessly, and with the way she draws him near again, it is as though she herself has forgotten any winter's breeze that might have come to disrupt love's eternal summer. It goes like sweet wine with his vow to see them safe and fed, and she loves him as her protector, and loathes that the gods would see it fit to struggle to make ends meet at all. ⟫

I ate, but I have no appetite now. ⟪ The thought that food could be wasted has not occurred to her before, and it will certainly not strike her now, but that is the underlying message: if he does not want it, she will not take it either, and if that sees it tossed as is, it will be all the same to her.

She is also not considering what the next day might bring, that they may be fed less soon enough, that she might find her plateful stolen by a stronger man. ⟫

[perforo]

[ Perhaps she has never left him indefinitely unrewarded, but she has certainly kept him waiting. She has darted out of his arms before, has purred a kiss against the corner of his mouth only to command him to wait an hour, five hours, an entire day. She has delayed the quelling of his yearning for days, for weeks, when it had pleased her to send him on some green knight's quest. She has never left him unanswered, but she has left him hankering and aching. To her pleasure, he believes when his bitterness is at its darkest; why make him wait unless she drew from it some satisfaction of her own?

Now he has her hand, and that is, in this place, promise enough. In spite of the shackles, and in spite of the dangers she continue to believe they place themselves in. He has the shape of her lips again, too, at least for another moment, and he knows it will only whet his craving for more. Another kiss, a longer kiss, a more devilish taste of all he has gone so long without, but there is ever a barb to her tone, a drawing in and a shoving away. He savors the taste of her for as long as she and the gods allow, and then he must confront again the perennial issue of whether she has eaten.

She has, she claims, even with the portion somehow held in her hand, and he swipes his own hand out to take the bun from her before she can decide that it may as well feed the crows. It goes without ceremony from his palm to his mouth, and the whole of the thing is devoured before he can make any proper assessment of what it is. Bread, with maybe a thin dream of meat, and then it is gone. He will not stand to see it tossed to the ground, and he will not stand to see her struck with sudden generosity, and win a smile from any one of these milling fools with her gift. It will be, as with a great number of things, his or no one's. ]

You have left me woefully neglected on more than one occasion, and as proof you can ask the maesters I was forced to consult to be sure my compromised state was not fatal. [ His vigorous and ecstatic bloodflow had not yet proved terminal, even when it found no immediate satisfaction, and he grins at his own lewd tale, drawing her with him and away from the wall. Regardless of where she may be officially relegated to pass her hours of confinement, he has no intention of releasing her until he is bodily compelled to do so. They must have a scarce few minutes of sunlight left, and everyone occupying the yard might as well see for themselves that she is his, not to be approached or harassed. ]

You will before long. Eat all you can, or someone else will try to eat it for you. You won't be impressed with how diplomatically I make allies then.

occasionally their icons just Match

[reignfall]

⟪ Just as she had guessed, he all but inhales the meagre half over dinner that she meant to use for trading, and she does not mourn the opportunity the way she perhaps should. Smart it would have been to use it in the winning of a fresh, new ally, yet the relief of having him returned to her, alive and in one piece, for once bests such calculations. This is not the lavish meal he might choose for himself, nor is it the supper of wine and boar she had envisioned for their reunion – or, perhaps, for the hours after their reunion. None of it is as she had planned, and yet it is more: he is not dead. The thought keeps running through her, a feeling better than a steaming tub of water or a silken gown against her skin: he is not dead.

Perhaps that is why she does not chide him for the mannerless way in which he devours the meal. ⟫

Any moment in Pycelle's presence should be enough to cure you for a month.

⟪ The grandmaester was not without his uses, but she resents him all the same, and has more than once leaned over to her knightly brother, to make a mockery of the vile old fool under her breath. A rolling of her eyes accompanies her words. For all her fretting, her wondering if he is dead or alive, she is grateful in her way to know that his nature has not suffered some terrible new affliction – but it also means that she must once again ask herself which part of his he does most of his thinking with. ⟫

Have you made any allies of yet? ⟪ When he guides her away from the wall, she is happy to comply, for once not protesting the way he so openly claims her hand for his own. With no one to recognise them, the risk is a less present threat – though her knows those quick, darting glances. ⟫

and i am always Charmed

[perforo]

[ He's not half so spoiled as she is, really - he has spent impossibly long days out in the field, subsisting on meals she would surely refuse, seeing herself to a dignified death of starvation rather than offend her finer sensibilities with stale crusts of bread and charred fish over a fire, caught only an hour before from a rank stream. He has known his share of lavish dinners, in the great hall of Casterly Rock, upon the royal tables of King's Landing, and on the clothed table of her own solar. In none of these situations was his attention ever truly on the fare, and if he sat close enough, his hand was always more hungry for the hearth between her thighs than his mouth was for anything laid on the table.

And once he did remember his raging appetite for food, he would set to its destruction with a most cheerful wrath. The beasts he hunted himself were most satisfying, but he had savored all manner of delicacies in her company. Now they have these paltry handfuls, and it is forgotten the moment it is gone. Trades and alliances would have to be made on more than the laughably slim treasure of tasteless bread. ]

I would rather be a eunuch than set foot in that cretin's chambers.

[ This is not strictly true - he can in fact think of few hells in which he'd choose to be a eunuch over any other punishment - but he does have an enduring distaste for the decrepit maester. Thankfully he is ever healthy, however, and in need of no one's aid. His sister too, he always preferred to believe, and he keeps her hand locked hot and tight within his own. There are scant few thoughts that dart through his head which do not provoke him to an abrupt and shameless possession of her. He surveys the yard they share with their unwitting companions, decides there is probably not one among them who would prove a faithful ally, and knows in the same breath that that is generally how most allies start, in the absence of riches to be exchanged.

Despite how ardently he longs to take her inside, he is also aware of their limited exposure to the sun, and so he instead begins a circuit of the walls, scouring them up and down with sharp jade eyes. ]

I'd sooner make a weapon of stone or iron, but have not yet achieved either. Who have you spoken to?

[reignfall]

⟪ As so often, she does not look far past the edge of her own table – when she thinks of her twin eating, she thinks of breaking her fast with him and the children in her solar, a family moment, to be shared with the man whom they think to be their uncle. She thinks of lavish suppers, feasts that seek to outdo previous ones in their splendour. Just the same, she thinks of wenches serving him in some forsaken tavern, for surely this is how the knights tend to dine, even if his tales are hungrier and filled with less choice meals. No, her own imaginings are jealousy-fuelled, in which women lean to seduce him over a tasteful arrangement of meat and freshly baked bread. Of course, he is steadfast, he would never stray from his blood – that does not keep her from the red rage that has been growing in her ever since she first had to hear Melara Hetherspoon consider herself a worthy wife for her brother.

She laughs, though, at his jest – her brother might be willing to sacrifice much, but his manhood is not usually part of the list. ⟫

I should have Varys know you long to replace him as Master of Whispers.

⟪ Master of War, that is a title more suitable for her leonine brother, but the master of war cannot be a knight of the kingsguard, and the master of war would be heir to Casterly Rock once more. He would need to wed and sire children, he would be bound to another, and she would not stand for it. She would not bear it.

Instead of dwelling on what must never be, she touches her free hand to his arm, as if they were walking in the palace gardens, and as if she is in the habit of touching him so openly and for all to see. She prefers for her hands to linger half-hidden, or to brush close by him when she merely passes where he stands guard. Better, to lean in for the sort of whisper any lady might trade with her twin, only to linger a moment longer, just to see his eyes darken. The Red Keep has more hidden corners than most will ever know – when it becomes too much to be so physically separated, there are options.

Not here, though. Here, they trade darkened corners for a walk in blight sunlight, with his eyes no less hungry than she knows them. ⟫

None I would think it wise to count on. ⟪ But she is casually optimistic, which is highly unusual. Most all of them down here will want the same thing, so alliances are inevitable. In time, she will know who has the greatest potential – ⟫ There seems to be no one who hails from our own world, as of yet.

⟪ Of course, she is blatantly wrong about that. ⟫

[perforo]

[ Master of Whispers was not a vocation he could ever aspire to. He did not have the patience, the subtlety, the requisite furtiveness. He could not blend into the shadows - he was, and preferred to be, garishly gilded - and he did not care to read secretive scrolls and conspire in the trading of indirect messages and betrayals. No, a sword would do, achieving twice as much work in half the time. If he was going to be master of anything, it would seem to be Mater of War, but even that title had unsavory connotations of council meetings. He was made to be a knight. Let anyone else have the drudgeries of court and law. ]

It might just be worth it, to see Varys in the armor of the Kingslayer, rousing fear and wonder all across the realm.

[ But he could never have his own name so defamed, a mockery of a mockery. It is his own, no matter how tarnished, like his scabbard or his helm, and no one else shall wear it. He glances down as her opposite fingers find his arm, the muscle beneath the drab roughspun rising to the touch. One might wonder how long it had been, for him to react this way - and one would have to make do with the fact that such was the ardor of his response to her, always, even if he'd last seen her at breakfast. It has been longer, it has been much too long, and his teeth are already gritting at the inevitable confrontation they will face when some fool seeks to part her from him.

Perhaps for now they can simply savor that the sun is sweet, that he is not the Master of Whispers, and that she has not been loomed over by some idiot looking to coerce her into some kind of understanding. They will make allies as they need them and eviscerate their foes as dictated by their situation. This need not be so different from their days spent in the capital. ]

It's wise to count on no one. [ She is his only exception to this rule. Knights and commanders and lords can be relied upon for a time, but in whom has he ever placed his indiscriminate and unwavering trust? She has been the only one, and he has never had cause to doubt her. His wandering seems to have led him back to the weights he'd first devoted this recreational time to, and now with an audience - the audience he most wishes to awe, as ever - he releases her to reach again for a sufficiently large and imposing piece of iron. ]

A blessing and a curse, don't you think? Any fool from our own world could be persuaded to loyalty. [ Their own ilk were easily bought with gold and promises, after all, or, if those failed, bodily threats. It was the suggestion of magic that unnerved him most. ]

[reignfall]

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.