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

[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.

[perforo]

[ 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. ]

[reignfall]

⟪ This would never be forgotten, but the shame of it could be erased by the heads of wolves on spikes. Even the old lion of the Rock had lost some time ago, yet he had found a punishing way to cleanse himself of the taint, and the song written of his victory still brings a moment's fear to his enemies. Her twin would be just as victorious, there is no other way. Robb Stark would die on his knees the self-same way his father had. ​ ⟫

They are very much still having it, dear brother.

⟪ Even now that she can easily envision his victory, she cannot forget the bitter moment of loss. Worse, she cannot unshed the tears, cannot make another suffer the same sleepless nights. What has been done to him, what could have been done to him, may well be worse – but she has never been one not to lament her own suffering first and foremost, especially now that she can embrace him whole and living at the same time. She suspects it hurts worse if she ignores his knightly offer to slay her enemies, to bleed them for her bath and to kiss her in defiance of their laws. Not that she does not find the thought an indulgent one to lament, or that this is not precisely all that she would wish – not that she has, in fact, any doubt that he could defeat the vast lot of them in time.

All the same, she watches him close at his exercise, her hands folded neatly as though it is a choice, and not something forced upon her by her iron shackles. ⟫

You won your first melee at Joffrey's age. ⟪ And Joffrey, at least, knows how to thirst for blood, even if she might have to admit that he is no match for his father, were they of an age. Tommen's fate rests at another intersection: she loves him, spoils him, and still, finds displeasure when his joy of reading triumphs over his practice with his wooden sword. ⟫

[perforo]

[ 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. ]

Myrcella?

[reignfall]

⟪ Not many would accuse her brother of a sense for the poetic, but not many share such moments with him. Her gaze flicks across the yard – perhaps there were more to share now than usual when they speak like this, though none of them seem to pay too much attention to them. This, much like any imagery he can conjure with the promise of blood, could be good enough to have her purring like a contended cat in the sun. House Stark would rue the day, one might think.

That would, however, mean that there is a House Stark left to rue a thing, by the time her brother is good and finished with them.

The twist of a smile is all the acknowledgement she is willing to offer now, until such a time that Robb Stark's head adorns the Red Keep.

More comfortable it is to think of lions at tourneys, her brother and her sons entering side by side, all gold and red pride. There is much to consider, of course: Joffrey has the ruthlessness she considers necessary, but he is but a boy still, and it is difficult to think of his age and compare him to her twin back when. In time, of course, he would be the same shining gold. Tommen was a more difficult matter: he shared his father's love for horses and hounds, but he was tender of heart in a way that was sweet when he embraced her before breaking his fast with her in the morning, but bothersome when it came to think of him as a gilded lion prepared to rule. ⟫

Still occupied with her garden. None of them took it particularly hard. ⟪ Well... there is Joff, but Joff rather delights in the title he inherited, so what does it matter? ⟫

[perforo]

[ A twist of a smile is often the only approval he will win from her, and it is enough. Her approval and her excitement, her appetite for wolf's blood just as whetted as his own. They would pay, all of them, and as tended to happen with the lions' enemies, there would be nothing left, not even bones for the other northern beasts to mourn. The two of them would rule the tundras as they ruled the coast; there is, for his vengeful tastes, nothing they cannot seize, nothing they cannot sink their teeth into and shred. They will begin with the wolves. Perhaps he can keep the wolf boy as a captive for a while, first. A lesson in chastening.

He steals another glance at her before he returns his focus again to the chunks of iron that he can vent his flaming energy against. A snort for the truth she answers him with: of course none of their children took his absence hard. Why should they be troubled by their uncle's misfortunes in war? He will take this to indicate their devout faith in him: he could not have made a misstep on the battlefield. It was someone else's doing, someone else's fault that he had been captured. And why should they believe that something like temporary imprisonment would stop him? He would return, as he always had. They did not need to worry for him when they always trusted him to come home again.

They wouldn't mourn their father when they never know him to be their father. A thought that gives him pause, and makes him wonder if this is even what they're speaking of. He shifts another glance her way, the sort that has always come naturally to the territorial beast he is. ]

They didn't take what hard? Me or him?

[reignfall]

⟪ Nothing that can drive her to such a spot of anger as the suggestion that there is a question, that her children might have been truly inflicted with grief over Robert's loss. It comes on with such sudden force that she fails to give thought of what his thoughts might have mapped out otherwise. ⟫

Robert, of course.

⟪ Only once that has snapped, prim and sharp as a stiletto blade, green eyes ablaze with fresh insult, only then does she make any other possible connection. That he could have thought of himself as so readily forgone, and, worse, that her words now could be a confirmation that she must tear out like a weed. More so now than ever is there a risk in a too-close connection to the children that he fathered, anything that could suggest Joff's claim is untrue.

It is for the best, of course. Upon receiving the letter that spoke of her brother's fate, she had wept, and she had wished the pain upon all the world, the cruel knowledge that her soul would be ripped apart, half her life ended. And likewise, even with her own children, she had resented the notion that anyone could begin to understand this hell. No one had a connection like theirs, and no one could ever claim to know what it is like to lose something they cannot ever so much as dream of having. This, no, he is hers alone. ⟫

You know Tommen weeps for everything. He does not know that the Starks won't touch a hair upon your head, not so long as Sansa is our most honoured guest.

⟪ And could be made to suffer tenfold of whatever the Young Wolf might do to her twin, for all the good it will do her should he simply kill him outright. ⟫

[perforo]

[ Robert, the name he had been made to endure like an unabating cloud over all that was meant to be rushing gold. Robert, who, worse than being king, was the proclaimed father of her children. It was Robert that Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen would think to mourn as a father, the painted hero of their history. They didn't have the years or the wisdom yet to resent the man for what he was; of course they would be twice as anguished by the loss of a father rather than the loss of an uncle. It doesn't matter yet that he hasn't been truly lost, or that their children don't know that. It only matters that he knows it to be true, that if he has not already been forgotten, replaced with another dashing, heroic sword, he will be soon enough.

The thorns in her voice are evidence of this, that their children would not be troubled to spare their uncle a second thought. The pang that attends this realization is abrupt and without mercy, and he furrows his brow against it, giving himself instead to the utterly ineffectual curling of the weights. For all he had ever wished to be - a knight, the only knight worthy of lifting a sword - he would never be what so many other men took for granted.

He musters no response, waits instead for his bitterness to recede, or better yet, to be sundered by the burning of his muscles. It's hopeless, just as the surge of adrenaline and ire is hopeless, and he scoffs through his sulking. ]

It seems to me we owe them a debt, seeing as how we misplaced their noble father. [ The loss of Ned Stark as a hostage was a foolish blow, and he is surprised that he has not yet been made to pay for this insult. A hair off his head would be the least of it. But if the wolves choose mercy over justice, that is their own fault. This does not staunch his wound. ]

They'll certainly come out of this richer if they sell me, but Northerners are rather renowned for their vengeful palates. They'll think themselves clever enough to win their fretful princess back, and off me in the say day. At least you won't have to console the children over breakfast.

[reignfall]

Stark was meant for the Wall. He agreed to it, even, when I visited him in the dungeons.

⟪ How ironic it is now that they are here, two chained lions. It is a neat little plan: the traitor sent to serve at the Wall, losing his right to land, title, and family, but keeping his life, what would be left of his honour. If there had been a war at all, it would have been less fuelled by the rankled fury of wolves.

Her brother, of course, mourns what he cannot have. What cannot be given, anyway, not now that it would rob her children of everything, and she instinctively knows that, had he been the one to hear Stark's offer – exile, with her and the children and their children – he would have taken it. He would have made her a grand speech of how he would slay every one of the assassins meant to snuff out the realm's shame.

Yet it has been too long, she has bled too much for the title she was owed. She would not leave her children with nothing. ⟫

I told you Tommen did his weeping. It was worse than when Joffrey gutted his fawn. ⟪ It is not like any of the children knew, or could even so much as guess. She has other suspicions as well: Myrcella is quick to weep, too, a sweet girl that she is, but she is not fool enough to do so for all to see.

The truth remains, however, that this – the nature of their children's parentage – is for none but her to know, for her and for him, and curse Tyrion for intruding on that intimacy, as he intrudes on all else of her life. ⟫ I thought his false little joust might rouse him, but I suppose it will have been Tyrion's arrival that does the trick. The boy is too young to know that his promises are worth less than dirt.

⟪ So pitiful a moment it had been, when their youngest brother's promises were all she had to cling to for hope of her twin's safe return. ⟫

[perforo]

[ 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. ]

[reignfall]

He should be weeping with joy to know that his foolish sister hasn't found herself in the dungeons.

⟪ How incredibly tempting it would be, to show the little dove just what it is like to be truly caged. Her sweet, pretty ways would do her no good in her late father's cell. The sharp fury hides her greater troubles, though, for she cannot deny that her twin is right: anything that befalls the girl will no doubt befall Jaime in turn as soon as the news reaches the Starks. Even so petty a pleasure as locking the girl in a cell for a day or, better, a fortnight would not be taken kindly, and considering how a period spent in the belly of the Keep seems to have cost Ned Stark's head, they would be foolish to assume she means for Sansa to live.

This troubles her even now, for she fancies Sansa in King's Landing, but without a watchful eye, she could easily rob Joffrey of the very last of his patience. Her son's handling of traitors, while admirable, are far from politically sound, and they would not factor in his uncle's safety.

Still, she huffs at his laugh and she huffs when he comments on her other son, the youngest, the sweetest and the softest. He should wish to tamper that soft-heartedness out of him, there is no place for it in battle or in ruling, but she knows he sees no harm in a boy frolicking with dogs and fawns and horses and all else there is to see, so long as he retains a steady interest in swords and tales of knights. Her displeasure, however, does not stop her from intervening once he sets the weights aside, familiar as she is with his restless hands. With her own, she touches his forearms, a gesture that could be gentle were she not clawed as any animal, and rarely fond of showing softness, gentle touches, where others could see them. ​ ⟫

I should like to sup on a feast of blood just as well as you do, dear brother. Unfortunately, the rest of the world just so happens to outnumber you. ⟪ If she claims to have said it merely a thousand times, then only because she stopped counting. They do not need the rest of the world, but the rest of the world would not see them leave quietly –

And leave for what? A life in exile? ⟫

[perforo]

[ 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? ]

[reignfall]

⟪ The truth in his words is something she inwardly recoils from. It is paramount, for now, to have her enemies believe that she does not hold one wolf girl, but two in her claws, safe and sound and unharmed, but held nonetheless. If they learn that one is missing, slipped through some fool's grasp like a rat from a trap, who is to say what they may do to her twin? Of course, right now, all thoughts on this can be safely cast aside: there is nothing terrible happening to her twin that she is not sharing in herself in this moment. They have been reunited, for better or worse, and if every daughter of House Stark is found mangled in the morning, wolfish vengeance cannot touch them here.

None of this is a concession she is willing to make out loud, but their argument has steered itself down a different, yet familiar path. She rises from her bench – one to match his own though she ignored the weights with diligence – and leans forward, cat-green eyes narrowing. The movement is calculated, inviting his gaze where a brother's should never linger, as if the mere suggestion of her body can rein impending disaster in. Her nails dig deeper into the skin of his forearms. ⟫

They would not have their realm, and I will not see my children robbed of what is theirs by right.

⟪ Divine right, even, if she dwells on it for a little while longer. Is he not the kingslayer? Should this not have been his crown, his rule? By right, it should be passed on to his sons and daughter, and if he himself is not in the picture the way he might wish, then he could at least think of what would be denied to them. ⟫

I trust you with their lives as I trust you with my own. ⟪ She pushes back, meaning to straighten herself. She does not need to utter the but. ⟫ You have been stopped.

⟪ Once, when the Young Wolf captured him. Twice, if she is vicious enough to count their current imprisonment, as if he has the means to defy such magic. As if anyone she could name has that power. ⟫

[perforo]

[ If they'd shared, currently, a room with their children, whether it be for the breaking of their fast or some rare moment of purposeless joy, he would have gladly called upon them to ask if they cared a whit for possessing a realm. Joffrey, no doubt, would snarl a yes, would demand what was his just as rabidly as his mother would, but Joffrey did not count in these measures of normalcy. What fondness did Tommen have for the realm, a concept too vast to have any meaning for him? So long as he had his pony and his fawn and his blunted lance and his strawman, he would miss nothing of royalty. And Myrcella, how desperately would she cling to this life of ritual and cool detachment? No, she would be happier in a garden, surely, a sprawling, wild garden of her own, and a world to ride into or sail across, with companions who were won by heart, not by gold.

He is already scowling when she rises, ready to brandish this defense against her even as he knows she will refuse it, and he draws in a stiff breath. Her body is already in defense - confronting him, sinking her nails into his arms - and in offense, too, deliberately arranged to catch his eye. He does drop a glance down its favored path below her collarbone, but this reward does not silence him. ]

They don't want the realm. Have you asked them lately what they want?

[ She's been promptly denying Tommen what is too dangerous or too inglorious, he does not doubt, and she has surely been reminding Myrcella of her place, instructing her in what is worthy and what is not. And none of it by right - only by the right of his sword, a strength she now will not trust in completely. He falls back a step when she pushes away, his gaze gone to flint as he watches her. ]

So have you. [ At least in this instance, he is not alone in the shame of having been bested. By man or magic, it doesn't matter - they are trapped here together, her failure gleaming right alongside his own, if she is in a mood to name it failure. ]