She is not scandalized by his accusation, yields no ground in order to retreat from such impudence. She merely corrects him, as if he were truly too dull to have known, but his gambit does not go unrewarded. There is in her voice a spitting venom, though she may fancy herself too ladylike to spit. She is angry or hurt, likely both, though of course he knows nothing of her mother, nothing of her father, and nothing of what depravity she might have stooped to in order to achieve her current title. What was it, exactly? Lady of these halls? An unconvinced roll of his eyes takes in the scope of the room, deeming it still to be as ordinary as any room of stone, though an improvement over a dank dungeon cell, a fate he is grateful not to suffer.
There is that unfading color high on her cheeks, and his laughter is a breath to himself as he rests back, beginning to ache for having been so long bound. A minor annoyance, relatively, a pesky nipping in his body when he would rather have been standing at his full height, sword at his hip, armor gleaming as hard as golden bone. Maybe she is a lady after all, to be so unsettled by his crass strikes. Maybe that is a woman's embarrassment she wears. Or does she only burn with aggravation? It is a blemish, one way or the other; it is a chink in whichever paltry armor she thinks herself clad in. It is proof that he has antagonized her to something, even if he cannot be certain what it is. He doesn't care; it is better than nothing, better than silence.
Set proudly before him are names he does not know, titles that orient her among the figures of authority this kingdom boasts. He does not know them, and commits none of them to a memory that could never have recalled those unspeakable names, anyway. Her father, her mother, the king, and the name of this cursed place. Meduseld? He spends a moment placing this upon the map he does not carry, but she notes the imperative duties which await her, and makes of him the primary suspect in disrupting that itinerary. He has no interest in having her lineage recited for him, and he will not hear of her heroes.
He gives her a baleful glare, his amusement at being held prisoner as fickle as the sea in a storm.
"Too much of my life already has been lost listening to the names of Houses far inferior to my own." This is, he has learned, an objective fact. There is no House which commands more tremendous wealth, no House which sees even the proudest of men bow their heads in admiration and in fear. "I am Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister, who will pay you handsomely for my return. More handsomely if all my pieces are intact," he has the wits to add, rolling the hard muscle of his jaw.
"You have named your kin, but to whom are you wed? You cannot be a maid still, unless you suffer some gruesome affliction?" He seems to brighten at the prospect, at the infinite possibilities therein. Other possibilities, too, unrelated - "Or is that your husband is a disgrace to you? A coward or a drunk? Is he the grotesque?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sforzinda
no subject
Date: 2021-09-12 03:58 am (UTC)There is that unfading color high on her cheeks, and his laughter is a breath to himself as he rests back, beginning to ache for having been so long bound. A minor annoyance, relatively, a pesky nipping in his body when he would rather have been standing at his full height, sword at his hip, armor gleaming as hard as golden bone. Maybe she is a lady after all, to be so unsettled by his crass strikes. Maybe that is a woman's embarrassment she wears. Or does she only burn with aggravation? It is a blemish, one way or the other; it is a chink in whichever paltry armor she thinks herself clad in. It is proof that he has antagonized her to something, even if he cannot be certain what it is. He doesn't care; it is better than nothing, better than silence.
Set proudly before him are names he does not know, titles that orient her among the figures of authority this kingdom boasts. He does not know them, and commits none of them to a memory that could never have recalled those unspeakable names, anyway. Her father, her mother, the king, and the name of this cursed place. Meduseld? He spends a moment placing this upon the map he does not carry, but she notes the imperative duties which await her, and makes of him the primary suspect in disrupting that itinerary. He has no interest in having her lineage recited for him, and he will not hear of her heroes.
He gives her a baleful glare, his amusement at being held prisoner as fickle as the sea in a storm.
"Too much of my life already has been lost listening to the names of Houses far inferior to my own." This is, he has learned, an objective fact. There is no House which commands more tremendous wealth, no House which sees even the proudest of men bow their heads in admiration and in fear. "I am Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister, who will pay you handsomely for my return. More handsomely if all my pieces are intact," he has the wits to add, rolling the hard muscle of his jaw.
"You have named your kin, but to whom are you wed? You cannot be a maid still, unless you suffer some gruesome affliction?" He seems to brighten at the prospect, at the infinite possibilities therein. Other possibilities, too, unrelated - "Or is that your husband is a disgrace to you? A coward or a drunk? Is he the grotesque?"