Do you hunger so much for death, she wonders, that you cannot bridle your tongue even for a moment? It is not impossible. She knows well how death can lose its sting and its fear, lose any power it might have had; and if that is true, then this is a doomed endeavour, for he does not seem that he will respond to a plea to his honour, either. He does not seem, to her, a man with much of it to reach.
Pride, though - pride, he has in abundance. Pride in what, she cannot say. In the shine of the gaudy and too-weighty armour she is told he wore? In the martial prowess that could not keep him from an easy capture? Or in this House of his, in a name she does not know or care for? Lannister. She has studied, as a princess must, the names of the great lines of Gondor and Rhovanion, and of course of Rohan; she has not heard this name, and it does not impress her. Nor does his assurance of ransom.
"We are not mercenaries, or bandits on the road," she tells him, her voice level again. His jibe about her supposed husband, she ignores; there is no wound there to reopen, for she is not self-conscious in her maidenhood, does not consider her spinsterhood a mistake or a slight. An inconvenience, perhaps, at times, but no more; she knows she is fair, just as she knows that there is no time for her to be wedded, when her people need her more than any husband could. "We do not want your gold, or your father's. You were taken because you trespassed with steel drawn on lands that you had no right to tread; and you will be returned if and when we are assured that you mean no threat against the Mark."
Gold would not be of use now, in any case. It is not gold that the Mark lacks, but leadership; a firm hand to steady the people and rally against the onslaught that assails from every side. Gold will not bring King Théoden back to himself, or drive Gríma from his ever-present place at the king's side; gold will not push back the Dunlendings, or keep the Orcish hordes from harrying the land. Gold is nothing but an investment against a future that cannot exist, a gleam that will not hold back the Shadow.
But it does worry her, for Gríma is a dishonourable man, and gold still has lustre for him. Now she must contend with a greater fear than that this prisoner will be killed before he tells what they must know: now she must worry that he will be freed before he tells them, at Gríma's command, and return in fuller force against their borders. She does her best not to show this worry on her face, to keep it smooth and hard as polished stone.
"You were found alone. Did you truly ride so far into the Fenmark with no men at your back? Did you think thus to pass unnoticed, even in armour that shines in the sun like a beacon?"
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sforzinda
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Date: 2021-09-12 04:49 pm (UTC)Pride, though - pride, he has in abundance. Pride in what, she cannot say. In the shine of the gaudy and too-weighty armour she is told he wore? In the martial prowess that could not keep him from an easy capture? Or in this House of his, in a name she does not know or care for? Lannister. She has studied, as a princess must, the names of the great lines of Gondor and Rhovanion, and of course of Rohan; she has not heard this name, and it does not impress her. Nor does his assurance of ransom.
"We are not mercenaries, or bandits on the road," she tells him, her voice level again. His jibe about her supposed husband, she ignores; there is no wound there to reopen, for she is not self-conscious in her maidenhood, does not consider her spinsterhood a mistake or a slight. An inconvenience, perhaps, at times, but no more; she knows she is fair, just as she knows that there is no time for her to be wedded, when her people need her more than any husband could. "We do not want your gold, or your father's. You were taken because you trespassed with steel drawn on lands that you had no right to tread; and you will be returned if and when we are assured that you mean no threat against the Mark."
Gold would not be of use now, in any case. It is not gold that the Mark lacks, but leadership; a firm hand to steady the people and rally against the onslaught that assails from every side. Gold will not bring King Théoden back to himself, or drive Gríma from his ever-present place at the king's side; gold will not push back the Dunlendings, or keep the Orcish hordes from harrying the land. Gold is nothing but an investment against a future that cannot exist, a gleam that will not hold back the Shadow.
But it does worry her, for Gríma is a dishonourable man, and gold still has lustre for him. Now she must contend with a greater fear than that this prisoner will be killed before he tells what they must know: now she must worry that he will be freed before he tells them, at Gríma's command, and return in fuller force against their borders. She does her best not to show this worry on her face, to keep it smooth and hard as polished stone.
"You were found alone. Did you truly ride so far into the Fenmark with no men at your back? Did you think thus to pass unnoticed, even in armour that shines in the sun like a beacon?"