She is not a woman who has come uncomplaining to this hall, is she? As he watches her, as he studies the face she has carved from stone, the body she holds as imperturbable as marble or granite, as smooth as any flint which lives its like unflinching but also unfeeling, he knows this is not the way she would have it. She is too familiar with those men who had brought him here, too appreciative of their valor to be a woman who has had no taste of it. She would pose herself as a lady should, as the matron of a steaming kitchen might, the reach of her reign small, but more or less her own. A great many woman are satisfied with that lot, he thinks, which is more than the great many more women who will never know such fortune. To keep a hall, or a castle; to be entrusted with the hospitality which must be shown to a lord's leal companions - that is a feat still, however small. Any woman might rightly forfeit all she was born into if it meant the chance to taste even that pale flavor of command. And for other women, that would never be enough.
He knows nothing of her, and that is owed exclusively to the fact that he has not cared to learn anything of her. He had not cared to burden himself with cautious studies and even more cautious preparations before cantering into those mountain vales. He knows only what he had heard in crumbling fritters of conversation, just savory enough to capture his attention. He knows only that it is a land still of unmined glories, so far as his House is concerned. He knew he would be the first to lay it low, the first lion to climb to the top of the proud hill and proclaim it beholden to the name of Lannister. He has found himself bound before this stoic maid of stone, instead, but it is only a slight disruption to his idea of how his victory will unfurl. He has overcome worse blows.
All she has in return is a correction of her frightful lord's title, and he laughs as she assures him of the care taken of his most trustworthy ally, the horse that had carried him here. He will not believe the beast more comely than himself, and he shakes his golden hair as if to remind her of it, knowing it surely must be catching only weak glints of light in this hollow heart of stone. She folds her arms, pins him with another question pertinent to the logistics of his assault, which had amounted to no assault at all. He cannot answer her this, more puzzled by the unsubstantiated claim she has made.
"There is nothing any of us wants more than company, my lady. My horse, myself and you included. What is freedom without company but a solitary cell? A large cell, yes, but a prison all the same." He offers up at her an endearing smile - no, it is given whether she will have it or not - and he knows without having to press the issue that she is without a doubt aligned with her mares in this regard. She will have only the company she deems necessary, and would sooner die alone, stalwart and frozen, with only the wind to run its fingers through her hair, than admit that perhaps her heart felt barren of joy. A horse, at least, has the privilege of running itself to death in pursuit of companionship. A lady must tend her halls at the cost of all else.
He knocks his arms about, the muscles irritated to be bound so ignobly and for what has felt like so long, rolling his head on his neck to emphasize his discomfort at being made to suffer her pleasure in so shoddy a position.
"You are mightily insistent that I came with a company, or will soon be reliant upon one. I assure you, it is only me, and I am beginning to feel it as a personal insult that you think me so inept at riding alone." Disregarding the fact that he is presently captured, of course. A wrinkle to be smoothed out as soon as his hands are free.
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sforzinda
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Date: 2021-09-21 04:54 am (UTC)He knows nothing of her, and that is owed exclusively to the fact that he has not cared to learn anything of her. He had not cared to burden himself with cautious studies and even more cautious preparations before cantering into those mountain vales. He knows only what he had heard in crumbling fritters of conversation, just savory enough to capture his attention. He knows only that it is a land still of unmined glories, so far as his House is concerned. He knew he would be the first to lay it low, the first lion to climb to the top of the proud hill and proclaim it beholden to the name of Lannister. He has found himself bound before this stoic maid of stone, instead, but it is only a slight disruption to his idea of how his victory will unfurl. He has overcome worse blows.
All she has in return is a correction of her frightful lord's title, and he laughs as she assures him of the care taken of his most trustworthy ally, the horse that had carried him here. He will not believe the beast more comely than himself, and he shakes his golden hair as if to remind her of it, knowing it surely must be catching only weak glints of light in this hollow heart of stone. She folds her arms, pins him with another question pertinent to the logistics of his assault, which had amounted to no assault at all. He cannot answer her this, more puzzled by the unsubstantiated claim she has made.
"There is nothing any of us wants more than company, my lady. My horse, myself and you included. What is freedom without company but a solitary cell? A large cell, yes, but a prison all the same." He offers up at her an endearing smile - no, it is given whether she will have it or not - and he knows without having to press the issue that she is without a doubt aligned with her mares in this regard. She will have only the company she deems necessary, and would sooner die alone, stalwart and frozen, with only the wind to run its fingers through her hair, than admit that perhaps her heart felt barren of joy. A horse, at least, has the privilege of running itself to death in pursuit of companionship. A lady must tend her halls at the cost of all else.
He knocks his arms about, the muscles irritated to be bound so ignobly and for what has felt like so long, rolling his head on his neck to emphasize his discomfort at being made to suffer her pleasure in so shoddy a position.
"You are mightily insistent that I came with a company, or will soon be reliant upon one. I assure you, it is only me, and I am beginning to feel it as a personal insult that you think me so inept at riding alone." Disregarding the fact that he is presently captured, of course. A wrinkle to be smoothed out as soon as his hands are free.