She does not know, in truth, what a septa is; it is enough to know from his tone that it is an insult. It is enough to feel how his eyes creep over her, with less intent hunger than certain other eyes, but uncomfortably searching nonetheless. It is enough that he has, truthfully or otherwise, finally given her an answer.
"I know well enough," she tells him, her tone curt, "but we cannot all have the luxury of following where the stir of our blood leads us." Or else she would not be here; would be a hundred miles hence, with her breasts bound and her face disguised, to ride with sword bared and shield raised against the foes that harry her people; would be feeling the wind in her face and the cry of a warrior's rage boiling from her throat; would not still suffer herself to be caught among these dark shadows and hungry eyes. But she has duty, and she has love, and both are chains that bind her here; and she envies him, in all his stupidity, almost as much as she envies her brother or her cousin. "As for you, if you had thought to ask why, then you might not now be bound and fearful of my sullen face, and I might not have to spend more time with Lord Gríma to settle this matter. Berating yourself a little more, then, might have spared us both a good deal of trouble."
Her tone is cold, but her blood is not, and there is a faint flush of anger on her cheeks. What right, after all, does he have to judge her? What right to speak of the weight of questions, when she feels that weight day and night? Will he hold himself in any way lovelier for his recklessness than she is in her crushing honour? And will he keep wandering in his gaze, worse in judgement than in hunger, until she feels herself almost naked before him?
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sforzinda
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Date: 2021-09-26 10:49 pm (UTC)"I know well enough," she tells him, her tone curt, "but we cannot all have the luxury of following where the stir of our blood leads us." Or else she would not be here; would be a hundred miles hence, with her breasts bound and her face disguised, to ride with sword bared and shield raised against the foes that harry her people; would be feeling the wind in her face and the cry of a warrior's rage boiling from her throat; would not still suffer herself to be caught among these dark shadows and hungry eyes. But she has duty, and she has love, and both are chains that bind her here; and she envies him, in all his stupidity, almost as much as she envies her brother or her cousin. "As for you, if you had thought to ask why, then you might not now be bound and fearful of my sullen face, and I might not have to spend more time with Lord Gríma to settle this matter. Berating yourself a little more, then, might have spared us both a good deal of trouble."
Her tone is cold, but her blood is not, and there is a faint flush of anger on her cheeks. What right, after all, does he have to judge her? What right to speak of the weight of questions, when she feels that weight day and night? Will he hold himself in any way lovelier for his recklessness than she is in her crushing honour? And will he keep wandering in his gaze, worse in judgement than in hunger, until she feels herself almost naked before him?