Bound and fearful, she declares, and his laughter is a condescending bark. Upon no page in the history of his life will it ever be written that he was bound and fearful. It is an annoyance that he has been captured, indeed, and his tale would have been unacceptably short if her people had proven to be as cruel as they were dull. As it is, it would seem that they are only dull. No one has overtly threatened him, no one has challenged him on his merit as a knight or a soldier. They would sooner hold him bound, assault him with drear demands upon the direction and purpose of his ride, and hesitate to see him beheaded for his trespass. They will evidently hesitate, too, before reaching greedily for the ransom they might have. He does not sit in fear of her sullen face, and he had not ridden in fear when her loyal lord had delivered him to her.
He does not sit in fear of any man she names - he can, he is quite certain, best any of them who might rally the bravery to confront him in the combat of justice - and he is not quaking in the shadow of so many unfathomable atrocities that might befall him within the walls of this place. He is beginning to think there is not a soul here that would have the stomach to see it done. This is bewildering; he would have known what to do with a blundering, violent adversary. He has little experience in negotiating with those who are so unfamiliar with his face and his name that they would rather waste these hours of holding him hostage with such miserable, doubtful questioning. They do not provoke him, do not esteem him; they give him nothing which he might have fashioned into a weapon. There is only her sullen face, and the threat of what he assumes will be another sullen face to come.
"Begging your pardon, my lady, but I do not fear you, and I do not fear anyone above you." Who would it be? Men more likely to see him maimed or returned or at least tossed into a pit to prove his mettle? He cocks his head as he studies her, a twitch of thought at his lips, and a gleam in the liquid motion of his feline eyes. If he had feared the possibility of trouble, he would never have ridden.
He reaches again with his tongue for another dab of the blood that seems to have beaded along a cut at his cheek, considering, and cannot stop himself from sallying blindly on even now, without horse or armor or sword. But there is nothing of him that is cold or reflecting or careful.
"Why spend any time with this Grim Gríma at all? I am your captive, to do with as you please. It is for you to decide if I am beaten or turned loose or given contest against any man of your choosing." Then, with a dashing smile that bares his teeth, "Or a moonlight ride, if that is more to your liking, as I am not convinced any man here would give you that."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sforzinda
no subject
Date: 2021-10-02 10:42 pm (UTC)He does not sit in fear of any man she names - he can, he is quite certain, best any of them who might rally the bravery to confront him in the combat of justice - and he is not quaking in the shadow of so many unfathomable atrocities that might befall him within the walls of this place. He is beginning to think there is not a soul here that would have the stomach to see it done. This is bewildering; he would have known what to do with a blundering, violent adversary. He has little experience in negotiating with those who are so unfamiliar with his face and his name that they would rather waste these hours of holding him hostage with such miserable, doubtful questioning. They do not provoke him, do not esteem him; they give him nothing which he might have fashioned into a weapon. There is only her sullen face, and the threat of what he assumes will be another sullen face to come.
"Begging your pardon, my lady, but I do not fear you, and I do not fear anyone above you." Who would it be? Men more likely to see him maimed or returned or at least tossed into a pit to prove his mettle? He cocks his head as he studies her, a twitch of thought at his lips, and a gleam in the liquid motion of his feline eyes. If he had feared the possibility of trouble, he would never have ridden.
He reaches again with his tongue for another dab of the blood that seems to have beaded along a cut at his cheek, considering, and cannot stop himself from sallying blindly on even now, without horse or armor or sword. But there is nothing of him that is cold or reflecting or careful.
"Why spend any time with this Grim Gríma at all? I am your captive, to do with as you please. It is for you to decide if I am beaten or turned loose or given contest against any man of your choosing." Then, with a dashing smile that bares his teeth, "Or a moonlight ride, if that is more to your liking, as I am not convinced any man here would give you that."