She holds still to her stubborn faith that this will come to a better end, when the wedding is over; and yet, it is hard to hold her smile and her gentleness throughout all the feasting, when it seems that he is determined to insult every lord and marshal of the realm. He speaks of fire and blood, to a hall of men who have seen their lands scoured by both; he speaks of the splendour of dragons before the heirs of Fram. She feels her face grow hot, and must duck her head and trust to the fall of her hair to hide the colour that has risen in her cheeks, the tension in her jaw. No matter how she may tell herself that it is ignorance, not malice, that he means well enough - no matter what she tells herself of his intent, it does not bode well for a king to speak so carelessly, and with so little tact. There is a gnawing doubt in the pit of her chest, that whispers that she has been a fool.
She will not heed it. What sense in that? It is done; they are wed, and it cannot be undone, even as she sees her uncle's face darken with anger and hears the murmurs of discontent among the guests. If it is a mistake, it is one that cannot easily be taken back. The only way is forwards.
Still, in truth, she is glad to leave the hall which she so carefully arranged; she is glad to leave the ringing of harps and the songs of love that have been struck up; she is glad, most of all, to leave the regard of her uncle, of Gríma, and of the men who she called here to be insulted to their faces. And the hollow absence of the man she most expected to stand at her side, too: Éomer is still far away in the Eastfold, and was not permitted to return to the city, and that aches in her heart almost as much as the sudden doubt she feels. Let matters proceed, then: let her be taken away, and face a readier trial, where she at least cannot be expected to know how to handle herself, and let it be done privately, where his clumsiness cannot change how the Mark sees them. She goes readily enough with her new husband; pauses only to offer Théoden the due courtesy of a smile and a curtsey, and to murmur a few words in her own tongue to the servant who stands by with the wine.
Viserys' hand is tight at her elbow. She cannot help but note it, as she lengthens her own strides to match his, as she draws herself upright and pulls her grace around her like armour. His laughter is sharp as the ring of steel, but she finds no thrill in it; it is cold, she thinks. He is cold, as no man should be on his wedding night; as he was not in his letters, and as he was not in her imaginings. And is she to warm him; she who has thought these many years that all the fire in her has died to embers, and left nothing but icy duty? She bites the inside of her cheek as he speaks, and tries to banish such morbid thoughts.
And yet, he seems determined to spark them anew. It is becoming clearer who you are, she thinks bitterly. I would that I had seen it sooner.
"You are my lord husband." Her tone, at least, is even and gentle; her expression betrays nothing. If there is one lesson that has come to her through these years of her uncle's sickness, it is to veil her doubts and tamp down on the fury that still at times rises in her blood. "And you are of royal blood, and yours will be the crown of the Seven Kingdoms. I have not forgotten it." And there it might safely be left, conciliatory and simple; save that for all her restraint, she is still of Eorl's blood, and her pride is still rankled by his shameless speech in the hall. There is, then, a flicker of steel in her cloud-grey eyes, and a flash of sharpness in her own voice. "Nor have I forgotten that we are at war, nor that Théoden King still mourns his son, whom I too loved well. It grieves me if you are not pleased, my lord, but there are limits to what ceremony and feasting our lords will gladly stand; for fire and blood are more than words to them."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2022-01-28 12:10 am (UTC)She will not heed it. What sense in that? It is done; they are wed, and it cannot be undone, even as she sees her uncle's face darken with anger and hears the murmurs of discontent among the guests. If it is a mistake, it is one that cannot easily be taken back. The only way is forwards.
Still, in truth, she is glad to leave the hall which she so carefully arranged; she is glad to leave the ringing of harps and the songs of love that have been struck up; she is glad, most of all, to leave the regard of her uncle, of Gríma, and of the men who she called here to be insulted to their faces. And the hollow absence of the man she most expected to stand at her side, too: Éomer is still far away in the Eastfold, and was not permitted to return to the city, and that aches in her heart almost as much as the sudden doubt she feels. Let matters proceed, then: let her be taken away, and face a readier trial, where she at least cannot be expected to know how to handle herself, and let it be done privately, where his clumsiness cannot change how the Mark sees them. She goes readily enough with her new husband; pauses only to offer Théoden the due courtesy of a smile and a curtsey, and to murmur a few words in her own tongue to the servant who stands by with the wine.
Viserys' hand is tight at her elbow. She cannot help but note it, as she lengthens her own strides to match his, as she draws herself upright and pulls her grace around her like armour. His laughter is sharp as the ring of steel, but she finds no thrill in it; it is cold, she thinks. He is cold, as no man should be on his wedding night; as he was not in his letters, and as he was not in her imaginings. And is she to warm him; she who has thought these many years that all the fire in her has died to embers, and left nothing but icy duty? She bites the inside of her cheek as he speaks, and tries to banish such morbid thoughts.
And yet, he seems determined to spark them anew. It is becoming clearer who you are, she thinks bitterly. I would that I had seen it sooner.
"You are my lord husband." Her tone, at least, is even and gentle; her expression betrays nothing. If there is one lesson that has come to her through these years of her uncle's sickness, it is to veil her doubts and tamp down on the fury that still at times rises in her blood. "And you are of royal blood, and yours will be the crown of the Seven Kingdoms. I have not forgotten it." And there it might safely be left, conciliatory and simple; save that for all her restraint, she is still of Eorl's blood, and her pride is still rankled by his shameless speech in the hall. There is, then, a flicker of steel in her cloud-grey eyes, and a flash of sharpness in her own voice. "Nor have I forgotten that we are at war, nor that Théoden King still mourns his son, whom I too loved well. It grieves me if you are not pleased, my lord, but there are limits to what ceremony and feasting our lords will gladly stand; for fire and blood are more than words to them."