Ah, a room where women do as they are bid - this seems fitting. A room, he determines with a bright, denouncing glance from wall to wall, where the women sit in demure silence and do the work that a man would never turn his hand to. Here she will learn what she ought to have learned decades ago. A swipe of his boot jerks the door shut behind them, and he laughs suddenly when he feels the knock of his blade in his scabbard, a jackal's laugh.
If her cow's courage deserts her and she does call out, what will her men come to her defense armed with? Wooden spoons and splintered chairs? His is the only blade, so far as he could tell, which caught any lantern-light in this place. Courtesy kept the men of this country unarmed in their ailing king's hall. Would they rush to her aid with their bare hands? Would they raise booming voices to command him to stop, invoking whichever impotent gods they worshipped here? Or would they beseech him to do her no harm? This strikes him as their way. They would beg him to call off his violence against her, and to take instead their groveling remorse. What shape would those gifts take?
None could appeal to him more than what he already has in hand, however. She is built of crude muscle, as his appraising eye had deduced by the strength of her stride and her proud carriage, but she cannot refuse the weasel-quick fangs of his rage. Thin and light as his fingers might appear at a casual glance, they are commanded to a noose's work now, and he knows she will bruise. He was not built in Rhaegar's likeness - he does not command with the breadth of his chest and the wolfish vigor in the cut of his jaw and the flex of his calf. But leaner dogs often outlive the more robust. The madness of their hunger sees them fed where the more noble beasts balk. Men die when they balk.
He has her crowded into the dark, and he needs only a flat surface to lay her upon, something to bear the brunt of the force with which he means to chastise her. A table, a wall, though he abandons the notion of the latter when he thinks again of the inch or two she stands above him. She will look up at him; never the other way around. So it is toward the silent table that he begins to steer her, fingers pinching into the flesh beneath her gown, and before he understands what has happened, he is knocked back a step, in what feels to his disgust like retreat.
It is retreat, retreat from the force of a blow, and the bar of burning pain that yawns suddenly across his face tells all. With the backward force of arm and hand she has struck him, and it costs him a moment to focus his vision again, the riled sight of her resolving once more before him. The shock is momentary. With the manic energy of flames striving to build themselves high, he lunges forward, one hand seizing her by the hair, the other taking her by the throat. Quickly must she be trapped beneath him; his is the desperate fury of a man grabbing at sparks, insistent that none shall escape his grasp and catch elsewhere. It is at the table's edge that he would have her, bent first before him, as if she were the beast who belonged wailing in the kennels.
"I will leave both your hands at your table before we go, since they will never be put to better work. Your tongue will no doubt join them. Strike me again, you horse's whore, and see what pieces of you I do not leave scattered about this place."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2022-01-29 10:30 pm (UTC)If her cow's courage deserts her and she does call out, what will her men come to her defense armed with? Wooden spoons and splintered chairs? His is the only blade, so far as he could tell, which caught any lantern-light in this place. Courtesy kept the men of this country unarmed in their ailing king's hall. Would they rush to her aid with their bare hands? Would they raise booming voices to command him to stop, invoking whichever impotent gods they worshipped here? Or would they beseech him to do her no harm? This strikes him as their way. They would beg him to call off his violence against her, and to take instead their groveling remorse. What shape would those gifts take?
None could appeal to him more than what he already has in hand, however. She is built of crude muscle, as his appraising eye had deduced by the strength of her stride and her proud carriage, but she cannot refuse the weasel-quick fangs of his rage. Thin and light as his fingers might appear at a casual glance, they are commanded to a noose's work now, and he knows she will bruise. He was not built in Rhaegar's likeness - he does not command with the breadth of his chest and the wolfish vigor in the cut of his jaw and the flex of his calf. But leaner dogs often outlive the more robust. The madness of their hunger sees them fed where the more noble beasts balk. Men die when they balk.
He has her crowded into the dark, and he needs only a flat surface to lay her upon, something to bear the brunt of the force with which he means to chastise her. A table, a wall, though he abandons the notion of the latter when he thinks again of the inch or two she stands above him. She will look up at him; never the other way around. So it is toward the silent table that he begins to steer her, fingers pinching into the flesh beneath her gown, and before he understands what has happened, he is knocked back a step, in what feels to his disgust like retreat.
It is retreat, retreat from the force of a blow, and the bar of burning pain that yawns suddenly across his face tells all. With the backward force of arm and hand she has struck him, and it costs him a moment to focus his vision again, the riled sight of her resolving once more before him. The shock is momentary. With the manic energy of flames striving to build themselves high, he lunges forward, one hand seizing her by the hair, the other taking her by the throat. Quickly must she be trapped beneath him; his is the desperate fury of a man grabbing at sparks, insistent that none shall escape his grasp and catch elsewhere. It is at the table's edge that he would have her, bent first before him, as if she were the beast who belonged wailing in the kennels.
"I will leave both your hands at your table before we go, since they will never be put to better work. Your tongue will no doubt join them. Strike me again, you horse's whore, and see what pieces of you I do not leave scattered about this place."