The horses of this place are fine - regardless of her brother's open disdain for them, she cannot help but think them more beautiful than any steed she'd seen in the Free Cities. It is not only an artifice of beauty, either; it is not a matter of barding that glitters or a mane brushed to shining. They are built so that their strength is as striking as their coats. Agile and dangerously powerful, she thinks. Perhaps she was beguiled too early by tales of this place, but it seems that these are horses who should boast wings, who should canter quite literally across a sky strewn with stars.
And they make, as do horses wherever she has happened to pass, for kind company. The men of this foreign hall have been gentle, she had been relieved to find: there seemed to be in them no undue bawdiness or carousing. They are a valiant people, so far as she can tell by a relatively slight introduction. That is her brother's preference, as she had known it would be: there is little practical place for her here, where it is his wedding that it is to be celebrated, and the calling to war, the rallying of his new armies, which will follow. Sometimes it is best to be sent from his side, for he can be difficult to read, a sea tossed by a dark storm: either he is rankled by how she lingers, or he is affronted by how she does not often enough praise him, or he sneers at how decidedly unsuited she is to their family name.
His general disappoint in her is ever preferable to his furious efforts to correct her, however, and so she is not terribly subdued by shame when they come. He is occupied by his blustering appraisal of his new allies, of course, and so she has enjoyed a relative freedom in partaking of this storybook kingdom. It is beautiful, though her brother seems to have missed it: its rolling plains, and its strange golden hall which feasts upon the light, and its gentle and open-handed people. Their fare is unlike what she is accustomed to, although in the years spent fleeing one city for the next, before the magister's generous endorsement of her brother, there were a number of dinners made of queer foods. This table, however, was clearly arranged with careful intent, and by a talented hand. The banners flown, the tapestries displayed, the well-kept rooms they borrow; all has been tended, she thinks, with a certain joy.
A wedding ought to be heralded with the people's joy, and indeed the lady her brother weds is one of high breeding, a treasure of this place. It is warming to see, how her people look upon her: with pride and with certainty, the trust of a people for their queen. It crosses her mind, though she would never dream of saying so aloud, that this woman does not need her brother to call herself a queen. She is already queen of this hall; one needs only glance at the faces of the men within it to know that is true. Even the ailing king, for whom she feels a particular sorrow, for it is clear to her too how the White Lady loves her uncle. Surely Viserys can appreciate the lasting loyalty of his new wife's kin, but as she stands in witness at the ceremony, she knows better. There is a humiliated heat atop her own cheeks to know how he looks upon that proud king and sees only a man dying, to know that he looks upon the bounty at the board and sees a peasant's feast, and to know that he looks upon his wife as a woman underserving of his esteem.
She had not, then, despite her habit of lingering quietly, kept herself long at the edges of the feast. The merriment is a sort of salve for these people, she thinks, when they have been long at war, with eyes aching for the beauty of a wedding and throats empty of laughter. Now they shall have at least one night of it, to celebrate their lady's ascension to the dragon's side. Maybe they will, for one night, drink and indulge their cheer and forget that this, too, is only a bridge to the next war.
The true reason she cannot bear to partake any longer is because she sees how unkindly her brother takes his new bride by the elbow when they go, and she knows, with bruises long faded on her own arms, what that unkindness means. He is no master of his temper, and he will not bow to what he perceives as a great indignity. But whereas he would not squander his sister's virtue in his madness, there is no such shield for his bride to flinch behind. She takes no comfort in the certainty that that woman would not flinch, either. This dread only hastens her from the hall all the faster.
To keep with the horses for a while, to steady herself with their warm, whuffling company, and to remind herself that it is no concern of hers. She need not think of it, because there is never anything she can say of it. That this proud lady will be her sister, and her blooming delight at that prospect - it does not matter. Éowyn will always be a wife first. If there is any respite to be found in that, she does not find it. But she is broken from the pang of wondering when a glimpse of motion beyond the stables catches her eye.
A figure walking, though absent the grace and purpose which seems to mark most bodies here. A figure strangely garbed, too, in what looks like ribboning rags more than a proper dress. The golden hair is already familiar to her, and she follows in as careful a silence as she can manage. Up onto the walls they go, and the figure - this figure who is, she is stung to see, the White Lady - looks one direction and then the other, searching. For what? But she cannot pretend not to know this, either. This is the way a person looks upon the horizon when they have begun to accept that no one is going to come riding across it. It is the look of someone who has turned their gaze down and understood that the rocks below are a more faithful answer.
"My lady?" It is tentative, lilting with uncertainty at its end, though there is no mistaking now the stranger before her. There is no mistaking, either, how she came to be this way.
The height of the wall is not so alarming - she has climbed upon high stone walls before, rather thrilled by the fantasy of soaring, however briefly - and it seems a grave injustice that her own gown, hushed blues and whites, is finer now than the bride's own. The wind has teeth here in a way that it does not in the Free Cities, and it chases a chill up her spine when it lifts her hair off her shoulders, cutting where the breezes off the sea only kissed.
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sforzinda
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Date: 2022-02-03 08:58 pm (UTC)And they make, as do horses wherever she has happened to pass, for kind company. The men of this foreign hall have been gentle, she had been relieved to find: there seemed to be in them no undue bawdiness or carousing. They are a valiant people, so far as she can tell by a relatively slight introduction. That is her brother's preference, as she had known it would be: there is little practical place for her here, where it is his wedding that it is to be celebrated, and the calling to war, the rallying of his new armies, which will follow. Sometimes it is best to be sent from his side, for he can be difficult to read, a sea tossed by a dark storm: either he is rankled by how she lingers, or he is affronted by how she does not often enough praise him, or he sneers at how decidedly unsuited she is to their family name.
His general disappoint in her is ever preferable to his furious efforts to correct her, however, and so she is not terribly subdued by shame when they come. He is occupied by his blustering appraisal of his new allies, of course, and so she has enjoyed a relative freedom in partaking of this storybook kingdom. It is beautiful, though her brother seems to have missed it: its rolling plains, and its strange golden hall which feasts upon the light, and its gentle and open-handed people. Their fare is unlike what she is accustomed to, although in the years spent fleeing one city for the next, before the magister's generous endorsement of her brother, there were a number of dinners made of queer foods. This table, however, was clearly arranged with careful intent, and by a talented hand. The banners flown, the tapestries displayed, the well-kept rooms they borrow; all has been tended, she thinks, with a certain joy.
A wedding ought to be heralded with the people's joy, and indeed the lady her brother weds is one of high breeding, a treasure of this place. It is warming to see, how her people look upon her: with pride and with certainty, the trust of a people for their queen. It crosses her mind, though she would never dream of saying so aloud, that this woman does not need her brother to call herself a queen. She is already queen of this hall; one needs only glance at the faces of the men within it to know that is true. Even the ailing king, for whom she feels a particular sorrow, for it is clear to her too how the White Lady loves her uncle. Surely Viserys can appreciate the lasting loyalty of his new wife's kin, but as she stands in witness at the ceremony, she knows better. There is a humiliated heat atop her own cheeks to know how he looks upon that proud king and sees only a man dying, to know that he looks upon the bounty at the board and sees a peasant's feast, and to know that he looks upon his wife as a woman underserving of his esteem.
She had not, then, despite her habit of lingering quietly, kept herself long at the edges of the feast. The merriment is a sort of salve for these people, she thinks, when they have been long at war, with eyes aching for the beauty of a wedding and throats empty of laughter. Now they shall have at least one night of it, to celebrate their lady's ascension to the dragon's side. Maybe they will, for one night, drink and indulge their cheer and forget that this, too, is only a bridge to the next war.
The true reason she cannot bear to partake any longer is because she sees how unkindly her brother takes his new bride by the elbow when they go, and she knows, with bruises long faded on her own arms, what that unkindness means. He is no master of his temper, and he will not bow to what he perceives as a great indignity. But whereas he would not squander his sister's virtue in his madness, there is no such shield for his bride to flinch behind. She takes no comfort in the certainty that that woman would not flinch, either. This dread only hastens her from the hall all the faster.
To keep with the horses for a while, to steady herself with their warm, whuffling company, and to remind herself that it is no concern of hers. She need not think of it, because there is never anything she can say of it. That this proud lady will be her sister, and her blooming delight at that prospect - it does not matter. Éowyn will always be a wife first. If there is any respite to be found in that, she does not find it. But she is broken from the pang of wondering when a glimpse of motion beyond the stables catches her eye.
A figure walking, though absent the grace and purpose which seems to mark most bodies here. A figure strangely garbed, too, in what looks like ribboning rags more than a proper dress. The golden hair is already familiar to her, and she follows in as careful a silence as she can manage. Up onto the walls they go, and the figure - this figure who is, she is stung to see, the White Lady - looks one direction and then the other, searching. For what? But she cannot pretend not to know this, either. This is the way a person looks upon the horizon when they have begun to accept that no one is going to come riding across it. It is the look of someone who has turned their gaze down and understood that the rocks below are a more faithful answer.
"My lady?" It is tentative, lilting with uncertainty at its end, though there is no mistaking now the stranger before her. There is no mistaking, either, how she came to be this way.
The height of the wall is not so alarming - she has climbed upon high stone walls before, rather thrilled by the fantasy of soaring, however briefly - and it seems a grave injustice that her own gown, hushed blues and whites, is finer now than the bride's own. The wind has teeth here in a way that it does not in the Free Cities, and it chases a chill up her spine when it lifts her hair off her shoulders, cutting where the breezes off the sea only kissed.
"You're hurt. This is no place for you."