"What wonder and praise?" She cannot help it; her own long-held anger boils over into a bitter brew, and her tone is snappish, sharp. Her fist tightens still more on the reins, and she feels her teeth grind as she leads Windfola off the path, into a small grove of trees, to let him rest and graze his fill. Her hands shake as she unfastens his bridle, but turning to such work feels preferable, for the moment, to looking up at her husband; for if she looks at him now, sees the scowling scorn she hears in his voice, she will weep, and if she weeps, all is lost. "Your people have neither held in stock for any woman, and least of all for me. Or do you suppose that I am blind to that, that I did not hear them call me an unwomanly beast long before they called me whore? Do you think me fool enough to believe that they will cheer, of a sudden, to see a sword in my hand?"
The bridle is off, and the saddle too, and there is no other work to busy her hands with. She wheels to face him, steeling herself, her jaw taut and her eyes blazing. Anger is the only shield against weeping, and it is a shield that comes readily enough; even knowing she has made mistakes, the wound is open and raw.
"If I sought love and glory, I would have returned home long ago, my lord Lannister, disgraced or not. I have a people who sing songs of me, and I need not fight for wonder and praise; there are people who would forgive me my mistakes, even if you will not. But too many of those I have loved came to unseemly ends, and I could not sit idle while another joined the list." She lets the horse's tack drop among the roots of a tree, and, clenching her fist, makes to stride past him and deeper into the trees. They will need firewood, she tells herself, and that is work enough for now. "That is all, and now you are safe, and you need not linger in company you despise. Besides, you should see a maester; you are wounded."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2022-11-16 03:13 am (UTC)The bridle is off, and the saddle too, and there is no other work to busy her hands with. She wheels to face him, steeling herself, her jaw taut and her eyes blazing. Anger is the only shield against weeping, and it is a shield that comes readily enough; even knowing she has made mistakes, the wound is open and raw.
"If I sought love and glory, I would have returned home long ago, my lord Lannister, disgraced or not. I have a people who sing songs of me, and I need not fight for wonder and praise; there are people who would forgive me my mistakes, even if you will not. But too many of those I have loved came to unseemly ends, and I could not sit idle while another joined the list." She lets the horse's tack drop among the roots of a tree, and, clenching her fist, makes to stride past him and deeper into the trees. They will need firewood, she tells herself, and that is work enough for now. "That is all, and now you are safe, and you need not linger in company you despise. Besides, you should see a maester; you are wounded."