CALL ME OUT/OPEN RP POST

[shieldofrohan]

(Art by Donato Giancola)

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[tyroshi]

[ In the weeks that passed since Éowyn and Daario had returned to Edoras - both injured but whole; and both irrevocably changed by the full events of that night and following morning; he's spent the majority of his time burying his focus into the various tasks required of him to prove that he would be worthy of joining the ranks of the other riders of the Mark. Granted, his successful rescue of Éowyn did about half of the work for him, considering their gratitude; but that didn't mean he did not also have to prove his worth as a fighter and a skilled rider.

It was a task swiftly accomplished, given his lifetime of experience when it came to fighting and survival. And soon the days passed by with him being given different duties; joining the rest of the soldiers on their patrols, slaying parties of Orcs that wandered too close to their territories.

It was good, exhausting work; enough to occupy his mind and his restless body during the hours when the sun was in the sky; after nightfall however, was another story entirely. Plagued by dreams of their stolen moment together, Daario sometimes got very little sleep - if any at all. At night, there was nothing to distract himself from the memory of her - her body, the intensity of her kiss, the sounds she made when he'd managed to coax out her pleasure; and her lips against his skin - her touch invaded his thoughts as if she'd placed a spell on him. Though he knew he hadn't.

He was just a man who wanted what he couldn't have. And even as the ache for her seemed to grow in intensity every day that passed; he could never bring himself to consider leaving. It wasn't in his nature - stubborn as he was.

The few interactions they did have were polite, civil; and completely lacking in anything of substance. His gaze followed her when he knew no one else would see him looking; but as far as he could tell, she'd been successful in shutting him out.

After a day spent helping train a new horse for the rigors of battle, Daario leads the mare back toward the stables; feeling the ache in his muscles and focusing on that - it was far more preferable than the ever present ache in his heart; one for which he had no solution, and there could be no comfort to be given. He stops somewhat abruptly at the entrance of the stables, catching sight of Éowyn tending to one of the horses. ]

I didn't expect you'd be here at this hour.

[ It's all he can manage, though the words feel like they hold a far greater weight; just based on the tone he speaks with - surprise, softness, and the yearning that is echoed in his gaze. He leads his his into it's stable and closes the gate; taking a few steps toward Éowyn. He leaves a bit of a distance between them initially; unaware of how welcome she will find his presence at the moment. ]

[shieldofrohan]

[There is always work to be done. That is the saving grace of being the lady of a high court: there is always more to be done, always servants to be overseen and tasks to be managed, wounds to bind and strategies to consider, whispers in the King's ears to be addressed and avoided, and if at any point that work should run dry, well, it has become all the more clear since her attack that she must train, that she must keep the blades sharpened and recover the strength lost to her own injuries. There is always work to be done, and she retreats into it, as she has done before: distracts herself with duty, and tries to exhaust herself, to shorten the dark watches of the night.]

[But the nights do come, and all that she had feared with them: for as lonely as she had been before, it is nothing to how she feels now, and she has wept more than once. She wept when she scrubbed the stain out of her skirt the day after their tryst, for one; and, weeping, determined that she would bear it the only way she could, with the cold armour of noble dignity.]

[So that is what she has done. She has avoided him, wherever she can: has made herself scarce or busied herself with other work when she sees him, has built up her armour into a fortress, not meeting his eyes lest she should remember the longing she saw in them, and answer it with her own. She does not trust herself in his presence, remembering all too well the warmth of his arms around her and the temptation to seek that embrace out again - and so she does not allow herself the chance for a second weakness, does not ever allow herself to forget that they are watched. She ensures that they are watched. It hurts, an ache which breaks through the numbness she had constructed for herself, but it is better to be safe than to risk the kingdom to the foolishness of her heart.]

[But the memory has not faded, and nor has the temptation, and when she hears his voice behind her, she stiffens, her hands stilling where they work the brush against her mount's sweat-dark flank.]

[It is several seconds before she turns, slowly, biting down on the inside of her cheek. The urge to step towards him, to touch him, is almost unbearable. The urge to bolt is almost as strong. She does neither, but nor does she withdraw: clearing her throat, she manages to find her voice.]

I went for a ride to clear my head.

[Her eyes are drawn to his, which already feels dangerous, somehow. There is too much of a connection even in that. And they are alone here, as far as she can tell, with only the horses to see what passes between them, and there are so many things that could pass between them, if only...]

I am... not entirely certain it worked.

[tyroshi]

[ This is the first time they've been alone together in weeks. And it's felt like much longer than that. Daario has never been a man of great or noble restraint; and that is evidenced by the way he takes a few steps closer to her almost the moment her eyes meet his. But he stops himself, one hand making a fist, blunt fingernails curling into his palm sharply enough to distract him - to remind him to stay where he is. To not take her into his arms. That minor bit of pain is nothing compared to the pain he feels in having to keep this distance from her.

It's a physical pain, like his nerves are frayed from the effort of it - of holding back all these weeks; all the things he's wanted to say to her; the times he's nearly gone to seek her out, the thoughts of slipping quietly into her chambers after night has fallen - he knows how to do so without being seen. But he won't. After the way things had ended between them the last time they were alone together; he doesn't think she'd want that. And there was always the risk involved, yes, but Daario's entire life had been filled with risk - he'd learned to navigate it with relative adeptness; and it was because of that that he wasn't deterred when he should be, by the risk being with her presented.

There are a variety of responses he could give when she speaks. Ultimately, he goes with the one that might keep her here a moment more - prevent her from immediately fleeing his presence. ]

Why didn't it work?

[ He asks softly. If riding could clear his head, that's all he would be doing; from sun up to sun down. That's what he did most days and still it did little to keep this thoughts from constantly straying to her. It would be easier, he knows; if he didn't see her each day at a distance. But the thought of leaving and never seeing her again was more unbearable. Either way, he couldn't have her. At least if he remained, he could see that she was alright. Protect her at a distance, should the need ever arise.

He saw the way Wormtongue looked at her. Knew the King's health was failing rapidly each day. There were many problems which needed solving and they should not all fall to her. If she would let him help, he would in a heart beat.

But perhaps after their tryst, she would not allow herself to even confide in him; to consider him a friend - someone who had her back, at the very least; who would support her with the burdens she carried. Perhaps he'd ruined all of that the moment he'd kissed her, pulled her into his lap; gave into the desire to be with her in whatever way he could. ]

[shieldofrohan]

[She is quiet for a long moment, trying to find an answer. There is nothing that feels both truthful and safe to say: it would be unfair to them both to say that her loneliness is keener for his presence, that she can find no solace in solitude any more, that when riding she found her mind too easily turning to escape. At length, she sighs, and elects for truth over safety.]

Because I have returned to find my troubles waiting, and my longing has come to stand before me.

[Already, the armour is cracked: there is no distance in her tone, and there is an honesty in the emotion of it, in the way her eyes linger on him. It would be wisest to send him away, or to leave herself; to spare them both this dangerous closeness, and the cutting ache of self-restraint. It would be easiest to give in, to close the few paces still between them, fling her arms around him and give up all care for wisdom. She can bear to do neither, and so she stays where she is, the brush in her hand, her chest tight and her breathing a little too shallow, until her horse snorts and sticks his head against her ear, making her jump.]

[Her cheeks flushed, she clears her throat, grabbing the stallion's bridle and turning his head away.]

Some things are not so readily dispelled, I suppose.

[tyroshi]

[ When she speaks of longing he nearly heaves a great sigh, both relief and frustration combined. He doesn't, however; but he does drop his gaze for a moment with a breath; as if he was about to say something but decided against it. At least she's looking at him now similar to how she did that night - without the solid steel walls up, her gaze more open than he's seen in weeks. The sight of which doesn't help to strengthen his resolve to remain where he is, of course.

When her horse causes her to start, it jolts him out of that as well; at least a little. But then the flush of her cheek draws his gaze; and that gaze wanders the contours of her face - remembering how it had felt beneath his touch. And then, more dangerously; his eyes are inevitably drawn to her mouth - and with that comes the memory of her lips, warm and bruising against his during that first kiss.

He doesn't like to think about their last kiss, the one that had felt final; a goodbye he still refused to accept. ]

I suffer that same longing.

[ He admits without guarding the way his gaze takes her in, the raw emotion visible across his features as he takes a step closer to her. ]

You have avoided me successfully these past few weeks. You are much better at this than I am.

[ The words are absent of the teasing humor his tone usually takes on. There are dark circles beneath his eyes; and instead of the easy smile he typically wears; he looks tired, worn. ]

Would it do any good to tell you how often I think of you? How much I want to take you in my arms right now; the pain it causes me to refrain from doing so?

[shieldofrohan]

Would it do any good? To know that you suffer for my sake, that you feel it as keenly as I do, that if I allowed it, you would have me in a moment, and all that it would cost would be everything?

[Her laugh is low and bitter, and she shakes her head, but her eyes return to his and she cannot turn her gaze away. He looks so worn and weary, and it aches in her chest, a feeling that is guilt as much as sorrow. It is bad enough to think of how this pains her, but her pain is her own to bear: to know for certain that it wounds him, too, is a far deeper cut.]

No. No, it would do no good.

[Her eyes dart past him, to the door, and then to and fro, as though to check one more time that they are alone. Then, with a speed that aims to outpace doubt, she reaches out to grab his sleeve, drawing him towards her mount's stall. It will not make their conversation entirely private, but it may go some way towards it. (And that thought, predictably, comes with a thrill of both excitement and dread at what privacy could portend - but she does it anyway, because in the moment, she cannot help herself)]

[Pulling the stable door closed behind them, she lets go of his wrist and turns to face him, her expression no longer guarded, mirroring his own. Her voice is low and serious, but comes in a rush nonetheless, the words falling over one another in their haste to be spoken.]

I am not better at this than you. I only know more keenly what might be lost, by failing. And yet I have thought of you endlessly, and each time your name has been raised, it has struck me to the core, and each time I have seen you, I have wanted you nearer, and I have wept for it, and I have not slept for want of you, and it is driving me mad. I have never felt loneliness so keenly, and I had resigned myself to loneliness before you came, I have borne it since my brother rode out to fight, but I cannot bear this.

I cannot bear this, Daario. [Her eyes search his face. She has stepped away from him, her hand no longer at his arm, and yet she cannot seem to draw back more than a little way, as though there is something still binding her, drawing her in. There is a lump in her throat, treasonous and unwanted.] To have you is to risk your life, and my lord's safety, and all the kingdom, and all that I love. To turn from you should be so simple a thing, and yet...

[She lets out a long, shuddering breath and lets her hands fall to her sides.]

Do not tell me of the pain it causes you. I am no less wounded. It serves no end to dwell on pain, unless we can answer it.

What are we to do?

[tyroshi]

I cannot bear this either.

[ The words rush out on a slightly shaky breath. It's the most honest thing he'd said in weeks. To everyone else he's interacted with, he's been a shell of himself; performing, essentially, the role of the man he was before all of this began - lively, charming, bold, capable. He's kept up enough of the facade for others not to catch on, and he does so out of necessity. It would do no good for anyone to notice his pining, his ache.

Certainly not under the ever watchful gaze of Wormtongue; who, although Daario has spent no further time interacting with Éowyn since that night after their ride; still scrutinizes his every step, listening in to his conversations when he thinks Daario is unaware. But he's always aware; because he has to be.

And she's right, to be with him is to risk everything she has. The risk to himself, his own life; means less because of how familiar risk is to someone like Daario. He can navigate it well enough, as evidenced by the past few weeks; agonizing as they have been. He knows that what he wants from her is not something she can give; and yet he wants it still.

It brings him some comfort in the knowledge that she is no less affected by this than he. That she aches as he does. Though it doesn't solve anything. ]

I don't know. [ He answers truthfully, uselessly; alone in the stall with her he's far too distracted by her proximity to come up with any logical solutions; if any actually even exist. All he knows is that when her hand drops from his arm, he wants it back; wants her touch so desperately that he acts purely from that desire - disregarding every risk and every warning and every reason why he should not do so, he steps closer to her and lifts his hand to frame her face. He swallows against the thickness building in his throat, his gaze raw and pleading. ]

I don't know how to be near you without touching you. [ His fingertips brush down along her cheekbones to her jaw, an unsteady sigh leaving his chest; his voice coming out in a quiet sort of rasp. ] I'm not strong enough. [ His gaze darkens as he shifts closer to her. ] It isn't fair of me to ask it of you, but you have to leave. You have to leave me here, or I will not be able to stop.

[shieldofrohan]

[Her heart skips in its rhythm, stutters a moment before setting up a faster tattoo. His hand is hot and rough against her cheek, and it feels to her that it burns like a brand, that its heat passes over into her and sets her cheek aflame. Her eyes meet his, and she could not help it if she wanted to - no more than she can help the answering desire in her own look.]

[It seems to her that she has forgotten how to breathe. Standing so close, he seems to take on a strange power, an intensity of presence, as though he is somehow the only real thing in the world. This is exactly what she has been striving to avoid, what she should not allow. At the same time, it is all she has wanted for weeks: his touch, his closeness, the look in his eyes that says she need not be alone.]

[Her hand comes up to cover his, and it trembles a little. Her voice is barely a whisper when she echoes his words.]

I am not strong enough.

[And she gives in to that pull, unable to prevent herself: she moves closer, almost without knowing it, until they are nearly chest-to-chest, until she can feel his breath unsteady against her cheek. Shame washes over her, but it is not nearly as strong as that magnetic draw of his touch.]

Who knows you are here?

aphro thread for perforo - CW: dubcon/noncon, sexual assault and harassment

[shieldofrohan]

If the tides were fairer, she would have left King's Landing - left Westeros - by now. It is clear, after all, that all the renown her deeds have won mean nothing in the eyes of these men; it is clear that they will heed no political discussion that comes from the mouth of a maid, even the King's sister; it is clear that, while her duty is by no means discharged, it is a futile errand that she has come here on.

Futile, and dangerous. Not in the way that she had expected and half-hoped for: the distance, the threats of the crossing, the knives in the dark. All these things, she was prepared for, and knew herself capable of facing.

She was not prepared for a nobleman of the court - a Kingsguard, no less - to throw propriety and politics to the wind, and accost her in the stairwell, to pin her against the wall with his full bulk and do his level best to take her with or without her consent. Even Gríma Wormtongue was never a fraction so outrageous in his advances.

Ser Jaime, it seems, was not prepared for a woman who, weak shield-arm or no, has trained herself rigorously in combat as long as she has been able, and who has stared evil in the eye without flinching. A woman who was prepared, in the breach, to knee him in the exposed crotch, almost break his nose, and tell him with a knife to his throat and steel in her eyes, that if he laid hands on her again, she would castrate him before she killed him, and face the consequences if she must. He was not prepared for a daughter of Eorl, and she escaped that night with her honour and her maidenhead intact - but the experience has shaken her to her core, and she has slept every night since with her door locked and barred, two of her own men at watch outside. Not that she has told them why, of course. She is too proud to admit to such a thing, much less to how it has awakened her to a depth of fear and anger she did not know she could still feel.

No; she will not remain in this place a moment longer than she must. As soon as the tides are favourable, and the summer storms passed, she will do what she has never done in her life before: she will admit defeat, and turn away, and set sail for home.

But for now, she is here, and what can she do but play her role? She wears her sword openly, now, hanging at the hip of her fine embroidered gowns: it is clear that they will not respect her regardless, so she may as well be disrespected with a weapon close to hand. Beyond that, she is a model of restraint and cold dignity, speaking softly and holding herself tall, maintaining at all times the etiquette that her position demands. She does not even look at Ser Jaime on the unfortunate occasions when she must be in a room with him - although she keeps him in her periphery, the way a horse that has been bitten may watch a rabid dog, ready to kick or bite at a threatening move. She will not give him the satisfaction of her attention, and she will not let him know that he has hurt her. She is ice and steel and stone, as she learned to be in those dark times when Gríma held sway. There is no warmth in her - but there is nothing to be impeached in her behaviour, either.

And so she makes her way, and will not give ground to the feelings that threaten to make themselves known, the anger and fear and grief, to have come through so much and still find herself back where she began, a maiden adrift in a world of men, biting her tongue and holding her peace and suffering the indignities of an inescapable situation. At least this one, she thinks, has an end. The tides will change, and she will be gone.

The tides have not changed yet.

She is sitting at the high table, a polite smile carved onto her marble countenance, listening to the revelry without being any part of it, when she feels something else change. At first, she thinks it is only the wine (of which, it must be said, she has drunk more than she is accustomed to, in the days since the encounter in the stairwell): that she has begun to grow drunk already. There is a strange light-headedness that seems to have come upon her, and a heat in her belly and all through her, as though the hall is suddenly much warmer than it was a few moments ago. Something prickles at the back of her neck, where her hair is swept up into a Westerosi style; a shiver, like unseen fingers caressing her spine. It is not unpleasant.

Éowyn shifts a little in her seat, clearing her throat, and resolves to drink no more tonight, unless it is soundly watered. She has overindulged, that is all: but it will pass soon enough.

It does not. Not the heat - which she now realises is not centred in her belly at all, but somewhat lower - and not the sense of drunkenness, and not the growing feeling that her dress is too tight and restricting all of a sudden, and not the breathlessness that seems to have overtaken her. Her skin prickles, absurdly sensitive; she is unpleasantly aware of the colour that must have come to her cheeks.

It is drink, she reasserts to herself; it is stronger wine than Rohan's, and she is drunk, but she is still herself, and she can carry herself through this. It is, if she is entirely honest, not the first time she has felt this kind of inappropriate desire - even if it is by far the strongest. She managed, did she not, to keep herself from throwing herself wholesale at Aragorn, even when she might have done. She wonders, with aching clarity, whether he would have held true to his elf-maiden if, instead of begging him to let her fight and die with him, Éowyn had instead dropped to her knees and shown him what else a shieldmaiden could offer to her lord. Or climbed into his lap, mounted him, and ridden him to an ecstasy that...

"My lady?"

There is a hand on her arm, and the touch is almost unbearable. She realises, then, that she is holding her goblet so tightly that it shakes; that she has spilt her wine; and that people are staring at her - the cold, unapproachable maiden, flushed and fidgeting, so tense now that she has begun to tremble.

She looks up at the man whose hand is on her arm - a man of Rohan, a minor lord, married and well thirty years her senior - and is suddenly gripped with the question of what his cock looks like, and whether that hand on her arm might not be put to better use. It is at that moment, finding herself giving real thought to the question of whether he fucks his wife gently or with the boldness of a warrior, that Éowyn realises that she cannot stay here.

She stammers out something - she scarcely knows what, or even whether she is speaking to him in Westron or Rohirric - about how she has been struck with a megrim. No, no, she does not need a healer. She does not need an escort. She needs to go to her room, and rest. Alone, she tells him, and then again: alone.

Under the circumstances, not that it is much comfort, she is holding herself together admirably. She is largely steady as she rises, despite the aching awareness of every movement of her thighs. She keeps her back straight and her hands at her sides, and she settles her goblet down on the table, and reassures her retinue that she has no need of them, and with all the dignity that her considerable willpower can summon, she flees.

It is a little better in the corridors, though not much. The air is cooler, and there is less noise, and, most of all, there are fewer people. Fewer women with their breasts heaving beneath their gowns, begging to be cupped and kissed and sucked. Fewer men laughing with mouths ripe for the kissing, and cocks that she cannot help but imagine hardening for her. Fewer eyes, watching her shame, making her wonder whether their enjoyment of it would be solely political.

...She is lying to herself. It is no better. She lets out a low, stifled moan, and lengthens her pace, almost running now. She cannot think far ahead, but far enough to know that there is only one clear route forwards through whatever madness, whatever enchantment, whatever curse has gripped her. She must be alone, yes, but not to rest: she must exorcise this desire the way she has exorcised lesser shadows of it in the past. Alone.

When she at last reaches her room, she is beyond thought. The ache in her loins is maddening, a hunger so great it has become pain. Her heart hammers in her chest, against her ruined ribs. The fine linen of her shift feels like coarse sandpaper against nipples that have grown hard and swollen, aching to be touched. Desire is a beast, coiling in her gut, clawing at her until she can hardly breathe.

There is no question of finding her keys. It is all she can do to close the door behind her, slamming it shut and at last releasing the tension that has kept her somewhat straight-backed and dignified. Panting, she stumbles towards the bed, her hand already moving between her legs, grinding clumsily through the layers of skirts and shift. The sharp, aching pleasure of that touch makes her stagger, crying out, catching herself against the bedpost; and then she is tearing at her skirts as well as her weak left hand will allow, yanking at the too-thick fabric in frenzied desperation, trying clumsily to pull her gown up high enough to get her hand properly underneath; and, falling forward again until she is almost doubled over against the support of the bedframe, she thrusts her hand up against the wet, clinging linen of her ruined shift, letting out an obscene moan that she no longer has it in her to stifle, and begins to rut against the unnatural, unbearable need that has her straining her damaged arm, rocking between the hand between her thighs and the steadying grip she has on the bedframe, and--

And she hears the door click shut behind her.

She is not, it seems, entirely lost. She has strength enough, pride enough, even now to stop her vain, frantic ministrations; to stagger upright and turn, face aflame and eyes gleaming with tears of sheer frustration and want, to face the man who, she realises with a sick lurch when she sees the gleam of gold, is the architect of all her suffering.

Her hand is damp with her own arousal. Her skirts are no longer pulled up to her waist, but neither are they in any kind of array. She is panting, her grey eyes almost black with wild lust, the reek of sex thoroughly clear in the air. Still, unsteady as she is, she manages to get her hand to her sword, manages to face him down - even as she must lean against the bedpost to keep her knees from buckling.

"You." She spits it: lust, it seems, does not preclude venom. At the same time, unwelcome thoughts crowd her mind. His is the first man's cock she has seen, actually seen, harden for her; his mouth the first that has found hers in passion, outside of dreams. She wonders what he would have done, if she had not been stronger than he expected: for the first time, there is more to the thought than horror. She wonders what he tastes like. She feels the urge to vomit, hating herself for the thoughts that assail her, hating herself more for their allure. Her hand, unsteady as it is, tightens on the hilt of her sword. Her voice, unsteady as it is, is not an invitation. "What have you done to me?"

for aleifr

[shieldofrohan]

She is sore.

No surprises there. After the hammering she took at the melee, the real wonder is that she is still able to get up at all. She had been prepared for some injury - it is the nature of fighting, after all, even the toothless playfighting they practice here in King's Landing, and while she may be proud of her own prowess, she has enough sense to know that she is hardly the only warrior with any skill. Besides, it was the first taste of battle she has had since the Pelennor Field, and it is not as though her arm or her shoulder have ever fully healed. She was prepared to take some injury, particularly on her shield side, and to risk pain and embarrassment for the sake of feeling, for a moment, that she could act. Being in King's Landing, even with Elia's company, has begun to feel as stifling as Meduseld in the darkest days of the war; except that at least in Meduseld, people heard her when she spoke. She is weary to the bone of biting her tongue, trying to respond with grace and gentle politic to the indignities heaped on her. If it were not for the princess, she would have left with the last fair wind, and never looked back.

But she remains, and will remain a while yet; and so, yes, she had been prepared to risk Elia's displeasure and greater scorn from the people of King's Landing, as well as bruises and blood, for the sake of even a momentary catharsis.

She had not been prepared to fight a giant.

She held her own as long as she could, and far longer than many of the other competitors; and by the end, she had no longer been on the tourney field. The pain, the sinking hopelessness of defeat, was too familiar; for a time, she had lost all sense of where and when she was, found herself again standing before a nameless shadow, the last defence of a fallen King; she had not been playing any sort of game then, but fighting in deadly earnest, all other foes forgotten, staggering and swaying, and refusing to fall.

Except that she fell on the field before Minas Tirith, and she fell on the tourney field, too. There is only so much even the strongest-willed warrior can take, especially when her weakened shoulder was driven - far too easily - out of joint, her shield falling. At least she did not fully lose consciousness, was still helmed when she was carried from the field.

Now it is two days later, and she can remain out of sight no more. Her arm is once again in a sling, as it was following the battle; to her surprise and disgust, she has faced remarkably little questioning of the idea that she somehow fell hard enough to account for both that and the bruises littering her face and arms. (The rest of her body, too, of course - but only Elia has seen those. A blessing of keeping her own manner of dress, even if it is too warm for the weather, is that high collars and long sleeves cover a multitude of sins.)

She suspects that the lords of Westeros know better, and that they are well aware that she was beaten: further suspects that they are glad of it, for none of them have been all that subtle in their belief that she is too proud and too cold. But none of them even seem to have thought to question where she was beaten. It makes her wonder what would have happened, in the end, if she had unmasked herself at the tourney. It makes her angry.

At least anger is a feeling. These days, while Elia has thawed some of the ice in her, Éowyn so often feels numb. Pain is better; anger is better; even frustration is better than nothing at all. Perhaps that was part of it, too. Why she fought, and why she kept getting back up.

These are the thoughts that follow her out into the gardens, where the uncomfortably warm air is at least cooler and fresher than inside. Not for the first time, she wonders why she stays; she could leave with the next tide, back to her own home and her own people, away from stifling silences and warm air and cold stone. She could leave, and all she would leave behind would be...

She is not alone.

He is hard to miss, tall as he is; hard to forget, too, particularly with her arm still aching to remind her. Briefly, Éowyn considers turning and walking as fast as she can (which is not all that fast; she is quite stiff still) in the opposite direction, but her pride balks at that. Instead, she turns, and while the bruises on her face make it a little less convincing, offers him a coolly polite smile, as demure as a lady can be while sporting a black eye.

"I do not know you, do I, my lord?"

[aleifr]

He stands at the garden's edge, shadowed from the harsh sun of King's Landing by one of the archways that cloisters the patch of greenery.

"You do."

The reply is flat and sure, underpinned by a blunt decisiveness that seems completely undented by the attempt to deflect. It's a simple statement of fact ... one that does carry a certain air of menace, but it's difficult to tell whether that aura is born of an attempt to sound threatening, or if it's a side-effect of the low, bassy growl of his voice and the impassive scowl he wears on his face.

"And I know you."

[shieldofrohan]

It is less any menace in his voice that makes her hackles rise, and more the offhandedness with which he brushes past her comment - much as he brushed off her attacks, in fact. Menace would be preferable. She has always preferred hatred to disregard.

She tilts her chin up, drawing herself to her full height (or as near as the sling will allow, since she can hardly put her shoulders back as she would like), and fixes him with the full force of her stare.

"Yours is a loose view of knowing," she remarks, after a moment, her words very carefully clipped. She is not about to deny what he is implying: she will dissemble, where it is needed, but she will not outright lie about this. Least of all when to do so would be thoroughly futile. "We have not been introduced, then, let me say."

All the while, her eyes remain on him, challenging, scrutinising. Trying to read that stony, scornful look, and coming up short.

[aleifr]

Perhaps she will be pleased when he concedes the point to her by way of a nod. Then again, perhaps not -- neither the venom in her retort nor the withering glare she's fixed him with provokes much of a response.

He takes a step forward, out of the shade and into the light.

"Aleifr," He puts a hand to his chest, offering a slight incline of his head, "son of Lord Mors Umber."

'Umber'. Perhaps she's heard the name, perhaps she hasn't. His House is prominent enough in the North, though little that occurs above the Neck is worth discussing by the views of the southron lords.

[shieldofrohan]

She has heard it, in passing - enough to know that he is far from home, if not quite so far as she is. Not enough to have much stronger association with the name than that.

He steps out of the shadow, and she looks up at him - farther up, in truth, than she is used to looking at anyone; this is the kind of craning she associates exclusively with dealing with men on horseback - with that same assessing, hostile stare. After a moment, though, she inclines her head a little in turn.

"Éowyn. Daughter of Éomund, who was Chief Marshal of the Mark." The use of surnames in these realms is another thing she still has difficulty adapting to; there are no such Houses in Rohan, after all. The nearest thing they have is kennings, and while she might have introduced herself as the Lady of the Shield-Arm once or twice when she first arrived, she has quickly decided that it isn't worth it. Unfortunately, that puts her in the position of having to decide, with each introduction, how much of her lineage to say aloud, when it is entirely unrecognised here.

This does not improve her mood.

She shakes her hair back from her face, wincing only a little at how it disturbs her swollen shoulder, and lets out a low sigh. She approached him, she reminds herself. Despite the impulse to bridle at his seeming scorn, it does her no good to be less than polite.

"...You fought well. Far better than I would have expected, in such an empty game."

[aleifr]

She'll see a shift in his expression at last -- two, no less.

First, as she winces, his eyes flick down to her shoulder. There's a flicker of something there -- concern, he leaves unvoiced. Perhaps he wishes not to condescend, perhaps he suspects that it would not be warmly received. When she mentions the tourney itself ... his brow creases slightly, the growl in his voice deepens, the corner of his mouth curls in disdain.

"Empty contest or not, you don't fight by half."

Looks like he shares her contempt for tourneys and all their nonsensical pageantry and pointless bluster, though the outward show of that distaste smooths over quickly and his expression reverts to the stony countenance that seems to be his default.

"Though you clearly know that better than most of these southron knights."

[shieldofrohan]

His distaste, at least when it is directed at something other than her, has the unexpected effect of making her less ill-disposed to him - not only because she agrees with it, but because, for a moment, she sees emotion register on his face, and with that begins to realise that it is not scorn that was written on his features before, but nothing at all.

The realisation, along with his comment - compliment? - surprises a small huff of laughter out of her, dry and subdued.

"I was told that there were warriors in this realm. It is a welcome surprise to finally meet one."

[aleifr]

"There are many," Aleifr grunts, "but most see tourneys for the waste of time they are."

With that said ... the corner of his mouth turns upward. A smile, however slight.

"Wasn't expecting to face someone worth my time either."

There's no ambiguity as to whether or not that was a compliment.

[shieldofrohan]

No ambiguity at all. No ambiguity, either, in the smile it surprises out of her. She has not always been so responsive to compliments - but then, they have not always been in such short supply as they are here, where it is really only Elia who compliments her genuinely without ulterior motive.

It would be enough to make her suspicious, from most. From him... something about his attitude does give it the ring of truth. He does not strike her as a man who is particularly prone to politics.

"What time it took you." She gestures to her bandaged arm. She is proud, but not so proud that she will deny the obvious. "Did I land any blow at all?"

[aleifr]

She coaxes another brief glimmer of a smile out of him with that, and he nods, placing a hand on the right side of his torso.

"Not enough time or space to put your weight behind the stroke, but still enough that I felt it through my armor."

Quite the feat, given the thick mail and boiled leather that he had been wearing, but not surprising ... the way she carried herself in the melee, it was clear that she had been trained -- well, at that. And now, without layers of obscuring armor, he could see the lines of her. The lean muscle where her dress hugged her frame.

Again, his eye turns back to her shoulder. "Not troubling you too much, I hope?"

[shieldofrohan]

"I have taken worse before." She reaches up, almost meditatively, and touches the swollen joint, wincing only very slightly. There is a hint of something like challenge in her eyes, when she looks up at him again - or, perhaps, humour. "If I had not, you might not have won so easily."

There is bravado to it, but there is truth, as well. She could not have beaten him before, not without immense luck on her side; but she could have taken the blows he landed on her shield, and left with only bruises and contusions. The fact that her shoulder came fully out of joint, she will continue to blame on another blow entirely.

But also: it is easier to find bravado than it has been for some time. There is a giddying relief in being recognised, if not as the hero of the Pelennor Field, then at least as a warrior worth fighting. It almost makes up for the fact that she will not be able to lift a shield again at all for months.

[aleifr]

"I should think not."

Some men would have taken offense at that, but Aleifr does not. It's a fact. He'd seen the way she recoiled after absorbing a blow against her shield, the way that she'd favored her shoulder in the moments afterward.

He was strong. Very strong. But not so strong as to completely ruin a man's shoulder with a hit that had been caught by a shield -- not unless the shoulder was wounded to begin with. Nonetheless, the shoulder gave him a target, one he hit without hesitation -- using the beard of his axe to roughly wrench the shield down before thudding a mail fist into the injured joint.

Some had jeered from the stands - showering boos on something that they perceived as dishonorable, but Aleifr was unbothered by it. Only a fool fights by half, and only a fool ignores a path to a quick and decisive victory when risking injury or death. Éowyn would have done the same, he imagines, if the positions had been reversed.

"Though I'd ask what qualifies as 'worse.'"

What gave her the wound, in as many words.

[shieldofrohan]

It had not been the most honourable move, but he is right to guess that she would have done much the same. Hidebound by nobility she may be in other ways, but she learned to fight for life and limb, not for a trophy. It seems she is not the only one.

At his question, her smile fades, a shadow passing across her face. She has spoken little of the Witch-King, since coming here - indeed, that was part of the reason that Éomer sent her here, knowing that the constant reminders did her no good. A foreign land, which neither knew nor cared what passed in Gondor, allows her to tell what she will, and hold back what she will; but the truth is, in any case, that nobody has asked. Nobody but Elia has had cause to, since she hardly shows off her scars.

Nor does she think that many here would believe her, if she spoke of true darkness and nameless evils, and the thing that she slew. Dragons, yes: they might believe her if she spoke of the winged beast that circled over that battlefield, even if no-one who was not there would know the darkness its shadow brought. But they would not believe in the nature of its rider. Nor, for that matter, in a woman on the battlefield.

Her right hand drifts unconsciously from her shoulder lower down her arm, to where fresh bruises overlay older scars, and she presses her lips together. Now that she has been asked, it is hard to know what to say.

"Bad enough to break an iron-bound shield," is what she decides upon, at last, "and the bones beneath." Simple truth, which he may choose to take as much or as little at face value as he wishes. She swallows, trying to remember without remembering, to grasp the facts without the pain. "Bad enough that when the fight was done, they found me and thought me dead. I should have been killed by it."

Should is a useful word; used thus, without a trace of a lie, she still cannot quite be accused of wishing it.

[aleifr]

Aleifr watches the unpleasant memory darken her face. He sees her hand shift down to worry at a specific spot on her arm, and watches her mouth draw into a tight, thin line.

His curiosity isn't sated. What little she says raises far more questions than it settles, but it's clear that speaking of it -- whatever 'it' may be -- is not an easy thing. He does not know what she has suffered, but he knows that feeling well ... the dull ache of an old scar that hasn't managed to heal.

"Good that it didn't."

While he still wonders just what it was that could strike with such force as to ruin an iron-bound shield and the arm carrying it, the answer isn't a pressing matter. She can choose to share or not in her own time.

[shieldofrohan]

However careful she might be with her words, the dry twist of her smile gives away how she feels about that.

"I suspect," she says wryly, at last, "that there are a few men in this realm who might disagree with you on that."

Again, she is thoroughly aware of her own unpopularity in King's Landing - aware enough to bear it as something of a badge of honour, even if it also stings. But he does not strike her, at least, as a man who is likely to agree with their reasons - and she will confess that there is something pleasant about talking to someone who seems to be sympathetic to her own beliefs and understanding. Someone other than the woman she is carrying on a dishonourable affair with, in any case.

"Do you mean to stay here long, or only for the tourney?"

[aleifr]

A shrug.

"Probably."

He disagrees with a great many men about a great many things. He doesn't tend to lose sleep over it. Certainly not when the men doing the talking say so little worth the breath it took to speak -- something infuriatingly common in King's Landing. It's one of the reasons he detests this place so much, and why her question draws another scowl to his face.

"I'll be here for some time."