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@antagonistzz
⋆⊹ hear the ballad of DONNELL SWANN of STONEHELM and VAIORA REDWYNE of THE ARBOR and SEVAN REYNE of CASTAMERE and SAERA GREYJOY NÉE SALTCLIFFE of PYKE.
# ANTAGONISTZZ ⋆ for the glory of 103AC, as sung by kris (she/her).
SET IN STONE ⊹ introduction ⋆ pinterest ⋆ threads
RIPE FOR VICTORY ⊹ introduction ⋆ pinterest ⋆ threads
BENEATH STILL WATERS ⊹ introduction ⋆ pinterest ⋆ threads
WE DO NOT SOW ⊹ introduction ⋆ pinterest ⋆ threads
i make it a practice to learn all i can of my foes. ( saera + ah-rin )
saera's features shutter behind a cold mask, lips pressing into a thin line. the greyjoy did not endeavour to hold herself at a distance, it simply became that way. "you are welcome to try," they say, solemnity writ into the stern of their face. she was impenetrable against the harlaw's sharp grin, willing herself to be the iron she was cut from. discourse clung to their two houses in the fashion of a stubborn garden of barnacles, latching still even under the force of a blade scrapping. saera did not like to taunt the harlaws, did not want to feed into their anger. they did not want to tempt them to steal their justice, taking her son in payment. "i wish you luck."
"you think you're invincible, don't you?" To Saera
the greyjoy wife glances to the blackwood lady, thinking her too prying.
one could not be born of iron and think themselves fragile. they were brought to death the day they were named, baptized in a wash of frigid waters, summoned to their second life with a gasp of air. that is the first, but it is a confirmation every time after, brought back to life by a priest's watery kiss. when you have already come to die, head forced under the violent waves by a wrinkled palm with a god's strength ... it is no longer anything to fear. not for yourself, at least.
"what is dead may never die," she answers, the bond between them and their drowned god unknowable to these others.
“My father told me you should never talk to a horse.” / grover to sevan
it takes the reyne a moment to frown, realizing — "me?" they croak, guffawed by the accusation. "am i the horse?" preposterous! how dare he speak to him in such a manner? sevan was a skilled knight, one of far greater renown than any tully, their name sung in near every tavern they entered. "lord grover," they warn, brow furrowing in the manner of a brewing storm, deciding yet if they should be offended.
you're gonna have a very hard time getting rid of that one. (Maekara & sevan)
even at the distance kept between them, sevan could see how the lord's breath trembled when their eyes met from across the room. he would do for the night, they supposed to themself, pocketing the information for later. that decided, his gaze moves towards the bountiful spread laid before them. "that is a problem to solve in the morning," they grin, glancing upward to the targaryen, pleased to know they do not imagine the interest. "one should not complain when the game chooses you. the forest is not filled with ivory stags."
the easy-going nature painted a faint smile on rosamund’s face. clearly injured and scared of beasts several sizes bigger than them both combined , he still had a tone to his voice that raised her spirits. “i just hope we both stay in one piece until we reach the castle ,” came the reply , and she wrapped her arms tighter around him. ser reyne was in good shape , despite their injury and seemed to carry her with ease. the castle was still far ways away , but less of a foggy shape in the distance. “thank you , ser.” she leaned her head against his shoulder to keep her gaze steady and his hair brushed against her cheek. “i know i’m probably more of a burden than you’d anticipated , but i appreciate your–” her words got cut off by a loud , distant shriek. “i appreciate it all the same.” words were unnecessary after that , would only take more effort and energy needed to escape. truth be told , even though rosamund had done none of the running , her heart was beating fast enough against her ribcage to fool anyone. “i think … i think it might be flying the other way ? i can’t see it anymore.”
he is glad the lannister keeps a level head, their task much easier without a never-ending screech in his ear. “i’ll do my best,” they say, teeth gritting into a grin. “anything for a beautiful lady.” bravado fuels the rapid beat of their heart, adrenaline overtaking the thrum of pain as rosamund’s frame responds to each uneven step he takes. it is easier to chose to run when they do it for another. otherwise, the reyne might have stayed on those grounds, looking for his glory in a felled dragon. with some distance now behind the pair and the grounds, sevan finally spares a look over their shoulder — though, it is difficult as he squints through the cloud of dust and smoke swirling around them drawn by the escaping drake, so thick it obscures the lannister's face even at their close distance. the ink of her lashes manage to cut through the cloud when the dust trendrils calm themselves to settle some, tamed like a rearing bull. "others take them! with it, i hope they take the stranger too. take death as far as they can fucking throw it." he pauses momentarily, thinking themselves to crass in front of the lady, made of paper and glass. “sorry,” they grunt. the path is clear enough, save for the many others running for keep’s cover too. he slows only a fraction, making a better pace as they jog the rest of the way.
she wants to hit him. to swing her arm so hard and punch him across the face, maybe break some bones while she was at it. betha was not an inherently violent person, but the way her cousin spoke of himself made her angry. how little he seemed to think he mattered. "i know i am capable of much," she says petulantly, inching closer to her cousin from where she stood pacing mere seconds ago. "but so are you, you have much life to live." her voice cracks, choking on her words. in the moment of weakness she feels, she closes the distance between them and sinks into the bed and into his arms. for the first time in a long time, she felt like a child again. the young girl who would huddle into donnell's arms under a tree when it was raining, hiding in his cloak and listening to the stories he would tell her. this was her safe space, donnell's arms, even after all these years spent out of them. "i know you wouldn't," she sighs, letting her head rest on the unmarred side of his chest as she curls into him. "but, i would also never let you. you are important to me, donny. perhaps the most important person and i cannot bear to lose you." it feels as if something is lodged in her throat, her eyes beginning to water before she is blinking the tears away. "so if you decide to play hero again, let me at least join you. if you go down, i shall go down with you." she nods resolutely into his chest, clutching him tighter though not enough to hurt. "i love you, don't you forget it."
it breaks his heart to see her crumpling, disliking to see betha cry — even worse that it by his hand. he comes on five and thirty in only a handful of days, but these past months have aged the knight too much. donnell is closer now to death than to his birth. that childhood was buried in the stonehelm crypts, laid in stone with his parents. it did not feel as if his time was as bountiful as betha's, but her words ring within him all the same. the bed creaks under the additional weight, already struggling to bear donnell's own. they are fortunate that the frame only complains, rather than give out too. there is nothing else he can say lest his voice falter. before he knows it, donnell's eyes burn with tears as well, grateful that his niece cannot see him cry with her face to his chest. it is nice to hear it — his legacy put to words. to know that their journeys together had not been forgotten in the battle of age. that betha did not resent him for all the flavourless jerky he fed her, or the horse dung he'd tasked her with cleaning. there was little donnell had to be proud of. very little he could claim for himself. but, he was happy to put all of it on the young rivers. it is strange to be bonded with his cousins like this, ensconced into the fold of their family better than his own. softly, he answers, drawing comfort from her, "i love you too, bee."
end.
he laughs, and mela cannot help the smile that ekes its way onto her features. she wishes to laugh in kind, but she will not let herself. the sight of his mottled skin is sobering, the sick rooms no place for laughter. " donnell, " she chides, knowing by now that lecturing him about remaining still will not win her her way. she thinks on the heir merryweather as she toys with his fingers with her own, pressing them as if they were strings of a lute. " he stepped on a snail, once. on purpose. " a cruel act of murder, a swift taking of life. mela had wished to tackle him to the earth, to pummel him with closed fists. but she had been more tempered then. had feared the retaliation of the seven for her misgivings. she had remained silent, remained still. despite its childish nature, she still feels an ache in her chest when she recalls the memory. " i spat in his wine. later on at the feast. he had thought himself a man, drinking arbor gold at ten and one. " she sighs, disentangling her hand from donnell's so that she can push the mass of her dark hair from her face. she cannot remember ever telling this tale aloud. " but he was drinking my spit, the lout. "
contentment wells within his chest to see the corner of her lips quirk upward. "sorry," donnell murmurs in turn, distracted. his gaze is left lingering at the address of her mouth, staring just a moment too long, lost in the thought of how soft they had been when pressed against his own. he cannot help but smile too. even when chiding, donnell could not help but think her endearing. mela would not let herself to be cowed, even while suffering her squat frame. "a worthy punishment for a heartless crime," he assents, nodding his approval. justice - minded and sure, even in childhood. donnell wondered if how tall mela had been then ... had she always been that short? if she sat a little straighter while combing through the silk of her locks, would her feet touch the floor? he would watch the next she did it. "a good reminder to ensure that i do not end up the wrong side of your mettle." though, while he would endeavour not to do so, donnell cannot say he would recoil at the thought of her spit.
makes the cut bleed the same. hira nearly laughs, but all that escapes remains a small huff. no, hira cannot imagine the searing pain in her chest to ever bleed for a person she has traveled long with. perhaps they are like family to saera, but delfina --- delfina is her beating heart. the heart of their daughters. the heart of this realm if they opened their fucking eyes.
she runs tongue over teeth, blinking fast. the sea-salt air stings, even in its calm. "and if they have not found a raft?" a question posed for the sea as much as it was to them. "your god is not kind when in their domain, are they?"
they stay silent for another moment, chewing on the question. it flavours as bitter. like the taste of grass, gnawed by their sheep. "you would not like to hear it," saera answer gently, toeing a grim line. "my god is one, and yours are many." to be taken by the water was a kindness. no true child of the sea would wish to be laid in the soil. "you should not ask for kindness from the drowned god. you would not like to see it, either." the targaryen's wish would see their wife return dead. many moons ago, saera had made that very mistake.
the greyjoy exhales softly, breathing through her nose. "have you ever seen the crow's nest?" she attempts to pivot, awkward and sharp. "i could teach you to scale the ropes. it is a better vantage point."
strange is what he would call what their relationship has seemed to blossom into. daemian does not hate it, but he is not used to it. affection was difficult, even when they had been on better terms with one another. though he feels he still needs to say something. a simple, "thank you." leaves his mouth, loud enough to where she could hear, but soft enough to where the guard outside of the door could not. the two words feel weighted. thanking vaiora for more than just staying by his side. perhaps staying by his mother's — his family's — while he was touch and go. maybe for the care she was giving him, something he did not deserve, but would selfishly take anyways. most likely, for everything. though he was sure she still had quarrels with him, she did not completely shun him from her life. "i am glad to hear you are unharmed," he swallows, pain flaring up inside of him, his nerves alight where they still remained. daemian's words are gritted out as violet eyes gaze into her own deep brown ones, "i am sorry for not being there... to protect you, raqiarzy." what a good future husband would do, he has to remind himself. not galavanting off with his best friend to the dragonpit where they both did not belong. hopefully he would be there next time, but in truth, he hopes there will not be a next time at all. her mention of the events make his mind hazy. maybe he needs more poppy, something to calm him and get him to rest. "i do not know," he did though, but he could not tell her. vaiora was a good person, but she had a mouth of her own and if daemian could not trust his mother with such things, he did not believe he could trust her. "i remember the streets," the silken stone that had guided them, anyone would believe to strapping young noblemen would find place there, looking for a whore to spend the night with. they had been there for something different and he does not say what. "then stone crumbling and fire everywhere," great beasts tearing down walls as they ran, as they were lit ablaze. as those around them were lit ablaze. it has him whimpering, eyes crossing at the memory. "screams," so many, so loud. smallfolk he cared for so deeply. "then nothing." blacking out against the stone, seeing the stranger before him. "i do not know what happened." his fingers clench into the sheets, his eyes flutter, his body shudders, and his mouth goes slack. "a maester—" daemian calls as the memories and pain tear through him, he cannot stay awake, he needs to rest, "please— get a maester."
she blinks, surprised by the apology. it is only when the celtigar voices it that vaiora can put reason to the crawl of discomfort under her skin. daemian should have been there. sat by her side. watching as the westerlands' knights reared. and yet. he had not been. instead, he had been bedding some stupid, ugly whore along the street of silk — leaving her unaccompanied and unprotected. it is easier to ignore the cracks when they go unacknowledged, easier when she does not know he is lying to her. now, it is plain. beloved, he called her. but, she was still not enough for him. the redwyne houses a garden of resentment, seedlings taking root and watered as she pushes the feeling further down. her smile dims. still, "there is no need for apology," vaiora lies.
firmly, vaiora fixes her gaze upon the quiver of his pale brow. it is easier to focus on the crease between his eyes, rather than listen to him stumble through memories she does not trust are honest. her mind is somewhere far — imagining her hands gripping around the plush of the down pillows beneath his head now, pressing it over the face she had begged the mother to save. stop. vaiora shakes herself from the daydream. do not fight with him, she reminds herself. do not — dark eyes widen in horror, seeing his face contort in pain before he can even ask. the redwyne pulls away so quickly, she nearly leaves her heart behind in the rush. wooden chair legs screech against stone, catching against the uneven grooves of the floor as it falls behind her. vaiora hardly pays it any mind. his pain is more important than her own, forgetting her resentment already. "maester calcifer!" she calls out, turning to the door, steps swift beneath her. "maester calcifer, please!"
end.
Vaiora's reliability sent the screaming away for the moment, to return in due course when she was returned to solitude. The opening for freedom from this road of memory was too promising to refuse. The smile came of its own volition. Shiera handed one last loaf of bread to a young girl, with a raised brow at the older girl behind her, prepared to steal it from the child's hands. The older girl, cowed, took a step away... and Shiera took Vaiora's hand in hers and left the queuing crowd to the septas that remained. "You would make an abominable septa, Vaiora," Shiera teased. "Do the septas not preach patience in charity on the Arbor? Or has your sailing robbed you of it?" A squeeze of her arm to show her jest, before Shiera placed her elbow in Vaiora's, and began the slow walk towards where their carriage awaited. There was some comfort in the knowledge that this teasing would not convince Vaiora to change her mind, and return them into this melee. It had the potential to be a bloodier one than upon any tourney ground. "Come, let us turn towards your commitments. The city tastes too much of ash yet, and so many gather here the queue may begin again before it ends." She kept her eyes upon her friend, strictly so, so she would not see the growing numbers upon the street, looming long as the future did.
vaiora remains rather oblivious to the scene before her — eyes glazing over the faces of the two girls, offering only a small smile to them as she takes shiera's arm. the septas would help the latter, surely. it was nothing of consequence to a lady who had never known an empty stomach. "i take you to feed the children and you choose to insult me?" she laughs brightly, though, nothing but humour upon her lips. vaiora would look rather stupid in a habit. though, the white of their robes would not be so unwelcome. her complexion was made golden in the contrast. "the septas would love to have me!" she insists, driving a finger into shiera's side — the waters unable to escape the playful prod. "though, patience is the least of my sins." hard to reconcile with a smile as sweet as her own, as perfect as vaiora liked to present. despite her many masks, russett eyes trace the line of the waters' smile, wishing more than anything to ease her friend's mind. vaiora leans her head against the sharp angle of shiera's shoulder, thinking she's done a rather good job. "we can return tomorrow if you are free," the lady offers, only half serious, "perhaps they will need help scrubbing the sept of soot!"
end.
he chuckles at the thought of her writing him a ballad. it is a nice thought, though. he would enjoy it very much if she were to write a song for him, of all people. “oh? and what would that be?” he says, looking over at her with a knowing smirk. they both know. and they both know, all too well, that it can never happen.
“ah but of course,” he says, “never you, my lady, oh promised one!” he's just teasing her now. he cannot help but to make himself laugh. “and how is my friend, hm? are the two of you getting along better these days?” he asks as if the two of them had not been locking lips just a week prior. how quickly he seems to forget – or rather, bury at the very back of his mind. it was wrong to do, after all. what with them both being promised.
she snorts. "must i mastermind everything?" vaiora would sooner die than voice her affection for him aloud. much more than that, to voice it first. even considering the slant of his mouth against hers, no words exchanged between the loss of air between them. a new game beginning. "women like to be wooed sometimes, cedric. use your own imagination."
"i detest that you imply that i am not the sun of your every conversation with him." the redwyne crosses her arms, playing at displeased, nose tracing high in the air. but, she cannot help the upward curve at the corner of her lips, pleased to see her lannister with a smile once more. "unfortunately for you, we are the paragon of perfect happiness." she pauses. well. "bar his injuries, of course." that did put a dent in the image in their script.
"in truth, we'd all be better off returning to independent regions with the current state of affairs. i have no doubt that the new lord hand's views condemn our ways." she would avoid mention of the approach of lord perceon's son, hinting at some form of cooperation. but ruling lady harlaw was not one to place personal ambition above the well-being of their people. after all, it was for their people she struggled with the greyjoy state of affairs, how much more ironblood would shed due to the petty disputes between dagna and erik? the details of suho's death brought no solace, only relit anger. an apology was not enough when the lord reaper himself admits that he ought to have heeded her son's warning.
yerin sips from her tea, observing the water level in the pot, considering another steep. "i wonder if i ought to send jeong back to ten towers." she was selfish in needing her remaining child to stay close but life at court hid too many perils. she had not anticipated being away for so many moons, and continuing to extend this trip. "the dornish have not shared the best relations with our people but perhaps we could be united in some goal to free us from the greenlander's influence."
the dry of their smile does not wet, dark eyes studying the bottom of the cup. loose tendrils of tea leaves settle at the bottom of the amber, like silt. saera answers, defending the choice in spite of turmoil it brought them, "it would be a weakness to turn tail with our reputation so fragile still." steam trails upwards again, swirling into the air as it wills. it presses a hot circle to the gap of their dark eyebrows. feeling puerile for the action, they bring the cup to her lips instead.
"it is not unwise," she offers quietly to the harlaw, mother to mother. "i have considered the same." saera does not know how she will face the day that rodrik becomes a man, his whims stretching beyond the length of her arms. the born saltcliffe did not think she could bear his loss as gracefully as yerin. "sunspear will not be friendly to us." not when ironborn ships have reaved them so recently, their names still written into bloodied sands, waiting still for the wind to billow. "but, who are we if not dauntless?"
dexian grunts as another joins. the flash of a gold cloak, and they grind their heel to steady themself. "one, two, three --- heave!"
their cane bends under the force, and for a moment, dexian wonders if it will snap and they'll become trapped beneath the slab. but the piece clatters onto the wagon, and dexian slowly exhales relief.
"thank you. that's the last of this area, but there will be more." dexian finally faces the other, eyes slightly narrowing as they try to place face to a name. "you are . . . one of the volunteers of the city watch, yes? are you on your way to a shift?"
now sevan would hate to take credit in the face of teamwork, but it is clear his strength has helped considerably, never doubting once that they may be unsuccessful in the task presented upon them (even in spite of the other liege's cane). of course, it was nothing against the thought of them winning the headsman tourney or slaying a dragon, but there is always satisfaction in a job well done.
the tan of their palms run against the stiff of their trousers, wiping off the trace dirt. "all in a day's work," he grins, offering them a wink. "indeed i am, my liege." his chest puffs beneath the gold of their breast plate. the reyne thinks not to introduce themselves, for who of the seven kingdoms do not know of sevan the blessed? "i trust you will know where to find me then, should you need another hand."
she proves him right, spitting vitriol at him. willas is no fool. he is a mediocre knight, the kind to tuck tail and acquiese to the whims of others, and a man weak to his desires — but he is no fool. he ranked low on vaiora's list of priorities, even despite the importance that he himself places on their friendship. this much, he knew. this much, willas had come to terms with. but even knowing that, he found he could not come to terms with the idea that she did not love him as he loved her. that she could not, one day, come to love him as he loved her. this is what draws him to her, time and time again. even in the face of her temper. she begs him not to speak, and so he keeps quiet a moment. he searches her face, warped with anger as it was, for something he can find disgust in. for something he can use to free himself from her influence. he finds nothing of the sort. still, he loves her. " you throw insults above your station, vaiora. she is a princess. you are a lady of a tyrell vassal house. do not speak of her in that fashion. " he loves vaiora, but he speaks words that he knows will cow her. he loves her, but she has hurt him terribly. he loves her, but he feels a pang of insult at the way she fashions alysanne a woman who orders him about. willas tosses the wreath into the corner of the tent roughly, needing it out of his sight more than he needs to maintain his guise of calm.
end.
"there is not a moment where you do not look beautiful, raqiarzy." there is a soft laugh that leaves his lips, even if his chest aches to do so. such a small thing he would have taken for granted before all of this. he had been injured before, been on the bring of death with a sword thrust into his body and out the other side, but it was nothing like the searing pain of fire. a stab was quick, painless really, blood oozed out easily and he could patch it up to the best of his ability, but this? he was sat in a bed within a keep he wanted nothing to do with, his parents hovering like he somehow meant something now, and he hated it. daemian wishes to reach out and touch her, to feel warmth he lacked flood through his fingertips again. he knows he cannot though. not only because it would pain him to do so, his skin stretching and ripping, but because if he lets himself have soft moments, he will start to believe he deserves them. (you are cruel, you are deceitful, you are horrible and awful and selfish. no one could ever love you and no one ever will.) "i do not expect constant vigil, there are much more interesting things in not only this keep, but your life than watching over an undead corpse." it is said with a lightness to his tone, though the words are horrific. "my mother? how terribly i feel for you, raqiarzy. has she begun to ask how large you wish your wedding tourney to be?" he shakes his head, "no, i fear i am not hungry. it is hard to stomach anything right now, maester calcifer has tried his hardest, but failed each time." he can feel the ghost of the maester's hands on his skin as he speaks of it. the tilting of his head as they attempted to get him to eat, the burning of his throat every time he attempted to swallow only to throw it back up again. daemian's neck too raw and mottled from the burns that littered across it. "how do you fare? your family? i heard the dragons pillaged the tourney. you made it out safely i presume?"
"glad to see your sense is still there, darling." vaiora leans forward, pressing a kiss to the space above his brow, smooth still. it is easy to offer affection, paving over the discomfort with blissful denial, ignoring it. "i do not mind sitting with you. i am familiar to it now," she hums brightly, defence activated. never mind that she had spent the night of the attack wrought with worry, bucket next to her bedside, as she staved off memory and fear — her own near death came to her in dreams, yes, but it was her parents she did not wish to see. for visions of them thinned the veil, making it too easy to imagine daemian a mottled corpse growing blue. "your mother is not so terrible," vaiora says in a soft defence of the lady celtigar. she wished her own mother could see her wed. “let me when you are, gevie. the pudding is much better than the porridge.”
her mind travels far when he asks after her. vaiora had watched — eyes burning wide in with dragonfire and smoke — the blackwater swallow wood and faces in a matter of seconds. they had been there once, and then not. their screams silenced in saltwater. her heart pattered in her chest like fish gasping against air. the last she'd felt this, she was a girl — screeching in panic each time she brought down her sword against her instructor, stomach in her throat, body unable to tell the difference between practice and an attack with all that adrenaline in her veins. a guard had shielded her against a falling beam, allowing vaiora to eke a path from the seats, but when she had turned, she had lost the gold cloak. simply, she says, "thankfully. yes."
her palm finds the silver shorn of his hair, still roving across his features as trying to memorize each groove still left untouched. how silly. she had spent months resenting that their children might bear his countenance. now, she was afraid to forget it. "i am sorry that it was not the same for you, gevie." found by the silk road, burnt half to a crisp. that is all she is privy to. the nastiness within her is an unleashed dog, thinking that it serves him right for laying with whores. no, vaiora reminds herself, do not fight with him. her voice softens, drawing closer to hear him better, "what happened to you, dae?"
a letter from his future good daughter is the last thing he expects to come across his desk that morn. with the current state of affairs within the city , and his son ⸻ her husband to be , laying burnt up in his bed , he hadn't dared to hope for such a welcomed distraction. he'd accepted it with haste , of course. ever eager to escape the heaviness that surrounded his family's quarters. he'd all but ran for the location , with almost too much time to spare before the agreed upon hour. splaying himself across the prepared chairs , and picking absentmindedly at the tray of foods that someone or the other had managed to scrounge up. it's only upon the approaching footsteps , and the following call of his name that he finally rises. set into motion upon the sight of the lady redwyne , and what must be a treasure worth its weight in gold at her hip.
❝ ah , my favourite good daughter to be ! here now , allow me , ❞ trampling over courtly etiquettes with an easy grin , he moved to grab at the flagon , placing it with ease at the center of the table. a place of honour , as such a gift deserved. ❝ to think you were be forced to carry it yourself , my lady. perhaps we truly ought to despair. next time , i would have you call for me , yes ? ❞
the title feels like a pat on the head. vaiora laughs brightly, dancing over the heaviness that wafts in the air, even as they look southern from the red keep. it makes it easier to turn a blind eye to the side ravaged by dragonfire. to think not of hungry children grabbing at her skirts as they swarmed her and shiera, wanting for another loaf of bread for their mother, or brother, or whoever they claimed were too injured to come themselves."let us be kind to lady daenys' future betrothed," said in spite of the cheekiness of her grin. "we should be careful not to discount them too quickly. i may crumple under the weight of expectation yet!"
in a show of modesty, vaiora waves off the concern in a graceful wave of her hand. "i could not possibly trouble you in such a way, my lord! it is my pleasure, and it is hardly a burden to bear when at the end of the journey lies good company and a warming drink." truthfully, she is relieved. the fingers are still stiff from where she had gripped the handle, far too firm. "i am glad to meet you at last, though. a decorated knight as yourself must have been so busy with the tournament!" though, should not recall hearing his name in the bouts.
