“Oh, I’ve had my own fair share of stern words. I’ve no interest in making you suffer through the same.” No, she saw no need for telling the young king of his sister’s exploits – but she would tuck it away for later, as a glowing ember of interest amidst the barren north.
“.. You can call me Runa,” she said, only watching as Celia began to fret over the state of her dress and the fresh, stinging cut. “– and I’ve had worse.” She reached down and parted the skirt ever-so-slightly, revealing the old scar already there: the strange, neat mark of a falchion, carved across the mid of her thigh.. the hint of another peeking out from further up, hidden behind torn fabric.
On the ground, the man came back to consciousness, groans falling on deaf ears. He had stumbled back a few feet as she’d struck him, leaving a trail of muddled snow and blood as he fell, dagger just out of reach.
“I won’t say a word to anyone – and I trust you’ll do the same. As for him..” Had she been anywhere else, she would have slain him where he stood, rather than incapacitating him.. but she was in a court filled to the brim with people who already eyed her folk with suspicion and hatred, and she did not think the princess would keep quiet if she killed a man.
She began to walk towards him, and for each step she took, another piece of her illusion fell away – the lady faded from view, leaving a reaver in her place. It was a woman made from salt and stone who kicked him in the ribs, her iron gaze cold as she looked down at him. As he began to squirm, reaching for his knife, she got down on her haunches and grabbed his face, left-hand fingers digging into the soft flesh. Glass had scraped his skin raw, bits of it glittering, caught in the wounds. “I’ll do you a kindness,” she said, leaning over for his dagger with ease, left hand keeping him still as his eyes widened at the sight of his own knife in her hand.
The blade trailed a path across his forehead, but she didn’t press down to cut, not yet. Her voice was soft as she spoke – and though the words were sour in her mouth, she said them anyway, hoping she might use his pride against him. “I’ll let you tell them it was a man that did this.” Drops of scarlet began to bead as a slit slowly bloomed beside his left eye, Runa eyeing him like a cat grown tired of its prey.
As she got up, he stayed down, the dagger disappearing up her sleeve.
Runa. It was then that she recognized her, the woman who had been atop the walkways, listening for the wolves. Celia thought of the handkerchief she had taken and kept, the foreign scent still lingering on it. Her hands hovered over the fresh cut while her eyes skimmed the old scars, curiosity plucking at her to ask questions most likely better left unanswered. She was saved, however, or Runa was, for the woman moved towards the man groaning, Celia’s gaze ever faithful in following her every move. The air seemed to chill and though the young princess could not exactly see what changed, she knew something was different, scarier but enticing, and instead of making her move away, she felt herself tugged forward. In her years in Winterfell, she had been shielded from most horrors, tales of glory were often sieved through, the gory parts taken out. There was nothing of the sort out there.
The man on the ground grew pale and, to Celia’s fervent delight, whimpered as Runa turned his own blade against him. Her sympathy was drawn short for him, having been not only cheated by him in a game, but also in her fight, and the coward’s previous use of the very dagger now in Runa’s hand did little to inspire such mercy within her.
The questions from before were added to, Celia’s curiosity loosing her reservations and the moment Runa rose to her feet, Celia was on her, clasping both the lady’s hands in her own. It was as if some bridge had been constructed over the span of minutes, connecting her wholly with the other woman. There was no one else like her that Celia had ever met, not in Winterfell, and Celia had always dreamed of being a knight-- of being more. And here Runa was being exactly what Celia had been aspiring to.
“You are terrifying, Runa.”
“Your scars are battlewounds, no? You have seen battle. When? Was it difficult? What weapons do you know? Are you....do all the women fight?” At this question her expression brightened, her grip becoming a little tighter in her excitement.
