THE LAUGHING STORM.

IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER I CHARGE YOU TO BE JUST.

[lyonelb]

A PRIVATE, STORYLINE-CENTRIC WRITING BLOG FOR LYONEL BARATHEON OF A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS (2026) AND THE WORLD OF ICE AND FIRE OF GEORGE R. R. MARTIN. KNIGHTED ALONGSIDE ASH, AURORA, DAISY, GUINEVERE, JULIE, RAMSES, SOLEIL, VANTO. MATURE THEMES AHEAD, DO NOT INTERACT IF YOU'RE UNDER THE AGE OF TWENTY ONE.

[halfgigas]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀mirrors, the father and the flea of a babe, with faces beetled into twain frowns; the flea of a babe disgruntled, the father disgruntled, too, by the flea of a babe's disgruntlement and grimacing. if lyonel is the storm, then durran is the levin, crowned by fire. there hasn't been a baratheon with hair like his so long as the smith's been beating his hammer, lyonel says, gazing unto the babe crowned by fire with eyes of gossamer gold. 'tis exceptional for a newly born babe's eyes to be so brilliant, so said eira, whose two daughters, inara is seven and mari is four and mischievous, had grey eyes 'til heralded by their ninth moon were their eyes of hazel green, and so too will the eyes of eira's youngest be grey 'til then. dark are yenesia's eyes, and dark, too, are the eyes of yesenia's husband. locust's eyes, then, yesenia had laughed, will surely stay dark. and so too will durran's stay the sweet honey of a lord sire's. "he's all you elsewise," duncan says with a smile as amused as it is fond and a finger featherlight down the bridge of the babe's button nose, "frowning as he is."

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀a second, lyonel speaks of, 'though a second there was, crowned too by wisps of fire 'though with eyes hidden 'neath lids pallid and near translucent. (blue, duncan believes they were, of the summer sea and of a mother forgotten to time.) small, she was, smaller than durran, and still. a ghost of a girl, duncan isn't sure if she'd ever existed at all 'til rayyan's words echo, i'm sorry, but your girl is with the gods now. then through kisses does the girl's twin wail — little lungs surely the laughing storm's, too, aye, the smallest of thunder squalls — and squirm again in the swaddle. can't suffer a brother or sister to share you with, but a twin he was, an elder brother by mere minutes. "mm, he likes egg well enough." another touch, light as ever, to the babe's brow. now's not the time to tell lyonel. "he's not used to you, is all." but when will it ever be the time?

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀a blessing once more is noor of summer salt, for unbothered and unannounced does the small woman waltz into the room with fabrics of red and white suzani in hand for a ring sling. the boy's been fed, noor regards lord lyonel not as a lord but as no more than a man, you'll walk with him, hm? allow him to become accustomed to you and ser duncan rest. surely your older boy would like to see you as well. duncan snorts, brushing a careful hand o'er durran's crown, then against one of lyonel's own hands. not a targaryen aegon is, no, but a baratheon and lyonel's older boy. "aye, best not cross her, lyonel."

[lyonelb]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the lord's dark brow the hedge knight gentles for the smooth-scalped squire pleases the babe well enough and has not yet seen enough of his lord sire to recognize the face, the babe of fire-hair has. sundered from his heir by land and sea and the unkind time, too, lyonel had been, for the letter had found the lord of storm's end upon a storm-swollen morn yet heavy with slumber, but 'twas three salt-lashed sennights ere the surge and swell bore the lord to the babe sown in the hedge night's belly nine moons past. and in ventures the small, round woman from prior and of his older boy she speaks and scowls the lord, for the boy of his is a mere suckling and aegon the conqueror's namesake is his no more his than the hedge knight's. from his breast he looses a rumble and soothed is the petulant crumpling of the lordling's small, roseate face by the purr and the hedge knight's thumb. " mm. a fine idea. " he muses, brows raised. " he ought to know the men that shall fight and die for him, eh? " lyonel says as though the notion were his alone, and there the talk of heirship is left to linger.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀clad in loose trousers that billow with each step and a wide-hung and long-sleeved vesture of pale linen to ward the skin the lord is (though sun-burnished moreso than the knight, freckle'd and quick to colour in the ear and elsewhere) the eve himself and the boy, sealed by word as a son of lord lyonel baratheon, aegon baratheon then, step beneath the dappled shade of the olive groves where a hedge knight sits and at his side a babe nestled among linens, and clamorous and unmindful come the father and son of scant likeness, wrangling over the hush in the matter of the red mountains' appellation: from their ruddy rocks that blush come dawn is drawn the name they bear, thus claims egg, and from the plentiful blood spilled on them, thus claims lyonel.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀' but ser, ' the boy starts with flushed insistence. ' maester ⸻ ' " quite enough now. " lyonel grimaces, waves a hand in the little lad's face, curls of pitch-black and steel-silver plastered upon his brow with a glistening sheen. " you think i haven't seen the red mountains, boy? i've seen them plenty, and their red is as red as the hair on your head. " muddied brown it is, as is the earthen hue of the mountains. two days and two nights now since the summer sea cast forth the stormlanders and still they lie ill-settled in canvas tents and taverns and pillow-houses, and ill likewise lay their lord born and fostered beneath wind and rain. with a groan he sinks and stretches himself upon his back by the babe, on grass meagre and parched. " are the waters of blackwater bay black? " he gestures curtly, tucks an arm beneath his head. " no. there you have it. "

[lyonelb]

unfortunately cursed to gif this moment forever and ever because of the open-mouth eyebrow-raise sarcastic face he makes at the end. if i hadn't already given him 4 brothers i'd make him an only child because this is the face of a man that hasn't had to share his parents' attention with a sibling once in his life

[lyonelb]

was so inspired by this sentence i crafted myself that i'm now truly considering making him siblingless because they're not that crucial to his storyline anyway

[gwynedd-chronicles]

Beltane

[sigilstag]

 A STUDY IN    ────── THE  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER,  RUNT  OF  THE  LITTER,  FINDING  OF  SELF  AND  AUTONOMY,  LITTLE  REBELLIONS,  PREY  FERAL  ANTICS,  VANITY,  TEMPESTOUSNESS,  HOPELESS  ROMANTICISM,  NEVERENDING  WHIMSY,  AND  YEARNING.

Visit Original Link

[sigilstag]

ceaseless  in  her  dramatic  antics  ,  a  closed  fist  around  a  dagger  made  of  air  and  sheer  annoyance  stabs  plenty  a  times  at  her  sternum  ,  gold  bangles  tinkling  fromwith  her  wrists  with  each  frantic  assault.  ere  long  ,  eyes  rolled  skyward  in  her  skull  ,  a  tense  tick  tightening  her  jaw.

❝  no  ,  no  ,  ❞  comes  the  urgent  shake  of  her  hands  with  her  visage  contorted ,  voice  pitched  high  and  shrill  yet  aware  of  her  niece’s  slumber  ;  most  egregious  the  task  is  ,  and  she’d  rather  not  let  it  weigh  ’pon  her  brow  lest  the  time  calls  for  it.  for  meera  baratheon  ,  the  mother  stag  ,  was  no  less  than  cerberus  at  hades’  gates.  why  ,  yes  ,  it  is  abhorrent  to  think  your  mother  abreast  to  a  three-headed  hellhound,  but  she  was  a  creature  of  fury  and  judgment  akin  to  one  ⸻  perhaps  more  so.  ❝  not  this  time.  ❞

a  burden  for  the  youngest  to  bear  ,  to  serve  as  the  canvas  whereon  her  parents  sought  to  amend  every  failure  they  had  suffered  with  her  older  three  brothers.  and  made  privy  to  her  mother’s  projection  of  her  insecurities  and  worries  too  ,  for  she  is  the  last  chick  to  hatch  ,  the  last  to  leave  the  nest.  and  did  her  mother  not  yearn  for  a  girl  of  her  own  to  run  along  the  halls  of  storm’s  end?  yet  failed  lynorra  has  in  fulfilment  of  her  wishes;  left  ballet  for  horses  at  twelve,  left  many  a  whim  of  hers  to  chase  what  her  marrow  called  to.  men  too  ,  she  notes  ,  the  memory  leaving  a  dry  ,  hollow  taste  on  her  tongue  that  she  curls  against  her  ribbed  palate.

❝  i’m  keeping  this  one  a  secret  ,  ❞  mumbles  and  lounges  she  with  an  arm  over  the  backrest  ,  the  other’s  fingers  wrapped  around  a  silver  heart  shaped  locket  around  her  neck  ,  as  if  its  coolness  would  assuage  the  doubt  in  her  commitment.  out  of  the  nest  ,  hence  out  her  mother  should  be  from  her  business  alike.  ❝  i  don’t  care  how  long  i  gotta  ,  ❞  the  younger  groans  ,  jeweled  fingers  running  through  bleached  hair⸻  bereft  of  the  curls  and  the  brown  her  brother  and  her  niece  sported. 

❝  ..  don’t  think  i  want  him  to  see  the  crazy  just  yet.  and  you  ⸻  ❞  storm  gaze  catches  his.  ❝..  you  better  not  say  a  word  about  him  to  her,  i  swear  to  god  ⸻  ❞  the  threat  leaves  her  less  with  bite  (  for  it  was  no  threat  at  all,   a  request  at  worst  ,  a  plea  at  best  )  ,  rather  ladden  with  the  weariness  that  she’d  have  to  deal  with  in  the  event  it  did  reach  her  ears  ,  worse  not  from  her  lips.  ❝  promise ?  ❞ 

[lyonelb]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀had not been overmuch concerned with his mother's opinion of duncan, lyonel had, the first time he brought the boy to storm's end. and not on account of confidence had he been unbothered, and unbothered to an excessive degree, but by virtue of precisely a pinky-finger's measure of cocaine inhaled in his car beforehand. hadn't offered any to the boy, though, as in hindsight he certainly should have, for meera baratheon proved no gracious host to a spouse not of lyonel's age and not of the opposite sex and perhaps, in hindsight, it was lyonel that had borne the greater guilt for duncan's mistreatment, not she, for he had hauled his lover of not even half a year to a family occasion that had no business accommodating the family members's scandalously young affairs.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀and thus, the fortune leans toward lynorra, for a kindly boy is this ormund hightower, and a man besides, and of like age to meera baratheon's only daughter. and right she is to keep him hidden from their mother's hawk eye. he shrugs a shoulder, eases the cigarette from her fingers. " i might. " a right shit father he proves to smoke indoors with his daughter abed upstairs for her afternoon rest; but the door is shut firm, and he shall ensure the rooms are aired before she wakes. duncan would be displeased, he reckons. duncan would not tolerate cigarettes indoors. " are you going to tell her about me? " of the divorce, he imagines, and the indignity of camping out at his sister's, as though he were a washed-up layabout living out of a duffel bag. " she'd have a fucking field day. " a mumble, before he offers her the smoke. " she always did say we're not cut out for marriage, y'know. all five of us. "

[lyonelb]

unfortunately cursed to gif this moment forever and ever because of the open-mouth eyebrow-raise sarcastic face he makes at the end. if i hadn't already given him 4 brothers i'd make him an only child because this is the face of a man that hasn't had to share his parents' attention with a sibling once in his life

[lyonelb]

i had a semblance of an asoiaf verse for lyonel when i first started writing him but truly he's too big of a personality to fit into that world without impacting the story too much so i'd need to play around with the canon and the timelines a bit because had he been robert's older brother, he simply would've taken the throne for himself or claimed it immediately after he died like there's no alternative or a timeline where he sits aside and doesn't immediately act and he would likely get killed in the process. inspired by this though

[lyonelb]

i had a semblance of an asoiaf verse for lyonel when i first started writing him but truly he's too big of a personality to fit into that world without impacting the story too much so i'd need to play around with the canon and the timelines a bit because had he been robert's older brother, he simply would've taken the throne for himself or claimed it immediately after he died like there's no alternative or a timeline where he sits aside and doesn't immediately act and he would likely get killed in the process. inspired by this though

[halfgigas-a]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀AND HOW ALLAYING TO SER DUNCAN'S ANXIETY IS THE LORD'S NAYSAYING, 'though churlish and uncouth — cunts, ser lyonel so dismissively says — the lord's naysaying is, and churlish and uncouth is the lord's voracious and vulpine appetite. "mm, they're not cunts," ser hedge knight says against the lord of the stormlands's lips, for how awfully missed was the lord's churlish and uncouth and certainly cavalier mien, as though no lord of a castle but the captain of a carrack by the name of the maiden's cunt, and the lord's scathing mouth of dornish sea salt. "mind your tongue, m'lord, else you'll not have a nextborn." 'though droll is ser duncan and surely insincere, for noor's admonitions would be heeded not were durran slumbering. but aslumber the babe is not, no, but astir against duncan's breast durran is. a flea of a boy, aye, with hair the fire of flea bottom and eyes the levins of storm's end. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"greedy, aye, but a good little lad." soothed by duncan's forefinger is the furrow in durran's brow, and the smile before fond, glancing unto the mewling babe swaddled in dyed dornish red wool, is now wry and mayhap foolish as to the lord of storm's end are the hedge knight's eyes, the blue of the summer sea billowing from beyond the window of the birthing chambers, set. "three sennights 'til—" as though a maiden and not a hedge knight nor now a father, duncan fidgets 'gainst the bed. ten moons ago, nearly, had the hedge knight been in the lord's bed; a maid he may well be, sleeping in ditches and eating hard salt beef 'til the day durran was born. "—'til we're able to ... lie together, too, noor said." no wonder the boy's a flea of a thing born a moon early. with a grimace, he glances down at the babe, a flea of a thing born a moon too early but blessed by the gods and by godsgrief. (the girl, evidently, was not.) he bows his head back to the boy. "reckon he's keepin' an eye out for her." ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the babe scrunches his little button of a nose before sneezing, and startled by the sound of his own sneeze is he. dunk snorts. ravenous as a flea and skittish as a horse, so durran is, and keeps too occupied to think his hedge knight sire. looking at lyonel, then, dunk asks, "you want to hold 'im? not as delicate as he looks."

[lyonelb]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀bashful, the lad, in the talk of bedding and how endeared the lord looks upon the sanguine blossom spilling across freckles cheeks. three sennights must bleed away ere he might take @halfgigas again, so said this noor, and of scant patience is the lord of storm's end. " mm, a fate worse than an eunuch's. " he gripes with a mouth unchaste, smiles a leer puckish and honey-heavy. " i've hungered sorely for that sweet thing of yours. " and so he had, and had tilted and capered and carolled, and afterwards lain abed and imagined the honey-milk cunt he'd savoured as a ravenous hound and where, pray, the bearer thereof may have betaken himself and whether the storm-seed had been sown.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀and forsaken is the matter of men and not babes when betwixt arms weathered and scraped from the sea-gust's echinate tongue is gathered the flea of a boy that tempered palms do not falter to hold, yet require the hedge knight's guidance to do so. warm and light as a foal, the little lordling, with breath as faint as a leaf. a babe, in sooth, this little thing certainly is and pink and frail as a skinned hare, but lyonel's babe, that he can scarce conceive. he angles his head to see the boy's eyes of kindred amber, round as the moon, and blinking and frowning the smallest and thinnest of frowns they are against the stroke of a black-and-silver bristle against a down-soft cheek. knows how to marshal men into battle and how to grip a lance beneath mailed grip, and how to bloody a knight so he rises nevermore, lyonel does, but not how to hold nor father a babe.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀" sailed well-nigh a full moon for you. " he meets the child's beetled face with a grimace, touches the pad of this thumb to a thin, nigh smooth brow. " and you're eyeing me like i've torn you from the teat myself. " and then speaks to the sire but gazes at the babe and the tufts of fire. " a queer little thing. there hasn't been a baratheon with hair like his so long as the smith's been beating his hammer. " and upturns the eyes aglow. " ought to give you a second one soon as you're able, mm? see which sort you bear me next. " wily he speaks and syrupy the simper that to the knight's lips presses a kiss and from below the hollow his jaw steals the warm scent of milk and musk and sweat, yet chastised such amour promptly is with a lamb's bleat, a second one, wailing from betwixt the sires' close-leaning breasts.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀lyonel scowls, leans backwards. " he keeps no watch for noor. " he says. " it's himself he's looking out for. can't suffer a brother or a sister to share you with. " and then to the greedy beast. " can you, little lord? "

[gameofthronesdaily]

DANIEL INGS as Lyonel Baratheon A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS S1.01 ‘The Hedge Knight’

[sunfyred]

and capricious as the tides the lord's words were, providing him with a sliver of hope only to withdraw it in the very next sentence. a fickle midnight backwash along the shore, giving and taking and giving and taking—

oh, but how rarely did he give.

occupied lips had barely curled upwards at the promise of a return when the next remark made him falter, mouth ghosting over coveted skin of the man's neck. letting out a waft of shaky exhale in a kiss' stead.

dull, he had complained, ungrateful & insolent. had he not made it entertaining enough for the both of them ? had he not given enough ?

& still his foul little heart started beating faster and faster and faster at the mere proximity, his almost-lover's voice caressing his blushing ear—and then again his sandcastle was wrecked by a sudden wave.

his claw was around the man's throat now, cheeks flushed with nought but rage. the rage of a scorned little boy he loathed to be seen as, volatile & self-righteous. and capricious as the tides he swam against.

"you wouldn't dare," aegon snarled, deep and ugly and nothing like the way he looked. nothing like the way he wanted to look.

"her mad cunt of a husband would have your head for it ... if i don't do us all a favor and do that first."

something flashed in his accusing eyes then, something the sudden thought of this wretched man's demise caused. did that thought really distress the king more than the thought of him laying with the enemy ? wouldn't that be a fitting end, a dishonorable death for a dishonorable traitor ?

grip loosening, his hand fell from the man's throat as long-held tears fell from his face. an eerie apathy washing away the traces of conflicted emotions despite the solid evidence of them dripping down his chin now.

"go, then," he eventually blurted out, drained. his hands falling at his sides uselessly. having found little to try & take.

[lyonelb]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀a taloned hand coils 'round the older man's throat, that of a dragon and that of a child pampered and petulant, silver locks burdened with a crown scarce earned. and snarls as a dragon, too, the boy-king does or rather as a whelp bereft of a bone upon which to gnaw. you wouldn't dare, he says, and truly he speaks, for the lord paramount of storm's end would scarce dare, nor desire to lay bejewelled hand upon the firstborn daughter of king viserys with the same unbidden liberty he bestows upon his firstborn son. and speaks of claiming the stag's antler'd head, as well, the firstborn son does as though hollow threat might strike fear within the beast, and lyonel observes unspeaking whilst the child rages.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀mad the boy truly is, and a broken thing, with tears coursing rosied cheeks and lyonel watches, head cocked, as hurt colours eyes of lilac and piteous as a bride compelled to wedlock, he bids the man leave. a berserk and wayward breed, these dragons, and the realm and lyonel alike would breathe freely without them. a simper stretches his mouth and an idle step bears him nearer unto the younger man, palm lain upon the pommel.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀" i shall. " into the warm gap betwixt two faces he rasps. " mm? i'll sail to the dull slag of an isle, and hold counsel with your sister, and come back and take you over that very desk, should you wish it, your grace. " he grins and casts his eyes aside to a richly wrought table of wood, dragons writhing in grain and vases set upon its surface, and then back unto the boy-king. " but visit your sister i shall, however little it might please you. my duty's to the realm, not to your cock. "

[lyonelb]

happy pride month to THE homosexual i love writing the gayest character of the gayest house god bless

[budyak]

[ozgog]

' ℌold your hand flat. ' she tells him gently. nancy has been driving for a solid ten hours, but that's just fine. they're making good time, she and her trailer full of spotted little horses, some plain coated with simple blankets of white, as though puffs of clouds had collapsed and dashed themselves upon the quarters of the two year olds she hauls, others with splashes of cream smearing in with the chestnuts and bays and palominos. she'd regretted the last truck stop she'd passed sixty miles back. she wasn't about to pass this one too. she holds her cigarette carefully between her teeth as she takes his hand, helps him to unfurl his fingers and boast out his palm where the cookie of rolled oats and honey lay in wait for the snuffling muzzle of one in particular to have taken interest in the treat; a scruffy red roan with a face mottled with pinks and oranges, as though a painter had flung their soaking brush and the colt had caught the spray. her fingers scrape, rough as stone, but are not unkind. ' or else they'll think they're carrots. '

@lyonelb

[lyonelb]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀raised with these beasts lyonel had been, though ever at a wary distance; reared amid the green folds of the english countryfields but kept from close acquaintance with his mother's mounts and thus spared the labour of their keeping, nor had he ever been minded toward such business. the wide grasslands and the mastery of horsemanship called to lyonel's sister alone and only seldom, then in childhood and now in passing visits to the estate had he so much as fed the foals or been fetched from smoking by his niece and nephew and haled off to the stables to help them coax some mare out of her stall for joyride about the countryside and to hold it secret from their grandmother.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀alien, still, the feel of a damp snout pressing for a treat from the hollow of his palm. from idle fingers a cigarette droops and he brings it to his mouth, turns to glance askance at the one who steers his hand onward with weathered fingers and a tender touch, and whom lyonel regards for an overlong stretch of silence. a fair face, that. " so you're, what, a farmer? " he says, smoke wafting from his mouth in languid threads, a smile edging into the line of his lips as he turns again to the russet foal. " don't meet a lot of those. "

[baratheonpilled]

Game of Thrones 2.04 / A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms 1.01

[charmymemes]

𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒

feel  free  to  change  any  pronouns  or  subjects  (or  reverse).      tw  for  blood,  death  and  physical  violence  mention.

‘  is  it  complete?  ’

‘  who  are  you?  ’

‘  who  is  this?  ’

‘  why  are  you  bleeding?  ’

‘  what  would  i  do  without  you?  ’

‘  do  you  feel  alright?  ’

‘  what’s  your  name?  ’

‘  why  do  you  hate  me?  ’

‘  do  you  want  something  to  eat?  ’

‘  aren’t  you  supposed  to  be  someone  important?  ’

‘  did  you  read  it  yet?  ’

‘  can  you  help  me?  ’

‘  why  do  you  act  so  weirdly?  ’

‘  what  do  i  do  with  someone  like  you?  ’

‘  you  awake?  ’

‘  can’t  you  tell  left  from  right?  ’

‘  how  dare  you?  ’

‘  can  i  have  a  word?  ’

‘  why  didn’t  you  fight  back?  ’

‘  can  you  stop  interupting  me?  ’

‘  why  are  you  here?  ’

‘  what  happened?  ’

‘  haven’t  you  said  enough?  ’

‘  why  are  you  still  ___?  ’

‘  why  don’t  you  shut  up  and  be  quiet?  ’

‘  what  did  you  dream  of?  ’

‘  why  are  you  yelling?  ’

‘  how  could  you  say  that?  ’

‘  is  that  mine?  ’

‘  why  did  you  turn  out  this  way?  ’

‘  are  you  talking  to  me?  ’

‘  why  won’t  he  date  me?  ’

‘  why  did  you  hit  him?  ’

‘  why  are  you  crying  yourself  to  sleep?  ’ 

‘  are  you  serious?  ’

‘  who  did  this?  ’

‘  will  i  regret  this?  ’

‘  do  you  promise?  ’

‘  is  that  mine?  ’

‘  am  i  dead?  ’

‘  can  you  stop  moving?  ’

‘  is  he  looking  at  me?  ’

‘  does  it  hurt?  ’

‘  how  did  that  happen?  ’

‘  what’s  the  weather  for  tomorrow?  ’

‘  are  you  in  love  with  me  yet?  ’

‘  is  it  that  important?  ’

‘  want  some?  ’

‘  was  that  an  accident?  ’

‘  what’s  the  deal  with  you?  ’

‘  who  do  you  think  you  are?  ’

‘  can  i  ask  you  something?  ’

‘  why  don’t  you  leave  then?  ’

‘  how  could  you?  ’

‘  is  this  all  you  can  do?  ’

‘  why  is  this  here?  ’

‘  how  did  you  get  in  here?  ’

‘  is  it  freezing  to  you?  ’

‘  what  are  you  making  tdday?  ’

‘  are  you  lost?  ’

‘  has  it  been  that  long?  ’

‘  how  could  you?  ’