He often wondered what would occur first –his brother finding out and striking his name from the family archives, or the public humiliation to him and his name. Oh gods’, Tywin might actually have his body strung outside of Casterly, flayed and salted, for such a transgression, like the Lords of old. He looked around, searching for his shoes, and found one under the wrinkled, mud-crusted pant leg of Robb Stark’s jeans. He grimaced, noticing the filth that had accumulated on the suede, and set to finding something to rub it off with… Not that doing so would do much good.
Kevan sighed, choosing to instead sit on the edge of the bed, and tug on the expensive, imported, Braavosi work shoes he so often wore. In fact, he was certain they were a present from his brother. He chuckled, a throaty sound full of warmth, but entrenched with suffering born of irony. He tugged at the strings, securing them before beginning the hunt for his tie… And his other sock, which he had quite regrettably not put on.
Where is my mind this morning? Well, there was a pretty obvious answer… One that was currently resting on his stomach, in the bed, with sheets in a tangled mess around him. Kevan tried to stop looking at the smooth divides of his back, the jut of his shoulders, covered in an array of red and neat black rows, and then down to the beginning curve of his arse. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to dispel the image, and reign in the still burning coals of arousal in his gut.
Where was that infernal tie?! Oh… There it was… Still half tied around one of Robb’s wrists. Kevan chuffed softly, a horse, warm laugh as he sat upon the edge of the bed, and put his face in his hands.
