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@toothd
𓆸 fall in love again & again , fall in love again & again . in a place that can make you change ──── everything is romantic .
𝑖. lord jacks bolton : introduction & pinterest 𝑖𝑖. lady mela redwyne : introduction & pinterest 𝑖𝑖𝑖. lord willas hightower : introduction & pinterest 𝑖𝑣. lady desmera fossoway : introduction & pinterest
#TOOTHD , a dependent blog written by paige — @ ikeaslut on discord — for 103ac. dni if you are not affiliated with the group.
though lady mela does not make her feel bad, and for that she is grateful, elissa still regrets speaking without thinking it through first. she bows her head respectfully, as if to thank the woman for not taking her words as a slight. “that is most appreciated, my lady,” elissa responds in turn. “my brother and i may not always see eye to eye, but i do hope that he will be found soon, along with the others. i cannot imagine how terrifying it must've been, being swept out into the bay like that. there has been too much tragedy as of late, we deserve some good news.”
mela thinks at how she might feel if her own sibling had tumbled into nothingness. no sign of the hand's body yet, no one to speak on whether he had been seen after he fell into the blackwater — it was as if he had disappeared from existence. as if he were dead already. a strange thought, even without any tenderness held for the lord westerling. " none deserve a death such as that, " she shakes her head, adamant in the statement. " kinder or crueller, perhaps — but not something so . . . unresolved. " so lacking finality. " in time, i hope that your house is given answers. "
mordhred experiences the tremble of her utterance in kind. the vacancy of the skies draws their attention, for the promise comes where there will be none such a vacancy. things which have rule over the celestial heavens will come down to rain the seven hells upon the seven kingdoms. these things are only a matter of when, how long it will take for the sands of the hourglass to run clean through. "we must have our terrible thoughts and say them when able. otherwise they fester into a poison greater than any greyjoy could dare possess." a grunt. if they had a daughter, were blessed with a sister to grover, in truth they imagine her to be like mela. a combination of ennui and nostalgia, and truth of knowing how she would have grown.
"only one is gone. the rest have scattered. to establish rule underneath a feral beast is to ask for trouble. though i'd argue ..." they splay their hand to the windowsill and lean upon it, gazing out upon the disturbances of the keep. there is no semblance of peace now, a tension boiling like hot water beneath the surface of the very cliffside. " ... i'd argue we are surrounded by monstrous men who are of greater peril. and that, lady mela, is terrible to say. i do hope it is not any of their intentions that prevail, but." circling back around to how she thinks, observing the glassiness of her stare. "my hope does dwindle with each passing day." and to think: they were meant to be a beacon of hope for house tully. of encouragement and a modicum of safe passage to the next era.
mela was honest, but so too did she hold her tongue often. some thoughts, though precious few, were not for speaking aloud. if mordhred knew the extent of her thoughts' terribleness, perhaps they would not suggest as much. she remains still, bathed in their combined silence as it settles between them with the same ability for suffocation as a woollen blanket. " every poison has its antidote, " she muses, thinking of the blood red liquid ushered into the red keep's sickrooms by maesters most certainly benefiting from the hightower coffers. " the idea of a just king is a false one, " she insists, " whoever it is that wins the day and sits the throne will have ideas for ruling that will benefit some and hurt others grievously. " king aegor had presided over a peaceful realm, but that did not make him a good man. it did not make him a good ruler, even. it merely made him lucky. " the dragons, at least, only hurt because they are frightened. because they are threatened. " she wonders again at what had prompted their escape. it seemed no one was any closer to answers. " i should be going, " she insists, hand resting absentmindedly over the buckle of her belt, checking that it was properly fastened. beyond the windowpane that they lean against, the sun raises higher in the sky. there remained much to do before the streets crowded with smallfolk going about their daily work. " be well, won't you? the days are long. longer still, in these rooms. "
their smile comes slow and sweet, a nod following. “ yes, my thanks. the maesters have done well in their aid, of course, but i have noticed you as well. the extra care that you pay. ” she had no desires to crowd the other, the next few steps taken small to maintain the distance between them. “ my apologies, i suppose that i have taken leave of my manners in all that has happened. my name is amahle arryn. i mean to thank you for taking care of my cousin, donnell. i am not sure what possessed him to look in the face of a dragon and not only fight, but win. ” a pause as it is a concept that is still so far fetched to them that had not numerous onlookers seen it, the proof of it in their cousin and others laid in their sicks beds with the burns and scratches that were proof enough — amahle would assume that everyone had suffered some sort of mass hysteria or eaten from the some plate that had caused vivid night terrors. “ of course, with a face as beautiful as yours to greet him, i rather think he will heal quite nicely even if he did not have your salves. ”
the citadel, mela thought, was an institution far too lauded. she did not oppose education — not in the slightest — but she thought their methods sometimes too rigid, the mysteries of the realm still known to so few of those who bore the maesters' chains. of course she would help, then, knowing that her methods were so different to theirs. what worked for one body may not work for another. this was better for all. " it is my duty to help those in need, " she explains, " a self - prescribed duty, but a duty nonetheless. " recognition registers as they introduce themselves, a small dip of her chin in greeting. " yes — ser donnell is a spectacular breed of fool, " she breathes, " he is merely lucky the realm so covets blind bravery. " she speaks to the keep's floor, images of the dragon attack passing before her mind's eye. donnell would be sung of, at least, if he was not admired for his feat. mela's cheeks burn at the compliment, floating to her ears as it does while her gaze is averted to the stone of the floor. " you flatter me, my lady. "
the lord of castamere had, of course, realized that courting the lady of cider hall would be no small feat. she was not easily impressed by baubles or trinkets or whatever gold or silver he could offer her. truthfully, though? that is something he likes about her. he finds her far more interesting than most of the ladies at court or otherwise, and he'd certainly had his fair share of courting over the years… if one could call it that.
he chuckles.
“that is true,” he nods, making his way closer to inspect the scene the children have created. “i am sure he is. he is a strong man, after all. i simply hoped to ease your burdens by checking in on you.” another chuckle leaves him. “has your mother returned? last we spoke, you said she would give me an earful about this betrothal. i've yet to hear it.”
she finds herself incensed by his very presence. it is no fault of his own, of course. the ruling lord reyne has done nothing but wish to advance the influence of his house. still, desmera reviles what she cannot understand — and she understands so little of politics. she stands stiffly, fingers fisted in the black silk of her skirts. she must keep her hands busy, lest they act of their own accord. desmera endures his compliments for her brother with pursed lips. " she has written — " she begins, " and is due to return the day of the council meeting. you shall see her there, will you not? hopefully she will wait to speak with you, lest she embarrass you before your aged and so very boring peers. "
"who says i would not?" a brow raises, the ease in which he speaks to her coming back to him. they were not friends exactly, but something strange and perhaps terrible to whoever looked upon them. two predators locking eyes, dancing around each other without much word and when they did speak, it was in a language one could only wish to be able to follow. it was not often he got to speak in his mother's tongue, but desmera made it easy even if their languages were not one and the same. "at least i know you will lick them clean." rather than his bones being lit on fire like the true valyrian he was. though, perhaps he thinks himself more now. pupils dilating at the dragons that swim in his vision, the ones that listen when he speaks. he is starting to believe he could get used to such a notion, wonders if he were to come upon a bond, if desmera would take to the skies with him or if she would prefer to keep her feet upon the ground where they so often dug. "it does not, you are right." he would have rather died a bloody death or one more than this. one where he found himself in the midst of a battle, a sword taking him out like the true knight that he was. steel crunching into his skin instead of fire licking him. "you hear?" daemian attempts a laugh, "i did not know it would be a topic of conversation you found yourself in, discussing me. do you like me that much?" daemian does not push further about her wellbeing, understanding the small nod she gives him. never one for too many words they were, more watching and observing. a smile, something small, but gentle curls his lips upward. he would hope his foolishness would not harm her.
he makes her laugh, the sharp of her canines revealed in the dim candlelight. she had made them so at cider hall, aged only ten and three, eating at their white points with shards of rock smuggled indoors in a billowing black sleeve until they were sharp to the touch. she had cried in her mother's lap each time she'd drank anything cold for the duration of the next sun. even still, desmera thought the pain worth it. " i shall leave you as pretty and dreadfully pale as i found you, " she reassures, the ghost of her laughter still present in her eyes. there was not much humourous about the state of daemian's body, seared and cracking as it was. desmera finds it quite easy to speak as if that were not the case. she has always been good at pretending. " do not die, then. it's likely your gods wouldn't even have you, in this pathetic state. a sword through the belly is marginally less shaming. that is what i imagine for you. " she picks at the embroidery on the skirts of her gown, threads escaping their prisons one by one. a single, black bead falls to the floor, bouncing into darkness. she follows the sound of it with her eyes as she speaks. " you remind me much of a home i've never had the pleasure of knowing. " she confesses. of course desmera liked him. she could not help but like him when he was the only person who deigned speak to her in something resembling her mother tongue — her first language, one that she had spoken before even the common tongue despite her upbringing in the reach. " and i would not endure your current ham - like odour if i did not like you plenty, you crabapple. "
❝ i wasn't expecting any company. ❞ he can't help but wonder if the sight before him is a dream. ( or a nightmare , at the very least. ) still caught on the edges of a stolen sleep , had his mind conjured up a mirage that was intended to haunt ? a vision that was meant to tease ? ❝ should i be thankful that all you did was hit me ? ❞ but the voice that broke through the quiet of the room was all too real. the shifting of the sheets around him further proof of a stray that had slunk in. past the guards , his own defences. there was little comfort to the realization of it , but an easy enough acceptance born from the years of suffering her attentions. a slow , yet constant wittling of him , until all he could do was fight off the urge to throw an arm around her. to tuck her closer and steal of him that same warmth and touch he'd experienced once ⸻ that he refused to admit to wanting for ever again. ❝ oh. ❞ a quiet death of unquiet thoughts. it was a good thing he had not attempted to hold her , to pull her closer. for whatever had transpired between them , all three of them , was simply a night of too much wine and mistakes that were never meant to see the light of day. what a strange idea , to feel the loss for something he had spent such a long time running from. that was hardly his to lose. ❝ did you come for well wishes then ? ❞
" you are purposefully obtuse, " she accuses, turning on her side such that she can examine his side profile. a small pleasure, one that she would no longer have leave to indulge in once she was shackled to myles, his house's name her fetters. desmera reyne. it left a sour, unpleasant taste on the tongue. " and i kissed you, before i hit you. " this information is offered as if it will act a balm to the pink of his kiss - slapped cheek. she knows ren to be smart. she knows that he knows she would not hurt him, not truly, unless he gave her good reason to. " i would not beg of you well wishes, ren. i know you do not have flowered, pretty words stored up within the thick of your skull for me. " he did not enjoy her — not as she enjoyed him. " besides, i refuse to be wed to a man that is not of my choosing. my father is a fat lout. " she pauses only for an intake of breath, " and thicker than mud if thinks i shall simply waltz into castamere and play lady consort prettily. " no, that would not do. she pulls the bedlinens tightly around her, simulating an embrace she knows not to expect from him. still, her keen eyes peer at him through the darkness uninhibited.
a gentle sigh. it held no weight, no disappointment, no anguish. only understanding. edmure had never once doubted that his father was scheming behind closed doors, was making arrangements to offer desmera’s hand before long. she was a beautiful thing, kind and plucky and self-assured ; pride hardly touched the warmth that filled his chest at the thought of his sister. he simply wished that it was him that made such decisions. “you will forever be a fossoway. cider runs through your veins,” light hit his eyes, crinkling in the corners, “are you happy ? is he kind to you ? ” remembering the seedlings of his own marriage, it had not been love immediately. edmure and allyria had watched as affections germinated, sprouted, and finally bloomed — if miles and desmera could find even a fraction of that connection, her older brother would be relieved. “our father likes to move in the shadows. i have learned this of him. if you are needing me to speak with him … ” lorence was not an easy man to approach, even less to counter. once edmure had been fearful of him. now, he did not hesitate to speak his mind. “i suppose, soon, it will be time to consider a partnership for trystane.”
it is a puerile reaction, but desmera finds herself disappointed that her brother is not outraged. a single wrinkle appears between the dark of her brows, no larger or more offensive than a grain of rice. she had always imagined him her knight in shining armour, if their father could not act as one. to sit, placid - faced, as she revealed to him the great horror she faced — it feels much like a betrayal. " i will not be a fossoway in name, " she insists, leaning forward slightly in her ire. " no one sings of blood, ed. they sing of names. they recall names. " edmure's next question hardly begs answering, then. " of course i am not happy. i do not wish to be wed. not now, or any time in the near future. " she stands, her apprehension and ire and childish offence culminating in energy that needs expending. " i shall make father regret this. " a solemn promise made with certainty, her jaw clenched tightly, muscle rippling beneath skin. a roll of her eyes, an exhasperated toss of her hands. " well, i should hope that you will not barter trystane's hand over the bloody breakfast table as father did mine! " she wishes to scurry from his sight, to flee, to scramble from the room as if it were on fire. no matter how she trusted edmure, no matter how she knew he cared for her, he could not understand her plight.
"do you believe such a thing?" she asks curiously, head tilting to the side in observance of him. an interesting creature he seemed to be. a hightower. she did not hate them as much as other people within king's landing seemed to. they were just another family of rich noblemen after something that was never meant to exist in the first place, if they were more evil than they seemed, who was she to truly care? "that we could escape in time? i do not know if i do, look what they did mere days ago as we watched them descend from where they were meant to be caged." she shrugs, "the smallfolk is who i worry for, defenseless and left to rot. perhaps if they decide it is our time, i shall join you in saving the children first." a pact that probably meant nothing besides the care of two people, one who had more means than she did, but she supposed it meant something all the same. "do you have your plot of land picked out then?" betha inquires as she walks ahead of him toward a nearby tavern, wine on her mind and a chance to escape, perhaps with a better companion. "for when you are to inevitably fall into your grave. perhaps you can help me choose my own, ser, maybe over that drink."
" do you not? " he bounces her question back at her like a blow off of a shield, head tilting in mirror of her own. willas thinks that he speaks the truth. in the end, if they could not save anyone — at least they could try. the curfew could give them that, even if it turned out to be a hollow reassurance, when faced with dragonfire. " no one was ready, then. no one expected it. " next time, it would be different. if the dragons descended from the heavens once more, most would be ready. most would find validation in death, knowing that they had not been walking around with every muscle tensed in anticipation for naught. " you would be welcome, of course. " willas imagined, if any child were orphaned, that he might take them on as his squire. he would treat them differently to how he had been treated by ser colin. it was not that the ashford knight had been cruel — but he had not been warm. he had not been encouraging. he had not been fatherly in the way that willas had dreamed he might be. " i suppose i'll be buried in the crypt on battle isle. where all hightowers are laid to rest. " in truth, he did not much care where his massive body was set aside to rot. " or in a great big ditch off the side of the kingsroad, if not. perhaps the ruins of the dragonpit will be just about big enough of a hole. " with that, he sets off in the direction of the taverns just outside of the keep's walls, intending to make them his destination even if she does not follow.
people who care for you ----- he says, and you cannot help the grin, dimple deepening at the side of your cheek. does it disturb him, too, to think of any of you six feet under the ground? does he also get vivid nightmares, showing the way the bodies will rot and melt and wither with the passing of time? and does he wake up, sometimes, choking on air with fright? or had he, like you, grown used to the shape of such horrors? he does not want me dead, you think. then he must love me so. "sorry," you offer. does that stitch back the wound i unwittingly opened? how can i balm my offense, brother? you watch him still, protruded with ease nearly to the branches, blessed by the warrior, anointed with strength and might. how come the stranger never made you this tall and gallant? are they not also a god? and are you any less of a worthy vessel? you kick your feet in the air and they dangle softly, almost childlike. feels nice watching him from this angle; for starters, your neck doesn't hurt looking up. "then you're lucky," you twitch your mouth in a pensive pout. "do you ever want to trade places?" you offer in jest, though you are not sure if he will see it as such. but it is obvious, is it not? rough as the hardships of your siblings' paths proved, they could at least look back at the seventh runt of the litter and thank every god they were not you. who wants to embody the stranger, anyway? then he dismisses you: i am not hiding, but i do wish to be alone. the light from your eyes dims and you understand maybe the jest offeded him sorely. you climb down the tree then, knees bending quickly before straightening up when you land. i arrived here first, you could argue. he could be the one to leave. instead your head nods and your feet start moving. who wants to stand near the stranger, anyway? "will i see you at supper?"
he shrugs off their apology as if he had not been the one to prompt it, shoulders bobbing up and down once unceremoniously. it was nearly uncomfortable to see contrition on another's features when one was so unused to it — even as rowan's range of expression has always been limited. willas looks away, inspecting the bark of the tree to his left. he lifts a hand, running his thumb over the bark's strata. " it is done, " he insists, the words already said. they cannot take them back, and so he must forgive them. the gods would bid him do as much. their question is like a drop of cold water down the line of his back. his muscles contract, shoulderblades pulling together tightly. " all the time, " he answers, " the grass is ever green in the neighbouring pasture, ro. " each of them had their struggles. he had seen enough of ceryse's nerves to know it. even elyas, willas is sure, suffers some. " of course you will see me at supper. " the reassurance comes easily. their mother would glare daggers across every room until he'd apologized for his absence, if not. dropping his arm back to his side with a thud, willas exhales a long breath before he turns to take his leave from the godswood in search of another place in which he could deftly avoid their father.
end.
Helvis stood, still as stone. Fitting, in the Godswood, a place of old growth and young vines all emanating from an ancient tree, where nothing could be still but an outsider. More fitting yet in this one, where an oak stood guard over soil that had never seen the Old Gods' rule. Helvis had liked to spend time in the Godswood at Harvest Hall, as a girl, not for any sense of prayer or heresy, but for the peace that came with age and the wilderness that no garden would see. Ber had climbed its branches before he had known they were those of Gods. The sight of the Old Gods persisted even here… but not their worship. And one so disconnected from the Seven as to raise her children to look to the dead Gods of the North—would never succeed here. "The sea god whose threshold Storm's End is built upon failed to reclaim it. And has failed, over and over, for many thousands of years, no matter how pitifully the wind howls." What would anybody with eyes turned to the distant North govern the faithful of the Stormlands?
Enough. "If it meant you do not act in haste, with no intention of amending your ways or doing as you ought by Syrenna… then yes. Speak it now. But if you seek only to defile… pray that my husband's wrath comes on you second, for it is the only way you will survive it. And that your Gods have any power left here to answer those prayers."
end.
he laughs sharply, cut to a brief halt by a wince, abdomen unhappy with the action. "gods — not lord merryweather's son!" donnell manages to grit with appropriate indignation on the redwyne's behalf, lifting the corner of his lips so that the grimace might look more like a smile. in a general assessment, the yarrow had soothed him much, though he much preferred the balm she had concocted (though, that may be attributed to the careful way she applied it to his skin — or rather, lack thereof — allowing donnell to look upon the length of her thick lashes). the swann wished not to waste mela's company on his pain, preferring that he spend it in high spirits. if this was to be his last nameday, at least he would spend it happily. "what crime did he commit against you?" donnell presses, finding himself recovered from the ache faster than it would have yesterday. "should i cut a wing from him too?" unlike she, he is all smiles and jests. company is not so far and in between with a family as large as his, but he must admit that he enjoys mela's visits the most. she does not admonish his stupidity as near much as his bracken cousins, although, donnell agrees: it had been stupid to try himself against a dragon.
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. "
they wave away her words, drawing closer. of course she would be elsewhere --- all who cared for the consequences of a dragon's attack would be. "time is perhaps the one thing i have in abundance," they answer with a nod. with jingyi nearly fully recovered, and gwyneth tending as well, they had more time than most other nobles.
dexian reaches for another batch of phials and placing them in a basket before gesturing to mela to lead the way. "which area are you heading to today?"
mela admires the liege corbray. she has heard much of their house's relationship with their smallfolk, and did her best to emulate it in the arbor. it was difficult — the island was large, its population vast. she was only one lady, and a second born one at that. still, the ideal of heart's home impressed upon her the need to try. she did the same now, in king's landing, so far from home. she offers a smile, sliding filled phials across the tabletop for them to fill their basket with. " i have heard much of you, liege corbray. i have always admired your family's rule from afar. " she sighs, wishing to pass by her admission of admiration quickly. " flea bottom, " comes her answer. the courtesans from the street of silk had flocked there after the brothels had burned, many of them bearing injury.
myria's eyes widen a fraction as she realizes the call is directed to her. the children and their laughter barrel toward her, and myria's own hands turn to claws.
"bandits fare a terrible fate if caught," she says, trying to infuse a jovial tone to her words as not to scare. the children scramble once more, sharp turns and tumbles as they launch to her left, and she follows one step, two step, and another until the liege reaches them all.
"and what shall be their punishment?"
" punishment? now there's a thought — " desmera speaks, undeniably thrilled at the other woman's willingness to conspire. the flush of her cheeks reveals as much as she taps her chin in feigned thought, looking between the two of her brother's children mischievously. " why, we must fill their pockets with rocks and toss them into the sea! or perhaps they would prefer to be drawn and quartered . . . or fed to hungry lions such as myself! " she leaps then, sending the children scattering once more. she laughs, straightening, reluctant though she is to end her participation in their play. " thank you, my lady. that was a job well done. the council might consider you for the kingsguard, were they clever at all. "
"is it not silly we have a curfew?" betha muses, though the question is not necessarily directed at the man that had happened upon her. she wonders what else they will do to keep the people safe, she wonders if they will finally strike down the dragons when they have them in range or if they will continue to let the beasts roam as if they are not invaders of westeros along with the valyrian-blooded individuals that came and conquered without a care in the world. she wishes to laugh at the idea, how weak they were to let beasts fight their battles for them. conquerers? no, they were not. take their dragons away and they were mere mortals just like the rest of the known world. "if the dragons wished to kill us, they would have done so by now. come back and rained fire down upon the whole city." her feet are dangling, kicking as she speaks, her eyes not leaving the other at all, almost boring into him. "though i can be convinced for a tavern visit." betha jumps from her spot, landing perfectly upon the stone streets of king's landing and sizing up the man that had spoken to her. he was tall, though lacked the definition of a warrior. she pats his chest covered with armor, "come, let us drink ourselves into a coma. i am sure the sickbeds could use a few more patients."
even if willas agrees with betha, he cannot be seen to do so. he keeps his mouth shut, offering a meagre shrug. it had been his father's doing — the curfew. how could they best keep the smallfolk safe if they could hardly spy the dragons cutting through the sky above the clouds in broad daylight? the night's darkness was a beast all its own. still, the curfew has caused him enough inconvenience by now that he thinks it slightly ridiculous, as well. " at least there would be time to evacuate, if we spied them from afar. " he offers, head cocked slightly, as if thinking of it weighed down the very brain within his skull. " some people, we could save. the children, perhaps. " he watches her jump form the wall, watches her still as she pats his chest as though he were some kind of loyal hound. " i would prefer to lie comatose in a grave over the sickbeds. "
They all made for good stories: though not perhaps the sort of stories that just anybody would be able to stomach. From habit Grover sanded down his tales, tall or otherwise, when telling Aila: too much bloodshed made them squeamish. Nobody else at home had just yet heard of the more exciting of his adventures, simply out of ill (ha-ha) timing and everybody's refusal to take some entertainment as it was meant: to cheer up. "All earned, though not awarded me myself, of course," he agreed, leaning against a low branch and taking another bite out of his fruit. "They come to me from friends and colleagues, for achievements. Lord Big of Head for my hammer, Prince of Rags for the rags I made of the Bright Banners..." A busy tavern, drinks overflowing, Grover propped between the shoulders of two Sons, singing a terrible drunken song. "… and King Talks a Lot... well, you may guess that one. But who titles you Goddess Desmera the Inimitable, Omnipotent, and Beautiful?" Why choose one when you could be all three? He lowered a hand to show her the fruit he carried, brow raised in offer. "Will they come fight me if I name you the same? They may live to regret it."
she had coveted the apple since he had sunk his teeth into it. it was a perverse desire, perhaps — but desmera found herself far from caring. " you speak of yourself quite highly, grover, " she notes, as if she herself had not only just done the same. " i should like to hear the tales behind your claims. if only for verification, " she sighs feigned disinterest, eyes shining, " it is unbecoming of even a fool to lie. " with that, she plucks from his hand the apple, biting it in the same place he had. " — this apple is shit, " she insists, its tartness lacking, its texture grainy. she was accustomed to better fare, the sweet and sour offerings of the orchards around cider hall. " if they came to fight you, this apple may serve better as a projectile weapon than it does a piece of fruit. we shall be shield brothers. besides, i should think it worth the bloodshed — the opportunity to name me beautiful. "
seora had stopped only because the laughter was loud enough to interrupt her thoughts. it carried strangely through the courtyard, too bright for a city still smelling faintly of smoke, and for a long moment she simply watched from where the path met grass.
children had never been a language she spoke with any fluency. her nephews were the lone exception, earned through years of familiarity and sheer persistence on their part. every other child remained an unpredictable little creature liable to cry, scream, or ask impossibly inconvenient questions. these two seemed content to shriek with laughter instead, darting across the damp lawn with a lady -- fossoway, was it? -- in theatrical pursuit.
at the woman's pointed summons, seora glanced over one shoulder as though to confirm there truly wasn't some more suitable victim standing behind her. there wasn't. just as she was about to refuse, the pair barreled toward her and seora merely stepped sideways at the last possible moment, neatly obstructing the easiest path without making any move to actually catch either of them.
"there," she said flatly as the children veered away, still laughing. "blocked. i believe i've fulfilled my obligation."
" oh, " desmera begins, a look of pity blooming on her features where exhilaration had only just housed itself. " you are boring. " a belated realization, one that desmera wishes she had made prior to begging the lady's assistance. she allows tanselle and elyas to escape, running amok to the other side of the plush courtyard. running to their safety, encapsulated within their bubble of fun. " a terrible affliction, " she shakes her head, crossing her ankles over each other beneath her skirts. a hand presses over her heart, signalling earnestness that isn't truly there. " just terrible. my condolences, my lady. it is a fate worse than death. " this, desmera has debated at length – especially in the wake of the terror of the dragon attack on the tourney grounds.
