On the scent (for fromporcelain)

[no_ser]

The brother from the Quiet Isle is in the Vale not five days before guardsmen come for him.  Perhaps it’s because he’s not near quiet enough, asking questions wherever he goes – questions about other travelers, particularly involving a girl of a certain age and aspect, who might have passed this way some months ago.  Perhaps he’s less than subtle in his inquiries; perhaps he’s careless, giving someone a glimpse of a feature they recognize, despite the fact that he’s always hooded and veiled below the eyes.

Or perhaps it’s just that no amount of cloth can disguise his frame, taller than most men’s notion of tall – even with the limp in one leg dragging down his height – and muscled, where the robes don’t hang loose enough to hide it, like a bull made fit to swing a sword.

He doesn’t resist when they come, so it’s a bloodless affair.  They don’t rough him up or even touch him much at all, save to check him for weapons, of which he currently carries none.  Still, there was a time when he’d sooner pulp jawbones than submit to any kind of forcible escort; and maybe something of the inclination yet shows around his eyes, because they take him directly to the Gates of the Moon.

The guard’s captain locks him in a temporary holding cell, inside the castle’s great gatehouse itself.  “For your safety,” the man says, straight-faced.  “Lord Arryn is devoted to the Seven, and would protect those of the Faith who wander our roads in these troubled times.”

Lord Arryn is devoted to tit-milk and tantrums, the brother thinks.  And I piss on his protection.  But for once he keeps the silence of his order.

The captain leaves him alone, and when he’s gone Sandor swears aloud, the sound rasping even within the layers of his veil.

“Seven bloody hells.”

He takes a few steps around the space, not at all like a proper dog might circle its bed; he’s every inch the feral thing pacing its prison.

Then he heaves a sigh, and sits down on the cell’s lone bench, awaiting whatever, whoever comes next.

Comments

[no_ser]

Watching her puts him in mind of a gift Joffrey received while still a boy, a spyglass of Myrish make: part kaleidoscope and part puzzle. The prince had swiftly grown bored of the toy, commanded his guardsmen to take turns fiddling with it, that he might at least be amused by the sight.

Looking through the glass, the familiar lines of everyday forms were masked by unimaginable combinations of colors and shapes. You had to play with the lenses for the clearest one to overcome the rest, clicking through them in just the right sequence. Only then would images show true, brilliantly, mercilessly precise.

There are pieces falling into place, signs that magnify the sense he’s had since she first walked into this cell. But he doesn’t yet lift that clear glass to his eye, as if on some level he’s not ready to see.

“She needed someone to keep her safe. Not a knight, though she loved her stories about knights, she did.” His voice still scrapes on that one word, but whatever surfaces at the mention of her stories, it isn’t contempt. “Just a decent man.”

“But I wasn’t that man. I was too used to my master’s leash – too savage in the hating of it, yet too scared to go free. Too drunk on blood, and too bloody drunk.”

“What protection I did offer her always had a price. I wanted to collect on it, too –” He breaks off, his eyes cutting away across the cell. “Wanted things from her, things that weren’t mine to take.”

“Truth is? I’m no more a decent man now than I was then. But I should have tried, for her. And if I find her that’s all I mean to do. Bloody try.”

He leans back, seeking again that sheen in the shadows where her eyes must be. “That’s more confession than they got out of me on the Isle, bastard girl.” He speaks the last two words without bite, his tone if anything gently lowering.

“What do you make of it?”

[toivory]

The kiss. The song. She resists the urge to lift a hand to her lips and try to recall the feeling of his lips against hers. She found that she could not.

He wasn't a decent man then, no. But there were so few decent men in the world, she was beginning to think there were none, and if there ever had been, they were all dead.

She bows her head, tilting her hood over her face a little further. She couldn't let him find out who she was, not until she allowed him. And she would. The question was when.

"I believe you wanted someone to listen." Perhaps he recognized something in her, on some base level. He wanted her to absolve him of his sins, she did not doubt. But she was no Septa. No Priestess. "Even if that someone is just a bastard girl."