ΠΑΝΤΑ ΡΕΙ

[... ] a wonderful phrase

lacuna mutata

aint no [... ] craze

it means textual emendations

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it's a source [...] free

ambiguity

She remembered a summer's snow in Winterfell when Arya and Bran had ambushed her as she emerged from the keep one morning. They'd each had a dozen snowballs to hand, and she'd had none. Bran had been perched on the roof of the covered bridge, out of reach, but Sansa had chased Arya through the stables and around the kitchen until both of them were breathless. She might even have caught her, but she'd slipped on some ice. Her sister came back to see if she was hurt. When she said she wasn't, Arya hit her in the face with another snowball, but Sansa grabbed her leg and pulled her down and was rubbing snow in her hair when Jory came along and pulled them apart, laughing.

[My Asks box is open for Questions and Art Requests! Please go fill it up, I’ve just finished Uni so need some ideas for doodles. Anon is on too, if you’re shy!]

“I will say this much,” says Grantaire, as the would-be-revolutionary they’ve all been listening to fades away into the audience. “That man deserves a place in the theater. He can play at tears better even that the mademoiselle we saw play Eurydice last night. He might do better with someone else’s script; the one he delivered for us today was a tedious affair. Perhaps his tears were born of boredom at hearing his own dull screed.”

“Peace, friend.” says Lesgle. “The one we’re here to see speaks next.”

“Having heard the weeping philosopher, is the laughing one to follow?” asks Grantaire. “That fat man over there would make a credible Epicurus.”

Legle shoves an elbow into his side. It isn’t enough to really hurt, which is how Grantaire knows the man is fond of him.

Lesgle points at a pale wisp of a man making his way to the center of the room. No, man is likely giving his years too much credit.

“A pretty child,” he tells Lesgle, “and like all pretty children he should be at home with his mother and his dolls.”

“He speaks more like a man than a child,” says Lesgle, with unusual seriousness, “and more like an angel than a man. He may convince even you.”

Grantaire snorts. “I don’t think we’ve heard one man yet who has managed to even convince himself. The lot of them are cheats and liars, and not even as good at it as the fellows I play cards with.”

“Enjolras is honest,” says Lesgle. “Not everyone is as cynical as you. He believes, and he speaks his truth.”

“Truth.” Grantaire laughs at that, loud and coarse enough that a few heads turn to glare at him with disapproval. “The word has no meaning. Bossuet, my eagle of Meaux, people lie all the time.”

“Not this one,” says Lesgle. “Listen.”

And Grantaire does.

jaime, he thought. my name is jaime. 

“Now, what gift would you say would be least needed by the cobbler? I mean to say, what is it that he is least likely to lack, and therefore will not wish another to furnish him with?”

Brienne thrust a sword towards him, and Jamie reflexively took a step back. His mind noted that it was the hilt and not the point being offered him – not that the distinction meant much to one of his kind.“Here. You should have this. You might…you might need it if we’re attacked again.”

Jamie arched and eyebrow and gave her his most condescending smile. “I know you haven’t had proper training in the craft, but surely you’ve heard some tales of me. I’m not famous for stabbing my enemies to death with a bit of metal.”

Once he’d dreamed he would be – but that dream had died along with Aerys and his Kingsguard. Or perhaps years earlier, when he’d given up his humanity to follow his sister and protect her.

The wench held her ground. She had the stubborn expression of a mule, along with its brains and beauty. “I’ve heard the tale that tells how you killed your king with a sword. And you grabbed the Goat’s dagger to cut my bonds last night. Magic is slow; steel is fast.”

Her magic wasn’t slow – it had burst out like a storm when Vargo had threatened her, raw and powerful and immediate. It had trampled the seals the boy king from the North had placed on him and bound him to her service, without any of the careful chants and spell circles he’d been taught were necessary. It was all the more galling that she hadn’t meant to summon him at all. The most powerful witch he’d met since Robert’s Rebellion, and all she wanted was to play at being Arthur Dayne.

He supposed he could sympathize, having once wanted the same thing himself. But such dreams died, and his had left him here. He could only imagine where hers would leave her.

She was still holding the sword out to him. He was loathe to show how little he wanted to be near it, but the witchling was playing dumb. Even untutored children knew a spirit’s greatest weakness. He waggled his fingers, showing off the burns that disfigured his right hand. “Cold iron and steel, mistress. No doubt the tale you heard of Aerys’ death mentioned my souvenirs. I only held the dagger last night for moments, so that burn will fade in time, but I’m afraid I won’t be doing any impressive feats of swordsmanship for you. You might find me less useful with no hands than with one.”

Brienne flinched at the sight of his scarred hand, but she didn’t back down. “The hilt’s wrapped in leather. I paid extra coin to see it done right. It shouldn’t burn you.”

Cersei had had a sword forged for him made of pure gold. It was a beautiful thing, but little more than a toy; it sparkled in the sunlight and let him look the part of the knight he’d briefly been. He could kill with it, if he was quick, but he couldn’t fight with it. Gold was too weak. A proper metaphor for whatever he’d become; deadly, but hollow.

Brienne had wrapped the damn hilt in leather.