@boystark . it's not your fault you didn't see it coming.
it’s good, he thinks, to fight someone that does not know him. as good as it is humiliating. ( but they do know each other. they have. they did. ) woe! indignity! the young lord lets up and steps away, face fallen as though he'd been hit and sent reeling, his blunt sword bobbing as he adjusts his grip on the pommel ; and a̳e̳m̳o̳n̳d̳ ̳w̳i̳s̳h̳e̳s̳, viciously, he’d changed more in the interim, like he himself has. or that, at least, he wouldn’t treat him as though he were still the same.
ser criston does not coddle him when they spar — not in any way 𝐚𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞. doesn’t soften his blows or consciously account for the blind spot of his missing eye, because a murderer, an enemy would not. 𝚊𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚔 ; works twice as hard to cover his flanks and compensate for the drunken vertigo that impairs him when he slips off balance. but coIe, though he may not even know it to change anything about how he teaches, has danced around his injury for years. coIe is predictable and, crucially, bound by oath not to hurt him. unlike robb.
it’s not your fault. you didn’t see it coming. as if robb should have pulled the strike, should have led his blade with mercy. as if he could. as if consideration factored into this — as if a̳e̳m̳o̳n̳d̳, no longer a whole and worthy opponent, relied on it to hold his own. his teeth grit against the searing fury in him. no pleasant, empty word could override the knowledge — intrinsic — that he should have seen it coming. that the difference could mean his life, or worse yet, someone else’s triumph over him.
❛❛ again, ❜❜ he says, decisive, quiet. curt. if he begins to speak to robb now, he might not stop, and then, the discrepancy will become clear and uncomfortable in the light of day. he wants ( has wanted ) to pretend some part of him came out alongside the eye, replaced by stone. letters unanswered, memories neglected, forgotten. he is no longer the toothless boy in need of kindness and warmth amidst unfamiliar winter storms. r̳o̳b̳b̳ ̳s̳t̳a̳r̳k̳, called wolf in the north, is nothing but a reminder sent to mock him for who he was before 𝐯𝐡𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐫'𝐬 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 whispered against sand — a quiet, thrumming song only he could hear — and her massive eyelid rippled in a blink, accepting him, choosing him. he plants his feet, leaves a drag path in the wake of his movement. ❛❛ again, i said. ❜❜
