#dionai

❝  you remind me of your uncle.  ❞

for one: she did not expect to see daemon hauling aegon targaryen into her kitchen with the younger one harboring a split lip and a growing bruise. already rhea can feel the throb of a headache, and that was even before any explanation given to exactly why or how this happened. alicent's going to have my head for this, she eyed those exact words telepathically at a passing daemon, who seemed to shrug innocently, finding the bathroom. he doesn't look like he's hurt; she lets him go.

❝ your uncle did warn me you've gotten the targaryen curse, ❞ the drinking and sleeping-around mainly, she means, her words cutting. she does not say it to be kind - although, in her defence, she did not say it to be cruel, either. merely straightforward, eyebrows furrowing as she focuses on what can be treated. ❝ tell me then, aegon — ❞ antiseptic upon a flesh, the heir to runestone sneaks a smile, ❝ did you at least leave your opponent worse ? ❞

the bellowing of the smithy is familiar — it is the only point of safety gendry has allowed himself to indulge in when the rest o' king's landing still feels like he's about to walk himself into a trap, any moment he isn't careful. still, the goldcloaks are easy enough, really, to make a fool of. give or take a few years  — new whores comin' in, new wines t' taste, new sort o' war brewin' somewhere in the distance and takin' up the attention — they'll forget soon enough about any orders o' the past, about killin' any babes or boys with dark black hair, though gendry's taken it to shave his head every few days anyways. just in case.

what he hadn't expected were t' receive an order straight from the keep. or, rather, a peculiar order from a lady gendry knows well enough t' have came from the keep. ( after all, no one dresses that pretty, walkin' the street o' steel. ) naturally, he's distrustful of anyone from that dreaded place, and it may or may have not made an influence in the way he's spoken to her, despite the fact that, the red keep or not, she's still a customer. had tobho mott been alive, surely the old sod would've long knocked gendry's head sideways. but tobho mott isn't. and so —

gendry snorts, from behind the roar o' the fire - where he feels most at home, most welcomed in. ❛ by all means then, ❜ he responds, easily; not a moment t' lose.

in his hand, he's pulling out a blinding red metal away from the heat, and gendry is careful from makin' sure it's landed well enough across the surface where he's meant to shape it. he takes another tool, and begins drawing out the cooling substances, bending it until it's become the intended design. this particular customer has had a specific shape that they wanted, and if gendry's anythin', a bastard o' the fat king aside, he is a damn good smith. that much, along with a running mouth that he'd always tried to promise t' himself ( to the ghost o' arya, and the shape of davos' concerned face ) he'd school and mind again and again, he can promise.

❛ but y' must've known that you aren't gonna get a result as good with the sort o' price i gave, m'lady. ❜ cocky, aye, but who wouldn't be - with the teacher he had, with the skills that he's honed since he's six. ❛ — if it's any consolation t' ye, m'damn's mouth like this t' anyone. don't got much reason t' be so nice here in the workin' class, m'lady. ye' say what needed t' be done, and i give a price. that's all. flattery's usually for the courts, ain't it — or the street o' silk. m' no lord, m'lady, and with a dress like that ? you're too wealthy t' be workin' in the latter. ❜

a hand comes up, gloved palm open — it is not in her intention to be rude with such gesture, but the pain from the poisonous thorn is a difficult one for her to grit through, and it is the quickest way her mind has decided to communicate in order to indicate, please wait a moment for i am otherwise occupied. the pain recedes like waves from shore, even though the undercurrent of it tells her that it will only come again soon. this moment of reprieve is temporary.

deserving, she knows, for her to be so stubborn in wanting to follow along the tyrell's company to hunt. at least the game they managed to capture was monstrous and huge, even if the subsequent brush into the poisonous tree which have scrapped her cheek as she were drawing the bow were something rhea figures they could do without. in that moment of clarity, the lady of runestone passes a small, forced smile — meant to be apologetic, though she is sure it expresses nothing but a tragic wince. ❝ i  — if that could be available, yes. ❞

she has heard how rich the crops in these parts grow - if only she heeds it better. now she is sure her cousin, ser garold, waits outside in peril; anguished of her fate from a tiny wound. ❝ you must think me foolish, milady, ❞ rhea cannot help but defend, a small smile gracing her heart-shaped face - she is teasing. ❝ i assure you. in the vale, i am a much better hunter. ❞

and it’s clearly not something he thinks he’s ashamed about  —  because sure,  it’d taken him well into the early 1500 to take his letters seriously   —  though that’s just it,  isn’t it ?   it’ll always take him more than a good few acceptable years to learn from his mistakes,  and even then,  it’d never quite guaranteed him from never making them again.   not the smartest,  but hob likes to think that the lessons afterwards always stay with him a little better than the ones that are far more fleeting,  and simple.

exhibit A   —   ever since the whole witch trial and drown-fest at the bottom of the thames ?   hob had been smarter about keeping his identity...   well,   for the lack of better term  —  straighter than he’d been treating it.   especially since he’d learned how real the consequences could be,  and how absolutely not fun it is to still wake up sometimes thinking your lungs were burning with the weight of the water.

but no matter.   point is ?   hob couldn’t stay in london forever.   which is how he ended up in cairo,  still getting used to the glaring sun when his body,  it seemed,  had finally gotten used to london’s ever-dreary and wet weather.   too bad,  he scolds his body inwardly.   after all,  change is inevitable;  expected,  even.  hob had put down the necessary paper trails to make his new identity  —  robrich g. darling —   possible,  and his old one burnt.   (   a terrible and unexpected ski accident.   body claimed by distant relative.   furnitures are mysteriously taken by a will stating it must be kept in a warehouse until further notice.  )

what he didn’t expect though was a familiar face.

‘   calliope!  ’    hob hears his own voice rings.   around him,  his new co-workers who have always been generous enough to coach him in arabic,   turn to whatever has clearly taken up rob’s attention.   hob gives them very little attention,  instead moving past them to gather the goddess in his arms,   twirls her around.   the rush of joy in hob’s veins are unspeakable;  it’s been so long since he had someone he knew who could safely recognise him without giving anything away.   calliope looks as astonishingly graceful as ever,  as untouched by time like hob always is.   she looks beautiful.

‘   you didn’t tell me you were coming.  ’