#estoires

        If he was honest with himself, within the halls of a brothel was the quintessential place to meet a Dornishman. Their love of hedonistic pleasure and disdain towards convention was what Jack so admired about them, and what had made Dorne one of his favoured places to make port and do business on this side of the Narrow Sea. One of the only places in Westeros he liked to visit, as a matter of fact -- for at least the wine was good and the weather was fair ( fairer than Braavos, even ) and the company was fine. That he received a fee from his highborn patron for bringing certain items of interest into the region and delivering them to him in said bawdy house was only a bonus.

        It rolled over him like a wave off the sea, the the musky scent of pleasure and incense potent only to an establishment like this one, as he was greeted by the madam and led upstairs. And once inside the private quarters currently occupied by the Red Viper himself, the figure of the man was unmistakable, even after the months that had passed. A certain wryness crept into his voice as he turned to shut the door behind him. ‟ Sometimes I wonder whether they all realise these visits are for business or not. ” 

only if you use one fc in specific

/hands you all the coding sanity i have left. crossing my fingers for you <3

         Time had failed him, it had seemed. A singular hope, naive and desperate has it may have been to have survived despite so much, had persisted. A hope that with the attrition of years, memory would fade and wounds heal over. No longer open and raw, there for all to see and whisper and pity. Memories would no longer pulse with agony, perhaps they may even disappear entirely. Perhaps age would be so kind as to grant him that. Retreat. Escape. 

He should have known better than to expect such mercy. It is never granted to the undeserving. Peace is for greater men indeed. 

         Not for him. For he recognised her with barely a glance, barely a thought. His body sensed her before his mind could begin to shout its protests. It always had.  

         The line of his shoulders told of a man bearing the heavy burden of dozens of lives, the mark of a Captain that had obtained the loyalty and the love of his men despite his somewhat---sharp nature. Lines marred the corners of his eyes and lips, the only gifts time had granted him at all. He looks older, though with a strength that may only be earned with blood and loss. There is nought remaining of the nobleman ( merely a boy, naive, foolish, and once, once, beloved ). A soldier, made up of scar tissue and grim determination, had taken his place. 

Though---

Though. 

There is a ghost there, in the light of his gaze, when it falls upon her. 

                   “---you should know better than to return to this city.”