#pip. thread

pip has been waiting for this since the gardener party’s arrival. the evening, certainly, when spirits could lighten with the torches, condolences given and received in the daylight. but, more importantly: the wine. there wasn’t much to be said for vineyards of the vale; hardy sort, from what he’s heard, like its people. earthy, despite the absence of it amongst the eyrie’s crags and cliffs. at this point, pip would drink ash if it would take the edge off. 

unfortunately, the sense of propriety ground into him over the last decade wins out. he can imagine only too well what his father would say at the sight of him, the first hand to reach for a goblet at a stranger’s funeral. it would certainly be within his character, if not obscenely impolite. but, no. pip stays his hand, harnessing the only ounce of self-control in him and resigns to watching the table of corked wines with all the longing of a young boy left with a wooden imitation of his brother’s steel sword. not that pip would know that particular slight. 

he’s there, then, pouting with an empty hand in the corner when he catches the profile of a stranger. the septas were quite strict this time of ensuring pip, as head of house, didn’t spectacularly embarrass the family, so he was quite sure of his banners and portraits. they didn’t fit in any he could recall – barring, of course, his brief lapse with the butterwells. but as far as pip knows, only he was witness to that particular faux pas. 

it’s bloody fucking freezing. the gardener banners have only just begun their ascent to the eyrie, and already wind is rattling at the carriage windows, drafts sharp as a blade snaking through for stabs at any skin left unattended. pip pulls his cloak ever tighter, though he’s been doing much the same since they passed under the bloody gate, no change to the glacial state of what once might have been called his fingers.

he thought he understood what a bone-deep cold was when winter had its teeth in the frozen earth of the reach. now, pip isn’t so sure. his teeth have started to ache from all the rattling and his sisters must have noticed by now. though, he if were them, he would’ve likely dismissed himself for melodramatics – which, well, wouldn’t be entirely unfair. he’s fairly certain all the septas in highgarden have done the same. 

another draft, and pip is cursing every arryn he knows under his breath, up to and including the most recently deceased. this is, after all, entirely his fault. if the old crone hadn’t croaked so quickly they’d all be back home, enjoying spring in the gentle sun instead of this grey stone. he reaches for the blanket across his and serana’s lap, as if it’ll do anything more than offer the illusion of warmth. he reaches, and catches her petal-soft skin instead.