mockinglord

At first she’d believed it to be a mugging gone wrong, a gang had targeted the man late at night when she was buying their dinner for the night, but something was nagging at the back of her mind, like she was missing something. Warily, in one of the hours she did leave him alone, Sansa had put out a message to one of their ontacts from a burner phone and was currently awaiting a response. She couldn’t help checking the phone every few minutes despite no vibrations running through her fingers, she just needed to know whether it was safe or not before she made her decision to leave. 

Sometimes he dreamed, and when he woke, still remembering that dream, he'd taken to pretending they were his memories. Not the more absurd ones, of course, but the ones that seemed mundane. The ones that could pass as a memory. Maybe they were.

He'd dreamt of a girl the first night he'd forgotten everything else; a girl with pale skin and a curtain of auburn hair to hide her face. It was the first thing he'd remember in this new life, his first memory. It was little comfort to him that he could still remember things despite having lost his past. "Think of it as a system reboot," a nurse told him. "You work just fine, but all the things that'd been save in memory are gone."

He might've been angry if he knew his past was something he wanted. When they'd told him his name, he felt a hollow ache. It made him more uncomfortable than his initial disorientation but they'd advised him to keep the name, to let others continue addressing him as such and soon, he'd get used to it.

Except there was no one else except the vision in his dream. She was real though; he'd ran his fingers against the faint lines of the bones underneath the back of her hand. Yet there was something that set her apart from his dream, but he'd just credited it to her being real, to her breathing.

She was the only one who ever visited him outside of the hospital staff and she was here often, not leaving him wanting for any other company.

He stirred though apparently silently as he had not pulled the auburn haired girl -- Sansa Stark, he told himself, no longer needing a sticky or writing on his hand to remind him -- out of her reverie. He watched her curiously for a few moments, for as long as he could stand before the dryness in his throat demanded to be attended to.

          ❝ You can’t make me eat. ❞  Arms crossed, tensed up in anger, sinking back into the car seat. She was not upset at him, was that so  h a r d  to understand? She was upset at herself.

His eyes narrowed at her petulance, but he allowed her to continue with her outburst. Patience was one of many things he learned to value, to hone. It was disappointment he felt, veiled under a thin, mirthless half-smile.

She's just a child, he told himself. But she's not yours.

There was no obligation to take care of her and yet --

Calmly, he pulled the car over, gravel causing the car to rock a bit. "Sansa." It sounded more like a reprimand than anything else. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he continued. "This power of yours, it's a tool. A weapon, if you allow it to be. It is not just some 'stupid thing.'" Though the circumstances of their situation gave them more level footing, he attempted to mentor her.

"You're right, I can't make you eat. I can't make you do anything. I certainly didn't make you get in this car." He shifted in his seat, turning to face her. "Why are you here then?" With any other person, it might've sounded like a challenge. Leave. But his words were edged with something not quite melancholic and yet something more than just inquisitorial.

With a quick step forward she dropped his arm and smirked. “Race you!” Catelyn yelled and hiked her dress up to her knees before taking off towards the river.

He shrugged at her inquiry regarding Lysa, dismissing the matter altogether as soon as her arm slipped into his. He felt warmth rising to his cheeks as his eyes flickered from her eyes to her lips, then to her neck, imagining them gleam on them when she would rise from water. More merling than trout.

Fingers pressed against his arm pulled him out of his reverie. "Of course," he said, a smile rising easily to mirror hers. (If only he could feel her smile pressed against his lips instead of simply seeing it.) Quietly, he added, "I'd like that."

"A small lord," he corrected, more a reminder to himself of his place. A habit that must've developed due to Lord Hoster and Edmure doing the same to him. Yet Catelyn gave him hope that he could rise, that he could become someone greater, that maybe this could all happen with her.

"Many women will line up to be your wife."

"Would you--"

The warmth of her touch left him then and soon enough, he was watching her leave him. His smile faltered for only a moment before he realized it was a race, another game, and soon he started after her. "Cat!" He called out, though he could not manage much more than that.

Catching up to her was not a difficult task. He'd only feign exhaustion earlier as an excuse to walk with her. He could pass her, but that was never the point, was it? It was always the chase that mattered, it was always him trailing behind, arm outstretched though not quite reaching her. (It would always be this way and it wouldn't always be a game.) When passing her meant losing sight of her, he dared not do it.

When they reached the ends of the woods, silence sat between as Petyr, bent over, exaggerating his struggle to catch his breath. Heavy breathing and the quiet roar of the river. Warmth spreading across his face. His boots sinking in the mud, leaving a temporary mark of his presence. Such were what marked his fondest memories of Riverrun. This and the vision of beauty standing next to him.

"Cat," he breathed out so quietly he almost thought he hadn't said it at all. Remembering himself, his lips slanted into a smile as he began to remove his boots. "You win. You want to know what your prize is?"

As he spoke, Missandei began to pull some spare supplies from her bag. It wasn’t much, some cleaning cloths, bandages, and a small amount of milk of the Poppy. It would do until he could see a maester or healer of some sort. 

“Not at all. Prices are usually for those who want things, not those who need things.” 

"You are too kind," he said quietly, more of an observation than a compliment. Quieter still, he mumbled, "The world will tear that away from you." Something he learned long ago when he was but a child.

He was only slightly taller than her, but still he settled onto a weather worn bench to grant her better access to his wounds. Once, he might not have allowed anyone such access lest they had hidden intentions of worsening his physical state. Courting death after he'd lost everything he worked for did not seem so unappealing now.

"Yes, well, when war is raging, my primary concern is providing the escape that so many inevitably seek,” he bowed his head to further the image of being humble and magnanimous, but the sarcasm was apparent. “For the right amount of coin, of course." Those words held more truth than the rest. 

“What would you like to do first?” She asked and walked over to him and brushed some of the settled dirt off of his tunic. “You really should start to wear your doublet now that you’re at the age of being mature soon.” Catelyn reprimanded and softened it with a quick peck to his cheek.

At her last words, he might've looked away in shame as a child did when admonished by his parent, but the lack of distance between them kept him from doing so. He wanted these moments, wanted to remember them, wanted to remember the details like how her fingers brushed his shoulders in a brief but not careless motion or how her eyes seemed blue like the river nearby, but were tinged with warmth.

The gentle press of her lips always had a way of silencing him as well. He didn't close his eyes then, too. Instead, he turned slightly, leaning into her until she pulled away. He watched her then, studied her face for something that wasn't there. (Something more than friendly adoration. He would never stop hoping for it.)

It took him a few moments to regain his composure, to exhale the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "I'm still a little exhausted from Lysa's games," he lied. He wondered for only a brief moment where she was and if she searched for him before she receded from his mind.

The corners of his lips tugged at his cheeks, creasing into a sardonic smile. He bore Brandon Stark no love and though long ago he despised him, he now did not think him worthy of his hatred now. He had one essential victory over him; he still lived. 

Yet he understood what it meant to still be drawn to the past. His came in the form of auburn hair and ocean blue hues, but the boy he was then was long dead, his heart buried in Riverrun.

He suspected she had her own scars as well.

“It never lasts,” he added. “Forever is for children with stars in their eyes who dream of happiness lasting forever.” He knew. He was such a boy once who wanted nothing more than to stay at Riverrun.

Missandei took a few steps closer, though as not to intrude into his personal space if he didn’t want help. Her eyes held no pity, just kindness. The last thing he probably need was to be felt sorry for, in her experience that always seemed to hurt a man’s pride. 

   “Everybody needs help sometimes, regardless of who it is from.” 

“That kindness is not always repaid. Some men will demand more, others will take more.” With the lessening of the distance between them, he stood still. Tense. Instinctively, he straightened his stance as he used to when under the scrutiny of court eyes. It was a habit, like his skepticism, that he managed to retain.

            A fleeting thought crosses her mind. Could she kill him? Could she catch him distracted enough that she could slit his throat?  M a y b e.  But then what? Run all alone and stay by herself, jumping from remote corner to remote corner until Cersei caught her and decided to kill her? It wasn’t appealing enough.

                                       Nothing was ever appealing enough.

"Liar." He uttered the word from the half of his lips that suppressed a frown. He chose words and wit as his weapons long ago, and lies were his craft. Like any true artisan, he knew the quality of his sort of work. Hers needed polishing. 

"Shouldn't empaths know how to mimic truth too? If you can feign emotion, you can lie about almost anything." He was careful with his tone, half joking, but still giving the words weight for consideration. Even now as she no longer looked at him with eager blue eyes, he found it hard to step out of the mentor role. She'd started to keep him at a distance, became more resistant towards any kindness he offered.

"No, we eat proper meals, stay low until I reach my contacts." The inquiry would've been harmless if it weren't for the biting tone that accompanied it. Little bird, they'd called her at Lannister Tech, but they mistook her claws for talons. There was a wolf in her still who knew not all wounds bear blood.

"I made 'friends' of my own outside the company." He explained before she could think to ask with a finality that implied he couldn't reveal much more than that.