again ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ & ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ again

     ❝     so   you   do   not   deny   it.     ❞       in   truth   ,       the   older   had   hoped   for   a   protest   to   his   words.   not   in   the   form   of   his   brother's   only   remaining   hand   being   used   to   flaunt   his   defiance   ,       but   of   a   confirmation   that   jacks   had   never   been   involved   at   all.   let   it   have   been   some   ill   begotten   fate   of   being   in   the   wrong   place   at   the   wrong   time.   a   building   that   fell   and   crushed   him   ,       the   trampling   of   the   crowds   that   stepped   over   his   prone   form.   anything   that   would   leave   him   far   ,     far   away   from   the   scene   of   the   crime.   but   for   his   body   to   have   been   found   so   close   to   where   the   dragons   had   dwelled   ,       for   the   jagged   lines   of   what   remained   of   his   shoulder   to   scream   of   nothing   but   teeth   and   fury.   raising   a   hand   to   pinch   at   the   bridge   of   his   nose   ,       he   could   do   naught   but   close   his   eyes   and   sigh   at   the   headache   they   began   to   brew.     ❝     what   the   fuck   were   you   thinking   ,       jacks.     ❞

" i said i taunted nothing. dig the wax out of your ears before you come to me begging conversation, jorah. " jacks thinks his brother thick. that is the brunt of it. he thinks him too self - centred, too full of ego to rule over the dreadfort. ego misplaced, jacks thinks. what did house bolton have to boast for its ancientness? alienation from the rest of the north. a crow for a father, who died caged. a one - armed second son. " and fuck off, while you're at it, " he insists. jacks is offended in his brother's lack of faith in him, though not ill - founded. there had been many injured smallfolk around him as he had laid in the street of sisters dying. he remembers the terrible sound of their moans, their pain. he remembers the feeling of another's blood reaching the side of his leg, trousers burnt away, already half - cooled from its travels from the heart outwards. one of them could have provoked the dragons as well as he and the baratheon girls had. even so, even in his guilt, he convinces himself he has nothing further to say to jorah. he does not trust him. and so he will never know the truth from jacks's lips. " go. i'll speak no more, " a dismissal, his eyes closed.

there   is   no   comparison   to   the   heady   rush   of   satisfaction   he   alights   within   her   veins.   from   his   touch   ,       his   taste.   his   very   words   alone.   for   what   could   hold   a   candle   to   the   willful   offering   of   his   reverence   ⸻   his   obedience.   the   curve   of   his   lips   that   bared   his   teeth   and   smiled   in   turn.     ❝     you   deserve   to   be   commanded.     ❞       though   syrenna   knew   better   than   to   depend   on   the   mere   illusion   of   control.   for   who   could   truly   command   that   which   refused   to   listen   ?   jacks   was   no   mindless   beast   ,       and   the   willingness   to   obey   came   of   a   choice   made   ,     as   did   her   own.   tempered   by   the   same   blood   ,       the   same   call   of   the   north.     ❝     do   not   sound   so   disappointed.     ❞       grinning   into   the   press   of   his   lips   ,       she   allowed   her   to   sink   further   into   his   touch.   the   hand   upon   a   throat   a   leash   enough   for   the   both   of   them. 

her hair as black as a pupil, her lips red from the insistent press of his, syrenna is as beautiful a sight as jacks has ever seen. it is difficult, to leave her this way. it is worse, knowing that he will only exit to monotony — to his steadfast avoidance of his siblings, his needing to find interest in the banality of court life to pass the time. the melee could not come soon enough, scheduled within the veil of dusk. through the fogged glass of her chamber window, the morning sky is bruised pink and purple. his time to leave is nigh. " do i? " he questions, brow raised, amusement lighting the dark of his eyes from within. she is a funny creature, small in stature and yet fearsome, to him. " i shall see you this night, " he promises, the slight of her hand captured within his own. he presses it to his chest, where his heart beats wildly within. his had always beat in a rapid staccato, like an animal trapped within a cage. his mother had always claimed she could hear its thump from across any room. " as i have every night, " another kiss stolen roughly. " and you may do with me as you please. "

he knew she would not go. lyanna had never been easily instructed, least of all by jacks himself. his chest aches with a kind of all encompassing frustration he can only recall feeling before in boyhood, when he had not gotten his way. it was the kind that required tears to release — tears which he is yet unwilling to shed. which he would not shed until he was alone, until he was in the presence of only his gods. his control over his life slips through his fingers like sand, and it grates painfully. how pathetic a sight he must be. armless, without strength, ashen - lipped, hollow - eyed, with need of a childhood friend to dab his delicate forehead with cool water. despite the relief it brings, jacks's stomach turns with disgust at his own patheticisms. he supposes there is no need for her to care what he wants for. what wants and wishes did he have that could still be fulfilled? precious few. he remains still, skin clammy and cold to the touch, as solid as a statue. " stay, then, " he bids her —  because he will not win the argument. voice even and low, clear of his thoughts and emotion, his energy is spent. " in silence. " he does not leave, escaping into the mind of a beast which was still sound of body. oh, he longs to  — but he needs his mind whole all the more, now. instead, he merely turns his face away from her, shutting his eyes.

it has been long, since he has been touched in a mothering way. he cannot remember his last moments with his mother, before he had been carted away to the eyrie at her behest. he had not known he needed to remember them. she had only wanted to remedy what his father had sullied with his continuous, hateful acts. jacks had not understood it then. he does now, more than ever. there had been no one from other houses at his brother's bedside when he had fallen ill. still, he shirks away from her hand slightly, a wounded hound yet unsure if he can trust. he accepts the soup because he has little choice. a burn to his one remaining arm would not serve him well, rendering him all the more pathetic. the salt coats his tongue all the way to the back of his throat. " what do i have need of an ornamental arm for? to look pretty? " he questions, the bitterness at his new form long from being washed away. it was as close to him as the red of his blood, nestled beside his heart, playing houseguest. he does not wish to imagine himself one - armed in the eyrie, to sully the memories of the vale that he held so dear, but she forces his hand. he shakes his head before she is finished speaking. " my mother would have me in the north. she would have me mend the fissures between the dreadfort and winterfell that my father created and my brother holds open. i have no business in the eyrie beyond the puerile pleasures of a young boy. " with that, he settles into his pillows, the dark of his eyes sharp, trained on her. his stump aches, sharply and dully all at once. " we cannot all be wanted, " a pause, " leave me, please. "

She can practically feel every finger of his in the collar of her worn shirt, and in response she puts her pearly whites on display, thinks, My teeth have always been sharper than yours, lord brother. Torrha is not used to gentleness from either Jacks or Jorah, has never been the recipient of soft touches or warm words or fond looks. Up until the kingsmoot, she had thought them wholly incapable of such. All three of them have the same blood running through their veins, cold and harsh and unyielding; she is not worthy of gentleness, and they should be uncapable of delivering it. I saw you two with your little tarts at the fucking Westerling's tent. Is warmth only reserved for beautiful ladies higher than your station? Is respect? "Suit yourself." She tells him, her grin shining ever brighter.

Her fingers reach towards the neck of her shirt, deftly pull his away one by one, before they wrap around his hand in a mockery of the affectionate handholding one would find normal between a pair of siblings. "If you can pick up your sword long enough to fall upon it, by my guest, lord brother. Perhaps your little fucking doe will help you, though she's burnt to the hells, too. You'd make a fine pair then, armless and skinless. But remember this, she is half southernborn and half Umber. Tell me, which side is it that regards you as her bitch? Or is both? I may be a bastard, but in the end the realm views us both as dogs." Her words are sharp, cruel, but his darlings can lick his wounds for him, she thinks. She has only her own tongue to soothe hers. Besides, what can he do? Throttle her? He no longer has the ability!

She hops off the chair and starts to make her exit, before turning to level him with a final look, though this one has no smile to signal her amusement; she means her words: "If you decide to remove your tail from between your legs and become a man again, you know where to find me, Jacks. I understand your anger and weariness," Well, fuck no, and may the gods protect her from ever understanding the life destroying ordeal he has found himself in, "But unlike you, blood means something to me, even if it is yours." Fucking shithead. "Should you wish for assistance from your," Future- "Master-at-arms, my offer still stands." Then she turns her own tail and leaves.

Her reaction is not unexpected, per se; Davos is as used to shock regarding his markings as he is used to the white lines themselves. Her eyes are scary, though, the way they seem to devour their existence, or what he can see of them from his periphery, anyway. "No, you look a beautiful young lady." No flirtation laces his words, only honesty. He has eyes, after all. "Surely, you can tell why I would be confused."

And then, "What an odd bargain! You certainly care for my answer more than I do yours, but I have learned not to upset someone with my medicine at their disposal, so be it. I was struck four and ten years ago. There is nothing special about it, except that I live to tell the tale." And that it ails him, sometimes greatly, but that he has grown so accustomed to the effects they are simply his way of life. This is not of her concern, however. Many have tried to help; all have given up. His brain fog and the nerves that scream at him from time to time are as part of him as his sword hand and the hair on his head. "Now, may you look-"

They pair are interrupted by a man shuffling into a tent, one who actually does look to be a maester. He sees Davos's wound, lets out a sigh, and appears to get to work assembling poultices and odd looking drinks. "Aha, I see you have been relieved from your scuttling about, Lady Mela Redwyne. Perhaps your side of our deal will have to be fulfilled another day-" When he doesn't have a joust to ready himself for on the morrow, he hopes.

mela thinks at how she might feel if her own sibling had tumbled into nothingness. no sign of the hand's body yet, no one to speak on whether he had been seen after he fell into the blackwater — it was as if he had disappeared from existence. as if he were dead already. a strange thought, even without any tenderness held for the lord westerling. " none deserve a death such as that, " she shakes her head, adamant in the statement. " kinder or crueller, perhaps — but not something so . . . unresolved. " so lacking finality. " in time, i hope that your house is given answers. "

mordhred experiences the tremble of her utterance in kind. the vacancy of the skies draws their attention, for the promise comes where there will be none such a vacancy. things which have rule over the celestial heavens will come down to rain the seven hells upon the seven kingdoms. these things are only a matter of when, how long it will take for the sands of the hourglass to run clean through. "we must have our terrible thoughts and say them when able. otherwise they fester into a poison greater than any greyjoy could dare possess." a grunt. if they had a daughter, were blessed with a sister to grover, in truth they imagine her to be like mela. a combination of ennui and nostalgia, and truth of knowing how she would have grown.

"only one is gone. the rest have scattered. to establish rule underneath a feral beast is to ask for trouble. though i'd argue ..." they splay their hand to the windowsill and lean upon it, gazing out upon the disturbances of the keep. there is no semblance of peace now, a tension boiling like hot water beneath the surface of the very cliffside. " ... i'd argue we are surrounded by monstrous men who are of greater peril. and that, lady mela, is terrible to say. i do hope it is not any of their intentions that prevail, but." circling back around to how she thinks, observing the glassiness of her stare. "my hope does dwindle with each passing day." and to think: they were meant to be a beacon of hope for house tully. of encouragement and a modicum of safe passage to the next era.

mela was honest, but so too did she hold her tongue often. some thoughts, though precious few, were not for speaking aloud. if mordhred knew the extent of her thoughts' terribleness, perhaps they would not suggest as much. she remains still, bathed in their combined silence as it settles between them with the same ability for suffocation as a woollen blanket. " every poison has its antidote, " she muses, thinking of the blood red liquid ushered into the red keep's sickrooms by maesters most certainly benefiting from the hightower coffers. " the idea of a just king is a false one, " she insists, " whoever it is that wins the day and sits the throne will have ideas for ruling that will benefit some and hurt others grievously. " king aegor had presided over a peaceful realm, but that did not make him a good man. it did not make him a good ruler, even. it merely made him lucky. " the dragons, at least, only hurt because they are frightened. because they are threatened. " she wonders again at what had prompted their escape. it seemed no one was any closer to answers. " i should be going, " she insists, hand resting absentmindedly over the buckle of her belt, checking that it was properly fastened. beyond the windowpane that they lean against, the sun raises higher in the sky. there remained much to do before the streets crowded with smallfolk going about their daily work. " be well, won't you? the days are long. longer still, in these rooms. "

the citadel, mela thought, was an institution far too lauded. she did not oppose education — not in the slightest — but she thought their methods sometimes too rigid, the mysteries of the realm still known to so few of those who bore the maesters' chains. of course she would help, then, knowing that her methods were so different to theirs. what worked for one body may not work for another. this was better for all. " it is my duty to help those in need, " she explains, " a self - prescribed duty, but a duty nonetheless. " recognition registers as they introduce themselves, a small dip of her chin in greeting. " yes —  ser donnell is a spectacular breed of fool, " she breathes, " he is merely lucky the realm so covets blind bravery. " she speaks to the keep's floor, images of the dragon attack passing before her mind's eye. donnell would be sung of, at least, if he was not admired for his feat. mela's cheeks burn at the compliment, floating to her ears as it does while her gaze is averted to the stone of the floor. " you flatter me, my lady. "

he chuckles.

“that is true,” he nods, making his way closer to inspect the scene the children have created. “i am sure he is. he is a strong man, after all. i simply hoped to ease your burdens by checking in on you.” another chuckle leaves him. “has your mother returned? last we spoke, you said she would give me an earful about this betrothal. i've yet to hear it.”

she finds herself incensed by his very presence. it is no fault of his own, of course. the ruling lord reyne has done nothing but wish to advance the influence of his house. still, desmera reviles what she cannot understand —  and she understands so little of politics. she stands stiffly, fingers fisted in the black silk of her skirts. she must keep her hands busy, lest they act of their own accord. desmera endures his compliments for her brother with pursed lips. " she has written — " she begins, " and is due to return the day of the council meeting. you shall see her there, will you not? hopefully she will wait to speak with you, lest she embarrass you before your aged and so very boring peers. "

he makes her laugh, the sharp of her canines revealed in the dim candlelight. she had made them so at cider hall, aged only ten and three, eating at their white points with shards of rock smuggled indoors in a billowing black sleeve until they were sharp to the touch. she had cried in her mother's lap each time she'd drank anything cold for the duration of the next sun. even still, desmera thought the pain worth it. " i shall leave you as pretty and dreadfully pale as i found you, " she reassures, the ghost of her laughter still present in her eyes. there was not much humourous about the state of daemian's body, seared and cracking as it was. desmera finds it quite easy to speak as if that were not the case. she has always been good at pretending. " do not die, then. it's likely your gods wouldn't even have you, in this pathetic state. a sword through the belly is marginally less shaming. that is what i imagine for you. " she picks at the embroidery on the skirts of her gown, threads escaping their prisons one by one. a single, black bead falls to the floor, bouncing into darkness. she follows the sound of it with her eyes as she speaks. " you remind me much of a home i've never had the pleasure of knowing. " she confesses. of course desmera liked him. she could not help but like him when he was the only person who deigned speak to her in something resembling her mother tongue — her first language, one that she had spoken before even the common tongue despite her upbringing in the reach. " and i would not endure your current ham - like odour if i did not like you plenty, you crabapple. "

     ❝     i   wasn't   expecting   any   company.     ❞       he   can't   help   but   wonder   if   the   sight   before   him   is   a   dream.   (   or   a   nightmare   ,       at   the   very   least.   )   still   caught   on   the   edges   of   a   stolen   sleep   ,       had   his   mind   conjured   up   a   mirage   that   was   intended   to   haunt   ?   a   vision   that   was   meant   to   tease   ?     ❝     should   i   be   thankful   that   all   you   did   was   hit   me   ?     ❞       but   the   voice   that   broke   through   the   quiet   of   the   room   was   all   too   real.   the   shifting   of   the   sheets   around   him   further   proof   of   a   stray   that   had   slunk   in.   past   the   guards   ,       his   own   defences.   there   was   little   comfort   to   the   realization   of   it   ,       but   an   easy   enough   acceptance   born   from   the   years   of   suffering   her   attentions.   a   slow   ,       yet   constant   wittling   of   him   ,       until   all   he   could   do   was   fight   off   the   urge   to   throw   an   arm   around   her.   to   tuck   her   closer   and   steal   of   him   that   same   warmth   and   touch   he'd   experienced   once   ⸻   that   he   refused   to   admit   to   wanting   for   ever   again.     ❝     oh.     ❞       a   quiet   death   of   unquiet   thoughts.   it   was   a   good   thing   he   had   not   attempted   to   hold   her   ,       to   pull   her   closer.   for   whatever   had   transpired   between   them   ,     all   three   of   them   ,       was   simply   a   night   of   too   much   wine   and   mistakes   that   were   never   meant   to   see   the   light   of   day.   what   a   strange   idea   ,       to   feel   the   loss   for   something   he   had   spent   such   a   long   time   running   from. that was hardly his to lose.     ❝     did you come for well wishes then   ?     ❞

" you are purposefully obtuse, " she accuses, turning on her side such that she can examine his side profile. a small pleasure, one that she would no longer have leave to indulge in once she was shackled to myles, his house's name her fetters. desmera reyne. it left a sour, unpleasant taste on the tongue. " and i kissed you, before i hit you. " this information is offered as if it will act a balm to the pink of his kiss - slapped cheek. she knows ren to be smart. she knows that he knows she would not hurt him, not truly, unless he gave her good reason to. " i would not beg of you well wishes, ren. i know you do not have flowered, pretty words stored up within the thick of your skull for me. " he did not enjoy her — not as she enjoyed him. " besides, i refuse to be wed to a man that is not of my choosing. my father is a fat lout. " she pauses only for an intake of breath, " and thicker than mud if thinks i shall simply waltz into castamere and play lady consort prettily. " no, that would not do. she pulls the bedlinens tightly around her, simulating an embrace she knows not to expect from him. still, her keen eyes peer at him through the darkness uninhibited.

it is a puerile reaction, but desmera finds herself disappointed that her brother is not outraged. a single wrinkle appears between the dark of her brows, no larger or more offensive than a grain of rice. she had always imagined him her knight in shining armour, if their father could not act as one. to sit, placid - faced, as she revealed to him the great horror she faced — it feels much like a betrayal. " i will not be a fossoway in name, " she insists, leaning forward slightly in her ire. " no one sings of blood, ed. they sing of names. they recall names. " edmure's next question hardly begs answering, then. " of course i am not happy. i do not wish to be wed. not now, or any time in the near future. " she stands, her apprehension and ire and childish offence culminating in energy that needs expending. " i shall make father regret this. " a solemn promise made with certainty, her jaw clenched tightly, muscle rippling beneath skin. a roll of her eyes, an exhasperated toss of her hands. " well, i should hope that you will not barter trystane's hand over the bloody breakfast table as father did mine! " she wishes to scurry from his sight, to flee, to scramble from the room as if it were on fire. no matter how she trusted edmure, no matter how she knew he cared for her, he could not understand her plight.

" do you not? " he bounces her question back at her like a blow off of a shield, head tilting in mirror of her own. willas thinks that he speaks the truth. in the end, if they could not save anyone — at least they could try. the curfew could give them that, even if it turned out to be a hollow reassurance, when faced with dragonfire. " no one was ready, then. no one expected it. " next time, it would be different. if the dragons descended from the heavens once more, most would be ready. most would find validation in death, knowing that they had not been walking around with every muscle tensed in anticipation for naught. " you would be welcome, of course. " willas imagined, if any child were orphaned, that he might take them on as his squire. he would treat them differently to how he had been treated by ser colin. it was not that the ashford knight had been cruel — but he had not been warm. he had not been encouraging. he had not been fatherly in the way that willas had dreamed he might be. " i suppose i'll be buried in the crypt on battle isle. where all hightowers are laid to rest. " in truth, he did not much care where his massive body was set aside to rot. " or in a great big ditch off the side of the kingsroad, if not. perhaps the ruins of the dragonpit will be just about big enough of a hole. " with that, he sets off in the direction of the taverns just outside of the keep's walls, intending to make them his destination even if she does not follow.