[ She has conspired to coax flames out of unpromising brush often enough that she has a keen eye now for the moment when a spark catches. It is there, when the gaze fixes upon a distant and uncertain figure. The instant when the hand itches for the hilt, when uncertainty breeds just enough frustration to drive a man to motion. Once the first step is taken - once the first spark has caught - the rest comes easier. Embers dance eagerly into open flame. Motion lends itself naturally to hostility, especially when the walls are high and the guards punishing.
Yet he is not completely without promise, she finds herself allowing, and it is because he reminds her of someone: a warrior who was fearsome and respected and, even if he had been bested by a shameful weakness of the heart, a storied hero. This man's hair is not unlike Rhaegar's moon-silver, and he is hewn from the same animal strength. It is marshaled by a nobleman's caution, an earnest man's reserve, and she takes from this likeness a fierce comfort. Where Rhaegar had failed, perhaps this man will prove the better warrior.
She feels his gaze on her face, briefly, and knows that he does not have the incisive eye which would see through her manipulations. Retribution must be truer for him, something he knows well, something that does not change. She is glad to let him have it.
Her fingers go gently to the bonds at his wrists, a gesture that may be read as simply curious or sympathetic, but is designed to remind him of where he sits, of how he has been slighted. The spark must be encouraged; the fire must be generously fanned. She keeps her voice low both for the purpose of discretion as well as making herself an accomplice in his anger. Good men are reluctant to let so dangerous a feeling roam, but he must be made to see the virtue in the vice. ]
You would not give up the lives of those you love, and you cannot give up your own, either. They will do anything to make you believe all is lost. Fight with me to prove them wrong.
no subject
Yet he is not completely without promise, she finds herself allowing, and it is because he reminds her of someone: a warrior who was fearsome and respected and, even if he had been bested by a shameful weakness of the heart, a storied hero. This man's hair is not unlike Rhaegar's moon-silver, and he is hewn from the same animal strength. It is marshaled by a nobleman's caution, an earnest man's reserve, and she takes from this likeness a fierce comfort. Where Rhaegar had failed, perhaps this man will prove the better warrior.
She feels his gaze on her face, briefly, and knows that he does not have the incisive eye which would see through her manipulations. Retribution must be truer for him, something he knows well, something that does not change. She is glad to let him have it.
Her fingers go gently to the bonds at his wrists, a gesture that may be read as simply curious or sympathetic, but is designed to remind him of where he sits, of how he has been slighted. The spark must be encouraged; the fire must be generously fanned. She keeps her voice low both for the purpose of discretion as well as making herself an accomplice in his anger. Good men are reluctant to let so dangerous a feeling roam, but he must be made to see the virtue in the vice. ]
You would not give up the lives of those you love, and you cannot give up your own, either. They will do anything to make you believe all is lost. Fight with me to prove them wrong.