dear_mun | (no subject)

(no subject)

You’ve been waiting a long time to see where I’d turn up. So many years spent nursing your wants, your worries. Chasing them round and round your bursting head, like a bitch stuffed on scraps that still spins circles to gnaw her own tail.

How you pined for my return, yet fretted over the details. As if my story were some sweetmeat you could vomit back up, all slavered and chewed, when it didn’t sit well with your belly.

Does it please you, then? This end? Did you thrill at watching me among them, the mad dog muzzled by the sheep? Was I not lame enough, lost enough for you?

Did you like it when I listened to him, when his words started to worm their way in? Did you like it when I heard the screams – when I found them all, when I saw him, strung up with his eyes still free of flies?

Fuck your wants, your worries. Fuck everything you wished for me.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

My Mun does not wish to see. I think, perhaps, she made the right decision. (The show has a habit of getting worse and worse.) I will not apologize or show you pity. You would not appreciate that. But I rather you live than die.

By rights you should wish for my life only to see it suffer. Yet I don't hear that note in your song – (The unscarred side of his mouth twists, remembering.) – Not then, not now.

Is that the mercy I deserve, little bird?

Why? (She doesn't understand. There are a few she would like to see dead, but he isn't one of them.)

I think there is much more for you to learn. I pray the lessons are far gentler than you are accustomed to, but I fear they are not.

Because I stood by while they beat you. Because I let them use you, and because I used you too, in my way.

Because I wasn't a better man – not a bloody knight, mind you. Just a better man.

(His voice drops, its usual rasp dulled to a low rumble.)

Because I left you.

(The very fact it bothers him is promising. She finds herself smiling, pride tucked somewhere behind the expression.)

I was worried about you. I hoped you were able to get away. (That is the truth. She never felt abandoned.) I had a plan of my own to escape.

(Not that it went as planned.)

That was the main reason I told you no.

(He watches the smile steal over her face as though it were flame kindled on a freezing night, as wary that it could spread as that it might be snuffed out, and more uncertain still of his own reaction to it.)

I heard you got away. Heard about the Imp – (His eyes flash, and he has to stop to check the snarl that almost tears out of his throat.) Heard they married you to him.

I wondered how you'd managed to fly off. (His gaze moves over her, as if absorbing for the first time how thoroughly she's changed.)

You look ... (Wiser, colder, he thinks. A woman – a Stark.) ... well.

(The very mention of her sham of a marriage has her taking a deep breath. It could have been much, much worse.)

Tyrion never took advantage of me. His family pressured him and myself, but he made me a promise. (And kept it! Such an oddity in King's Landing.) He was kind to me, though I won't pretend I was happily married.

(She glances around, lowering her voice.) Littlefinger helped me escape. I didn't know he was working with Ser Dontos. Somehow he was responsible for Joffrey's death. I didn't know about it beforehand.

(No, she isn't sorry he died. All she cares about in said situation is she is not to blame.)

If anyone asks, my name is Alayne Stone.

(Just the sound of her husband’s name is enough to bring all the old shame hurtling back – the shame, and the rage. It’s been a thorn stuck festering in his mind since he learned of it, her wedding Tyrion: the Halfman who witnessed his breaking at Blackwater; the demon monkey, whose first wife, they say, ended up a scrap of meat shared between the cocks of so many Lannister men.

Some of his darkest thoughts have turned over Sansa’s fate, within the marriage bed and without. So when he realizes what she’s saying, all that darkness bursts in him like a boil lanced; and he laughs, helpless and harsh, the mocking edge a poor cover for the fullness of his relief.)

The bloody dwarf left you a maid. There’s a kindness, oh yes, worthy of the truest knight in a tale. (He looks down at her, his grey eyes piercing through the lank fall of his hair.) But all the men in your story are monsters, whatever promises they make. Surely you see that now.

(With the next man she names, his consolation at her having escaped the Imp is ripped away.) Seven hells. You’re with Littlefinger? (He takes a step back, the implication of all she’s revealed sinking in – that the danger to her must be beyond what he can guess, though it’s clear she’s gone straight from the frying pan into the fire – ) And he has you playing his bastard …

(Her furtive glance, the way she carefully lowers her voice; these things break some restraint in him, more than all the rest. In an instant he closes the distance between them – he still moves fast, despite the hindrance of his wounded leg – and his hand seizes her at the wrist. His grip isn’t hard enough to hurt, but there is something desperate in it, as if this confirmation of her physical presence could anchor them both.)

Bugger that name. If Baelish were here I’d break his teeth on it, make him swallow a mouthful of blood for every lie he’s ever told.

(He holds her close for another moment, then lets her go; and it’s perhaps a mark of that change in him still coalescing, that he’s able to do so before voicing his next question.)

What's he done to you?

I had not expected it. (She had dreaded the wedding night and it only made matters worse that Tyrion had been so drunk.) I wouldn't go that far. He was...willing...but his conscience stopped him. I was relieved he still listened to it.

(But there isn't much that can make her feel better about seeing him completely nude. Maybe if they had been in love or - attracted. Tyrion isn't a cruel man - not fully, anyway - and if she had been given more time...

Not that the Lannisters cared about her comfort.)

Yes. (In King's Landing, she might have paled and retreated at his reaction, but not now. She jumps a little at his sudden approach, yet her eyes remain fixed on his features.) It is for my protection.

(Which is only part of the truth.) He loved my mother. I suppose he is living out some fantasy.

(She doesn't step back even when she is released. Instead, she raises a hand to his unmarred cheek, lightly touching.)

I can survive a few unwanted kisses. He has not gone any further nor would I let him.

(He may know her beyond the dwarf's reach, but he bristles nonetheless at her talk of Tyrion's conscience. Part of him scoffs at how proper a lady's tongue she still employs, mincing words like willing; but he doesn't need the cruder imagery to envision exactly what she means.

It's her current predicament that warrants his greater focus, however, and when she speaks of protection he casts back his head, his eyes rolling in disgust.)

Don't spew his lies at me, girl. You know he only wants to hide you in plain sight, like a farmer smearing shit over a prized brood mare to keep her from the taxman.

(Her next revelation proves harder to treat with derision. He remembers the stories about Baelish dueling Brandon Stark for the Tully woman's hand. It's one thing to hear that Littlefinger kept his cock hard for Catelyn all those years, but to imagine him plotting Joffrey's death hand-in-hand with Sansa's abduction ...

Sandor feels no grief for the king he once guarded, but he loathes the thought of Littlefinger hatching his schemes right under all their noses. And they call the eunuch a fucking spider, he thinks, teeth clenched on his fury.

His jaw is still grinding when she touches his face, so she'll feel it for an instant before he flinches, the muscles locked up with a different tension. He'd strangle himself with Stranger's bridle before admitting how often he's recalled the brush of her fingers, that night in King's Landing. Sometimes he thinks he imagined it all, even the song - he was bloody drunk enough, bloody scared enough, that most other memories of that night ripple and run together, like the reflection of green flames on dark waves.)

And you think you can stop him, do you? Deny him his lust, easy as bearing a kiss? (For just a fraction of a moment, he turns his cheek into her hand, as if seeking warmth in the cup of her palm; but he soon steps back with a low and sudden sound, half sigh and half snarl.) Don't.

Every second you spend with him, you're at his mercy. Don't fool yourself into believing any different.

(She cannot afford to hold onto the past - no matter how badly she wants revenge for what was done to her family. She is not in a position to do that. Not yet. Sansa sees potential in allying herself with Littlefinger for the time being. It isn't that she trusts him or has any feelings - other than disgust - for him. No, she knows better than to give her heart over to anyone so easily.

Her lips are set in a thin line when she responds to his less than kind (though likely very accurate) quip.)

I am not the Sansa Stark you left behind. I am using him as much as he is using me. I need his guidance in reclaiming Winterfell. Once that is done, the Eyrie and Winterfell will be under our - my - (Her eyes flash for a moment.) control. That will mean a great deal to those who live in the North. My family's allies have not been extinguished.

(If they are smart, they are in hiding.

Those muscles and teeth grinding together under her hand are not pleasant and she wishes she could bring him comfort. Look at me. I'm not a scared little bird anymore. Yet she cannot deny that his worry for her makes her feel warm - perhaps even cherished - and that isn't a feeling she takes lightly or casts aside.

I dreamed of you when I was married. You would protect me and I know you wouldn't take advantage of me either.)

I will kill him if I must. (She speaks as calmly as she can manage.) Men do not wear armor or carry weapons during those acts. He would be vulnerable.

(Her features soften and she nearly smiles as he leans against her hand.)

...Sandor? (It's the first time she has said his name aloud and she can't help the emotion behind it.) I know. I have had opportunities to run away - I have considered it - but where would I go? I will always be in hiding unless I state my claim over Winterfell in my family's stead.

Edited 2016-06-07 05:18 (UTC)

[She's not thrilled by his choice of words and has to take a minute to control her stomach from doing turns at such vivid imagery.]

Do you always react so when people show concern for you? Or is it something that doesn't happen often enough to gauge?

I should think that someone showing that amount of concern for you speaks to their, dare I say, love for you. In their own way, I suppose - even if it is not romantic, love surfaces in a multitude of ways. Your scribe clearly feels this for you.

Is that not a good thing?

[He glowers at her from the first few words, his one good brow furrowed heavy over his glittering grey eye. His scars twitch like the hide of a separate beast, and his mouth jerks on the unburnt side, as though summoning spit enough to drown something bitter.

But the more she speaks, strangely, the more his expression loosens, until at the end he's so slack-jawed he flashes parted teeth; and only then does the laugh come barking out of him, harsh as flint cracked careless over stone.]

Love? You talk to me of bloody love?

You're as silly a bitch as she, if you think love has aught to do with it.

[She doesn't even flinch at his sudden laughter. Margaery just tilts her head slowly and listens carefully. As he speaks a slow, perceptive smile creeps across her lips.]

You're a fool to think it doesn't. Love has everything to do with it. You wouldn't be here barking your insults and whining your complaints otherwise.

[It's all said with a tender smile and not even a trace of venom or fear in her tone.]

If I'm perceiving you correctly...I do believe you're afraid to admit that I'm right - or that I have a point, at the very least.

Edited 2016-06-07 13:54 (UTC)

[His fit of humor swiftly fades, and with its passing he bares his teeth at her in truth, savage as his nickname goaded.]

The only thing you've got right is that she feels for me.

She feels what every snot-nosed little brat feels, crouched down in the dirt, tearing the legs off a beetle. What soft-fed, soft-headed girls feel for the dollies they cherish one day, and leave wretched on the rag pile the next. What men feel before the wine sours in their bellies, before the whore seems poxed and loose.

Does that sound like love to you? Maybe it does. Maybe that's the kind of love highborn cunts know best – the kind that toys, that grows bored once it's bled you dry.

So, you think this scribe of yours sees you as an experiment? Something fleeting to fit her fancy for a little while. Something to put in various situations simply for her amusement?

If that is the case, I have news for you, good master Clegane: You would be in such a situation regardless of whether you were here or not. The Gods would and already have done the same to you, do you not see that?

Your scribe does not seem keen on torturing you, so I think your choice of language is coarse and misplaced. I think you place too little trust in her. This situation may benefit you, if you allow it.

Or you can continue to complain and portray yourself the victim. The choice is yours.

The gods. [He sneers, though on him it’s a more settled expression, barely pulling at the burned corner of his mouth.]

Everyone wants to tell me what the gods intend. This god, that god – puppet-masters all. And so much easier for men to justify killing – [He breaks off, remembering the Brother swinging from the sept, and the mock in his voice only emphasizes the sudden swell of regret.] – Kindness, too. If they can say it was all for a god’s fingers, plucking at their strings.

Is my tongue too rough for the lady’s ears? Your brother always did speak soft and sweet, like a mooncalf with his mouth stuffed full of flowers. Probably shits petals out of his arse, that one. But you – you’ve got something harder in your guts, don’t you? Something nasty and sharp under all those gentle words.

Might be you do have a point. I choose what comes next, and no matter how fucking stupid, I’ll not lay that choice at another’s door. Not some bloody god’s, and not this bitch’s, to be sure.

Well, I can't say as I've ever used them as justification for killing. I've never seen the morality in that. [Using the gods as an excuse to do good, kind work - that's something she's more familiar with. It tugs at the corner of her mouth and makes her smile falter just a bit.]

[But it's back in full force soon enough, as she laughs when he asks if his language is too rough.]

Your tongue, too rough? Clearly you're not familiar with my grandmother's work. Coarse language is not foreign to me, and it takes a great deal more to unsettle me than mere words, ser.

[There's a lift of her brows and a tilt to her smile at that latter remark.]

Well...even golden roses have thorns, master Clegane.

But, all in all, that's fair enough - you've never struck me as one who willingly takes orders so blindly. [He's served Joffrey without question, but she's always suspected there was more to the Hound than that.] You've never seemed to enjoy it anyway.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only