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maskormenacelogs2017-04-01 07:30 pm
jalan) wrote in maskormenacelogs2017-04-01 07:30 pm
closed.
WHO: Daenerys Targaryen, Jorah Mormont, Jaime Lannister
WHERE: On the coast of Nonah.
WHEN: During the Swear-In.
WHAT: [game of thrones cellos]
WARNINGS: References to murder and incest probably.
[ It's a cold flight, through the sky, raising the fine pale hairs on her bared arms, but her heart is going hard enough for spirited circulation, hot through her veins, which feels so similar to anger. Drogon senses it, and when he next dives to eat up distance with wings spread flat and wide, he trumpets a warning into the slowly fading light of the sky. Daenerys sits low, hunkered down, silver hair a maelstrom in the wind.
Odd, how reminders of home seem to fundamentally shift her reality. The woman riding for the coast now on dragon wings is a different creature to the one taking selfies and splitting sundaes with friends. Extra sprinkles.
The sun has nearly set. The ocean is dark with the coming evening, and this stretch of sand is rocky. The tide is in, masking the smell of dead sea-things, the ocean sighing up gentle waves. Dany closes her eyes as Drogon lands in the shallow water as is his habit, tail creating an eruption of salty white water when he lashes it, before he moves for more solid ground. His head is the size of a small car, and his front legs are his wings folded bat-like, putting grooves in the sand littered with broken seashells and dry seaweed. She sits up, not yet dismounting, steeling herself. Her legs are in striped sheer stockings, ridiculous skirt gathered up. She's lost some ribbons in the rush. ]
WHERE: On the coast of Nonah.
WHEN: During the Swear-In.
WHAT: [game of thrones cellos]
WARNINGS: References to murder and incest probably.
[ It's a cold flight, through the sky, raising the fine pale hairs on her bared arms, but her heart is going hard enough for spirited circulation, hot through her veins, which feels so similar to anger. Drogon senses it, and when he next dives to eat up distance with wings spread flat and wide, he trumpets a warning into the slowly fading light of the sky. Daenerys sits low, hunkered down, silver hair a maelstrom in the wind.
Odd, how reminders of home seem to fundamentally shift her reality. The woman riding for the coast now on dragon wings is a different creature to the one taking selfies and splitting sundaes with friends. Extra sprinkles.
The sun has nearly set. The ocean is dark with the coming evening, and this stretch of sand is rocky. The tide is in, masking the smell of dead sea-things, the ocean sighing up gentle waves. Dany closes her eyes as Drogon lands in the shallow water as is his habit, tail creating an eruption of salty white water when he lashes it, before he moves for more solid ground. His head is the size of a small car, and his front legs are his wings folded bat-like, putting grooves in the sand littered with broken seashells and dry seaweed. She sits up, not yet dismounting, steeling herself. Her legs are in striped sheer stockings, ridiculous skirt gathered up. She's lost some ribbons in the rush. ]
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Ser Jorah himself stands in wait in the wind, wide stance familiar from on high despite the slant of his cowboy hat against the setting sun. It’s haggard -- in rough shape after the scuffle that set this meeting in motion. Drogon’s prowled ashore before he winds away to meet them, right hand offered up for Daenerys to take with respect for the dragon’s temper.
He’s without his sword, limited to the dark steel of the dagger on his hip -- vest and trousers the color of rust rumpled over an off white shirt. His scarf is the same color as the dry blood caked stiff down his pant leg.
Curiously, he doesn’t move with a limp.
Nearby, Jaime’s hat flags sadly on the salt breeze from where it’s flipped and flopped to catch on a jut of driftwood. It is very handsome. ]
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He still bears witness to the dragon's landing.
By then, Jaime is working his way onto his knees. He will not be found lying in the sand. His throat his dry behind the gag; the sweat on his brow stings at his eyes. A quiet huff of breath is the greatest tell of his effort, but he goes still when the great shadow passes before the setting sun. The sound that follows is like nothing Jaime has heard before, and a very different sort of fear twists in his gut--low, animal, pure instinct. Jaime's next urge is to grab for a sword, a sword he does not have, with a hand that he does not have. And what then?
He's on his knees at last when Mormont starts for the beast in the shallows. Astride it, a pale figure stands out like a wisp of silk against craggy dark rock.
Jaime's eyes narrow. He stays where he is, in the sand.]
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The dragon has his head low, having watched Jorah's approach with one eye before he turns his attention to the third, unfamiliar human.
Lannister blood just smells like blood. Drogon tastes it with flaring nostrils.
The dragon stays where he is, which is close enough, given his size. Once Jorah and Daenerys are both clear of him, he gives an immense flap before settling, dry sand flurrying. The smell of lizard, fire, and blood is almost enough to pervade the briney scent of the seashore, salt-crusted rock and dead kelp.
She comes to stand before Jaime, then, strapped into her costumey leather corset and bundle of dark satin and petticoat, up-do torn out into silver tangles and waves down her bare shoulders. Slightly more Dothraki, in effect, than Targaryen princess. In turn, she evaluates him. His predicament. His face, the set of his shoulders.
She takes her time before she speaks, as if she were back in Meereen, seated on her throne, a veritable mountain of stairs between herself and the condemned.
Finally; ]
When you were dragged into this world like the rest of us, I was given news of it alongside advisement. [ Her tone is sharp, and controlled, like a steady-held blade. ] They advised me to spare your life. Men who share your blood. Men who share no ones blood. Men who can't help themselves but to give advice.
[ A tip of her head considers whether Jaime is one of them, before she asks, past her shoulder; ]
Ungag him.
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A deferential cliff face behind her shoulder, he looms all the more grizzled and battered in contrast -- a study in brute neutrality shaded in earthtones. Contempt in the slant of his hip doesn’t find its way to his face. His eyes are squinted in quiet scrutiny -- not just of their captive, but of the beach around them.
This is the horse queen’s court.
He doesn’t pass around her until ordered. No sooner has he circled Jaime, he’s yanked loose the cloth knotted behind his ears to keep his jaw from flapping.
His level of optimism about what’s apt to come pouring out is evident in his none-too-gentle drag of the cloth. Also the fact that he keeps it in hand, as if he expects he’ll be re-applying it shortly. ]
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And of course he speaks:]
And?
[--A prompt, with a measure of impudence. Foolish impudence, of course. Ungagged is not the same as unbound. Unarmed. One-handed. It would hardly matter if he were standing and whole and carrying his golden sword. If this Targaryen intends to kill him, she'll see it done. Jaime has little faith in the sanity of the dragon.
His gaze flicks over to the dragon, hulking behind the scene like a great living rock. With teeth. It's like nothing he's ever seen before, greater than the great skulls of the throne room. Hulking, seething, breathing, the embodiment of smoldering anger.
He looks back at the horse princess. All Targaryen, even in the queer cut of her clothing.]
You know, [conversational, for all that his voice is rough with disuse and dryness,] I was given advice as well. Possibly by these same men. With the exception of Mormont--if he offered you any. I know he was once capable of speech, but he's had very little to say to me today.
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Heat shapes steel. It's something she's had time to learn. ]
Ser Jorah had his recommendations, [ she says, with a small, feline smile that is not at all friendly. ] But as you can see, he will carry out my will, in the end. So too will my dragon.
[ Drogon remains a steady, craggy presence, watching the proceedings from his comfortable spot in the soft sand. The sound of his breath mingles with the hiss of the shore. ]
What advice were you given?
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[Dragon, dragon, bear. Bad odds. The first two are very much in his line of sight, impossible to overlook. The last is a presence behind him: Mormont, quiet except the wheeze of his breath. Jaime doesn't risk turning around to see how near he is. Could he grab that knife of his a second time? Likely not. Mormont isn't entirely stupid; he'll know the trick. Bound hands equally discourage such action.
As surreptitiously as he's able, Jaime shifts, testing those knots. No real give--but that small movement does shift the angle of the box still in his pocket. Apparently Littlefinger's enchanted locket was deemed neither weapon nor tribute, and so it's been left to him. Not that it does him much good if he can't get to the bloody thing.
One thing at a time. Jaime's voice is a little surer, as he goes on.]
Jon Snow might be as mad for you as Mormont. He made sure to tell me just how great a threat you are--but a threat that can be reasoned with which I will say, I found contrary. He also added how little he cares for me, so perhaps that second part was a lie. Lord Baelish was hopeful for some manner of peace. He was meant to bring my regards [ha ha] to you, but perhaps I didn't dress the words up prettily enough. I did say I didn't intend to kneel.
[And yet here he is, kneeling. Under duress.]
Meanwhile, my own brother seemed to think you capable of a curious amount of reason. Then again, Tyrion had never really met anyone of your house before you. And he's always been helpless before a pretty face.
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And you're in no risk of falling in love with me, [ she says, agreeably, but as dry as the sands that flutter up loose beneath lashings of wind that roll off the ocean behind her. ] And I've no desire to impress you with my ability to reason.
But if I wanted your head, Ser Jaime, I would have it.
[ Mounted, maybe, as decoration and warning both. Isn't that what Mad Kings and Queens do? But this isn't line isn't delivered with relish, with arrogance, or even with spite or hatred. It is fact, cold certainty, and a strange dissatisfaction for the idea, and for the man in front of her continuing to live.
She tilts her head, though, curiousity -- sharp, claws in entrails -- as a glint in her eye as she raises an eyebrow. ]
When a khal falls in battle, his bloodriders live only long enough to avenge his death before they follow him to his last journey among the stars. That is their brotherhood, their oath, their devotion.
It is said that after you slew my father, they found you sitting on his throne.
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And for all his bravery and wit and mockery, Jaime has been on his knees and under a knife too recently to forget the sour taste in his mouth. Not quite fear. He is not a man made easily afraid. But he is a man who wants to keep his life. Precious else is left to him to keep. And as much as Littlefinger has made claim to regular resurrection of imPorts, Jaime is still in no quick hurry to be beheaded. The enchanted locket would spare him that fate besides, if he could get his hands on it soon enough.
But if it's not Jaime's head she wants, what is this about?
You killed her father, you fool. Her royal father. She's likely had her head filled with lies and pretty stories. None of the blood, none of the burning. She wants to name you an oathbreaker, and look you in the face when she says it. And then she'll have you killed.
A wry smile twists its way across Jaime's face, under the rough grit of sand and beard.]
No. Beheading is the style of Westeros. A civilized execution. What new savagery you've found across the Narrow Sea, I can't pretend to know, but as I recall, your house never did embrace beheadings with the same just and reasoned zeal.
[All that silence. All that screaming. The thick oily smell of cooking flesh. You swore a vow to guard the king, not to judge him. Jaime's smile stays in place.]
Now, if you've brought me all the way out here to tell you stories about the Iron Throne, I'll tell you what I tell everyone. It's a damnably uncomfortable seat.
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Enough to keep her stare steady. She's never been one to school her expression, but she also rarely flinches. ]
I'm coming for the Iron Throne, [ she informs him, in the meanwhile. ] And I will judge its dimensions for myself -- I've heard enough stories that I hardly have need of yours.
They say,
[ for example ]
that its edges only cut those who would sit upon it while unworthy of its powers. It doesn't surprise me that it didn't suit you, Ser Jaime. And I know, too, that my father came away with his share of scars.
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[Though there is a subtlety to what she says that Jaime, for all his sarcasm, did not overlook. Unworthy of its powers. The Mad King certainly was.]
Set less store in foolish tales. It wasn't cuts that ended your father's rule. His arse might still be in that seat but for his own madness. I think I can say that without causing you any great offense. You seem to have few illusions of worthiness, save perhaps your own.
[Not that Jaime minds causing offense, clearly. His bonds creak as he flexes the fingers of his good hand, trying to bring back some feeling.]
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Jaime’s the only one here on his knees.
He glances back down to the bindings when they creak, and lastly to Daenerys, gauging ahead. Looking for cues without providing any of his own. ]
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She thinks, if nothing else, Tyrion would have warned her about whether she was to be condemning a true fool.
Which means less for what she expects to come from Jaime and more about what she wishes to convey to him. A subtle step forwards will tip his chin higher, unless he wishes to stare at silken ruffles, leather buckles. She can sense, too, Jorah's own impatience in the man kneeling on the sand, but this was her time to reckon with her father's murderer, and she can't allow that or Jaime's sarcasm to dictate the course of this meeting. ]
My father was mad, [ she agrees, coolly. ] He burned men and women in his court and laughed as he did it -- I've heard all sorts of stories, ser, foolish and otherwise. No doubt you were hailed as the hero among your peers for driving your sword through his back.
[ In case Jaime was only well-versed in his own brand of irreverent sarcasm, that would be Dany's, sharp edged and brittle. She knows his given name. She just hasn't deigned to say it. ]
My mother was not mad. By all accounts, she was kind. Beautiful. My brother Rhaegar was brave, and he liked to sing more than he liked to kill. They died in exile, in battle. His children, too, and his wife, slaughtered. Salting the earth of Targaryen rule at the behest of your father, I believe.
And if I am to be civilised in the Westeros way, perhaps I ought to do the same, and burn your House to the ground.
[ Sensing a relevant key word, the noise of Drogon's tail dragging out of the surf is louder than his foot prints in the sand, rolling forward beneath the waning light, coming to loom behind her like a rising mountain. ]
Or ask Ser Jorah to put his knife through your back.
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Dare less. Hold your tongue. But really, what does it matter? Jaime finds his throat is very dry. He smiles anyways, as a warm breeze blows up the beach, scattering the sand between them.]
You mean you don't intend to do so? Not very good at conquering, are you.
[Fire and Blood. Burn them all, a hissed whisper like the sizzle of a flame. The girl does look like her mother. Queen Rhaella, all beautiful and sad, like a living shade. Corridors that echoed with her sobs. And the dragon drags its tail through the sand, and the sound is like stone whispering against stone.]
And I'm certain both your beast and your knight would obey those orders of yours gladly. But we are not in Westeros, as our friend Lord Baelish has so kindly reminded me. And when we leave this place, you and I--and Baelish, and, I suppose, Mormont too--we will all of us forget this.
So if you intend to have this fool drive a knife in my back, I ask only that you do it now. With any luck, I'll wake back in Westeros with both my hands, and all of this will only have been a terrible dream that I'll forget in an instant.
[Two hands, and Cersei beside me. And none of this nightmare that passed between the Whispering Wood and now. Gods, that would be sweet. Sweeter than he likely deserves. Instead he has rope, sand, dragon, Mormont, Targaryen. Locket buried too deeply in his pocket to reach. I should have unwrapped it, kept it looped about my wrist.]
If that isn't your intent, then tell me what it is. Plainly, please. I fear my escort here was not so kind as to give me a cup of wine while we waited for you.
[Hold your tongue. But that isn't in Jaime. He shifts in his bonds again, restless.]
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[ She doesn't love his tone, but she's been prepared to withstand it. Drogon, on the other hand, made no such agreement, and his creep closer brings his head low, down beside Daenerys, close enough that now Jaime can smell that bitter warmth of his breath as he parts his jaws to taste the air. The little glands that produce fire are just visible, and his teeth are as larger as daggers, pointed every which way. Spines ripple, to make him seem larger. A sign of aggression.
Daenerys is looking at Jorah, now, which could be construed as tempted to give the order; but it's not present in her face. Thoughtful, sharing some form of silent communication. Not exactly apology for Jaime's continued belligerence, but acknowledgement.
She is late to look back down at Jaime as she says; ]
I am a proven conqueror, Lannister, [ her tone aloof. ] I have taken three cities and they yet stand. I do not destroy what I intend to rule.
[ She turns her back, then. Goes to Drogon, and places a hand on the fine scales along the ridge of his muzzle. Very much as if to calm his agitation. At the same moment, there is a rush of something strange -- feeling, external, dashing cold into Jaime's senses (and Jorah's, although he will at least understand it a little better than the man kneeling between them).
Her fury has abated, that much is clear. It's something else. Aloof. Determined. A powerful swell of cold anticipation for what awaits them all when they are tossed back into their timestreams.
She's looked upon her father's murderer. He's looked upon her. ]
Untie him, Ser Jorah, [ she says, without looking back, occupied instead with stroking the palm of her hand over Drogon's scales, the dragon's growl deep-throated and content. That surge of feeling from her dwindles, disappears. ] He has a long walk ahead of him.
[ Well. Little does she know he won't. A little solace, should Jaime choose to have it. ]
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The turn of the dagger through his fingers can be felt rather than seen -- sharp edged enough to clip through the webwork of rope required to hem in a one-handed man one cable at a time. He lets the scraps fall frayed at Jaime’s back.
One last snip spares him the future indignity of trying to loosen the rope left round his intact wrist with his teeth. Or having to ask someone else to do it.
Jorah cuts his eyes at him in aside as he leans to step away. An unspoken (but eminently clear) you’re welcome you crusty cat anus. ]
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The ropes have dropped free and Jaime pulls his hand and stump around, easing out the tension in his shoulders. He does not reach to massage life back into the fingers of his good hand, not in the least because he lacks the fingers with which to do the massaging.
It is, he thinks, some sort of trap. It must be. Mormont's boots crunch in the sand and the surf tosses itself up onto the beach, and that dragon is breathing like a furnace bellows--and the Targaryen girl has her hand pressed against its hide, a fearsome and favored pet.]
I suppose I'm meant to feel conquered. [Ruled, not destroyed. Any moment, the fire, but she keeps her hand against that dragon's side. This is no trap. This is a display, and that is almost worse.] Grateful, at least, for your disinterest and your mercy. But if this is your intent in Westeros, to have Ser Jorah fetch every lord and knight and smallfolk and bring them bound before you for a lecture, you'll find it slow going indeed. You'll be a crone long before you even get through the great Houses.
[He flexes his fingers, as needling feeling returns. Some distance away, the brim of his hat flips up in the breeze, but Jaime pays it no heed. He'll grab it as he leaves. It will be a long walk. She isn't wrong about that.]
Enjoy your ride. Mind where Mormont places his hands. Or does he have a long walk, too?
[That would be too hilarious. Now it's Jaime's turn to cut eyes at Mormont, darkly amused. It saves him from looking at the Targaryen girl's inscrutable back, the long fall of her silvery hair. Queen Rhaella, Prince Rhaegar. Would the prince have been so merciful? Is this mercy? Gods, does Jaime ever hate this. A dagger in the back would be understandable.]
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[ A lion with only three paws. Perhaps he doesn't.
Gathering her skirts up, she mounts her dragon, nimble and practiced. There is affection once she's settled, a hand smoothed along a spine. Drogon, awaiting command, remains in his crouch, save for the long stretch of his wings, membrane and bone a-shiver, deep red just visible within all the black. ]
You will know my intent in Westeros, Ser Jaime. Pray you find yourself kneeling before me then, too.
[ Look how it's worked out for him now, after all. But she is done, clearly, turning her attention to Jorah. The rest of Jaime's commentary brushed aside, she leans enough that she might offer him a hand up. It's a query, rather than a command when she prompts; ]
Ser Jorah?
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His own hat shades his eyes, but it’s a long look. Really drinking in the temptation. ]
I’ll walk, [ he says. ]
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What everyone else in King's Landing decides to do remains to be seen.]
A pity. I haven't prayed in years.
[Somewhat of a lie. Idle prayers. Prayers of a desperate man. Prayers before battle. And if he were faced with a dragon: would he renege that lie, too?
When Mormont looks back at him, Jaime smiles, almost blithely, as if he isn't a one-handed man without weapons on a beach far from cities and civilization. It's a very Lannister smile.]
No, by all means, Mormont, go with your queen. Ride the dragon. [Droll enough to carry some entendre, but vague enough to deny if confronted.] I prefer to walk alone. It's the best company I'm like to get.
[His legs are watery in the knees, from all that kneeling and waiting--yet as much as he'd prefer not to witness the dramatic departure of the Targaryen girl, Jaime isn't entirely willing to turn his back on the scene either. It is still all too good an ending to be true.]
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But she doesn't force the issue, shifting out of her lean aside to better settle herself and find her grip. The bite of the wind is cold, getting colder as the day sinks into night. Prompted by the feeling of his rider shifting into position, Drogon gives one last fang-filled sneer and circles aside, long neck snaking, front claws digging into sand, tail lifting out from it with a flick.
Dany reaches, ducking down low in preparation for take off, and calls; ]
Valahd!
[ The Dothraki command prompts motion, and Drogon rears with a reverberating cry, wings flared at full sail, and launches into the air. The sting of sand coming off scaley hide and thrown into the air under the gust of his wings follows, settles. The tip of one wing touches choppy ocean, before wheeling back inland once high enough.
And away. ]
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He doesn’t reply.
Not aloud, at least -- the fingers of his left hand busy working the knot of a ring down one on his right, off the knuckle and into his palm. ]
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You should have accepted her offer. That might have been your chance.
[Weapons, still none. The short spar of driftwood is within a reasonable distance, at least. Mormont is equally within reasonable distance. Jaime marks out the distance in his head. Defend or flee? Well, it isn't in him to flee any more than it was in him to stay silent.
Too bad.]
Find some courage next time.
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Lord Baelish did convey your regards, [ he replies.
This is just an FYI, of course. Apropos nothing, really, in relation to the imminent application of his fist to Jaime Lannister’s chiseled face. In a matter of three or four steps, he’ll be near enough to swing. ]
Curious that a lion would sooner kneel before a mockingbird than a dragon.
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[He smiles. Fifteen paces, maybe, to the driftwood. Much less distance for Mormont to reach him.]
And a mockingbird is easier to kill, once its sung its song for you. A single swat to squash it. But if you ask Baelish, I'm sure he'll tell you that I've done no kneeling.
What you've done for your dragon queen, I can't imagine. Clearly it's not enough.
[Still smiling. He'll go for a blow. He's not grabbed for any weapons. Fifteen paces to the driftwood, but he'll clear it in less with a lunge. In a moment.]
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[ The Kingslayer is a legend unto himself, immortalized in art and poetry as he is in title. ]
Lord Baelish pays well for my protection, [ he says, ahead of his last step. ] You’d do well to remember that before you go a-squashing. [ There’s no cartoonish loading back of his weight -- he doesn’t rock on his heels or stretch or flex his fingers. Eyes sharpened too bright and too fierce to be especially inscrutable, especially after that last remark, he just hooks his fist into a swing, looking to repaint Jaime’s grin in shades of red. ]
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Which would go better for him if his legs weren't still half weak from kneeling in the sand for however long he'd waited for the great Targaryen dragon entrance display. One knee drops hard in the sand, and Jaime has to slap his hand down to keep his balance at all, his stump hovering awkwardly to one side.
His scramble toward the driftwood is more ungainly than it might have been otherwise, knees and one hand before he shoves to his feet and clears the distance at a stumble, There's no one keeping score. Just him and Mormont, on the long strand of empty beach. The dragon's shadow has disappeared, not even an inky pinprick of a shape on the horizon.
He grabs for the driftwood, focus narrowed to that goal. Who knows what Mormont's armed himself with behind him. Probably the bloody knife. That will make for quite the contest.]
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He just stands there in the sand with his weight cocked over his hip, not entirely sure what to make of Jaime Lannister armed with a spit of wood and a stump.
After an awkward beat, he says simply: ]
I yield.
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Jaime's mouth tightens.]
Do you.
[Hot shame rises like bile in his throat. He thinks very seriously of throwing the driftwood at Mormont, like a child. Damned for a fool either way. If the Gods smile on it, perhaps the spar would strike him through the eye. Most likely it would fall harmlessly between them.
Jaime twists his grip on the driftwood, clumsily. Strikes it down into the sand so the butt is buried. A strong breeze will blow it right over the moment he takes his hand from it.]
You really are a fool, Mormont. You should have gone with that queen of yours. I know I was intended as a gift to her. The pleasure of granting mercy will get a cunt nearly as wet as the pleasure of taking a life. This could have been your great opportunity.
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Resentment beneath it weighs heavier in the knowledge that no amount of staving in Jaime’s skull will change the truth of the futility. There is no opportunity.
His anger is passive, locked down beneath duty and a bitter screen of self-awareness. Dogs in tutus who know they’re being laughed at have the same look. A mouthful of teeth and nothing to be done for it, because they’ve been trained better. ]
I do, [ he confirms, after an eternity. ]
She has three of them. [ Dragons, not cunts. He doesn’t clarify before he turns drearily for the tire tracks Will Graham left in the sand. ] Enjoy your walk.