Need help with a voice test or want to play anything at all with me? Just consult my muselist and put the name of the character you want to play with in the subject line. If there's a particular scenario you want to play out, feel free to stick that in the comment as well and I'll see what I can do. Picture prompts highly encouraged! This also works as a way to hit me up OOC-ly for any plotting. If you prefer that I make an individual entry (private or not) for our interaction, please feel free to say so here as well. I'm open to most things so come at me. :) For smutty stuff, I also have an open smut post.
[ Alexander is a brash nobleman from the lands afar, having borne himself across the oceans to…investigate the wealth of foreign lands, as it were. He cares not for anyone who might suspect his motives—indeed, he makes it plain enough to whoever would deign to ask him.
If they can take him seriously enough, anyway. He’s accepted into Tyrell lands as a guest—perhaps an amusing foreign courtesy, if they can afford it. He doesn’t care for the whispers behind his back all the same, as he spends his days strolling about the gardens under the sunlight and teaching a few of the younger knights some useful pointers on battle tactics.
But mostly he watches and listens, even as he partakes of the lesser forms of entertainment that might even earn him the ire of many of the more discerning highborn populating the area, but he doesn’t care either. He drinks and whores around and occasionally engages in gambling for the sheer thrill of it, but when he’s not indulging his baser instincts he chats up whomever he meets with an astounding frankness unfitting of. Well. Any decent folk, really.
He always thinks he’s above that. ]
Ho there, Lady! I see you’re not with Red, today. Did she reject your advances at last? [ SO CHEERFUL ABOUT THIS. ]
[Spiriting away the Key to the North took much and more than palming a brass trinket and pocketing it. The key was a girl of fourteen with hair of rust, skin of porcelain, and eyes of blue. In her chest beat the heart of a wolf howling in grief, torn from its pack. Margaery hopes one day that wounded heart might beat for her instead. As the new queen to the seven kingdoms, it's not often she can leave King's Landing for home in Highgarden. Heading south for lush forests and orchards is a welcome reprieve from her husband. He's likely slaughtered entire warrens by now, toying with his crossbow in his boredom.
Better it be rabbits than our people.
The hunt curbs his bloodlust and she pulls his strings, serving as the true ruler. Still, even queens need their rest. She's taking a stroll when a booming voice thunders through the rushes. Leaves shudder at the heavy steps of one Ser Alexander, a friend of her father's.]
Listening to vile rumors, are we? Has the king's lady mother been whispering in your ear?
[Best to act coy. Outright denial only invites argument.]
Edited (wow edits for typos i'm so sorry) 2014-06-04 14:14 (UTC)
[ Well, he can be impressed—not just at her comeback, mind, but at her bearing. While the boy-king leaves much to be desired, his bride is at least worthy of the title bestowed upon her on her wedding day.
He’d observed the proceedings of the court in his own way, loudly and with seemingly little regard for the refinements that such a setting imposes upon all its guests—however unwelcome they might be. Alexander is still a foreign dignitary even if that word is close to useless in Westerosi power games, yet he plays his hand all the same, with a happy, boisterous energy and an abiding interest in anyone and everyone. Including that sad-eyed wolf-girl, that spider person who seems more like someone’s prized sow, and...of course, the hard, golden queen mother, who reminds him so much of his own that he actually finds it a mite disconcerting.
And he shows it, with a raised eyebrow and a curiously severe look at Margaery before he bursts into laughter. Gods! These nobles playing at their coy games—frustrating, really, when he’s always been a man who would rather speak his mind openly. ]
Unfortunately not, my Lady! I believe I’ve incurred her every disdain already! [ If not her son’s, whose crossbow bolts merely glance off the tough hide of his bare skin—being one to eschew all but the lightest armor and all. He’s not about to threaten the people of this land more than he has to with his stature and everything.
He’s grinning all the same, completely without any ill feeling towards her lord husband or his mother or even toward Margaery herself. ]
Hoh, don’t tell me I’ve acquired yours as well! There are few entertaining women at court as it is! [ Don’t even get him started on Lady Tanda. ]
[The way he laughs would rival the rumble of any storm. It's no surprise that many a man has quaked and trembled at the sight of him. Some whisper that he's Robert Baratheon reborn, come to plague the seven kingdoms once more out of disdain for his heir. The smallfolk whisper of him as if he's some demon in disguise, a damnable creature who punched his way up and out of the seven hells.
Margaery likes him well enough.
Better to be feared as a demon then damned as a harlot. As Rider lets arrows glance of his skin, so does Margaery let insults ricochet off her armor. She's not helping herself with the sort of company she keeps but she refuses to become Cersei. A queen must have friends. True friends. Being alone only leads to losing one's self in the court's intrigues.]
Not at all. They say you're much like my dearly departed father-in-law, bless his soul. How could I have disdain for that?
[ Far be it for Alexander to deny friendships of any sort—that's what he lives for, or so he'd argue. Conquests for him weren't so much conquests as they were…offers of friendship.
The sad part is he believes all of that, but if he's tolerated, hey, he's tolerated. Even if he embarrasses her, and sometimes deliberately. It's all in the spirit of friendship and all. ]
Ahh, the noble Robert! [ Should speak something of her dear father-in-law that Alexander would deign to use his actual name here for a change. But Alex takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, savoring some long-cherished memory of the man he'd only but hunted with briefly. ]
His son is so disappointingly unlike him! You're wasted on a little squirt like that! [ Here he laughs again—he's hardly a stranger to marriages of convenience himself. ]
Say! Did you ever go hunting with your father-in-law as well? The spirit on that man! You can learn many things from a good hunt—I'd say you'd learn far more than you ever did in your simpering little court!
The Stranger denied me the pleasure. It's just as well. My family has never been overly-fond of the hunt. Grandfather was mad for hawking though. T'was a sad day when he chased one of those birds right off a cliff.
[At least that's how her grandmother tells it. The so-called Queen of Thorns had many a barb on her tongue for her late husband as well as her son. "The Lord Oafs of Highgarden," she called them. Margaery took it all in good stride. After all, the Lady Olenna always saved a smile for her as the favored granddaughter.]
Besides, there's much to see and hear at court if you know how to smile and curtsy and preen. Very much like a hunt all its own.
Hn, true—too true! You’re too clever by half, Lady! [ He sniffs, as if the whole idea confuses him. What she’s speaking of is yet more intrigue, and how can you rule anything with that? It’s so much easier to face his adversaries in open battle.
This is also why he’s not even shy about revealing his weaknesses: ]
You might even grow cleverer than I, oho! [ But in a more confidential tone: ]
Bahh, if I wasn’t too clumsy to curtsey—wouldn’t that be a sight, eh? Like one of your mummer’s farces! Ha! But don’t think that I don’t have some respect for a woman who can keep her head above the current. Watch and listen though you may, but too often folks get distracted, and then they fall under!
[ He glares around them, as if daring the vegetation to tattle on the queen mother. He rubs at his beard thoughtfully. ]
For Robert, it was that damn boar. [ One he never got to taste. ] For you, it might be that Queen Goldy! Ah, has there ever been a woman given to such wiles?
[ Sometimes, the days at school began to blend together. Class after class, uniforms that were always the same (so neat and pristine) and the same old of the other girls looking at her with curiosity or detachment. Who cared of she was meant for some great role in their religious faith? Most of the girls only cared about finding boys to have sex with or clothes, both things that escaped Colette's notice when she had other more pressing things to care about, like memorizing scripture and showing only her best face to the nuns and other student body.
It's after hours that she's sitting in the temple, crouched over a bible resting on her lap while her hair flows down around past her shoulders, with only candlelight and the setting sun catching on glass stained windows. There had been… some sort of party tonight, joint with the boys from the brother school for men, but she had decided not to attend. She'd never done well with large crowds of people despite having been raised to placate them -- keep demure, hands on your lap, listen to what everyone has to say, don't have a temper because your duty is to them, not to yourself.
It was easier being alone, sometimes.
Looking up, she stared at the faces so high above her, so heavenly and forgiving. While she held her faith close to her heart, she couldn't help but to want… more, to live like some of the other girls did, even though her family and the school both would disapprove. ]
What should I do?
[ With hands folded on top of the book, she looked up, golden ringlets cascading down her back. Trapped. That was how she felt. Each day it was getting harder to smile, so she practiced in front of the mirror, so no one would ever know what might dwell behind her friendly facade. ]
[The faint glow of weeping candles draws Margaery into the chapel, steps light as she walks down the aisle, caressing pews with her fingertips like an uncertain bride. Once she comes upon Colette, she licks those same fingertips of hers, pinching one of the lit candlewicks to put it out. With the loss of that flickering flame, the light dims just a little. Perhaps it might draw the girl's eye away from her pages of fire and brimstone for just a moment.]
You should be outside, taking some hapless dandy out on the floor for a whirl.
[Not that the girl was asking Margaery but butting into other people's business has always been a bit of a compulsion.]
I doubt our Lord wants you withering on the vine before you head for the abbey.
[ Her attention is pulled away from faces that seem to have gone so sad, running worn lines running down from pained faces, when the shadows become a little more advanced. It's not enough to say that the sun has fallen, cusps of orange and red still tinting the window and cutting across the floor, so she turns in surprise, face flushed that she'd been caught.
Not that praying was anything to be ashamed about -- the nuns encouraged prayer as often as possible, but Colette had been taught to never pray for selfish things.
Margaery's words remind her of that gathering; right, that had been tonight, not that such a thing had caught her interest. ]
O-oh…
[ She smiles, her go-to reaction, closing the book on her lap gently. ]
I should, shouldn't I? It's rude to ignore a party, especially when the school's gone through so much effort for us to have fun.
[ Bullshit. It's prospective husband hunting, of course, because any and all proper ladies should be married off to good catholic men before they march off to war. ]
I'm not very good at dancing, though. They'd be much safer without me whirling anywhere.
[Sweeping up the skirts of her gown, Margaery scoots on over to sit next to Colette on the pew. One doesn't leave an empty space on the presumption that it won't be filled. She comes in like water, faint light dancing over dark blue silks that wrap her in waves. With a little less distance, it's easier to lay eyes on one another. Margaery tucks a loose brown curl behind her ear, not daring to pull out a pin from her chignon to tame it back into place. The grin she offers in return is but a crescent moon, as polite and reserved as what's been presented. Do unto others, right?
Sickly sweet as Colette's smile may be, it lacks the twinkle to make it true. Not enough teeth with nary a wrinkle to line the eyes.]
Oh, I don't know. You did well enough during the dance classes. A shame no one else really paid much mind. I'd have thrown a dime or two at your feet.
[False modesty is worse than pride but the original sinners favor it all the same. Will I be wise, dear serpent? Truly? Eve was already wise. Margaery would like to think the first woman was feigning and took the charade too far. Far better to follow the snake into the unknown then languish in idyllic boredom. Why should curiosity be a crime?
Margaery keeps her blasphemy to herself out of respect for Colette's piety. She keeps much and more to herself for the sake of quiet. Rowdy suffragettes may be kicking up a storm back home but the cost is high. Women bleed enough every moon; no need to spill out onto the streets. Better to be the wind in a man's sails then the storm that rips him to pieces. After all, the wind decides where he goes and how to move him.]
My record player's still in the hothouse if you'd rather dance in the dark. I like listening to that one song about sunshine when I'm gardening. My flowers seem to like it, too.
[ Colette bows her head when the other girl sits, smoothing her own skirts out of habit and pushing the ends of her hair back over her shoulder. When Marg mentions dance class she looks mildly surprised, blinking somewhat owlishly at the other girl. So she'd been watching? No one really paid anyone else much mind during those; something she'd found to be a relief, seeing that she was pretty clumsy. She tried though -- she tried harder than anyone else, but there was more weight on her shoulders than most. ]
Heheh… to tell you the truth, I don't really feel much like dancing.
[ Though as soon as she admits that, she feels selfish; ladies should always graciously accept, always dance and be bright, and sitting in the dark of the chapel like this is hardly becoming of her. Quietly, she clutches the fabric covering her lap, looking downcast for a moment before relaxing her shoulders. Gardens? Those she likes. ]
Your flowers? Do you have a garden?
I bet it's lovely.
idek why i looked up shit on zucchini and chickens at 4am good mornight
[So the girl doesn't favor grace on her feet, does she? Perhaps mud between her toes would suit her better. Dressing and sitting all nice and proper does take a toll. The school makes a point of training its girls to "emanate a nurturing presence." Like hens being taught how to nest. Still, as "nurturing" as hens might be, they still strut and peck when it counts. Some even find it in themselves to crow though flight will always be beyond them.
This girl aspires to be something more, doesn't she? A bird of a different feather. Maybe one of those strange chickens from the Orient, covered in downy white fluff with flesh as black as soot. The gamekeeper kept a few curiosities to amuse the headmistress and Margaery often talked her way into the menagerie. Those birds were the shy sort. One of the chicks died of fright from being handled with a rough hand. Such is the fate of creatures made for a gentler world than this one.]
It is, indeed, a sight to behold. Courgette flowers in full bloom.
[Reaching out, she takes a strand of Colette's golden hair between her fingers, thumbing the strands.]
Close to this shade at sunset. Fitting since they're only a few letters off from being your namesake. Once summer draws closer, I'll need butterflies and bees to help them along. The cook will be swimming in courgettes. You should come see when you can spare the time.
[ She perks up almost instantly, a far more real look stretching across her features, making her seem more animated and less like the sullen painted faces on the tile (evidently, they don't approve). Yet they remain silent as they always do, offering no guidance, only disapproving looks, and she's managed those her entire life.
It's so rare for another girl to invite her to anything. ]
Really? I would love that!
[ Courgette flowers… probably nothing like roses, but, well, didn't that suit her just fine? Colette had never considered herself like a rose. A daisy, maybe, but thinking on it… those were still too dainty for a girl like her. ]
I usually have plenty of time during free hours, so… so, I think that shouldn't be a problem. If you really don't mind!
[Letting Colette's hair slip through her fingers, Margaery moves her hand to perch on the girl's shoulder. Such a sad thing. Margaery had loved and lost a fragile young woman much like this pious little maid. That sun was a darker shade with hair that brought to mind the blood and rust painting the sky before dusk. Not this pale yellow of noon, no.
But once again, she's face to face with that selfsame blue stare flecked with a deep sort of misery. Her hand pulls back to toy with the pearls at her throat, fingers fiddling with the strand as she stares off to the side for a bit. Sweet Sansa was long gone, shipped off to some settlement in the East. The punishment should have been mine. She indulged my proclivities. The girl knew not— She thought I meant to teach her how to pucker up for the boys. If ever there was a damnable harlot between us two, it was me.
Perhaps she's adventuring in some camp. Staring down tigers and riding elephants in the Indian heat. That's what Margaery would like to think. It's far more likely that malaria had taken her by now. Or worse. Better it be some malady than a man without mercy.
Taking a deep breath, she lets her smile fall back into place before facing Colette once more.]
Why should I mind? It's not right to extend an invitation without meaning it.
[ Colette waits patiently as Margaery goes quiet, fingers fiddling with pearls much prettier than anything Colette owned period, being a child of the faith and all that in entailed, even the giving up of material things for the sake of closeness to God. The young woman's eyes fall toward the glass window but Colette's not sure if she's actually looking out of them or not -- it would be overstepping herself to ask what she was thinking, wouldn't it? So she remains silent, eyes gentle and features soft, politely tilting her head when Margaery offers her a second look.
But… she couldn't help but to feel that Margaery was sad about something. What? Oh, she hadn't a clue, yet… for what reason did the woman visit the chapel this evening? She was a fair dancer herself. Maybe she also needed guidance. Guidance that Colette could never deign to give, never as mighty as their Lord, nor as forgiving, or just. ]
I suppose it isn't.
[ That's said with a touch of a sigh, despite her best efforts to keep it in. Even if it wasn't right, passive aggression ran rampant among girls, especially when it came to the matter of men, one that Colette was scarcely interested in to begin with outside of the childhood friends she'd made in the woods. Those two boys had kept her sane in her hardest years; beyond that, she felt no special feelings for men, or the way they looked at her when she was out at town. ]
But some will offer even a kind lie to those who seem like they need it.
[Smooth pearls roll between the softness of Margaery's fingertips as she turns her gaze back to Colette. At one point in time, Margaery's father had made her wear a cross around her neck as if it was some miracle cure for her... affliction. Only then did Margaery see how right her grandmother was to call the man an oaf. Though her father made sure Margaery wanted for nothing, he shattered her heart as eagerly as a bull stumbling through a china shop. Her father knew nothing of the kindness a lie could offer.]
Are you a liar, sweetling?
[Sansa once called herself a liar. A terrible liar but a liar nonetheless.]
[You put a lot of people from a lot of different timelines in one place and you're going to get people who screw things up. Who fuck shit up. It's a boat, a ship, whatever you want to call it and Grant Ward has been taken...back.
Taken back to a time when he could have been saved.
Taken back to a time when he could have been helped.
Never mind that he's found himself eight years old and confused as hell mostly because of the interactions that he's had over the past few days. There was a girl who called herself Skye who had an older asian woman with her, and an older man who had been very concerned about her. Then she'd yelled at him because they said he was the bad guy.
That was it. They were all adults and he grew up to be a bad guy. Just like mother said he would ("You rotten little shit, you'll never amount to anything!") Just like father, ("...Christian? ah. Yes Grant.") She'd practically screamed it at him, "I get superpowers and a family and you get nothing."
That was when both of them had come back out and looked at him, reached for him - but he wasn't having any of it. That explained the guns, that explained the fact that he didn't have any books or toys. Only a bad guy wouldn't have books.
(point of fact Ward had books, several paperbacks, they were simply stored under his bed for easy access as opposed to revealing them to the world at large.)
Everyone else is bonding with people, sharing moments and being held and he... he at least has moose, a worn looking thing with floppy antlers missing an eye. No Thomas, at last he was back to being the baby of the family.
With no family to take care of him.
Was this what being the bad guy was like?
He's sure, sure, absolutely sure that the old man and the asian lady aren't going to find him here in the garden on the ship so he curls up underneath the blanket he dragged from his room, opens the one book he knows (Robinson Curosoe) and tries to picture his gramsie reading it to him to no avail.
There's no gramsie here. There's nothing, there's just those cold hard guns and that mean little girl (bitch. That's what she was a dumb stupid bitch) and being the bad guy.
I don't want to be the bad guy but they said he would be so what choice did he have?
Sitting in the garden he wrapped the blanket over his head, inhaling the grass and began to cry. No loud angry sobbing like that little girl. A ward cried in quiet. If he was loud mother was apt to investigate. so he sniffled, letting out occasional sobs as he hid from the world.]
[Tending to the glass gardens aboard the ship afforded Margaery a welcome pastime. There were tulip bulbs to be planted along with the carrots and potatoes that helped to keep all the passengers sustained. One of the scientists aboard called it a "thriving ecosphere borne of hydroponics." As usual, Margaery offered a smile and a nod. Such matters were beyond her comprehension and, passionate as the botanist was, most of his words were wind to her.
Sometimes you're more heart than head, dear.
So said her grandmother whenever they took tea with the other ladies. Not entirely true. Margaery's heart guided her head, helped her navigate dangerous maneuvers on these tempestuous seas. Not a good head for numbers or scientific fact but it served her well during the soirees sometimes held on board.
A pity she couldn't be more bold. Sansa's wandered off again, laughing with some young man near starboard. It made her heart ache but Margaery does her best to brush it off, wandering to the gardens with the hope that her flowerbeds will serve as apt distraction. Though her heart leads her head, her head can do nothing to soothe her heart.
Soft grass greets her bare feet as she sheds her shoes. The dirt feels good between her toes and she basks in the false sunshine borne of the lamp above. She walks slow, taking in the greenery until the sound of a sob pierces the silence. Her steps speed up as she heads toward the source of the noise, coming upon a boy beneath a blanket.]
[It's not a voice he recognizes. That just makes him sob harder] Go away!
I'm a monster! I'll kill you! I'll shoot you and eat you!
[The words are sobbed out with as much anger as an eight year old can muster. It's an odd space for quite a bit of the boat to be in but there are little kids everywhere.]
I'm a monster! [Sniffle, cry. sob.] grr! Roar!
[The blanket moves forward like a scuttling thing, flopping and wriggling before it stays still and then begins to move away.]
[Hard as it is, Margaery stifles her laughter, biting her lip and holding it in. She follows the sheet as it moves along the grass, trying to catch a corner to tug on.]
Are you? Oh my, that's frightening to hear. I'm rather fond of monsters though. My dear friend is to wed an imp and he's one of the kindest men I know.
[Just a pity that it's him walking down the aisle with her rather than me. Oh well.]
Would you mind scurrying out? Let me see you for myself.
[Why would a boy call himself such while in tears? Were there bullies around?]
[Never did a lie feel more like a vice around Margaery's heart. Kneeling down, she nudges the blanket away and cups the boy's cheek. Snot trails down his nose and his eyes are red from crying. Without hesitation, she pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and dabs at his face.]
Who's been telling you such things, sweetling? I see no villain here.
[Villain. That's the word he was forgetting. He drags a hand over his face and grimaces.]
That girl! That girl with that old man!
[He sniffs and tries to squirm away.] She said I was the bad guy and I went into the room they told me to and there were all these weapons and it was true.
[One of her brows lifts and she tilts her head, giving him a quizzical look. The boy speaks of a bad dream as if it's reality and, more than anyone, she knows better than to dismiss a child's fears as nothing. When he squirms away, she pockets her handkerchief and offers her hand to him.]
That was cruel of them to say. I don't believe a word of it. You wouldn't cry if you really were what they say you are, would you? A bad guy wouldn't have the heart for that.
[That makes her pull back just a little, as if the child were a dog that had just snapped its jaws at her. Such language. The boy cries out for his "gramma" and Margaery considers how her own grandmother might react to hearing profanity from this child.
Probably pick him up to wash his mouth out with soap at the nearest sink.
All the better that Margaery happened to be the one to come upon this child. Not everyone can find the patience for little ones.]
You shouldn't say such things. I doubt your grandmother would want you to be so crude with your words. Is she on board, by the way? Perhaps I could take you to her.
[He is sorry but at the mention of his grandmother he looks ready to burst into tears all over again.] She's dead. She's supposed to be in heaven with Mr. Whiskers but Mother said...
[He can't bear to think about it so instead he hugs the moose tighter] I just don't wanna go back to that girl.
Of course, who would want to keep company with a bully? My apologies about your grandmother, sweetling. I didn't know. Would you like us to go look for your parents?
[Snotty mess that he is, she's willing to carry him if need be.]
If you don't feel like walking, I can pick you up. Both you and your moose.
[With that, Margaery decides to settle back on the grass, sweeping her skirts under her and stretching her legs out to the front before folding them to take on a lotus position. If he wants to stay here, so be it. She'll keep him company for as long as he wishes. One must never suffer to leave a crying child alone.]
Would you mind being alone together? I won't tell anyone you've been crying but I don't think I can leave you be until you're at least a little better.
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no subject
If they can take him seriously enough, anyway. He’s accepted into Tyrell lands as a guest—perhaps an amusing foreign courtesy, if they can afford it. He doesn’t care for the whispers behind his back all the same, as he spends his days strolling about the gardens under the sunlight and teaching a few of the younger knights some useful pointers on battle tactics.
But mostly he watches and listens, even as he partakes of the lesser forms of entertainment that might even earn him the ire of many of the more discerning highborn populating the area, but he doesn’t care either. He drinks and whores around and occasionally engages in gambling for the sheer thrill of it, but when he’s not indulging his baser instincts he chats up whomever he meets with an astounding frankness unfitting of. Well. Any decent folk, really.
He always thinks he’s above that. ]
Ho there, Lady! I see you’re not with Red, today. Did she reject your advances at last? [ SO CHEERFUL ABOUT THIS. ]
no subject
Better it be rabbits than our people.
The hunt curbs his bloodlust and she pulls his strings, serving as the true ruler. Still, even queens need their rest. She's taking a stroll when a booming voice thunders through the rushes. Leaves shudder at the heavy steps of one Ser Alexander, a friend of her father's.]
Listening to vile rumors, are we? Has the king's lady mother been whispering in your ear?
[Best to act coy. Outright denial only invites argument.]
no subject
He’d observed the proceedings of the court in his own way, loudly and with seemingly little regard for the refinements that such a setting imposes upon all its guests—however unwelcome they might be. Alexander is still a foreign dignitary even if that word is close to useless in Westerosi power games, yet he plays his hand all the same, with a happy, boisterous energy and an abiding interest in anyone and everyone. Including that sad-eyed wolf-girl, that spider person who seems more like someone’s prized sow, and...of course, the hard, golden queen mother, who reminds him so much of his own that he actually finds it a mite disconcerting.
And he shows it, with a raised eyebrow and a curiously severe look at Margaery before he bursts into laughter. Gods! These nobles playing at their coy games—frustrating, really, when he’s always been a man who would rather speak his mind openly. ]
Unfortunately not, my Lady! I believe I’ve incurred her every disdain already! [ If not her son’s, whose crossbow bolts merely glance off the tough hide of his bare skin—being one to eschew all but the lightest armor and all. He’s not about to threaten the people of this land more than he has to with his stature and everything.
He’s grinning all the same, completely without any ill feeling towards her lord husband or his mother or even toward Margaery herself. ]
Hoh, don’t tell me I’ve acquired yours as well! There are few entertaining women at court as it is! [ Don’t even get him started on Lady Tanda. ]
no subject
Margaery likes him well enough.
Better to be feared as a demon then damned as a harlot. As Rider lets arrows glance of his skin, so does Margaery let insults ricochet off her armor. She's not helping herself with the sort of company she keeps but she refuses to become Cersei. A queen must have friends. True friends. Being alone only leads to losing one's self in the court's intrigues.]
Not at all. They say you're much like my dearly departed father-in-law, bless his soul. How could I have disdain for that?
no subject
The sad part is he believes all of that, but if he's tolerated, hey, he's tolerated. Even if he embarrasses her, and sometimes deliberately. It's all in the spirit of friendship and all. ]
Ahh, the noble Robert! [ Should speak something of her dear father-in-law that Alexander would deign to use his actual name here for a change. But Alex takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, savoring some long-cherished memory of the man he'd only but hunted with briefly. ]
His son is so disappointingly unlike him! You're wasted on a little squirt like that! [ Here he laughs again—he's hardly a stranger to marriages of convenience himself. ]
Say! Did you ever go hunting with your father-in-law as well? The spirit on that man! You can learn many things from a good hunt—I'd say you'd learn far more than you ever did in your simpering little court!
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[At least that's how her grandmother tells it. The so-called Queen of Thorns had many a barb on her tongue for her late husband as well as her son. "The Lord Oafs of Highgarden," she called them. Margaery took it all in good stride. After all, the Lady Olenna always saved a smile for her as the favored granddaughter.]
Besides, there's much to see and hear at court if you know how to smile and curtsy and preen. Very much like a hunt all its own.
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This is also why he’s not even shy about revealing his weaknesses: ]
You might even grow cleverer than I, oho! [ But in a more confidential tone: ]
Bahh, if I wasn’t too clumsy to curtsey—wouldn’t that be a sight, eh? Like one of your mummer’s farces! Ha! But don’t think that I don’t have some respect for a woman who can keep her head above the current. Watch and listen though you may, but too often folks get distracted, and then they fall under!
[ He glares around them, as if daring the vegetation to tattle on the queen mother. He rubs at his beard thoughtfully. ]
For Robert, it was that damn boar. [ One he never got to taste. ] For you, it might be that Queen Goldy! Ah, has there ever been a woman given to such wiles?
marg + au + catholic school girls
It's after hours that she's sitting in the temple, crouched over a bible resting on her lap while her hair flows down around past her shoulders, with only candlelight and the setting sun catching on glass stained windows. There had been… some sort of party tonight, joint with the boys from the brother school for men, but she had decided not to attend. She'd never done well with large crowds of people despite having been raised to placate them -- keep demure, hands on your lap, listen to what everyone has to say, don't have a temper because your duty is to them, not to yourself.
It was easier being alone, sometimes.
Looking up, she stared at the faces so high above her, so heavenly and forgiving. While she held her faith close to her heart, she couldn't help but to want… more, to live like some of the other girls did, even though her family and the school both would disapprove. ]
What should I do?
[ With hands folded on top of the book, she looked up, golden ringlets cascading down her back. Trapped. That was how she felt. Each day it was getting harder to smile, so she practiced in front of the mirror, so no one would ever know what might dwell behind her friendly facade. ]
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You should be outside, taking some hapless dandy out on the floor for a whirl.
[Not that the girl was asking Margaery but butting into other people's business has always been a bit of a compulsion.]
I doubt our Lord wants you withering on the vine before you head for the abbey.
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[ Her attention is pulled away from faces that seem to have gone so sad, running worn lines running down from pained faces, when the shadows become a little more advanced. It's not enough to say that the sun has fallen, cusps of orange and red still tinting the window and cutting across the floor, so she turns in surprise, face flushed that she'd been caught.
Not that praying was anything to be ashamed about -- the nuns encouraged prayer as often as possible, but Colette had been taught to never pray for selfish things.
Margaery's words remind her of that gathering; right, that had been tonight, not that such a thing had caught her interest. ]
O-oh…
[ She smiles, her go-to reaction, closing the book on her lap gently. ]
I should, shouldn't I? It's rude to ignore a party, especially when the school's gone through so much effort for us to have fun.
[ Bullshit. It's prospective husband hunting, of course, because any and all proper ladies should be married off to good catholic men before they march off to war. ]
I'm not very good at dancing, though. They'd be much safer without me whirling anywhere.
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Sickly sweet as Colette's smile may be, it lacks the twinkle to make it true. Not enough teeth with nary a wrinkle to line the eyes.]
Oh, I don't know. You did well enough during the dance classes. A shame no one else really paid much mind. I'd have thrown a dime or two at your feet.
[False modesty is worse than pride but the original sinners favor it all the same. Will I be wise, dear serpent? Truly? Eve was already wise. Margaery would like to think the first woman was feigning and took the charade too far. Far better to follow the snake into the unknown then languish in idyllic boredom. Why should curiosity be a crime?
Margaery keeps her blasphemy to herself out of respect for Colette's piety. She keeps much and more to herself for the sake of quiet. Rowdy suffragettes may be kicking up a storm back home but the cost is high. Women bleed enough every moon; no need to spill out onto the streets. Better to be the wind in a man's sails then the storm that rips him to pieces. After all, the wind decides where he goes and how to move him.]
My record player's still in the hothouse if you'd rather dance in the dark. I like listening to that one song about sunshine when I'm gardening. My flowers seem to like it, too.
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Heheh… to tell you the truth, I don't really feel much like dancing.
[ Though as soon as she admits that, she feels selfish; ladies should always graciously accept, always dance and be bright, and sitting in the dark of the chapel like this is hardly becoming of her. Quietly, she clutches the fabric covering her lap, looking downcast for a moment before relaxing her shoulders. Gardens? Those she likes. ]
Your flowers? Do you have a garden?
I bet it's lovely.
idek why i looked up shit on zucchini and chickens at 4am good mornight
This girl aspires to be something more, doesn't she? A bird of a different feather. Maybe one of those strange chickens from the Orient, covered in downy white fluff with flesh as black as soot. The gamekeeper kept a few curiosities to amuse the headmistress and Margaery often talked her way into the menagerie. Those birds were the shy sort. One of the chicks died of fright from being handled with a rough hand. Such is the fate of creatures made for a gentler world than this one.]
It is, indeed, a sight to behold. Courgette flowers in full bloom.
[Reaching out, she takes a strand of Colette's golden hair between her fingers, thumbing the strands.]
Close to this shade at sunset. Fitting since they're only a few letters off from being your namesake. Once summer draws closer, I'll need butterflies and bees to help them along. The cook will be swimming in courgettes. You should come see when you can spare the time.
because ur nuts
[ She perks up almost instantly, a far more real look stretching across her features, making her seem more animated and less like the sullen painted faces on the tile (evidently, they don't approve). Yet they remain silent as they always do, offering no guidance, only disapproving looks, and she's managed those her entire life.
It's so rare for another girl to invite her to anything. ]
Really? I would love that!
[ Courgette flowers… probably nothing like roses, but, well, didn't that suit her just fine? Colette had never considered herself like a rose. A daisy, maybe, but thinking on it… those were still too dainty for a girl like her. ]
I usually have plenty of time during free hours, so… so, I think that shouldn't be a problem. If you really don't mind!
accurate
But once again, she's face to face with that selfsame blue stare flecked with a deep sort of misery. Her hand pulls back to toy with the pearls at her throat, fingers fiddling with the strand as she stares off to the side for a bit. Sweet Sansa was long gone, shipped off to some settlement in the East. The punishment should have been mine. She indulged my proclivities. The girl knew not— She thought I meant to teach her how to pucker up for the boys. If ever there was a damnable harlot between us two, it was me.
Perhaps she's adventuring in some camp. Staring down tigers and riding elephants in the Indian heat. That's what Margaery would like to think. It's far more likely that malaria had taken her by now. Or worse. Better it be some malady than a man without mercy.
Taking a deep breath, she lets her smile fall back into place before facing Colette once more.]
Why should I mind? It's not right to extend an invitation without meaning it.
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But… she couldn't help but to feel that Margaery was sad about something. What? Oh, she hadn't a clue, yet… for what reason did the woman visit the chapel this evening? She was a fair dancer herself. Maybe she also needed guidance. Guidance that Colette could never deign to give, never as mighty as their Lord, nor as forgiving, or just. ]
I suppose it isn't.
[ That's said with a touch of a sigh, despite her best efforts to keep it in. Even if it wasn't right, passive aggression ran rampant among girls, especially when it came to the matter of men, one that Colette was scarcely interested in to begin with outside of the childhood friends she'd made in the woods. Those two boys had kept her sane in her hardest years; beyond that, she felt no special feelings for men, or the way they looked at her when she was out at town. ]
But some will offer even a kind lie to those who seem like they need it.
ugh late ;A; my net is still down
[Smooth pearls roll between the softness of Margaery's fingertips as she turns her gaze back to Colette. At one point in time, Margaery's father had made her wear a cross around her neck as if it was some miracle cure for her... affliction. Only then did Margaery see how right her grandmother was to call the man an oaf. Though her father made sure Margaery wanted for nothing, he shattered her heart as eagerly as a bull stumbling through a china shop. Her father knew nothing of the kindness a lie could offer.]
Are you a liar, sweetling?
[Sansa once called herself a liar. A terrible liar but a liar nonetheless.]
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Taken back to a time when he could have been saved.
Taken back to a time when he could have been helped.
Never mind that he's found himself eight years old and confused as hell mostly because of the interactions that he's had over the past few days. There was a girl who called herself Skye who had an older asian woman with her, and an older man who had been very concerned about her. Then she'd yelled at him because they said he was the bad guy.
That was it. They were all adults and he grew up to be a bad guy. Just like mother said he would ("You rotten little shit, you'll never amount to anything!") Just like father, ("...Christian? ah. Yes Grant.") She'd practically screamed it at him, "I get superpowers and a family and you get nothing."
That was when both of them had come back out and looked at him, reached for him - but he wasn't having any of it. That explained the guns, that explained the fact that he didn't have any books or toys. Only a bad guy wouldn't have books.
(point of fact Ward had books, several paperbacks, they were simply stored under his bed for easy access as opposed to revealing them to the world at large.)
Everyone else is bonding with people, sharing moments and being held and he... he at least has moose, a worn looking thing with floppy antlers missing an eye. No Thomas, at last he was back to being the baby of the family.
With no family to take care of him.
Was this what being the bad guy was like?
He's sure, sure, absolutely sure that the old man and the asian lady aren't going to find him here in the garden on the ship so he curls up underneath the blanket he dragged from his room, opens the one book he knows (Robinson Curosoe) and tries to picture his gramsie reading it to him to no avail.
There's no gramsie here. There's nothing, there's just those cold hard guns and that mean little girl (bitch. That's what she was a dumb stupid bitch) and being the bad guy.
I don't want to be the bad guy but they said he would be so what choice did he have?
Sitting in the garden he wrapped the blanket over his head, inhaling the grass and began to cry. No loud angry sobbing like that little girl. A ward cried in quiet. If he was loud mother was apt to investigate. so he sniffled, letting out occasional sobs as he hid from the world.]
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Sometimes you're more heart than head, dear.
So said her grandmother whenever they took tea with the other ladies. Not entirely true. Margaery's heart guided her head, helped her navigate dangerous maneuvers on these tempestuous seas. Not a good head for numbers or scientific fact but it served her well during the soirees sometimes held on board.
A pity she couldn't be more bold. Sansa's wandered off again, laughing with some young man near starboard. It made her heart ache but Margaery does her best to brush it off, wandering to the gardens with the hope that her flowerbeds will serve as apt distraction. Though her heart leads her head, her head can do nothing to soothe her heart.
Soft grass greets her bare feet as she sheds her shoes. The dirt feels good between her toes and she basks in the false sunshine borne of the lamp above. She walks slow, taking in the greenery until the sound of a sob pierces the silence. Her steps speed up as she heads toward the source of the noise, coming upon a boy beneath a blanket.]
Is something the matter, child? Are you lost?
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I'm a monster! I'll kill you! I'll shoot you and eat you!
[The words are sobbed out with as much anger as an eight year old can muster. It's an odd space for quite a bit of the boat to be in but there are little kids everywhere.]
I'm a monster! [Sniffle, cry. sob.] grr! Roar!
[The blanket moves forward like a scuttling thing, flopping and wriggling before it stays still and then begins to move away.]
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Are you? Oh my, that's frightening to hear. I'm rather fond of monsters though. My dear friend is to wed an imp and he's one of the kindest men I know.
[Just a pity that it's him walking down the aisle with her rather than me. Oh well.]
Would you mind scurrying out? Let me see you for myself.
[Why would a boy call himself such while in tears? Were there bullies around?]
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...I'm ugly.
I'm an ugly bad guy.
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Who's been telling you such things, sweetling? I see no villain here.
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That girl! That girl with that old man!
[He sniffs and tries to squirm away.] She said I was the bad guy and I went into the room they told me to and there were all these weapons and it was true.
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That was cruel of them to say. I don't believe a word of it. You wouldn't cry if you really were what they say you are, would you? A bad guy wouldn't have the heart for that.
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[She's not here.] She'd put that stupid little bitch in jail.
[He is a boy. A 5 year old boy.]
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Probably pick him up to wash his mouth out with soap at the nearest sink.
All the better that Margaery happened to be the one to come upon this child. Not everyone can find the patience for little ones.]
You shouldn't say such things. I doubt your grandmother would want you to be so crude with your words. Is she on board, by the way? Perhaps I could take you to her.
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[He is sorry but at the mention of his grandmother he looks ready to burst into tears all over again.] She's dead. She's supposed to be in heaven with Mr. Whiskers but Mother said...
[He can't bear to think about it so instead he hugs the moose tighter] I just don't wanna go back to that girl.
[and his voice goes soft] I was trying to help...
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[Snotty mess that he is, she's willing to carry him if need be.]
If you don't feel like walking, I can pick you up. Both you and your moose.
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[He drags a hand over his face] Please don't tell them I was crying. Please.
If you gotta take me back...you gotta. I just-
I just wanna be left alone maybe. [He holds the moose.] damn it.
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Would you mind being alone together? I won't tell anyone you've been crying but I don't think I can leave you be until you're at least a little better.
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[And he manages an uncanny imitation of an older male.] "wards don't display emotions." That's me. I'm a Ward.
And this is Moose.
[He holds up the moose.] I found him. In my room.
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[She japes and pins a knight's title on him to choke down her horror. Hitting a child is reprehensible.]
Even heroes should be allowed to cry now and again. Especially ones like you and your loyal steed.