eachdraidh | (second lemon cake) video ✧ locked to seelie

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(second lemon cake) video ✧ locked to seelie

Dear fellows and members of the Seelie court -- [ the voice which addresses the locket is composed and clear and perfectly conscientious. but the girl whose image accompanies the voice looks a little less than all those things. her dark-dyed hair is fastened in an uncommonly simple braid...and if one looks very closely, she can be seen to have a haggard look about her. she's somewhere outside and all her caution is bent at hiding a panic she doesn't want to share with strangers. nor with those few genuinely waiting on her return. ]

I don't want to alarm any of you. Indeed, I speak to the very opposite of that effect. It's -- [ her gaze flickers 'off-screen' for a moment ] -- it's Alayne Stone. Those of you who are acquaintances [ not friends ] ought to know that I've found myself...left behind. I'm sorry. It should not have happened. But I suspect I won't make Caer Glaem again for some time. [ the fault of the matter is a little trickier than that, but she knows better than to play with implications. so after a steadying breath, she presses onwards. ] Or we won’t -- because I'm not alone. [ i have nymeria, she thinks but doesn’t dare to say. just like how sansa wants to speak directly to those who know her for who she really is -- but instead: ] I have a knight with me.

Don't I, Ser Gendry? [ and she twists her locket, letting it capture the surly blacksmith who stands a few paces away from her with an irritated expression. his armour is dented and blooded and the man sags with an obvious exhaustion. ser gendry is a man who looks and feels beaten, but it does not stop him from standing tall. he is a talisman of sorts: a warning, to any sansa fears might prey upon what would otherwise be a journey fraught with vulnerability. ser gendry is here; she is protected, albeit not happily so. he at last looks towards her and her locket and grumbles an unhappy agreement to her statement, which is accompanied by a nod. ]

A lady needn’t despair when she’s so well accompanied. Instead, my thoughts are with the returned; I pray the High Queen’s desired prize was taken without steep costs or losses. [ following this, there is no formal farewell. no official sign-off. her attention lingers, perhaps waiting for one or two responses in particular. ]

( ooc; sansa and gendry are now officially stranded and making their long way back to caer glaem -- and it’ll take them at least two months, though they’ll be reachable by locket at their respective ic inboxes. but for now, responses to this post will receive replies from one or the other or both!)

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"Arya! Over it!"

A brittle parched laugh. Sansa wiped sweat from her brow and glanced nervously at the way he walked. He seemed unstable. If they were attacked now, she doubted he'd be able to stand. And so she very nearly suggested they rest. Only...only they needed water more than rest and the latter could come once the former was found.

"She holds grudges. She always did," Sansa said -- sounding a lot as though she possessed a few of her own.

"Aye, if your last name is Lannister. But she's been angry at me a dozen times over before. Don't stop her from coming to bother me again later."

He fidgeted at the straps of his gauntlet, halfheartedly trying to loosen them. But his focus seemed off and doing it one handed was just becoming too much a nuisance. He stopped, sucked in a breath, then looked to her.

"It's time I dump some of this armor."

Everything Gendry said was true. True enough. Although it certainly failed to account for how cruel sisters could be to one another. And -- Sansa would have told him this if she felt comfortable enough to remind him -- by the laws of gods and men, her last name was Lannister. Ought to be Lannister. A lion by legal marriage.

"...Dump the armour?" She asked, stopping short. "Is that wise?"

"No. Likely not. But there's no way I'll make it back wearing all this. I'll need to part with most of it."

Not the helmet, though. He would not lose that again. And he reckoned he would keep the gauntlet on his sword arm, for extra protection. The chainmail was not so cumbersome, so he might keep that as well. The rest, however, was unnecessary. So he began to work on the strap for his plate armor, but that was proving to be even more cumbersome.

It made her uncomfortable that he should announce his difficulties so: that he would confess to being burdened by the armour, and to force the realization that its loss would be on her shoulders. Sansa wondered if that burden would be (in the long run) much heavier than the one he now sought to leave behind. She walked a little farther, but with no intentions of continuing on without him. Nor of hurrying him along. Instead, she was chary. She peered into the tree-trunks and frowned at the path ahead.

And she tried to ignore the trouble he was having with his straps. If she paid it too close attention, she feared she might feel obligated to offer her assistance. It wasn't that she didn't want to help, but rather offering it was a leap their rough acquaintanceship might not be prepared to take.

"What -- just toss it to the side of the road?" She may be a lady and she may be as high born as they came, but even she had a sense for what was wasteful.

He left the strap alone as he saw a wisdom in what she was saying, even if perhaps not the way she intended. He pushed himself off the tree and began to move into the woods.

"No, not the road. Best leave it where it won't be found." It was perhaps obvious already that they would be on the road. Better to leave no sign of their passing in such a case. He tilted his head so she might follow him, because he wanted to walk a decent distance into the forest to leave the armor.

Sansa turned and nodded -- gratified and pleased with the drive for secrecy. She was slowly tripping across the same conclusion Gendry had come to hours before: whatever their feelings on the matter, and whoever their allies back at the castle, they only had each other on the road. Each other and their guile. She has been thinking of the wastage and the shame of losing his armour, and he had been right to think instead on the danger of leaving good metal in their wake.

So she grabbed at her skirts and stepped quickly in order to follow him into the woods. Nymeria -- some distance behind but not out of sight -- seemed to cut into the treeline as if understanding that she would reach them on an angle.

"If we had a spade, we might bury it--" She said, misery leaking into her voice because she knew it wasn't a helpful suggestion. The only metal they had was the metal he was wearing.

He shook his head. "Not worth the time digging it. We'll throw some leaves over it. That should serve."

It was at least cooler beneath the trees. More promising was when he stepped into the ground and felt it squish beneath his feet. He reckoned if the ground was wet here, there must be some source of water around. Even if only a marsh, then it might be fed by a fresh spring somewhere. He looked back at her and grinned slightly. "Mind the mud, m'lady."

"As you say," she answered -- her voice soft like the new budding leaves. She tried to gently sidestep the marshy ground but even when she trod in the wetter parts she was glad that she had her boots on her feet. It was better than if she'd been wearing silk slippers.

"Ser Gendry--" Sansa chanced as she picked her way across the ground "--were you...that is, is it difficult to remove armour?"

He glanced back at her, made a thoughtful grimace, then nodded. His boots squished in the mud, but they were already filthy things and he made no special effort to avoid it.

"Aye. It's easy enough to put it on someone else. But putting it on and taking it off isn't easy. I was having someone help me do that, back at the camp. At least for the harder parts."

"You ought to have asked--"

She felt her way carefully through her scolding. As if she should be able to keep her dignity and honour intact by floating above the very act and insisting that it was only a trifling matter. That he ought to have asked instead of making her offer.

And, indeed, she hadn't yet offered anything.

He looked back to her and for a moment and was tempted to make some mockery of her title and position as he asked for her help. It was tempting, but not warranted. Besides that, the promise of water had lightened his spirits. So he nodded.

"Mayhaps I will, once we've stopped."

Because I can untie things; I can do that much. But the defence died on her lips because what good would it do her now? He'd already considered the non-offer with a non-committal sort of reply. To say anything else -- to promote herself, or even only to argue -- would be heavy handed. Crass. It was enough to simply make him aware that she would entertain the task and that he could request the help if he wanted to request it.

A lighter touch was best. She knew that already.

"It can't be far; I think I hear a trickle."

He paused, because his own armor was louder to him than it was to her. Now he could hear it and he followed the source. Mud gave way to faint puddles, and then blessedly to a creek, and further up he could see water trickling down from it. The trouble was that the creek was in a small ravine that dipped into the ground a distance of about his own height. A twisted path of roots, trees, and stones presented a crude path down. One he could easily make, once he shed his armor.

So he reasoned it was time to do that first. Again, he tilted his head for her to follow and he found a log to sit on. "I'll fetch us some water, m'lady, if you'll help me with this armor." He paused a moment, remembered her admonishment before, and added as an afterthought: "Please."

"--Where do I start?"

She walked to his side. And in doing so she gathered all her courage into one ball. Into one place. For all they'd talked on the road and for all she'd already depended upon him, she'd been conspicuously distant. Warmer, always, with the wolf than she was with him. And so she should be.

Sansa spared a glance for the creek -- felt the dryness of her mouth -- but decided that if he would wait until his armour was off, then so would she.

"Here." He lifted a pauldron so far as the armor would allow, so that she might see the way it was strapped to the chestplate. "Then the chestplate next. It's strapped together here, here, and here." He indicated the places. "The gauntlets and greaves I'll manage on my own."

But first, he loosened the strap for his helmet, which had dangled behind his head like a strange metal hood. He set the finely crafted bull's head on the log and waited for her to do as asked.

Gingerly -- tentatively -- her fingers hook on the metal. And Sansa wrinkled her nose because close quarters brought on the realization that they were the both of them beginning to smell like the road: dust and mud and hard journeying. She tossed her head so that her braid fell down her back and would not interfere as she plucked at the strap. Tugged. Worked it until it loosened. It was slow going; she feared that to pry too hard might lose her a nail. Or might ruin the strap itself. In either concern, her pace was born of inexperience and mild paranoia.

"No wonder knights have squires," she muttered -- as if to herself.

He heard her and answered anyway. "I don't have one. Wouldn't much know what to do with one if I did, on account of never having been one either."

But he had seen squires. Once, from his place in the forge, he'd envied those proud looking boys who stood behind their armored knights, learning and observing all they could. But now, he was a knight and had accomplished what all those squires could hope to be. Except for knowing what he should be doing. For now, he turned his left arm over and played with the strap there, loosening it until the armor slid free. He flexed his freed hand, wished that he would be doing the same with his right, and then waited. He could feel her delicate fingers at work. Not perhaps by contact, but more by imagination. He thought it a pity it was Sansa Stark behind him now and not Lucrezia instead.

"I should have known they did this." She prised the pauldron from its place and sat it gently on the end of the log. She was remarkably careful and respectful of these pieces of metal doomed to be abandoned and forgotten. "Lord Tyrion's squire only ever seemed to pour wine and deliver messages and -- mumble, really. He always mumbled and watched the ground."

At least, Podrick had only ever done those things around her. Like as not he was embarrassed to be around such a vowed traitor. But now she had to wonder where the squire had gone -- had he fled the capital with her husband? She could not imagine Tyrion getting far in the world without some help.

And then, on further reflection, she found that a cruel thought indeed. Sansa shook her head.

"The Lady Brienne had a squire like that. Not pouring wine, that is. He mumbled and watched the ground." He placed his right hand over his bare left arm and squeezed his flesh. It was a strange motion to make, but it brought to mind how the poor boy must have been strangled at the end. He felt hollow inside. Guilty for a crime he knew he was not wholly accountable for.

"But he's dead now."

"--How?"

Sansa wasn't certain what compelled her to ask. Really, she ought to have mumbled her regrets and moved along and changed their topic. But there was something in the way Gendry moved and the way he spoke that made her want to question it. And this very moment -- a Lady of Winterfell undoing some minor knight's armour -- seemed to permit the question.

"His lady had orders from the king. From the Lannisters. So they hung for it. It's what the Brotherhood does, these days."

Were it Freys, he might show pride in it. But he still could only remember how bravely Brienne had fought, his awe to see her face enemies alone, and how pointless it had been for him to save her life.

"What sort of orders are the Lannisters looking to see carried out--?"

This was no longer mere curiousity. A flash in the pan of her mind reminded her that Lord Baelish would value such information, and so she must value it as well. She crossed behind him and pulled carefully at the second pauldron.

"She was looking for someone. A highborn girl, of five-and-ten, with blue eyes and auburn hair." How many times had he heard that? It seemed as if she'd asked him more than once. She'd also confessed her love to him as well, but he'd scowled, because she'd called him Renly at the time. But he cast Sansa a knowing look, because somehow he'd found Sansa instead of Lady Brienne.

"She was in with Ser Jaime Lannister. They wanted to bring you back to King's Landing. And she had a lion's sword. But it was a sweet piece of steel, that. Valyriain steel, I think. I wanted it for myself, but they wouldn't let me keep it. Mayhaps I should ask the High Queen for it."

Her hands stopped. Who was this Lady Brienne -- some new enemy crawling out from the stonework? Working with the Kingslayer, taking Lannister orders abroad. And looking for her. Gendry's brief words outlined a horror story for Sansa Stark. But this time, the nightmares wouldn't be new ones. Back to King's Landing -- oh, she suffered that sentence with a shudder.

"A-and the squire? The one with her? Did you learn his name?" Because she felt a dreadful net closing in on her thoughts. Their two mild descriptions matched, and she could only imagine why -- her husband's squire aiding in a search for her so he could...what? Clear the Imp's name?

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