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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"No threat at all."

And yet even she could have hardly imagined that Podrick Payne would have ever been a threat. He'd seemed to tremble so -- and he'd always gone flush whenever she spoke to him. It made her heart ache now to realize she would never be able to beg that tale off of him now: the one about the gold coins on purple and white chequy. Perhaps she may be grateful that this strange Lady Brienne was gone. But Pod--

"If you're right, then he was the same squire. Podrick. His name was Podrick Payne." May the Gods look after him now. Sansa pulled a little harder on the next strap and sought to inflict her frustration on the leather. Of all the enemies she'd want to see under the heel of vengeance, timid Podrick Payne had not been one of them. Like her, he'd only been trying to survive the deadly game being played around them.

He turned to look ahead again with an uncomfortable feeling at this strange connection of fate together. He did not like her greatly, but he felt worse now in his confession. She knew Podrick the boy and if she did, then she knew he was undeserving of his fate. And now, he reckoned she knew him to be no manner of decent knight.

He nodded his agreement, but remained silent until she was finished.

Whatever his Brotherhood did, it was no cut and dry fight for the people -- not like how it had been sold. Perhaps Podrick had been from a noble house but it was minor in its own right. And he was (if possible) a gentler soul than her. Aside from the rumours from during the Blackwater--

Sansa shook her head and bent to the work and swore that she would not cry for him. Gentle soul or not, he'd been loyal to Tyrion first. That was evident enough if he was now searching for her. No -- not now. Had been. The past tense tore at her resolve and she breathed in, shook her head once more, and set the second pauldron aside.

She moved behind him to pull next at the backplate.

He wondered what Sansa might say if he told her the truth of it all. It was not Gendry that had executed this squire she once knew. It was the Lady Stoneheart. It was Sansa's own mother who ordered the deed. Gendry did not have the stomach to see it carried out, but he knew the conclusion so well that he did not need to know how it would end. They would swing, they would die, and a dead woman's thirst for vengeance would not be sated.

So he reminded himself of Willow Heddle and of the little orphans. He fought for them, even if they were scared of him. He protected them foremost and Lady Stoneheart...

She was a world away. One day, he'd have to tell Sansa about her. Maybe then, something might be done. Perhaps the High King and High Queen could help the dead woman be more alive than Beric Dondarrion had.

But all of that was just idle thinking. When he felt the last buckle unloosed on one side, he pulled the front part of his armor away, so that it pull forward like a hinge.

And soon they had a pile of metal. It looked so less impressive sitting as it did, off his body and in a half-mess on the log. "I'm sorry," she at long last had the grace and good sense to say -- although it was done in a voice that made clear how she was not pleading for forgiveness but rather fulfilling a duty. "...Sorry that so much hard work must be abandoned."

Her part in it was done. And so she could step away, retain her shade of personal space, and try not to reflect on what the Brotherhood might have done to poor Podrick. Even if Gendry had killed the boy himself (which she was not yet certain he hadn't done) it would be no reason to stop trusting his protectorship. The Hound had done worse and some of that before her eyes.

Before she could hamstring herself by giving another apology, Sansa turned away and walked to the creek's edge.

It was not armor he had made, which made him all the more sorry to be abandoning the craftsmanship of someone else. He nodded silently and stood. He now carried only a chainmail shirt, a gauntlet on his right hand, and the bull's helmet which he repositioned so it rested against his chest. He watched her go, then quickened his pace to overtake her.

He did not seek to stop her, but instead to risk the rough way down first. He stumbled and twisted around root and stone until at last his feet crashed into the water. He leaned down, cupped his hand, and filled his dry throat. Then he waited for her to follow. He curled one elbow around a young tree and then offered a raised hand to steady herself on the way down.

She watched with envy. She watched with a throat that ached and with lips that were chapped and she nearly thought to follow him down the rooted and rocky incline. Caution stayed her step and then -- and then -- he held out his hand and if the moment had been under different circumstances she might have smiled. Instead, she put her fingers 'round his wrist and held on tight while her heels stepped (and sometimes skidded) down to the water's edge.

His support allowed her to merely perch on the last bit of solid ground before the water. Her skirt-hem started to soak, but her toes were dry. And she crouched -- her one hand still a vice on his -- so she might gather water with the other. She drank four full palms before standing straight. Sansa dabbed at her lips with the inside of her arm.

"Today, this tastes sweeter than honeyed ice milk."

She had soft hands, he'd noticed right away. But he waited patiently as she had her fill. He was still terribly thirsty for that one mouthful had done little more that wet his tongue. But with her filled, he crouched and dipped his hands into the water four times before he used the last to wet his face and neck and free it off sweat and dirt.

He looked up at her, in better spirits than he had been since they'd become stranded. "I'll take your word on that. I ain't ever had any."

"Never?"

She was sad to lose his hand. Or -- no, not sad. But her existence felt poorer now that she was a solitary thing, disconnected from him. It hadn't been Gendry and his hand that had cheered her in that moment, but the twinned satisfaction of clean water and successful teamwork. When it came to usefulness and achievement, Sansa had so few examples to draw upon. But she would add this brief moment to the list -- the very work of sharing someone else's strength. Gratifying.

"I'm sorry to hear it," she voiced her vague sympathy, understanding that it wasn't a make-or-break experience. But iced milk with honey was a delicious treat and right now she supposed they needed all the fond memories they could muster. Memories sweet enough to carry them across a continent.

She wrung her hands together, thinking that her own palm made a poor substitute for someone else's. And she thought she might want to copy him and splash water over her face. But it had looked clumsy enough when she'd watched him do it from the corner of her eye. She didn't fancy looking like that when she did it.

"Still. Today, the water is better. King Thrandruil said I ought to wet my sleeve and therefore have water to drink as we walk farther. We have no bowls or cups or skins, after all."

Her sympathy washed over him, largely unheeded. Were she not present, he'd be submerging himself in the water. As it was, he took the liberty of removing his boots so he could sit on a large rock and let his tired feet cool. He looked up at her, vaguely wondering how it was she could manage to keep herself from seeking more water or doing the same as he was. He supposed, perhaps, he was simply just more tired. She'd not been wearing armor for the miles they walked.

"Wet your sleeves?" He asked dubiously. "It will just dry out, won't it?"

The problem of carrying water was one he'd been thinking about for awhile now. They had found the stream now and he had the notion that maybe they should follow it. People often lived near water, so he thought perhaps following it would lead to a village or farm. But he had no notion of what the countryside was meant to look like in this strange, perverted land. Besides that, he did not know if it would be wise to go upstream or downstream.

If he had but a simple canteen, things would be easier. Her talk of sleeves was, for the moment, the only solution they had. He did not like it much, for it seemed to be one that would only last them a few more hours along the road.

"Maybe. But not immediately."

She gave a shallow shrug. And still she watched him enviously. Her feet ached, and seeing him dip his in the water made her desperate to do the same. But it wouldn't do, it wouldn't do, it would not do. She crouched instead and kept her precarious balance while dipping her hands back into the creek. She did not splash her face but she did gently press her damp palms against her cheeks. It was a partial relief.

"O-or maybe I misunderstood him," she said, admitting that the fault could once again be with her.

"Maybe." But he reckoned her idea was good, but it would do him little good. His sleeves were shortened and filthy besides, nor did he think they would do well soaking, because his underclothes were a flimsy material and the boiled leather vest would not soak at all. So instead of dwelling on this sort of inevitable defeat of their journey, he nodded to a nearby rock that protruded from the stream.

"You should sit, m'lady. Let your feet cool. We'll need to keep walking 'til evening."

"...You think I should -- really?"

Her eyes narrowed. She watched him -- almost suspicious. "You won't laugh at me? Won't...won't tell anyone?"

Clearly, she felt the possibility of such a think leaking out to anyone else's ears (her feet and legs bare, dangling in a stream) to be an utter tragedy. Something she wasn't yet certain she could risk.

He could not understand her reluctance. When Arya would come across water, she never hesitated to stick her feet in the water or to jump in entirely. Yet the sister seemed frightened of the stuff. He fixed her with a puzzled look.

"Why should any of that matter? I'll only laugh if you don't, because it would be stupid to miss your chance."

Why should it matter? There was no simple answer she could give. No easy explanation -- only that to imagine sitting as he did, careless and bootless, made her stomach flip and flop and twist. Sansa leaned back against the dirt-packed bank and propped up one foot while she eased the boot free. With a grimace, she tossed it (and the second once removed) onto the grass.

She turned away. Completely faced the opposite direction. Because she had to depend upon her skirts to hide her calves as she tugged off the tattered hose that had never been fashioned with long journeys in mind. The heels were worn through already after days and days of scurrying about at the support base. And hours and hours of walking, now.

"Well, then!" Sansa kept her skirts in hand so she might try and save the bulk of them from the creek bed as she hopped-skipped-splashed ungainly towards the other large rock. "As you say, ser. I won't miss my chance."

Sansa could count the amount of chances she'd seized in her whole life upon her fingers. Today's chance might have seemed like nothing to him, but it was one wide brave stride for her.

He watched her, more out of interest than in some lewd attempt to spy on her. He began to understand that her dress was a terribly inconvenient thing and that she'd be better off were it a few inches shorter. Should he suggest that? Probably not, even if it was a fashion not entirely uncommon at Caer Glaem. He waited, he watched, and he grinned as her feet touched the water.

"There now. Not so bad, is it? I've half a mind we ought to follow the stream as south as it will take us."

Here he carefully suggested a course of action he was considering, but only as a jest, because he was not entirely convinced of its wisdom.

It was a feat to sit pretty on a hard stone, with a petticoat and a skirt and an apron besides. Sansa hated the apron, but she liked its pockets. It had been useful at the camp, and so she'd not yet abandoned it. She could find no good reason -- like Gendry with his armour -- to toss it away. So she fought with the three layers and bunched the fabric up at her knees so that the length of her calves and the bend of her ankle could enjoy the cold bright stream. The hot pain on her heels and her toes seemed to disappear the moment she submerged them -- and in that moment, she sighed. Shut her eyes. And saw the wisdom of Gendry's suggestion to have done this in the first place.

"Certainly," she said -- distracted and only half-hearing his plan. But then (after a thoughtful splash and as she leaned forward to peer at how clear the water looked all the way down to the rocks) she tried once again: "No -- you're right. If we can go south and keep near the water, why shouldn't we? Better than any silly plan to wet sleeves and..."

Sansa trailed off and folded her hands on her lap. "I believe it would be wise to do so, yes."

While she was content to stare at the clear water, Gendry had splashed more water in his face, now up in his hair, so that it looked nearly like he'd stuck his entire head into the water. He drank more water, then sunk his feet in beneath the stones until he found cool and cold mud that made the water run brown, but felt even more refreshing than the water itself did.

"We'll do that," he said, pleased that she was quick to agree to the plan. He had a vague notion that it might even lead them to the river on the map, in which case they would need only follow it until they found a crossing or until they found Station. Already this find seemed a blessing for an otherwise unwelcome situation. "The walking won't be as easy, but we won't get thirsty this way. If it gets deeper, I might catch us some fish as well."

"Oh. You know how to fish?"

Sansa did not smile. However, she looked hopeful and now glanced up from the casual chore of spreading cold water on her wrists and forearms (but only after she'd rolled her sleeves back to her elbows). This was as much of herself as she dared bare -- the pale skin of her arms and legs looked even paler through the water. And she was thoughtless now about how she let the sun fall on her, forgetting that a porcelain complexion was prized for a reason and that being out in the sun would surely rob her of that prize.

He nodded. "It ain't so hard."

It was his benefit that he had learned at least a little to make a fishing line and string. He could not fish as some of the men did with spears, but he felt confident he could manage otherwise. And besides that, he knew they would need to eat. He felt a sense of obligation to make sure she ate well. "But this water is only deep enough for frogs and mudbugs. They're not so tasty as fish."

"It sounds like sorcery to me."

Sansa watched him a moment. She looked at the way his hair stood on end after having been wetted so recently. She bit down on a laugh -- shook her head -- and flipped her braid to the front of her right shoulder. With one deft movement (much more capably than when she'd undone his armour straps) she pulled free the cream-coloured ribbon securing the braid in place. After that, it was a simple process of combing her fingers through the braid until it loosened.

"And so I'm glad you know its secrets. I'll take trout over frogs -- certainly." A brief pause, and then: "It's trout that are in rivers, yes? Or are they sea fish?"

He watched her braid come unfurled and thought that the hair would be rather pretty, were it not for the strange discoloration to it. He could see the red roots at the top of her head and thought it odd, because it made it seem as though she'd be even less Stark-like once it was back to its natural hue. As it was, her blue eyes and black hair made it look as though she could pass for his sister. He had the idea now that if they did come across a town, that she ought to wear her hair like that and that they would do best to use that very lie to make them seem less suspicious.

Her question startled him out of his thoughts. He stared at her, thinking about fish, and reckoned he didn't really know a trout from a tuna. So he nodded and decided that her first instinct was likely the correct one. "River fish." I think. "Obviously."

She combed wet fingers through her hair, using this method to gradually dampen the strands. The hair was long and kept slight waves in it from the braid. Sansa winced as she worked through a tangle, wound a stray fallen strand around her thumb, and set it afloat on the creek.

She was still thinking about her question: "Yes. You're right. Obviously. How could I be so stupid?" Her voice was quiet; her self-criticism genuine. "House Tully sits at Riverrun." -- Sat at Riverrun, but she did not want to think about the Freys. "And their device is a trout."

How could she have forgotten? No. Forgetfulness wasn't to blame. Merely denial and the thorough way in which she'd buried the Stark and the Tully deep under Stone. Interred them, really.

Stupid. He glanced at her and thought of her carefully crafted message on the locket. He also recalled her weak defense for her father in the face of the dragon queen, all without revealing her real name. Even thought she admitted defeat in the end. He shook his head, then looked away at the opposite side of the creek.

"What do you think Queen Daenerys would have said, if she'd known who you were?"

Her fingers froze. There, curled amidst the strands and waves, they turned to ice and they turned to stone. Sansa didn't move, except for when the breeze snagged her skirt's edge and tossed it into the water. As if breaking from a reverie, she rushed to rescue the hem, folding it back onto the dry rock.

"I don't know." She didn't look at him, preferring to stare hard at the water's surface. If the sun were only a little out of the way, she might be able to see her reflection. "She played at protecting Arya," from me of all people. "And then at denouncing our Lord Father. And I'm--"

Married to a Lannister. A long-time hostage of Lannisters. Raised to think of dragons like bad things.

"Maybe she wouldn't have said anything different. She believes herself a queen--" Sansa seemed resistant to give her the title. "Alayne Stone is nothing to a queen. It's safer that way."

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