versigny | open post & overflow

[Oh, misery. She's sitting down. Upwind, he prays. It's been a few days since he bathed properly; his clothes might have been fresh this morning, but he hadn't. Scraping coin together for the luxury of a proper bath has been relatively low on his priorities list when scrubbing clean in the cold shallows of the stream below Rattay's walls is right there for no cost at all.

He's just going to pretend her question was the kind that doesn't actually want for an answer. Hypothetical. Nobility loves to ask that sort. Self conscious of his stink and sweat and his past transgressions on a rainy evening, Henry smooths his hair down. It sticks to his forehead.

The dog, meanwhile, is skeptical of that hand. Maybe he senses his master's discomfort, but he's slow to lift his head and give her fingers a cursory sniff. Afterward, he guiltily drops his head back to Henry's knee and hunches there, protective and uncertain in equal parts.

Henry coughs around a sip of water in his haste to answer her question:]

Mutt, my lady. [So that's a no to embarrassing himself further with bad manners, then.] On account of that's what he is, I reckon. Sorry about his manners. He's a good dog. He's just a bit wary is all.

I can tell.

[ the name is unfortunate, but at least it's apt. Margaery withdraws her hand. ]

There's no need to apologize. I've grown up with many dogs, but none as loyal as he is. You're very lucky to have him.

[ indicative of his character, she might've added, except that she's not sure Henry would be able to handle it right now. taking pity on him, she takes a deep breath (upwind) and looks away, to where new partners have been sparring. ]

I have no doubt that Captain Bernard would be so kind as to take my brother in. But he's in no condition to fight and won't be for a while.

[ there are whispers circulating because that's what humans do, and she won't blame the servants for giving into the natural inclination for gossip when the young lord Tyrell is happy to remain in his bed or chair with the curtains always drawn and occasionally screams during the night from nightmares. instead of the handsome knight of flowers they may have heard of - this shadowy existence is jarring to behold. ]

Do you think the others would mind that he- [ her throat catches on the tail-end of a breath, but she gracefully recovers. ] - would merely be here to watch?

[Good dog, says the hand that strokes a compulsive stripe from between the dog's ears to his uneasy hackles. Good boy, good boy, be polite please, it wills him. If his dog nipped Lady Tyrell's fingers, he'd simply have to throw himself off the Pirkstein ramparts.

He clears his throat a little. With her attention politely diverted, his eyeline too turns to fix on the string of Hanush's men (Capon's men, really, though nothing really belongs to the heir to Rattay while he guardian holds the town and its twin castles and oversees all business within it, including how his cousin-called-nephew is mean to comport himself). He's been here only a few weeks, but he's beginning to parse the shape of the drills they do. Maybe in a few more weeks, his feet will cooperate and his sword arm will have grown less clumsy.]

I don't see why their opinion matters, [he says first. They're the sons of burghers. A Lord can do whatever he pleases around them. But—] No. They wouldn't mind. Well, Karel there might. But he's a fool.

[Henry nods to the young man in question. Some of them are looking this way, he realizes. It turns the back of his neck a shade or two hotter, and he drains the cup to cool it.]

What sort of injury does your brother have?

[ there's always at least one. she's thankful that Henry's given her a name; this is what she's actually good at, and she's not so unaffected by her brother's plight that she'll be magnanimous to anyone who gives him shit.

Margaery smiles prettily at their audience and waves with her fingers; suddenly, the ground beneath their feet becomes very interesting. ]

His spirit is lost.

[ she answers casually, as if she's commenting on the weather. how else can she deliver it? casual is better than resigned, frustrated, angry, despairing - even as there's a raw undertone to her words that contains them all. another deep breath. ]

They tortured him enough that he still sees them in his dreams and fears they will find him wherever he goes.

[ she may also suffer nightmares, but her fears are in line with expected feminine discipline and cast inwards; there are no screams for her, just the sudden gasp of awareness, adrenaline seeping from dream to reality as heat in her blood.

Henry is no longer the only one warm. she drags her gaze back to him when she's certain it's not as intense anymore, most of her rage contained. ]

That is why it matters to me. And why I ask you. I know you to be truthful.

[Nightmares. He knows those. And there is a man named Voytek down among the refugees who's wife and small boy died on the road to Rovna. He now sits in his tent and stares at God, and must be fed by his neighbors and kindly told when to walk about lest he shrivel away. Henry has seen him being exercised like a crippled old pony. He has the look of a haggard old man, though he must be hardly older than his own Pa had been.

(Voytek is older than his own Pa will ever be.)

The cup is empty. Henry draws his knees up, dislodging the spotty dog's heavy chin, and sets his elbows about his knees. The cup is laced inside both hands, and turned and turned and turned—]

Are you recovered?

[Both she and her brother been held, hadn't they? Starved and tortured, she'd said while still under the guise of a lady's maid.]

[ for someone who likes to ask probing questions, she's not very good at receiving them herself - especially when she's already feeling off-kilter, like a wagon trudging along with one wheel slightly smaller than the others. his sudden perceptiveness would earn her immediate approval in any other conversation. in this one, she feels defensive instead.

of course i'm recovered, she wants to say, pulling back the guise of friendliness to show the haughty noble underneath, how dare you assume otherwise. she comes close, with nothing to fidget in her own hands, no more audience to put on a performance for.

the silence trails on, every second costing her more of what's left of her empty pride. her annoyance with Henry dissipates.

finally, ]

No one has asked me that before.

[ too good at putting up a front, even to herself. taking long walks at night to avoid sleeping and considering that recovery, not avoidance. ]

So I suppose not. I don't even know what recovery would mean. Do you? [ for your loss? ]

[He nearly takes it back. That long beat of quiet is a kind of torture during which he can feel more of the sweat dripping down his back under his padded gambeson than he can of the lazy breeze that's tickling across the clearing and turning the leaves on the boughs above them. God's nails, why did he ask her that? He could have said 'Sorry to hear it,' with respect to her poor broken up brother and minded his own business properly like a good little boy. It's not his place to go jawing off at a lady, even a pretty one who has come to sit with him of her own volition and whose hand had lay at the inside of his soggy elbow for a short while. Surely there are other, better people to ask that sort of thing—

But apparently not.

Clack, clack, clack. The stacatto chorus of practice swords. Beside him, the spotty mutt dog has laid his big block head across one forepaw and is has continued to gaze at Margaery with a brown eye from around his master's knee. Henry gives that empty cup a few more turns for good measure.]

No, m'lady. [He stops himself from shrugging.] The parish priest told me I ought to count my many blessings to remind myself of God's love.

[ it's the last thing she expects him to tell her, and for a moment, she's not sure if she's heard him correctly. the result is her expression going slack for once, cut loose by pure disbelief until there's a rough exhale that almost sounds like she's going to sob -

Margaery laughs. it's not quiet this time. it's too harsh to be properly sweet, too loud to be proper at all, and when she brings her hands up to smother the volume, her fingers come away wet.

it's not funny, what he's said, but it's both so blatantly believable and terribly ridiculous that her body has decided, short of being able to murder Cersei Lannister with her own two hands, this inappropriate reaction will have to do. ]

I'm sorry.

[ for crying more than laughing. she thinks he'll understand the latter more than he can deal with the former. ]

Forgive me. I wasn't expecting- [ a quick, strategic swipe of her hand and all her tears are gone. what remains leaves a pleasing reddened effect on her complexion and wet lashes enhance the beguiling quality of her eyes. ] What did you say to him?

[He does stiffen slightly, the man-proportioned limbs on boyish Henry's frame turning momentarily into a collection of awkward angles. But it's only for a moment, really. Then the sympathetic thudding of his heart against the inside of his ribs loosens the joints right up again. He's a bit stupid, he knows, but he would have to be a complete moron not to feel some tenderness for the way Lady Tyrell's composure crumples.

So maybe the way he's looking at her once she dries her pretty eyes is equally surprising as the nonsense thing he's just said. Which is to say that Henry is looking at her perfectly directly, his pointy ears and neck having forgotten the red of embarrassment.

(Across the field, Captain Bernard bawls some order than assembles the working guardsmen into a proper fighting formation and points their attentions firmly elsewhere rather than toward the shaggy old beech tree under which the pair of them are sat. He'll get less credit for giving the young lady and her indiscretions some manner of privacy, of course, but it's the noble thing to do.)]

I said thank you, [he confesses, though even he sounds befuddled and a little frustrated by the mildness of his past self's reply. But what was he to have said to the sour friar otherwise? Go fuck yourself, father, probably has dire implications for his immortal soul.] But honestly, I think he's a bit of a prick. I'm not sure I'd recommend you go to the presbytery for advice.

[ his full-on eye contact is what anchors her again, certainly surprising enough that her mental faculties are able to kick back in and help her resume full control. it doesn't hit Margaery until then, how much she's grown to expect commoners to avert their gazes when she speaks to them. she doesn't dare look over at the training yard this time. ]

You're far stronger than I am.

[ count your many blessings would've earned the priest an outright brawl with her, whether her soul was in his keeping or not, and would've been a very costly decision later.

- she remembers too, her advice given as their feet sank deeper into mud, the patter of rain a welcome sound around them. she thinks of Henry's expression then, and feels terrible for the way her words could've sounded so similar to the priest's. you're still alive. count your blessings. move on. ]

I'm sorry for what I said to you, that night. I might not have meant it the same way, but that is hardly what matters.

[ and she will certainly not be seeking out any men of God for advice. God is an excuse, Olenna had said cryptically one crisp autumn evening long ago, and has only been proven more accurate ever since. but that does remind her: ]

Can you read?

[He'd argue—he's not stronger, really. He probably should have told that fat old friar exactly what he thought of him, and spat on him for being unchristian about the folk from Skalitz while he was at it. Instead, he'd let the rotten feeling simmer in his guts like something poisonous. A braver man surely would have told the fool to shut his gob, friar or no.

But that's between him and himself. It's certainly not worth debate here in the sunshine with Lady Tyrell.]

I can.

[A little. Capon keeps sneaking him books that he read as a child and making Henry read passages aloud. But he's proud enough of knowing his letters to sound confident in the answer he gives. Yes, he most certainly can read.

Only first before she can send the conversation racing away on some new track, he motions faintly backward with his thumb as if hooking back a beat in time. Says—]

I'm sorry too. About your brother, and for what you and him went through. And for running my mouth that night too.

[ the wise response would be to thank him and leave it at that, or sniff about how he's artfully torn through her attempt to change the subject. instead, she shakes her head. the laughter expelled more than just air, it seems. ]

That night, I smiled because I wanted to, not because it was expected of me.

[ where she had her family to help her decompress before, there are only walls now, silent and rigid and cold. and confiding in her handmaidens when she's so vulnerable is out of the question; they're depending on her entirely and realizing how uncertain she is would terrify them.

besides, nothing Henry had said was particularly untrue or malicious. he doesn't seem capable of the latter. ]

Any judgments I would pass from that night would be from my own behavior.

[ which a few must be judging right now, as she's lingered in his company for too long. Margaery smiles at Mutt, reaching over to give a quick pat on his head before she nods at the cup in Henry's hands. ]

Are you done sparring for the day?

[The spotty dog has good enough manners not to cringe away or growl or grumble at the unexpected hand between his floppy ears. He does turn his face a little toward his master's hip, pressing his big nose nose into the sweat stink of Henry's clothes, but his cord of a tail gives a little wag seemingly in spite of himself.]

Oh, [Henry looks at the cup again as if only now remembering he has it in his possession. He straightens his back a bit, and offers it back to her.] I am. Captain Bernard doesn't care to have me work with the rest of the guard on that sort of thing.

[Says he's too hopeless to bother drilling properly just yet. The beatings will continue until technique improves.]

You may want to ask the Captain about your brother later once he's gone back to the castle and has had himself a wash. He's more inclined to kindness when he isn't mucking about in a field.

[ it's an excellent tip; she files that away for later as she takes the cup. ]

I don't blame him. And you'll get there. [ she gets to her feet, dusting off her skirts and shaking out any rogue blades of grass. ] I'm sure I'll be seeing you more often if everything turns out well. Perhaps, one day soon, you may even find yourself sparring with my brother.

[ Loras is strong. and he's a Tyrell. she's watched him get beaten hundreds of times and never give up, so she trusts that this is a fight he'll endure and eventually win, as unfamiliar as it may be. still, ]

When that joyful day comes, I will cheer for you, Henry.

[ her parting smile is exactly the same one she left him with days prior, although this time, it speaks more of them sharing a secret.

if Henry does manage to hear any gossip from the higher castle, he may be surprised to hear one about a particularly brave and gallant citywatch guard who escorted Lady Tyrell back to her quarters after a nightmare kept her from sleep. ]

[He watches her go, of course. Then he pats the spotty dog between the ears and sits for a while longer watching the Rattay men at arms go through the motions of their work while Captain Bernard hollers at them. He pretends to focus on watches their footwork and the way they handle their swords and shields. Luckily, Capon shows up and sweeps him off before the indignity that would have been otherwise inevitable had Henry stayed put until the end of the training session finds him. The questions and cajoling and general fun-making from the young men of the guard for having had the audacity to speak to Lady Tyrell will just have to wait.

They skip archery in the yard, and instead shoot their arrows in Lord Capon's favorite secret glen in the Rattay woods far from the advice of any bow master. For a time, Henry is pleasantly immune or at least unaware of gossip.

It does eventually find him, of course. Though by the time it does, some of the would-be bite has been tempered. The lady has nightmares, they say. Henry knows next to nothing about ladies (particularly mysterious and pretty ones near his own age); but he knows plenty about nightmares. Capon's favorite whore in the bath house below Rattay's walls has been making him a decoction for just that thing.

Thus, some days later a phial appears in Margaery's quarters. It sends her maids all aflutter with concern—Where did it come from? Who left it there? What if it's poisoned?—, but the note with it is blatant enough. It's reads:]

From Henry, of skalitz, in servus to Sir Radzig Kobyla
To my Lady Marjery Tyrell, of high garden

Good morneing. Apolugy for the state of this letter. I am writeing it with a lent pen which goes a long diferently from the one I am acustomed to.

In any case I won't go on and on. I have been told to take this to help with uneasy sleepeing. NOT by the parish preest. I can't say who though as it doesn't much befit a lady. But it does help. If you nede more, send one of your girls to me and I will ~~introdoo~~ ~~introdues~~ make sure she knows ware to get it.

If you nede anything else, you're welcum to ask after me otherwise. My leege has me do all kinds of work for Sir Hanush and Lord Divish and I don't see why he'd spite the Tyrells. He would shurly want me to offur.

That's all.

Henry

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slaps a sneaky 🎀 on this