[ has anyone ever thought of her as sunshine? it’s laughable, death-touched as she is. ser criston might have felt that way once, when he thought her as pure as the maiden in girlhood, as chaste as the mother as a woman grown, but she’d lost her footing when she allowed him inside her chambers. now, he doesn’t look at her at all. a relief, in truth.
she doesn’t think embry has the same expectations, with his boldness. but does he anticipate the reverse? her favour for his assistance, as larys once offered her. her breath hitches, at the thought of all she may already owe — and the brush of embry’s fingers against her fevered skin. so few touch her anymore. even less are invited willingly. and the wanting that cracked open, when her lord husband died, has yawned ever wider since the party. it feels cavernous, as though she might never fill it. ]
[ lightly — ] It seems to be healing, like anything else.
[ the symptoms that followed that night have only worsened. she hasn’t had anyone to discuss it with, isolated as she is, and knows not where to begin. only embry’s physical presence calls her out of her reverie, grip firm on her bare shoulders. she ought to be scandalised by his informality, but she can’t help but wonder at the softness of his hands. all of the men she’s known have been calloused, made rough by battle. ]
Mm. [ her mouth quirks, at the flattery. is there sincerity in him? she supposes it doesn’t matter. all men want for more than they have. ] The Hightower beacon glows green, when we call our banners to war. [ diplomatic dressing, inflammatory edition. her delicate fingers catch his wrist, barely slipping under his sleeve. concern tightens her features. ] What of your injury?
cw mentions of sexual assault, grooming (they’re fine)
she doesn’t think embry has the same expectations, with his boldness. but does he anticipate the reverse? her favour for his assistance, as larys once offered her. her breath hitches, at the thought of all she may already owe — and the brush of embry’s fingers against her fevered skin. so few touch her anymore. even less are invited willingly. and the wanting that cracked open, when her lord husband died, has yawned ever wider since the party. it feels cavernous, as though she might never fill it. ]
[ lightly — ] It seems to be healing, like anything else.
[ the symptoms that followed that night have only worsened. she hasn’t had anyone to discuss it with, isolated as she is, and knows not where to begin. only embry’s physical presence calls her out of her reverie, grip firm on her bare shoulders. she ought to be scandalised by his informality, but she can’t help but wonder at the softness of his hands. all of the men she’s known have been calloused, made rough by battle. ]
Mm. [ her mouth quirks, at the flattery. is there sincerity in him? she supposes it doesn’t matter. all men want for more than they have. ] The Hightower beacon glows green, when we call our banners to war. [ diplomatic dressing, inflammatory edition. her delicate fingers catch his wrist, barely slipping under his sleeve. concern tightens her features. ] What of your injury?