OPEN | prompt three | PAIN

[wrens]

prompt three | P A I N dressing-room style. start your own thread. tag others. wash, rinse, repeat. open to all.

 

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[scald]

[ Stannis rises and his retinue shivers, Melisandre's declaration made manifest (it would not be the first time something she says come to pass). First whispers, the nervous and reverent shuffling of feet, and then silence as they are all compelled to stillness in anticipation. Each of them know they are not to speak while Stannis exchanges words with his Red Woman and while none are so ignorant to think that this is a reveal of their inner workings, they consider proximity to the both of them to be nothing short of a blessing.

Stannis rises and Melisandre turns — pride burning brightly in her cheeks and her eyes. Had the she made him more than a man or had he lent credence to her madness? Regardless of which half of the equation is true there is no separating them, one from the other. Those that have tried in the past have burned. A white hand slices through the air, dismissing those that would crowd around them to touch the hem of her dress or the edge of his shadow. ] Leave us, [ she tells the others. (None dare protest.) ] He is in need of council.

[pummel]

[ To have such command over so many people is both a funny and a terrible thing. (His retinue is not the biggest on the block, but no so-called army is when one gets down to the nitty gritty, for the human will is weak and the wrong kind of fervency will sputter and die out all too soon. He knows, at least, that wherever he goes, she will follow — or is it the other way around? — and so will the smuggler. That's two, by his side. Two more, he imagines, than most can say.)

Just as the room has emptied, he becomes the shadow at her back, intangible (only for the time being) but practically sewn onto her heels, made of the terrors that loom in the darkness, woven together by her sheer fervency. Blood still draws a red line down his face. ] Council, you said?