[ The light catches the mockingbird Lord Baelish wears as his collar and the warbird moves swift and sudden down the length of the bed like some magpie drawn by the glint of metal. Her bonds complain with a heavy rattle and then, without warning draw taught against their tether. The noise they make when the chain finally snaps tight is ugly and resounding like the fat toll of a bell. Still, she strains for him, her bare chest arching forward out of the loose confines of her robe, the pale peaks of her small breasts already sheened with some unnatural glow.
Even like this — demeaned as she is, her posture ignoble for such a lofty bird — her voice commands instead of requests and the narrow of her eyes still speaks: you will worship me. ]
Kneel, mockingbird. The warbird still demands your tongue.
no subject
Even like this — demeaned as she is, her posture ignoble for such a lofty bird — her voice commands instead of requests and the narrow of her eyes still speaks: you will worship me. ]
Kneel, mockingbird. The warbird still demands your tongue.