aviary | CLOSED | prompt eight

No. [ The word is a declaration, a prophesy, uttered from her human mouth. ] You've not yet begun to burn.

I suppose there's not much I can say in argument, [ Littlefinger notes, gazing out from the tower where the warbird is kept. ] The flames have yet to burn as high as they did in the mad king's rule.

[ She hates her tower, hates the view it affords her. The warbird thinks it would be much improved were the whole city to burn. ]

He was born to a line of kings. And he squandered his blood on madness, not victory. [ The Light of the West has thought it fit to see the warbird tethered. Her golden collar is now affixed to a lead that chains directly to the wall above her bed and so when she moves, it is to the heavy tune of lead. ] He earned his ignoble death.

[ He turns from his place, though he doesn't move any further into the room. The collar isn't something he considers strictly necessary, but it's a nice touch, in a perverse, grandiose sort of way. ]

Nobody in the Keep would disagree, [ he says mildly, leaning back against the wall. ] You know how loathe we all are to slight the Light of the West.

[ Her shoulders roll in place of feathers (the warbird's true form is kept from her by ritual and magic, though her slender girl-fingers are tipped with nails sharp enough to flay a man apart). It is good that Lord Baelish keep his distance. Though he holds her favor, what he gives is not worship. Not yet, though she will know satisfaction with time.

She shifts again, the dagged sleeve of her robe hung downward like the droop of wet wings. ]

You give yourself to her like a beggar man, human lord. Tarry. Or your end will be just as low.

You think I offer myself to her? [ he asks, though he keeps his voice mild so as to prevent his words from keeping the guards who stand just outside the door. Yes, he provides his services in the capacity that his title implies, but beyond that, his loyalty belongs to himself and to himself alone. ]

Rank does not necessarily say everything about the colors sewn over a man's heart.

[ The look she gives him is a familiar one — the look of one greater addressing her lessers, declaration that comes from up on high to one still stationed far down below. Glory, honor, birthrite: these are reasons to wage war. But often do men forget to acknowledge their darker halves. Bitterness, resentment, anger, selfishness: these are the things she sees in the Lord Baelish. These are the sentiments she would foster within him for the sake of being free once again. ]

You bow your head, you offer your knee. You submit by giving her title worth, by kneeling to her crown.

[ It's not a look that sits well with him. What lies within him — what colors Littlefinger's feathers — is a distinct sort of ugliness, and even to the warbird, he is reluctant to truly bend the knee, even if at the end of the day the mockingbird, with its plain plumage and stolen song, is not much competition for a bird crowned by fire and blood. It's for that reason that he holds his tongue, ducking his head in a half-bow. ]

And what would you have me do? Stage open rebellion?

[ She leans forward in expectation, looking to warm herself on the fires of his indignation. What she's rewarded with is little more than a smolder, though she can taste the embers that flare in his chest — a patient, gnawing burn. This one will take more than idle taunts. Her pride grows; yes, he is worthy of her. ]

You bow the same false head to me. You offer the same lying knees.

[ Drawing one pale leg up onto the bed and the other, she perches unladylike upon her pillows, the folds of her robe opening to reveal white skin and the downy trail of red hair found nowhere but the sharp crease of her thighs. ] Is your worship half as false? Lie to me and I will devour your tongue.

[ (And, oh, she's a lovely thing. He doubts the fact will ever get old, not so much a novelty as it is a constant pleasure to behold.) ]

No, not half, [ he answers, leaving it to her to interpret his meaning. The truth is there, should she look closely enough: though there is nothing he truly worships, it is to the warbird that he offers his respect. The warbird, at least, has some stake to claim, where — at least in his view — Cersei does not. The warbird is a creature of legend for a reason — for war after war after war, for carnage — where the Light of the West has little to her name but her name. ]

And I'd ask you take something other than my tongue, if you are so keen upon it; it's come in rather useful to me in my lifetime.

[ (To his credit, he forgoes any vulgarities, given her current stance.) ]

[ This body does not belong to her, nor do these clothes or this collar. They are all part of the cage she in which she remains prisoner, the cage which she believes Lord Baelish will free her from if she blesses his hand, if she guides his blade. Give too readily, however, and she will simply see her passed from one cage to another; and the warbird has grown restless in the Light of the West's nest. (She is not a conquerer and neither is her son, and the sooner the warbird may break their bones and suck free the marrow, the sooner whomever hands her the key to such victory will see himself lord of more than just Seven Kingdoms.)

Her chains rattle again, tunefully, as she gives her shoulders a roll, stretching wings that are no longer there, baring more of herself to him. (It is not the first time he has come to call upon her. She understands the worth of this body to him.) ]

Worship me now, human lord. And we shall what part of you I will take and what part you shall keep.

[ Soon enough, he will deliver her the Lannisters on a plate. Not just the Lannisters, but the Kingdoms themselves, for nowhere does he lack strings to pull and nowhere does he not wield influence. His web is one built through years upon years of scheming and the practical application of blood and gold, and it is only a matter of time before it all comes to fruition.

But, for now, he simply offers her a smile as he reaches up to undo the pin at his collar, hands then traveling down bit by bit to undo the stays to his robes as he takes step after step towards the bed. (There's nothing truly sentimental about this act, so he doesn't bother with the pretense.) ]

You are much too gracious.

[ One pretense, then. (He can't quite help himself.) ]

[ 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.

As you wish.

[ There's some perverse enjoyment to be had from making love to her like this, with her bound in chains, but he doesn't linger upon it, shedding the heaviest of his robes before climbing up onto the bed, hands settling on her waist as his lips find first her breast, then her belly, then the rise of her hip bones. It's only then that he glances up, a wicked smile curving his lips. (He doesn't usually take these kinds of indulgences, but, well. Who couldn't?) ]

Is this always how you take worship?

[ He doesn't bother waiting for an answer before his mouth follows that trail of red hair down between her legs, a laugh echoing in the back of his throat. ]

[ His mouth is hot and quick upon her and does not hesitate in looking to suckle the sweetness from her human body. It is a voraciousness that marks everything the mockingbird lord does; his smile, his bow, his constant lies, his quickening lord's kiss — they are all symptoms of the hunger that burns deep inside his hollow breast. And it is that same hunger that will make Baelish a true conquerer in the end.

(The thought alone is enough to turn the warbird's own desires into a seething ache.)

Twisting against her bonds, her throat still held fast by the very end of her chain, the whole of her arches, hips leading to find purchase against that silver tongue. ]

I hate this body, [ she hisses through her teeth, the sharp exhalation of air that accompanies the words a mix of frustration and thinly-veiled pleasure. Although the warbird does not say explicitly, the implication hangs between them in the heady air: as much of a prison as her body may be, the pleasure Lord Baelish gives her makes it tolerable (makes it favorable only for passing moment). ] Free me from it. And you shall win your reward.

[ A number of responses immediately spring to life upon his tongue (who will keep my bed warm when you are gone) but he keeps them to himself, humming just once as he continues his ministrations. Cersei would have his head, he knows (and more of him, if she had her way), if she ever found out, and the risk alone is enough to make the act sweet. But then, too, is the pleasure that the warbird takes from it, a demigod at the mercy — though never completely, he is not such a fool as to believe that — of the joys of the flesh.

Each shudder and each twist of her body is enough to send new thrills down his pine, his ardency burning ever more apparent in the way that he kisses her. And yes, he aches, too, but there'll be time for that later on. ]

CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN

WARBIRD | valkyrie

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