munebox | The Valonqar

They had stayed in more than a few inns since first leaving King's Landing. Some were dirty, some were very dirty, and some were worse. This was among the worse. The two sellswords waited outside the door. They did not stand like proper guards, but had instead taken chairs from the tavern below. They sat across the hall with a table between them, drinking and making crude comments about what it must be like for a witch and an imp to be fucking.

Podrick was in the room with them, dutifully preparing water and bandages that were as clean as could be managed. Tyrion played the unenvied duty as maester. He had little in the ways of medicinal knowledge. But he had read many books and some were on the matter of herbs and poultices. He knew what was needed to ensure a wound was clean and tended to. And so he handled this duty with great care.

He popped open a flask of the strongest ale as to be found below. "This will hurt awfully," he told her as he prepared to pour it on the wound.

"I'll try not to cry."

She was sitting straight-backed on a hard chair. She had insisted on assisting her own medical care, drawing aside the blood-soaked fabric of her top -- the last modern piece of upper-body fashionwear in all the Seven Kingdoms -- so that Tyrion could have access to what was a nasty looking injury. Tearing out the bolt had in turn torn a great deal of skin. It hurt a lot. A lot. The Slayer healed well and endured much, but she was not magically inoculated against pain. Her only advantage was that, having suffered through so much of it, pain was almost a welcome associate at this point in her life.

"I'd offer milk of the poppy, but I neglected to bring some."

He applied the alcohol. With her sitting, he had only to stand beside her to tend to the wound. A queer sort of advantage to his height that did not require him to stoop to do what needed doing. She may have insisted she was a quick healer, but he remained concerned the wound would fester without proper attendance. A lord's castle was less than a week's ride away, only slightly out of their way. He would have to convince her to go there. We might need the supplies, besides.

Podrick was ghostly white when he brought the linens and a bowl of warmed water. Tyrion diligently and delicately cleaned the wound as much as he dared.

"A fire's touch would close the wound," he told her. "I lack the skill to stitch it together myself. An open wound with bandages on horseback will only welcome infection."

"A fire's tou--you want it cauterized?"

She made as if to pull away from his ministrations. "I think I'll be fine. We don't have to delve into body modification. This isn't a sorority haze."

He had no idea what a sorority haze was.

"Things may be different in your world, Lady Buffy, but here a wound like that will fester. You may very well not survive long enough to see a real maester."

She sighed with all the weight of a terrible realization. He would have to be told. She would have to tell him. She could not wait for reality to sink in, nor for some better opportunity to present itself. After all, he already knew the half of it. Why not this half, too?

"This may come as a shock," she told him so dryly. So very sarcastically. "But I'm not like other girls. Or like other people in general, actually."

Understatement of the century? Check. "But if burning me makes you feel better, you for it. Burn, baby, burn. Disco freaking inferno."

Tyrion's face twisted into something of a scowl.

"You need not mock me with your words. If you mean to say something, say it. Otherwise, spare me the mummery."

Buffy left the work of tacking up her shirt, away from the wound, to all the sticky blood still smeared over the parts of her that were only stained and not wounded. She pushed her chair back, turned it to more completely face Tyrion.

"I'm saying what I mean. I don't just heal well, I heal great. Crowbar, stuck right here." She pointed at her shoulder. "Skewered on a wooden stake, there." She touched her stomach. "Gimme twenty-four hours, and I'll be factory new. But I swear -- if I'm laid out with an infection before those twenty-four hours are up? I'll give in. We'll go back to your King's Landing. The towel will be thrown in."

Tyrion did not like the sound of that. Podrick gaped in a silent fascination and horror. But Tyrion's mind whirled as he considered other more unfortunate implications of this.

"... they call you a witch already. If this is true, what will they say when you are fully restored again?"

Bitterly, he envied her healing and the back of his hand brushed the scar on his face. He would carry that forever. But I kept my nose. Barely.

If only my witch was here...

"Were you planning on showing them my midriff? 'Cause I wasn't. We slap some bandages on it. You'd be impressed just how much they'll stop noticing me in a day or two."

She had always put far too much stock in her own ability to blend in. It would be harder in a world like this, where vivacious valley girls where not a dime a dozen.

"I would be dismayed, because they will only stop noticing you the moment they've lost all sense of sight." He began the steady work of applying the bandages. His short arms made it a difficult prospect and he felt a fool for offering this service at all. But she's my lady wife. If anyone is to touch her, it rightly should be me.

"What madness possessed you to wear those queer leggings of yours?"

Edited 2013-12-11 04:12 (UTC)

It was obvious she suffered him to be so attentive, and her very body seemed to shudder as he tended to this last task. It wasn't with disgust, but with the absolute effort required not to leap away and clumsily finish things on her own. She valued her personal space.

"They're called jeans. And they're designer. I paid a hundred bucks for these; they're always in style."

"I cannot imagine any fabric so expensive that it should require so many beasts." For a moment, he entertained the idea she might be a true Lady back in her own world. Perhaps even a queen.

But aside from her fair looks, she had none of the bearing for it. He passed it off as a ridiculous notion and finished the last of her bandages. That would do, for now.

"...Beasts?"

She didn't follow his assumption, and openly questioned it even as she inspected his handiwork. Didn't realize fancy lords learned First Aid, she thought. And then she flirted with the notion of asking him why he'd bothered.

"The bucks," he replied. "Stags. You might be wise to not speak so boldly of it. The Baratheons rule Westeros and use the stag as their sigil."

It was a jest on his part, though a weak one at that. He turned away from her and found a clean trencher of water to clean the blood from his hands. And this is why I never became a maester. Nevermind that my father would have never allowed it.

She laughed over the misunderstanding, but didn't bother with a correction. It had become evident that her corrections were more trouble than they were worth. More important was the procurement of something a little less ruined by gore.

"Does Podrick have an extra...shirt-thingy? What do you call them? Tunics?" Hmm. She waited a moment, and then addressed the boy herself. "Hey. Pod-old-buddy-old-pal. Please tell me you're packing more than one."

The poor boy seemed to freeze anytime she noticed him and Tyrion was growing steadily annoyed with Podrick's deep affection for the woman. He knew the boy would never be so reckless as to change allegiances. But in a pinch, if it was between saving the two of them, Tyrion was not quite so sure who the boy would choose.

"O-of course, my lady. But my tunic is a simple thing. N-not fit for a Lady."

Podrick was a darling. Of course, Buffy had decided he'd be even more darling if he stopped letting his social terror get in the way of every conversation. This mission was doomed to place her ever between the stammering shy-guy and the brazen rake. Both could be charming in moderation, but when presented as such constant and stark extremes, she quickly became frustrated.

"If it's clean, it'll do." But at least she paid lip-service to an attempt to appease Tyrion's sensibilities as well: "It will do, won't it?"

"It will." For a moment, Tyrion looked back and forth between Buffy and Podrick. The boy had continued to grow and towered not only over him, but his wife as well. And it occurred to him that perhaps they were going about this ruse all wrong.

"It may be that you should borrow more than his tunic. With a bit of mud on your face and a bit less hair, you might pass well for his younger brother."

Edited 2013-12-11 04:53 (UTC)

...Here extended a pregnant pause as Buffy tried to figure out whether passing as a boy would be better or worse than passing as Tyrion's wife. To her credit, she could see the advantages in the latter. It had certainly allowed her to get away with more. But the ploy had strained both of them, and perhaps it was for the best if their tactics changed.

"I kinda feel as though I should be offended," she started off -- rounding out her eventual acceptance with a bit of introductory argument.

"You are likely to suffer greater offenses still if you continue the charade as my wife."

He knew well there would never be any love between the two of them. And while that might be normal for may married couples, it had been a difficult facade to maintain. He could only imagine what mischief that Lord Brewmore was up to by now.

True enough. Vanity and a long life of never having been mistaken for a boy now made her doubt whether such a ruse could be accomplished, but maybe it was different in a country where jeans on a woman were so strange. Maybe she only had to dress the part and no one would look too close to discern the difference. Still, it rankled her that it might be possible. She didn't want to be naturally boyish. But a small frame and few curves and a decent amount of muscle definition could carry her far.

But her hair. She touched it now, thoughtful as she wound a blonde strand around her fingers. It was no secret that she thought highly of her own hair. "...How short are we talking?"

"Few boys wear it longer than their neck. You'd be better served to go shorter still."

Tyrion knew well the sacrifice he was asking. His sister would never agree to cut her hair. She placed far too much value on it. But when it came down to it, this was her foolish quest. If she wanted to take it to the end, she'd need to make some sacrifices. As he itched at his own scar, he remembered well the sacrifices he'd already made.

"Podrick," Buffy gave orders to the boy without so much as glancing at him. Rough though she may be, she was every inch a commander in this moment. She would be queenly, if the world allowed for queens hardened by battle; if it allowed for queens who understood just how many priorities came before their hair. "Bring me my knife. You'll find it wedged under the canteen in my pack."

Edited 2013-12-11 22:37 (UTC)

"My lady? Surely you don't mean to..." Podrick trailed off, because the boy knew well and good she meant precisely what she said. But it seemed to dampen his spirits to imagine his Lady to lose her hair.

Even Tyrion was starting to lament the idea. And yet, he could not bring himself to stop her. A cruel part of him wanted her to be sheared. He could be less resentful of their marriage if she was less pretty.

Having found the knife, Podrick presented it to her quietly, though his eyes betrayed what he thought. Don't do it.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject