munebox | The Valonqar

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.

"You're gonna have to stop calling me your lady, Podrick. Or I'll be thoroughly pissed off if I get the chop only to have you blow my cover."

She spun the knife in her palm, offering the boy only one small mournful glance. Buffy could at least control the length, and she would not go so short as Tyrion suggested. After all, one of the sellswords just beyond their door had a head of moppish hair which would make an NHL player proud. So she gathered one side of her hair in her fist and pulled its gentle curves into a taught and straight line. She knew it wouldn't hurt, but she imagined it would.

She heard the slice and snap of every strand on the right side of her head. And she made a point to stare at Tyrion through the entire stroke.

"Y-yes, my la-- I mean, yes..." Podrick looked positively lost as he tried to work out how to address her without being improper. "... Buffy."

Tyrion never looked away. If she hoped to make him guilty, it did not work. He watched over the top of his goblet. When the hair was gone, he only nodded. She should have gone shorter, but this would work just as well.

"You will need a new name. There are few who know of my wedding to Buffy Summers, but word will spread in time. I would suggest a common name, such as Jon."

"No. Not Jon."

It was common enough, but she didn't want common. If she was shedding so much of her identity, then she needed to be someone worth being. Her blonde waves were in heaps upon the floor and her certitude was plummeting. She needed a name that could double as armour against the degradation of self that was soon to follow. She needed a name that would shore her up: "Xander."

It had better suffice, she thought. Because William was more common still, but wasn't half so empowering.

"I've never heard of anyone named Xander," Tyrion said in annoyance. The name sounded too similar to Sandor, in any case. He'd never cared much for the Hound. Especially after abandoning him at Blackwater to turn craven. "Surely something else will do. You seem stubborn enough. Perhaps Ned would do for you."

"...Ned."

It sounded like a janitor's name. Or maybe the old man who lived down the street, wearing plaid vests. But Tyrion didn't make it sound so bad.

"It belonged to a good man. Far better than me, though not terribly clever. A bit like you, really."

"Aha," she said with very little genuine delight. Her tone was so dry and cut with sarcasm. "So you do think I'm good. Guess the day wasn't a total loss.

Ned'll do. I'm Ned. Rhymes with bread."

Or bled or dead or foolishly wed. Maybe even with misled.

"Only fools speak in rhymes, young Ned. Podrick, see that you find the young lad some appropriate clothes. Your young friend should look his part if we're to submit ourselves to the Night's Watch."

He'd never take the oath. But it would be enough of a pretense to get them there. Now only I shall stand out. How will I manage to ever not seem out of place?

Fools and poets. 'Ned' raked fingers through her shorn hair, and marvelled at how light a head could feel when all its spare parts were cast off onto the floor. Only now did she notice that the breezes, which invaded from the inn's poorly constructed walls, were cold on the back of her neck. The skin on her arms turned to gooseflesh. What would the folks back home say about this? Buffy Anne Summers, cross-dressing. It felt like a betrayal, although she knew it shouldn't do. Because she had read the diaries and she'd learned just how many Slayers had been forced into breeches just to pursue their profession. And others, she thought, were burned at the stake for their cause.

"Thanks," she spoke gently to Podrick when he provided her with spares. They were nicer than what the boy already wore, and she suspected he'd foolishly given her the Westerosi equivalent of his Sunday Best. Sweet boy.

Buffy didn't rush to change. The room was small, with little cover. And the three needed one same page to be on, if they were going to pull this off. "Question the first: what's the Night's Watch?"

Tyrion looked to Podrick. "You're a smart boy. Do tell young Ned all about the Watch."

The more he was called on, the more comfortable Podrick felt at answering things. Which was entirely the point. There was only a split moment of wide-eyed surprise before he took to it.

"They're guardians of the realm, my-- erm. Ned. They serve at the Wall, at the northern most part of Westeros. They're recruited from commoners and lords alike. Mostly criminals, though. Thieves and murderers, rapists and the like. If they're found guilty of crime, sometimes they'll be allowed to take the black and live out the rest of their days as a member of the Watch. Once you take your vows, it's a duty for life. You can have no wives or lovers, your rank and name means nothing, and all men are equal. The Watch is an ancient order, older than most of the noble houses, even."

Tyrion nodded at the description. "They're my kind of people. I considered the Watch myself, but alas, all the whores in the land would have wept to lose me."

It didn't sound like the sort of beast whose belly into which she should enter. But complex prepositional phrases aside, she wondered which virtues could be put to use. Desperation might have driven men to the Watch, but even desperate men wanted a good cause. The were probably proud of their work.

"Duty for life, huh?" They just might be her kind of people, as well. Barring all the parts about thieves and rapists. That was less enticing. "Seems like you've sampled a couple of different career options." Buffy patted her side. "Where did you learn the doctoring?"

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