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Jul. 21st, 2020 02:05 amI'm still not sure this is a good idea. [ One of the House war strategists is talking as he leans over the map table, pinning areas of territory and marking out the border with their biggest stalemate, a point of contention with one of the only supply routes into the North. ] The other staff says the boy-king has been nothing but hell since he's arrived. [ Perrin pauses, punches another pin through the parchment. ] ... more than usual.
[ And he isn't wrong. They had come in early in the morning, just after dawn, in carts pulled by thick-coated draft horses; it's all unusual. The boy-king, Kyrnar, is seen by almost no-one even as he's stashed away like precious goods, tucked into his quarters with a pair of enormous kingsguard at the door who look like they could snap somebody's head off with a flick of their wrist.
There's something off about all of it.
Not least is the fact that he's on time for this meeting, which happens almost never; something smells off about him, too. The chilly smell of ice and omega sweetness has been replaced with something gentler - more a mark of motherhood than saccharine fertility. He slinks in, still so thin he might shatter (though Idris has never managed to break him, so there) as he gingerly takes his seat, white-blond and sharp-eyed and already agitated. He looks - unwell. A touch pale, cheeks flushed, seated uncomfortably as if he isn't sure how to.
It's warmer, down here, and though there's a pelt draped over his shoulders, the rest of his clothing is replaced with things more appropriate for summer. On his bone-thin frame, several months pregnant is enough to show, and out of protective instinct more than conscious decision, he drops one hand to cradle the curve of his round little belly as he leans forward to tap on the map with breakable fingers. ]
Quickly, then. I have no inclination to be down here longer than I must. Talk.
[ And he isn't wrong. They had come in early in the morning, just after dawn, in carts pulled by thick-coated draft horses; it's all unusual. The boy-king, Kyrnar, is seen by almost no-one even as he's stashed away like precious goods, tucked into his quarters with a pair of enormous kingsguard at the door who look like they could snap somebody's head off with a flick of their wrist.
There's something off about all of it.
Not least is the fact that he's on time for this meeting, which happens almost never; something smells off about him, too. The chilly smell of ice and omega sweetness has been replaced with something gentler - more a mark of motherhood than saccharine fertility. He slinks in, still so thin he might shatter (though Idris has never managed to break him, so there) as he gingerly takes his seat, white-blond and sharp-eyed and already agitated. He looks - unwell. A touch pale, cheeks flushed, seated uncomfortably as if he isn't sure how to.
It's warmer, down here, and though there's a pelt draped over his shoulders, the rest of his clothing is replaced with things more appropriate for summer. On his bone-thin frame, several months pregnant is enough to show, and out of protective instinct more than conscious decision, he drops one hand to cradle the curve of his round little belly as he leans forward to tap on the map with breakable fingers. ]
Quickly, then. I have no inclination to be down here longer than I must. Talk.
