( Light weather? He chokes on his drink, coughing through it, peeling the cup away so he can drag the back of his hand across his mouth and stare at her like she's lost her gods-forsaken mind. Light weather, she calls it? It's frigid out there. The fuck are you talking about, girl? For fuck's sake.
He's a large man. Hairy, and of a temperament and countenance that would perhaps be more at home in the north than it ever was in the south — but it is most certainly the south he's conditioned for. He had not yet made it that far on his journey before Brienne saw fit to send him neck-first into an involuntary vacation retreat. There will come a time, one day, when his body doesn't react quite so violently to the temperature. Being beaten bloody and half-dead doesn't help him acclimate any faster. )
I'm fine. ( He grunts dismissively, absently dragging that hand down to rub at the tender flesh just above the wound. The bone aches, and the chill only makes it worse. ) Don't worry your pretty little head about me.
( It had been worse, before he woke up here. He distinctly remembers the bone poking out, the pain so consuming he'd almost have been happier snapping it clean off entirely. Now, of course, he's glad he's still got it.
He'll quietly dodge that question of how, thank you very much. His pride's wounded worse than his leg is. Bested by a fucking woman, in the end.
He's got questions, anyway, of a different nature. He hesitates to ask them, debating, but ultimately the curiosity wins out — )
no subject
He's a large man. Hairy, and of a temperament and countenance that would perhaps be more at home in the north than it ever was in the south — but it is most certainly the south he's conditioned for. He had not yet made it that far on his journey before Brienne saw fit to send him neck-first into an involuntary vacation retreat. There will come a time, one day, when his body doesn't react quite so violently to the temperature. Being beaten bloody and half-dead doesn't help him acclimate any faster. )
I'm fine. ( He grunts dismissively, absently dragging that hand down to rub at the tender flesh just above the wound. The bone aches, and the chill only makes it worse. ) Don't worry your pretty little head about me.
( It had been worse, before he woke up here. He distinctly remembers the bone poking out, the pain so consuming he'd almost have been happier snapping it clean off entirely. Now, of course, he's glad he's still got it.
He'll quietly dodge that question of how, thank you very much. His pride's wounded worse than his leg is. Bested by a fucking woman, in the end.
He's got questions, anyway, of a different nature. He hesitates to ask them, debating, but ultimately the curiosity wins out — )
Were you taken from King's Landing?