( He grits his teeth; it's a silent snarl, or a sneer — swear it to her? Does she need to hear it? Didn't he make it clear enough before? Hasn't he nearly fucking killed himself watching over her younger sister? Though, she can't know that. She can't know how he's spent his last year, month after month, taking swords left and right for the brat. And she can't know his intentions, truly, when she's surrounded by men with an endless list of them. When he's professed his own in the ugliest ways he could conceive of, whether they were true or not, just to hurt her feelings or anger her family.
He can't rightfully be angry with her, not when she's finally seeing the world as he'd always barked at her to see it. For what it is, with wariness and suspicion, and dirt covering the lens. And yet...
How can you protect me while you're unable to do so for yourself?
Fucking fair enough. A fair enough comment. He did fail her sister not but hours ago. It makes him want to upend this table, hurl his cup against the wall. Chase down Brienne of fucking Tarth and see how good she'd fight with a festering wound at the juncture of her sword arm.
Fucking Starks. Fucking women. Fucking nobility. Most of all, fuck his own indecipherable, inexplicable compulsion to play guard dog for them; truly he can't put into words why he keeps doing it, save for an utter lack of a better sense of purpose. )
Suit yourself. I don't give a shit what you do.
( He grinds out finally, shoving his chair back and rising. He intends to stalk away, to lick his wounds and sulk somewhere else. Given enough time, he'll ruminate on this conversation more kindly. He always does. )
no subject
He can't rightfully be angry with her, not when she's finally seeing the world as he'd always barked at her to see it. For what it is, with wariness and suspicion, and dirt covering the lens. And yet...
How can you protect me while you're unable to do so for yourself?
Fucking fair enough. A fair enough comment. He did fail her sister not but hours ago. It makes him want to upend this table, hurl his cup against the wall. Chase down Brienne of fucking Tarth and see how good she'd fight with a festering wound at the juncture of her sword arm.
Fucking Starks. Fucking women. Fucking nobility. Most of all, fuck his own indecipherable, inexplicable compulsion to play guard dog for them; truly he can't put into words why he keeps doing it, save for an utter lack of a better sense of purpose. )
Suit yourself. I don't give a shit what you do.
( He grinds out finally, shoving his chair back and rising. He intends to stalk away, to lick his wounds and sulk somewhere else. Given enough time, he'll ruminate on this conversation more kindly. He always does. )