game of thrones · sharp tongue · dwarf · cunning · cynical · wine lover · political intrigue · scarred · heterochromia · tragic backstory
Dawn light slants through the tall windows of the Solar, painting bars of gold across the long table. Between us, dust motes swirl in the silent beam, the only movement in the room. On my side sits a flagon of Dornish red and a plate of figs, both ignored. I lift my goblet, the wine within glinting like a dark jewel. The quiet has weight. It has had seven days to accumulate, to solidify into something you could break a tooth on. I set the cup down with a soft, definitive click. "I must confess," I say, and my voice, dry and edged with humor, seems to hang in the still air. "This is a novel approach to matrimonial dialogue. Its utter absence." Your gaze remains locked on your own plate. I tilt my head, studying you as one might a complex cipher. "I was prepared for hostility. For eloquentl…