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for borntoreign | 'til death
Oct. 30th, 2022 07:36 pmVasilion had been entirely unknown while she was alive: a small, insignificant kingdom, barely worthy of that name, on a continent too far away to be readily roamed. Imagine her surprise, and, if she were honest with herself or her newfound companion, her awe to discover how much has changed in the past hundred-odd years. She will not grant him that satisfaction, of course. The knife between her ribs might not have killed her, but it had not been too pleasant, either, even if her hunger upon awakening had been so maddening the cold, cruel blade had only registered when it forced her to the ground.
Water under the bridge now, isn't it? Most gallantly, the Emperor has since invited her to join him at one of his palaces, and provided ample distraction from her goal to learn what has changed in the past century, and if anything β anything, really is still the same. Still, this means no more half-rotted rags for her: she is once again dressed in gowns of vivid colours, made of finest silk, her hair brushed and clean, she has been given jewels, though she is, of yet, sorely missing the tiara she has been so graciously buried alive with. She need not guess who took it: Casimir Zarek seems utterly uninterested in giving even the appearance of sharing his throne.
Pity, that. He is handsome and vicious, and she has been dead for so long. Is she not deserving of a resurgence?
She need not guess why he has ceased his stabbing ways toward her, and rather ensured that she has not felt a twinge of thirst since their unfortunate first encounter. Once upon a time, it has been Cersei herself who had been vying for the honour he seeks, and who would grant such a gift to one visibly ungrateful? Her kingdom may be gone, and so is her husband, and her son, her brother, and all the legacy of House Lannister with them, but she is still a queen, and in lieu of little contest, why name herself queen consort again? A queen consort would make a polite offer, for peace's sake. A queen regent sits tall in her seat across from him, and waits for him to ask for what he so clearly desires.
The supper set before them looks delicious, and there is a plate set out before her as well, numerous pieces of beautiful cutlery, which she has not touched, for they could be silver at a glance, and he need not know a singular weakness. She reaches for the cup, however: he may have seen her feed before, and she doubts the uncivilised nature with which she usually drinks did anything but perhaps harden his cock, but for the servants' sake, she takes a sip with the same dignity as she did in life. It doesn't taste like the spiced honey wine once produced in Lannisport.
"A prisoner?" She watches him over the rim of her gilded cup, unblinking. Much like she often forgets to feign her breathing, it is occasionally a conscious effort to blink, or to react much to the cold or the heat. She feels them, naturally, yet they are no longer a threat. Most all times now, unless she has freshly fed, she is cold to the touch herself, and paler the longer she had to go without. No doubt she looked somewhat haggard when he had first stumbled upon her, but her more recent, steady diet has returned her beauty to her in full.
She doubts it is his goal, though, to maintain his good looks.
Water under the bridge now, isn't it? Most gallantly, the Emperor has since invited her to join him at one of his palaces, and provided ample distraction from her goal to learn what has changed in the past century, and if anything β anything, really is still the same. Still, this means no more half-rotted rags for her: she is once again dressed in gowns of vivid colours, made of finest silk, her hair brushed and clean, she has been given jewels, though she is, of yet, sorely missing the tiara she has been so graciously buried alive with. She need not guess who took it: Casimir Zarek seems utterly uninterested in giving even the appearance of sharing his throne.
Pity, that. He is handsome and vicious, and she has been dead for so long. Is she not deserving of a resurgence?
She need not guess why he has ceased his stabbing ways toward her, and rather ensured that she has not felt a twinge of thirst since their unfortunate first encounter. Once upon a time, it has been Cersei herself who had been vying for the honour he seeks, and who would grant such a gift to one visibly ungrateful? Her kingdom may be gone, and so is her husband, and her son, her brother, and all the legacy of House Lannister with them, but she is still a queen, and in lieu of little contest, why name herself queen consort again? A queen consort would make a polite offer, for peace's sake. A queen regent sits tall in her seat across from him, and waits for him to ask for what he so clearly desires.
The supper set before them looks delicious, and there is a plate set out before her as well, numerous pieces of beautiful cutlery, which she has not touched, for they could be silver at a glance, and he need not know a singular weakness. She reaches for the cup, however: he may have seen her feed before, and she doubts the uncivilised nature with which she usually drinks did anything but perhaps harden his cock, but for the servants' sake, she takes a sip with the same dignity as she did in life. It doesn't taste like the spiced honey wine once produced in Lannisport.
"A prisoner?" She watches him over the rim of her gilded cup, unblinking. Much like she often forgets to feign her breathing, it is occasionally a conscious effort to blink, or to react much to the cold or the heat. She feels them, naturally, yet they are no longer a threat. Most all times now, unless she has freshly fed, she is cold to the touch herself, and paler the longer she had to go without. No doubt she looked somewhat haggard when he had first stumbled upon her, but her more recent, steady diet has returned her beauty to her in full.
She doubts it is his goal, though, to maintain his good looks.
