[ Warm blossoms under his lips, heating her hand and faintly dusting her cheeks. This, too, was taken from her. The courting that ought to precede motherhood. Even Ser Criston rarely dared show her affection in the tourneys, knowing the price of his familiarity would be both their heads. He was never the roguish type, besides, not like Harry — with his crooked smiles and winking awareness. Unlike any of her allies at court, he understands the game without wishing to play it (to play her), or so she hopes. ]
[ fondly, ] Rise, Harry.
[ said with a light tug on his hand that she doesn't yet release, instead grasping it more firmly with both of hers. She thinks of the frostbitten chill of them in the Otherworld, at odds with the warmth of his closeness. ]
Oh, did you swing a sword against an imagined enemy? [ Her lashes flutter. ] Rescue a princess?
[ The childish fantasies of Westerosi aren't so different, only she played them alongside a princess of her own. ]
no subject
[ fondly, ] Rise, Harry.
[ said with a light tug on his hand that she doesn't yet release, instead grasping it more firmly with both of hers. She thinks of the frostbitten chill of them in the Otherworld, at odds with the warmth of his closeness. ]
Oh, did you swing a sword against an imagined enemy? [ Her lashes flutter. ] Rescue a princess?
[ The childish fantasies of Westerosi aren't so different, only she played them alongside a princess of her own. ]