Their coupling, if it could ever be called that (or anything) was born of bitterness and hatred and wine. It was always a ridiculous thing, a thing that could never be spoken of lest it turn into something real.
Sometimes Barbrey had to laugh at it all, for it simply seemed so absurd. The path that brought her to The Eyrie, to this unholy sanctuary where she found herself fighting for the restoration of the Starks, was full of sharp and inexplicable turns.
Perhaps it was all for this moment. She makes Petyr read her the letter again that evening, the one full of all the lurid details of Bolton’s fall.
She listens closely, her breathing somewhat shallow even in her sated state. Towards the end she brings her right hand to her face and examines it in the darkness. It’s clean and pure and she finds that distasteful.
“I wish I could have felt his blood in my hands,” she says and Petyr laughs, dismissively.
“And what good would that have done?” he asks. But she can feel the warmth running through her fingers, the life draining from Roose’s pale flesh. The image is very real in her mind; she can almost taste the blood.
“Nothing,” she answered in a clipped voice. The rush she got from hearing the letter was beginning to die off, drying away like the sweat on her body. She thinks of Brandon. He’s always there, in this bed, this figure of loathing and blame and destruction. She bloodied her hands for him, helped to put that vapid girl Petyr dotes on on a cursed throne, and no one will ever know. Petyr prefers things that way, but Barbrey can’t help but feel cheated.
Twenty-some years of hatred brought her to this spot, to this bed, to a place with no real reward. Everything they have constructed has been built on ash.
The thought turns her stomach. She sits and straddles his hips, pulling his hands up to encircle her waist, forcing his nails into the flesh, praying for blood.
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timeasmymeasure
Petyr/Barbrey, Ash, ADWD Spoilers
Date: 2012-03-07 03:38 am (UTC)Sometimes Barbrey had to laugh at it all, for it simply seemed so absurd. The path that brought her to The Eyrie, to this unholy sanctuary where she found herself fighting for the restoration of the Starks, was full of sharp and inexplicable turns.
Perhaps it was all for this moment. She makes Petyr read her the letter again that evening, the one full of all the lurid details of Bolton’s fall.
She listens closely, her breathing somewhat shallow even in her sated state. Towards the end she brings her right hand to her face and examines it in the darkness. It’s clean and pure and she finds that distasteful.
“I wish I could have felt his blood in my hands,” she says and Petyr laughs, dismissively.
“And what good would that have done?” he asks. But she can feel the warmth running through her fingers, the life draining from Roose’s pale flesh. The image is very real in her mind; she can almost taste the blood.
“Nothing,” she answered in a clipped voice. The rush she got from hearing the letter was beginning to die off, drying away like the sweat on her body. She thinks of Brandon. He’s always there, in this bed, this figure of loathing and blame and destruction. She bloodied her hands for him, helped to put that vapid girl Petyr dotes on on a cursed throne, and no one will ever know. Petyr prefers things that way, but Barbrey can’t help but feel cheated.
Twenty-some years of hatred brought her to this spot, to this bed, to a place with no real reward. Everything they have constructed has been built on ash.
The thought turns her stomach. She sits and straddles his hips, pulling his hands up to encircle her waist, forcing his nails into the flesh, praying for blood.