Stolen Moments (Unfinished)

[/color][/b] Came the tender voice as she addressed such a lowly creature.

Rising up fully onto her knees and then carefully standing to her full height, which wasn't that great really. She was a small and short little dear compared to other girls, reaching only just a few inches over five foot. The dress swayed and the dingy hem nestled about her dirt stained feet once more. "Lets get you home." It was obvious the girl had no fear of the spider that was resting on the back of her hand. Even speaking to it as if it was her friend. Slow steps began to carry her over to a tree that had some low hanging branches.

As she ventured closer the sun caught the dew on the webs at the end of them and made the beads of water glitter on the strands of spider silk as if they were intricate necklaces or bodices woven by nature itself. She extended her hand out to a limb, being mindful not to dare touch the web in it. Blue eyes watching as the spider crawled down her hand in a leisurely manner, then raised up legs and got it's footing on a leaf. The young Baratheon girl stayed still until the spider had made it's way off her hand and then let it lower back to her side. Another sea breeze tossed some of her long unkempt hair about her as a sad little smile touched her lips. She was sure she knew what Maester Cressen would have told her in that percise moment. In truth she could almost hear his voice lingering in her mind.

Creatures such as those can not understand you my dear. But you do have a way with them do you not? And she could imagine him laughing after that and it brought an ache to her heart which throbbed through her something dreadful. A dirty hand lifting and pressing lightly over her the area of her own heart as her eyes lowered to the grass below. Oh her world felt a little darker. Ironic was that not? Given who she had to pretend to pray to in fear of her own life, this R'hllor, Lord of Light.

"Give me strength and guidance..." A whispered prayer to the Crone and the Smith of the Faith. Another gust of wind, stronger than the last made her dress whip about her legs and her hair fly across her face. Her path as of now was still as cloudy as sky above her; however no matter what she would walk it with dignity and grace, as much as she was able, she promised herself silently. [/ul]

Post Word Count || 1146
Total Word Count || 1146

Yet another sleepless night in the bed of a woman who disgusted him. Had Stannis been one for jesting, like his brothers, that might very well have been the way in which he would've explained duty to someone thick enough not to understand it. As far as he could tell, his entire life had revolved around that single, simple word. Learning ho to wield a sword; learning how to lead men in battle; following his brother against the Targaryens; holding Storm's End and nearly perishing as he did so; taking a wife and siring children; renouncing his claim on Storm's End; claiming the Iron Throne after Robert's death - that one word seemed to deny and dwarf any other one he could think of.

Pushing against his hard pillow, he frowned at his wife's - no, his queen's - crumpled features and Florent ears as he closed his eyes, reliving the horrors he and his men had been through within some walls not much unlike those around them. Davos... was it duty that brought him through the siege and into the castle with his onions? He had given him justice, as he tried to deal unto all those who were his own, but he knew not what drove such a man forward. His elder brother's motivation was simple enough: lust, be it for battle, women or drink. Eddard Stark's was even simpler: honour, a lofty goal that few could explain and a fickle one at that., seeing where it had brought him.

Not wishing to have to listen to Selyse's endless prattling about some thing or another, the true King of Westeros slipped out of the small bedchamber into the larger area that had, no doubt, been meant for the rulers to receive their trusted guests. With that role reserved for the Chamber of the Painted Table, now simply called the War Room, Stannis used it as a place of respite, where he could think when sleep wouldn't come and where he could dress without disturbing his lady wife. With such thoughts in mind, he summoned a servant to draw him a bath and, as diligently as ever, he began inspecting his armour and scouring the dirt out of his chainmail, a soldier to the very end.

Disrobing and slipping into his bath, the eldest surviving Baratheon felt his thoughts slipping toward other things entirely: the way in which the old order of Dragonstone had been disrupted by Selyse's Red Priestess first came to mind, with her foreign ways and her god; while he still didn't know what to believe about her, it did seem that she could do more than the septons and their Seven. He wasn't one to put much trust in any faith, but one with less empty promises and a fair chance to help him sit the Iron Throne could be tolerated, at the very least. Ignoring her and the stirring he felt in his loins at the thought of her body, however, there was someone else on his mind: Shireen, his heir.

Raising a son was simple enough: his lord father, may the gods have mercy on his soul, hadn't had to do much more than applying the switch and talking to them a few times and all had been well: from a point on, they had practically raised themselves, doing what Robert did and running to their lady mother every once in a while when they were little, but that was it. Girls were delicate creatures and they needed so many things to turn out right and well - why, he was rather sure that even Tywin Lannister, for all his faults, had been a good father to his children and his two eldest ones still ended up breeding. That thought scared him nearly as much as it made him grit his teeth. He didn't trust Selyse with their child; he didn't want her to grow up a fanatic, at the very least. She was a woman grown... or wasn't she? There was so much about her that he didn't know and he planned on changing that.

As he was putting on his mail, the servant she'd sent to look for her notified him that she was out in the gardens, small as they might have been; for people like him, there was no refuge, no place where their concerns would leave them be. Perhaps she had it better after all, he told himself, deciding against having a shave that day, but he was still going to talk to his daughter at that point, no matter what else he had on his plate.

Stannis wasn't the stealthiest of men, nor did he concern himself with such things, but he still managed to arrive where his daughter was without seeming to disturb her from whatever she had been doing. He watched her, unconsciously biting his lip, as she spoke to some little insect that had found its way on her hand and placed it back where it belonged. Had he or his brothers ever done that? Could his daughter be addled, apart from being afflicted by greyscale? Those were the questions that truly terrified him, not those of war and ruling: he knew much more about such matters than he could ever hope to as far as raising a daughter was involved.

It was so that he made his way toward her, as soon as the creature was back in its place, laying his large, callused hand on his daughter's shoulder as gently as he could. "Shireen..." he began, his tone as warm as he could manage, which wasn't much, while dozens of questions and statements flew through his head. What are you doing here? Your lady mother will be displeased to see you all dirty like that. Are you well? Why aren't you in bed? Those were the most common ones, but he uttered none of them; instead, as he barely kept his voice from cracking, he said something else altogether. "It should be safe there, back in its web." That was his daughter, all gods be damned, and he didn't care whether she was addled or not. All that mattered was for her to be well, or so he told himself, clenching his jaws to prevent any emotional outburst from taking place. Tears were for women; he knew that much.

Word count: 1057

[/i]

It was her father's voice. A voice she knew well and could pick out with her eyes closed in a large room full of chattering people. He just had one of those distinct kind of voices. One that made you take notice of him no matter what else was going on. However, before she could even say hello she heard him continue on.

"It should be safe there, back in its web."

Oh that brought a soft little smile to tug at the corner of her lips. There were others that might describe her father as a harsh man but she saw a different side of him than most. A side that perhaps even her mother rarely, if ever, saw. While he may not have had the softest tone just then his words themselves that he'd chosen had their own tenderness and love in them. Her left arm rose and dirt covered fingers came up to brush atop his own hand. A soft touch, lingering as her had rested upon his own and a salty breeze blew past them.

She turned every so slowly to face him, mostly because she wasn't able to simply crane her neck back to look at him. No, Shireen would never be known for tossing fleeting glances at Lords or Princes or Knights. When her eyes, should they ever stray to such things, would have to be subtly because she would have to actually face them. Perhaps it was one of the many reasons she didn't spend so much time with other young women. The gossip of the young men and Lords, who was handsome, who was courting whom. The talk of the young women, those praised and those despised by the ones gathered. This was not something that Shireen particularly liked one little iota. Mostly because she'd heard herself mentioned a time a two in passing. Of course when it was realized the Princess was there all chatter ceased. Which only seemed to make it worse in her mind.

It was an odd sort of isolation that perhaps they didn't truly mean to lay upon her but it was there none the less. Of course when she'd been smaller all the talk had hurt, hurt much more than it did now-a-days. It had broke her delicate little heart to hear words like 'hideous', 'disgusting' and 'tainted' in reference to herself. She had come to accept that her affliction of Greyscale was just a test given to her to bare. She'd survived it as a child and managed to survive the aftermath still. Maester Cressen, on more than one occasion in her childhood, had told her it was because she was a true Baratheon down to her very core and that the Gods often tested man of their worthiness and mayhaps they had something in store for her yet. It was such silly notions and words but they had always made her feel better when she'd been upset.

For now caring blue eyes peered up into her father's own darker hued orbs. A lite tinge of a smile curled her lips upward. "It should, shouldn't it?" It was one of those questions that didn't really need a reply. She leaned in though, hand bracing softly against her father's chainmail before she rose up onto dirt covered toes. Lips puckered gently and then came to rest against Stannis' cheek in the most innocent of kisses. For a young woman grown there was still some aire of innocence in her mannerisms and how she carried herself. Just part of her charm in truth. Her eyes saw the world differently so how could she be anything but set apart and different herself.

"Good Morning to you Father. How does the day find you?" And she lowered herself from the tips of her toes back onto flat footing now. Oh yes she was trying so much so to put on that mask for him. To ease his burden of worry, to be the daughter he expected her to be. Though given if she'd truly thought about the state he'd found her in she might scold herself for it. Princess' didn't play in the muck and get dirty and tend gardens. Yet she did. She was a right mess, hands and feet all dirty. Her mother would even bicker that her dress was ruined were she out here with them. Thank the Gods she was not.

"Well, I hope." And she did hope he was well. There was so much going on for him and she wished she could help ease more of his burden though she was no warrior. Truth be told she had no skills with weapons at all. The only thing she had on offer was her gentle nature and her opinions which she wasn't sure if it was even the right time to bring any of that forth to him. Her mother was already so devout in such a short time to R'hllor that it worried her to no end. Would her father become such too?

Oh that would truly break her heart to see such things and the doubt and pang of hurt that rose glimmered in her eyes despite her best efforts of hiding it. She turned from her father slowly and let slow steps carry her a bit farther from him and the tree, up a pathway of crushed marble, stopping as she came to the herb garden and looked down over it. There as the rays of morning light came down, it cast a faint glow on her brown hair almost haloing it, a few strands shimmering an almost bronze-like hue. The smile that had been on her face previously had all but faded away; what remained was but a sad and thoughtful expression. Soft breeze sweeping by her, making strands of bronze-brown hair flow in Stannis' direction.

She looked so much the part of someone in the latter stages of mourning, trying to deal with the remains of their grief. She could have been any number of women across Westeros: A sister grieving for slain family member, a wife greiving for the loss of a husband, a mother mourning a child. No matter, it was there, in that moment, a whole and utterly perfect picture of sadness without tears, without weeping, but enough to tug at the heartstrings of any man. She took in deep breath and then let it out slowly before she turned back to look at her father after her silent moment of reflection on the garden.

"I imagine you have better things to attend to than watching a silly maiden take a spider home. I'd hate to keep you from something more important." That soft gentle smile flowed over her features like silk. Were it not for the motley hued skin of her cheek she might have been called pretty, despite the Florent ears she'd inheirted from her mother. The latter of her words perhaps betraying the fact that she truly didn't wish to be a bother to him. "Afterall, a King's work is never done, is it?" [/ul]


Post Word Count || 1238
Total Word Count || 2384

Slights. Those who knew Stannis Baratheon closely enough were aware of the fact that he oftentimes occupied his mind with them - there were times when he practically obsessed for hours upon end upon the way in which someone had managed to attract his anger or his contempt. It was far lesser known, however - and, with Robert and Maester Cressen dying, those aware of it seemed to become rarer than a warm day in the North - , that he focused at least as much on his own misdeeds; for example, while Shireen barely turned her head to look at him, he remembered that the greyscale had touched her neck and he clenched his jaws, cursing himself for having troubled her. While not something he'd thought about often, it was still painful to realize that he knew more about the notable Houses of Westeros, their forces, their words and their citadels than he did about his own flesh and blood. Still, what was he to do? He had duties toward the realm like no other man, as the rightful ruler, but that didn't mean that he could be absolved of the ones he had as a husband and a father; had his elder brother not forgotten about his, perhaps the treachery of her wife and her abominations could have been known to all before his death. He faced far different challenges at home, but Robert's lesson was quite plain to him when considering it.

As her delicate little hand touched his own, the King felt a sudden jolt of tension throughout his entire body. He was a soldier more than anything else; he knew little of raising children aside from what he himself had experienced as a child and even less about the webs of schemes and subtleties that nearly everyone around him liked to weave. In King's Landing, it seemed that everyone had the required tools and motivations to plot and conspire against anyone but themselves and, whether they were washerwomen, peddlers or members of the Royal Court, they were going about it with wild abandon. The vaunted game of thrones had risen from roots such as those; he despised it nearly as much as the people who had hatched it up, but what about this sole, sickly child of his? Would she have done any differently without the signs of her old illness on her body, or if she had people to do so with? Selyse lacked the mind for it, but what of his daughter? When he asked himself such questions, he could only notice just how little he knew of Shireen and her life. Still, how could one go about it? Girls - and even moreso women, as she had become without his notice - were fickle creatures whom one couldn't really reason with, as far as he knew, but he just couldn't treat his sweet daughter in the same way in which he did any other one of her kind, especially not when they were alone. No, he decided; she was far too innocent for such things.

She was beautiful, this daughter of his. Without the signs of greyscale, she could have been comely, even if her parents weren't, but she wasn't like most other noble girls, squawking and giggling and worrying about little else than her clothes, her jewels and those of her suitors she could bed. No; her love for all living things, her seemingly-carefree way of playing outdoors, in the mud, as all healthy children should have, those were traits Stannis found endearing and worth having. He would find her a good husband... but that train of thought was interrupted by her kissing and greeting him. "Good morning, my daughter," he echoed. Never being one for empty courtesy, he neither gave the 'required' answer of being well nor asked the same of his heiress, especially after having understood just how much of a father he'd been for her. He did want her to be well, however, just as she did for him, but he said that with his eyes rather than his words, looking at her from head to toe with a gaze that some might even have called 'warm'.

Still, what was the matter with her? Aye, she had never really been a happy child - in fact, he could rarely, if at all, remember seeing her with a smile on her face beyond her first two years or so - , but there was something about her face and the way in which she carried herself that morning that reminded him of something he was much more accustomed to: a widow. Soldiers like him were accustomed to that sight; even commanders as merciless as he was could see their slain men in the faces of the women they left behind. He frowned; if she was grieving, who could have been on her mind? The answer wasn't that hard to find, truth be told. While her father had an entire realm to think about, Shireen's universe was a far narrower one. Her parents, Patchface... Cressen. The old Maester had seen both of them grow and it was because of him that he still had a daughter that day; even if Melisandre had shown, once more, that her god had power, unlike the Seven, he could still remember that display and the uneasiness he'd felt when the poisoned wine seemed to do the foreign woman no ill. Even if his death had been his own doing, Stannis felt like he had failed the old man somehow.

"The castle's asleep, but for us and some of the servants," he plainly informed her when she seemed to let him know she didn't wish to be in the way; he had sought her especially, so of that there were no worries to be had. "Even your lady mother hasn't awoken to say her praise," he added, as he recalled, with painful accuracy, just how grating her voice became when she begged the Lord of Light to protect and deliver her come each morning and night. Still, the terrors he had to face each night aside, Shireen was right - his work was likely to never be truly done. "That's true, but some kings have daughters to sweeten up their lives." Such awkward attempts were the closest he got to making compliments. I'd rather kill you myself than let all your upbringing come from your mother. Are you thinking of Cressen? Aren't you cold? Such thoughts and more he shelved, for a while, at least. "Tell me, Shireen, what's on your mind?" That would have to do.

Word count: 1102
Total word count thus far: 2159

[/i] And his gaze reguarded her with one she could see was tinged with warm affection. Something she'd seldom seen her father display in public. But there were moments like these that she teasured and held close to her heart because they meant the world to her. He might not be around consistently. He did have all of Westeros to think about now. Not to mention Uncle Renly was contesting his claim to the throne & her cousin-- Was it right to still call Joffrey that? He'd been family for so long, it would be much to odd to just think of him as not, step-cousin perhaps as Uncle Robert had not been his father. Yes, that would do. Joffrey was still claiming to be King himself. Did that mean her Aunt claimed what her father said to be lies? Claimed what her Uncle Robert wished unimportant? The possibility of both answers upset her.

"The castle's asleep, but for us and some of the servants. Even your lady mother hasn't awoken to say her praise." Shireen gave a gentle and faint nod of her head at those words. Praise for R'hllor, she thought sadly. For a God that had all but been forced upon her by her parents. She truly did not understand what they saw in this Lord of Light. The Seven had been the Gods of their people and before them it was the Old Gods. Though she didn't know any that personally prayed to the Old Gods, but she knew the ways of their faith from her studies with Maester Cressen. The Old Gods, she recalled, were still worshipped in the North.


"She speaks them so passionately you would think R'hllor had always been her God." One of her simple observations when she'd been taken by her mother one morning to join her in the morning praises. Though her tone was measured and the words having been chosen quite carefully. It wasn't as if she was speaking out against the Red God or her mother, but if one really dug down into the softly spoken words they could see the sarcasm and uneasiness there.

"Tell me, Shireen, what's on your mind?"

Those words tugging at her heart, urging her that she should speak openly to him. Though there was still a lingering fear too. Fear that mayhaps her father was just as devout as her mother. He just may not show it as easily as she does. A stab of worry lingered in her gut with that thought. If that was true and she did speak plainly what would he do to her? What would Melisandre suggest a proper punishment for her? Would he allow it? So much was racing through her mind at that very moment and she had to avert her eyes to the ground to steel her resolve. As if somehow looking at it, wiggling her toes beneath her dress against the rocks that poked at her feet gave her strength for this.

"Father... I know you are a good and just man and I trust you to tell me the truth so please do not think me too childish to know of what I am about to ask." She had to let out a little breath there. Her stomach was twisting and turning and tying in various knots. Shireen felt practically rooted to the ground right now, her body tensing up, legs rigid, back impeccably straight and hands now clutching the sides of her dress. Blue eyes lifted slowly to look at him as her hair was blown over her shoulders.

"How did Maester Cressen die?" Her tongue slipped past her lips to moisten them because they had suddenly become quite dry. Her heartbeat had already quickened in her chest with that simple question. She had heard rumors being whispered about. That it had been the Red God, then that it had been Melisandre, even still that it had been his own foolishness among other things. She wasn't sure what to believe but this man, her father, he had honor and he was good. He'd tell her truth, would he not? "Because there have been whispers going through the castle. Disturbing things. I want the truth no matter how brutal it may be." Her words holding an inner strength that was backed up by her usual sweet and innocent nature. There was no ill will in her gaze, no trickery, but anyone well versed in reading body language could clearly see she was nervous.

Her hands flexed, balling up the fabric of her dress slightly before releasing it and doing her best to try to relax. To portray some sense of a calm nature to her father. "I am the Princess and knowing my people and kingdom is important. Relying on gossip and hersay is distasteful and I shant do it." There was much passion and heart in those last two statements there. Because she was her father's daughter, she had a duty to the people of Dragonstone. She'd been taught that since she was a wee child. Now also with her father seeking to claim the Iron Throne would it not fall to her to do the same for the people of Westeros should it come to that? Of course that would be if her parents had no more children.

Would she truly ever want that though? The Iron Throne. To rule the Seven Kingdoms. She had no desire for power, no. But if it came to pass one day that she must sit upon it, she would with grace and dignity. She would also marry and bare children worthy of such a position. At least that's what she told herself as these seconds ticked by. But could she do so under false pretenses she wondered? Would you spread R'hllor throughout Westeros, Father? I'd sooner worship the Old Gods than worship R'hllor. Will you think me a traitor for such thoughts? Will you look down upon me with disappointment...

While in truth there were so many other things she wanted to speak to him about as well. That would remain the first issue. The main issue that needed to be addressed before anything else could be spoke of. It was a tender and sore subject and yes, it was likely that her heart would be hurt no matter what her father told her. Though she would do everything within her power to hold her sensibilities in check. She couldn't go blubbering around like a crybaby in public. She was a princess. A Baratheon Princess. They were strong; they were stags and they were supposed to hold a fury inside them. Yet she wasn't quite sure if she had any fury lingering in her. [/ul]

POST WORD COUNT || 1121
TOTAL WORD COUNT || 3505