driftfleet | (no subject)

Who: Tyrion Lannister
Broadcast: Everyone
Action: In the Engineering Room of First Breath, building Stuff.
When: Today!

[There is music blaring in the background - yes, Tyrion has learned how to turn on the music and he is currently listening to modern 'pop'. It is clear he enjoys it as well - he is singing along to Stitches. He is also building a - a - well it is a sword. But when he lifts it up and toggles something on the hilt, it suddenly sparks to life, electricity running up and down the blade.

He eyes it with satisfaction, giving it a practice swing, before he realizes the device is turned on. He smirks, stretching the scar on his face.] This is the twelfth time I have rebuilt this particular device, and I believe this may be my best effort yet.

[Another swing, before he powers it off.] Every day, I rebuild tools to help me survive in case of an attack - swords and the like. And every night, they are dismantled and all the parts are put back where they were originally found. I would be more annoyed ... but it is helping me quickly gather a grasp on how things work. At this rate, I shall be able to put together a weapon in moments if we come under attack, again.

[And here, his face takes on a slight calculating tilt.] ... and how was that last attack? I have heard rumors, but no ... hard facts.

[He smiles.] Your prize for sharing what information you have is a weapon that shall last you from the moment you wake until you close your eyes at night.

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I see ... so you are also in need of a little joy. [He was silent for a moment, before he began to sing again.]

Come again! sweet love doth now invite
They graces that refrain
To do my due delight,
To see, to hear, to touch, to kiss, to die,
With thee again in sweetest sympathy.

Come again! that I may cease to mourn
Through thy unkind disdain;
For now left and forlorn
I sit, I sigh, I weep, I faint, I die
In deadly pain and endless misery.

All the day the sun the lends me shine
By frowns do cause me pine
And feeds me with delay;
Her smiles, my spring that makes my joy to grow,
Her frowns the Winters of my woe.

Al the night my sleeps are full of dreams,
My eyes are full of streams.
My heart takes no delight
To see the fruits and joys that some do find
And mark the storms are me assign'd.

Out alas, my faith is ever true,
Yet will she never rue
Nor yield me any grace;
Her eyes of fire, her heart of flint is made,
Whom tears nor truth may once invade.

Gentle Love, draw forth they wounding dart,
Thou canst not pierce her heart;
For I, that do approve
By sighs and tears more hot than are thy shafts
Did tempt while she for triumph laughs.

[ quietly, and long after the last note had rung out: ] I find it odd, my lord.

[He is thoughtful himself for a moment.] Well ... it is not a song from our world.

No, my lord. [ she almost (almost smiles. ] Not the song -- although it's strange and unknown, yes. [ ... ] I mean to say it's odd to suddenly hear you sing so much after...

[ all this time. their marriage had been built on practicality. it lacked affection. but even so, she imagines a wife must be duty-bound to know whether her lord husband sings or not. ]

[Well, now that she has said it outloud ... ] I can see where you would find that just a little odd - but I remember what I promised, my Lady. Not before the Seven, or the vipers of my family. I promised I would - well. I take my word seriously.

[He had promised he would be a good husband - if music made her happy, then he would sing.]

[ her throat feels thick. uncomfortably, she swallows. he alludes (she knows) to their duties to one another. not the sordid or the unwilling ones -- but the minimum respect required to at least be civil with one another. it's the sort of vow she'd failed utterly to keep when she fled the city. seven bless him, she thinks, for not pursuing that line of questioning too intently.

she's gentler when she speaks next: ] Do you know any songs about Jonquil and Florian, my lord?

[His lips twitch upwards, and he leans back on his chair.]

I know one, yes. It's an older version, mind. Not ribald, more ... poetic. Will that suit?

[ she nods. ]

Yes. That is -- their stories have always been my favourite, Lord Tyrion.

[He tilted his head to the side, before he closed his eyes to recall the song. Then he sang softly the words he remembered.]

[ her gaze stays distant -- displaced, by degrees, to the broadcast's left. sansa's thoughts are transported: to girlhood, and to memory. the version is not precisely in step with the lighter, lovelier pieces she'd enjoyed before the crystal lies of her life got shattered against the stone of the red keep. but it's a small comfort.

deep down, she resists being comforted by him. ]

You do have such a talent.

[He continues to sing, to the end of the song. He too, is looking off to the middle distance, and so his voice is quiet when he responds. Almost dreamy like.]

How kind of you to say, my dear.

[ too warm. too affectionate. the spell is broken, and she feels her muscles tighten and coil, as if preparing to flee. ]

Kind and honest, my lord. [ she speaks politely. she speaks dutifully. ]

[Now he draws his gaze back to the screen, and indeed, the spell is quite broken.

He gives her a long and almost cool look, before he reaches over.]

Good night, Lady Sansa.

Good night, Lord Tyrion. May the Seven keep you.

And you, Lady Sansa.

[He clicks off the feed, glowering at it helplessly, before he rubbed his face. No. Just ... no. Gods, he needed a drink.]

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