The Propaganda's Workin' Now

Lucion couldn't look at either of them, his eyes, green as wildfire, burnt low. They stared absentmindedly against the wall, searching its every crack and imperfection for an answer.

Why? Why had he done it? The wall decidedly didn't answer, but gods-be-damned he barely could remember. It'd happened too fast. For his vassals, yes. Them. Because his father had taught him to care for your vassals more than anyone else.

For his brother, yes. Him. Because him and Marissa... his siblings, fuck the gods and fuck the vows he'd said in their name... he cared about them more than his betrothed, his good-brother, and their brothers. He cared about people he was dead to more than people who had actually given a crone's dusty fuck whether he lived or not.

He took his cane in hand and began hitting it against the table he sat on. Then he closed his eyes, and sighed. Certainly not in relief. His hair was damp and his face ran with small little rivulets of salt. He guessed it hated him as well. When he looked up to formulate an attempt at staring them in the eyes, the droplets fell over his eyelashes and onto his lap, forcing him to blink.

Apparently the Drowned God thought him too cowardly like the people who worshiped him.

"If I did this thing," Lucion began, his voice feeling less like a growl and more like the dying whimpers of a cat. "My vassals would have hated me, the faith too, and I'm not living on the fucking Iron Islands so when the faith hates me, we're all in big fucking trouble."

His breathing grew heavier, his words mumbles, and he wanted to sleep, if he could. To wake up and this not have happened. To wake up on this exact day so he could have said those damnable vows and kissed his wife and gone off to slay that dragon.

But this wasn't that kind of song, if you could call it one, anyway. He'd found that out since the age of five and tent.

He finally looked at them, choking out words for the sake of desperation. "I'm... sorry. I.. fucked up, I.. I... I fucked u- I'll.. do anything you want just... I fucked up soo bad. I'll do. a proper wedding, yes, back at - at - at Casterly... or... or... in the H-" Damn him. He had been about to say the High Septon. "Golden Gallery.. or... the Stone Gardens... just.. father... taught me to care more for my vassals than... anything."

He'd have gotten up and been already at his knees if it wouldn't have hurt so much. He had a feeling this hurt much more, anyway.

/r/IronThroneRP Thread