|A little something to fill the emptiness of this blog space.|
She stirred as her paramour pushed back the soft furs that served better than any blanket crafted by the hands of men, stretching her legs until her toes found a cool spot. His back was a shadowy form in the dark as he untied his long hair, roughly combing his walnut tresses with large, blunt fingers before binding the low ponytail once more.
Leaning forward, he snagged his breeches from where they had been dropped on the floor earlier that night. He was just getting to his feet when his lover spoke, tucking one arm underneath the pillow that cushioned her head, "where are you sneaking off to?"
He stopped trying to put his pants on, turning, "I have rounds to make, m'Lady, it is almost time for the guard to change."
Murmuring, "how can you tell?"
"A soldier can always tell," he lifted one foot and managed to get it threaded through the leg of his breeches.
Pushing herself up, the starlight caught the pale threads that had begun to pepper her hair, once as dark and glossy as the wing of a raven. "Ser, I have not given you my leave," her tone was light, almost mocking.
He balanced his weight evenly, pants half on, one corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile, "of course my Lady," no hint of sarcasm touched the knight's voice. His lady let the covers fall away as she got up on her knees, moving to the edge of the bed; she had well-rounded hips and a generous bosom, but as age came to all things, her breasts no longer sat so high or firm as they once had.
When she reached for him, he let the garment he had been holding fall to the floor once more, stepping out of the breeches and returning to her arms. Seemingly in contrast to the plentiful curves of her body, her limbs were slender, tapering to small hands and feet that were almost child-like.
Dawn was paling the horizon when he finally slipped from the enveloping warmth of his Lady's featherbed. This time, she only watched quietly, letting him think she still slept. She couldn't help but admire his lean, muscular body as he dressed, efficient but unhurried.
A Plumm from the Westerlands, the Knight had inherited much of the North from his mother, all but his hair, touched with honey-hues that called back the Lannister gold of his father's liege lords. Something had drawn the man northward when he had been a hedge knight; past the Neck and north-west of Torrhen's Square, Storm Hold was a long way from where he had been raised.
She didn't really remember Dancy's arrival at Storm Hold, or his rise to Captain of the Guard. She had been wearing her mourning veils then...