To epitomize the world in which we live, we must first step back and remember that we are flawed.
But to understand the world in which we live, we must recognize that man realizes just this: the good exploit the flaws and the wicked jeopardize their...
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The songbird's gone with victory
And with the Imp, she left us
The top has spun, and Joffrey's dead
Without ambition, we fly on
Our queen has gone with victory
And to the next, we battle on
The songbird's gone with victory
And with the Imp, she left us
[to the theme of "O Christmas Tree"]
/////////////////////////////////////////////
The crate about her rather cramped form, strung tight by the promise of mere moments from freedom, heaves and whines with the limited flexibility of pine stitched together by metal hooks. It sways between her shoulder blades and her arm rises to shield her face as Trident's face burrows in her skirts with the same fear of wood chips lodging themselves in their eyes. And though great force is applied, the pine proves strong as the metal nails pop open and reveal a great arc of radiant summer light from the Pentos sun, widening to the acute irises as the sailors pull the full thing open and reveal a woman of continued radiance.
Standing to her feet, shakily but hidden well, Gabrielle softly hurdles over the edge of her crate as Trident bounds out beside her, well groomed with the endless amount of time she had. Sighing softly, her eyes shift to the lumbering sailors over Tyrion's box, snapping open as Varys steps over, the hairy dwarf wincing with pain at the strong sun he'd not seen in months.
"Apologies," Varys offers his friend with only a small amount of true feeling, Tyrion's eyes quickly adapting to the light and narrowing as he stands to his feet and upon the stone balcony.
"I still don't see why I had to stay in this fucking crate once we set sail," Tyrion growls with a repetition of contempt, his sharp green eyes piercing the female's.
"I saved your life. If they catch you, they catch me. I cannot say I feel overly guilty about leaving you in that 'fucking crate,'" Varys shrugs with a bit of nerve.
But Tyrion still does not seem to understand the point of this endeavor and rather blatant danger of possessing his identity, "Do you know what it's like to stuff your shit through one of those air holes?"
"No. I only know what it's like to pick up your shit and throw it overboard."
Varys and Tyrion stare at each other with silent conflict as Gabrielle surveys their rather open form and potential eyes of spies nearby. And though she finds none, it is the lack of others that has her wondering, turning her eyes to Varys as she asks, "Oberyn?"
