for reignfall

[wouldhavefollowed]

If he is honest with himself, the visiting dignitaries are a frustration. They are not of Gondor and they do not know Gondor's customs, and, more importantly, they are a distraction from the more important work that must be done - and Boromir mislikes Lord Tywin almost at once, sees in him a man who is too arrogant to give due deference to the Steward of the City and his sons, and altogether too keen to barter away his daughter for gain.

And that would be enough to settle the matter. He is the heir to the city, and he will not be compelled to barter his own future against his will, and it would be easy enough to wait out the few weeks of their stay and then send them home again. Graceless, perhaps, but Boromir is a proud man, and he will not sacrifice pride for grace. His father, largely disinterested in such petty politics, has left the matter in Boromir's hands and withdrawn for the most back to his high tower as he so often does. Boromir, then, has both right and power to send Tywin Lannister and his daughter hence, see them safe from Gondor's shores, and think no more about it.

He might have done so by now, if it were not for his brother.

Not that Faramir has asked any such thing of him, of course. That is not the point. Faramir rarely asks; it is not how their relationship is built, nor, Boromir sometimes thinks, how his brother himself is built. No, it is, as it has always been, Boromir's duty as the elder to see what is needed, and Boromir's duty to see it done.

A duty that has always been stymied, when it comes to Faramir's loneliness. He knows that his brother would deny loneliness, if pressed, would swear (and believe) that his family and his people are enough - but he is not fooled. His brother is an extraordinary man, of stern morality and quiet wisdom, and his is a poet's soul - but to Boromir, a more earthly man by his own account, it has always seemed that to be so aloof is to be alone. Boromir himself, while unmarried, finds companionship readily enough: among his men, among the people of the city, among women when the need drives. But Faramir... Faramir has always held himself apart. It is the concern which Boromir, for all his wish to protect and comfort his little brother, has least been able to address. He cannot order Faramir to happiness - and he has, on occasion, tried.

But he is not blind to the nature of the looks the Lannister girl has cast across the dining table, when she thinks she is unperceived. Faramir is blind to them, he knows perfectly well - Faramir is always blind to such lingering looks, most of all when they are turned upon him - but not Boromir, who may not share his brother's wisdom in lore and learning, but who far surpasses him in simpler matters. Cersei is hardly the first person to show an interest in Faramir, but she is comely and noble, and she has come here meaning to make a match, and if there is any woman who Faramir might be obliged to open himself to...

The complication, of course, is obvious. Whether they dance around it or say it plainly, it is not Faramir her father means to marry her to. In itself, that is not a wholly awful proposition - she is, Boromir would say, a great deal too young for him, but she is beautiful, and she is mannered enough, and there is a stubbornness and fire in her green eyes that he can respect, and it is not as though he has another woman to hold his heart. And Boromir is the heir to the noblest line that remains in Gondor, and - he knows perfectly well - he is handsome, too, and valiant in battle, and not at all a bitter prospect; and he is the elder, and it would be his right and perhaps even his duty to take a wife first. To claim, as he has always claimed, the first portion of both joy and duty.

But he does not want to. Not in this. And that is awkward, and all the more awkward now, when he and his prospective bride are left alone for the first time.

He rather misses the simplicity of the battlefield. He will be Lord of the City one day (should the City stand long enough, should he live long enough) and he is not afraid of politics, but he does not like it, and least of all when it must be brought against a woman fully one-and-twenty years his junior. To be kind, to be gentle, and to turn matters to his will - it is not easy to balance.

"I will show you the city, my lady," was his offer; but by that he largely means to take a turn around the gardens, and through the courtyard where the White Tree stands stark and dead, and to look out from the citadel's walls across the seven rings of the city from above. It is not the most private of places. Truthfully, that is part of why he has chosen this for their afternoon. He offers her his arm - a sturdy grip; he is a solidly-muscled man even without the added bulk of armour - and leads her out into the warm sun. "And tell me, while we walk: what think you of Gondor?"

Comments

[reignfall]

Gondor has only ever been a distant thing on a map, too far away to be earnestly considered – it is not Essos, with its vital role in all manners of trading. She reckons that might be part of the appeal now, to ally one's self with a fresh player, to establish new trade routes, to forge something new. And unlike Essos, this land offers something else most relevant to Tywin Lannister's interest: princes. Princes who reject their titles in some fashion, who do not boast it as the Targaryen sons would do, but princes by blood all the same.

Her initial reaction to this particular ploy had been dejection, then, and a healthy dose of anger at being bartered thousands of miles away from King's Landing, and what feels further still from her brother. Gondor is not Westeros, neither Prince is Rhaegar Targaryen, this land is strange and foreign, and stranger and more foreign still is the food, the people, all of it. She cares not for its history of dwarves and elves, and her father, in turn, cares not for her protests. This has been decided, then, and she must bear it as her duty –

A duty, she soon learns, not made easier by either prince. This is not Westeros, where courtship must be swift, and where men were eager to display a ready interest in her, genuine or not. If her lord father had hoped that Boromir would ask her hand in marriage before the first night had come to a close, he must be bitterly disappointed now. This would, by itself, be amusing – though it feels like a jest that comes at a steep cost for herself. There is nothing of her, she thinks, that could Boromir down the path of rejecting her: she is beautiful, more so than any woman she has encountered in his keep, she is born from gold and of noble blood, she is smarter than any man. It is he who seems confused as to his duties: when she had asked the brothers on the first night the number of their tourney victories, they had looked at her as though she had asked how frequently they don dresses and galavant about the gardens. They speak of war not as a sport, the way her brother would, but as a thing of endless gravity, which is due to be avoided. And they are old for unwed men, old especially for men with no heirs in sight.

Especially Boromir. He is, of course, the choice her father has made, and it is not so terrible a pick. He is sturdy and seems to be, by all accounts, a good man, well-liked by his people, noble when it matters. And more attentive, perhaps, than she would like, for just the other night, she is half-certain her caught her eying his brother with something that does not quite strike any sane person as innocent curiosity. The brother with the melancholy, mysterious air to him, who, as she has learned, enjoys poetry just as Rhaegar does, who seems more quiet, more withdrawn, and, perhaps by comparison, slightly more handsome.

It is a bit of a surprise, then, that Boromir suggests to show her the sights of his home, though by the time she is dressed in a fine, red gown, her lips freshly painted, her golden hair brushed to a flawless shine, the surprise has faded. What man would not wish to spend even just a mere hour with her?

She takes his arm with a curtsy, and is eager to head out into the sunlight by his side. "It is a fine land, no doubt, and Minas Tirith is wholly unlike anything Westeros has to offer. It is beautiful, you must adore it very much."

[wouldhavefollowed]

"I must, indeed." There is a slight dryness in his tone. He does love his city, and his land, with all his heart - but he is also well aware of that must. Even if it were not so fair, even if its people were not so valiant and true, even if it were not a testament to past greatness, still he must adore it. It is the duty of a lord to love his home.

Fortunately, it is an easy duty. Gondor is, he believes without question, the greatest kingdom of Men that has ever stood since the fall of Númenor, and, just as she says, it is beautiful. The sun is bright on the white stone of the city's walls, the blue sky broken by the ragged mountains. On days like this, it is possible to forget peril and dread, and walk in the gardens happily enough with a pretty maid.

Pretty is, perhaps, unfair. She is beautiful, and this, too, he notes from a certain distance - his appraisal of her beauty is not born of lust, but of a certain satisfaction. He would not want to consider less than the best for his brother, if those lingering looks should come to anything.

He walks briskly by habit, in long strides which it does not seem to have occurred to him to shorten. Turning towards the well-maintained flower gardens, he looks down at her with an assessing gaze. "Minas Tirith - as Lord Faramir would tell you at length - is unlike any living city built by mortal hands. For it was built very long ago, and the arts that went into its building are lost now. There are few places like it in the world."

The mention of his brother is, of course, an intentional one. History matters to Boromir only insofar as it informs the present: he is no scholar of it, and left to his own devices, is happy enough to simply allow that Minas Tirith is fair and ancient, and that its magnificence is proof of his people's greatness. But given that he means quite consciously to direct the conversation away from himself (a rare move on his part, some might say), it is a ready opportunity to bring his brother's name to the fore.

[reignfall]

She does not do well in keeping pace with him – neither her gown nor her shoes are made for haste, and her eyes flash in annoyance when he does not at once slow his step. Like this, he reminds her much of her brother: the proud nature, the sure gait, and that underlying hint of arrogance that is only ever endearing when not affecting her for the worse. Still, she reminds herself, this is to be her husband, and she ought to remain utterly impassive, at least until the vows are good and spoken.

Or, well, at least until a wedding is set in stone to begin with. One of Gondor's immediate flaws seems to be a general disinterest in such an affair. Most startled is it in Denethor, whom she has scarcely seen thus far, something that mildly affronted Tywin at first, though he caught himself quickly enough. If is the sons who do the dealings, then it shall be the sons he deals with.

The gardens are lovely, the flowers smell sweet, and such things never held much interest in her, not when there is company to entertain her better. Perhaps she hopes for some brave tale, or the sort of lingering look that betrays immediate carnal interest in Boromir, and instead, he offers a mention of his brother. His brother, she reckons, would no doubt mind her step first and foremost, if he could ever be coaxed into a walk through the gardens. If he is ever so caught in his books, she might yet entirely overwhelm him - the first stanzas of the inevitable poem about her beauty and grace would, no doubt, be put to parchment that self-same night.

She nods with a quiet smile, as he mentions how his brother would offer a lengthier lesson in history. Over dinner, he has offered such insight before, though aside from the pleasant rumbling of his voice, not much of it has stayed in her memory. She had been rather occupied with a delightfully detailed imagining of the way she and him could make use of that sturdy oaken dining table, if it were not for Boromir, Denethor, and her own lord father.

And, well, Faramir's persistent refusal to understand her longing gazes and visit her bedchamber in secrecy late at night.

"Your brother is a very knowledgable man, perhaps I shall have the opportunity to ask him myself. Westerosi cities are rarely so beautiful, though many of the keeps are ancient, with their secrets lost to time." Well. "And the flames of the conquest." The Targaryens had not been gentle in their initial taking of the realm, nor in the years immediately thereafter. "You seem to be close to one another."

[wouldhavefollowed]

There is a small spark of curiosity in him to see these strange and foreign cities, and understand what conquest befell them - but it is small indeed, and easily brushed aside in favour of the matter in hand. The bait laid out and taken, the smile noted.

"We are. As close as ever brothers might be." He smiles, too, and there is a genuine fondness in it, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "He has saved my life half a hundred times in battle, and I his. And when that day comes that I take up the office of Steward, I hope dearly that he will be beside me in that, too, for he has often given good counsel."

This, too, is a kind of bait. Not for her, perhaps, but for her father, when this inevitably finds its way back to Tywin's ears. The man wants a marriage to the Steward? He shall not have it. But perhaps he may be tempted by the next place, the Steward's steward, as it were. Besides, it is only the truth. He will be a good Steward, he hopes and believes, regardless; but he will be much gladder to take the rod of office if he can do so with his brother to counsel gentler wisdom.

"You should speak with him," he decides, after a moment more. "Some of what he says will no doubt be duller than you might like, but I know that he would like to hear more of your land and your people, for he was able to find only a little. And if he is too scholarly and drear, well, he is readily enough turned aside if you tell him it does not interest you." He appears to consider, looking this way and that at the roses that grow red and white and yellow, as though he cared for them. "Why not join us both for a cup of wine after dinner tonight? I am quite sure he would not object."

Much. He knows better than to object when Boromir has his mind set on something.

[reignfall]

Valiant in battle he is, then, and a poet, and like to have great influence over his brother – much as the younger brother is not so much the old lion's preferred match for her, it is not a match yet worth to be discarded. And had he not, in all earnestness, considered Viserys for her, now that Elia has lived through two births against the odds? At least Faramir is a man grown, a wedding need not wait another decade, and the elder brother is bold in nature.

Bold men do not live so long, least of all in a land at war.

"A trustworthy brother is worth a hundred men." At least, they have this idea in common, she and the man yet most like to be her father's preferred candidate. And it would be easier to wed him, in terms of a play at power, once Denethor is gone. Though he, much like the king of Westeros, seems to have gotten... strange, either with age or by nature, so perhaps the wait shan't be long.

She casts a most beaming smile at him, when he extends an invitation to her at so private an hour. He is not entirely disinterested, she takes it, and she is not fool enough to think a cup of wine remains on its own, or that Boromir is so pure of heart that he has never shared his cup with a lady in hopes of bedding her soon thereafter. And of course a man of honour offers a chaperone – his own younger brother, for instance - as to not make such a nightly meeting too unseemly to be worthy of any consideration.

"I am sure my lord father would gladly permit it." After all, and it is a not so subtle reminder, it would scarcely be proper for her to accept on her own behalf. "I have a fair few questions of my own, as you might imagine." If this is to be her eventual home, she had better know more than what she has seen of the landscape, dreary and dull as such a lesson might turn out to be when taught by the wrong scholar. "Still, he does not strike me as the sort of man to be too keen on company."

This would not be so far-fetched: the brother, suddenly taken ill or with no need for company, leaving her alone with Boromir.

[wouldhavefollowed]

She is not entirely wrong in her assessment. Boromir has not, in the past, been averse to offering a cup of wine more for pretext than refreshment, nor to having careful chaperones who have slipped away on other business once the lady's honour is assured. It is only in this case that he has not thought of it, focused as single-mindedly as ever on what he has determined to be the matter of the hour.

But the fact remains: he has not thought of it, and her acceptance (albeit one couched in proper terms of fatherly approval) is one he takes as encouragement towards his own intentions. He is, indeed, rather satisfied at how easily the conversation has been turned to his purposes, to reinforcing in her the understanding of which brother she might better turn her affections towards.

"He is a lonely sort." He will not dissemble on that matter, even while trying to encourage her interest. It is too obvious, and too important. "There are not many men of his like who still walk the world, and there has always been a distance between him and it. He loves the world and all the people in it, but at times I think he is almost afraid to be a part of it." There is a sorrow in his smile. Like our mother, he thinks, but does not say. Like the writers of those books whose company he so often loses himself in.

Shaking his head, he says instead, "But it is not a matter of misliking company. You must not think so. And he may be able to answer your questions better than I, for he has a keen eye and a good memory. I will speak with your father after this, then, and see it done."

The idea that Tywin might refuse him, or that he has less than total command in this situation, does not appear to have occurred to Boromir.

[reignfall]

"My lord father is not always a man of ready deference." She sounds, if anything, amused by the way Boromir at once takes charge, knowing full-well how Tywin will mislike it, and how well-practiced a facade he will put up to not have it be too apparent. "Though in this instance, you are sure to be of one mind with him." There is no use in pretending that she does not know the purpose of their visit here, or that the self-same knowledge has eluded the attentions of both brothers and their own father. She is to be wed, her father should like to see a union with one of the Steward's sons, preferably the elder, and there is no use feigning ignorance.

This is not to say that she has not attentively listened to his description of Faramir's nature, or that she has misliked what she has heard. She wonders, briefly, what he has to gain in speaking so dearly of a man he himself is not – should it not be in his most immediate interest to speak of his own skill and prowess, his own more companionable nature, and the benefits that would come with their union?

Then again, she ponders as she feigns thin interest in the rows of roses that they pass, he has perhaps noted of her own fondness for her brother, and means to establish a likeness there, in a shared regard for their own family. Well, if it is as it stands with her and Jaime, then perhaps she ought not to wonder why neither man of Gondor is yet wed.

"Both of you seem lonely, in a way." She tilts her head just slightly, and watches him more attentively now. "I hope you do not think me too bold for it, but in Westeros, it is a rare thing indeed to find two men of your shared honourable nature, bravery, skill, and noble blood to be unwed."

[wouldhavefollowed]

"In Westeros, by your own account, men have time to play at fighting and while away their hours idly." He says it very matter-of-factly, as though it has hardly occurred to him that this might be an unkind assessment of their situation. It does not seem unkind, since if anything, he is a little envious of such freedom. "It ought not to surprise you that they have more time, too, for gentler pleasures. But here, such peaceful and slow-paced things as courting must often be put aside, for direr need too often drives."

He sighs, then, and his smile is rueful; there is a certain sympathy in his look. It is part of the truth, how Gondor has been shaped by war, and she must know it if she is to be any part of their lives - and yet, it is not a pleasant thing to say, when he would rather keep the conversation lighter.

"We are not old men, Lady Cersei." Though I may seem so, to a child such as you, he almost says, but he is not quite so blunt as that. He does not think of himself as old, but he is well aware that he is closer in age to her father than to her - and just as aware of the awkwardness of it, if he should dwell on it too long. "In the end, we must marry, and secure the future of the Steward's line - but it must be secured more immediately, too. So while we are young, my brother and I, we have had little time to linger among fair ladies of court. You are a rare sight within these walls."

[reignfall]

"Slow-paced?" It is true that there can be years between a betrothal and the marriage at its end, though that does not at all slow the make any less of the pace at which the engagement itself is decided. It is only by her own presence of mind that she does not make a derisive noise at the mention of 'pleasure' – after all, this is the least of what springs to the minds of most when it comes to their marriages. Certainly, some find peace within their union, and she is yet young enough to hope for some of the same for herself, but youth does not equal foolishness, and she knows better than to take these hopeful imaginings for granted. "These decisions are made quickly, my lord, and usually with mutual benefit in mind. Alliances in a war, for instance, even if Westeros might know peace, for now. Courting is hardly a prerequisite when bloodlines are at stake."

By all accounts, though she will not say it out loud, they could be married before the sun is set, he could bed her at once, and be back to war before the few ladies of the court have gathered themselves around her for their next luncheon.

Nor will she discuss with him the matter of his old age. Some men are married twice over in his years. "Of course the safety of your people takes precedence over all things," which she says with conviction enough to hide the simple truth that she does not care so much for the smallfolk, "and men such as yourself need not make haste the same way a woman must. I was merely curious, that is all."

[wouldhavefollowed]

He is mollified, a little, by her acknowledgement of what is (to him) most apparent of all. The safety of their people must always come foremost - otherwise, what is a lord at all? And her curiosity, if things are so different in her own land, is of course justified.

That does not make it any less strange to think of marriage being a decision made in haste. That it should be made for mutual benefit - yes, of course, he knows that. He is not naïve, he does not think for a moment that men and women of station can always marry for love. There are other things at stake, just as she says. Bloodlines, alliances, funds. There is a reason they have entertained Tywin long enough for this visit to occur at all.

But to say that the decisions are made quickly, as though it were an exchange of goods? No. That, he will not allow. She is young, and perhaps she has only seen the surface of things, the outcome of the greater deliberations that must occur between bride and groom, between their families and their advisors, to make a worthy match. (Or perhaps, he thinks rather bitterly, her father is too callous and too greedy to give much thought to it.) He had assumed this first visit would be an opening sally, no doubt a longer one for the distances involved, but nonetheless the beginning of a process rather than the process itself: only now does it occur to him that it is at all possible Tywin means to return home alone.

His surprise shows, and for a moment, at last, his stride shortens, his pace slowing as he looks down at her. He does not speak at once, his brow furrowed as he turns this matter over in his mind.

"Haste indeed," he says at last, "if the men of your land do not even take the time to court a maid before they marry her. There must be a great many restless marriages in Westeros."

Not that every marriage here is peaceable, of course, nor happy. But he remembers his mother, if only a little, and how his father was when she lived. They had not married for love, and she had not been happy - but they had loved one another, even so, and been assured of it before the deal was done. So he has always understood, at least.

[reignfall]

In some ways, the process as it stands in Westeros is less simplified than what Cersei offers of it. There are months, if not years worth of letters exchanged between the lords as they peddle their sons and daughters. Decisions are not made in haste, but with a great deal of deliberation that occasionally requires swift action. What has Cersei so blind to the practice of most of this, if not to the theory itself, is that it takes place in spaces that do not permit her presence. To her, Gondor had been a shock, a thing her father seemed to have cooked up on a whim – 

To Tywin, this has likely been an option sometimes considered more, sometimes less, ever since his daughter had not successfully been betrothed to Rhaegar Targaryen at the humble age of ten. All the same, Cersei's own thoughts on the matter only count where they should: she agrees that she should wed royalty. They disagree on some other, fairly important factors, such as whether Jaime should wed at all – though this issue, at least, had been resolved, unfortunately not in a way that sees him like to join her in Gondor anytime soon.

Never even mind the brewing war back home, she has more important matters to see to here, such as her immediate future.

"Marriage is a matter of duty, not of resting. Courtship is reserved for hopeful children and those who are not blessed with a head of their family who takes these things in hand for them." Blessed lies in the eye of the beholder, though Boromir, she reckons, being a man, would not know to question this.

[wouldhavefollowed]

It is strange, how every time she explains herself, she seems to get halfway to his own understanding of the matter, and yet end somewhere entirely else. Of course, it is true that marriage is a matter of duty; of course, it is a matter to be led accordingly; and yet, why should that mean that there is no place for rest or for courting? It seems to him that, for all the alleged grimness of his own people, these Westerosi folk must be of a grimmer and more joyless sort still, if they teach their daughters such coldness even in peacetime.

He is not deterred by it, however. If anything, it seems a mercy to her, if he can nudge her in the direction of her brother. Say what you will of Faramir - he is a dreamer, and a quiet soul, and at times distant and aloof even towards his own family - but he is, above all other things, gentle. Hope has never yet died in the younger brother's heart; and it seems to Boromir, then, that it might be a kindness to all involved to make that particular match.

"It is a strange land that you come from," he says, at last, for want of anything better. They have come, now, within sight of the walls; he shifts to guide her towards the steps that lead up onto the parapet. "But I suppose that even under such circumstances, a man and a woman may grow to care for one another. It is only that, by my reckoning, that growing is better done before there is no honourable escape."

[reignfall]

"Yet such growing requires privacy, or some semblance of it." Which would, she thinks, explain their clandestine tour of the city. She makes her ascent carefully, holding on to his arm while minding her skirts with her free hand. It would be graceless and most embarrassing to trip. "And too many a private talk with a lady could see her honour put into question."

Honour, then, in the humble world of Westeros, trumps the eventual odds of happiness, as it does most things. No, she would have to correct herself on this: it is not honour that matters so much here, but the lost value of a high lord's currency. Gold dulls when touched by too many hands. "Therefore, it is best to leave some of the growing for after the vows have been made."

She does not expect him to agree, or even to understand. Besides, this only serves to reassure her that there is some interest here – for why else would he have brought her here at all, and bothered to tolerate so much of her father's visit? Arrangements cannot be so outside the norm.

[wouldhavefollowed]

"You need not worry on that account." He is frank and honest in his assessment, if not wholly tactful. "No man or woman of Gondor would think your honour in question around honourable men. And no man or woman of Gondor would doubt the honour of its lords."

Which is, again, not to say that he has never put a lady's honour into question; only that he has had the decency to be discreet, and to be very certain of her willingness to be dishonoured. His brother, on the other hand, is of another sort again: one way or another, Boromir is quite certain that if she were to spend hours or even weeks alone with either of the two brothers, her honour would gain no stain among the people of the city. They know their lords for honest men.

Still, her concern is not foolish. She is still, one presumes, a maid (or at least close enough to it), and noblewomen live and die by their reputations. This, at least, is as true in Gondor as in Westeros.

"In any case, we may find that something grows this evening, with some semblance of it." And with Faramir there to plant the seed. He smiles, a bright smile that crinkles the corners of his stern grey eyes, and helps her up the last few steps. "It is a good day to walk out here. Look! In such fair weather, you may see all along the river, and up into the mountains."

[reignfall]

It is a stunning sight, no doubt of it, and even someone as prone to rather more jaded opinions of the world is forced to find herself awestruck by the view. It is quite unlike anything she has seen before - it does not, however, take away from what the madman by her side has just announced. Does he, in all earnest, expect to find love? As a prerequisite to marriage?

And how, in the name of the seven, is she supposed to instil this feeling within him over the course of this day, or the length of time it takes to sip a cup of wine with his brother present in the evening? Were he at all inclined to bow to the laws of her land, he would desire her, simple as that, and wed her on principle of being so lucky as to be offered the chance. Love could grow in the years that follow this – it is, if she is honest with herself, lust that she is wagering her gold on at this stage.

Lust and a keen understanding of what an alliance with House Lannister means for his own war.

"It is beautiful. From Casterly Rock, all one sees is the ocean for as far as the eye may reach. What is the river called?"

[wouldhavefollowed]

"That is the Anduin, there: it runs through all our lands, down from the Emyn Muil north of our borders, and south-west to meet the Sea." He warms readily to this theme: while he is no scholar like his brother, he has a great love for his homeland and its beauty, and is clearly enthused to share it with a stranger. They do not, after all, have a great many visitors from foreign parts, in these dark days. Turning a little, he points to where the river wends its way past the city and out of sight beyond the mountainside into which the city is set. "You see in the distance, there, where it meets the Erui, and beyond - though you cannot see from here - the Sirith. And then down further, to the land of my mother's people, where first our ancestors came ashore. You came another way, I think, for the mouths of the Anduin are perilous these days; yet they are fair, for all that. And there, across the river, is Ithilien, where my brother serves his captaincy most often. And beyond it..."

The enthusiasm leaves him, and a shadow passes across his face. There is, undoubtedly, a sinister look to the mountains east of Ithilien, jagged and snow-capped, clawing black-toothed at the sky. Even the sunlight seems dimmer there, and cast with volcanic red.

"Beyond it," he says, more soberly, "is nothing of beauty." Then, recovering himself, he shakes his head. "But that is no matter for such a day. Come! let us walk a little, and you will be able to see then the forest and the plains, and all else that is fair beyond the city walls."

[reignfall]

The vastness of the land is part of what astounds her. There is ever the sea to one side of her home, which is vast in its own right, but there is something familiar to it – to her, at least. Here, it is all plains and wild forests and rivers, and while there are mountains, they are distant, far away, and distinctly sinister-looking. The Westerlands cannot quite compete with the Vale, but there are plenty of hills, mountain ridges, cliffsides. It occurs to her that her companion would readily point out that his lands are far from flat – it is just that there is a lot more land to go around than what the Lannisters have to their name, and so it spreads out different.

She is, at the least, immensely curious about that threatening mountain range, but she knows when to relent, and perhaps, this is a subject best to discuss after a cup of wine or five have been indulged in.

She follows, instead, his suggestion, eager to see more of the lands she means to claim for herself. In his enthusiasm for the walk, he reminds her a little of her brother, and his desire to bound across fields with numerous dogs by his side. "Show me all of it. We do not have much in the way of forests," not since ships were sorely required, "at least not home in the Westerlands. The Sunset Sea makes up for it all, of course. It is oddly quiet here without it."

[wouldhavefollowed]

He looks at her for a long moment, then, and there is a graver look in his eyes - a look that, it must be said, makes him resemble his brother a great deal more. A shadow of sorrow, of gentler concern. His thoughts have turned, inevitably, from this talk of the sea and of homelands, to an old grief.

"My mother said much the same," he says, at last, and his tone is low. "It pained her, I know, to be so far from the sound of waves and the boundless horizon. Ever she looked west, and found no solace in the beauty of the land, for want of the Sea."

It is, unlike much that he has said, a wholly guileless confidence. The seed of doubt has found itself in his heart, the first that he has questioned his own scheme for any sake but his brother's. He is old enough to remember his mother, both before and during her final sickness; to remember how she gazed from the window towards a shore beyond the horizon, and how she sang mariner's songs, and wept as she sang them. How even then, the people of the city whispered that to be so far from her home was what led to her sickness and her frailty, that it was her longing for the sea that sapped her strength.

Will you condemn this girl to the same fate? He is not a man often given to second thoughts, but he is not careless of his responsibilities. If he draws this all together to the end he intends, will she suffer as the Lady Finduilas did, and stare westward from a high window, and weep?

He shakes his head, clearing his throat. This is, he reminds himself, only the first steps of a greater plan; and he will not force her into anything, and it is altogether possible that her father will not accept the younger son in any case. And she came here to be wedded. That, at least, is not of his making.

"But if you should stay a while, you will come, I am sure, to hear the other sounds of this place. It is far from silent, and by the banks of the Anduin the waves often break almost as loudly as those of the sea." He pats her arm lightly, offering her a smile. "And the forests are fairest of all, and many of them filled with secrets. Do you see there, far on the horizon, those woods upon the river? That is Lórien, where they say there still dwells an Elf-witch of great power, and few men have ever dared to tread. And westward - you cannot see for the mountains, but trust me - there is another forest, the Fangorn, where even the bold Rohirrim will not set axe to wood, for fear of what they might awaken. But in our own woods, there are only deer."

And, occasionally, Orcs. But that seems like a warning for later.

[reignfall]

A pitiful end for his lady mother, she thinks, though no worse than the fate her own once met. Who had neglected to teach that woman that it will never be her choice where she lives out her days? That she must, inevitably, part with the sights of her youth, and accept whatever land she is tied to by marriage? A few months ago, when it had first been decided that she would leave King's Landing, she had wept bitter tears of her own, for the Red Keep and the Narrow Sea, and then again for the Rock and for Lannisport, once she realised just how far away Gondor was, and how many years might lie between her marriage and her return to these familiar shores. But that was a few months ago, and she has steeled herself in the face of the inevitable. She would not, she has decided, falter as this woman had.

"My mother died to her duty, too. It is a unique pain that we share." But she won't die birthing a monster, and she won't die of missing the sea. She won't be too obvious in her sadness, either – this is a luxury he can grant himself, but not one available to her. If she seems unenthused of leaving her home behind, there is a risk he'll cheerfully send her back to it, and think himself kind for it to boot. She shakes her head, and carries on.

"This much I have learned on my journey here, your land seems rich in tales, many far more thrilling than those that plague Westeros. Most our tales of witches and wildnerness come all the way from across the Narrow Sea, from Essos." Save for those who made their home at the foot of the Rock, of course.


"Your brother is not yet on the verge of leaving for Ithilien, is he?"

Her question is posed quite casually, as though it is an afterthought, and not her hounding him for more tidbits now that he failed to mention Faramir for a handful of sentences.

[wouldhavefollowed]

She returns the conversation to its appointed tracks, without his urging, and that comes as some relief and joy to Boromir, who has found himself altogether too caught in the distraction of his worry - of her future, and of whether she hides her grief too well, to speak of her own mother's death without clear sorrow. But she speaks first of tales, which are readily brought to his brother's nature, and then of Faramir direct, and so spares him the labour of steering talk back that way himself.

His smile, then, is bright again, and sheds the grimness from his features, and he shakes his head.

"Not for a week or two, at least. He left the garrison at Osgiliath but a few days ago, and that in Ithilien proper more recently still. Unless word comes of another assault by the Enemy, then I think no man would question that he has earned his rest." His grey eyes dart sidelong to her, with an appraising sort of look. "A rest which, I hope, may be bettered by sweet company. He is not often given opportunity to indulge in talk of other interests than war, and though he is a valiant and well-honoured warrior, still it is scarcely a joy to him. Your presence here may be quite a blessing to his state."

[reignfall]

Of course her presence is a blessing, she thinks, to Faramir, to Boromir, even to their dour lord father. All should be grateful for a chance at basking in her radiance – so is it any wonder that she smiles a polite smile at his acknowledgement of it? Any man with a sense of pride would want his brother to know her, especially if he himself intends to wed her. Were she a man, she would parade a future wife around no different than what is done to her now: she would not settle for something that does not inspire jealousy.

Which begs to question what he means by her sweet company, which she is apparently meant to bestow upon his younger brother. Oh, she could make for the sweetest of nights, more so if he is to be sent back to war so soon, but what on earth could Boromir possibly gain from this? No doubt this is not what he means, and she will not quite examine why her thoughts went in that direction immediately – though anyone who wagers that it has something to do with Faramir's eyes, melancholic nature, valiance in battle, and handsome features would carry home her weight in gold that night.

"This is not a long time at all." After all, such visits tend to last a month or two, if suffered through to the polite end, and if she wishes to sample one brother before being wed to the other, well, she ought to have been told much sooner than this is the time for swift and decisive action. "Not that I seek to interfere with his duty, nor your own, my lord."

[wouldhavefollowed]

"It would take a stronger soul than either of us to interfere with Lord Faramir's duty," Boromir remarks drily, and chuckles. There is a fondness in that laugh, but a somewhat wry fondness: even for a man as duty-bound himself as Boromir, Faramir's immovability from duty and honour can come as a frustration. A case in point, of course, being the very ascetism that has led to this point. There is duty, and then there is self-abnegation, and Faramir too often - by his brother's measure, at least - lends himself to the latter. "But if it should come to it, there are duties that bind him to the City every bit as surely as those which draw him east of the river."

And, as the commander of Gondor's forces, and Faramir's direct superior, he has more ability than most to assure that those duties come first. If he must work a little to assure that other men take up the burden of his brother's command for a little time, without cost to the war effort... well, he need not pass every decision before his father, only those of gravest import, and in any case, who could argue that Faramir has not earned a somewhat longer leave? He tucks the thought away for the moment, but reminds himself to return to it after their talk that evening, when he may have a better sense of how much time is needed.

(And, of course, if it comes to pass as he wishes, Faramir must stay longer, for who could deny the duty of a groom to his bride?)

"As for my own, I am son to the Lord of the City, and his close right hand. What duty greater, then, than the matters of his guests?" He bows a little as he walks, smiling. It is a politeness, to an extent - there are many duties greater than this - but then, it is not quite a lie, either. "It is a joy to face less bloody duties, once in a while."

[reignfall]

It isn't without its appeal, to be what draws so dutifully minded a man, if only temporary, away from the cold and uncaring arms of his life's work. And here is not fat, lazy lord breeding yapping dogs or tending to a nauseating array of pale roses. Faramir is a warrior proper, tested and tried in battle upon battle, something even Rhaegar can scarcely boast. It is one thing to strike down the occasional band of bandits, and another to fight a true enemy.

Either way, she preens when he admits to the importance of her presence as a guest, and smiles ahead as she takes in where he leads her. If she is to learn the layout of the keep and its surroundings, she had best keep her eyes wide open. "Some Westerosi lords will not cease to speak of the glory of battle, and how it thrills them more than anything that might wait for them back home." It is a neutral tone that she uses, betraying nothing of her frustration or disgust, nor her deep-seated envy. Wherever she might stand to wed, she is bound to for life, with journeys only made for the occasional visit out of duty. Everything else is here: the pastimes she must dedicate herself to, the children she will eventually bear, and the matters of the household, which are typically bestowed upon the wife, even if matters of importance are meant to be run past her lord.

"Yet neither you nor your brother seem to hold with this quite the same way." They speak of war as a gruelling task, something that must be done and loathed.

[wouldhavefollowed]

Boromir turns to look down at her, and there is, for a moment, a flicker of distaste upon his stern and hard-worn features. He is not as subtle in his mislike of what he hears as, perhaps, he ought to be: but what he hears of the men of Westeros (and Lord Tywin does little to dispel that sense) does not much enthuse him. It is the same look that crossed his face much earlier, when she spoke at length of tourneys.

"There is joy in battle," he says, after a moment. "In the moment of it, in the glory and the fury and the song of steel; and there is a thrill that cannot be denied in a hard-won victory. But when the glory, and the joy, and the thrill all fade, you are left with the blood, and the wounded, and the burial of men who will never see their homes again." All this, he says matter-of-factly, but there is a pain and a grief behind his tone that he does not attempt to hide. "It seems to me, from all that you have said, that some Westerosi lords like to play at battle, but do not know what it is to be at war; and when they tire of the thrills of it, perhaps they pack away their swords and spears and armour, like children put away their toys, and know that what waits for them back home will wait no matter what they do. But we men of Gondor, we who stand as the vanguard for all the realms of Men..."

He shakes his head, and sighs, looking back at the towers of the Citadel. "We are weary of it, my lady. That is the truth, plain and simple - though I am sure others could give you prettier words for it. There is glory in battle, yes, and both Faramir and I have won victories which might well be worthy of retelling - ask him, perhaps, how he retook the slopes of Emyn Arnen last year, when we feared them lost - but there is dullness, too, and drudgery, and bitter defeats and losses. I do not think there is a man in Gondor who would not be gladder in peacetime - even I, and I am a hot-blooded spirit."

[reignfall]

"You seem to know an awful lot of a land you have never set foot in." For the first time, there is more than a mere hint of coldness in her tone. It is less his words that struck home, for all her own might suggest it, and more the way they remind her of the gulf between her homeland and this new, foreign one she has found herself shipped to. It is true, she thinks most Westerosi lords fools and their wives just that much worse, but at least it is a foolishness she knows.

And perhaps, just perhaps, a part of her is upset at having been brought here, at a time of war. And not a swift one, either, not a disagreement between two houses that can be resolved with a handful of battles and an unhappy marriage at the end. This is long-lasting, and worse than anything Westeros has seen in some time, and her father has brought her here from her relative peace, presumably to bear sons into it. She could be in Westeros, not thinking much of battles at all, not beyond tales and the occasionally band of bandits or quarrelling upstart of a house.

It has occurred to her that her father is not wagering on a grand victory here. To make all of this theirs, all it takes is a marriage and the death of the eldest son – and, of course, the conception of an heir, which she reckons her father considers a suitably simple task. "Forgive me, my lord. I do not mean to make light of the darkness that has befallen your lands."