bakerstreet | TFLN Overflow

[ mARG... ]

They've been tonguing each other's arseholes for the past hour, and I don't think I could stand another minute of it.

[ Read: "they're telling inside jokes and it's incredibly annoying." Ruining the demure, faelike reputation of the elves, one crude statement at a time. ]

[ it's fun putting him in timeout sometimes!! ]

That sounds delightful, actually. You don't want to join in?

[ but FINE, she's probably tortured him enough - ]

I'm on my way, but I just have one more stop to make. What's your favorite fruit?

[ she left this unhinged drama king at a tavern and expected him not to punch someone in the face within the first ten minutes??? she has so much more faith in Iorveth than most.

also, she's being... ugh... nice again......... ]

A bribe, milady? The scandal of it all.

Did you really think I would throw you to the wolves and not return with at least a small gesture of gratitude? Better yet, I secured what we needed, so we don't have to come back.

[ see what patience gets you, Iorveth?? ]

I know it hasn't been easy, but thank you.

For being so good.

[ Ughhhhhhh. He would usually bare his fangs and hiss at someone for essentially "good-boy"-ing him, and yet.

Marked as read for a precarious four minutes or so, and then: ]

You've a reputation you need to uphold, and I'm still an emissary.

I've still some wine left, and two glasses.

If you bring figs, you can help me finish the bottle.

[ He could've just said "I like figs", but Iorveth will be Iorveth. ]

[ so he can be practical - and very fun to tease when she's mostly certain he's not plotting her demise as retribution. the detail of two glasses doesn't get past her, though she's finally choosing to exercise her usual brand of "deference" and doesn't send off any snarky commentary in response.

the reason for her silence becomes apparent when she joins him not ten minutes later, looking far too pleased with herself. the reason? ]

I learned how to tell when fruit are perfectly ripe.

[ if there's any subsequent judgment radiating off of him - she's still a highborn lady, give her a break!! - it's easily ignored as she offers him two perfectly soft and plump figs with one hand. their journey has been more comfortable than most, on account of all the stops they get to make along the way, but her inability to tell which berries are good for picking has led to many sour-faced embarrassments (because she's refused to give up) on the road.

her curious gaze goes from blinking at the wine bottle to her eyebrows rising up when she meets his gaze. ]

Wine, and not something stronger?

[ The tavern practically buzzes when Margaery arrives. Like bees dancing around their queen, Iorveth thinks, as a gaggle of barmaids and their friends huddle amongst themselves to whisper excitedly under their hands; a group of mercenaries playing cards forget to fleece each other to crane their necks and rake their half-drunk eyes over the lovely woman taking her seat next to the stone-faced elf that'd been scowling at a group of soldiers a few minutes ago. One of them whines "what, she's sittin' with the elf?", and is summarily reprimanded by a heel to his foot from the man perched next to him.

Suppressing the urge to roll his remaining eye (at the onlookers, not Margaery), Iorveth reaches for the bottle and starts pouring for the both of them. ]

I assumed you'd prefer wine.

[ Another way to say that he expected her to join him, and that he doesn't intend to be a messy drunk during a diplomatic mission. He'll comment about the state of the fruit, too― a triumph, he'll concede― but only after he comments about the state of...

...well, her, he supposes. ]

Try not to make eye contact with the rabble― I suspect half the tavern will die of a heart attack if you do.

[ adulation is a tricky thing. Margaery has no doubt that if Olenna hadn't been so adamant about stamping out any misguided notions of external validation, she'd have succumbed to its effects long ago; but the less she desires it, the more she seems to have. here and now, it feels particularly inappropriate to encourage the attention, and yet - she can't resist a gentle touch to crook of his elbow, brief but impossible to miss, accompanied by a smile. gratitude, for his thoughtful consideration of drink choice.

how fortunate that she only cares to look at him, even when the volume of whispers swells from that small gesture alone. ]

Only because you've scared so many of them halfway to death already, I imagine.

[ she accepts her glass, eyes falling to his forearm as her amusement fades into something more thoughtful.

perhaps a touch apprehensive? ]

How attached are you to your bracers?

[ Margaery, cast in the glittering light of adulation, and Iorveth, a shadow that casts darker and sharper as a consequence. The more she's seen as, well, more than, the starker his station as less than becomes; a strange elf on the arm of a woman who could be (would be) queen, a creature consorting with a human.

It should make him sour, but Margaery's kindness (because that's what it is, as much as he rebels against the thought) keeps the rage at bay. Her focus, her sincerity. If she were any less of a person, he would be far from here, still starved and snarling.

With her hand still on his arm, he takes a fig. Perfectly ripe, as she promised. ]

Attached enough to be angry if you offered them to another, but not so attached that I'd refuse taking them off momentarily.

[ They're his, but he can show some skin if she really wants. No one here could best him in a tussle, anyway. His brow hikes, broadcasting curiosity. ]

Why do you ask?

[ a flicker of a smile, although her eyes are still contemplative. ]

... I have something else for you.

[ the real reward for all his patience, should he like what she has. ]

There's a renowned armorsmith here, well-sourced enough that he can work with higher quality materials so long as he considers the name and coin worth his time. He worked on some of my brother's armor before, and it saved Loras' life during the tournaments. I had him make you these.

[ out come decorative bracers, lined with dark brown leather but accented with a dark, lightweight steel that has been etched with flowers reminiscent of the ones he wears. and suddenly it becomes obvious that her pensiveness is actually shyness. ]

I would not insult you by making you wear anything too reminiscent of a human knight, but... sometimes I worry.

[ Oh.

He wears the sentiment on his face― oh. Like it hadn't occurred to him that she would make such a detour, like he'd thought that being brought an expensive fruit was unexpected enough for his cynical heart. Margaery presents him with the sort of gift that one doesn't present to people who are lesser than, and because of that reality, Iorveth can't find it in himself to rebel.

The fig gets set back on the table. Busy piece of fruit, traveling here and there in such a short amount of time. ]

They're beautiful.

[ He states, simply and truthfully. Not quite crafted to elven specifications, but not quite as glaringly human as the bits and bobs of armor that Iorveth has scavenged and sewn onto himself to make do. An attempt at a marriage of two cultures, which―

―is probably what they're trying to do, him and her. Not marriage, but. You know.

Shooing that thought out of his head, Iorveth lays one forearm on the table, with the laces and buckles of his current bracers exposed. ]

I would have you put them on me.

[ the irony isn't lost on Margaery; she carries the mission but he carries the brunt of the danger, ranging from reproachful stares to outright suspicion. and while her presence can temper the potential of escalation, she also knows what they look like to bigots who are incapable of being reasoned with, and swift to draw their own conclusions - the big bad elf with his helpless human hostage.

tension leaves her shoulders, betraying her relief as she shifts closer so one arm can come up under his, close enough that her chin grazes his bicep when she leans in for concentration. loosening his current bracer is far easier than securing one of the new ones, and the sound of the buzzing tavern is naturally drowned out as her fingers work to feed rigid leather through new buckles, with Margaery pausing every so often to ensure it's not too tight.

it's - heavier, which she's still not certain is a worthy tradeoff for the sturdier protection it provides, but that's for Iorveth to decide. ]

How does it feel?

[ once finished, her hands gently grip along his forearm on both sides for a final tactile check. while she had to eyeball the measurements so as not to arouse suspicion, she's pleased to see that it runs on the longer side, covering the outer curve of his elbow. ]

If it's more impractical than your current ones, I'd much rather you wear those instead. [ with the task completed, her smile is back to playful when she turns to look at him, and she's very aware of how close their faces are. ] You won't be hurting my feelings.

[ Steel and leather. Iorveth waits until Margaery is finished to lift his arm and feel the weight of the new addition on his body, to watch how the metal catches the dim light of the tavern interior and makes the floral pattern seem to dance.

It'll take getting used to. Readjustments to his aim. Despite that, Iorveth finds it comical that Margaery went through all the trouble to suggest that he not wear the bracers at all. Tipping his head, conspiratorial, he leans just a fraction closer for the breath it takes for their noses to brush, just for a whisper of a moment. ]

All that time and coin spent, for me to reject a pretty piece of armor. ―No, I don't think that will be the outcome.

[ Of all the things he's become eagle-eyed about after his capture and torture, Iorveth likes to think that ill intent and conditional kindness are the two major items. It guts him, privately, to see neither of them reflected in Margaery's lovely smile.

So: ]

Thank you. [ Sincerely meant. Under his breath, though, so only the person meant to hear it does. ] This was... good of you.

[ her eyes narrow knowingly when he leans in - tease - but she's thinking about his capture and torture, too. things have been too smooth so far, disagreements too easily overcome. perhaps it points to the laziness of humans now that they consider themselves the rightful masters of the land, but it feels like the calm before a storm, too. only a handful of people know the routes the two of them have been taking to visit strongholds, but she only trusts half, if that, not to be won over by greed. ]

You're welcome.

[ she withdraws then, back to a more appropriate amount of space between them, but her voice remains equally soft. ]

You should know I'll never forgive you if anything happens to you, and I have to endure the burdens of this diplomatic journey on my own. Or with another emissary who doesn't have your warped sense of humor.

[ no, she hasn't forgiven him for that tonguing arseholes description just yet, especially now that she has faces to go with the imagery. there's a momentary shudder before she takes a sip of wine. ]

Is there anything that makes you feel fear? Or have your past experiences purged that ability from you?

[ She pulls back, leaving behind the scent of her perfume and the ghost of her breath along his cheek. For a second, Iorveth considers actually tugging her by the back of her neck and kissing her in witness of the rabble, but decides against it. Damned if he does (perceived as a lovely lady's mangy dog, one that doesn't know how to heel), damned if he doesn't (he gets to be inconveniently horny for the rest of the day).

To keep his mouth occupied, Iorveth takes a sip of wine and finally, finally moves to cut the stem from the fig to eat it whole. A delicacy－ he's surprised Margaery found one, but then again, he should know better than to question her resourcefulness.

Politely refraining from scoffing at the suggestion that she'd find another emissary with his warped sense of humor (impossible), he mulls over the more loaded question instead. ]

I only fear the continued torturing of my people.

[ Swallowing soft, sweet fruit, to make his words taste less bitter. ]

I fear doing nothing as men and women lay starving in caves. I fear becoming yet another old elf kept in a kennel, rotting from the inside out. The silent violence, the erosion of myself. I would think that you, of all humans, would understand that fear.

[ she does, intimately. but the difference between them lies in the soft selfishness that's only afforded by someone who has placed most of their faith in hope - in words, in diplomacy, in the collaboration of goodwill because peace is really all they've ever known. a peace that has depended on the silent violence, as it turns out. ]

If you had to make a choice, would you die fighting a fight you may not win, or run away to live and fight another day?

[ Margaery picks up the leather bracer that's been replaced with both hands, absentmindedly running fingertips over the signs of wear and tear, the straps that are still holding on strong despite how well-worn they are.

the taste of wine lingers in her mouth, potent and ever so slightly sweet; he'd truly taken her preferences into account. the thought makes it more difficult for her to admit, ]

I can't imagine you running away from any fight. And yet, that's what I might ask you to do one day.

[ it's not so much Iorveth's resentment that she's worried about, as it is the possibility that he might not agree with her decision. ]

[ Under flickering tavern light, Iorveth tips his head. Anger ebbs and flows like the tides, and this time, he lets it recede－ no point, he thinks. He finds that he's less and less offended by Margaery's assumptions of him than he used to be, and only partially because she's gotten better at getting a read on him.

Another sip of wine, another bite of fig. Iorveth props an elbow on the lacquered tabletop, his new bracers gleaming as he rests his chin on his palm. ]

Not very charitable of you. At least call it an 'expeditious retreat'.

[ Not 'running away'. Very rude. His voice lilts, verging on the edge of being unserious despite the topic of conversation (serious). ]

I may be a warrior, but I'm not fool enough to die without cause. If there are better battles－ ones that may be won, and for greater reward－ I'll not waste my life needlessly.

[ Those are the stakes. His right-hand elf had once called him the last of the free elves, and though he'd laughed and waved the description off before－ "too grandiose to be true, I think"－ it's becoming more and more of a reality. ]

The question remains whether I'll trust your judgment when the time comes. A bridge we've yet to cross.

Edited (engLISH!!!!!!!) 2025-05-26 10:18 (UTC)

[ her smile is grim, unapologetic. the more time they spend together, the less afraid she is of his anger and that doesn't bode well for her if - when they survive this and she's expected to go back to the rigid structure of high society. none of the lords have Iorveth's patience. nor his conviction, his ability to think beyond himself and his ego.

she chases down the unpleasant thought with another longer sip of wine. there's a lull in the conversation as the rim of the cup stays close to her lips afterward, the first (MCP) joint of her thumb gently bumping against her lower lip in thought. ]

And if I told you to leave me behind?

[ the glass is lowered on the table again, her tone also courting a lighthearted tone despite the serious implication of the question. as a human noble, she's easier to target, but she's also more likely to have privileges as a prisoner. like ransom that her family will be able to afford, and the natural inclination of humans to take hierarchy seriously. ]

Would you trust me to be able to survive without you until we're reunited?

[ it's another question riddled with assumptions; this isn't the time or place to start prodding this amalgamous relationship they have, but Margaery feels confident enough to think he might consider her a genuine ally in their mutual cause. ]

[ Interesting hypothetical. Iorveth takes a moment to consider how that would play out, and the optics of it. A wanted elf freedom fighter, escaping with his own life and letting the daughter of an influential noble family be captured in his stead.

First impressions: ] I doubt they'd allow me to reunite with you, should that happen.

[ He'd probably be caught and executed for failing to protect Lady Margaery. Elves aren't shown much clemency in the court of human opinion, as proven by the amount of elf corpses swaying on public gallows in every town he's ever passed.

Not exactly tavern-appropriate conversation. Then again, nothing they've done thus far has been particularly wise or well-advised, so Iorveth figures that it's just the running theme. A sip of wine, and he angles his head another fraction towards Margaery, mapping how the candlelight catches her face. ]

I trust that you're resourceful. If I don't manage to accomplish what you've set out to do, I believe that you'd find other ways.

[ Strong women often do. Iorveth is a strong proponent of putting women in power, mostly because they don't see the need to rule with their dicks. Case in point: his crusade to see a Queen be crowned. ]

Even if I - ?

[ no. of course he's right. it's times like these that make her feel like for all the cleverness in the world, there is nothing she can do to outsmart the brutality that has been there first, like darkness greeting the light. a part of her wants to lean into him for comfort. another part of her wants to pinch his upper arm as a quiet announcement of her annoyance (at the world, not him).

instead of either of those, she takes the fig out of his hand and takes a small (defiant) bite before handing it back to him. ]

You know you're very good at making me realize how selfish I am sometimes. But, it's not a bad thing.

[ she'll just have to get better at playing by the rules that have never once applied to her, even if that means more mistakes along the way. ]

I think it means you're actually... a very good emissary.

[ the scattered laugh that follows after isn't mean, or teasing. it's not even loud enough to be heard properly over the usual din of a tavern. it's just soft fondness as she remembers their first meeting, oozing out through amusement until she packages it up neatly with her polite smile. ]

Shall we leave?

[ Even if she...? Told her family to spare him if he failed, perhaps. There's not a chance, he thinks: her family adore her far too much to risk her life to save an unpredictable elf with a history of bad behavior. He's simply shed too much blood for most to be comfortable with him.

But that's fine. She should take better care of herself, anyway. Margaery is soft, and sweet, and stupidly lionhearted; she'll be the death of herself, and Iorveth finds that her human life is worth something to him, despite all odds.

Troublesome. Intriguing. He offers a hand when she sits up, getting to his feet before she can beat him to it. Theatrical, in a way that only a man like him can be. ]

I'm the bane of your existence, [ he reminds her, as a counter to her very amusing claim that he's a good emissary. Maybe, but he knows he doesn't make her life easy. ] But yes, there are better places to dress me down than in this accursed tavern.

[ Bowing his head, and taking her hand to kiss the back of it. The barmaids by the corner titter behind their hands again; unlike the drunk mercenaries, they're more intrigued by a pointy-eared creature being chivalrous to a lovely lady. ]

[ the barmaids aren't the only ones who want to titter; under her veneer of adaptable calm, Margaery is still the woman who was brought up on dreams of marrying gallant princes. Iorveth might be the furthest thing from one, but as the bane of her existence, he's more than effective when it comes to affecting her with something as common as a kiss to the back of her hand. ]

Come. That just reminded me of somewhere else I want to go.

[ she takes his arm, much like she'd take a friend's, flashing a smile and a wink to the barmaids behind his back (a message they immediately understand, as conveyed by another fit of giggles) before confidently leading him out.

if there's one boon to traveling, it's the hot springs. a bath at home means being trapped in a tub in the bedroom while hot water is continuously poured in to offset the fast-cooling temperature - but out here, even in the most secluded spots, there's a view, and open air, and water pressure that soothes her aching muscles. heat that never goes cold.

even with the risk of vulnerability, it's well worth it. ]

Do you like saunas?

[ thanks to a kind villager, they've found one of the smaller, more isolated hot springs near town; little wonder for its lack of popularity when it's so thickly shrouded by trees that the surface of the rocks are almost cold to the touch despite the warmth of the water. she's not... shy about her body, but she still makes Iorveth get in first (with her eyes averted) and turn around while she gets in.

a small splash and a sharp intake of breath later, ]

You can turn around.

[ Friends who bicker and occasionally take baths together. It's fine. They'll be the talk of this small village for weeks to come, and Iorveth is keen to be as far away as possible before the rumors can metamorphize (metastasize) into something far beyond his control.

Anyway. The hot springs. A little-known fact about him, and now a well-known fact between him and Margaery, is that Iorveth is a fan of bathing (or, at least, a fan of being warm and clean)― a hard-earned luxury when one is a stateless radical.

Long, tan limbs steeped in water and steam, he turns around when bid. Polite, with his focus above the surface of the water, his headscarf traded for a strip of cloth that he's wound primarily over the broken socket of his missing eye. ]

I've never been in one, [ he says about saunas, rubbing warm bathwater over board archer's shoulders. ] Seems unsafe to sit around naked for prolonged amounts of time.

[ During wartime, anyway. A crooked half-smile, and he tips his head to the side. ]

[ she grins back, the expression overtaking her entire face and adding to the unusual vision of her with her hair messily piled up on top of her head, her skin flushing bright pink where it's been touched by hot water. Margaery Tyrell as she's never been seen before. ]

Try it sometime. I want to hear you yelp when you dive into the cold water afterwards for all the proper health benefits.

[ wet hands come up to warm her face, her chest expanding with a sigh of contentment. it's tempting, to just sink underwater and stay there, to let the constant worries float away as she defies her own ambition for a while. instead, she swims closer to Iorveth, as authoritative as ever. ]

Turn around.

[ it'll take a bit of adjustment so they're both comfortable, but Margaery's knuckles are gently firm when they start running along the width of his shoulders, followed by her fingertips digging into the lines of his muscles, rubbing out any kinks along their paths. ]

I liked to do this for my family. [ for her grandmother, because her body ages far too quickly while her mind stays sharp. for her father, who likes to pretend he's still young. her brother, who swings a sword like it's a part of his own arm. ] I'm the only one they trusted with something like this.

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@versigny

ty for moving us!! ❤️

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used a fake english word in ur honor >:(

i am begging myself to understand how english works!!!!!!!!

you are perfect, english is always in the wrong!!!!!!

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the urge to have marg kabedon iorveth was too strong im sry.. ... ,

the way we thought this wouldn't get intimate....... marg is too powerful

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