[ VIDEO ] → ❝ pardon me sir gangster - your trousers are descending ❞
[ From the looks of it, this new face has been messing around with the Forge for upwards of twenty minutes. His face is twisted in a most unhappy expression that was probably brought on by waking up in this room and being greeted with such a poor explanation as to why he was here and then intensified by the fact he couldn't get this godforsaken
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Would that were the worst part about him. She tries to find the beauty in him, the lie she once believed - to slip the veil back over but it's too caked with filth to pass for gossamer now.
Then again, he'd been fooled before, hadn't he? How could he know what she was thinking, how much she hated him when he most likely thought her small and insignificant and stupid?
What does he know? When is he---]
Your Grace.
[Is she smiling as she says this? Yes, just a bit. It means nothing, like all titles here - perhaps among the smattering of Scorched that hailed from Westeros and beyond, but beyond that? No one cares. Have your title, Joffrey, it's useless. But since you like the sound of it, have it again, why don't you?]
Forgive me, Your Grace.
[Choke on it. She'll just try not to show fear in the wake of those words. Seeing that smile just makes her angry that she'd been so blind to it, to him - it was so obvious now. Even his smile was cruel. But hers is not. It's full of false deference and even falser warmth, and caution just beneath.]
What else should I remember, if it please you?
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