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larys.
⠀ ⠀ MAESTER CAELAN DID NOT TRUST HIM. It radiated off of him; suspicion, his misgivings warping irreparably in the air between them. That he hadn't bothered to conceal it could only mean that he had to intention of repairing it, and if he did not care to repair it, then it appeared he had chosen to draw a line.
Which was too bad, considering Larys had grown quite fond of their mental sparring games.
"You seem distressed, good Maester," the Clubfoot commented at the sidelines, leaning over to speak with Caelan in private beneath the drapes of one of the canopies. The loudness of the feast concealed his tone well enough. "Something bothering you?"
Caelan's gaze slid to his, then back to Lady Nesmyra, who was left alone upon the dancefloor, a fresh flush of embarrassment upon her cheeks. "Evidently," said Maester Caelan. "Are you not seeing your victory?"
"I'm seeing it."
"And now you've come to flaunt it in my face?"
Lord Strong smiled thinly. "I suppose I don't see much use in the matter, considering you already seem quite aware of your losses."
Maester Caelan finally managed to tear his attention from the abandoned Lady Nesmyra, glancing sharply at the man beside him. He seemed as though he wished to wipe the smile off Larys' face. That did not seem particularly practical, and Larys considered himself a practical sort of man.
"You're serious, aren't you?" Caelan questioned.
"Lethally, I'm afraid," responded Lord Strong, then proceeded. "I know you're suspicious of me. Of everyone."
"I find people to be largely disappointing," said Caelan.
"Interestingly," Strong mused with a pointed look in his direction, "so do I."
"Is that considered interesting?"
"I keep being proven right, much to my dismay," the Clubfoot dodged his question, gesturing to a lost looking Nesmyra. "You were quite the worthy opponent, though. That, in itself, is a rare enough feat."
Caelan laughed, apparently despite himself. "You don't concern yourself much with being liked, do you, Lord Strong?"
"No, I don't." He was doubtful Maester Caelan would be capable of understanding, but the sensation of being liked was extraordinarily dull. Feeble, small in comparison. It ensured nothing but smiles and nudges, in these times, it scarcely ensured loyalty. "Being liked is fairly ordinary, I'm afraid. Intensely commonplace."
