a question came, a jeering whisper to his ear.

he sinned.

have he?

the knight gazes at the lord in cold defeat, a falter within the beat of his heavy bleeding organ crowned with thorns burning through seven hells at the mere sight of you in white, swaying in your own nuptial. hand to hand, happy with the first son of house strong.

if he tells you harwin had bed that silver girl, would you believe him? would you take his hand, his side?

like a flame drawing a moth in, yearning as eve to taste the apple of truth. one step forward, one step back, your back kisses the ladder. your hand reaches back instinctively to hold onto its step, the ring on your finger scratches the wood.

again, have he sinned?

he did.