The year is 286 AC. King Jaehaerys II has just passed, leaving the throne without a rightful ruler. While his three children fight for the crown, Winter creeps closer, and unimaginable darkness looms.
Not all alliances will be so typical this time. In fact, many people have a crucial effect on the way this story is told. As for the ending, we only hope there are enough people left alive to tell it after its passed.
Events
Join us for our first event, the wake of recently deceased King Jaehaerys II.
Updates
AUG. 19: So we are now officially open to the public. We have a mini-event flashback thread going on, and our main event just began. Feel free to make a second canon if you can keep both of them active enough.
Don't hesitate in pestering staff with questions; it's what we're here for! Let's raise a glass and make a cheer toward a successful launch of Winds of Winter.
Post by Daemon Baratheon on Jul 1, 2015 18:43:34 GMT
OURS IS THE FURY
“There it is, at last,” his father muttered, the cold winds lifting his thick black beard almost in front of his chiseled face. A rasp series of coughs followed, signs of age creeping up on him. “Karhold. Seven hells, this journey took so damn long. Hope this beauty is worth it.” Daemon heard all his father said, but gave him no reply. His eyes did not even look at him, but instead upon the ever growing walls of stone off in the hilled distance. Karhold, seat of House Karstark, sat leagues away from the warmer embrace of the Stormlands. Behind its chilly confines awaited his betrothed, the Lady Althea Karstark. Daemon’s father had accepted Lord Karstark’s offer to match her with his son, the heir to Storm’s End. An unexpected match, surely, but wit clear merits as well.
Daemon’s father favored houses and people of strength, and he knew the North possessed many through its descendants of the first men. Men claimed that the firstborn daughter of Lord Karstark possessed a fiery spirit greater than that of the average northern woman. Thus, when a raven flew down south and into his halls, Lord Baratheon read and accepted Lord Karstark’s offer, rather than pair Daemon off with a lady of one of his vassals. But the journey had taken weeks, and at last the Baratheon host had come from the edge of Shipbreaker Bay to the cliffs just near the Shivering Sea.
The guards atop Karhold’s battlements would recognize the black stag on gold fluttering in the northern winds. The castle’s gate creaked open as it slid upward, and Daemon followed his father’s lead as their destriers strode into the main courtyard. He was young then, but every bit as brooding and collected as he would become in later years. He wore black leather without the golden adornments he preferred, not altogether appealing to the eye but comforting for his long ride. Wooden carts would follow behind the saddled procession, filled with food and drink and garments — including Daemon’s own, for the wedding.
Their horses circled before the Baratheons could dismount. “Don’t look so cold, Daemon, there’s plenty of that up here as it is,” his father jested, coughing more as he stepped down from his mount. His cloak fluttered as wildly as his beard did, black velvet and thick, with golden vines embroidered along its edges. “Worry more about your health, father, and less about me.” As Daemon dismounted alongside his father, he glanced around for signs of his betrothed. He had never met her, and thus had no idea what to look for. But he had heard murmurs of a black-haired beauty, features softer than snow. He had come to do his duty, but did she?
It must be hard, being a woman. Boo hoo genetic lottery this and that.
It's not like she had a choice in this, not really. And not for the first time in her life (or the last) would she wish that she had been born male instead. It was a gamble at birth and a gamble following birth if you were a girl. The next question after checking the place between your legs: were you pretty enough? You would hope and pray as you got older and you'd learn soon enough what that answer was. See, men could work all their lives to hone their skills, martial or academic, and while a woman could do the same in the end it all came down to her face or body, didn't it? The woman needn't work so hard. But at the same time, if she was unlucky, her days on this earth would be as a shadow with none abiding. Althea was not fond of such a hit-or-miss existence. Where was the merit she could work honorably towards? And it wasn't as simple as picking up a sword and declaring yourself a warrior - you'd be laughed down and have to work twice as hard just to go even with the stronger sex.
But she supposed she was lucky enough and should not gripe, as her parents had told her repeatedly. She stood in front of her standing mirror, taller than she was, simple, and clean. In it she saw her fair skin, eyelashes darkened, lips reddened, hair thick and heavy and curled to rest on her right shoulder - because who put their hair up in this cold? She wore a grey woolen dress and a dark cloak lined with white wolf's fur pinned on her shoulders and which hung down till her feet. Wool gloves, wool boots - also grey.
The ends of her lips would curl a little. Oh how terrible it would be if the Baratheons had come ill-equipped for an outdoor wedding. How dearly she hoped they would not shiver as night fell.
But eventually the calls rang throughout Karhold. They're here, and open the gates. There was a knock on her door and Althea would stare down her reflection one last time before walking to the door and exiting with two handmaidens. As she made her way down to the courtyard, the Lord and Lady of Karhold would appear.
"My Lord Baratheon," her father would boom across the courtyard as he strode over. More bear than a man, he towered over his wife who was thin with a heart-shaped face and the same black and white contrast of her daughter. "Welcome, welcome. And to your son and men too, aye?" The two of them would unabashedly stare down the young man who was to become their son-in-law, sizing him up before returning their attention on his father and the conversation picked up again.
At that point Althea was standing off to the side a bit, near the entryway to the main hall with her hands on the stone ledge lining the outer walkways. She probably should have come close and introduced herself (or be introduced), but as it was she mostly was just trying not to fold her arms and scowl, so her raptor gaze would have to do.
Post by Daemon Baratheon on Jul 2, 2015 15:07:31 GMT
OURS IS THE FURY
The doors into Karhold flung open, inviting the cold airs in as the Karstarks shuffled out. A great bear of a man led them, with a thin woman trailing along besides. Daemon surmised that this man would become his father-in-law. “Ha ha, there you are, my Lord Karstark! Aye, we’re all glad to have finally made it here!” he said loudly and heartily, waving Daemon toward his side. Daemon approached slowly, his face rigid but not entirely stern. His mind preoccupied itself with thoughts of his wife to be, rather than greeting his bride’s father. “Here’s my boy, ready to claim your daughter,” Lord Baratheon said proudly, and his introduction summoned Daemon forward.
Daemon extended a hand outward, intending to firmly shake Lord Karstark’s hand. “A pleasure, my lord,” he said courteously. His eyes stayed on Lord Karstark’s, but he wanted to quickly peel them off so that he could find the Lady Althea. She had exited the keep with her parents and handmaidens, but with all the other men and horses circling about, Daemon failed to immediately pinpoint her. “So, now that we’re finally here an’ all, best get us settled in, aye? If we’re to marry them off at sundown, we best get everyone changing,” Lord Baratheon suggested. Rather than Lord Karstark, it was Daemon who replied.
“Wait, father,” he urged, turning his head partially around his shoulder at his sire before returning his attention to Lord Karstark. “My lord, if it pleases you, might I first meet the Lady Althea? It’s been a long ride, and before we get the preparations further underway, I would like to see her. After all, I am to be joined with her very shortly.” Despite the politeness of his speech, Daemon struggled to keep his typically abundant patience. The cold nipped at the back of his neck, and he wanted to lay eyes on his betrothed before doing anything else. Subconsciously, worries about her slipped into his head. What had she heard of him? Would she fight against the match? Were the rumors about her true? It was unlike Daemon to worry, and none that currently surrounded him would ever hear of his racing mind from his own lips – but still his thoughts could not stop whirling in his head, and his heart beat would still as he waited on Lord Karstark’s permission.
Post by ASHARA MARTELL on Jul 2, 2015 17:38:32 GMT
i've got darkness and fears to appease
Lord Karstark would chuckle, though it would match the Lord Baratheon's greeting in loudness and baritone with zero difficulty. "Cold treat you well? What do you have down there anyway, endless puddles and thunder?" He would shake hands with Daemon, very obviously testing his grip with a vice hold of his own, but his grin said nothing of the sort. And the Lord Karstark did not even bat an eye at Daemon's request, which should've said something about the situation. He bothered not even to look around, long ago realizing it was fruitless. Instead, he would raise his voice a bit, and though it was technically in a conversational tone it still echoed through the castle. "ALTHEA! YOUR MAN'S HERE TO SEE YOU." His wife would put a hand to her temple and shake her head almost imperceptively. The man, however, seemed not troubled at all. "She's jus' a bit shy," he rumbled with a nod.
Several of the servants in the area very pointedly averted their eyes from the Karstarks, and a few even smirked a little bit. Such a thing was common place in Karhold, Althea having developed the talent for disappearing and her father being far too lazy to indulge in her games, instead calling her out for it like so. Althea's handmaidens would glance at each other as she muttered a string of impressive curses under her breath - for her father, for her marriage, for the stupid lordling that came only to take her away. But she held up a hand to them, telling them to sod off and / or stay, to which she then left her hiding spot and marched out into the yard. Her boots would crunch on the mixture of grass and snow scattered about the ground, her cloak dragging the latter that it came into contact with.
"Our daugther, the Lady Althea," Lady Karstark would introduce graciously as Althea came to a rather ungracious halt before the gathering of four. The entire time she had not looked at Daemon but instead stared at his father. "My Lord Baratheon," she intoned politely. Then she forced herself to turn a bit and look at her betrothed, though perhaps she was staring at his forehead instead, who could say. And she hesitated for just a second too long. "...Lord Daemon Baratheon," she said far more slowly and deliberately.
Lord Karstark would plant a meaty hand on his daughter's shoulder, causing her to rock a bit though she displayed no surprise at it. Another common occurrence.
Post by Daemon Baratheon on Jul 2, 2015 19:25:56 GMT
OURS IS THE FURY
Lord Karstark’s answer? A boisterous shout, it echoed throughout the courtyard and bounced off the stone walls and keep. It reminded Daemon of his father’s exuberant laughing during feasts he hosted at Storm’s End. Why, Lord Baratheon even smirked, perhaps appreciating Lord Karstark’s kindred loud spirit. It seemed that the families would get along well enough if the bride and groom would not. As his voice reverberated around the castle, Lord Karstark nodded to Daemon, mentioning that his daughter was just shy. Daemon’s facial expression did not change, but his thoughts did. In the weeks it took his host to travel up North, he had heard passing tales of Althea’s spirited nature. Shy? That was the last thing he expected.
A figure moved down from the steps, boots crunching the wet grass and patches of snow beneath her feet. And then she came to stand beside her father, without curtsy or careful grace. Althea dressed in grey wool, with a dark cloak lined in typical northern fashion with white wolf fur. Her black hair sat atop her shoulders, and her red lips stood out next to her pale skin. She looked every bit a beautiful northern lady. At least that expectation carried into truth. But as Daemon’s eyes found themselves immediately fixated on the alluring women before him, Althea’s did not even set upon him. No, she first looked at his father instead.
“My lady,” Daemon’s father smirked, bowing respectfully to her polite greeting. Daemon did not receive the same degree courtesy. She slowly turned to face him, and even she did, her eyes seemed glued to his forehead. Had she looked into his eyes, she would have finally seen the first emotion to break free from Daemon’s strict control over his expression – one of mild shock. She seemed far colder than he expected. The rumors said she was vigorous and proud, her father called her shy, but to Daemon she simply appeared chilling and not even willing to look him in the eye.
But Daemon Baratheon knew his duties and expectations well. He replied to Althea’s cold hesitation with traditional lordly flair. “It’s a great pleasure to finally meet you, Lady Althea,” he bowed. He would have kissed the back of her hand, but this woman did not seem ready to extend hers out. Her father planted a hand on her shoulder and rocked her slightly. Daemon’s eyes still looked in her own. Indeed, her beauty captivated him, but attraction was not love. And Daemon did not act on whims or fluttering fancies of the heart. This would prove to be a rough and draining wedding – yet he’d trudge through it with as much grace as he could.
“Aye, but a beauty, clearly!” Daemon’s father roared, his coarse voice followed by another fit of coughing. Daemon glanced at his ailing lord, noticing that his health continued to worsen in the cold. “Well, now that that’s done, let’s get ‘em dressed. Sun won’t stay up for long, and you an’ I need to get in our cups sooner rather than later, eh, my lord? Hahahaha!” Daemon’s eyes narrowed as he looked at his father. An overly cheerful front for sadly aging old man.
Well, he seemed unfazed enough by her character, though many lordlings were good at maintaining pretenses. She would bow in return - sort of. More a nod than anything else, and that was it. But she would continue to be protected, at least for a short while longer, by the label of shy though everyone knew she was anything but. And she also continued to not meet his eyes, not exactly. While his would show some slight confusion, hers were dark and liquid rather than listless. A difference he would soon come to recognize. On the upside, she was getting to know his forehead quite intimately.
The Lord Karstark would laugh again at the mention of drink. The Karstarks were drinkers, all of then, even the ladies. "Let's not waste time, then! I'll show you where you and your men can prepare." He would turn on his heel and walk towards one of the castle's entrances, wife trailing along behind him. And if Daemon should not immediately follow with his father, well, then Althea would have a few tart words for him.
"We'll talk soon." And for the first time the hoarfrost would clear to reveal a surprising amount of anger, bitterness, and sadness alike.
The sun was dipping below the horizon when the procession started in the godswood. The heart tree itself, carved with a rather jolly, roaring face - not surprising - as if it found amusement in the whole scenario. There were some people present among the trees, but otherwise they were occupied towards the castle or preparing the feast. Althea was glad for that, anyway. She didn't want this to be terribly public.
Daemon Baratheon would stand by the tree. Althea Karstark would stand with her father a short distance away. She would have a hand on his extended arm as the two of them walked towards the tree, snows falling lightly on the black portions of her cloak, pinned with the sun-of-winter sigil. She was trying very hard to stay calm, and this gave her an even more detached look than usual as they approached.
Post by Daemon Baratheon on Jul 3, 2015 4:56:48 GMT
OURS IS THE FURY
Lord Karstark took Lord Baratheon’s jest well enough. He led Daemon’s father toward the entrance to one of Karhold’s towers, leaving their betrothed children to face each other a little longer in the cold. Even with their parents moving away, Althea kept her eyes away from Daemon’s own. A solemn sadness glinted just briefly within them. Engaging in rigorous rhetorical debates came easily to Daemon, but understanding women still seemed far out of his reach. When Daemon’s eyes turned from his father back onto her, she let the veil of shyness drop for but a moment. We’ll talk soon, she said, in a tone less chilly than her greeting, and instead filled with a mixture of controlled but fiery anger. Had he wronged her already? “Until then, my lady,” he bowed, speeding off after his father and all the while at a loss for why she had left him so confused.
Red leaves and white specs of snow loomed over him, with some flecks of the frost catching his black hair. The shadows the weirwood branches cast overhead only grew larger as the sun set and the torch fires danced. And behind him the tree appeared to roar constantly, the face etched into its bark either overly jubilant at the marriage soon to occur beneath its canopy or trying its otherworldly best to speak out against the match. Daemon would never know. He stood in waiting for his betrothed, draped in a new black doublet fastened with golden buttons. A cloak of the same golden hue streamed down from his shoulders, emblazoned in its center with the black stag of House Baratheon. He glanced quickly at his father, who gazed proudly back at him. Truly, he looked like the embodiment of his house made flesh, more than ever before.
At last, Althea approached with her father. The falling snows dotted her black cloak even more than his hair. They both must have looked splendid to those in attendance, two nobles dressed to represent their houses in the most formal of appearances they could muster. Daemon looked upon his bride, his face seemingly emotionless but his mind still over-exerting itself in an attempt to analyze Althea Karstark.
Then, he recalled the lines that his hosts had prepared for him, since he did not follow the Old Gods. “Who comes? Who comes before the old gods?”
Post by ASHARA MARTELL on Jul 3, 2015 11:11:32 GMT
i've got darkness and fears to appease
It was some kind of fierce stubbornness that made Althea continually avoid eye contact. Actually, at this point it was more of a game to her than anything. How long can I go before I look? How long till he becomes unnerved by it? So far the southron lordling had done well to hide any discomfort he might've had at this bride, very different from any stories he might've heard. But that just meant that he either didn't care, didn't know, or more likely, was just trying to keep up pretenses while thinking he'd peg her character down later. So he was playing the game that she was winning, at least for now. And that made her at least a little bit happy about this situation. In fact, she smiled very faintly as she walked, rosy lips curved but sealed as her father did the talking for her as he was wont to do.
"Althea of House Karstark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered-"
She grimaced slightly. How embarrassing.
"-trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessing of the gods. Who comes to claim her?"
By then she had transitioned back into her temporary ice queen persona, though of course it was just a bit too late. She and her father would stop and turn to face the Baratheon under the cradle of the heart tree's branches, the gloom of the godswood and the glow of the snow making everything just a bit too soft and surreal for her liking. But gods, it was actually a beautiful scene. And she had to admit, she liked the way the man wore his colors. Black went with everything (of course), and the gold was absolutely lustrous on his shoulders.
But all that meant was that she'd gaze at the cloak, instead.
Post by Daemon Baratheon on Jul 3, 2015 14:04:17 GMT
OURS IS THE FURY
Grown, flowered, trueborn, and noble – but more stubborn than Daemon could have expected. Even when she stopped before him, her arms traditionally wrapped around her father’s own, Althea still did not meet Daemon’s eyes. He watched them shift from his body to his cloak, and at the very least she would have registered his presence. The wedding gave her little choice in that regard, after all. He noticed her grimace, but cast no harsh judgments on it. Clearly, only Daemon had any real interest in this union between them, though even he had his reservations about how the rest of his life would turn out with an ice queen sharing his bed. Perhaps he’d freeze to death before he even gave her his seed and had his first heir.
Daemon starred at her beauty and resistance for several long seconds before he forced his eyes to connect with Lord Karstark’s. “Me, Daemon of House Baratheon, heir to Storm’s End. I claim her,” he boomed proudly. No doubt his father loved hearing that. As soon as he uttered the word ‘claim’, Daemon’s attention instinctively returned back to Althea. Based on her cold and hard attitude until that point, he expected she would not simply ignore those words, no matter how expected and traditional. But would she listen to them without any expressed hassle and instead bide her time until the bedding, when nothing stood between her and her husband? Would she unleash her northern fury on him then?
His glanced lingered on her hair and fair skin, her snow dotted cloak and its fur lining, before he once again faced her father. He looked every bit as pleased as Lord Baratheon. Good. Daemon, at least, performed his role well. “Who gives her?”
Post by ASHARA MARTELL on Jul 3, 2015 19:06:57 GMT
i've got darkness and fears to appease
It would be both lords, then, that would be pleased at Daemon's verbal staking of claim. The Lord Karstark would guffaw, and Althea would look down at her feet. It would not be easy to tell what exactly she was doing, but neither would it be hard to notice her jaw grinding one-sidedly or the rather infuriated crooked grin she was fighting down. But fight it down she did, and she would look back up and stare fixedly at the gold on his shoulders once again, though with a kind of hardness at the back of her jaw which suggested she was still clamping down hard on her teeth, and perhaps imagining something in between them.
Her father would have to raise his voice over some of the rowdier of the hoots and mutters in the crowd, instilling a semblance of order once again - briefly, anyway.
"Bartrynd of House Karstark, father to the bride!" He would turn to his daughter with a wicked smile, knowing full well the kind of thoughts running through her head and enjoying every moment of it."Lady Althea, will you take this man?"
Well, this was it. She had wanted to do this without causing a fuss, but the Karstarks were not the kind of northerners that were stark and grim and grey. No, they were loud, they were rowdy, and they weren't to be beaten. And she was not going to be undone at her own game by some silk-born, silver-tongued southron summer creature. She had inherited her father's voice, after all, and so would hold her head high, glare at the audience that had grown suspiciously larger since, and shout.
"I TAKE THIS MAN!"
As the resulting roar came back to her from her lord's men, she would huff and turn to face Daemon once again, with just enough sass to cause even her heavy hair to whirl slightly. The Lord Karstark would step away, chortling even as she thrust her hands to Daemon as per the next part of the procession. And she did meet his eyes this time, marking it the first that Daemon Baratheon would see Althea's scorn, pride, and triumph brought to bear.
Post by Daemon Baratheon on Jul 5, 2015 20:56:11 GMT
OURS IS THE FURY
Daemon’s intuition allowed him to take notice of Althea’s expected albeit restrained grimace. She had seemed far shyer during their first meeting, but still left an impression as stubborn and cold. Now, though, she seemed more pained than nervous. Her eyes had lowered to her feet, her jaw clenched tightly as if to prevent her from shouting their betrothal asunder. Lord Karstark clearly enjoyed both Daemon staking his claim and Althea’s rising displeasure in the reality she had to accept. Grinning impishly, he posed the question that not even Daemon knew how Althea would answer – did she take this man?
Then, silence. Murmurs in the crowd floated about, but Daemon couldn’t hear them. Althea had lifted her eyes to gaze at his cloaked shoulders, but still not into his own eyes. Daemon felt as if the world itself paused, the falling snows floating in place. His heart froze colder than the winter winds around them, for he genuinely worried that Althea would prove as defiant as to reject the arrangement. Daemon would gracefully shoulder such an embarrassment, but if she –
Her roar had even taken him by surprise. Her voice echoed throughout the Godswood, and it caused Daemon’s back to stand further upright. Her glare moved from the audience and back onto him, finally forcing their eyes to lock with one another. Her face had reddened, though whether from seething fury or downright shame Daemon did not know. In her eyes, he could see strength, hardened resolve, and a will to struggle – all that men had said about her. Perhaps she lived more closely to Daemon’s own house words than he himself did.
Unlike her flaming spirit, her pale hands felt cold and gentle. He grabbed them carefully, kindly, and with her in his hold Daemon knelt before the Weirwood that watched their union form. They weren’t his gods, but still he bowed his head respectfully, letting more frost pile atop his black hair. The Old Gods expected a silent prayer before he stood up and officially covered the bride in his cloak, making her his until the end of her days. But Daemon made no prayers. He only reflected on the woman whose hand he grasped. No gods would choose the fate of their marriage. Only Althea and Daemon possessed that power now.
Post by ASHARA MARTELL on Jul 6, 2015 13:10:43 GMT
i've got darkness and fears to appease
She was still rumbling with the waves of impulse and wildness, raring to go and say things the likes of which she automatically knew she'd regret. But the next moment called for tranquility, and the way he took her hands surprised her enough to quell the iron grip she had planned to give. She had expected him to be unamused by her nature, or to feel as if he were outdone and angry; that's what men did, right? They got angry when they were shown up. But no, no such reaction. And even as Althea knelt down on her knees under the mirthful face of the heart tree, she could not tell if he didn't mind or he didn't care—though that distinction made all the difference to her. The crowd quietened too, recognizing the serenity and privacy the moment called for.
'But what is he thinking?'
Daemon was southron and followed the Faith of the Seven. It upset her a bit to think that he was just playing along to her traditions, but thankfully for him, the old gods did not care about procedures or details. Althea figured that they did not care so much for people at all, but viewed them as a great oak would view all the beasts of the forest, from ant to wolf. Everything had a place, a time to live and a time to die and a time to move on, apparently. She regarded that last thought with a tinge of sadness as she looked to the heart tree, trying to memorize the laugh lines so she could remember it always among the doom and gloom of the Stormlands. She wondered if the godswood at Storm's End would be the same, and what face would await her there.
After a time Althea would squeeze Daemon's hands, not too tightly or too softly, to let him know that she was done—because she figured he was waiting on her. And she dolefully prepared to accept his cloak: standing, exhaling slowly and watching the mist of her breath form and fade like the loss of her spirit as she would drop her mantle and adopt his own in turn.
Post by Daemon Baratheon on Jul 6, 2015 21:17:14 GMT
OURS IS THE FURY
A firm squeeze on his hand, and his eyes opened. The screaming face of the heart tree faced him one last time. It seemed to shout at him and only him, as if telling him that the deed had been done, the way forward cast and irreversible. When he rose from the snow covered earth, he would be joined with another for the rest of his life. Daemon always kept his family’s position in mind, his mind attuned to the political machinations of the realm, yet in that brief instant he wondered something else. As he raised his knees from the ground, he selfishly wondered – would he live happily alongside this woman, or would his life turn just as solemn as the expression she bore?
Their hands parted. Althea let loose her breath, white mist expelling before her and then fading into the growing darkness around them. The fire with which she glared at him just a moment ago must still reside within her, but to Daemon she now appeared as if she realized that fighting for whatever her heart truly desired would prove futile. No anger or great force of will would change what the Old Gods had just seen and heard. Daemon paused briefly, absorbing the features of the women before him. Her pale beauty, the fierce look she had given him, and the melancholy one that he saw now. All of this was his, and all of him was now hers.
He undid the brooches which clasped his cloak about his shoulders and slowly walked behind Althea. Carefully, he swung his gold and black around her back, and fixed it in place atop her own shoulders. “Now, I am yours, and you are mine,” he whispered to her softly, matter-of-factly. When he turned to face the onlookers, they took it as a sign that the ceremony had concluded. Lords and ladies, their attendants and faces of those Daemon did not know – they all stood up and cheered. The lords Baratheon and Karstark had smiles that rivaled the size of their heads, and clapped louder than the storms that plagued his homeland. Daemon’s father would even go the extra mile, to which Daemon wouldn’t blush but still feel embarrassed and nervous all the same.
“HAHA! NOW LET’S GET DRINKIN’ AND FEASTIN’! TONIGHT WE EAT, WE DRINK – AND THEY BED! HAHAHA!”
Post by ASHARA MARTELL on Jul 7, 2015 10:47:54 GMT
i've got darkness and fears to appease
Staying still was hard as her betrothed—nay, her husband—circled around her and slipped his gold on her shoulders. Saying nothing at his remark was even harder, because even if he said it without sneer or tone she still took it as an offense. But just like that they were done, with the crowd dispersing and chatter picking up as they made their towards the castle and main hall where the feast was to take place. And Lord Baratheon's outburst, well, let's just say that Daemon wasn't the only one who was embarrassed. Althea dreaded the bedding more than anything. She had thought about it the entire time the Baratheon party had travelled to meet them, and being reminded of it now felt like all the anxiety and fear she had pent up was rushing through her blood again. Time was running out. What she wouldn't do to stretch the next few moments out for eternity so she would never have to retire to that no doubt harrowing experience.
To busy herself Althea tried to bend and reach for her wolf-fur cloak, sorrowful for her shed skin, but as if expected and planned a servant hurried by and snatched it off the ground and gave her an apologetic look as he bolted towards the castle. So now Althea, left with nothing to occupy her hands or her thoughts would just stand there for a few moments in the dying light as the snow drifted down and the people drifted away. She was painfully aware of Daemon's presence beside her: it was like she could hear his every quiet breath and the motions of his body. It was awful. So she started walking, or rather, stomping away.
"Follow me." She didn't look back and expected him to keep pace, figure bouncing slightly with each heavy-hearted step. And she wouldn't say anything else to him either, determined to make things as awkward for him as they were for her as they followed the denizens of Karhold and their guests back to the torchlight of the castle structures and to the mouth-watering aroma of food.
They could not get lost, so eventually they found their way to the massive main hall, lit in warm orange and yellow with row upon row of worn but sturdy wooden tables and benches, though the seating got more elaborate towards the far end of the room where grey cloth covered the tables and the benches became individual chairs. Althea would not hesitate to lead Daemon to the far end, past all the commotion of rowdy men while serving girls hurried among the rows with platters and drinks and hair frayed. The feast was just getting started but this was the time that people were at their most ravenous, especially the travelling guests. The place for Althea and Daemon would be the head of the arranged tables, within speaking distance of the Karstark and Baratheon families but otherwise with enough privacy to talk in seclusion.
Wonderful.
She pulled out her chair, dragged it back in with a grinding screech, and sat down. Then she glowered at a serving girl until she came by and soon enough Althea had a bowl of cream and wheat with a slab of butter and some honeyed lamb to devour—which she did. Pointedly. And with excessive focus.
Post by Daemon Baratheon on Jul 7, 2015 19:53:54 GMT
OURS IS THE FURY
They trickled out, one by one. The faces Daemon did not knew left the wood first, those who had either sat or stood in the very back. After them came trusted servants or people of somewhat greater note, friends and relatives both distant and close. Then, with wicked grins and increasingly belligerent guffaws, the newlyweds’ fathers led their most immediate kin past the standing torches and toward the steadily rising rancor within Karhold’s feast hall. Then, Althea and Daemon stood alone. A servant had hustled toward Althea’s discarded fur-lined cloak, scurrying off with it wrapped around their hands. Her winter sun had set, and after that night she would forever live beneath a new standard, in a new land and with a new man.
The silence gripped them tighter now, more than ever before. Their breath caught together in thicker mists that blanketed the air around them as the winds chilled and the snow thickened. Daemon glanced at Althea, submitted but not defeated, and couldn’t pull forth any reassuring words from within himself to give her. For as calm and poised a man as he was, not even Daemon knew what their future held in store for their life together. He only gave false promises to political enemies. He would not say the same deceptive remarks to the woman who would soon bear his children. So, instead, they stood in snowy silence, awkward and increasingly shivering.
Althea at last led him toward her home’s great hall. All the while, her figure bounced from her irritated stomping, and his golden cloak swayed from her shoulders. The way her black curls fell over its upper portion…with his colors, she shined bright, even as night fell upon them with all its bleakness and uncertainty. Daemon took a deep breath, and followed close behind her. A blast of warmer air and various smells collided into him when the couple entered the hall. The merriment had already begun, Daemon noticed, as those of lower status drank and sung around the wooden long tables and benches sprawled in front of the married families’ elevated position. There, houses Baratheon and Karstark had their own tables, and in between stood one solely for the use of Daemon and his new wife.
And so began his most uncomfortable meal ever.
Even when sitting down, Althea made every act representative of her sullen distaste with her new bond. Her chair screeched, her face soured, and she instantly stuffed herself without paying any heed to the reality around her. Daemon reached for the silver white goblet in front of him and poured from the pitcher in the center of their table. Red wine. Thank the gods. He took a long sip, perhaps to warm up his typically cooled heart and flood himself with some imaginary confidence. He would need it when dining with a wife whose anger looked readied to slit his throat – or worse, when the bedding came around.
“...You’re like to feel sick if you eat so fast, my lady. Please, have a cup of wine with me.”
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