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 Bartheod Herô on Jun 22, 2015 23:44:49 GMT
As he mentally flicked through pages of memorized song, he easily heard the large red man bellow out to another over the sounds of multiple greetings being exchanged. Bard briefly glanced behind his shoulder to see him grasp a knight closely as a dear friend would after a long, quiet absence. A brief smile found its way onto Bard's countenance to break his concentration so devoted to songpicking. He began to turn his attention back to the stage before him before he froze. The man was either drunk, hosting, or both, to invite the lowborn to his own side. Bartheod turned graciously to Hans and lowered his head into a nod of accepting his fate. After all, he had brought the instrument along to get more than into the skirts of young girls.
During his brief trot over to the man who had called for him, Bard examined them carefully: the red-haired lord Hans, the host of the event; the unnamed knight, easily noted as a Lannister due to his armor; another red-haired woman fixated on the knight, who strangely made Bard feel like he should find a hole to duck into before becoming lunch. Bard made an extra effort to send her a wink should she look his way as he walked to them. Once before them, Bard nervously nodded his head and stepped a few feet to the side where a small audience was gathering to both listen to him and watch the joust that was to be underway. Bard's fingers deftly slid across the ashen-oak lute case and unbuckled the three bands that held it sealed. He quickly set the case on a table beside him, gently pushed it open and reached inside for the instrument that lay waiting to be played. A soft look found Bard's face as he felt the tight strings and then reached further to grip it by the neck before pulling it to his lap. He had found himself seated next to his case, which stayed open for any coin thrown his way.
His fingers strummed across the strings to send a chord through the air. The sound struck into the air precisely as the musician intended, and he shifted his hands lower to send one more through the air before he allowed the crowd to quiet before he began. To add an even greater drama, Bard looked over to Hans and felt beads of sweat draw themselves on his forehead. A moment passed. His hands seemed tense, his shoulders tight, his jawline almost frozen. But a charming smile found its way through his eyes. He requested thus softly, to try and dampen the noise of the crowd even further. His joust was about to begin. "My Lord, if I may?"
Last Edit: Jun 22, 2015 23:49:23 GMT by Bartheod Herô
Post by Euron Baratheon on Jun 23, 2015 3:15:27 GMT
"palms are sweaty, knees are weak, arms are heavy, mom's spaghetti,"
Euron's opponent was a sorry sight, a middle aged man who could clearly be seen sweating through his armor, not badly crafted but more likely to fit a young squire than the man currently wearing it. There was no doubt in the Baratheon heir's mind that his opponent today was nothing more than a hedge knight, a ser who galloped across the Seven Kingdoms looking for gainful employment and occasionally participating in tourneys.
This match lasted approximately a single round.
The hedge knight looked uncomfortable on his horse as though he had never ever been mounted before and he held his lance in a strange manner. The shortening of fingers was common punishment for thieves and smugglers and hedge knights have been known to resort to banditry before. Had this hedge knight arrived today healthy with the appropriate equipment and unmaimed fingers, it could have been a good fight but alas, there was nothing to be done.
Immediately after being unhorsed, the hedge knight got back up unsurprised and unfazed before stripping off his breastplate and throwing it at Euron's feet. It was customary for the loser to have to give up his armor and his horse but Euron had no lack of horses and this armor would not have fit him anyway. The Stormlands knight had half a mind to reject it but after quick consideration, simply picked the breastplate up.
Even hedge knights had their own pride and besides, Euron himself had his own squire who was in need of new armor. Passing the breastplate to his squire, Euron led both horses away, the one he had raised himself and the one that he had just won, so that the next competitors could take their positions.
Dali Martell assumed his proper seat in the stands, attempting to look somewhat interested in the organized chaos of the tournament. He wasn't a fan of Westerosi bards or their strained harp plucking. It didn't compare to spicy guitar or the sharp tambourine of the Dornish, it simply wasn't music you could dance to.
He looked around and watched Hans Tully adapt a chummy stance as he beckoned the rather handsome blonde man, a Lannister. Dali's eyebrows wiggled with interest as he watched him. They say blonde's are quite the beasts in the bed room. The Prince's gaze drifted back to the gruff Lord of the Riverlands; Or did they say that about red heads? I've forgotten. He smiled at his stirring thoughts. His imagination entertained him far more than this sad display of machismo.
I bet none of these men have faced a Dornish spear either. Dali decided he wasn't going to participate in the tournament. What was the point? He had nothing to prove to these people.
@ anyone who wants to interact with dali!
MADE BY MINNIE OF GS
Last Edit: Jun 23, 2015 17:08:49 GMT by Dali Martell
Post by Selvyra Lannister on Jun 23, 2015 17:08:36 GMT
Always in her wildest dreams Selvyra thought of Braavos, the city where people from all across the world gathered and sat together, telling their tales over food and drink. To her, this hub of culture and promise was unparalleled, and she fancied herself one day sailing beyond the Titan’s legs to embrace diversity at its finest. In her darkest moments, she actually envisioned fleeing there. She had even fashioned a plan to achieve it – a thoughtful lady’s idle moments were never utterly wasted.
But for here and now it was her interest to appraise this handsome-looking stranger and his charming smirks. Selvyra’s lips curled into a sweeter smile, truer than her previous. Life was an ongoing process of perusing acquaintances for potential. “As it is everywhere,” she commented simply as she relaxed into a resting pose that had her only by half facing him. “But some pick it up quicker than others, don’t you agree? It is a shame that it is usually hardship that hastens the process.” Wisdom and wit mattered to the lady Lannister quite a great deal, and it would be for her to speak for hours on the subject if adequately fueled.
Her eyes gleamed. “You appear to be an optimist, stranger. How can you be so sure about what shouting will bring you? You were loud enough for at least a hundred people to hear, each with their own individual way about taking things.” He had lured her attention, for example, and not for what he was saying, but for the accent that laced his words. As for the matter of the horse, Selvyra approached it by glancing back whence she had come. “Very few of these knights will agree, though I expect most of them would do it in true battle. I believe the horses are traditionally meant to be gifts for the winner? I would not want to spear my own potential prize, were I the one riding out there.” But she was not, and she would never be.
Selvyra returned her gaze to the bravos man. “You sound to have the mind of a man fit for real trouble and confrontation.” Unlike a lot of the knights cordially knocking themselves down, who were groomed into adulthood in days of peace. Even so, the man she faced was not without manners, and whether he was feigning ignorance, or truly had such limited knowledge of Westeros as to not recognize her family crest, Selvyra could not say. The thought didn’t arrest nearly as much of her attention as something else he revealed – this person was a swordfighting instructor. Selvyra worked hard to hide her elation. The Seven were kind indeed.
“I have a brother for a knight, and will probably be given to wed another,” she said, a peculiar sort of stillness about the whole of her being. “Sometimes, a lady has interests and ambitions of her own.” She waved an invitation to him to join her for a walk. Sitting in one place would only make her easier to spot and so easier to recuperate. “I’m Selvyra Lannister,” she revealed without any pomp or pose. The corner of her eyes cut across to him. “What shall I call you, dancer?”
Post by Alexander Hawke on Jun 23, 2015 18:53:21 GMT
Lannister! That was the name. "Ah, a Lannister?" Yes, the name was a familiar one. "Word of Casterly Rock would reach Braavos from time to time." There were three things that were somewhat common knowledge about the Lannisters in Braavos. One: they were enormously wealthy. Two: A Lannister always pays their debts. And three: Tyrael Lannister shits gold. Though Alex believed that last one to be no more than a joke, it'd probably be for the best if he didn't mention that last one. "Forgive me, I am Alexander Hawke. You may call me what you wish." He said with an easy smile.
Still, winning a horse? Why would anyone want a horse?
Brushing it away, he continued on. "But just so," He agreed. "But perhaps one should envy those who have experienced the hardship. One may accept and understand that a sword is sharp if they are told, but the one who has been cut knows it better than the one who has been told." That said, he did rather enjoy the comment about being optimistic. Now that he thought about it, concerning his time in Braavos, being cynical would be far too easy. He considered optimistic and naive to be different things, so the idea of actually being an optimist appealed to him somewhat.
And as he walked with her, he could always share tales of Braavos, finding her bit about preferring real danger to be amusing more than anything. "In Braavos, my lady, wearing a sword means anyone can challenge you. And for me, I had no choice but to accept later on. If you should ever find yourself in Braavos, it would be safer for you and your guards to be unarmed." Really, one of the greatest blessings of leaving the position of First Sword, Alex had realized, was that he could actually say no to a challenger. "So not only am I fit for real trouble as you say, but if anyone wishes to take their issues with me, they may do so."
Then he somewhat realized how that might have come across. "Don't mistake that as bloodlust. Part of my skill with the blade comes from control. I only use as much force as necessary." But it was her comment about being wed off that bothered him. Somehow, that doesn't sound much different than slavery. But he knew better than to speak that out loud, so he changed the subject.
"Do you know, that the lionesses are the hunters and not the lions? The lion has the mane yes, but the lioness does all the work. So what then, are these ideas and ambitions that a lioness would have?"
Post by JAEHAERA TARGARYEN on Jun 23, 2015 20:15:44 GMT
Forgive his rudeness, he said, and the smile on Tybalt Lannister's face made the redhead's lips twitch into a smile for just a second before returning to their original shape, in the form of a straight, characteristic line. She wasn't noticeable, that much was true: her red hair and the tinge of red in her eyes were the only things that made her noticeable, although she guessed she took after her mother in that sense. She only had Sarra Tully to thank for the apathy, for the icy heart and for the reluctance to make friends.
She stood from her seat, stood straight and proud, and her small frame contrasted with her father's. Still, she curtsied, then held her hands behind her back, in an attempt to stand even straighter, a habit she learned from her septa. "The pleasure is mine, Ser Tybalt. I am Selyse of house Tully." Her own name felt foreign on her red lips, seeing as she wasn't used to introducing herself. In fact, she often kept away from these nonsensical crowds that cheered for blood: they bored her. "Of course I am enjoying it. My lord father knows how to make his people happy, does he not?" With that, she turned her gaze to the jousters, noticing the loser of the last joust. The winner, however, kind as he was, decided to offer the loser's armor to his squire and Selyse could not help the curiosity that settled in her chest: was he not keen on showing off for others to see? Wasn't it the sort of fun knights had during this sort of tourneys?
"I trust you are enjoying today's events as well, Ser Tybalt? Will you compete against that knight over there?" She spoke again as she nodded towards Euron Baratheon, the winner knight she had noticed before, her words loud enough for only the Lannister to hear and then she turned her attention back to him, red-brownish eyes settling calmly on his face. If there was one thing she inherited from her beloved mother, it was certainly her bluntness. "My apologies if I have offended you with my question, I'm afraid I don't know much about the rules of... this. Tourneys. Fighting." She excused herself, a tinge of embarrassment at her lack of knowledge clear from the hushed tone of her voice.
Post by Selvyra Lannister on Jun 23, 2015 21:21:31 GMT
Selly elevated one eyebrow but her smile stayed true. “There is nothing to forgive, and very well. I will call you Alex, then.” Very informal, something she desperately needed in her life at this point. “In exchange, you may call me Selvyra, perhaps Selly for short.” A curtesy basically no one outside her family actually practiced. “Just,” she waved a hand behind her, like she was making a lady point in a conversation about flowers, “not in the presence of my family. Explanations would be required, and there really are none – we have just met.” But this person was instantly easy to talk to, and Selvyra was in a pretty adventurous mood.
He brought forth a valuable point. “It definitely adds character,” she agreed, “but one can live very well without it.” Which was, sadly, the truth for many lords she’d met. Ladies were different in that regard. One could not be a woman in this world and escape the clutches of hardship. “Also, a clever person can learn from others’ stories. Clearly not so well as the one who experienced them, but there is still much valor without as dear a price.” Which was why reading proved so essential. There was much that could be gleamed from pages and pages of recorded events, much more, in fact, than one could ever experience.
The insights he offered on Bravos culture instantly held her attention. There was only so much she could learn from what she had access to from what was written, and she had not known the sword etiquette. It also pleased her greatly that he assumed she could be carrying a sword, in whatever context. The equally blonde male was gaining favor pretty fast. “I will keep that in mind,” she acknowledged the advice, then curiously furrowed her brows. “Do people often challenge each other on the streets of Braavos?” That was, well, pretty peculiar. “What would happen should you refuse?”
Although she did not truly show it, Selvyra was rather amused by his battle-ready mentality. The clarification about bloodlust was altogether unnecessary. “Does it mean, instead, that you like challenges? Or is it that a statement of readiness to defend your principles and stand your ground?” Or perhaps something else entirely. A clarification was in order. Selvyra’s eyes keened with interest when he spoke of control. She knew, actually. She knew the dancers were as light on their feet as cats through the alley, and it was something she wanted to see, and perhaps at some point learn.
The bit about lions, however, gave her pause. Unknowingly or not, Alex seemed to be displaying a fair for the manipulative, but the female lion in his presence appreciated the stroke to her instinctual ego nonetheless. She had many ambitions, but she was not about to begin sharing them all with a stranger. Selvyra would, however, share the one that was most relevant between them. “I want to learn to dance like those of your skill and knowledge do.” Whether her Lord father would allow it or not was another question. Her mother was a battle-ready woman, so Selly hoped he could be swayed. She already knew archery. “But I must see when I can begin, first.” She stroked a hand onto her chin. “Also find someone willing to train me in exchange for payment.” Her gaze travelled back to him.
Post by Tybalt Lannister on Jun 23, 2015 21:48:05 GMT
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[attr="class","gold"]Hans, Selyse
[attr="class","gold"]382
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ulla
[attr="class","sun"]Hear Me Roar
Tybalt smile couldn’t help but flicker as he listened to Selyse talk. Though she said otherwise, it was clear to him that the young Tully girl would rather be anywhere else but here. As much as it perplexed him to wonder why (tournaments were marvellous, how could anyone not like them?) he very swiftly felt a flutter of empathy for her situation. He too had been forced on many occasions to attend events that did little else but bore him.
“No offense taken, My Lady.” Tybalt’s smile remained solid, his armour rattling as he straightened his own back and took a look towards the remarkably short joust that he had just missed. ”That is Euron Baratheon, is it not? Well, whether or not he and I meet on the field depends on him winning the next tilt. And, if he does, I pray I’ll be better sport than that other poor man.”
Tybalt let out another infectious chuckle as he turned away from the unknown hedge knight’s display of poor sportsmanship and back to the fire-haired young woman beside him. She still appeared to be stiff and all too uninterested in the crowds around her and the young knight couldn’t help but feel a little bad for her.
”If it pleases you, my Lady: I would ask that you accompany me across the grounds. My next joust isn’t until much later and I would very much enjoy the pleasure of your company.” He gave a knowing look towards Selyse, eyes lidded heavy over his smile as if trying to communicate to her that he knew how much this event was torturing her.
”Of course, that is only if you approve of it, My Lord.” Tybalt’s head snapped quickly to look at Selyse’s father, Hans Tully. The two met on amiable terms and Tybalt wouldn’t want to sully their first meeting by giving him the impression that he wished to violate his daughter.
On the other hand, it wouldn’t have pleased the Lannister knight to leave any fair maiden alone and bored on a day of celebration. The decision was ultimately up to her father, though. Should he deny, Tybalt would only assume that was his cue to take his leave and cease disturbing the family for the day.
Post by Alexander Hawke on Jun 23, 2015 22:40:07 GMT
Challenges were often, yes. Mostly at night. Alexander clasped his hands behind his back as he usually did, recalling the culture of Braavos as easily as he took each step. "At night, yes. Ale and wine are good at bolstering one's confidence." Many times he had been called in to quell what had started as a duel became something much larger. "When I began my tenure, the few challenges I ever received were mostly from drunks." Meanwhile he was almost never challenged. It was said in Braavos that one either had to be drunk or stupid to challenge the Twin Storms. Alex could attest to the truth of the statement. "But I couldn't say no, my job demanded it. I could not run."
The First Sword of Braavos does not run.
But what would it mean for her? He rubbed his chin for a moment. "But for anyone else, it just results in some lost dignity and temporarily being the laughingstock of the area." Temporarily was usually just that. A very brief time if either participant was drunk. But some could result in a long period of derision and condemnation.
"As for your other question, I suppose the answer could be both. I will stand my ground and defend myself. But rarely, there is a challenge I would genuinely enjoy." Alex held up both hands as if balancing a scale, lowering his left hand as he explained how it usually worked, as if to display the tipping of scale. "One such, I have heard is here, though I've yet to see him myself. I do not know what the Westerosi call him, but the Braavosi call him the Sword of Morning." The Sword of Morning and his blade Dawn. He'd heard the legends. The First Sword wanted to see it for himself. "If tales of his skill are true, then he is perhaps the only person here that could conceivably challenge me." It was more how he said those last words than anything. He didn't puff his chest out as if boasting or trying to prove a point. He stated it as if it was a simple fact, as if the sun rose from the east and set in the west.
His eyes took on an excited glint at the prospect of dueling the Sword of Morning. However, he was brought back by her subtle offer. He had to admit, if people knew, he might have expected it. In all honesty, he had figured people didn't know what he meant by dance instructor. Stark didn't. It was interesting to meet someone who did. "Ah... I apologize, my lady. But if you are referring to me, I'm afraid my services have already been bought. Unless I get fired." He added at the end. He couldn't deny the very real possibility of that happening. "I think when Lord Stark hired me, he did so with the assumption that I was a literal dance instructor." And to his knowledge, Stark still didn't know, but he doubted he'd be allowed to continue when discovered.
Of course, he wasn't entirely without answers. Turning his head to look at her to gauge her reaction, he quirked an eyebrow, returning his hands behind his back. "That being said, may I suggest the First Sword if I am unable?" If Damien still lived, Alex would wonder who his successor was. He was, as much as he did not want to admit it, curious to see who had been chosen to succeed the Twin Storms. But, there was the matter of convincing Damien. But Alex had served with the man. He knew Damien Naharis. "Our current Sealord is quite the trailblazer; he can actually defend himself, thus the First Sword may be unnecessary right now. He may be quite willing to let them come teach you for a price, which even we Braavosi know of Casterly Rock's wealth."
Bringing a hand back out, he rubbed his forefinger and thumb together, as if rubbing two coins together. "He is quite ambitious and quite immersed in the world. He has a price, I am certain." He was certain that Damien would try and see this from the viewpoint of intrigue as well. But he had nothing else to do either. So while he couldn't journey back to Casterly Rock, maybe he could offer something. "That being said, I will gladly teach you so long as this event lasts." He smiled. It was nice to have someone accompany you. He would consider that payment enough.
Almost.
"I only ask that you give me. What did she call it? My charge rambled about it before running off. Apparently the highborn ladies give it to someone? I suppose I should have one if I am to fit in, yes?" Alex brought out his other hand and began rubbing his wrist, shooting Selvyra a quizzical look that made it clear he wasn't exactly sure what he was asking for. He couldn't remember the name, but he knew it was a piece of silk, or something. Cassandra had worn it around her wrist, but that might have just been a Cassandra thing.
His charming eyes didn't look to the room for agreement as he started with a rather bland chord. They did look up but to nothing in the room, focused on more than what was before him. His jaw released as he let himself inhale and the callouses struck the same chord. His shoulders were no longer tense as he leaned forward into the song that he struck to the crowd. Perhaps they were listening, Bard could only hope.
"The summer sun rose gently to the sky to where which Mother stood," the Minstrel began. The chords were played again but this time mixed with different notes that produced a melancholy feel. He swallowed back his breath and continued into the tune while his fingers picked at the strings for the everly increasing pace of the song. The verse began a tale of a mother who had given birth to a son, a son who would eventually become king of all the lands far and wide. The son's glory knew no bounds, for he had conquered even the far reaches of the world. Yet Bard's voice spoke the volumes that this was no tale of glory or heroics for as the verse changed so did the notes of the song. His hands shifted across the lute to a lower region where the notes depressed, his voice shifted lower into his chest.
Yet his voice did not carry the song as his fingers did. Although there were words, words indeed being sung by Bard, the sound of the lute carried over everything. Eventually, even a spectator would find that the sheer intensity brought on by the music would overwhelm one to heed attention... or perhaps that was the tale behind the music, which spoke of drought and famine, which spoke of poverty and death, which spoke of betrayal and vengeance. Bard's hands were no longer holding position on the lute as they traveled to and fro their destination on the neck, his fingers finding the strings and then pressing to find the key. Bard had his eyes shut, his forearm and triceps tensing as his joust sent anything but clangs of swordplay into the air. His fervor lasted just over the length of the physical joust. His hands then slowed their allegro, his eyes opening as hummed the ending of the song. The song ended almost abruptly, leaving the question as to what happens to the king. It was an unfinished piece, but Bard felt it sufficed for the time. He allowed his fingers to slowly find the remaining portions of the piece as he looked about the crowd, shrugging as if he had played a passionate fiery summer piece.
For those who had listened and listened closely, he had illustrated that those who were perched so high could only expect to fall. Whether it be the general blanket statement to the audience or merely his interpretation of battlewon glory was left open.
“Tch.” It took longer to brandish the sword that all men carried between their legs than it had for the joust to come to an untimely, unenticing end. Lord Tully had been distracted for but an instant. A nod of permission to the bard, a slight attentiveness to Tybalt, and before he knew it; his gaze focused back on the spectacle before him just in time to see armored flesh descending to the ground. It was boring and drag but at the same time…
That was when he heard it, the name of the knight that had previously been unknown to him. Euron Baratheon. The utterance and presence of that house seemed to deafen all else as Hans’s mind was swallowed in a rampant river of thought. He had invited members of House Baratheon as a simple courtesy, not wanting to distinguish the family from the others and cause an outright alienation, but he certainly hadn’t expected any to show themselves. Hans and Daemon had become fast foes after a certain encounter in Dragonstone. The appearance of son suggested the accompaniment of father, which was a dangerous thing indeed.
“Yes, yes, of course,” uttered Hans absentmindedly as his gaze followed a departing Euron. It would potentially be for the best if he snatched the young stag at that very moment if only to ensure the safety of his own house. Daemon would be a simple being to deal with in solitary combat, with his body being forced to utilize a cane, but that didn’t go for his son. And to make matters worse, members of House Tully were like unlikely that they had foes amongst them, besides Hans himself in their eyes.
Snapping his attention away, Hans forced himself to smile as he noted the bard had ceased his playing. Flipping the male several Gold Dragons, Hans would gesture for another ballad as he once again allowed for his gaze to dart this way and that. The pleasantness never escaped his features however despite an innate concern polluting his gut. The stag was a slithering thing doused in fur, and it needed to be found and dealt with once it entered the home. But he could not outright strike at the male, for there were other lords who would erupt into action and thus he needed…
His eyes fell upon copper skin and his expression genuinely lit up as a slight familiarity overcame him, having encounter Eryn mere days before. “My dear Prince!”
Last Edit: Jun 24, 2015 16:44:46 GMT by AZOR MARTELL
Post by JAEHAERA TARGARYEN on Jun 24, 2015 19:13:49 GMT
Like flies they gathered around her father in hopes they'd earn his favour, lords and ladies from all over Westeros, yet Selyse couldn't help but feel a certain kind of indifference towards their fate, as she knew her father felt the same. "There's nothing you can do about them, milady. Poverty will always be out there, always killing others." That was what her silly septa had told her one day as she brushed her lady's red hair, and Selyse did not forget those words. In her stories, poverty was the evil overlord, the one that had to be thrown off the throne. But the hero always seemed to die in her stories.
Tybalt's request for her company was rewarded with surprise, perfectly mirrored in Selyse's wide-eyed look. Under other circumstances, she would have been left to her own thoughts, but Tybalt asked if she could accompany him? She glanced towards her father and, although she would have never admitted it out loud, it pained her to see he was so distracted. No, it didn't pain her, it angered her, and all that anger would eventually slip past the barriers Selyse had so diligently set during all these years.
Her father uninterested acknowledgement of Tybalt's question earned quite the reaction from the young woman, a purse of her lips showing, for just a moment, the childish annoyance that rested behind her cold façade. No, she scolded herself mentally, behave. And that she did as she curtsied towards her father, although she was well aware he wouldn't notice, then slid her hand to gently, lightly touch the lion's forearm while she moved to stand by his side. It seemed like the most logical thing to do as there were far too many people around and she did not want to get lost, not when Ser Arkas wasn't by her side.
"Thank you, Ser Tybalt." It might not have seemed like it, but the red haired girl was truly grateful for finally getting away from that place and she made sure he understood it, turning her head to offer him just a simple, shy smile. "I don't feel very comfortable in crowded places. I'm sure you might have noticed that. Shall we go somewhere quieter?"
Post by Tybalt Lannister on Jun 24, 2015 20:39:38 GMT
[attr="class","foreign"]
[attr="class","dust"]
[attr="class","gold"]Selyse
[attr="class","gold"]371
[attr="class","gold"]--
ulla
[attr="class","sun"]Hear Me Roar
It appeared easy enough for Tybalt to secure the Lord’s permission to escort his daughter, an offer she seemed all too eager to accept as she got to her feet and made her way to the Lannister’s side. To his regret, Tybalt knew very little about Selyse though he was hopeful that her company would be pleasant enough. Though helping a Lady enjoy her evening was reward enough, it would be best if such a Lady was not a bore.
“No need to thank me, My Lady.” The young knight offered the girl his arm as they walked from the crowds in the and towards the grounds. He looked down at her, being sure to flash the most winning smile possible. “I am well aware of how it feels to be forced to attend events that bore one to death. If you wish to move somewhere quieter, then I can only oblige.”
The crowds of people thinned as they moved away from the centre where the jousting was still taking place. If Selyse had a particular location in mind, he would let her lead him wherever she desired. Her request was innocent enough and had he been a lesser man he would have thought to take advantage of the situation. Luckily for the both of the, Tybalt was very much a true knight.
The tourney grounds were a grand site: tents lined the pathways in the colours of a thousand different houses, sigils bearing beasts and symbols of all kinds and blending in one grand tapestry of flags that beat against the wind above the two lordlings. It was a sight that Tybalt loved to see, it pleased him greatly to see so many people enjoying themselves in one place. It perplexed him somewhat that this young woman did not share his fascination.
“It is a shame that you have not enjoyed the day’s events. Truly, it is.” Tybalt lamented as the crowds appeared to thin and the sound of battle slowly faded in to the background of their minds. ”Of course, I suppose battle cannot be for everyone. If I may ask, what is it that you would honestly rather be doing at this very moment?”
When the Lord of Riverrun approached him, he donned a charming smile. He couldn't appear dissatisfied with the event, that was simply bad form.
"Lord Tully, it's an honor." he nodded his head. "Is my sister behaving herself as she should?" Dali grinned. Eryn had arrived a couple days before him, she wasn't the sort to wait around for others to be ready. Dali's preparations were far more intricate, he needed new cloaks made, armor, boots, trousers, and an entirely newly constructed wardrobe. There was absolutely no way he'd show up in another region of the realm looking like a hand me down Dornishman. Besides, winter clothes took a bit longer to make, the Riverlands weren't shy about sharing the chills the winds brought upon them.
"She told me she plans on competing. Your in for quite a surprise!" he sang. Dali would know, he's trained with Eryn many many many times. Just like he was, she also new how to brandish a spear stealthy, with poise, grace, and lethality.
Post by JAEHAERA TARGARYEN on Jun 25, 2015 20:21:04 GMT
She had always been withdrawn, a fickle girl with no interest in becoming a social butterfly, but it seemed it was needed of her in order to be noticed. That was the main goal of all highborn ladies nowadays, to be acknowledged, to become one of the tools that lords of other houses could use for the best political alliance.
He seemed to understand what it was like to feel out of place and Selyse could only be grateful to him for that, although she highly doubted he could ever put himself in her shoes. The festivities were hosted by her lord father and she was, in a way, forced to attend. Otherwise, what would the other lords and ladies think about him? Nonetheless, she was a little happy she got out of her room, since she managed to acquire some information she could use for another fairy tale. Euron Baratheon, yes, he'd make a good knight in her story, wouldn't he?
Her attention soon returned to her companion: the eldest Lannister seemed like the sort of man ladies would swoon for, but Selyse kept her feet firmly on the ground and she walked with him, paying no mind to the looks she was receiving. "We all have different opinions on entertainment, Ser Tybalt. Certainly, you would not enjoy my idea of fun." A jest, nothing more, a lighthearted comment on her boredom, and she made it clear with the small chuckle that slipped past her lips.
"Some of us are spectators, observers. I like to think of myself not as a participant to this all, but as a quiet observer. I often watch from afar, thinking about other outcomes. For example, Euron Baratheon could be my companion now and it's fun to imagine what we'd talk about." She liked the idea of laying low, of taking notes from the safety of her status as spectator, but the game of politics needed her as a pawn, not as an observer. Most unfortunate.
"I... I write stories. I read far too many tales of knights and princesses as a child and I started to write my own when I have the time. I also like stargazing and reading. I'm a rather dull lady, aren't I?" She chuckled again, a tinge of pink settling on her cheeks as she felt embarrassment taking over her otherwise calm and collected attitude.
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