Post by ASHARA MARTELL on Jul 10, 2015 19:27:19 GMT
i've got darkness and fears to appease
So far, an uneventful journey. Which was probably what was best for her, but still, it was boring. Just the monotonous sway of the saddle and the same trees repeating itself for miles, though they did change a bit as the regions went by. Admittedly the environment changed more than that, but she never really payed attention to such things anyway. And now it was nighttime and Althea was at the famed Inn-At-The-Crossroads in the Riverlands, having followed the Kingsroad from Storm's End. Still a ways to go till Winterfell, but hey. Progress.
Half of her men were at the stable-side of the establishment, taking care of the horses and securing their equipment. Althea offered her own horse, Erlking, to them. It was not the same as the Erlking in Karhold, nor the one Winterfell; she simply named every horse she'd owned such, and they were all black in color and dark in temperament as if the spirit of the original lived on... which was partly the point. And with the other half of her men, she entered the inn.
Bustling, booming, boisterous. Was this place ever short of business? Perhaps in wartime, but now there were travelers from all points of Westeros, some trying to eat and sleep in peace, others clanking and clamoring and disrupting the tavern wenches. Althea hoped to join the latter. Even if she was tied down with her twelve or so guards (not her idea), she was determined to have some kind of fun, or at least drink herself into enough of a stupor so as to not care. But then she saw someone, fair of skin, dark of hair, lines under his eyes and a rather unmistakeably delinquent face.
Her boots thudded on the wooden floor as she approached his table. "Why, is that Donald I spy?"
Half of her men were at the stable-side of the establishment, taking care of the horses and securing their equipment. Althea offered her own horse, Erlking, to them. It was not the same as the Erlking in Karhold, nor the one Winterfell; she simply named every horse she'd owned such, and they were all black in color and dark in temperament as if the spirit of the original lived on... which was partly the point. And with the other half of her men, she entered the inn.
Bustling, booming, boisterous. Was this place ever short of business? Perhaps in wartime, but now there were travelers from all points of Westeros, some trying to eat and sleep in peace, others clanking and clamoring and disrupting the tavern wenches. Althea hoped to join the latter. Even if she was tied down with her twelve or so guards (not her idea), she was determined to have some kind of fun, or at least drink herself into enough of a stupor so as to not care. But then she saw someone, fair of skin, dark of hair, lines under his eyes and a rather unmistakeably delinquent face.
Her boots thudded on the wooden floor as she approached his table. "Why, is that Donald I spy?"
DONALD BARATHEON + open
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