3 posts
The Flower of Winterfell
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Post by Sansa Stark on May 16, 2014 11:59:11 GMT
It would have been a dismal day for most. As was wont for the North, it was overcast and it had rained heavily during the night, making walking across the concourse treacherous in the thick mud. Sansa knew better than to tempt outdoors, especially in her best gown. The soft grey ermine fur on the collar reminded her of her pet wolf Lady. Of all the dire-wolves foundered upon the Stark children, hers was the best behaved. Lady never howled and sat quiet by Sansa’s side as she did her needlepoint and learned her lessons, mostly the lineages of the great Houses of the land. She would put that knowledge to good use when she took up residence in Kings Landing, but again that was in the future. She diverted her path, taking advantage of the cover the carriage house offered before wending her way back into the main then back up to her room where the window offered a view of the road. There still was no sign of their coming as of yet. Several messengers had come in the early morn to apprise the household as to the hour; the dismal rain slowing the processional, but they were to be at Winterfell within the hour at last call. Soon she would see her beloved.
For Sansa Stark was in love.
Who wouldn’t be? She was engaged to Joffery Baratheon and stood to be the Queen in due time. But it wasn’t the idea of ruling from the throne that had her heart skipping; it was the fact that she was going to marry the most handsome, kind, caring man in the whole of the Seven Realms. Granted their marriage was not due to her whims, but to seal a breach that had been long festering between their two houses of Lannister and Stark; but she felt that the Old Gods were smiling down on her indeed, blessing their soon- to – be union. She knew her father did not like this arrangement; still it had been at the king’s command so he had not voiced his displeasure, yet Sansa could see it in his face, that brooding consternation that haunted him for some reason. Surely he would set aside their differences for her, wouldn’t he? His brother had been the Hand, had he not?
Still the weather had little effect on her emotions as they seemed to carry her down the spiral staircase to the great hall. Everything was a bustle as all prepared for the coming of the King and his court. Fresh rushes were set out to cover the floors while the servants polished and washed and set out fresh boughs to fill the hall with pine. The table was already set with clean linens and trenchers of bread and cheese were already placed. Robert Baratheon had seen it fit to declare it a day of celebration and the Winterfell household frenzied itself to account themselves to match his declaration and prepare a massive feast. It would need to be great indeed for it seemed that anyone who was anyone was coming for the event. Vassals and lords from all the seven realms were coming to pay their respects to the prince and his betrothed as well as show their loyalty to the crown.
The smells of the kitchen seem to assault her. There was a grand feast in the making and the kitchens were froth with activity as several beasts had been put upon the spit while the cooks set about roasting root vegetables before basting them with wine and baking pies, cross buns, and other solteties while the master brewers debated as to what best to offer for the grand event. Sansa snitched one of the lemon cakes, quickly darting away with her prize as one of the cooks attempted to swat her hand and missed, having only mildly scolding words for the young woman as retort. Sansa wolfed down her ill-gotten gain then continued on through the hold, looking to find her father to reassure him that all was well.
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19 posts
Who let the Dog out?
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Post by Sandor Clegane on Jun 3, 2014 14:47:05 GMT
The Hound scowled.
For one he wasn’t exactly fond of the weather. It seemed that the clouds had followed them straight up from King’s Landing, never letting up the entire time. Mud was now clotted everywhere; in his armor, in the saddle and all the prerequisite trappings that marked him as beholding to the Crown and to the household of Lannister. Pity that all that vibrant color of red and green was now plastered in thick mud; so much mud that the black stallion looked like a buckskin.
Of course he always scowled at such events. Tournaments were nothing more than a means to gloat and pat each other on the back and tell each other just how great they were. It was bragging rights. Sandor Clegane didn’t need bragging rights. All knew how ferocious he was on the field, and off. He’d caved in enough heads to guarantee that all others gave him wide berth when he strode down the halls, his armor clacking dully against the traces.
Still the King had commanded that a Tournament be held in celebration of the upcoming announcement of the engagement of the Stark bitch to the Baratheon brat. Again he could care less but since he was Joffery’s protector (his Dog as the royal cur himself insisted on calling him) he had well to be at his side and do as was bidden. It rankled of course, especially since his brother would also be out on the field. That was a fool’s whim indeed as the Mountain was not likely to hold back a blow and would probably litter the field with maimed and at least one dead.
It was a prospect that didn’t sit well with the Hound at all.
It was only because of Joffery’s command that he was to enter in the tournament to begin with. He should have been flanking the heir’s chair, standing at his post to protect the brat. Oh he knew of his little lord’s temperament. He seen Joffery cave in a puppy’s skull just for nipping at his fingers. Drowning kittens was a favorite pastime, so much so that the scullery maid took it upon herself to hide the litters, but it was pointless. Joffery always got what he wanted and inevitably; with a combination of threat of punishment coupled with the promise of coin, he would soon have the wee things at his mercy, of which there was none.
The Hound didn’t care much either way. It wasn’t his job to raise the royal pup. He was merely there to guarantee the boy’s safety as he was the next in line to the throne; but that was fat impossible to do when he was out here with the rest of the throng, tasked with showing his prowess. Granted the boy still had his honor guard, and it would be a difficult thing to manage to get close enough to the young prince to do much of anything. Still there was some dissention, and there would always be that threat, even when the boy took the throne.
His brewing disgust seemed to trickle down to his mount. The great beast shuffled from hoof to hoof, the massive width of the shoe leaving plate-sized prints in the thick mud, the sucking sound adding to Sandor’s ire with the whole idea of the pageant. He lifted his head, finally able to make out the spires of Winterfell. With any luck they’ll have things dry and cozy enough so that Clegane could scrap off the layers of mud before sucking down a couple of mug of ale to warm his belly.
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2 posts
The Warrior Maiden
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Post by Brienne of Tarth on Jul 15, 2014 12:03:07 GMT
Brienne would not have imagined for all her years of ever being invited to a royal wedding. Granted her father still held some political clout, but long was the day when the meaning of Tarth held much sway. In fact the elderly noble would be hard pressed to have any such joy under his own roof and Brienne seemed steadfast in her commitment to the stave and shield rather than become anyone’s wife. Perhaps that was why her father had commanded that she attend this hand- fasting; to perhaps put the idea of marriage into that thick head of hers.
Actually she was looking forward to the great feast; not for prospecting potential matches, but to engage in the tourney and match her wits and skill with other knights of the realm. She was not a knight by combat, but seeing as Tarth had precious few warriors of her caliber, the title had been reluctantly foisted unto her by her father. She had taken the anointment honestly, setting herself to the code of conduct as she honed her skills. Now she would have the chance to test them. She knew that most would not believe her to be of worth on the field, but as she had demonstrated with those that joisted against her at home, she was worth the mettle.
It wasn’t long before they came across the marching column of the King. Baratheon and Lannister banners flew in congruous of each other as green tabards clashed with red. Still it was an impressive sight as the processional stretched for some miles, the ranks filled with royals and heir retinue, flanked by knights and marshals attended by their squires, with household peons brining up the rear, hauling all the supplies needed to keep such a march mobile. Brienne’s retinue paled woefully, four mounted knights with ten attendants between them; all that her father could scrape up to represent their household. It was a paltry lot, but much more manageable and efficient for the lady’s tastes. She turned her mare’s head so that they could match the column’s speed but stay clear of the road now churned to ten inches of impassable mud. Brienne kept to the meadow rise, the rest of her party following in line as they wove through the hock-high brush. The snow had let up a bit, but Brienne wanted to reach the castle before nightfall to avoid the freezing slush and ice that would make travelling treacherous.
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