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★ i'm so used to being used
[The trestle tables creak with the weight of roasted fowl, swine, and game. Honored guests only add to the weight, finding a place to rest their elbows while others pound either fists or goblets down onto the wood in hopes of quieting the revelry. Such efforts are misguided at best as Arbor Red pours from pitchers to stain many a drunk's cheeks with a deep blush. A well-stocked cellar keeps most everyone in good spirits but a delicate balance is in play: with just enough wine, everyone falls into a festive stupor; but too much steals all inhibitions away leading to fisticuffs and the whelping of more than a few bastards. They say one of King Robert's bastards was conceived on such a night, right on his brother Stannis's marriage bed. Lord Stannis would later curse his royal brother for this offense, blaming the soiled marriage bed for his homely wife's inhospitable womb.
Seated at the dais, Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald surveys the merrymaking over the rim of her gilded cup. Rather than imbibe libations, she sups on honeyed rosewater, keeping her wits about her even as those around her so readily surrender theirs for another round of ale. Out on the floor, men and women of noble birth whirl to the strains of a lute and the warbling of a singer stumbling over the lyrics to "The Bear and the Maiden Fair." Breaking with tradition, she sets her cup down and rises from her seat to seek a dance partner on her own, ignoring the slurred invitations from the lords at the table. When I am wed, they may forgive this slight or they may use it to jape about the man who takes me to wife. Either way, it should be amusing.
Her hands go to the skirts of her dress, straightening her dark blue silks as she makes her way past the dancers and out into the far corner of the hall. Down her back, her long brown hair hangs loose in a cascade stopping just short of the Myrish lace pattern winding a delicate line of roses between her shoulder blades. It's a touch of the fashion favored in the south, revealing a hint of flesh in the right light. Looking at her from the front, she appears to dress like any northern girl would in winter; her gown is modest with a neckline that only offers the slightest hint of cleavage despite the tight stays on her corset, and her sleeves extend from shoulder to wrist with only a hint of Myrish lace trim on the cuff as another concession to her seamstress's southern flair. Her wide brown eyes wander over the room until her gaze falls on a man sitting over to the side, trying to fade into the walls despite the curious patterns on his doublet: thin vertical stripes of grey forming a mesh with thin horizontal stripes of gold against a field of black. Hm, tattersall. Though his well-worn beige jerkin dampens the spectacle by covering up some of it, he's still hard to miss. She's only ever heard of such striking designs; fashion trends from across the Narrow Sea that never really caught on. Wasn't it popular among men of ill-repute?
William of House Graham, Lord of Wolftrap, either didn't know or knew all too well. Everything from his bearing to his tousled hair bespoke of a man who would much rather be at home fishing had his liege lord not demanded his presence. The man plays a dangerous game, feigning foolishness and oozing disregard from every pore. Without further preamble, she draws closer to him, curtsying with a slight smile.]
Would you honor me with a dance, Lord Graham?
Seated at the dais, Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald surveys the merrymaking over the rim of her gilded cup. Rather than imbibe libations, she sups on honeyed rosewater, keeping her wits about her even as those around her so readily surrender theirs for another round of ale. Out on the floor, men and women of noble birth whirl to the strains of a lute and the warbling of a singer stumbling over the lyrics to "The Bear and the Maiden Fair." Breaking with tradition, she sets her cup down and rises from her seat to seek a dance partner on her own, ignoring the slurred invitations from the lords at the table. When I am wed, they may forgive this slight or they may use it to jape about the man who takes me to wife. Either way, it should be amusing.
Her hands go to the skirts of her dress, straightening her dark blue silks as she makes her way past the dancers and out into the far corner of the hall. Down her back, her long brown hair hangs loose in a cascade stopping just short of the Myrish lace pattern winding a delicate line of roses between her shoulder blades. It's a touch of the fashion favored in the south, revealing a hint of flesh in the right light. Looking at her from the front, she appears to dress like any northern girl would in winter; her gown is modest with a neckline that only offers the slightest hint of cleavage despite the tight stays on her corset, and her sleeves extend from shoulder to wrist with only a hint of Myrish lace trim on the cuff as another concession to her seamstress's southern flair. Her wide brown eyes wander over the room until her gaze falls on a man sitting over to the side, trying to fade into the walls despite the curious patterns on his doublet: thin vertical stripes of grey forming a mesh with thin horizontal stripes of gold against a field of black. Hm, tattersall. Though his well-worn beige jerkin dampens the spectacle by covering up some of it, he's still hard to miss. She's only ever heard of such striking designs; fashion trends from across the Narrow Sea that never really caught on. Wasn't it popular among men of ill-repute?
William of House Graham, Lord of Wolftrap, either didn't know or knew all too well. Everything from his bearing to his tousled hair bespoke of a man who would much rather be at home fishing had his liege lord not demanded his presence. The man plays a dangerous game, feigning foolishness and oozing disregard from every pore. Without further preamble, she draws closer to him, curtsying with a slight smile.]
Would you honor me with a dance, Lord Graham?