baratheoned.
He’d never been a fan of court. Too much talking, too little getting done. And a seemingly never-ending stream of bootlickers who wanted to stick their nose far up the crown’s ass. The Red Keep was not his favourite place. Though it had its upsides. The food was excellent, there was plenty of drink to have and there were plenty of ways to spend your coin. Something that Raymont was quite fond of. Though, with it being a rather officious ordeal, the King’s nameday, he would probably have to keep a low profile. And with the children joining him and his wife… Well, he needed to set a good example. Perhaps this would be one of the few times that Lord Raymont Baratheon behaved like a proper lord. Unlikely, but perhaps.
He’d found himself among the crowd in the throne room. The grand hall, with its large pillars and its tall windows. Usually he’d not bother mingling. After all, these were nought but bootlickers. But there were houses from all over Westeros here today. And he had a few friends he wished to see. And family he hoped to squeeze a hug out of. He was impeccably dressed. A black tunic, embroidered with bright gold, emblazoned with the Baratheon stag. With his left hand leaning on the hilt of his sword, he rested by one of the pillars.
He felt a presence close by, though had yet to see who it was that had approached him. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked over the heads of the hordes of lords and ladies, merchants and petty knights that all wished that some of the crown’s greatness would rub off on them. “Ah, the nobility of Westeros.” He scoffed, turning to see the person that had now surely closed the distance on him. “What a bunch of cunts.”
Pleasantries wash over her lips like a well-worn smile, plump and rosy with embellished delight as she pushes through the growing crowd of courtiers. Most adorn themselves in colours to match the sigil of their house, as is the custom, but Cassana swaths herself only in the finest golden fabric, with many adornments to represent her wealth and station. She wishes to be the envy of many, and she has always admired her own style and standards far more than any lowly weasel around her. King’s Landing is full of all kinds of creatures, most wishing to take their piece of flesh from the crown. It is certainly notorious for its foul smell if nothing else. No amount of perfumed cloths can cloak the stench which lingers over the residents of flea bottom.
Cassana snatches a goblet of wine from a serving boy, taking a steady sip and then motions for the boy to fill it to the top. Her eyes rake across the clusters of people, scrutinizing and dismissing until she recognizes a familiar head of hair - the obsidian black of a Baratheon. She does not hold back her pace as hasty courtiers part, allowing her through their bodies without being inconvenienced.
❛ Calm yourself, Raymont, ❜ she tuts, although her tone does not match the smirking expression on her young features as she mildly reprimands her older brother. ❛ You might upset someone. ❜ It is not a distressing thought, no, in fact, Cassana is rather amused by it. But, alas, they are guests and she knows better than to show all of her cards at once.
