closed starter for @benblvckwood where and when: a night time during one of the celebration days of king owen stark's birthday
emira mallister had learned many things during her visits to the north—how to politely refuse the few strange dishes they had without offending the host, how not to slip on packed snow in soft-soled shoes, and, most importantly, how to suffer in cold silence for the sake of diplomacy.
but today? today she had had enough.
wrapped in a cloak far too pretty and far too thin for the biting wind, she stood near one of the great fires outside winterfell’s feast hall, holding a goblet of warm cider like it might save her life. her breath curled visibly in the air, and her nose—gods help her—was beginning to turn pink.
“i was told spring had come,” she muttered to no one in particular, pulling her cloak tighter. “this is spring?” she cast a dramatic glance skyward. “this feels like a very elaborate northern prank.”
her eyes scanned the crowd until they landed, with great purpose, on ben blackwood— not-so-brooding, warm-looking ben blackwood, in a cloak that looked about ten times thicker than hers. typical. he probably didn’t feel the cold at all. probably liked it. he had northern cousins, he was probably used to it the way northern men always claimed to be.
she took a sip of cider, then sauntered—no, shivered—over to him. “you look terribly comfortable,” she said, tone sweet, with just the right amount of suffering laced beneath it. “is that wool? or bearskin? because clearly some of us didn’t get the ‘dress like an icicle’ raven.”
a pause. then, with a dramatic sigh and a flutter of lashes: “tell me, ben. if one were, say, freezing to death, and there was a very gallant, cloaked man standing nearby, what should he do?”
she smiled up at him, entirely too innocent.
