@frozensharp
Seven years ago
Tallis had point blank refused to go to the wedding.
When Rodrik Forrester had left Winterfell, she had gone to her father, and for the first time in her life, he had told her no. No, he could not come back. No, she couldn’t go to him. No, he would not let her marry him. She had begged, and pleaded, and cried, but Kind Brandon had held firm. He hadn’t been unsympathetic, and attempted to comfort his daughter by telling her he would find her a good match, that her feelings were a passing fancy only natural in a girl her age, but he was missing half the story, and could never understand. She didn’t want marriage, to be a lady and rule a castle and birth future lords and ladies for a shit of a husband. She wanted Rodrik.
Her father had refused her this time, too. She had declared that she wasn’t going, and he had threatened to drag her by the hair. And so here she was, knocking back wine like her life depended on it and wearing a sour expression. She had already offended the bride, and her father had gone to make it up to Lord Woods, leaving her, for the first time, alone. A rush of impulsiveness ran through her, and she slammed her cup down. She was going to find Rodrik.
It wasn’t a difficult task. He was taller than most of the other men, and it didn’t take much to dart to his side, interrupting his conversation rudely. She grabbed his hand, without asking, a steely determination in her face. “You owe me a dance, Lord Forrester.” It was a demand, not a request, and she would not allow him to refuse.
