set during day one of the headsman's tourney: night. the lord hand's tent finds a rivers within it, a goblet in hand, and an eye watching everyone around her. dark hues catch the north's bastard, @tearsofalyssa, across the canvas that hung above them.
betha was never one to say no to a party, how could she? especially when they were always paid for by lord's coin and left people's mouths hanging open the whole time from the wine they've consumed. they would promise work and she would get to go up to them the next morning with big brown eyes and a smile so sweet they would give in to anything she said. though she doubt she would get anything out of the people in this room. lecherous looks were all she could see and really, she wished to laugh. how their inhibitions fled after a single execution, their guards down enough to be drinking like lackwits. not that she was not participating, but she always had a sword to her throat, so what did it matter to her? it didn't is the real answer. a bastard among nobles who partied like they had no worries. betha lets out a small huff a laugh as she brings her goblet to her lips, dark eyes roaming the lavish tent before they set on a figure that felt like a fever dream. at least she wasn't the only bastard around, perhaps ren was around somewhere too. (though her grandmother would kill her for thinking such a thing was fact when they did not know for sure.) she doesn't set her goblet down while she approaches. instead, she swallows back the last of the wine inside of it and filling it again before she stood in front of the bastard of the north, "torrha," betha greets, an informality about her tone that suggests where they stood on the food chain of the room. "you look beautiful as always."