Perspective Flip- Hal and Branda on their first meeting/wedding/feast etc.
Nothing seems to be going right as of late, so it makes perfect sense that he is hobbling down the stairs from the battlements on crutches when his bride and her fierce northern family ride through the gates.
He forces a smile- there's no awkward situation that can't be salvaged with a smile and a kind word, his mother says- and hobbles over as best he can, hoping he looks fearsomely wounded and not like an inept fool.
Rodrik Stark looks disappointed; Hal doesn't need to guess as to why. He was promised tall, fair Osric in marriage, and now is left with the short, stocky younger brother, a dark-haired brute who looks more fit to be an oarsman or smithy than a proper lord.
But he does not linger long on his goodfather. His gaze shifts to his bride to be, and something warm bursts in his chest- infatuation, he realizes, in dismay.
Plump, dark-haired, and pretty, she has a warm, open sort of face and a shapely build, with pale blue-grey eyes that highlight her pale skin and rosy pink lips. The cool colors of her clothing only add to the effect.
She looks tired and slightly frazzled, her hair frizzing a bit from the humid warmth, but she is staring right at him, not quite smiling, but not scowling or disappointed, either.
Hal inclines his head shyly, and says, hating the uncertainty in his voice, “I welcome you to my hearth and home, Ser Rodrik, my ladies- lady Branda,” he nearly forgets to mention her by name, and attempts a stooped half bow, so that he does not topple over, his crutch squeaking on the stones.
He wants to dig a hole and die in it. He sounds like a green lad of three-and-ten, not a grown man and a knight. Osric would be sniggering and hiding a smirk were he here now. But then, that's not true.
This would be Osric's bride, and he'd be forced to watch his brother flirt and charm a woman he likely had no intention of ever being loyal to.
It's wrong to think ill of the dead, and he feels a stab of guilt. But enough, as Branda Stark blushes a charming shade of berry and curtsies neatly. "My lord."
The words send a thrill down his spine; not from pride or arrogance, but just to hear her voice. She has a warm, kind voice- higher pitched than he expected, almost girlish, but jovial.
Please love me, he thinks, childishly, stupidly. We're well suited, you'll see. If not for these damned crutches, he could be taking her arm already. He may not be handsome or as quick witted as Osric was, but he is charming, in his way, he knows he is. He just needs time to warm up, like an ember in the hearth.
