#crowns.events

[bloomandthorns]

The food had been eaten, the tables cleared. In a corner, a bard and his accompanying band of minstrels were starting to work a tune. With a cup of wine in his hand, Gareth had found himself drawing from the center of the room to the fringes, standing underneath tall, wooden arches. He watched as the floor was cleared, tables moved. The sound of voices ringing overhead, filling the room, impregnating the air. The laughter, whispers, tall tales. He had brought his son to bed a few minutes after the banquet had been finished. Now, he was ready to mingle.

The music picked up as the work died down, and the room was cleared. There were those, still sat, drinking and talking, while others tentatively found their way to the floor.

He brought the cup to his lips as his eyes scanned over the crowd. He would dazzle later. When the wine had climbed to his head, when he’d found Cedric. When he felt a little braver than he did now.

The lute was struck, a jig was played, and Gareth found himself accompanied in the shade of a large column. With a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he let his eyes glance sideways, without moving his head. “Quite a spectacle,” he started, “it seems the cold does nothing to firm the Northern heart.”

[frozensharp]

Darkness had fallen well before he finally rode through the gates of Winterfell on a horse that would’ve been better suited pulling a plough. The beast was enormous, but when its rider dismounted, it became clear exactly why. Towering over most men, Rodrik Forrester had arrived. The horse was set in the stables, where he lingered only a moment longer than one might have expected, taking in the sights and scents. As soon as the moment had happened, it was gone, and the cloaked giant moved towards one of the less obvious side entrances. He entered quietly, leaving his cloak on a pile that he knew from experience belonged to the servants. No other used these doors. He pressed through a small corridor, while the sound of voices grew louder.

Through the door, a cacophony greeted him. It was dim, with fires and sconces lighting the enormous hall. After getting used to the lack of light, he pushed past a few of the men standing by the edge of the crowd and made his way further in. It was hard to go unnoticed. A bear of a man with a thick, rough beard and arms with coils of rope for muscle was a sight and a half. Those that recognised him greeted him, though he had wished that they didn’t. He’d have much rather slipped by unnoticed. Being late as he was, he felt guilty. He had always considered Harlon a friend.

The food had long gone, which was a shame. The ride had made him ravenous, and his stomach growled in protest. But he would endure. Atleast he had finally arrived. He found himself a chair as the crowds shifted, and music began playing. The thing creaked loudly when he went to sit on it, but held true.

It was as he reached out to take a mug of ale that his eyes crossed the approaching party. With a sheepish smile he raised his mug up and then set it on the end of a table. “Do you think anyone noticed me?” He muttered, entirely aware that it must’ve been the most obvious entrance in the history of late entrances.

[rdwyns]

          the air is thick with laughter and spices, the hall crowded and warm. the northerners are raucous in their reverence, relieved of their mourning, drinking toasts to the starks, to their new king, to spring and the old gods and to peace. anya, for her part, drinks with them, enthralled by their joy and hoping the wine will dull her nerves. they even dance more freely, she notices ; not with the delicate, choreographed steps she knows well, but with a vibrance, an energy that she envies. yet she will not be asked to dance --- it only takes a brief glance at her husband to confirm this disappointment. “ it’s wonderful, don’t you think ? ” she’s earnest, perhaps overeager to engage. “ and quite a wonder no one’s been knocked to the ground yet, i’d say, ” she adds, hiding a small smile behind a cup of wine.