Westeros

Nathanial entered the throne at a calm, reserved pace, as although they were allies with the Damien's it would not do to look cowed or controlled in any way. His family had allied with them as it seemed the best option for continued peace or prosperity but that did not mean that Nathanial's family were weak. His wife Birgitte was at his side looking beautiful as ever in a satin gown deep green in colour, she was wearing her hair the way he liked it and he had never found her more beautiful than she was righ then. She walked at his side her face calm and composed and he knew with absolute certainty that he had her full support and that she would not do anything to shame him in front of the king. Behind him walked Isabel again looking very pretty in her gown and he felt a surge of pride at his youngest daughter. She had grown into a fine young woman and he wa sure she would do him proud in her continuing relations with the Damien family. Leiliana was another matter, he loved his daughter dearly and was incredibly proud of her skill at sailing and hunting but when it came to courtly matters he knew she was sorely lacking. She had neither the time nor the patience for the social niceties of court and he had given up trying to change her mind. But then she was his daughter and he would love her regardless but it was at times like this when he wished she would be a little bit more...polite.

Nathanial bowed deeply to the King, and then to the Queen and finally he bowed slightly to the King's children as etiquette demanded. He acknowledged the welcomes with a nod and a smile. He was about to launch into his own speech when he saw that the Winsler's gifts were brought forward and he waited with interest to see what they had brought for the prince. He wondered, knowing how much the Winslers hated the Damien's, just what kind of gift they had brought with them. Politics dictated that they were required to give a gift for to do otherwise was the height of bad etiquettte but the quality of the gift was entirely at their discretion. But when he saw what the Winsler's had bought he was genuinely surprised. The quality of the gifts meant that the cost must have been extortianate and he did feel suspicion nag at him. He was certain that if he were the Winslers he would not have give such a fie gift to someone he hated as strongly as they did. But perhaps they wanted to finally bury the hatchet though if it had been Birgitte who had been murdered Nathanial knew he would never forgive those who had committed the terrible act.
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Birgitte stood beside her husband both surprised and shocked at the Winsler's gift as it really did look expensive and very well crafted. She was distracted from looking at it when she rememnbered the look she had seen pass between Leiliana. She was not amused at her eldest daughters behaviour and had decided that words would be said when they had the chance to be alone. It was not appropriate for Leiliana to be flirting with her sister's betrothed and Birgitte was determined to nip the behaviour in the bud before it got any worse. She contented herself with a stern look at her eldest daughter before bestowing a smile on her younger daughter. As far as she was concerned Isabel and Richard had behaved impeccably and had done her and her husband proud.

The change in the room was obvious when Jamie Winsler threw open the sarcophagus for all to see. The Valyrian steel glimmered on the sunlit dais, drawing the attention and awe of everyone inside. Adelaide gasped; even Mother seemed intrigued. To Lionel's amusement, Leliana Greyhardt spoke out loud of her love for the bow. Raban actually let out a cry of wonder, and for once, Lionel couldn't blame him. Even he was stricken with awe for a moment, drinking in the sight of the armor, sword, and bow like a greedy child. He already had a sword, and Lionel had always preferred hand-and-half blades to longswords, but there was nothing wrong with the bow and the armor...He could easily imagine himself putting the armor on, Night at his waist, riding into battle with the Valyrian steel deflecting every blow, every arrow that came his way…

"Sit down, Lionel." For once, Maester Syrus sounded irritated.

Lionel didn't move. He was standing by the window, staring outside intently as a battle raged down below at King's Landing. Torches lit the air; the shouts of men drifted upwards into the towers, filling Lionel's mind with excitement. Green and gold banners were visible amongst the Damian wildcats; it was Lord Thorneir's men, come to launch a useless attack against King's Landing because of some sleight that Lionel's father had committed. The Thorneirs were sworn to House Greyhardt, but they had never been very loyal. So fickle was their history that Lionel's books referred to them as the Turncoats.

"We're winning," Lionel said, leaning so far out the window that he was in danger of falling out. His eyes glimmered red in the darkness, reflecting the torches. "Father's men has the Thorneirs cornered by Blackwater. We outnumber them five to one and they've nowhere to run."

"Small wonder Septon Timon refuses to tutor you." Grumbling, Maester Syrus got up and wrenched a protesting Lionel away from the window, dragging him back to the table. "Sit still, you wretched boy!"

Lionel could not stop shaking with agitation. "Please, Maester, can't I go join the battle? It'll be over soon, I promise I won't get hurt, I'll stay close to the knights, I just want to go chops some heads off-"

"No. I won't have your father behead me because of your boyish fantasies." Maester Syrus wrenched the curtains shut, eliciting a groan from Lionel. "Good heavens, boy, does war excite you that much? Wiser men would prefer staying within the castle and upholding peace…I can already tell what sort of king you're going to be, always leaping into battle without thinking about the causes or consequences. Have you any idea what even started this skirmish?"

Lionel shrugged. "Father made Lord Thorneir angry?"

Maester Syrus sighed. "More than that. Anger does not drive men to wars. Only grief, combined with anger, warrants this sort of destruction." He was silent for a moment. Screams and shouts filled the air, suggesting that Lord Thorneir's army was soon to be destroyed.

He had Lionel's attention now. "What did Father do?"

Maester Syrus leaned in close. "Have you ever heard of wildfire, Lionel?"

Lionel shook his head.

"It is a rare, volatile liquid that, at the smallest spark, bursts into green flames that are nearly impossible to extinguish. Even a very thin layer of wildfire will burn for hours, and it does not require much more than body heat to set it off."

"So?" Lionel demanded, wondering where this was going.

"Your father is very creative when it comes to killing people. Ser Olyver, Lord Thorneir's son, celebrated his coming of age not two months ago. Your father sent him a suit of brilliantly wrought armor, so beautiful that even the women of Lord Thorneir's court swooned over it. Ser Olyver was amazed at such a fine gift, especially since Lord Thorneir had only recently insulted the king in his court. House Thorneir took it to be a sign of forgiveness, a peace offering. At the insistence of his family, Ser Olyver immediately put the armor on."

Lionel had been hanging on to Maester Syrus's every word. "And?"

Maester Syrus smiled sadly. "What do you think?

Lionel leaned forward. "Thank you, Jamie. Your gift is truly marvelous. This is the best workmanship I've ever seen," he said, stepping down from his seat. Unconventional, perhaps, but he was going to lose feeling in his legs if he had to sit here all day. Mother and her "properness " could go fuck themselves. "It is good to know that our families can have peace at last. I wish this to be the start of a great relationship." He avoided looking at Kervall as he spoke, otherwise he might have burst out laughing. Even so, Lionel's words were genuinely convincing to the ear. Lying was something he was good at.

He crossed the room is several easy steps and clasped Jamie's shoulder, grinning at him.I'll have a servant try on the armor later, after the box is searched. I won't be wearing the armor at the tourney either; that won't be too hard to pull off, as everyone knows it's easier to fight in garb that one is comfortable with. The sword and bow will have to be inspected, too…actually, I might give the sword to Raban. If it's to his liking, he'll have to thank me for it. If it ends up killing him, then it'll all have been the Winsler's fault, won't it? He drew Jamie in close, as if hugging the other man in appreciation. Only those standing extremely close by could see the smirk on Lionel's face- or hear the words he muttered into Jamie's ear.

"How's your mother?"

"How's your mother."

The words whispered as they were seemed to echo loudly, but perhaps that was merely the rushing of blood in his ears. Jamie felt a brief but strong urge to strike Lionel with all the considerable strength in his body. But if the brat prince wanted to play games the Dragon would be more the glad to join in them.

"Still dead last time I checked Lionel." He answered with a sudden vehemence, although just as quiet as the prince. No need for the court to hear the words whispered by Jamie and Lionel.

The gasps and reactions of those in the court were exactly what the Dragon knew they'd be. The Greyhardts were impressed although the old wolf showed lingering suspiciousness, something that Jamie could respect. The man would share the same fate as King Damian but unlike him the old wolf would receive a quick death. His eldest daughter though openly proclaimed her love of the gifts, the bow in particular. The rest of the Damian household showed interest in the gift but like the old wolf showed a guarded caution.

Enjoy the armor Lionel, it'll look fetching on your corpse. Jamie thought with sudden amusement. Though he doubted the armor would go with the prince to his grave. No sane person would bury a man with it, for the grave robbers would have it before even the body grew cold. More then likely some highly covetous soul would slip a dagger between Lionel's ribs to claim ownership of the armor. After all Valyrian steel would turn every blade, every arrow. A warrior in it would be as close to invincible as a mortal could ever get. And judging by Lionel's younger brother Raban's reaction there was already a soul who coveted the fine gifts Jamie had brought with his hard won gold. Lady Leliana coveted the bow, perhaps if the Seven were kind blood would be shed over this fine armor,sword,and bow.

One can always dream. Jamie mused once more with keen glee that he hid behind his natural arrogance and play acting with Lionel. Rapid recalculating thoughts were happening in all the minds present. Some questioning the true purpose behind it, a few truly buying Jamie's desire for peace, his Lord Father no doubt devising some fitting punishment when they were out of the limelight.

" I hope you enjoy the gifts my Prince in the spirit in which they were given." Jamie spoke out loud enough for the assembled nobles of House Winsler, Greyhardt,and Damian.

"I would not like to see the game you hunt Lady Leliana. For tis must be some terrible beast to require such a bow as Prince Lionel now possesses. For it has a draw weight of nearly 150 pounds, and that would destroy any game it hit. But from my experience I have found hunting direwolves takes quite the amount of force to drop them in one shot." He said responding to Leliana's outburst, let them make what they will out of the direwolf comment." But if you wish I can give you the name of it's maker. But I'll warn you she doesn't give away her work for free."

All in all Jamie was enjoying the reactions of all. This was exactly what he had planned, now the pawn had been moved forward on the chessboard, leaving the Knight to move ever closer to the King.

~~~NUALA~~~

Nuala's instincts had been molded by the harsh winters of the North, forcing her to be ever on her guard and never allow anything to slip by her. If one acted the ignorant infant, ambling about knowing nothing and making noise, one got killed. Animals knew this. Wildlings knew this. Most importantly, she knew this -- and she did not miss the staring eyes of the large blonde man. She focused in on him like a hawk, aggression and malice making fair company of one another in the set of her mouth and eyes.

Once again her lips curled back over her teeth in a snarl, this time one that was meant for the towering blonde male who had been staring at her. If he wanted something from her, he would be more than welcome to it. But not without besting her in combat. Nuala seldom held a morsel of respect for anyone who had not previously proven to her his or her worth with a blade.

The snarl had been meant as a challenge. Handsome and strong though he looked, he did not yet merit respect. Respect had to be earned. A man could be built like a bear and have no spine to him, while a man with the stature of a mouse may be the fiercest of warriors.

When the Queen moved, Nuala was instantly paying close attention. Every bodily shift had meaning and she had been told to watch for cues. This had to be such a cue. Nuala followed the body language and the way that Queen Morgana was silently informing her to watch the hulking blonde -- the same one that had been staring at her only moments prior.

If the Queen wished for her to observe the man, Nuala would do that exactly. Her place was to follow any order the Queen would find fitting to give her. If that meant that Nuala was little more than the Queen's rabid pet, then so be it. A rabid pet was better than a dead one. She focused her dark eyes on him and glowered.

Some sort of traditional giving of gifts was taking place to honor a custom which involved marriage. Why not simply give them a bushel of wheat and three goats in exchange for that weak-looking girl? Why would anyone want such a useless-looking bride? Nuala doubted that the girl, a beautiful willowy creature though she was, would survive through the mildest winters in the wastelands of the far North. She would either be mauled by wild bears or scalped by Wildlings.

The armor that was being given was too flashy. Why would anyone wish to be clad in something that would be sure to invoke envy or desire in others for their armor? Enemies would easily spy a man dressed so fancifully and that would make a man an easy target. Weapons and armor had to be practical and not pretty and fancy.

Weapons and armor were for warriors, not for berry-picking girls who knew not which end of a spear to strike with. The only redeeming quality Nuala could spy was the material with which the gifts were crafted. Valyrian steel, it was a thing of legend amongst her people, something none of them had ever seen or touched, having only heard of.

Even she had to admit that such armaments, though unnecessarily ornamental, were of fine craft and worthy of battle.

In the chaos of battle, when the ground beneath one's feet is a slurry of blood, puke, piss and the entrails of friends and enemies alike, it is of no matter whether ones armor is engraved or not. All that matters is getting out alive and felling those who dare stand before you with blade in hand. You fight or you die, all else be damned. Both repulsed and attracted, Nuala was not yet sure whether she wished to test out the steel of a Valyrian blade or spit on it.


~~~ DANTE ~~~

"It is so sweet and caring of you to express such pure concerns for my ego, sweet lady," Dante was not one to easily stop his penchant for playing at the charmer and the flirt. "Ah, but nothing could close up the wound if not for a kiss from those full, pouting lips."

And something about this woman, about how she pushed him and his attentions away (something which he had never before been faced with from the fairer sex) made him want to win her over ever the more. Did he plan on taunting her? Yes, but in the sweetest way possible.

He took a step closer to Nasrin, moving quietly so as not to spook her or invoke unnecessary attentions from their surrounding company -- namely the Wildling with the spear and the drove of royals and nobles.
“I could make your toes curl,” he leaned down so that his lips brushed the delicate tip of her ear, hot breath sure to be tickling the soft skin of her neck. If he were to reach out and trail his fingertips along its dipping curve, he was sure that it would yield beneath his touch like fine satin.

From his vantage point he could easily see down the front of her dress. Dante could not repress the smirk that came to his mouth as he let his eyes wander freely over the full tops of her breasts. Down his eyes went, down inwards to the sweet cleft the twin mounds made as they were pressed against one another by her corset.

He let forth a throaty chuckle and breathed in deep the scent of honeysuckle which graced her skin. “You smell of wildflowers, milady,” he reached out and softly brushed a curl of hair away from one of her thin shoulders.

“Have you ever been on your back down on the soft forest floor, pine needles pressing into your back as your body shifts in rhythm to the delectable cadence of love-making? Or,” and here he did touch her, fingertips dancing across her shoulder and down her arm before he withdrew her hand completely to live behind nothing but the ghost of a touch, “would you prefer to be the one who guides the rhythm? Some men know that a light touch of the tongue, running from a woman's toes to her ears, lingering in the softest way possible in various places in between, given often enough and sincerely enough, would add immeasurably to world peace. I am such a man, milady.”

In his ministrations to Nasrin Cavendish, Dante did not even notice the wondrous gifts being presented to House Damian by Jamie Winsler. Then again, the promising idea of a woman was so much more exciting and worthy of his interest and concern than anything mere gold could buy. For not even all the gold of Casterly Rock, and all the world’s riches combined, could ever hold a candle to the worth of strong-minded woman. If he were to be given the choice between infinite wealth and a woman who could make his heart pound, he would not give the riches so much as a passing glance.

He straightened back up and took a small step away from her, no longer intruding upon the personal space of her body. A woman undaunted by speaking her mind -- a woman blunt and honest as the guileless light of the sun itself -- now that was to be worshiped and longed for. Not sword or bows, not armor or shields, not war galleys or prized stallions -- no, nothing could ever compare. The sheen of gold faded with time and blades became dull and useless, but women whose hearts burned with the fire of their spirit were ever-beautiful.

That was really stupid, you halfwit. The whole room saw you staring. You may as well have walked up to her and bent the knee. Stop being so foolish, you git, and pay attention to courtesy. The Queen is nearly ready to roast you on a spit, already. Kervall berated himself silently for his staring as he watched the Greyhardts arrive. There was really no excuse for that kind of behaviour, and now he'd tipped his hand more than he'd liked. In the back of his mind, however, was a small voice saying something increasingly annoying that he was trying desperately - and failing - to ignore. For just a brief moment, when Adelaide felt eyes on her and their gazes had met ... she had smiled at me. Shaking himself mentally and wiping the grin from his face, Kervall forced himself to pay attention to the new arrivals.

Wolves, indeed. The family looked as he'd expected from the information gathered by his sources. Far less guarded than the royal family, he'd been able to learn much about them. In particular, Leliana seemed an interesting young woman - if completely crazy. Of any of them, though, she was the only one who had piqued his interest. Perhaps in the near future he would get the chance to challenge her to a friendly bout of archery or even a hunt, but for now, there was not much to do but follow protocol.

Ah, yes, Jamie's gift. Since he was already quite familiar with the contents of that morose container, Kervall took the opportunity to very carefully study the reactions given. He cast a critical eye over the expressions on the faces of those gathered, and carefully made mental notes of what followed. Kurt was very used to the court dealings in the Eyrie, and this was hardly different. If you paid attention to only what was said and given at face value, you would find yourself with a dagger sprouting between your shoulder-blades or face down in a bowl of cold soup within a week. Of particular interest to him were the reactions of the King, and of Lionel. Of course, Lionel had - as Jamie - made all the sympathetic and idealistic noises that had to be made in such an instance, but he didn't believe a word of it. He heard the two boys mumble words to each other, probably both vulgar and violent, but his eyes were on the throne. King Damian was no fool, and he would never succeed at manipulating the man. Deceiving him, however, was another matter entirely. Kurt noted with great interest at how graciously he accepted the gift. He only wished he could be there when they spoke of the items in private.

For the sake of due diligence, he cast his eyes down the line of the royal family to gauge their reactions, but was neither surprised nor interested in most of what he saw there. Raban, however, was staring unabashedly at the sword with such a look in his eyes that gave Kervall pause. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he recognized and lauded that look. It went beyond pure desire, or the abject and crude want to possess yet another 'thing'. It was imagination. The boy was not even looking at the sword any longer - the thing had no doubt sparked a cascade of images inside his mind, and currently he was on the deck of a ship cutting through pirates with it, or scaling an impossible mountain slaughtering dragons, or charging through the gods knew what vile monsters the boy slayed in his dreams. For a moment, he remembered his own childhood, and one particular mess he'd landed in. He had probably been very young, the memory was primal, nothing more than a few visuals and sounds. A found 'treasure', probably nothing more than a broom; a shattered piece of pottery or other delicate; the feeling pure panic and haste to hide the damage; his father's laughter, and his mother's disapproval. Adventure, at a young age.

The ephemeral moment was gone soon, as he was quickly distracted by a servant approaching him and giving him a message. It was nearly time to get ready for the festivities, tonight. It was time to start wrapping things up, here.

Henry's tension eased as pleasantries were exchanged. He did not look at Lionel as he spoke, and thus missed the wordless conversation between he and Leliana, but he was pleased with the way he spoke. It was hard to believe he'd been sulking and arguing just a few minutes beforehand. Maybe it was seeing that Isabel Greyhardt was as beautiful as rumored; he'd certainly been shocked to silence the first time he'd laid eyes on Morgana.

Of all the gifts brought in, only the finely bred horse kept his attention for more than a few moments. Henry had become hard to impress after years of kingship. Then, last, what looked to be a sarcophagus was hauled in. The crest of Damian was on the outside, but Henry felt a moment's sick fear: that they would open it up and the body of Lady Winsler would be inside. It was ridiculous, he knew, but that woman's death had not been one he slept the most easily on. If things could be done differently... it was opened to reveal a set of fine armor and weaponry, crafted of Valyrian steel and - well, he didn't catch the rest, so astounded was he at the Valyrian steel. Perhaps their loyalties were stronger than he thought for such an expensive gift. Or perhaps not. A little more time would tell.

It was intended for Lionel. That was another surprise. Perhaps it was a sign that they preferred Lionel's favor to his. It was not exactly a secret that father and son had different methods. Throwing their lot in with the cub while the lion was still in its prime? He looked over at Lionel, waiting to see his reaction, but he had already left his seat to personally thank them. It wasn't what he would have done, but then again, when did Lionel ever consistently do what a King would? At least he was showing gratitude.

"A fine gift," Henry said after the two had embraced. "You may be certain the Prince will wear it in the tournament on the morrow."

"A hundred and fifty pounds? My, that could splatter a rabbit to bits! But do not mistake my words, I've hunted much bigger game. I've always enjoyed moose and bears the most of all." Leliana could not help but arch an eyebrow and smile at the idea. All manners and pretenses were forgotten at that moment as she savored the frisson that crept its way down her spine at the thought of giving into the base instincts of the hunt.

When one thought about it, hunting was a carnal act. There was something so very intimate about notching an arrow and letting it fly. Leliana's mind spiraled rather quickly into a metaphorical ditch, one from which it would take much effort to mentally clamber out from.

"Direwolves are a tricky sort, Ser Jamie, and quite hard to fell. It is never wise to allow one to get too close, they have the tendency to...bite. Insatiable appetites, the lot of them." There was a saucy inflection to her tone when she uttered the very last word. She was not implying anything specific, but merely offering the idea of there being an implication to her words. After all, what interest did a remark pose if there was no chance at more than one interpretation of it?

The gift from House Greyhardt was more of a dowry than a collection of items from each member of their family, as was customary - then again, each one of them had pitched in a fair some of money just so as to have it be a family affair.

To cut down to the chase, the Greyhardt's gift was a war galley, one which was waiting in the docks, safely tied in place. The ship was a monstrous beauty, Leliana could attest to that, having taking part in helping with the designs.

It was the perfect example of a ship meant for naval warfare, an oared vessel fit for any King to sail into the roiling heat of battle. It was a highly maneuverable vessel, independent of winds by being rowed, oars providing the focus to its speed. War galleys were virtually impossible to wreck, as they floated even with a ruptured hull and only immense amounts of any ballast or heavy cargo could ever sink one.

Though the ship was by far not as costly as the grand suit of armor and weaponry which Jamie Winsler had presented, Leliana still had faith that the war galley would be well liked.

After all, how could someone not like a ship? The very thought baffled her mind to oblivion. Sailing was one of the most amazing experiences, in her honest opinion. The feel of the wind whipping through her hair, the spray of cold sea-water on bare flesh, the smell of tar and the sound of a rippling sail...majestic. Truly and purely majestic.

"A man's not a man unless he can sail," Leliana suddenly spoke out, no longer feeling the need to repress her words. She knew she would get reprimanded by her Lord father and Lady mother for what she was about to say, but the urge to say it was too great. It had something to do with being clad in a bothersome gown that ignited the need to express herself verbally.

"And if a man knows not how, a man can always learn! The ship is the best teacher. She will guide you with her sighs... her shudders, her gentle swaying as she rides the crests of the waves. Sailing is like sex. If you do it wrong, you will get sick... but do it right, and there's no feeling in the world like it." She concluded her sermon with a sharp nod of the head and a grin so roguish that it would have made any brash sailor proud.

And, after all, if something could not bring about gold or giggles, what was the point of it anyways? She knew she would soon be doing her best to blithely ignore the consequences of her actions.

In the background, Queen Morgana fainted. Whether it had been Lionel's getting up from the throne to go and hug Jamie Winsler, improper as that was, or Leliana's commentary - or everything combined into one lewd package, it had definitely made the Queen lose consciousness.

Morgana's form slumped to the side, head lolling against her shoulder as her limbs went limp.

"Oh, what a pity..." Lionel murmured as he tilted his head mockingly at Jamie, a look of gleeful malice in his eyes. "Missing mommy, aren't you?"

But his triumphant mood didn't last for long. Lionel winced inwardly as his father promised the Winslers that Lionel would be wearing the armor in the tourney the next day. Really, father? Either the man had no political brains, or he was trying to kill him. Judging from the last seventeen years, probably both. Lionel wouldn't put it past his father to trap him into wearing a new suit of armor possibly coated in poison; the gift had been presented to Lionel, after all, and not the king. The act could easily have been seen has a political maneuver, a quiet declaration of allegiances. Which was too bad, really, because Lionel had no interest in overthrowing his father. In fact, the longer he could put off sitting on the Iron Throne, the better. Too bad the Winslers didn't know that. Too bad Father refuses to believe that. His mind raced furiously for a moment, trying to find a way out of the hole his father had just dug him.

"Beautiful as the armor is, I'm afraid I won't be wearing it tomorrow," he said immediately, shooting a glare at the king. "I've always been slow at adapting to new gear, and I'd rather be performing at my best in the tourney." He ended the sentence with an apologetic smile, attempting to dispel the tension in the room. This wasn't good. Either way, he was offending at least one party. And if worst came to worst, he would be bursting into flames tomorrow morning. Well played, Jamie…and thank you, Father, for trying to kill me.

But if Lionel's spirits were down, Leliana's words immediately brought a grin to his face. Her comment about the direwolf elicited a chuckle, and her following remarks about the war galley made Lionel burst out laughing. Where has this woman been my entire life? "So sailing is like sex, then?" he grinned, turning to face her. He crossed his arms and looked her up and down, raising an eyebrow. Nice form…not as pretty as Isabel, to be sure, but I like her face better, somehow. He was faintly aware of his mother's eyes boring into his back; he was screwing things up with Isabel, for sure, but somehow he didn't really care. "I've never been on a ship, but I've been told I'm a quick learner…perhaps you'd like to help me with that?"

Slump.

Lionel whipped his head around. What he saw nearly gave him a heart attack; Mother had fainted, actually fainted…He was vaguely aware of a small titter of laughter throughout the room, and barely resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. By the gods, Mother, you are the most humiliating piece of…

"You," Lionel snapped, pointing to Nasrin. "What are you doing, just standing there? Attend to the Queen at once, or I'll have your head off." As far as servants went, Lionel had never really liked Nasrin. She was too cold, too blunt, too bitter. All ironically traits that Lionel himself possessed, but then it could only be a good thing that Lionel hadn't been born with a twin.

He needed to control the damage done by his foolish mother. He couldn't have the nobles of court standing around gawking while the servants fussed over the queen; he needed to get them out of here, to have them forget about this incident as soon as possible. "I believe it's time for the feast," he said, turning to the king. "Wouldn't you agree, Father?" Looking hastily at Lord and Lady Greyhardt, he gestured to a hallway to the left of the throne room. "Lord Greyhardt, why don't you follow my father to the dining room before the food gets cold? Lord Winsler, you as well. It's right down that way- but then, you've been to the Red Keep before, haven't you" Lionel was simply prattling at this point, but he couldn't help it. Damn it, Mother, why'd you have to go and faint…?! Despite his fumblings, he finally managed to get everyone out of the throne room and out of site of his unconscious mother.

Which left just one thing he needed to take care of. While the rest of the court left the throne room, Lionel hung back by the sarcophagus, trying not to be completely absorbed by the beauty of the armor.

"Crowface, come here." When he had his little brother's attention, Lionel reached into the coffin and drew out the longsword, twirling it experimentally in the air as he did so. There was a moment where Lionel's breath caught, but his instinct had been right. It wasn't coated with wildfire. "Look, I know I've been a dick lately. I didn't mean that just now. You're a fine squire, I promise." The sharp end swung dangerously close to Raban's face as Lionel cut an intricate pattern through the air. Nice balance. "It's just that the pressure of marriage is getting to me, you know? It's not a secret that I don't like the Greyhardt girl, and with Father's constant prattling, I just get…" Lionel trailed off as he took the longsword through a series of complicated, frenzied parries. For a moment, it looked as if he meant to stab Raban through, but Lionel jerked the blade back just in time, flipped it over, and offered the hilt to his brother. "I've already got a sword of Valyrian steel. Want it?"

With his father now set steadily against him thanks to the Winslers, Lionel needed all of the support he could get. Mother was a lost cause, and Raban wasn't someone he really wanted at his side during battle, but he was a bridge to Adelaide. And besides, it wasn't like Lionel was losing anything by giving away the longsword. Raban had always desired a loving family, so much that he was willing to overlook the truth in order to believe in his dream. And who was Lionel to deny him that happy fantasy?

Jamie, try as he might could not hold back his anger. He wasn't the subtle politician his elder brother was. The Dragon could only hide so long behind a suit of valyrian armor and courtly etiquettte. Every single fiber of his being, his very soul wanted nothing more then slam his fist in the brat prince's face, to feel his flesh and bone pulp beneath. Lionel standing as close as he was to Jamie would stand very little chance of dodging such a blow, the Damian guards too far away to intervene. All it would take is one punch, then he could draw Memory and gut the filthy bastard before he had a chance to react to the punch. Jamie had made it this far in life, dying in the throne room of Westeros wasn't such a bad way to go. Who knows he might actually manage to slay King Damian in the process if the Seven were kind.

But all thoughts of murder and regicide were put out of mind as the Queen fainted, actually fainted. In the midst of all the goings on. Surrounded by both her family and the two most powerful noble houses in all of the Seven Kingdoms, she had actually fainted. What had been anger a short moment ago turned into full on amusement, the urge to laugh as great as the urge to kill had been.

I wonder if it were the sailing advice Leliana gave. Jamie thought as he struggled to keep a straight face. This was almost worth his mother's memory being profaned by that bastard of a prince..almost but not quite.

The look on Lionel's face as he realized what had happened further tested his knightly restraint. Then again this kind of thing hadn't been covered when he still was a squire. And the way he ordered some woman standing next to the Queen was just as priceless as his expression. It was seething anger and the desire to bury his face in his hands. Then the mask dropped as Lionel herded them out, no doubt as damage control. After all it wouldn't do to have the Queen of Westeros the object of amusement.

But Jamie supposed it was about time for the feast, and any excuse to be physically further away from the Damians was good enough for him at the moment. He had a plan after all, and Lionel's antics had nearly cost him the little self-control he had gained from thinking about it's steps and eventual conclusion. His long legged stride carried him along with the press of people heading towards the dining hall.

"Did you see the look on Lionel's face, twas priceless....Remind me later that I owe you a bow Lady Leliana, you deserve it after that little speech about the arts of sailing." Jamie, unable to keep his amusement pent up spoke then burst into laughter."

With that out of his system the Dragon focused on the more pressing concern of the wildling woman, He hadn't missed the gesture the Queen had made. He knew he had gained a shadow in the form of a wildling woman wielding a spear. She would likely follow him, discreetly of course. And probably unseen, for while he had heard no stories of combat prowess concerning wildlings all the stories were in accord with their ability to remain unseen when they wanted to be. Then again he didn't put much stock in stories, but he had a feeling nonetheless he'd witness the truth behind the stories soon enough.

Casually, as if doing nothing more then showing a rush to get to the feast he strode past the wilding woman clad in furs and leather. A brief sideways glance and even swifter smile that spoke volumes. It was as if Jamie were acknowledging an unspoken fact.

"So Kervall, think Her Royal Majesty the Queen will recover from what foulness has struck her. Or will we have to wait for the tides to ebb first." He asked his elder brother and heir to House Winsler but staring at Leliana. Forgotten was his silently fuming Lord Father, after all Jamie's gifts had been worth more then every single other gift given put together. And they had struck a blow right at the heart of the Damian's, one Lionel returned in kind to be fair. But first blood went to House Winsler and Jamie.

And I promise you last blood shall me mine as well The Dragon vowed to himself.

~~~DANTE~~~

"Ah, then we should find another place so that milady may slap me till her heart is content," he enjoyed the flush of pink his words had brought about to her cheeks, "I do deserve a beating, truly. Milady is correct to infer that I have been naughty. In truth, a woman may begin by resisting a man's advances, but ends by blocking his retreat." Her anger only made him want to goad her along more and see how far she could be pushed before she did slap him.

Nasrin Cavendish was rather appealing when blushing with fury and ire. Now this is what he had been missing for the past while -- a woman who could make a stand for herself without the need to reach for the smelling salts.

"Offer me riches and power beyond the scope of my humble imagination, and I would be a wealthy man." Dante was not staggered by her words, nevertheless his speech held a sliver of sharpness. "Offer me a strong-willed woman to love, and I would gladly live a beggar."

It was no lie. Lying had never done him much good -- seldom did Dante ever have the need to tell a falsehood. Most knew him for what he was: a criminal, a skirt-chaser, and many other such niceties. Those who did not know him for what he was soon found out. Momentarily he flicked his eyes from Nasrin and to Isabel Greyhardt.

Gods! He was surrounded on all sides by bewitching women that he barely had time to lavish upon them all. Ah, women. They made the highs higher and the lows more frequent.

Dante's mouth was sealed shut the moment the angered words of Prince Lionel were thrown over into Nasrin's trajectory. Much as Dante would have enjoyed continuing to pester her, he did not cherish the idea of getting his ass into hot water. Royalty he had to be careful around, lest his neck end up on a chopping block and his head in a basket.

"I will be seeing to the safety of the Princess Adelaide and Prince Raban," Dante managed to say through lips half shut, "I will hope to see you at the feast, sweet Rin." With those last words, he took his leave.

~~~NUALA~~~

The unconscious Queen was no worry of Nuala's. Tending to weaklings who collapsed after an exchange of sexual euphemisms had not been a trouble assigned to her. These people know nothing. In the North, if two clan-mates desire to rut, they do so. What is the point of talking about it first? It only delays the inevitable. Nuala did not comprehend a thing.

The moment that the opportunity to get on the move presented itself -- when the son of the Queen ushered all out of the throne room upon her fainting -- Nuala was gone in mere seconds. She kept to the walls and circled round the room, never taking her eyes of the man she had to watch.

Her feet brought her to the door and she stood there off to the side, waiting for the ebb of people to pass through the doors. Being jostled by bodies held no appeal to her. Nuala did not very much enjoy the company of others and neither did she revel in their proximity.

The blonde man strode past her and threw her a sideways look and a quick smile. Nuala's scowl was magnified at that. Speak your mind and save me your smiles. She would have said had he stopped in front of her.

She took a few seconds to allow a distance to grow and unfold between the two of them before gliding around the frame of the door and tailing his steps. If he was to look back over his shoulder he would not see her, not unless she wanted him to. For now Nualla wanted to stay out of sight.

Adelaide was surprised herself at her brother's reaction to the armour, but even if no-one else realised, she knew there would be alternate motives there. No doubt Lionel was muttering insults or threats under his breath and Jamie was returning them. The two hated one another and the armour was not a reconciliation, even Adelaide could see that. She shook her head sadly at her brother's attitude towards this whole affair. He would never understand that in order for him to sit safely on the throne, he needed to befriend the Winslers. But as far as that went, it would never happen whilst Lord Winsler was alive. It would be in his best interests to be on better terms with Jamie and Kervall. Unfortunately, Lionel was too caught up with the fighting of the Winsler boys. Foolish. The testosterone would continually be running high throughout the time that the two Houses stayed here. He would never understand and that was his downfall. Adelaide's only hoped that she listened to her ideas and thoughts on politics when he was crowned, until then she would sit in silence and know her place.

Smiling at the revealing of the Greyhardt's gift, she nodding her head in approval at each of the family. She hadn't expected anything else from them. The Wolfs were the sort of the people who loved the outdoors, loved riding, sailing and everything they could get their hands on. Although she would never even get to set foot upon the gift, she was appreciative of it. At least it would get Lionel out of her hair. Surprisingly, she was fairly enjoying the arrival of the families. But her happiness was short-lived when she heard her mother slump in her chair. Giggles ran throughout the throne room and she settled the families with a dark look, before hurrying to her feet and her mother's side. "Mother?" She whispered, taking her hand in her own. Lionel's face was a picture. Embarrassed more than anything else, but he tried to cover it up by asking Raban to join him. Another glare was shot his way, as she knelt beside her mother's chair. It was clear that Morgana had only fainted, but Adelaide loved her mother and would not leave her.

Clearing her throat, she stood, shaking her hair back and glancing around the throne with her dark eyes. She spoke in her gentle, soft voice. "Perhaps now would be a good time to take leave and prepare for the feast?" She suggested, aiming her question directly at Lionel, though she looked around at everyone else in the throne room, holding her head high. You'd be proud of me now mother. But her words fell on deaf ears, as Lionel had already ushered everyone out of the throne room, for pure embarrassment more than anything else. Shaking her head, she left her mother in the hands of her maid and the Wilding she hired as well. Setting her brother with a hard look, she swept from the room quickly, glad to get away.

Nathanial was not amused with being rushed out of the throne room before having a chance to officially announce his family's gift to the Damien's. To make matters worse Leiliana had unofficially announced what their gift was with her "little speech". He was furious with her at that moment and hoped to the Seven that she behaved herself at the feast otherwise there would be hell to pay. He was more than happy to indulge her penchant for outdoor persuits and had been willing to excuse her rough and ready manners. But that had always been on the condition that she behave herself when around people of high rank other than her own family. Instead she had made the Grayhardt's a laughing stock and no doubt made them wonder just how much power he had if he could not even control one of his own children! He glanced at his wife Birgitte and she met his gaze and nodded slightly. That was one of the things he loved about her, her ability to read what he wanted without words. He would leave the disciplining of Leiliana to his Lady wife as she was more capable than he at doing so.

Besides he needed to focus on m ore important matters such as dancing through this serpents nest without getting bitten, he was an old wolf now but he still had his teeth and if need be he would bite back but he hoped it would not come to that. Gods how he wished he could just leave and return to Winterfell, things were so much easier there and perhaps it was cowardly but he longed for the easier life. He would be truly happy when Richard was ready to take over from him but as much as his son was a fine soldier and a fine man in general Nathanial did not believe he was ready yet for the mantle of Head of House Grayhardt. Which meant he would have to deal with all of this pomp, ceremony and backstabbing a little longer. With a sigh he followed everyone else as they walked along the hallway presumably to the feast. After the Queen had fainted it was clear that the Crown Prince had not wanted any of them to see his mother in such a vulnerable condition and had began quickly ushering them out. There had been no time to ask them to come and see the magnificent war ship that at this moment was resting in the bay. He would simply have to arrange another time for them to view it and hope they were as pleased with it as he was. A lot of time, effort and money had gone in to building that beauty and the Damien's had better be impressed with it otherwise he would be further unamused.

-------------------------------------------------------

Birgitte watched the Queen faint with carefully hidden amusement and disbelief - that a woman with that much power could have such weakness - such a woman would not survive long in the north. No those with Iron Blood in their veins were made of sterner stock and she knew with certainty that none of the women in her family would be that weak. Which reminded her of Leiliana's behavior and she frowned in displeasure. As they were ushered from the throne room Birgitte was wondering how she could have gone so wrong with her daughter, what had she done differently that had made Leliana completely disregard her family's social standing and behave no better than a common sailor! Her comments had certainly attributed to the Queen fainting and that was enough for Birgitte to be furious. She hardly dared show her face in front of the other women again after such behaviour from one of her children and her eldest daughter no less, no doubt the other lady nobles were thinking of what a poor mother she was if she could not even get them to behave properly in public.

Birgitte was angrier with her daughter than she had possibly ever been before and she decided that this flagrent disregard for her family's standing and her parents wishes was going to stop otherwise Leiliana would find her kind Lady mother not so kind after all! She met her husbands gaze and saw the look he directed to her and she could clearly see that he was furious as well. He clearly needed her to deal with the situation as he had to focus on repairing the damage and maintaining their standing with the other Houses. She nodded once to show him that she understood and would deal with the matter herself. She manuvered herself so that she was walking beside Leiliana and then with a smile as if nothing was amiss she leaned close enough to whisper in her daughters ear.

"We will have words later you and I. Behave yourself at this feast my girl or you will find things very different from now on." Birgitte let some of the fury she was feeling show through in her words before she leaned back and continued walking as though nothing had transpired.

Raban was still drinking in the sight of the sword, bow and armour, the conversations taking place around him nothing more than a distant buzzing in his ears. Hearing a sudden cry of surprise and murmurs of alarm, he turned his head to see his mother slumping sideways in her throne. For one awful moment he thought she had been felled by some arrow or poison, perhaps an act of vengeance launched by the Winslers, and he glanced around wildly, looking for the source of the attack. Soon he realised that she had merely fainted, and he resisted the instinct to rush to her side in concern. His mother had her servants nearby to attend to her, and she would want him to maintain his composure.

Lionel was already taking action, hurrying the noble guests out of the room and on to the great hall. In these troubled times, they could ill afford to show any sign of weakness to their enemies. There was no telling what the Winslers and the Greyhardts made of the Queen's swoon, but it would certainly do the Damians no favours for the other Houses to believe the Queen in poor health. Raban wondered why his mother had fainted. It was most unlike her; she was usually calm and collected no matter the situation.

When most of the court had filed out of the room, Lionel advanced to the Winslers' gifts and examined them. He called Raban over, drew the longsword from within and began to twirl it. Raban had to jerk his head back a few times, fearing that Lionel meant to strike him, but Lionel inverted the sword and passed it hilt-first to Raban, offering it to him. Raban could hardly believe his eyes. Why would Lionel do such a thing? Was the sword cursed or poisoned? It was true, perhaps, that Lionel had a Valyrian steel blade of his own and didn't truly need one, but that had never stopped him from denying anything to Raban before.

Slowly, Raban reached out with trembling fingers. He was sure that Lionel would snatch the sword away at the last minute, but miraculously he did not, and Raban's fingers closed on the finely-worked hilt. He grasped and lifted the sword, feeling its balance, moving it through a slow arc. It was heavier and longer than it should be for him, but it was so beautiful he didn't mind. Raban felt his face stretching itself into a broad grin. He turned back to Lionel and thanked him sincerely. Could it be that Lionel truly meant what he said about regretting his cruel behaviour and wanting to make up for it? This was the brother Raban dimly remembered from the past, whose courage and valour were matched by kindness and affection.

Isabel drunk in the sight. The armor was intricately crafted, the steel of the breastplate shimmered as the smooth wood of the container was pulled back. She determined roughly the strength of sword it would take to pierce that armor. And truly impressive it was.
"Beautiful," she murmured.
She had to stifle laughter when Leliana began to rant, making comparisons about hunting and sex. Isabel wasn't one for crude humor; but in the middle of a courtroom of royalty- she couldn't help it. She laughed aloud. And when the speech turned to their gift, it redirected her thoughts there. She was proud of the gift her family was presenting. The ship was a gorgeous ride, with fine sails and sturdy walls. It would uphold in the most tedious of situations. She'd tested the boat out herself, though not in battle. It would be a sight to see.

Queen Morgana slumped to the floor.

Isabel's eyes widened. The Queen, known for her cool wit and intellect, had literally fainted. Was it the intimate words Leliana had shared? Or the pressure of the court? The irony of it all. She began to feel pity for the Queen, for her family didn't look at all pleased with her. Then again, would she be as angry if it was Birgette who'd fainted?

No. She'd forgive her mother- though perhaps she was a little more forgiving than the next soul. She could see some of the Winslers' and members of her family, as well, holding back laughter. The two Houses were ushered out of the courtroom. Isabel listened to Jamie as he spoke, grinning ruefully despite herself. "Leli!" she muttered to her sister as soon as they turned a corner. She could see the glowering faces of her parents, barely held back by their composure. She changed her mind at the last minute. "Good luck," she smirked.

Oh, Leliana. She could never hold her tongue. Lord help whomever fell in love with her. But she cared for her sister deeply, and couldn't resist a smile.

The Lions gate and the great city of King's Landing with the Red Keep towering above in the distance rose to full and breathtaking view. The city held a sort of aesthetic beauty unmatched by any in the Westeroes. That is not to say that Teralo's own home in the Vale did not hold it's own sort of charm, but it was always so depressing. Kings landing was a city, it was a place alive with bustle of thousands of people. It was a city of life. The Vale on the other hand, the Vale was a mountain fortress, a cold one. It had it's own hard weathered life but the Vale could not match Kings Landing, even if it is not as easily defended in battle.

The cobbled road was packed with people but the seas of humanity split to allow the large caravan through. The atmosphere of the city was electrified for the upcoming tourney and though it may be tense at best in court, out here the city was brimming with innocent excitement about the festivities. The city was a far more appetizing place to Teralo then the dreariness of court. There was knowledge to be held in a city, truth and exploration. In the courts it was only a game, a dangerous game filled with lies and treachery. The court was a game of thrones.

It took a good deal of time for the caravan to navigate through the human waters but the streets were wide and eventually the Winsler caravan found it's way traversing Aegon's Hill and marching through the large red stone gate house of the Red Keep. The fortifications of the Red Keep were impressive and the red stone the frightening color of crimson blood. However whatever keep this had once been is gone, while the walls and forts are impressive, the grounds of the Red Keep have grown to hold to many stately buildings, to many houses and storehouses. The Keep from the outside looked like one of the greatest forts ever build, but once you step through it's wide arched gate you can see it for what it truly is. A stately and prominent palace. Teralo looked on it with wonder though, to him a Palace was just as wonderful as a fort, if not more so because it was not an instrument of war.

Both Emaya and Teralo had not been silent throughout their ride through the city. Both had been going at it like little children at the sights and smells, promising each other to come and visit this shop or that store, that monument or this relic. It was all so fascinating to the pair and both had all but fallen off their horse when even the tip of the crumbling towers of the Dragon Pit came into sight over the city scape for just an instant. At one point during the ride, Lord Winsler passed them on his way too the front of the caravan and scowled menacingly at the two of them sharing a saddle and grinning like fools. He would never approve of their friendship and Teralo had resigned himself to that fact. Teralo ignored his father as he passed but instinctively placed a closer hold on Emaya, Lord WInsler was unpredictable at best, he was a threat to Emaya even if she didn't completely believe that Lord Winsler could mean her harm.

There was some confusing at the stables as servants scurried around to try and serve this lord or lady and stable the horses. Afterwards it was an even more confusing trip to their rooms that was made still more confusing by Teralo's and Emaya's incessant need to explore the Red Keep. As a result the pair of them had nearly gotten separated more then once, but finally they reached their rooms. Emaya had been given a room with the servants but a few coins slipped into a pocket assured Teralo that a spare bed and her things would be brought up to his apartments. Emaya had been very disappointed to learn that Lord Winsler and firmly prohibited her from attending the court with Teralo which led to a very disappointing temporary goodbye between the two of them. Honestly Teralo had wanted Emaya with him, both because he worried over her and because he needed her to an extent. Teralo hated court politics with a passion and they were liable to make him angry. Court Politics were full of lies and deceit, the lies build and soon men with good sense are doing the most illogical actions ever. Still he gave her a quick hug and departed with his brothers and Father to the Court Room for the dreaded meeting with the Damains.

Upon entering the Throne room, Teralo gave an impeccable bow to the king, his brothers was adequate and his father's far from such but his was just right. After introductions were made and some talk exchanged, the gift giving custom began. As expected his father's gifts were the barest of adequacy. A few small trinkets and such and some even cheaply made. Teralo locked eyes with Prince Lionel and almost grimaced. The man was an open book, contempt splashed across his face, anger as well. He held himself above all in the room as if he was some sort of god among peasants. It was a spur of the moment but Teralo kept his mouth shut and allowed the moment of gift giving to pass him over. He was angry at Lionel he realized, angry without even talking to the man. He didn't need to talk. I will not give him that mare. I am not part of this game and that man will break her, ruin her. Teralo thought as he swallowed and let the moment pass him by to Jamie.

The awe of Jamie's gift was immeasurable but Teralo kept his mouth shut and studied the reactions of those gathered, taking note of each one be they Damain, Greyhardt, wildling, or servant. Prince Lionel's actions after accepting the gift were enough to prove to Teralo that not giving him the mare was the best course of action for the mare's sake. Such a proud and spirited horse is not deserving of an owner who will break that spirit, that intelligence.

Teralo became so absorbed with his thoughts of the mare that he was lost to the conversation taking place in the room, it was not until the shock of the Queen fainting that Teralo was stunned back to the present and hurriedly rushed out of the room, though he quickly learned what had happened from those present. An interesting turn of events for sure, nevertheless Teralo was finely out of the court and he could resign at least temporarily to his room to ready for the feast.

Beautiful as the armor is, I'm afraid I won't be wearing it tomorrow.

Was there a bone in Lionel's body that forced him to contradict every word Henry spoke? And in public, no less? Before he could think of something to say, one of the Greyhardt daughters had spoken - and had the words that came from her mouth been from Isabel's, he would have ended his son's engagement with a snap of his fingers.

No woman that speaks that way is a virgin, he thought. And the way Lionel responded! There was no real pretense that the coming marriage was love match, but for the sake of propriety, must he exchange sexual banter with the girl's whorish sister? He leaned forward, not sure what he was going to say, just as Morgana slumped beside him. At first, he wasn't sure what to think. Had she been injured? Was this a nicely timed performance to end what was going on in the room before things could get any worse?

"Yes," Henry said, not missing a beat when Lionel questioned him.

He rose from his throne as people gathered around Morgana, feeling torn. To stay by her side was much preferable, but he knew that she would want him to accompany the nobles - damage control. And there must be someone to preside over the feast.

"Come tell me of her condition," he whispered in the ear of her maid. "If she is well enough to join us, have her do so."

There was too much activity for him to think straight. He needed calmness ... right now, he felt as though he were losing ground and fast.

"To the feast," he said, his voice even, and led their guests away.

[[OOC - Description of the feast was jacked from a site on Google. Woo, go me! I'm so tired right now, so this is half-assed. Sorry for any typoes! Gah, I need sleep.]]


Morgana came back to her consciousness, roused by the feeling of air being fanned at her face by the handkerchief of her lady-in-waiting. Opening her eyes, Morgana focused in on the face of Nasrin Cavendish. If the Queen's expression had changed at any point during the ordeal, it was now depicted a rather cold glare.

"Your shoulders are stooping in a most unseemly manner," she said to the girl with a voice that clearly indicated bother her anger and discontent. Slowly, Morgana sat back up, passing a hand over the skirts of her dress to smooth out any and all creases which may have formed there upon her fainting spell.

Leliana Greyhardt would pay. Morgana was fully aware that it had been the girl's hard to shut mouth which had provoked things, albeit Lionel's reciprocative comments had not helped things either. For a moment Morgana considered slapping Nasrin out of sheer spite, but decided against it. It was never good for a lady to show one's anger in public.

Time for the feast.

____
The servants had prepared the festive board early in the morning, as to ensure that everything would be in order and perfect. The table was covered with a white silken cloth, the edges of which were embroidered with the wildcat of House Damian.

The tables was adorned with silver candlesticks of artistic design. But, as candles were insufficient to illuminate the spacious hall, and it was therefore lit up with splinters and flambeaux, which were carried about by the attendants.

Square platters of silver were laid out before every guest; the display of plate and cutlery was extensive, and indicated the immense wealth of the Crown. Silver dishes, cups, and saltcellars, wrought in curios devices, glistened upon the board.

The first course consisted of a civet of hare, a quarter of stag which had been a night in salt, a stuffed chicken, and a loin of veal. The two last dishes were covered with a Dornish sauce, with gilt sugar-plums, and pomegranate seeds. At the end of each table was an enormous pie, surmounted with smaller pies, which formed a crown. The crust of the large ones was silvered all round and gilt at the top; each contained a whole roe-deer, a gosling, three capons, six chickens, ten pigeons, one young rabbit

To serve as seasoning or stuffing, a minced loin of veal, two pounds of fat, and twenty-six hard-boiled eggs, covered with saffron and flavored with cloves.
___

And, even as she sat at the main table along with her family and that of House Damian, Leliana did not quite feel the desire to partake much of the feasting. House Winsler, along with the nobility of the Lesser Houses of the Realm, were seated at the secondary table. This was quite an offense, even Leliana could recognize as much, but quite frankly she could have given less of a damn about court politics right about then. She was sitting to the left of Isabel and though the first course had just begun, Leliana was not keen on eating. She fully aware that there would soon be dancing.

Bloody dancing. After that small victory back in the throne room, which Leliana was only now beginning to realize had been a very foolish thing to have done, the prospect of dancing somehow felt ever the more daunting. She knew she would have to, for all that was expected of her. Inwardly Leliana pitied whoever it was who would be foolish - or brave, whichever - enough to ask her to dance. She had a tendency to step on toes, Leliana did.

Letting out a huff of frustration, louder than she had intended, Leliana poked at the food on her plate. She had always preffered to eat of the meat she herself had hunted and roasted. Usually she did not have this much issue with feasts, but for some reason she felt as though she was feeling exceptionally antsy that day. Leliana blamed the dress, out of all honesty. If it wasn't for its blasted itchiness - even clad in britches and a tunic beneath it, she could still feel the damn thing - then she may have been able to keep better guard of her words.

She wondered if she would be able to somehow extricate herself from the feasting hall. If she somehow were to manage such a thing, the first thing she would do would be to cut herself out of her gown with the use of her skinning knife, and then go do something amusing. Like hunting. Or swimming, if there was a lake. Or even running and traipsing around outside. Anything, really, anything but sitting there in a dress and awaiting the certain doom of dancing.

She shuddered at the very thought.

"Never speak of it," Lionel snapped, cutting off his brother's profuse thanks. "I can't have this ruining my reputation." And what better way to get Rab to blab about this to Adelaide by forbidding him to speak of it? After a moment's hesitation, he reached out and ruffled Rab's hair, something he hadn't done since they were children. He would have attempted a warm smile, but that would have been stretching it. Regardless, he had his little brother won over completely now, which evened things at least a little against his father and mother. Because Rab is Mother's precious little treasure. Because Mother would do anything for Rab. And now…Rab's going to do anything and everything for me. "C'mon, Crowface, we're going to be late to the feast." And he stalked out of the throne room without a second glance.

The feast dragged on slowly- painfully, in Lionel's opinion. The cutlery was exquisite as always, the food incredible, but it all seemed bland to him. He ate mechanically, not even noticing as he filled his fork with both sugar plums and veal. His attempts at making conversation were equally forced; he said something vague about ships and sailing to Lord Greyhardt- perhaps he referenced the war galley they'd given him, he couldn't really remember- and then posed several half-hearted questions in Isabel's direction before he gave up entirely. They must have thought him awfully cold, but Lionel really didn't give a shit at the moment. There were more important matters to worry about…

…such as the nature of Jamie's gift. Lionel's mind had been racing to analyze the motives behind it since Jamie opened the sarcophagus, but it still felt like there was something he was missing, something he didn't quite understand. There's no way the Winslers actually want to make peace… Lionel's whispered exchange with Jamie had made that clear. If Jamie had really wanted to fool the royal family, then he should have watched his words. But as it were, Lionel had taken him by surprise. So now I've just got to figure out all the ways the armor could hurt me. First, there was obviously the concern that the armor was coated with wildfire. Lionel's father was rather famous for his alleged assassination of Ser Olyver so many years ago; it wouldn't be surprising that the Winslers might try to pull the same trick on House Damian. But that was a matter easily resolved, he would just have a servant put on the armor first…and should the longsword contain any traps, then Raban's death would be enough to alert them.

Second were the trickier, political concerns. The fact that the armor was fitted for me and not Father is particularly troubling. It was a well-whispered rumor among the nobles that Lionel's relationship with his father was not the best. House Winsler, knowing that, had presented the gift to Lionel, leading the King to believe that Lionel was attempting to overthrow him. The idea seemed rather pathetic to Lionel; he had no interest whatsoever in ruling. But of course the King refused to believe that…I need to watch what I say from now on. I don't need my own father trying to kill me in my sleep. Finally, Lionel knew of the dangers of possessing such magnificent armor. There was always danger in possessing items that other men coveted; it wasn't exactly a little-known lesson. Maester Syrus had warned him often enough not to go around parading his new weapons. Lionel had disobeyed him only once, and had stirred up the jealousy of several of his older cousins. It wasn't an experience he wanted to repeat.

But those are all harms easily avoided…so why does Jamie Winsler look so satisfied with himself? Lionel ran his fingers through his hair, making a noise of frustration. Damnit, Jamie… At least the Winslers had been seated with the lesser houses. The look on Lord Winsler's face when he was informed of his seat location gave Lionel at least some degree of satisfaction. But looking at the Winslers only brought more troubling thoughts to Lionel's mind. Why didn't the other twin present a gift…? Perhaps he assumed that Jamie's armor would be enough, just as the Greyhardts collectively gave me a war galley? But that's different, I'm not exactly marrying one of the Winslers. And of course, the issue of Kervall Winsler could not be dismissed. Lionel was going to have to keep an eye on him. And his sister. He wouldn't be opposed to letting them marry, provided that it was strategic. But if it were more advantageous to hold Adelaide hostage, or to blackmail the two of them, then Lionel would do so without hesitation.

When the dancing started, Lionel stood up almost immediately, offering his hand to Isabel Greyhardt just as he was supposed to. Even if he wasn't particularly fond of dancing, any sort of movement would be a welcome relief after sitting there for an hour. And Lionel was a decent dancer, if not a happy one; he led Isabel on a series of slightly frenzied steps around the room, all the while staring over her left shoulder so as to avoid having to make conversation. It was almost unbearably awkward, but it was necessary, unless he wanted Father to kill him. After the dance with his betrothed ended, he had been planning to retreat to some quiet corner where he could drink and converse with the knights, but somehow he found himself forced to dance with the corpulent Harreina Renlough, the dewy-eyed but idiotic Ashlina Brookhaven, and just plain ugly Jorgine Umber before he could stumble away to catch a break.

By the Seven, I need to get out of here. He leaned against the wall, trying to look like he was occupied so that he would not be forced into another dance.

It didn't work.

"Would you like to dance, my Lord?" Lyssa Bennett dipped into a curtsy in front of him. Lionel raised an eyebrow. What was Lord Bennett thinking? Lyssa was only a maid of fourteen, and Lionel already betrothed- what could he possibly hope to gain?

Lionel resisted the urge to kick Lyssa in the face, and instead made up some half-hearted excuse. "I'd love to, Lady Lyssa, but I've actually got to…" His eyes roamed frantically around the room- and landed on Leliana Greyhardt. She didn't look like she wanted to be there any more than he did. But if he was going to suffer, then so should she. "I've actually promised a dance to Lady Leliana," he said, conjuring up an apologetic face. "Now if you'll excuse me…"

He looked slightly frazzled by the time he reached her at his seat, having been close to assaulted by more girls from the lesser houses. Lionel's nerve was at an end; barely contained rage was bubbling up inside of him again, and he was going to get out of here or he was going to lash out and kill someone. "Lady Greyhardt," he said, sounding slightly strained as he attempted to hide the irritation in his voice. Alright, calm down, she isn't the one you want to kill. "I've told at least five wenches now that I couldn't dance with them because I promised one to you, so if you'd please take me up on that offer…" He extended a hand, grinning slightly. "Anyhow, the courtyard outside is particularly refreshing at night..."

Adelaide took her seat beside Raban and Lady Greyhardt, though she seemed somewhat distracted. Inside, she was fuming at her brother's pure insolence and idiotic behaviour today. She watched him with narrowed eyes along the table, as he made small talk with Lord Greyhardt. He was such a childish fool when it came to politics and the workings of it all. Some part of her wanted Jamie to win the tourney and show her brother a thing or two, but deep down she knew that her brother must win, for otherwise the family would be outed from the throne to the Winslers, that much was sure. But Lionel needed to be taught a lesson soon, or else he put them all in danger because of this ridiculous grudge that he held against the Winsler family. Throughout the meal, she was almost silent, only responding to questions directed at her, otherwise she played with her food, pushing it absent-mindedly around her plate as she did. Glancing at Raban, she realised that Lionel must have brought him off after she had left, or something of the sort. Even the family needed to be bribed to love one another. It made her positively sick. Standing, she excused herself from Lady Greyhardt and Raban, barely gracing them with a glance, her face paled and her eyes worried. Lionel was poisoning everyone. Ever since they were younger he had made their lives hell. And now he thought that buying Raban off would work. In truth, it probably would. Raban craved Lionel's attention.

As she stepped away from the table, the dancing began and she turned, watching Lionel ask Isabel Greyhardt to dance. A small smirk befell her lips and quickly she headed back towards the side table where the Winslers' were sat. It took a lot of courage to walk to the lesser table, like walking into the lions' den, as it were. Coming to a halt behind Kervall, she reached out and tapped his shoulder, clearing her throat at the same time. "Ser Kervall, would you care to dance? I am simply to dying to get up there and it would appear that everyone is already either paired, or my family." She set him with a bright smile, tucking her hair behind her ear. If Lionel wanted to be an idiot, well then she wouldn't stop him. No, she'd just annoy him as much as she possible could. But her reason for asking Kervall to dance wasn't just revenge on her brother (if that had been the case, then she would have asked Jamie). It was the look they had shared earlier. She wanted to know more about him. If that meant making her brother and family mad, then she'd do it. Just to prove a point.

The wildling woman's scowls only endeared her to Jamie Winsler, then again he was in a good mood. The Queen fainting, the thinly veiled argument between Lionel and his father for all the nobles of three houses to see. Not to mention the lesser houses each had brought with them. No doubt Lionel was tearing his mind apart trying to discover the real reason behind the Dragon's gift.

Poor Lionel, you were never on the bright side were you. I should think it rather obvious. He thought to himself with a self satisfied smile, much like a cat that had eaten the pet bird. The gifts had played their part, now he got to enjoy the results. And so despite their insulting seating position Jamie was throughly enjoying himself as the feast was served. The food was bit richer then his daily fare, for the willful young man subscribed to a philosophy no warrior should eat as a King would. For it would only create a foolish desire to chase after wealth.

Still he devoured the food put in front of him, even the sugar plums and veal. Caring not for the sweet nature of such things, he had always preferred the honest taste of buck cleanly taken. But he had to admit the Damian taste in wine was excellent as he sipped green nectar wine, a specialty of Myr. But even the enjoyment of the Myrish wine took second place to watching his enemy writhe, stewing in his thoughts of what Jamie was planning. And Lionel's barely concealed distaste as he was forced to dance with the noble woman of his court.

Jamie being tall, broad of shoulder, and a champion of many tourneys found himself the center of attention of more then one woman. His Lannister blood also lending him an appeal in the form of golden hair and emerald eyes. His enjoyment shining off the golden flecks strewn across those jeweled hued orbs. But begging his leave of his admiring female fans and his brothers he got off scot free. For unlike Lionel House Winsler had no need to curry favor with their Lords and Ladies, the lesser houses sworn to them were both loyal and knew Jamie was not in the market for a bride, hard as they might try to convince him otherwise.


Although like any young man he felt his fair share of lusts, and had on occasion acted on them. Jamie though was no fool and limited his moments of such weakness. For he knew such things could end up with him fathering a bastard, a shame he did not wish to bear. He was first and foremost a knight, a vow he took seriously. Even if he let the heat of his reckless blood dominate his mind.

Right now neither lust or recklessness ruled his mind. Rather it was the wildling woman, well he wouldn't lie the woman's savage beauty also filled his mind. More so though was her exact purpose. He knew presenting the gift would lead to such things, was even expecting something of the nature. But for Queen Damian to send one such as her after him. She was no royal guard or even a sworn sword of House Damian. The wildling was also plain to see a warrior, no pampered noble's daughter could hold a spear like that or have such fire in her eyes. Was she to merely keep an eye on him, tall and uncouth youth the Damians no doubt thought him to be. Or would she finish the job the first two assassins sent after his family failed to do..that is remove the unknown variable that was House Winsler.

What game is that Damian whore playing out, does she think my life so cheaply bought. I am not a helpless woman or a slender scholar. I am the Dragon, the sword of House Winsler. Jamie thought to himself with anger. Now it seemed he stewed in his own thoughts. Give me an honest battlefield over this game of thrones any day. He further mused, for he was ill suited to this political game of back stabbing and lying eyes. The gifts may have been a masterful stroke but this was a whole different kettle of fish.

He looked at the wildling woman, clad in her leather and furs from were he stood in a shadow draped corner of the feasting hall. He then jerked his head as if to indicate to her that he was leaving. And he did just that, leaving the hall as the dancing was going on. Aside from a couple of servants and most likely the wildling woman none saw him leave, busy as they were with the matters at hand. Sometimes being the second born had it's advantages, such as not bearing too much of the duties a heir and a Lord would have to.

His steps firm and measured fell softly on the royal carpets that lay in the palace's halls, his red sleeveless tunic and white under shirt gleamed fitfully in the torches and lamps light, the cloth of gold trim on the tunic seeming even brighter then it's rich nature would suggest. Eventually Jamie found himself outside the royal palace, the house sigil on his tunic allowing him free passage if not respect from the Damian guards.

Walking down the road, abandoned in the dark of the night Jamie, second son of Lord Winsler found himself outside the crumbling towers of the Dragons Pit.

"It is quite the beautiful night tonight." Jamie spoke, seemingly to himself, although one could see his eyes scanned the environment." Teralo told me this ruin once was were the Targaryens kept their dragons. Can you imagine what it must have been like. Massive flying lizards that were said to breathe fire hot enough to turn stone to liquid. They say a single dragon was worth a army all by itself. Sometimes I don't believe it, but the bones never lie do they. Still how did the Targaryens fall if they possessed such mighty power. Surely the tales of madness were exaggeration by their enemies, eager to gain support. After all we nobles seem obsessed with this bloody game of thrones, the history of Westeros is filled with the tales of back stabbers that sat on that accursed Iron Throne. Take the Damians for example, nothing but bloody traitors,whores,and lying thieves every single one of them." He added, his soliloquy going on.

~~~DANTE~~~

Dante kept to his own corner, the table that was arranged and adorned beautifully for the guests of honor in full view. He was there to protect the Queen's two youngest and a finer spot to watch them then standing in the cross-section between the main and secondary table, he could not have found. He had an abundant supply of wine and he had his fill of delectable roast bird. Other guests chattered around him and were taking great pleasure in enjoying the banquet and social frivolities. Dante, however, resigned to standing quietly with a bottle of Dornish wine in one hand and his other casually resting in a pocket, as he made an evening of watching the Queen's children half of the time and Isabel Greyhardt and Nasrin Cavendish the other half.

He watched with a slight twinge of concern as Princess Adelaide stood. Following her every move, he quickly was made aware that her intentions had been merely to go and ask to dance Kerval Winsler. Ah, and who would deny such a fine little creature a whirl on the dance floor? Dante thought to himself. Kervall Winsler would be good to the girl -- he did not seem the sort to fly into blind rage, unlike that lug of a brother of his. Giving Prince Raban another glance in order to check on the boy, Dante soon spilled his attentions out at the two lovely women he had been examining prior to. Both were ravishing in their gowns, clad in delectable skirts and appropriate feminine wear. He had fully expected Nasrin, his favorite little valkyrie, to arrive in something which underscored her stubborn nature, but her formal-wear was as delicate as she herself looked, he thought in retrospect.

And my, my! He thought with a smirk, Do I see the faint sheen of glossy red lipstick? And do I see a sparkle of eye shadow to complement her stormy eyes?

Surely, sweet Rin sought to look her best that evening -- for him, no doubt.

Then there was Isabel, who was easily fit into a figure-flattering dress, which looked to be as if it had been born to wrap its fine fabric about her form. She was at present waltzing about with her fiance (if that could be called waltzing) and the back and forth swishing of her skirts gave her a sleek, goddess-like appeal that tickled a longing nerve inside of him. How drunk, he wondered, would the two lovely ladies have to be to both be bedded at the same time? What a delectable dessert they would make!

Taking another swig from his bottle, Dante left his spot and made his way made his way across the polished and carpeted floor, never once taking his eyes off of Nasrin. Out on the dance floor, nobility danced to a symphony of strings and violins amidst a sea of swirling, waving dresses and over painted faces. He had not chosen his moment with any strategic finesse, but merely gave Nasrin's shoulder a tap and dropped himself into a courteous, if deviant, bow.

"Why, hello, my dear." Dante said, flashing a handsome smile at his favorite thorned rose. "If you don't mind, I have a particular region of the ballroom to get to, now please don't resist. Or, alternatively, you may. But I may have to get a little rough. Which is hardly a bad thing. In other words, would you care for a dance? Or a stroll about the castle grounds, whichever would please you most."


~~~NUALA~~~

Not once had she stopped watching him, hand grasped about her spear and ever at the ready to lash out like an animal if she was to be attacked. Naturally she had been aware of the look he had given her and the jerking motion of his head that had been as good as a voiced request to follow. Finally something better than court smiles and unprecedented staring. Nuala had always been better with things that were direct. What use were masked intentions?

With the padding of her feet masked by the plush carpets (and not as if she needed a carpet to make herself walk silently) Nuala shadowed him through the palace halls and outside into the night air. His back was to her as she circled him, taking in his light banter on the quality of the evening as she came to a stand a few meters away from his side. "No. It is not." Nuala disagreed with his opinion appertaining to the night's beauty. "Clearly you know little." There was nothing worth admiring in the Southron sky. The only truly glorious nights where those of the North.

Half of the cold winter sky was on fire with the Northern Aurora – a seething, rippling sheet of white light, flaring up like glowing smoke behind the clearing her clan has settled in. Nuala recalled that night she had spent sitting and watching for a long time -- watched the lights of the sky, watched the lights of the North, and the glow from the torches of their settlement lit for the solstice.

But she did listen to his words and took them in as every new one was uttered to form visions of dragons and the poisoned graces of court-life.

"All men fall when faced with better enemies. Why prattle about it? If you have problems, end them with your blade." She snapped, having never enjoyed dealing with other people. Nuala was a woman of few words and liked getting down to the bare bones of things rather than talking in circles about issues which may have been plaguing her mind. Words were nothing -- words held no worth; but in this nest of dainty women and preening men, words cost more than a good axe. Nuala did not understand.

"You wanted me to follow. Speak your intention and spare me your prose." Her tone was harsh and bitterly cold as the North that had shaped her. She had always had the tendency towards initial hostility; after all, what good was it to show anything else to a man who had yet to merit respect?

"I've always been better with my sword then poetry I'll admit." Jamie replied as he drew the valyrian steel sword belted at his hip. It left it's direwolf scabbard with a silent hiss, the cold dark gray color of it seeming to blend with the night rather then shine as normal steel would. Many wondered why he had dubbed the blade Memory, Jamie would merely point to the crest of House Winsler, set with the words 'We Do Not Forget'. He faced the wildling with his left shoulder slightly ahead of his right, his feet spaced apart to offer both maximum support and the room the fancy foot work of swordplay demanded. Memory found itself held alongside it's wielder's body at a slight downward angle, Jamie's wrist turned ever so slightly towards the wildling." I don't think I like your tone, still I suppose the question isn't out of place."

The Dragon considered his next words carefully, as Kervall would want him to. There was no need for battle between him and a servant of House Damian. She was a wildling and unused to the constant strife of court life. She knew nothing of the history of Westeros, knew not the hate that had grown between her masters and House Winsler. But all of that faded into the background for him. She was still a servant of House Damian, and the enigma she presented had to be revealed. If she was merely his shadow nothing would come of it. However Jamie would not go to sleep with an assassin after him.

"Who are you wildling, why did that whore send you after me." And here Jamie took to pacing around her, naked sword in hand. Being careful to keep within sword range, yet out of the direct way of her spear head." Why do you work for House Damian, what price did you sell your honor for."

Jamie then strode away from the wildling woman, towards the shut door of the dragon pit. The moonlight bathed him in it's silver glow, highlighting the prefect red diamond Memory's pommel was set with, a trick of the moonlight made the handle of the valyrian blade seem covered in blood.

The Dragon looked over his shoulder at the woman, finding despite his words a joy in both her northern beauty and her bold and direct manner. She did not have the easy good looks southern woman were blessed with, but the harshness of her life was there to see for all. It was plain in sinewy muscle, in her warrior's grace, and most of all in her eyes. She was the valyrian steel of womanhood, the rest of the women he had laid eyes on were nothing more then castle forged steel at best. Beautiful to look upon but worthless in a fight against valyrian steel. Jamie could say in all honesty she was the most gorgeous woman he had laid eyes upon, all though her beauty was not the traditional sense of the word. Despite all that though he still felt the suspicions of his mind nagging at him.

"Does the whore desire my death, are you in fact the latest of a series of assassins sent after my family. If that is so I will kill you right here and right now. Your corpse will be the message to the Damians my life will not be so cheaply bought."

She had already feigned illness when a brave suitor or two had attempted to get her up to dance. Leliana had even gone as far as coughing on them to underline just how ill she was feeling – which she was not, as it was only a ruse to prevent herself from being dragged out unto the dancing floor and made to whirl about.

Dread settled in the pit of her stomach when she was approached by Lionel. She would not be able to get out of a dance with him, not with the Crown Prince, not even if she coughed with added vigor. “I would love to, but you would soon find that I have the infamous tendency to step on toes and my dancing has often been compared to the drunken amblings of a co-” she did not finish the conclusion of her sentence when the realization that he wanted to get out of the ballroom sunk in, “-ohkay. I mean, yes, I will take you up on the offer of a refreshing stroll.”

Getting out of this place had been exactly what she had been wishing and hoping for during the eternity that she had spent seated at the dining table. Alright, it was not an eternity, but it had certainly felt that way to Leliana. Her legs had even begun to cramp somewhere along the line, and Lionel’s offer was providing her with the opportunity she had been bloody waiting for.

Her lips tugged up into a wolfish smile at the high potential of there being freedom awaiting her in the very near future. Without another thought, and not so much as an excuse to her family, who were most likely preoccupied in their own affairs to pay attention to hers, Leliana took the hand he had extended out to her.

Though, the manner in which she had taken his hand was nothing like the light and airy touches of most fine-bred noblewomen. Leliana may have been a noblewoman, but she was by no means fine-bred, and her hard sailor’s grip was yet another testament to that. Come to think of it, she even shook hands like a sailor when in good company, but that only happened upon first introductions to people who did not expect her to devolve into curtsies.

Maneuvering out of her chair posed the initial setback, as the stupid frock she was wearing did not move about as easily as she would have liked it to. But soon enough Leliana was up on her feet, her knees cracking painfully from all the sitting.

“Thank you,” she said to him in a whisper, “I swear, I was on the verge of clawing at myself. I hate sitting around on my ass, I’d rather be keel hauled,” she said, referring to the act of being tied by a rope at the front of the ship at full sail and then kicked off and made to drag along the keel, through the sharp barnacles clinging to the hull. The effect was more or less like grating cheese, except with a human body instead of a dairy product.

The smell of fresh air and the quietness of the courtyard made her want to let out a shriek of victory. Leliana, however, chose to suppress that sudden urge. She had no intentions of being found out and made to go back into that dastardly ballroom.

“Give me a moment,” she said as she let got of his hand, “I can’t very well enjoy a stroll if I’m sauntering about like a fool in motley.” She grimaced in reference to her frock and then, without so much as a hint of shame, hitched up her skirts and pulled her skinning knife out from one riding boot.

Humming beneath her breath, Leliana set herself to slicing the useless layer of fabric off her body. She was, of course, wearing another set of clothing beneath the dress and had been intending on doing just this throughout the whole day. And finally, finally she had the chance to simply go about clothed in tunic, britches, and sensible riding boots.

With a self satisfied noise, Leliana cut through and ripped the skirts, allowing the fabric to fall down off her hips and pool at her feet. She stepped out of the circle of fabric and kicked it to the side before busying herself with the bodice and the blasted corset which impaired her ability to take in a deep breath. But, just as the skirts, it proved to be no trouble for the sharp edge of the skinning knife which she slipped up under the edge of the fabric. And after a few more moment of cutting and tearing, Leliana tucked her skinning knife back into her boot and wriggled the rest of the way out of her dress.

She ran a hand through her hair, tugging it out of its up-do and ruffling it out so it could fall to her shoulders instead of sit primly atop her head. Pins that had been holding it in place clattered softly down to the ground and she gave her head one last good shake, just to be sure. There. Now she was comfortable.

“Fucking finally,” she swore, grinning widely at her handiwork. Now, clothed in only that which she had been wearing beneath her stupid dress, Leliana felt like life was finally looking up. “Alright, now, what was that you were saying about a stroll?...”

---

When Lionel had finally realized were his duties lay and asked his betrothed to dance. It was more than Morgana could have dared to hope for after that dastardly exchange between him and the Greyhardt’s less-than-virtuous older daughter. There had been more than one rumor passing about in court concerning the girl’s depraved hobbies. Sailing and hunting were not things which proper-bred women should ever involve themselves in, much less laying back with legs splayed wide open.

If Lionel thought that he would be christening that war galley along with Leliana Greyhardt any time soon, then he thought wrong. Morgana would eat her own hands before she would ever allow either of those youths bring such shame to light.

“Lady Greyhardt,” Morgana turned to the woman beside her, her own face naught but a mask of courtly civility. “We are must glad of the union between our Lionel and your dear Isabel. I am ever looking forward to the tourney tomorrow, where my son would be crowning your daughter the Queen of Love and Beauty, once he wins of course.”

She watched the younger woman with grey-green eyes that betrayed nothing, impassive as she had been taught to keep every gesture and look. Morgana never saw the need to be vibrantly kind or attentive, as nobody who made themselves out to play upon good intentions had them. Her interests were, of course, genuine, but in a reserved way so as not to ever be improper.

“It pleases me very much that your Isabel is so cultured and refined,” she went on to continue, making a fine point of leaving Leliana’s name out, “and Richard seems a fine gentleman as well.” The hinted threat was there if Birgitte Greyhardt cared to pay attention to it – control your other daughter.

Out of the corner of her field of view Morgana spied Adelaide getting up and walking over to the table at which sat House Winsler...only to ask Kervall Winsler to dance with her. If it was not for years upon years of learning how to control herself, Morgana would have made her outrage plain for all. Morgana was so infuriated by her daughter’s behavior that she did not notice Lionel whisking Leliana Greyhardt away from the table.