𝑮𝑶𝑳𝑫𝑬𝑰𝑹 *

　　sam had never considered himself a savior per se. sam the slayer, mighty as that sounded, was but a cheeky title he obtained in what, in retrospect, felt like a simple matter of luck. had the dragonglass not worked its magic, he would have probably not been alive to tell the tale in the first place. he wouldn't have even tried to fight his way out, he would've just accepted his fate. but alas, ser piggy survived, and now was subjected to an even greater challenge: a beautiful lady asking him to dance.

　　and not any lady, mind you, but one margarean tyrell.

　　such a gorgeous face was not one samwell could forget, even with the mask consealing it. the reach would always bring bitter memories to samwell, but the beauty of its residents was not to be denied. a flush tainted his round cheeks, his hand taking that of the tyrell with gentle care. hopefully, they would not remember that was randyll tarly's fat disgrace of a son.

Robb had been certain that this entire fiasco was a trap, designed to lure in enemies of the crown so that they might be put on trial and executed. His mother had implored him to ignore the raven, but he had refused. If all were permitted into King's Landing then he would enter with a small entourage. Under the pretense of attending the masked ball, Robb would rescue both Arya and Sansa. Finding them thus far had proven difficult. Not wanting to be perceived as paranoid or suspicious, Robb afforded himself passing glances at ladies in attendance. Thus far he hadn't caught sight of anybody resembling either of his sisters, leaving him momentarily discouraged. Had they been imprisoned or worse? Robb didn't want to humor the idea of his sisters in peril. They were far too useful to be put the blade or thrown into a cell. No, Cersei would use them for political gain. They had the misfortune of being born noble, allowing them to be used as pawns. Robb had to rescue them before they were married off to somebody undeserving. Thus his search continued. Tossing glances at the gentler sex had only garnered him unwanted attention in droves. They had all perceived his fleeting attention as flirting, and now Robb had droves of courtiers demanding a dance. Robb was forced to the outskirts of the ballroom where he could lay low. This was going poorly. Thus far he hadn't made any progress on rescuing his sisters, but was determined to continue his search. Robb resigns himself to a corner where a nobleman stood, surrounded by men in waiting. To fetch a goblet of wine from a nearby table he had to politely excuse himself, weaving in and out of the young men that surrounded their charge. With his drink in hand he lifts it to his lips so he might take a sip. He tosses a glance at the nobleman, one who appeared effortlessly charming and handsome even while hidden beneath a mask. Deciding he had done his fair share of searching, he put a pause on his mission. Robb would have all night to find his sisters.

"Have you had any luck tonight?" Robb asks, employing a smile while offering a hand for the nobleman to take. Upon receiving it he lifts it to his lips so he may grace Margaeran's knuckles with a kiss. "I believe I was just struck with it."

it  was  a  game ,  this  dance  of  glances .  elinor  had  leaned  close  a  moment  before ,  his laughter  light  as  bells  behind  his fan .  “ he ’ s  staring , ”  she ’ d  whispered ,  eyes  alight  with  mischief .  “ the  one  in  the  dark  mask  —  gods ,  cousin ,  he ’ s  coming . ” margaeran had smiled — just a small , knowing curve of his mouth . let him .

the  man  who  came  toward  him  was  tall ,  shoulders  broad  and back straight ,  his  mask  dark .  there  was  something  northern  about  him  —  in  the  way he carries himself . in the set  of  his  jaw ,  when  he  speaks ,  he hears it . his  voice  was  quiet ,  low . definitely northern .  yet ,  when  he  takes his hand , the northman is careful . almost reverent . then his  lips  brush  the  back  of  his  knuckles ,  and  for  a  heartbeat  the  noise  of  the  hall  seemed  to  dim .

“ luck ? ” margaeran  tilted  his  head ,  eyes  glinting  behind  his  mask .  when  he  spoke ,  his  voice  was  soft ,  amused . he let his gaze linger — long enough to feel the space between them tighten — before he drew his hand back , just so . “ my lord , i hear she ’ s a fickle maid . ”

The celebration was tonight. What many consider to be a foolish and distasteful ploy to distract the people from the rising war, Sansa sees it for what the crown is advertising it as; a moment of peace to celebrate the upcoming union of Myrcella Baratheon and Trystane Martell. Sansa, themself, is too caught up in the romanticized ideas of a masquerade to see it as anything else.

In reality it is a clever move, calling for peace and feigning goodwill, just to gather all their enemies into one place so they could study them up close; so they could learn how they act, and react, to use it against them later.

--but that was for the politically minded to notice, and clearly that was the furthest thing from Sansa's mind as he sat before the mirror in his bed chambers and fused with the perfumes and powders his chamberlain had set out for him.

"I should wait," he spoke, mostly to himself, as he pulled at the necklace hanging from his neck that had been a gift to him from Joffrey, "until I see what he has picked out for me."

In truth, Sansa was sitting there stalling while a member of Joffrey's guard stood over him; watching rather impatiently. Needless to say, he was nervous. His betrothed had summoned for him. A few weeks ago that would have filled Sansa's stomach with jittery, eager butterflies-- he would have practically ran through the halls to join him-- but now? Now he was uncertain; fearful, even, of what might be waiting for him.

--but he had promised he would be a good queen and wife at Joffrey's side, and this-- this tension-- between them wasn't his fault. It was his father's, and his brother's, but it was something he still foolishly believed he could overcome; he didn't have a choice if he wanted to survive.

Finally rising from his seat he smoothed down the front of his robes, the colors pale greys and blues and the design simple but pretty enough-- hand made by Sansa himself before leaving Winterfell-- as they cascaded over his form and held to him in a tight, flattering manner, he looked at himself in the mirror one last time before turning and following Joffrey's guard out of the safety of his bed chamber; as he was led through the halls to Joffrey's own.

"You," his breath caught in his throat, a nervous flutter of a sound, as the guard nudged him forward with a rough hand into Joffrey's room before pulling the door shut; sealing the pair of them away in a borrowed break of privacy. "--You look handsome, as always Your Grace." Sansa spoke softly, right hand gripped around the necklace as it helped him remember how things had been between them, as he gave a gentle curtsy and bow of his head.

"I was told you had hand picked my attire for your Myrcella's celebration tonight. I-- I can't wait to see what you've chosen for me."

“  lady  sansa  ,  ”  he  said  at  last ,  without  turning  .  his  reflection  spoke  for  him ,  lips  curving  in  a  shape  too  fine  for  warmth .  he  crossed  the  chamber  with  the  slow  surety  of  something  that  could  not  be  denied  —  a  lion  closing  the  space  between  itself  and  its  trembling  prey .  when  he  reached  him ,  he  let  his  fingers  find  the  necklace  at  her  throat ,  the  one  he’d  given  him .  it  lay  cool  against  his  skin .  “  you ’ re  late .  ”

“  do  i ?  look  handsome ?  ”  his  tone  was  light ,  almost  teasing ,  though  something  mean  flickered  beneath  it  —  quick ,  bright ,  gone .  “  i  should  hope  so .  it  would  not  do  for  the  sun  to  look  anything  less  than  divine .  ”

he  turned  from  him to  the  table ,  where  a  box  waited  by candlelight .  inside ,  white  silk  pooled  like  snowmelt  in  spring ,  threaded  with  silver  and  pale  gold .  beside  it  lay  a  mask  of  mother - of - pearl ,  the  moon  carved  in  tender  arcs ,  delicate  as  a  sigh .

“  and  tonight  you  shall  be  the  moon .  ”  he  lifted  the mask  by  its  ribbons ,  turning  it  in  his  hand before holding it up against sansa ' s face , the white bringing out the smoothness of his skin . the deep blue of his eyes , and the red in his hair . he  smiled  —  the  kind  of smile the stark boy had once mooned over .  “  pretty .  ”  

“  you know , the maesters say the moon has no light of her own . she only reflects . she shines because the sun allows her to .  ”

he  drew  the  silk  through  his  fingers ,  slow ,  admiring  the  way  it  slipped  away  from  him .  “  it  will  cling  to  you ,  here  —  ”  his  gloved  hand  ghosted  the  line  of  his  arm ,  the  curve  of  his  waist  without  touching .  “  —  and  here .  they’ll  think  you  some  vision  conjured  by  the  sun  himself .  and  they’ll  be  right .  ”

got/asoiaf meme ♕ [¾] Houses | House Lannister

got/asoiaf meme ♕ [2/4] Houses | House Stark