#alarra.

Sweet wine seemed to flow from casket to glass with little restriction as the feast wore on, curling around the minds of even the most composed Westerosi lords and reducing them to exuberant young boys, high off the celebrations with little care for proper conduct. Alarra enjoyed it for a time, laughing with genuine amusement as boastful knights threw out excuses for poor tourney performances, but one bold hand brushing against her waist had her ducking away, barely concealing her anger as she made for the other side of the garden. Were she back home, she would have slapped that hand away and barred her teeth at whoever it belonged to, but here, a certain delicacy was expected of her. 

Perhaps that was a good thing. She had attempted at first to measure every sip with careful calculation, rolling the wine between her teeth to occupy her mouth lest she look idle and in need of further intoxication, but the night had gotten the better of her too, driving her to drink more than she would normally allow. The effect was no longer as manageable, and the last thing she needed was to start a fight that would prove it to everyone in attendance. 

Knowing something was a bad idea was not the same as not wanting to do it, however, and her jaw clenched as she loosed the collar around her neck ever so slightly, allowing fresh air to soothe flushed skin back to its usual paleness. “Leave me be,” she snapped when she saw someone approaching out of the corner of her eye, only to realize a moment later just who she had snarled at. 

“Oh! My lord, I –” Heat rushed into her cheeks as she stared at Eris Tully. Trystane was clear about his feelings about their lord paramount – he was an enemy to be overthrown – but he was still the ruler of the Riverlands and all who lived within them. More than that, Alarra remembered him as a boy, one whose sisters had been her childhood friends, whose family broke bread with her own. She had no interest in offending him. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean you. I thought – well, never mind that, just… please know, your company is welcome and far preferred over who I thought you were.”

Betting on anything could be risky. Anyone who gambles knows there is a chance that they might lose all they put in and more. And yet, Alarra was unconcerned as she cast her wager because she was not gambling. She was investing – another word for gambling, perhaps, but the kind done only when a person knows the odds are in their favor. Thanks to the generosity of the late king and his role as squire, her twin had honed his skills under the tutelage of the best knights in all of Westeros. He was admittedly better in the melee because of it, more skilled with a sword and fists than a horse and lance, but he would make her proud. Of that, she was sure. 

So sure, in fact, that she didn’t hesitate to tease a nearby man who seemed ready to risk his coin on another lordling winning the tourney.  “I wouldn’t place that bet,” she advised him with a lively confidence that spoke both of her faith in her brother’s abilities and her own inability to resist competition. “Not unless you want to lose all that gold.”