#conquest.event1

he can never sit for long during these sort of events — it is as if his brain has been made to accompany rapid movements with sword, shuffle of feet and hand, the release of a bow; all of these brought him no little joy. matthos could not have thought the display of athletic showmanship better, but roy can not help but to be biased, moods high when this is a day he is content to just be a spectator, a brief reprieve until he is to take to the yards himself. "there you are, renyse," lord caron turns to the most familiar sight of his sister, and a hand follows, landing on her shoulder as he brings her closer to where he stood. "i thought you would have joined the competitors. wasn't sure they just skipped your name or something at the call sheet, but i suppose not?” furrowed brows seek to question as to the reason, though if he knew his sister, he could very well know why.

❛ robert, you are becoming a terrible example for your sister. ❜ a chorus of giggles flittered through the room as deft digits tickled at her son's sides. the sweetness of his chortle as he squirmed in her arms broadening argella's smile into one that was usually solely reserved for her children. glancing upwards, argella's ministrations stilled as her smile faltered ever so slightly, ❛ you must forgive this one, it seems the excitement of his grandfather's celebrations have gotten the better of him. ❜ with her son held to her and dyana held by one of her ladies, she addressed the person once again. ❛ is there something you need ? ❜

"so why is it that you are not joining your family in the yard, darling?" words are pointed, though the emerald of her gaze holds familiar indifference as she glances at her niece, the only one who sat by her — a pity, for she rather liked jocelyn's daughters (the lannister upbringing must have made them gems, despite of her sister's unfamiliar softness). "they shall make it hard on me not to rig this whole thing." a lannister winning would probably be the only interesting thing to come out of this incessant sports contest, a pathetic attempt on her husband's part to recall of a long-lost past. "tell me, which one has the higher chance of winning?"

alys' report works wonders as both distraction and actual update, but there is only so much words can prepare lynara for when the competitors of the melee begin to be released from the field to the healing tents. some of them seem to forgo it altogether — the stark notices, close to the flap as she remains, as the men prefer to walk away, but the shining shock of blonde hair that comes their way is altogether recognizable, even if she has yet to properly make acquaintance with the queen's son. he looks so much like her that instinct almost guides lynara to try and look busy so they don't have to cross paths, so unpleasant her encounters with his mother had been, but, in a flash, he is too close for her to simply avoid him. "your highness," reverence of tongue is practiced, as is the courtesy offered. "have you been victorious?" she had heard his name being called as part of the melee, and could see it on the scrapes sported on his features. "have a sit," with her hands behind her back, she guides the prince to one of the high cots provided for patient care; hand only reaches out to attempt to soften the miserable surface so the man may rest there.

"darling, come and sit by me." request comes genuinely sweetly only when it is to those of hers, and drystan had been the first person to truly be hers, and would always be. once her boy obeys her, joining her just by the high seat of the baratheon tables, the queen brings a hand to stroke at the mop of blond hair upon his head. "there is still time to forget all about the melee, sweetest." a few more hours, at the very least — nevermind that matthos would not let the boy live if he took "the coward's way", but that is not something joanna is particularly concerned about (worry for her offspring comes paramount, even if it battles against the thought of the opportunity of praise from the king if her lion was to be victorious). "if there is something you can not ruin, it is your face. do you think these beasts will have any mercy on you because you are their sovereign?"

moods are high, but there are always ways of souring it — not that joanna would allow it to fester, if she had any say in it (she often didn't; the woes of being herself is that she can not always keep a tight rein on her flammable emotions). "lady baratheon," she had never tried to engrace herself to her husband's family — was it not enough she had to endure his brats? — nor were there many attempts by the other side as well, so the queen can not help but to keep them at arm's length, distant but cordial, as long as she can, of course. "you're a better shot than i would have expected. my husband tells me wonders about the masters-at-arms of storm's end." of course, matthos never stops pattering when the subject is about him and his own.

joanna laughed, of course she did. how could one remain impassible in front of such a ridiculous mistake — even one that the poor lady mooton has no true fault in? but the queen knows to stifle her merriment as she hears her husband's own roar loud; gaze turns accusatory, before turning to the humiliated lady, seeing a clear opportunity there. from her own table, at some distance from the king's, as the professional singer replaces the woman, joanna has a servant beckoning the young lady mooton to her side. "elora, isn't it?" the name had been whispered at her ear by one of her ladies (you just can't expect her to remember everyone she meets!), and the queen's smile is sickeningly sweet (especially to herself), just enough so that it could almost be convincing of her attempt to soothe a husband's poor behavior (she's already forgotten she laughed too, for that is how joanna's memory works when it comes to her own slights). "have you had some honeyed milk, elora? it works wonders for a sore throat. after all this rain…"

that piece of rotting fuck. of course he had to boast himself around that floating house of a boat, carrying those little shits with himself, too. joanna is green through and through as she glares at her husband from afar, emerald gaze pulling away from the king's boat only when her own dips with the weight of another. annoyance does not lessen at the presence of the man who bears her name, yet is too distant for her to know him as anything but a bannerman, someone who sometimes prickles her in a most unwelcome manner. "tyberius. how nice it is to see you," none of it is true, not even his name — not that joanna cares for it. "the boy on the tiltyard today, the curly haired one? was that your brother?" voyages to lannisport were plentiful in her youth, but it has been far too long since she has been home, and longer still since she's had the opportunity to just mingle along the lannisport branch; she recalls some of their faces, if not their names, though. "what an interesting choice he's made, considering the reports my sister has sent us. what do you find of it?"