#steelfyre

"I  do  see  the  benefit  in  our  hosts  choosing  partners  for  the  night.  I  cannot  say  any  of  the  names  on  my  card  are  people  I  would  have  sought  out,  and  it  does  make  us  all  have  to  leave  behind  comfort  for  the  new  and  unknown."  She  ran  her  finger  over  the  carefully  written  names,  eyes  glossing  over  the  crowd,  as  though  she  may  be  able  to  pick  out  future  dance  partners  that  easily.  In  the  candlelight,  with  jewels  and  silks  catching  the  light,  she  found  it  harder  to  tell  known  from  unknown.  "Though  the  idea  of  simply  approaching  is...  Well,  I  doubt  anyone  has  ever  thought  it  easier  to  approach  a  stranger  than  a  friend."

Gysella  stared  into  the  flickering  candle  flame,  a  hand  clutched  to  her  throat.  It  couldn't  be  more  different  to  the  fires  that  had  destroyed  the  keep,  the  fires  that  had  nearly  wiped  them  all  from  the  face  of  the  earth.  And  yet,  she  stared  into  it,  as  it  burned  lower,  seeing  it  on  the  backs  of  her  eyelids  with  every  blink,  and  like  that  it  was  bigger,  fiercer.  It  had  her  pulse  thundering,  and  her  mind  blank  to  all  but  the  flame.  To  burn...  No  Iron  born  wanted  to  go  that  way.  Would  the  Drowned  God  have  still  welcomed  her  to  his  halls,  if  the  fires  had  taken  her?  The  thought  makes  her  breath  hitch,  and  she  finally  pulls  herself  from  the  doom.  "I...  I'm  sorry.  I  believe  I  may  have...  Lost  myself  in  thought."  She  pushed  away  the  goblet,  more  than  half  full.  "Perhaps  less  of  that,  for  me.  You  were  saying?"

"Did you know?" Myranda's hands were so clenched, the iron of her ring bit into her finger, blood thrumming through her veins as she rushed up to her cousin, a swirl of skirts and curls. She wasn't even sure if she expected him to say anything at all on the matter, but she couldn't stop herself from asking, the words pulled from her as though she were possessed. It was all anyone was thinking about, either talking about the event or so pointedly ignoring it that you could feel it's presence. "Did you know the princess had been switched?" She clarified, though she was sure she didn't need to. "People are calling it an insult on the gods."

curiosity proved insufficient , weak in the face of curated decorum . now that he had finally seen them all without their gracious masks and poised stature , garin felt this farce unfolding before his eyes , small talk and celebrations to be ... uninspired . ❝ the great , noble houses of westeros sure love feasts , don't they ? ❞ dancing at the back of his mind is a thought , that perhaps the targaryens relish in their people's sufferings . why else would they have gathered them again like this , like prey awaiting yet another slaughter ? as if they have never learned . under the guises of what ? a new beginning , to see the future of westeros in the face of a babe ? he'd have to admit though that his thoughts are proven true , he admires the effort to wrap the peculiar inclinations in trappings of wealth and joy , if only to lead the masses into the collective delusion that they will be protected . ❝ it a relief that we're able to gather here once again to celebrate . ❞ it was far from relief , but it was reasonable enough to assume that it is .

"And  so  I  said  to  that  merchant,  your  fake  silver  may  be  enough  to  fool  some,  but  I  will  not  have  the  wool  cast  over  my  eyes.  And,  in  case  the  poor  fellow  truly  was  just  blind  to  his  own  wares,  I  pulled  a  ring  from  my  finger  and  asked  him  to  compare."  Amos  crossed  his  arms  over  his  chest,  regaling  the  story  with  full  sincerity,  even  if  his  heart  was  not  in  it.  "These  merchants  are  becoming  sloppy  in  their  tactics.  A  decade  ago,  no  man  worth  the  stall  space  would  have  cast  something  like  that  under  an  eye  sure  to  know  better.  Truly,  who  is  teaching  this  new  generation?"

"Lady  Myrcella.  I  could  not  be  more  pleased  to  see  you  again."  Myranda  keeps  her  hands  clasped  close  to  her,  to  hide  the  way  her  nails  are  bitten  to  the  quick,  red  and  angry  cuticles  betraying  her  anxiety.  it  is  easier  to  ignore,  in  good  company.  Faces  she  recognised  pass,  more  that  she  doesn't.  Too  close,  too  warm,  too  many.  In  all,  it  makes  it  hard  to  give  Myrcella  her  entire  attention,  though  she  tries.  "How  goes  the  Godswood  at  Harrenhal?"

She  fiddles  with  her  sleeve,  as  though  adjusting  a  bracelet,  but  knows  not  a  stitch  or  chain  is  out  of  place  this  evening.  The  night  may  be  for  the  crown,  but  it  is  all  the  players  underneath  who  vie  for  power,  and  a  night  like  this  she  was  sure  would  lead  to  at  least  some  good  gossip  on  the  morrow.  "I  had  not  thought  us  all  to  be  gathered  again  so  soon,  though  that  seems  to  be  my  own  cynical  opinion  running  rampant.  I  have,  in  fact,  missed  it."