it comes to no surprise that the courtyard is filled with lordlings and ladies, eager for a taste of victory — it has been a moment since the court has housed such a grand affair, and times of peace makes for people eager to find ways of spilling blood in the name of sports (that buffon orys baratheon most of all). with an abundance of reachlanders more familiarized with the jousts, marilda reads through quite a few known names, and, as she makes her way through the competitors’ tends, she can place a few faces to the names too. if there is protocol that would urge them to guide her outside, none seems particularly eager to try their hand at that, not when her own face is no stranger, nor an ugly one, to see.
she finds the competitor she eagerly searched for within a few minutes. her husband stands out for his stature, but also because of his age — a grin comes to her lips at the memory of their eldest, owain, moaning about how he had to sit this joust out while his aging father could do as he wished. then, she had refrained from laughing, instead giving the boy an uncharacteristic scowl before swatting at the back of his head; after all, there were very few people who could make fun of uthor hightower, and his children certainly did not get the permission from the one who could: marilda herself. "heartling," she beckons, sweet as honeysuckle. the squire that had been tying lord hightower's armor pauses to offer a bow to his lady, but marilda waves a hand. "go fetch us some arbor red. watered," the blonde insists, but her gaze does not linger on the boy, soon returning to her beloved; her hands expertedly resume the work abandoned by the squire, over a decade of practice in doing just so showing in the deftness of her work. "it'd be best to keep your head clear, yes? how are you feeling? you certainly look like the most dashing knight in this tent."