#swordevent1

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."

lynara's feet has began to blister. she is not sure if the cause is the new heeled shoes, or the amount of times she's been spun tonight — there is never as much dancing even during the merriest of functions back at winterfell, and, unfortunately, those have been rather lacking as of late. it is a new sort of experience, yet another one she finds herself torn about: this is what she has dreamed of for years, yet isn't it all kinds of wrong to enjoy herself so much when the bitter taste of sorrow still mars the mourning clothes on the bottom of her trunks? 

there is some relief in knowing she's not alone, though she is certainly not the worst to mask it; the stark comitive seems to be at odds between enjoying all the novelty from the south and tiring from all the pretense. mother must be somewhere in the middle, she thinks. lynara likes to believe she's grown to know all of the lady stark's moods and quirks, a necessity when from the crib the girl has wanted nothing as much as to please and to be like her lady mother so there is understanding and purpose as she approaches the matriarch. 

"lady mother," she begins, a heartbeat before offering a smile to their company. "apologies, my lady. the heat is so unknown to us i have become drawn to the aperitifs table and I've wanted to share some of it with my mother, but i had not known she had company." the words are punctuated by the very true offer of a goblet to the lady stark; lynara's own had been drank minutes before with an avid thrist, and she had taken the second cup as an excuse to take to one of her kin (if she found one of them, well enough; if not, she’d down it as soon as it seemed the right time). it's only fortunate for both starks that it was mother she found before sansara, whose conversations lynara has no interest in even knowing about. "should we get more, mother?"

uthor's position in the council has assured that the hightower quarters within the red keep are spacious and comfortable enough for marilda to barely miss the grandiosity she's installed at the hightower — for all of her familiarity and content with her home, even not under the targaryen reign, the lady hightower would readily admit that few things did not pale ahead of the red keep during time of festivity such as this one. of course, being away from home had some downsides. with so many of them, the generally chaotic situation among the household was barely improved; even with an addition of trusted nursemaids, children are prone to run loose and for however sympathetic marilda could be to her children's enjoyment, she would not allow one of them to run amok.

naturally, that would also include the child she can not truly call hers, even if it is all the same in her mind (and in her pesky stubborn heart). liela's fiery sight draws her easily away from a bothersome situation between bryn and ceryse, squabbling over something their mother hasn't truly been paying attention to; urging in someone else to assist to that nonsense, marilda finds her way to liela, a hand to her arm effectively keeping the girl from flight.

"darling, i was searching for you. where have you been?" without a doubt, liela has found herself underfoot around the city — something marilda knows better than to reprimand (if anything, if she had been younger and less occupied, she'd have half a mind to accompany the bastard). "the seamstress has just delivered some of our new gowns this morning. i have in good confidence that she's the best in the city, sought even by the queen. come, let's see if it's to your taste, you can accompany us to the lists. i'm certain we still have time before the decent competitors come out, not the piss-stained squires they put out first."