#swordevent1b

"his highness and i are honored by your presence." there are so few instances for hosting foreign guests in winterfell that lynara finds it a good distraction, a way of turning her brain off from all the circumstances of her life — ironically, one of those is this very wedding. "you look positively wondrous, my liege. have you come up with the concept to your outfit yourself?"

@coeurlion

lithe hand grasps his. it may have been the first they've touched in hours — since the first dance, which had gone splendid (everytime their eyes found one another they quickly flitted away, and he had let her go as if she had scorched him) — and she loathes to demand for his attention, guilt and sorrow and distaste churning at the belly. "talk to me. please. if lord penrose sees me otherwise, he shall ask me to dance — he almost took a piece  of my toe during the last round and i know not how to decline."

the color scheme is abhorrent, but at the very least, if he is to seek her out, he can only stumble upon those of her house — roy is gladdened by that he gets her right in the first try, dreading the possibility of being trapped into some mindless, unwanted conversation with another of her kin. still, his gaze spares no kindness at the green of the gown, before he rolls his eyes, hand expertedly finding the wife's hip. "tell me why is it that i keep being beckoned into dancing when i do so poorly with the tune. i would rather if they grimaced at each foot i stomped." grumbles are offered without regard for poise; she's never directly asked that of him, and it would only sour things if she was to start.

her wedding gown is a thing of wonder — once a product to be weaved through months, the combined effort of a dozen seamstresses have cut the work so the dress would be done on the morning at the eve of the ceremony, yet it is nothing as envisioned by the bride herself. instead of wool and furs, she is wrapped in a first layer of silk, a small modesty before an abundance of myrish lace becomes the outer layer. her shoulders were only covered during the procession towards the sept, by her paternal cloak, before that was switched by her husband's darker one with the crowned stag.  after the ceremony her shoulders remained bare, thin sleeves of lace only covering the middle of her upper arm down, tying with the bust, restricting and demanding the most graceful movements. the delicate corset's silk, of a bone-gray almost white, is embroidered with what seems to wish to pass for snowflakes — as if anyone from king's landing has seen such traces of winter. a journey south shows that the embroidery pattern changes on the skirts, snow replaced by delicate fawns that hop as she swishes the luminous skirts.  finally, her hair was braided loosely, and crowned with an adorn resembling a net seemingly made of spun silver and encrusted dark gems that accompanies her hair down to her lower back; so light and beautiful it is almost like an illusion, like the entirety of the day.