/ Marty Ily U Know U Do Not Have To Match ! - Blog Posts

It  was  outrageous  to  think  that  everyone  surrounding  the  Great  Hall  was  summoned  to  King’s  Landing  from  every  important  corner  of  Westeros  for  the  birth  of  a  babe  that  will  never  remember  it  but  will  be  sung  songs  about  how  ships  set  sail  and  how  honorable  sigils  crossed  however  many  lands to  celebrate  her  golden  birth  and  future  reign,  but  who  was  Oberyn  to  complain  when  the  company  looked  this  good  under  such  low  candlelight?  Glittering  under  the  warm  glow  in  their  best  finery  while  lingering,  lithe  bodies  painted  in  silver  and  gold  shimmered  on  by  in  a  haze.  Those  could  say  what  they  want  about  the  Targaryens,  and  he’d  likely  agree  under  different  circumstances,  but  no  one  could  deny  that  this  evening’s  festivities  were  anything  short  of  a  grandiose  affair  and  would  be  incomparable  for  years  to  come. 

Or  at  least  until  he  got  back  to  Dorne.

“What,  don’t  tell  me  you’re  not  having  fun,”  His  attention  was  narrowed  in  on  a  lord  whose  face  he  knew  to  be  from  the  Riverlands,  and  his  dark  eyes  watched  carefully  as  the  lord  crossed  the  floor  of  the  hall  with  the  ease  of  someone  who  didn't  know  they  were  being  watched,  but  Obie  could  tell  from  Selin’s  tone  that  she’s  absolutely  thrilled  to  be  here.  Only  after  a  beat  does  he  bring  his  gaze  over,  shrugging  casually.  “The  music's  a  bit  slow,  I  will  say.” 

OPEN for: anyone!

Selin lounges near the wine table, a goblet balancing lazily between her delicate fingers. Candles flicker golden against the jewels braided into her hair, shimmering along the sigils of her house that had been painstakingly woven into a loose veil above them. For once more clothed than her reserved sister, begrudgingly obedient to her father's request that she represent their house well and not appear every inch a scandal. Instead her gaze drifts over the court, the banquet, the prattling gossip as it floats through a room filled with so many proper northerners–– because everywhere beyond Dorne is north, yes?

"It must be exhausting for them," she comments to no one in particular, running a finger around the rim of her cup with faint amusement hanging from her lips. "Clinging to their rules and formalities." The festivities in Sunspear were rarely so uptight.