" Love is the bane of honor, the death of duty. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy. "
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House of the Dragon : season one
[ ocs × hotd ]
2024
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The feeling of velvet on her skin was very strange. Not that Venera had never worn rich or expensive fabrics, but that blue so vivid, that embroidery so golden, did not suit her at all. Her skin looked too pale in the silvery reflection of the chalice; her too-dark hair made her look ghoulish, while her impassive face embodied the austere image of Winterfell and its harsh snows.
She snorted, pushing the still-full goblet away from her; she was sure that by emptying it, the wine would invariably continue to flow, marking its end. She tried to pull up the merciless neckline of her dress and cursed herself for carelessly letting some New Castle lady pick out her dress. She felt the corset crushing her in its relentless grip, forcing her to keep her back straight. At the same time, the cold air of the huge great hall chilled her shoulders far too much. She thought about the hunt that morning and her mind found comfort in the thought of curling up in her huge fur coat again and maybe getting a decent night's sleep for the first time in a long time.
Not that they were not welcoming in the castle. With all the banquets in their honour, Venera was certain that many had already forgotten the original reason for the festivities. Yet she simply could not find a reason to close her eyes; too many thoughts and few solutions swirled in her mind.
She turned towards Darren Flint who stood attentively and silently at her side, his hand still on the hilt of his sword. "How much longer is it appropriate for me to endure all of this?" She asked softly, surveying the inebriated faces of those present.
White Harbor's most prominent lords and ladies filled the room with their adorned robes and bellowing laughter. Glasses clinked, wine flowed and festive tunes haunted the room, inviting those present to move and dance. On the laid tables a spectacle of dishes followed one another, almost mocking the misery that reigned in the parts furthest from the palace.
Ser Darren bent his lips into an amused grimace at the cost of no laughter. "Last time, you held out until the jugglers arrived." Venera rolled her eyes at that derisive comment. "If I see anyone throw anything in the air to the sound of music again, I might throw myself out of a window."
This time Ser Darren could not resist and laughed out loud, however, also drawing the attention of Lord Desmond, seated at that same long table that Lady Stark would have liked to leave. Venera had only recently met Desmond Manderly but could not help recognising him as a particularly joyful and optimistic man. In the days spent in White Harbor she had only ever seen him with a hilarious smile plastered on his teeth and never had anything resembling a frown seemed to cross his face.
