When you play the Game of Thrones you win or die.
For Eleanah Karstark those words never held any meaning until she was sent off betrothed to a Stark of Winterfell.
In the midst of war, love and betrayal she will come to know the true threat that l...
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There were many times, not many, were Eleanah Karstark disliked intensively her duties as a lady, often so, that when the night arose and the sun caved in at Winterfell, she would visit the modest godswood and pray for the Old Gods to relive her from her devoir. As she modestly filled her wine cup once again from a passing flagon, it struck her that this might be one of them.
The fifth hour of the welcoming feast laid for the king, causing the Great Hall of the castle to be hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh baked bread. It's grey stone walls, usually bare, were decorated with the draped banners of white, gold, crimson: the direwolf of Stark, Baratheon's crowned stag, the lion of Lannister. A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but his voice could barely be heard above the roar of the fire, the low mutter of hundred of drunken conversations, and the clangor of plates and cups.
Rubbing her eyes almost savagely, and cursing from the gathered smoke, Eleanah settled back in her place on the bench beneath the raised platform among her betrothed's brothers and the royal children, where Lord and Lady Stark hosted the king and queen. She had sated her curiosity about the visitors when they made their entrance.
Ned Stark, lord of Winterfell, had come first while escorting the queen, helping her up the steps to the dais and led her to her seat, but the queen never so much as looked at him. She was as beautiful as the realm proclaimed; a jeweled tiara gleamed dashingly amidst her long golden hair, its rubies a perfect match for the red of her dress. Even at sixteen, Eleanah could cut right through the queen's pretended gestures of amiability.
Next had come the king himself, with Lady Stark on his arm. Eleanah's father had talked of him often: the fearless Robert of House Baratheon, demon of the Trident, the fiercest warrior of the realm. She only saw the remains of that description however, for the king standing before her was a fat man, with a red face under his beard, sweating profusely through his silks, who walked like a man half his cups.
After all had been seated, toasts were made, thanks were given and returned, and then the feasting had begun. Eleanah had started drinking right away, and she had not stopped until her belly was full with the tasteful summer wine.
Her betrothed sat next to her, chatting away with his father's ward, Theon Greyjoy, an iron born. Robb's beauty contrasted dearly with Theon's, since people form the Iron Islands were not particularly praised nor recognized for their looks. With his grey wool trimmed and white clothes hugging his sculpted body in a perfect fit, the Stark boy looked dashing.
Every woman in the North would be ecstatic to be betrothed to the heir of Winterfell, not Eleanah however, for she was smitten for another boy who had been given the surname Snow for being unlucky enough to be born with no name of his own.
