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Post by Lord Donal Stormshield on May 6, 2011 21:14:23 GMT -5
Brandon just shakes his head and gives his brother a tired look.
Jon laughs as he puts down his ale and turns towards the Bolton children. He points to the table where the Flint family lies, "Listen children, What my brother here is trying to say, Do not worry there are other people who are also wary of these goings on." He points to the Flints again, "Take Lord Flint over there, He is an able mind and so is your Father, both have probably calculated every outcome that this can take. between the two of them. It is unlikely that they might pull a fast one on us. But if it comes to a battle, then we Umbers will fight you can be sure of that."
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Post by Flex on May 6, 2011 21:23:27 GMT -5
Jon chuckled at the condescending tone. "You must think us idiots," He said with a chuckle. "Which, curiously enough, his a similar attitude my brother takes. I shall let you Umbers relax."
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Post by The Flint on May 6, 2011 21:42:42 GMT -5
Brandon Flint scanned the crowd, trying to identify Lord Greyjoy and to take his measure. The he gazed up at the high table, to take the Starks reaction. He watched especially the Lord Stark and Lady Anya.
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Post by The Smith on May 6, 2011 21:48:19 GMT -5
Lord Greyjoy stared about the hall with a cold stare. His face seemed carved of ice. His son sipped at wine, and stared at Melinda covertly.
Lord Stark seemed to be making awkward conversation with his wife, while looking every where but his sisters.
Lady Anya caught the eye of Brandon Flint, and raised a single cool eyebrow. She offered him a cold smile.
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Post by The Flint on May 6, 2011 21:51:01 GMT -5
Brandon nodded his head and raised an ale cup towards the observant lady Anya, acknowledging her catching him.
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Post by The Smith on May 6, 2011 21:53:34 GMT -5
Anya chuckled, and turned her eye back to the crowd. A drunken Karstark appraoched her, and began to badly flirt with her.
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Post by Ollie on May 6, 2011 22:38:26 GMT -5
Young Yoren, his uncle Gerard, and a small retinue of captains and craftsmen off Great Wyk feast at a table at the far end of the hall from the hightable. The men begin to fall enthusiastically into their cups, amicably jesting about the famous Northern cold and its effects on one's manhood.
Looking apart from the gripes and cheers, Gerard catches the gaze of the nearby Brandon and follows it to the Lady Anya. When the stumbling lout occupies her attention, the Goodbrother calls to the Flint.
"You can't just sit there, northman," Gerard offers Brandon with a smile, friendly advice. "Let him go on any longer and he runs the risk of becoming more interesting, if only for that second. Before you know it, some lord there will ask her a question, and by then, she'll have forgotten all about you."
After a few cups of wine in him, Yoren Goodbrother feels his head atingle and bladder full. Rising from the table (not before pouring another cup of wine to go), he weaves his way between the tables, peering at the guests in attendance on his way to relieve himself.
The Northern air is bracing, and brings Young Yoren a bit down to earth. On his way back inside, the lordling keeps an eye out for any men bearing the marks of a Night's Watchman.
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Post by Lord Donal Stormshield on May 6, 2011 22:48:20 GMT -5
BRandon laughs again, "No true Northern is an idiot, though a couple come close to having that title. You two are just to young to worry, leave that to us older people."
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Post by Erik on May 7, 2011 1:38:48 GMT -5
The Drumm retinue sat not far from the Goodbrothers. Lord Drumm was his usual quiet self, save for his common, in the past weeks, speech of, "No good will come of this. Mingling the blood of Ironborn with Northerners..."
Meanwhile, the rest of the company were in good spirits. Balon and Erik Pyke began clearing a space to perform the finger dance, and asking the other Ironborn if they would like to participate.
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Post by Flex on May 7, 2011 8:06:20 GMT -5
BRandon laughs again, "No true Northern is an idiot, though a couple come close to having that title. You two are just to young to worry, leave that to us older people." "Practice makes perfect," Jon said with a grin. "And anyhow, my older brother is not the perfect man to be inherit the Dreadfort. Like my father, he'll need a helping hand." |
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Post by The Smith on May 7, 2011 12:38:56 GMT -5
There are two men of the night's watch at the feast, and they seem to avoiding each other rather strongly. One is young, and scowling, and the other is grizzled, and drunk as hell.
Several ironborn join in with the Pyke's.
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Post by House Dustin on May 7, 2011 13:51:26 GMT -5
Lord Dustin and family sat at the table as well. On Dustin's left was his wife, followed by son and three daughters. On his right was Owen Dustin and his wife. Owen looked visibly unhappy and seemed to be fighting a scowl. Mors kept his face a bit more the mask, and examined the Ironmen to see if he recognized any of their arms.
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Post by The Flint on May 7, 2011 19:58:35 GMT -5
The Flints were on edge as well. None of them were drinking very much, except for Quent, who was packing away enough ale for the whole of the group.
"Old Gods be good to us, and let one of those dumb fucks plant an axe between his ears," said Hother of the finger dancing reavers.
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Post by The Flint on May 7, 2011 21:13:04 GMT -5
The older Flint, a man of almost sixty, looked at the Ironborn, and inhaled deeply, before stopping suddenly, as if something had suddenly, imperceptibly offended, his nostrils. He spat into the brass spittoon near Gerard's feet.
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Post by Ollie on May 7, 2011 21:34:19 GMT -5
Gerard's amiable smile faded a small amount. "Allow me," he announced before sliding the spittoon along the stone floor with his foot towards Brandon Flint's table. The collected mucus swashed uneasily in the brass container. Gerard turned back towards his table, pouring himself another drink.
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Hope you all are well and happy.