#event: owen & rosalyn's wedding

[anya-snow]

Rodrik Owen and Rosalyn's wedding — Part II

Location: The Vale, the Eyrie

Under the cut you will find Anya’s interaction at the garden with Xyliana Harlaw ( @ironborn-lies )

The moon above spills faint light upon the gardens paths. Xyliana finds a bench to sprawl herself onto. She props her leg up, stretching languidly upon the stone with one foot on the ground and the other bent at the knee and resting on the bench. She nurses a goblet of wine, the brim running over lips as she sips. It was a quiet spot to be....for now.

Anya followed the hallway and descended the stairs that led to the garden. It was quiet, much quieter than the feast hall brimming with merriment and the dance floor flowing with music. Soon enough she spotted a figure on one of the benches. “Xy,” she greeted, content to find someone familiar. “You got bored of the festivities already?” the blacksmith asked with a smile.

Xyliana perked up at the sound of her name informally falling off the lips of the bastard blacksmith. She peered up to her old friend with a chastising look. “Bored?” She sighed heavily, “no, a lot on my mind.” Xyliana pointed her gaze at Anya, “its Lady Harlaw tonight, my friend.”

Anya approached the bench, easily falling into the familiarity of being around an old friend. She stopped on her tracks, though, glancing at Xyliana with a subtle, nearly imperceptible frown. “Of course, Lady Harlaw,” Anya spoke, bowing her head a little in a respectful manner. “Pardon me, m’lady,” she added, quieting down the strange discomfort of walking that tricky road with Xy- being a dear friend, but not really; being equals in private but on vastly different positions in public. You will never be her equal, she thought.

Xyliana hated the sound of it on her lips, “shit....” she drug the word out in one long exhale of breath, “Stop.” The chuckled born of too much wine would break the tension. “Pardon me, really?” The iron born crossed her arms behind her head to lay flat and look at the stars. “Nobody calls me Xy in public, especially not a bastard of the north.” Xyliana  did not intend the sting of her words to hurt her friend. It was just how the life of an island rule went. “Did you grow bored of the drinks and dancing?”

Anya gave a one-shouldered shrug. If she was supposed to act all proper around the ruling lady of House Harlaw she might as well do it without half measures. The blacksmith looked around with intent, making a point of showing no one was around. “I suppose the public will find it scandalous that I called you so,” she retorted with a half-smile. Sometimes it felt like she was walking teetering steps when it came to Xyaliana, not quite knowing which side of her friend she’d encounter: the trusted confidant and companion of adventures, or the highborn lady who would demand respect. “Oh, one dance was more than enough for me. I don’t need to subject myself to that embarrassment further,” she admitted with a light scoff.

“It is so awkward...” Xyliana exhaled a sigh of relief. They were free to speak as old friends without regard to station. “The Tully Prince asked many questions.” She rolled her eyes at the other woman. Somehow the old Xyliana was present. The Xyliana who hadn’t been a murderer, the one who wasn’t teetering on a mental break. “It has been a long time since we have been able to speak.” Xyliana wanted to tell her the most troubling news, or even of the awkward glances between those she had harmed. Clearly, the thing she couldn’t shake, was that there was something deeply wrong. No amount of banter could hide the torment of a storm brewing in her eyes as her eyes silently drifted over the stars.

“Questions about what?” Anya inquired, a subtle frown crossing her brow for a moment. Xy was so hard to read sometimes and this was such an occasion. “It has been...” the blacksmith agreed, unsure of what else to say. She could say that she had missed her friend, but somehow it didn't feel like the right place to admit to such a thing, not when she felt there was a sort of unseen wall between the two of them. “How have things been on the Iron Islands, m'lady?” she asked instead, an easy, friendly tone to her voice. It was only right to ask how life had been lately for Xy, but Anya also wanted to possibly gain some insight into why the Harlaw lady was... different.

“Just things, you know I am not one to dress as expected by the majority of women...” Xyliana trailed off again. Her thoughts were somewhere between here and there. Not at all in the moment. She was distance, aching in her chest for the days where she wasn’t conflicted about who she was. “Mother is not well, talking out of her head. I fear it’s almost her time.” Xyliana offered a believable half truth to explain her melancholy demeanor. “I do not like the way you address me. It sounds so....” Xyliana sighed as she adjusted herself to make room for the other. “I have been meaning to visit, truly. I would love to commission a set of throwing knives.....”

Anya couldn't help but smile a little. There was something refreshing in Xyliana's reluctance to adhere to certain social norms. Something to be envied, really. Lady Harlaw had enough power and privilege to be able to do so. “I'm sorry to hear about your mother, truly,” she offered. There wasn't much to say or to do when death was approaching. No one could change that. “Then how am I to address you?” the blacksmith asked, a note of frustration inevitably present in her voice, “I can't openly call you a friend, and you're displeased if I call you lady”. Anya didn't recall things feeling so- exhausting between them before. It had been easy to be friends once, but... everything changed with time, it seemed. The raven-haired woman sighed, too aware of what she was in the presence of her old friend. A bastard of the North. Xy had never wielded that as something to make Anya feel less before, but tonight she did. “I would be happy to work on them for you, Lady Harlaw,” she simply stated, a level tone carrying her words. She didn't take that seat by Xyliana's side, though. Anya glanced back at the stairs that led back to the feast and the dance halls.

“I...” Xyliana grimaced visibly. There was a twist, a fear of becoming just like her friend. It was easy when she was just a Harlaw child and nothing more. She was allowed to befriend who she wished to befriend. “Lady of Harlaw will do I suppose, or just Lady Xyliana. I despise formalities but they bust be upheld.... Being a woman and a Leader is.... everyone awaits your mistakes.” Xyliana assumed she would not sit. It hurt to know she was pushing her friend away. She recalled their adventures in the north when she would visit the region with her mother. They were remarkable times with fond memories. “You sure, Anya?” Xyliana never attached the Snow on the end. Anya was better than that. “You seem eager to get away from me. I can’t say I blame you.”

Anya found herself simply nodding in understanding. Did she truly understand? No, of course not. She had never been- and would never be in a position similar to that of Xyliana. But if her friend asked for those meaningless formalities as something that genuinely seemed to matter to her, then the blacksmith didn't have much of an option other than to comply. The blacksmith wrung her hands together, hesitant in her body language, though her expression remained as cold as her northern winds. “Of course. I enjoy my work, and if there's anything I can craft for you, Lady Xyliana, I'd be happy to”. Anya glanced back to the building before her gaze returned to her old friend.”I just- I miss how uncomplicated the past was,” she stated, calmly resigning to this strange new layer to a friendship she'd cherished for a long time. There was a certain discomfort in it, which Anya couldn't deny, and yes... that made her want to get away. Not from Xy, really, just from the unchangeable reality of this divide. “I need something to drink. All the dancing left me parched,” she said in a quiet tone. The blacksmith couldn't tell if the lady wanted the company either way, she had seemed quite at ease on the bench, staring up at the night sky. “Pardon me for intruding, I'll let you go back to your thoughts, m'lady,” the blacksmith said with another respectful bow, and turned around to head back towards the stairs.

“I miss it too.” Xyliana whispers as she distances herself from the garden. Xy is content to stay where she is. It’s better than meeting the judgmental glares from those she’s wronged. Which wouldn’t be so bad if she weren’t feeling the guilt on her own. Plus everything else in the mix.....“bye then”

[anya-snow]

Rodrik Owen and Rosalyn's wedding — Part I

Location: The Vale, the Eyrie

Under the cut you will find Anya’s interaction on the dance floor with Tristan Cassel ( @oflostargaryen )

He and Anya had entered the dance floor at the same time and as the men lined up with dance partners he offered a hand out to Anya. “Care to be my dance partner.”

Anya glanced down at Tristan's hand and then up to his face, moderately surprised by the proposal to dance with him. She was not an accomplished dancer and if he knew better, he would have asked anyone else to join him on the dance floor. “I never can be free of you, can I?” she stated with a teasing tone. Hiding the creeping nervousness of making a fool of herself, she finally accepted his hand. “You don't get to complain if I make you look like a fool”.

He had that annoying smile on his features, “I think you've complained everday since we met and you still haven't gotten rid on me.” He teased her as she accepted his hand and he led them to the dance floor. “Don't worry, you won't look like a fool, just follow my lead.”

“Wipe that smirk off your lips,” the raven-haired blacksmith spat in an equally friendly and chastising manner. “If you made yourself less annoying, I’d complain less, Tristan”. She let herself be led to a spot free of dancing couples. She quickly glanced around, furtively, seeing the stances and poise of the ladies in order to somewhat imitate them.

If anything that just made his smile more with a laugh. “Maybe thats just part of my charm.” He offered. Tristan sees her glance around, the two blacksmiths in the sea of royalty and nobility. “Hey, don't mind any of them. It's just us.” He said and initiates the first step of the dance. “You can even keep insulting me if that helps.”

Anya stared at him with open skepticism, merely shaking her head. “Doubtful,” she offered in return. She had to be careful with her words now or she might just end up saying something that might just make him mistake being insufferable with being charming. “They make it look easy...” she muttered, aware that her nerves were beginning to rise to the surface of her carefully crafted facade of unbreakable steel. “Do a proper job leading me and I might not have to,” Anya countered, though she appreciated Tristan was putting some effort into easing her in this foreign atmosphere.

“They've just had practice. But imagine what they'd look like swinging a hammer in the forge, you make it look easy.” Tristan used Anya's own words against her as he continued to lead their dance with the music. He was at ease in this company, it was foriegn to her, but even after all this time, this had been his world longer then it hadn't.

The blacksmith laughed openly, not a ladylike snicker that could pass as a subtle act. The picture Tristan painted for her was fairly amusing and it did help her to feel more at ease. He was right- not that she would tell him and let him gloat. Practice makes master. And all these highborn nobles and royals had begun mastering this art since probably about the time Anya first held a hammer. “Who taught you?” she asked after a moment, because it was hard to miss that Tristan was, well- good at this.

It was good to hear her laugh; they had known each other long enough that Tristan knew when Anya was being honest with it. He didn't gloat, he actually was enjoying the moment dancing and witht he company he was keeping. Who taught you? She asked. That was complicated. But going with the truth, for the most part. “My mother; she insisted all of of know how to dance.” He didn't talk about his family. After all, in both versions of his life he was an orphan. “My older brother was always much better, but I tried.”

She wasn't sure if people usually had conversations when dancing, but she was curious, and talking also helped her becoming too self-aware of whether or not she was following the proper steps, or being as graceful as a dancer ought to be. “Smart woman,” she declared, “She had the foresight that it would come in handy”. Whether his mother envisioned her son at a royal wedding someday, or if she'd merely thought about giving him more skills for life, Anya didn't know.

Tristan had mentioned siblings in the past. He spoke about his family in the same manner as she did about her mother- topics with sharp edges that were best left alone. So she did, she never asked more than what he was willing to share on his own without prompting. “I didn't know you had an older brother,” she mentioned, cautiously, not wanting to maybe cross a sensitive line that she shouldn't. The two of them had known each other for a long time and it was peculiar to still be learning new things about him.

He liked that they could talk while they danced; to be honest, Tristan had been lost into his own head since things had slowly begun to unravel in his life. Anya had been a constant there in the forge between their friendly compeition and teasing thrown both ways. “She could be at times,” he said a little quietly. His mother was a difficult subject; there was still an anger there towards ever, even after all this time. But also, how does a child not miss their mother once she's gone?

Again, another subject hard to bring him. An older brother. “I guess he's been on my mind a bit lately.” He admitted truthfully to her. But realizing where they were and the company they were keeping, Tristan quickly changed the subject. “Did you get that sword to the Waynwoods? Did they appreciate the work you put into it?”

She could see that she was advancing into uncharted territory, and possibly, a territory she wasn't even welcomed into. It was a side of Tristan she didn’t see often- that look in his eyes and the way his voice lowered, his usual charisma transformed into a quiet sorrow. Anya didn’t apologize for her questions but she had enough sense not to keep going down that path. She did want to ask more questions, though. She wanted to ask why his brother was on his mind, and not at all for the mere curiosity of it, but because that was clearly having some effect on him. “I did,” she responded with a firm nod, any semblance of softness that seeped through her previous questions replaced by the usual pride of a blacksmith aware of her work’s worth. “The lord was quite pleased with it. He complained some at first. You know, I didn’t exactly follow his instructions to the letter- those ridiculous instructions. But he’s no blacksmith, he has no business telling me how to do my work,” she scoffed. “But once he held it, he loved it. Said it was an extraordinary blade. And it really is, if I may say so myself,” Anya smiled.

He was glad she didn't push for more anwsers, but they'd worked around each other long enough to know where the line was drawn. Instead focusing on something else, he could see pride shine in her features she spoke about her work and despite it not being the ridiculous standards requested the Lord Warnwood had been pleased. “It was a good blade. Both of our master blacksmiths would have been very plesed by it.” He dared to compliment.

Anya narrowed her eyes a little, a smile slowly spreading across her lips. The two of them usually competed when it came to their work- a fine incentive, their masters might say, for the young blacksmiths kept pushing to achieve excellence in their craft. And now Tristan had dared to compliment her work. “Of course it was. We both know I'm better than you,” she declared in a teasing manner. If anything might pull him away from that brief melancholy that passed through his eyes, it was some of their good old banter.

“Oh, you are?” Tristan asked to her declaration as if that was news to him. “I don't think I would go that far. I mean...it was just one blade.” The comment made in jest, it was how they were with each other even if playing dress up for a wedding and among the nobles and royals. “I still have a forge full of blades that need sharpening, get through those and will talk.” He of course wouldn't leave her to do it alone. But the challenge was there.

Anya smiled, self-assured. Pride was a nasty thing, her father often told her, but that had never stopped her from harboring that vice. “Oh, please,” she smirked, “I was sharpening blades long before you showed up,” the girl said matter-of-factly, still carried by his rhythm and superior sense of proper dancing. It was true, though; Anya had begun apprenticing with her father a few years before the orphaned Cassel boy was taken as an apprentice. “I could handle it”. Judging by the sheer amount of blades she had seen at the smithy it would require sleepless nights and almost no meals. But Gods, Anya Snow hardly ever backed down from a challenge.

That was definitely true. When he had shown up he hadn't even held a hammer and he remembers his hands bleeding from the work and sore muscles. He had barely been able to keep up before he slowly morphed into a true blacksmith apprentice. “Well, I'd like to see that.” He smirked. “But before I put you to work, I should probably let you enjoy the company of someone other then myself. You have to put up with me the rest of the time here while we get the soldiers ready for the battle.” He slowly stopped their dance, “Thank you for the dance.”

There it was, another one of their challenges. Anya wasn't sure if Tristan would actually hold her to it but she wasn't about to show any signs of hesitancy right now. She slowly slipped from his arms as their dance came to an end and she took a step back. A smile crossed her lips and she gave two, quick nods. “Thank you, Tristan,” she said in return, managing to be sincerely gracious about it. Surprisingly, she had actually enjoyed the dance, and with him leading her, she didn't feel quite as much a bumbling fool as she initially feared she would. Anya didn’t feel enough confidence to share a dance with someone she didn’t trust as much as she did Tristan, so once their dance ended and they parted ways, she didn’t remain there for another dance with some noble stranger.

He watches Anya leave the dance floor and Tristan moved out of the way of the other dancing couples and takes a spot off to the side watching the rest of the guests dance with the cadence of the music.