Who: Matthrew, and whomever wishes to join him. When: A few hours after arriving at King's Landing. Where: A little garden in the Red Keep. Rating: PG Status: Open and waiting!
He would grant it to King's Landing; it was deliciously warm, even these days of late autumn, though in all frankness that was perhaps an unfair comparison. Down in the North - Northwards from Winterfell, where the Dreadfort stabbed the sky - Matthrew knew that snow might be falling already. It did that a lot.
His suite of rooms was adequate, no, much more than that. Upon first arrival, when the quick and eager page led him and his men - cold, filthy and irate from a long journey, and ser Jorum edgy with paranoid fear, hovering over the last Bolton heir like a mother bird - into their alloted corner of the immensely vast Red Keep, Matthrew had nearly choked on his delight, unable to revel in the place in the presence of his sworn swords. But the rugs were ankle-height and the drapes were rich and velveteen and there were plants - potted plants! - in choice locations. The sheer careless luxury of the place made him grin like a fool as he closed the doors of his own bedchamber and leaped onto the bed like a pleased cat. His own House was not poor, to be sure, not unable to keep their home luxurious - they simply hadn't bothered much.
He left the matter of the men to Ser Jorum and the matter of ladies and gifts to Jemni and left the suite in full determination to return well-soothed by the rich and royal atmosphere. Blending in, here, came naturally to him in his red silk, in a tall ermine collar and a half-cape, and buckles and an armband of embellished gold, and no weapon at his side. It was a unique joy. The brooch that fastened his cape was a flayed man, twice as dreadful in garnets and rubies as in cloth, but that mattered little. A pair of girls, noble-born, giggled and flushed as they passed him in the corridors. He almost laughed to hear them whisper of the "tame Northman" they had just seen.
This place suited him very much.
He wound his way out into a small garden within the keep itself, all an autumn red and orange and brown, and settled on a bench, pleased with his find. What would the Starks do, without a godswood? Compromise, perhaps, as best they could, but neither the Starks not the faith of the Seven were very given to compromises. And to think, sometimes he thought his own lot a complicated one.
Matthrew stretched, fiddling with his brooch. And to be truthful, why not enjoy the feast as feasts were meant to be enjoyed? What quarrel did he have with house Stark that he should use this occasion to plot and politick? He could be happy enough with the courses, singers, fools and bright banners. One last time, as it were. He smiled; but it was not an altogether happy expression.