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II LUCELLA "the king and his whores" ⚜️
It took twenty minutes for Lucella to reach the great hall where the feast would be held. Sandor had left her to the privacy of their rooms and she'd managed to shove herself into one of the stiffer dresses she owned. It was a dull red, with little ornamentation, but it had once been her mother's if Sandor was to believed and she owned few enough dresses as it was, let alone enough to have choice as to what to wear to a King's feast. She left her unnamed sword behind and pulled on her riding boots, hiding them beneath her skirts and ran part of the way through empty halls.
Careful not to draw attention, Lucella slipped through the doors and planted herself at the very bottom of the hall next to the squires, finding herself sitting diagonally to Jon Snow. The boy had his direwolf with him, thanks to the busyness of the lower tables. His hands would disappear sporadically, feeding Ghost his scraps. But it was as his knife embedded in a full cooked bird, bringing it to chuck to the floor so the wolf could shred into it, that Lucella called out to him.
"I enjoyed our spar today, Jon Snow."
Jon had been ignoring her in hopes she would not speak to him, Lucella knew. But she spoke anyway. The boy's eyes went to her reluctantly, his mouth closed and tongue picking at teeth. Ghost's head peeked up from beneath the table and he lay a cleaned bone against his plate.
Jon was deep enough in his cups already that his tongue became loose. "You enjoyed it even though I bested you?"
"I enjoyed it even though you bested me," Lucella said, not giving him the satisfaction of embarrassment. But Jon did not seem the arrogant type, even with his jape. He did not smile, only nodded along with her. "We should do it again. You could give me something to learn."
Jon Snow was truly looking at her then, upon her request. Observing her with eyes only a bastard could grow to look from. For a moment, she wondered if he saw what everyone else saw, but then his gaze was flickering sideways, to Lord Stark's empty table, and she instead wondered who it was he thought of.
"If you insist," Jon said and if there was a shadow of a smile on his lips, he did not acknowledge it.
As the feast began, Ned Stark arrived first, escorting Queen Cersei. The golden Tiara looked dark against the silk of her hair, the encrusted jewels like the emeralds of her eyes. When she smiled, the expression did not reach her eyes, and not one glance was spared to the Lord of Winterfell as he took her hand and seated her at the centre of the high table.
Then, in all his drunken glory, came King Robert, the Lady Catelyn Stark on his arm, who moved swiftly towards the dais.
She lost interest then, focusing instead back on Ghost. Even with the servants now standing to the sides rather than passing cups around the tables, the direwolf lay beneath the bench, just behind Jon's feet, keeping mostly out of sight. He was gnawing on a bone, teeth almost as large as the white stick, paws engulfing the bottom, leaving little to bit.
