The Flower In The White Snow. [ Under Construction ]

Chapter II. A Feast For A King

      ･*.ﾟ☆━CHAPTER 2━☆ﾟ.*･

         
              
Sansa sat at the edge of her sister's bed, watching Amara brush her beautiful long ginger hair. Sansa was always jealous of her older sister.

She was jealous of her beauty, jealous of the many titles of her beauty, jealous that she, herself, had none.

Jealous of how easily the people of the North loved her but even though, through those jealous feelings Sansa admired and looked up to Amara.

“You should wear gowns more often, sister. You look beautiful in them.”

Amara softly laugh. “I do wear dresses. I don't like them but I do.”

“Because you're a lady. It's your duty to.” Amara sigh playfully.

“A woman should be allowed to not wear dresses and still be ladies,” Amara said; the two sisters laugh together.

Sansa and Amara were much different from each other. Amara wasn't good at needlework as Sansa, she didn't like wearing dresses but tolerated for mother's sake, she would rather wear trousers and armor, she was good with a sword but was dreadful in archery. She was graceful but also wild, she can't play the high harp and balls like Sansa, she can't write poetry like Sansa, she can't hold a tone like Sansa but she was good nonetheless — but not like Sansa, she was good at dancing — very good at it.

The door opened; their mother's face appears. “Get outside girls.” She told them.

“Yes, mother.” The two said back. Catelyn took her leave, keeping the door still open. Sansa and Amara glance at each other and shared giggles.

Amara stood between Sansa and Robb, her blue eyes watch the immense visitors poured in through the castle gates in a river of gold and silver and polished steel. Three hundred strong pride bannermen and Knights, of sworn swords and freeriders. Over their heads, a dozen golden banners whipped back and forth in the northern wind, emblazoned with the crowned stag of Baratheon.

“Where's Arya? Sansa, where's your sister?” Lady Catelyn asked her second oldest of her daughters; Sansa shrugs her shoulders and just then Arya ran past, a helm on her head. Ned grabs her.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey. What are you doing with that on?” Ned questioned Arya, the youngest of his daughter. Arya was a wide one; Some say like her sister Amara — but worse.

Arya didn't like anything ladylike or acted that way either. She liked to run in the woods, she would like to learn how to swing a sword, she ate like a starving child they said, and didn't know how to dress; nothing like a lady. Ned removed the helm from her head and gently push her toward near the end of the line.

“Go on.” He said. Jon, Robb, and Amara smailed trying their best not to laugh; Arya groan.

“MOVE!” She shouts, pushing Bran to make way for her to stand.

Amara's eyes move to Sansa, watching how attentive her eyes were on the crown prince, how Sansa blush, and smiles while they followed the golden prince. Amara turned to tell Robb but only caught him glowering at the tall prince. Looking to the prince, she saw the smug look on his face, his eyes bearing into hers. Amara was too uncomfortable to continue; she averts her eyes to the next man. Sandor Clegane, she thinks his name was; she had heard tails of him, of his terrifying and eerie burn face but it wasn't that eerie, not to her.

Once the king arrived the North kneeled. The king was a fat man, his stomach round and big, his face red under his beard, and dark circles under his eyes.

Amara was vastly disappointed. Her father had told his children of him often: the peerless Robert Baratheon, the demon of the Trident, the severest warrior of the realm, a giant among Princes but now he was just a fat man. He vaulted off the back of his warhorse. Stride quickly towards the Stark family, he signals for all to raise, and gave Ned an imperious once-over.