Re: Red, Red, Wine

[Aerion Storm]

Guard up, Storm. You're not supposed to give yourself away at these things. Bartheld parties have dishonored your blood enough.

"I suppose that depends on what counts as a fair share. If you ask some, no doubt I've attended a few too many." It's Reachmen, mostly, that complain when Ser Harbert and his retinue arrive. Tarly himself bleats loudest of all the fat sheep, of course, but he's not the only one Ser Harbert's feuded with over the years, and Aerion's been dragged into the mix often enough to have left an impression.

"So feasts? Absolutely normal to me, aye. Roast boar, cooked carrots, sweet onions, flowing wine. The occasional pretty girl made to blush, or knight made a bit too loud for politeness? Feasts, aye, that I'm used to." He gestures with his free hand, a broad sweep of his arm taking in all the painted flesh, bared flesh, sweaty flesh. A hint of disgust, perhaps, creeps into his voice. Disappointment in his fellow man. Reproachment at...himself?

"But this...? Not so normal to me, no. King's Landing is perhaps less noble than I'd remembered from my last visit."

He gives her another smile -- her, not the party, just her -- and some warmth returns to his voice.

"I can't complain too much, though, and far be it from me to deny I'm enjoying myself. Fine red wine and fine red company, perhaps I'd best thank the Seven I decided to attend after all."

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

She returned his warm smile, and sipped at her wine.

"Interesting you should mention the Seven. I have been wondering since I received my invite what the Seven would think of these events. The Maiden's blush must be hotter than the summer sun."

Though her tone seemed joking on the surface, there was a hint of... regret? No, guilt. The Red Woman was pious, but not to the Red God.

[Aerion Storm]

His smile turns to a grin again, playful, knowing. Bold.

"I imagine, were the Maiden here tonight, it wouldn't only be her blush growing notably warm."

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

"Probably not. Though it is not their blushes that one need fear. It is their judgement. How much trouble do you think being here gets one into in the afterlife? Clearly not enough to keep us away, I suppose."

[Aerion Storm]

"Septons tell us the Seven are always watching over us, but not which of them. With luck, the blushing Maiden's looked away by now, and the Mother and Father have already gone to sleep since we're up so late." He shrugs, ornamental armor making his already-broad shoulders broader, making the motion that much more conspicuous. "It could be that it's just the Smith who's still watching, taking pleasure in the craftsmanship of costumes on display. Or the Crone, guiding us with her lantern, leading us to the partners we're meant to find?"

He leans her way a little more, nestling in closer, shifting his wine to his other hand. His close hand's free, then. Maybe he should offer it to her. Maybe he should lean down next to her, propped up on one elbow. Maybe he should keep talking about religion.

"And what cares a Red Priestess of the Seven's judgement? I know little and less about the Lord of Light, what are his thoughts on such parties as this?"

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

"You make a good point. I knew a Septa who once told me that, because the Seven are everywhere, that everywhere is a Sept, and that a great many things can be worship, not just prayer," she replied, with a suggestive look.

The same words she had said to Ben on their first wedding night. The secret one in Riverrun's godswood three years ago. Her heart stung with guilt for a moment, before she reasoned with herself that he was here too, and they had talked about what might occur at this party and reached an agreement about their boundaries. She was not yet violating any of them, so she took a big drink of wine, swallowed, and took a deep, calming breath.

"I think a wise priest or priestess would be mindful of other Gods' opinions. They all have power, so must all be respected. The Lord of Light would likely welcome a gathering like this as worship. I think many would prefer a hearty banquet, dancing, and making love to sitting praying on a stony cold pew."

[Aerion Storm]

"Stony, cold, pews are terrible for a great many things, yes. Especially when more comfortable seats are available, for all manner of postures."

The bastard doesn't pray like most. He whispers under his breath to the Seven, sure, and curses by them when something hurts or angers him, aye, and he does his due diligence and shows up at septs from time to time, when Ser Harbert says they should. But his heart truly speaks to them when he's afield; spurring a charge against another jouster, wading into a melee, rushing up a ladder to take a wall, or just riding a horse along a muddy trail, aching in the cold but celebrating a successful tourney. He thanks the Smith for a sturdy shield or good saddle, he protects in the name of the Father, he pulls a blow and shows mercy in the Mother's grace. He stares the Stranger in the face when live steel flies and blood sprays.

His heart belongs to the Warrior, first and foremost, and the Warrior isn't truly worshiped in pews, isn't truly shown in stained glass.

"I'm not well read, but I've heard that about the Seven, aye. That there are different ways to worship them, among different folk. And if it's true for them, surely it's doubly true for those of other, more exotic, faiths. And -- at a party, at least -- those other faiths are surely worth respecting." Another smile, beard breaking like the dawn. "Especially if those other faiths would consider a party such as this to be half-holy, and if those other faiths should happen to send so beautiful a messenger as you to remind us of it."

"Tell me, oh wise and beautiful priestess," He leans in again, low over her, closer, somehow than before, masks not far apart at all. "What sort of worship do you feel inclined towards tonight? Shall we find a stony cold pew?"

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

His face was so close to hers, the drink so enabling, that she almost kissed him. Nervousness stopped her as it gripped her heart again, but she did not move away from their closeness.

"Do you mean go elsewhere? That is very tempting, but I... I don't think I should," she stammered a little, biting her lower lip as her mind flooded with conflict.

[Aerion Storm]

"If not, not," he says, eyes sincere behind the Orys Baratheon mask, dark blue pools that hold nothing but honesty. No, not quite. Honesty and lust, let's say, in equal measure.

"But if you did. If you did want to get away from all this," just a little curl of his lip when he refers to the party, "and to spend some time with me, alone? It would be..."

Think, use just the right word. She's a highborn lady who says things like 'acclimatise,' don't speak with your thick, dumb, tongue now, bastard. Say something as sweet as she deserves. Use some fancy Reachman's word. Tell her just how you ache for more of her.

"Sublime," he settles on, his warm, wine-rich, breath teasing at her, his lips almost brushing hers -- almost, but not quite kissing -- when the word comes out a sigh. "It would be sublime."

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

Such a romantic.

She stroked his shoulder approvingly.

"Your sweet words enchant me, Ser."

She sighed softly, feeling the urge to look away, but forcing herself to look him in the eyes. Pale blue to dark blue. Like the sky and the sea. Appearing to touch, but forever apart.

"But I fear it would not be right. I came here tonight with a different plan in mind," she admitted, voice full of regret.

Let's hope he takes it as well as he says. Athelstan certainly didn't.

"You seem like a good man. And you are very alluring to me. Were I free to do so, I'd go with you in a heartbeat. But I am not. I must keep a vow. I hope you understand."

[Aerion Storm]

"A...vow." His broad shoulders slump a little.

The wine makes it take longer than it should. Wine is wondrous like that, no better way to make yourself stupid. Dawning reason tramples him slowly; a trudging stot, not a courser.

"Are...*ahem*...I swear, this is no ploy to unmask you, but...m'lady, are you wed?"

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

She too looked crestfallen, though her hand remained upon his shoulder.

"I am. I am sorry for misleading you. You are so charming and I was drawn to you, but I must stop, because I am on the brink of unfaithfulness, and I do not wish to lead you on."

[Aerion Storm]

Fuck.

It takes him another second for the wine to get out of the way. He gives her a frank stare, followed by a cow-stupid blink as the cogs turn, but then he nods. Just nods. Matter-of-factly, understanding, and, ultimately, agreeing.

"When you're about to fall off a cliff, best to just take a step back," he says with a ghost of a smile, even as he does so; take a small step back, that is.

"I am..." Doomed, if her fancy-pants lord husband sees how close you came. "Sorry to have misread you, m'lady, and meant no offense. Your charms, also, quite distracted me, or...or perhaps a morbid childhood curiosity of the red faith."

Or perhaps the wine.

That's it. Jest. Recover. Get your feet back under you.

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

"You need not apologise, Ser. You have not caused any offence. Quite the opposite. I think if we'd met before I was wed, we'd have a lot of fun together. And my husband would have had some..."

She chuckled.

"... stiff competition."

She knelt up beside him, smiling awkwardly, but determined to limit his disappointment, and hers. She removed a length of the scarlet silk from around her head, the bit that had formed the hood of the robe, folded it neatly, and pressed it into his hand. Even from there, he could tell it smelled of her hair. Rose and cardamom. Exotic as her outfit and just as intoxicating.

"Take this as a token of my esteem, and affection."

[Aerion Storm]

"I am n--" he cuts himself off, squashing the old rote, the old reflex. She doesn't need to know he's no Ser, does she? Not when she's on her knees, offering him a token. Or on her knees, joking about his manhood. Or both, Seven save us all.

"I am honored," he says, and his voice is thick with honesty, not just wine, not just lust. He reaches down and takes it from her with those big, rough, hands, as gently and carefully as other hands might lift a newborn, or a child might lift an injured bird. He holds the cloth like it's both fragile and precious and -- perhaps most of all -- new to him.

"You should know, I..." Aerion swallows, rubs his thumb across the soft silk in a slow circle. He's a terrible liar, but he tries to cut himself off from being too big an honest fool. "I, ah, have nothing to offer in return save a stump cap, and I think I've misplaced even that."

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

She laughed lightly at that, and clasped his hands between hers.

"Nothing is required in return. Only that you think on me kindly. You owe me nothing. Just try to have a good evening, now that I've loosened you up a bit."

She bit her lower lip thoughtfully for a moment.

"And," she began slowly. "Since only one part of your face is exposed, keep this holy kiss."

She chastely kissed him on the lips, mouth only fractionally open, her fight for self-restraint palpable, the press mere moments long before it was over.

[Aerion Storm]

She's close enough to feel him tense up as she leans in. Nerves at a married woman's kiss, or fighting his baser urges to part those lips with his tongue, pulls his hand from hers and wrap both arms around her, pull her tighter to him, still, and...?

Instead he kisses her back, head tilted ever so slightly, cheeks flushing, studiously ignoring the quiet tink as their masks bump.

Lucky bastard, he smiles to himself as the kiss breaks off. Kissing above your station, you are. Who knows, she might be a Princess under all that, after all.

"You honor me, m'lady, and the Red God you're married to. I'll keep your token, and and pray to hold your affection as well."

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

Ben will get a kick out of being referred to as a Red God. Best to only tell him that though.

"And hold it you do. I am glad we met. I should move on though, as I'm like to spoil it further otherwise. Enjoy the rest of the evening."

[Aerion Storm]

"And you, as well, m'lady." He gives her a smile -- warm, sad, a little bitter, maybe, it's hard to tell 'twixt mask and beard -- and a small nod, almost a bow.

Wine. Wine will fix it. After watching her leave, and enjoying the view of another man's wife perhaps more than he should, Aerion casts his gaze about for another servant, another cup, another drink. But before he does, he tucks her token away, carefully, inside a bracer. He's not losing it, or spilling a drop onto it, no matter how the rest of the night goes.

[/scene?]

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

[/scene. Deftly done, Ser-to-be.]

[Aerion Storm]

[*curtsies daintily* It was a pleasure, Lady Marsten. ]

[Lady Corrine Marsten]

[shh! I'm in disguise!]

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