GoT Writings

WK 3 Writing Challenge GoT Wk end 8/18 w.c. 719

Prompt 2: Write a story in the Romance genre, set in the Game of Thrones world. You do not have to use existing characters, but you can. Give it a happy ending. ~ Story

In the dark set times between Pope St. Sixtus and Pope St. Dionysius, the faith of the Lord of Light infused the lands at Bridgewater Keep. All the people of Iron Houses were turning to the teachings of R’hllor. In this time of greed and impetuous manners, we find the young squire Geoffrey setting his sights on the young Rohesia. She may belong to another lifestyle, but Geoffrey was a jaunty young man with a silver tongue. Many a female eye looked upon him in admiration. He would comb his rumpled hair with wet fingers, caress a woman’s countenance with his infectious grin. He would put all bodily energy into an introduction, “Hello, milady, I’m Geoffrey of House Florent. And who might you be?” A deep bow and a flourish of sorts to add flourish to his delivery.
The unfettered giggles and faux shyness of the ladies of the Houses were gathered in careful attention. He loved the feminine form of all sorts. He cared not if the damsel was to the manor born or a salt wife captured from a land across the sea. His attentions were usually returned. Those not returned were tucked away for pursuit a different day. It was all in the chase for the rapscallion Lord Geoffrey. That is until he met Rohesia.
She was robust and gusty. Hair of flaming red and skin the color of tanned hide. Her laughter rang clearly from three distances; it was the merriment of it that brought Geoffrey to inspect the festivities for himself. His heart paced his breathing at odd intervals. He rarely experienced this level of disconcertion. This wench was fending off many the tavern patron. One more tossing his hat over the fence would be fun for her.
“Milady, Lord Geoffrey at your service.”
Geoffrey’s greeting bade a gale of laughter which he was sure reached his home on the other side of the village square. “My, Lord, thou dost spit and sputter over much.”
Geoffrey tried his most sheepish grin, bowing his head ever so much and looking at her much as a puppy would adore its owner. Not having much success, he tried scratching his temple and coming up with a most clever way to apologize for some unknown fault. “Ah, I would beg your forgiveness, but I know not the fault.”
Geoffrey rolled his eyes and waited patiently for the second boisterous laugh to die down.
My Lord….Oh …. Let me catch my breath …. Oh …. I forgive you …. For whatever you did …. Ah, you do make my sides ache …. Oh …. George, a pint for the doffer and one for me.”
Geoffrey was no longer amused. “I am not a common gutter snipe, Wench!”
The merriment left Rohesia’s face as well. “Go thee on your way then.”
To Geoffrey’s back, she added, “Doffer.”
Geoffrey returned to face the obnoxious barmaid. His hand reddened from where it slapped the coin on the countertop. “How much for an hour of your time?”
“Tis not my line, sir. I just fetch ale for the patrons. You may leave me to my business, and I will leave thee to yours. Be gone.”
Geoffrey could hear the low timbre of the hunting horn in his mind. She would not be the one to wed, but she would be a fun dalliance to hone his hunting skills.
***
Geoffrey reflected back to that time. He still pursued the lovely Rohesia. Rohesia still rebuffed his best efforts. He would not marry, and she would settle for nothing less. A touch, an embrace, a chaste kiss, demand for fulfillment, a denial of same, and the two would part ways ….until the next time the need rose up. For Geoffrey, he would be engaged in another hunt, and for Rohesia, she found the sailor who would give her a station in life. Despite the absentee husband, Geoffrey could not get Rohesia to share his bed.
Stations in this life, morals in that life, just another space in time where two souls knew what they wanted and no possibility of obtaining it. They would be yet another set of two heartaches who wished for a time when money and gain did not rule a relationship, a love, a choice to not marry, a choice to settle.

719 word count




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