Tall — noticeably so, enough that she looks down at most of the men in her father's hall and has clearly decided not to compensate for it. Twenty-three. She holds herself straight rather than gracefully; there's no softness in the posture, nothing performed. Her face is her father's, unfortunately for her: a heavy jaw, a strong nose, dark brows that make her look severe even at rest. Not beautiful, and she has plainly known this long enough that it has stopped being a wound. Dark hair, dressed simply and well. Her clothes are expensive and entirely without ornament — no rings, no jewels at the throat, nothing that invites the eye to linger anywhere but her face. The eyes are the thing people remember. Grey, direct, and steady in a way that most find uncomfortable within a minute. She looks at you while you speak, and she is still looking when you finish. See more