It had not been a particularly long trip, if you were strictly counting the days passed. If it was the actual feeling of time passing that was being measured, though, it had been interminable; nearly a week spent on horseback, with nearly a day by itself spent picking their way through the treacherous mountain passes until they had come into the more navigable foothills of Highheart. At first, the journey had been more of an adventure than a trial; so rarely did the group leave the mountains, and almost never with just such a noble party, that a feeling of high celebration had wrapped itself around the travelers - which lasted approximately into the third morning of travel.
Margaery Grey was neither particularly good at holding her tongue, nor dealing with disappointment. While not an outright brat, she had been raised gently, and as the pet of her father, had rarely gotten any way but her own. As such, when her favorite mare had strained her fetlock on the third day and forced them to go at a slower pace to the next village, her temper had not been much improved by the burning sun, the interminable insects, or the aching in her back. Not to mention, they'd had to leave her darling Quicksilver at that filthy stable, with instructions for the groom to catch the party up after she had been properly treated. Her father had been quite insistent that they didn't have the time to wait up for the mare to heal, and she'd been put on some inferior nag instead. Hardly the proper entrance for the daughter of a baron, she'd thought snottily, and had bullied her maid into switching horses with her. It wasn't the graceful fortune of horseflesh she'd preferred, but better than the short-backed creature they'd been forced to take.
The rest of the journey had been relatively uneventful, and though Margaery found the lump of homesickness under her breast both surprising and expected, she was eager to get to their destination. She'd only been once to see the Earl of Rothan, but that hardly counted; she'd barely been more than three or so, and her father had brought her to meet her Aunt Elizabeth, the Countess of Rothan. She knew that she had a cousin of roughly her age, too, and was certainly curious to meet the lady in question. Surely the matter of their inheritance had nothing to do with it, she added to herself austerely, black-gloved hand sweeping away a curling strand of red hair that had fallen from its pins under the froth of black lace that brushed just to the edge of her cheekbones.
Her clothes were simple enough, though well-made: a long-sleeved black satin gown, its startlingly-low neckline covered primly with a length of black lace that her mother had insisted upon, which was echoed along the lower portion of her sleeves, falling in shadowy fashion from her elbows, and along the hem of her gown, brushing over calfskin-and-leather slippers. In true Margaery fashion, she had dressed as though she wanted every eye to be on her - even at this, her cousin's funeral. She looked every inch a ghostly vision, done up in fire and milk-white skin, and she rather knew it. It was a pity that her mother hadn't let her bring the dark navy gown, though, she thought a bit acerbically.
Though she'd have to acknowledge that she had probably met her match in her cousin, she thought musingly from her mother's side - provided, of course, that the strawberry-fair girl in deepest mourning was actually the Viscountess. Deftly extricating herself from her mother's pinching fingers, she crossed the room with a whisper of silk, heading straight for her cousin, who had been joined by a strong-jawed young man. She flicked her eyes briefly over him, though it wasn't surprising that she didn't recognize him on sight; she hadn't met very many others of her class, as isolated as she lived.
Margaery waited politely for the both of them to come to a natural lull in conversation, then stepped forward, her face composed in a mask of polite concern. She shifted into her cousin's line of sight, stepping more fully forward, though she could practically hear her mother's irritated huffing in her head; extending on hand, she made a move to place it on the dark sleeve of the other girl's gown. Dipping her head slightly to the man beside them, she instead shifted her attention to the daughter of the house. "Forgive my intrusion, but you must be Cousin Ethalind. My father's told me much of your family." She paused for a moment, then offered a delicate grimace of something like grief, eyes downcast. "My Lord Father and Lady Mother and I have all come to offer our condolences. I can't imagine the pain you must be going through," she added, after having made a small sweeping gesture toward her father, indicating their shared blood. After a moment, she puffed out a breath, the sound faintly reproachful at herself. "But excuse my manners! You probably won't know me from Ansgar. I'm your cousin, Margaery Grey." She forbore to add her title; for now, while she was sizing the other girl up, she thought it best to be quite informal.
[ooc: sorry it's a bit long and a bit clunky!]