The gathered court, garbed in a myriad of hues in costly fabrics, fills the galleries and the spaces below. Gold cloaks stand interspersed along the walls, and others still are positioned about the great doors and before the dais on which the Iron Throne is located. Even the Dornish hostages are here—though, perhaps, not all willingly—in their own little knot with a rather obvious space about them; a few gold cloaks in particular keep an eye on them.
A fanfare of brazen trumpets resounds from the main entryway of the throne room, heralding the arrival of the Hand of the King.
Kerona quietly slips into the throne room and tries to find an empty seat to well… seat herself.
Among the myriad colors of the Reach, Reyna Rowan stands near to the Stormlords as the Reach abuts the Stormlands. She is brilliant in Tyrell green and gold, upright and solemn with small hands clasped properly before her. If she sweats in her heavy court dress, if she suffers any discomfort at all, she shows it not; in this setting, she is a Tyrell to her very fingertips.
Amongst a swath of sable and gold glad Baratheon forms, is the widow Elanna Penrose. She watches the scene with vague interest, bowing her head and curtseying upon the arrival of the Hand. But silence holds her whilst others enter.
Irena Marbrand stands among the lords of Westerlands, although from outside of the knot of people it seems unlikely to she would be seen. She stands a good head below most of the lords, and quiet a few of the ladies as well. She curtsies politely when the Hand enters, and uses the shifting moment as an excuse to find a slightly better place, one from which she might actually see the proceedings.
Two young women with the coloring of the Riverland Tullys arrive to the Throne Room and stand close together, both faces showing varied expressions of respectful awe at the scene at hand (and, incidentally, both look freshly scrubbed and dewy with recent washing). Andrya Tully stands taller than her younger sister, Jannia, her auburn hair a colourful mass of braids and glittering pins, while the younger Tully is less showy in plain, but elegant dress. Upon the arrival of the Hand, both girls dip into curtsies and then rise, exchanging glances.
Standing together with guards from his house and other lords of the Stormlands is Tancred, the young heir to his father, Lord Corwen’s powerful title. He stands quietly while his eyes scan the crowd gathered in the mighty throne room and whenever his eyes meet the eyes of someone else, whom has a certain rank and title, he offers a slight nod in acknowledgement. He is standing in the front of his crowd, where no-one hinders his vision or hinders him from being seen by others in the hall.
Bryce is in the very back among the Stormlords, a fresh bruise along his left cheekbone and another swollen and crushed lip that has only recently been patched up. On top of that, he still has one of his eyes as a blue-purple area with the eyebrow crushed and sewn together above it. Apart from his looks in his face, he’s wearing proper attire in the colors of his house and is trying to look as insignificant as possible.
Jannia is indeed strolling alongside her sister, but the young maiden’s wonder at the vast elegance of the hall is enough to send her lagging. Her eyes are lifted and averted, taking in the magnificent architecture, and her feet seem to move on their own accord. As it is, it’s no surprise that the toe of her boot should find the hem of her gown and, in an ungraceful manner, she takes a momentary stumble. Her balance is regained after a few wobbles, however, and after a bit of a sheepish smile, she hurries along to keep up with her sibling, this time with more attention lended,—enough so that she offers the Hand a prompt curtsy.
From the entryway, half a dozen gold cloaks march forward in unison, spears upon their shoulders. Behind them comes Prince Viserys Targaryen, Hand to the king, his nephew. A man now in his thirties, his hair is a bright silver-gold worn long, his nose prominent, his purple eyes dark and calculating. Garbed in black velvets and silks, a heavy golden chain has pendant upon it finely wrought dragon - red enamel chased with gold—curling about an open hand. He looks to neither right or left, instead making his way to the imposing Iron Throne upon its dais.
Trailing not a half-dozen steps behind is a figure all in white: white the scales of his armor, white the shield, and white as snow the cloak he wears. It is Prince Aemon, the Hand’s son and famous Dragonknight. He looks more pale than usual, and drawn, but who can wonder after his brush with death delivered to him by a poisoned arrow?
In the throng of those that bend the knee to house Baratheon and Tyrell, the Blackbolt of Blackhaven lowers his head in respect for the arrival of Prince Viserys, uncle and Hand to the King. Dressed as always in black, the silks that adorn him are simple yet elegant. A light cloak of violet hue adorns his shoulders, emblazoned with the heraldry of the marcher lord Manfred Dondarrion. He seems to have come alone today, for no one is at his side or even speaks to him as he watches with keen interest of matters brought to the Hand’s attention.
The entrance of the Hand and the Dragonknight sends a ripple down the Hall. Reyna curtsies deeply, dropping almost to the floor and with her head bent. Only when the Targaryens have passed does she rise gracefully to follow their progress toward the throne.
Dressed in the black and purple of her house, Carmella stands with other of the Stormlands, with Ser Amond close alongside her as always. She spares him but the briefest of glances; her attention is focused on the Hand and the Dragonknight. She drops into a respectful curtsey as the contingent passes, but her expression in unreadable and she blinks so rarely that one might wonder if she’s even altogether here.
Placed entirely too prominently for her own tastes, no thanks to her step-sister Sylvina’s uncle being on the Small Council, Aisling Ryswell finds herself rather far forward in the throng of nobles gathered before the Iron Throne. At one side of her is her uncle, bastard-born Henly Snow, and to the other said step-sister, engrossed in a whispered exchange with another young lady, which naturally finds itself interrupted as the Hand’s arrival is announced and they follow the example of the rest of the court, curtseying deeply. If with a certain lack of polish in Aisling’s case, brought on not the least by her attention shifting rather suddenly from Viserys and to the Dragonknight as she takes note of his presence.
The frail little noblegirl manages to slip through the ranks of the few Northmen and -women to stand next to her father ‘Lord Shout’ Elfram Locke who’s standing at the front just in time to join him as knees are bend towards the Hand of the King and his entourage. For once Kerona’s eyes are downcast at the floor as if afraid to look up.
It is not as if she used to arrive late when there is something scheduled to attend to but, today, she was almost late. The fanfare was, still, echoing on the walls of the fair hall as Lanei, all the discreet she was capable to be, entered and slipped to the corner where her kinsmen where. Certainly, it is not hard to spot them, so different they look from the rest of lords and ladies around the Throne Room. Taking a few moments to regain her breath, she seems mildly relieved after checking that Viserys has not arrived, and brushes some imaginary spots of dust from her cloak. “Well, it seems I missed nothing, right?” the lady asks in a low voice, as if fearing to disturb.
Among those of the Dornish contingent that look less than pleased to be present is green-and-gold garbed Tanyth Toland, her black eyes unusually fierce and stormy as they survey the gathered nobles and the tilt of her chin particularly defiant. As the Hand and the Dragonknight enters, that black gaze narrows faintly and settles rather sharply upon the pair and follows their progress to the Iron Throne.
Amidst the Dornish lords and ladies is Ser Aidan Dayne, who is as richly garbed as any of them. The Dornish are surely the most colorful of the knots of nobility throughout the massive great hall, with their propensity to multi-hued robes and bright jewelry, and his lilac and white robes are no exception. Lady Lanei of House Fowler makes some remark, and he can be seen to respond after he offers the Hand a brief bow; it’s a rather seasickness-inducing sight, all those striped robes bending together as lords and ladies offer their (grudging) bows and curtseys.
Andrya turns to gaze at her sister, the barest hint of annoyance flickering across her features as Jannia nearly trips and embarrasses them all. She turns, and gestures quickly to the other Tully, a censorious gesture, before squaring her shoulders back and letting her sky blue orbs travel with unabashed confidence and curiosity to linger on the other faces in the room after she rises from her deep bow for the Hand and the Dragonknight.
The Stormbreaker enters, his giant form following the royal company. Armored in black plate, his footsteps ring with every step. His black cloak snaps out behind him, flashing the its pale green lining. Approaching the Stormlords, he bows to his sister, nephew, and those nearest to his household.
Turning to face the hall, his brooding features take on a bored expression.
Tancred offers a deep nod to the Hand and Dragonknight as they move by his position. His expressionless face does not bear any witness of that this might be one of the first court sessions he is attending to, as the heir is still young and has been spending most of his childhood at his fathers proud castle. He cannot help smiling a little, though, after all, the moment is captivating.
Along with those who hailed from the Vale and Eyrie is Jyana Arryn, its Jewel, dressed in the cream and sky blue of her house. Aquamarine eyes, while searching for familiar faces, turns most of her attention to the proceedings. White and other colors flash past her eyes as she takes in Viserys’s trail towards the dais, her expression without awe and wonder, but contemplative and serious. There is no frown on her lips, however, but she does look solemn. She curtseys along with the rest as Viserys and his train pass, keeping her eyes on the ground for the moment until their shadows leave her line of sight.
It is noted, and remarked upon. the Lady Reyna stands at the fore of the Reach contingent. No other Tyrell of her blood is in attendance, but the question begs: does she truly represent her Lord brother? Or has she chosen of her own volition to stand in his place and represent the Reach for lack of any other voice?
The Blackbolt seems to have caught notice of Ser Bryce Caron, and he brushes past those who stand between him and the other marcher knight. A soft remark is offered the Caron, before the Dondarrion knight turns once again to spare glance to Hand and legendary Dragonknight.
Having walked the length of the Throne Room, Prince Viserys climbs up the steep steps of the dais to take his seat upon the Iron Throne, beneath the great skulls of the Targaryen dragons. What could possibly be a perilous affair is dealt with easily albeit with caution; no one will ever, after all, sit entirely easily upon that particular throne. And as the Hand seats himself, the Dragonknight takes his place at the foot of the dais. That, for most of the court, seems to be the signal that was awaited, as the background noise in the great hall begins to die down.
Elanna curtseys in return to the Stormbreaker, her brother. Her pale features then look upon the interaction of other Stormland knights, and her eyes are flatly grey as she does so. Upon Reyna does her gaze then rest lightly, her hands white-knuckling briefly where they clasp at her waist. Her shoulders show a brief tension as she looks over the crowd…perhaps for those notably absent.
Once the Hand has passed and Carmella has risen, she turns and looks towards the Baratheon group, spying the widow among them. Those who might take note of such things might notice that she has not stood close to her brother, nor taken notice of him conversing with Ser Bryce. Rather, she holds her skirts close to her and takes a few steps to stand nearer to Lady Elanna, her black and purple standing out against the gold and black of the Baratheon contingent. She doesn’t say anything to the other woman, save for a brief glance and a smile. Anything she might have said is withheld as the Hand ascends the dais. Her eyes return to Viserys and those nearby.
Words pass between the Tully sisters, and they leave the younger of the two, Jannia, rather red-faced and stiff. After casting a glance about the great room once more, she reaches into a pouch at her hip and produces a small bit of paper, as well as a quill. Small as she is, the grip with which she’s holding the quill has left her dainty knuckles white and trembling.
Lanei’s eyes follow some of the Lords and Ladies as they move -as she did a while ago- to join their relatives, Lords or friends. Interesting enough, ser Doran and ser Bryce seem to be on good terms. Well, no wonder there, of course. The Dornish lady’s eyes search now for others she might know, as Lady Carmella -that, as expected, is not closer to her brother’s side- but soon her thoughts are cut short as Viserys makes his way to the Throne and seats. A polite curtsy is performed, but that’s all, for now, and soon she starts exploring the hall with her eyes, and waiting for the Hand to speak.
Although most of the whispering may have begun to die down as soon as the Hand sat upon the Iron Throne, there are always those who don’t quite follow what the crowd does. Such as rebellious-minded Dornishwomen. To Lanei, Tanyth smiles a thin, wry smile, “I do not see how you could miss anything of note. For that to be the case, something of note would have to happen, and I deem that unlikely at best.”
Bryce says something in response to the Blackbolt, then looks away from the crowd and hides in the background, more or less.
Once Irena had found a place from which she can actually see around the other gathered nobles she goes still and very quiet. Her eyes pass briefly over the other groups throughout the hall before the her attention settles on the Hand.
As Lanei finds a place among the lords and ladies of Dorne, Aidan responds, “Things are like to begin now, by the looks of it. I wonder if there shall be news of Dorne…”
Kerona sticks to Lord Ser Elfram’s side, even holding his hand as the couple turn their eyes to the throne awaiting the words of the Hand.
A pompous-looking lord of the Reach leans to murmur into Reyna’s ear, his movement almost imperceptible. It hardly seems the composed lady even listens, but after a moment Reyna gives the slightest of nods, her brown-eyed gaze always on Viserys. Her expression is calm, even serene, for all she has reportedly never spoken to a Targaryen in her life.
A rather delicate snort is emitted from Andrya as the younger Tully, red-faced and stiff, murmurs something to her. The elder Tully smiles angelically and flutters her lashes at her younger sibling, before decidedly and rather pointedly ignoring the girl. Chin lifted, she fastens her eyes on the Hand, awaiting his speech.
A knight among the Westerlands contingent, blond and lean, mutters something and gestures towards his own small bruise at his nose, and points over at Bryce for his companions to see. He also nods in Irena’s direction, the lady only standing a few persons away from the landed knight. The two knights near him chuckle, amused, but go quiet as they focus on the Hand instead of the Caron heir.
High upon the dais, Prince Viserys looks down upon the gathered court. The Iron Throne is a treacherous seat, all barbs and edges of twisted steel made from the swords of the lords and kings Aegon conquered, but Viserys seems to have had some practice at it and looks only somewhat uncomfortable. No doubt it makes him look sterner than usual. He glances down to his son, standing in his immaculate cloak at the foot of the dais, and then announces, “The business of the realm shall now commence.”
Skyreach’s heiress coughs, as if clearing her throat, and taking good care to lift a hand before her lips. “Since they began to challenge each other” Lanei starts whispering to Tanyth, “Only the Seven know what would happen having them all gathered on the same hall…”. Aidan’s words make her eyes wince, though, and her moment of mirth seems to be gone. “And now, I am not sure if I would welcome to know of those news” she mutters, “For what would bring they, but more sorrow?”. The lady’s hand is removed and the arm falls along the body, growing tense as Viserys speaks.
As the Hand speaks, Sarmion shifts uncomfortably. Glancing at Doran, he rolls his eyes, before muttering so that only those nearest to him can hear him, “... ... ... this over ...”
Then Lanei’s words reach him. Scowling, the Stormbreaker glares at her.
“I ... ... ... ... ... ...” he glowers.
A quick glance is given by Irena in direction of the chuckling knights, as they are more than close enough for her to hear, even if she could not near what was said. Her expression darkens into a frown for a moment, but by the time she has turned back to the Hand and his speech her expression is neutral.
A stream of sunlight highlighting his jet black hair, Dale offers a barely perceptible nod to Irena and turns back to the dais, dark eyes greedy for the sight of the famous throne before they move to the assembled nobles and he leans forward slightly to whisper something in a knights ear, nodding across to the Dornish contingent as he does, a faint smile flitting briefly across his face.
Elanna returns the smile to Carmella, and unlinks her fingers to reach out to touch the girl gently on her arm. Her gaze flickers to Sarmion and the smallest twitch of her lips is given.
“Patience, Sion,” she breathes in a returned whisper, “Patience.”
Doran ignores most of the glares in his direction, his brow furrowing as Prince Viserys speaks. The gloved hands of the Blackbolt move behind him, and underneath the cloak that so proudly displays the sigil of Dondarrion, clasping behind him as he waits patiently for the first petitioner of the Hand of the King.
“The first order of the business is King Daeron’s activities since the submission of Sunspear,” the prince announces. “As many may have heard, His Grace dispatched Lord Tyrell to begin preparations to take the castles of those rebel lords who have refused to bend the knee.” He does not glance to the Dornish contingent as he says this. “But now I can say that his intention is to join Lord Tyrell and see to the taking of these few castles himself, in his own person. This is what he has given me to convey, so that you may know that once this is done, the king intends to return to sit the Iron Throne in his own person. Even now, His Grace leads a force westwards towards the Prince’s Pass, where the castles of Skyreach and Kingsgrave remain defiant.”
Even though there is a bit of murmuring around him, Tancred ignores the voices close by and keeps his eyes fixed on the Hand as he is speaking. There is a slight frown on his brow however as if he is a bit irritated by the disturbance nonetheless. His blue eyes does not stray away from the man seated in the throne above.
“One could hope, I suppose, that they will end up tearing out a few throats amongst themselves,” Tanyth dryly replies to Lanei, an easy shrug of her shoulders. “However, that does mean they would possibly deprive some of use of the well-earned right to do so.” If she takes any note of the glaring in their direction, she does not show it, except for the fact that she shrugs again.
The Reach folk stand more rigid than ever, Reyna’s face paling at the implication of her brother’s incompetence. But she does not move, does not fuss or clench her hands or allow a blush of shame to stain her cheeks. She just… stands. Calm as ever.
Carmella looks to Elanna at the touch and smiles a second time as her fingers rises to brush against Elanna’s hand. The touch is only momentary and soon her hands are once again folded in front of her, attention back on the Hand. The news that the King seeks to take the remaining castles doesn’t appear to surprise her, but she cannot help but turn her attention towards the Dornish hostages, dark eyes seeking out Lanei Fowler, for Skyreach is one of those in question.
Since her arrival to King’s Landing, Jyana has heard much about Lord Tyrell, but she does not react visibly when Viserys pretty much states that the fighting is still making headway down in Dorne. Her fingers do not dare move in a manner that speaks any sort of inattention or idling, though they twitch in the effort to keep them from toying with something. She does not look towards the hostages for long, however she does glance their way now and then to gauge their reactions. But her attention always goes back to the man on the scary-looking seat.
Aidan gives his cousin, Dorne’s famous Black Tempest, a sidelong glance but he says nothing. Instead, the news of Daeron’s plans captures his attention, and there’s a murmur among the Dornishmen about this. Some eyes turn to the Fowler and Manwoody representatives, and perhaps quiet commiseration is made.
As Jannia continues to scribble away with quill on paper, Andrya is left to let her eyes wander again as the Hand begins to speak. The hostages get an open, curious glance, though it does not last for too long. Andrya does, at least, have the good grace not to let her eyes linger too long so as to be rude; however the sky blue eyes do flicker back to them, now and again, as if studying the faces, committing them to memory.
“The next business are some of the rewards that King Daeron has chosen to dispense to his loyal lords and knights, who have served him well,” says Prince Viserys, and he extends a hand off to a side. A court official, having slipped in earlier unnoticed by the small, private entrance behind the throne, comes forward with a number of parchments. The Hand reviews this and then begins to mention names and awards. Some of them are small offices at court for favored knights or the younger sons of favored lords, while others are grants of wardship over orphaned heirs or heiresses, and others still are leases on rights to royal lands—perhaps to cut down so much wood, or to hunt, or to create a fish pond by damming a royal stream.
Standing straight and proud like a pillar, Tancred watch with interest as the awards are presented and he cannot help smiling a little now and then when a name is mentioned that he has heard of, or if a reward is given for a particular noble and honorable deed. Now and then his blue eyes stray away from the Hand to glance briefly at familiar faces in the throne room before they return to the Hand again to follow the process with interest.
Irena’s eyes dart towards the Dornish group as the Hand references to the continued struggle, but her eyes are quickly back on the Hand when he continues speaking. The listing of awards and names has enough of the young ladies attention that even though most of the awards are to people she doesn’t know there isn’t any sign of fidgeting.
Bryce remains quiet, silent, behind everyone, and his eyes are focused on the Hand up there at the throne. If he notices anything that is going on around him, there’s no hint of it.
Houses from nearly all parts of the Seven Kingdoms are included in the long tally, and it seems that the king’s bounty is inexhaustible. However, as sheets of parchment are passed by the Hand to the court official, it can be seen that fewer and fewer remain. As the prince carries on listing this knight’s reward or that lord’s, he reads out, “‘To Ser Sarmion Baratheon, the wardenship of the Kingswood, until such time as I see good.’” There’s a shrewd glance in that direction to the unmistakable presence of the giant Stormbreaker, and then the prince reads onwards, listing other knights and lords and their rewards.
Dale watches the Hand read, his eyes darkening as the names are read out. Certain names cause him to shake his head slightly, whisper a few words to the well groomed knight in front of him. He runs a hand through his hair, the throne room starting to feel oppressive with all the bodies inside, before he turns his eyes back to Viserys, a polite smile now fixed on his face as he listens to the remaining names, the occasional fidget the only indication of his unhappiness.
A hum of approval buzzes through the Reach delegation, and it seems they listen all the more eagerly for mention of their own Lords and Knights.
Lords and ladies flood the court, gathering into tight pools to either side of the huge throne room. Prince Viserys sits upon the Iron Throne, reading out from a list various rewards King Daeron has decreed for knights and lords who served him well in Dorne, with the promise of more to come when the king returns. The Dragonknight, looking pale and drawn, stands at the foot of the throne room in the whites of the Kingsguard.
The Blackbolt’s brow furrows considerably as Ser Sarmion is granted his honor. Ser Doran Dondarrion glances across the Baratheon throng, the gargantuan form of the Stormbreaker easily visible towering over the gathering. “Ser Sarmion…” The young Dondarrion knight speaks softly, seeming mostly to himself, but this could easily be construed as a comment left for the Caron knight at his side. The obvious distaste is apparent on the fair features of the half-Dornish knight of Blackhaven, and without further word he turns around and begins working his way through the crowd to the exit of the Throne Room.
Elanna turns slightly to smile upon the Stormbreaker, reaching out to touch his arm, even as others within Baratheon murmur their own well-wishes to the massive man. She glances at the disturbance caused as the Dondarrion knight leaves and she frowns disapprovingly.
“He should not…” she whispers softly.
Still silent at the side of her uncle and her step-sister, Aisling has a rather indifferent look on her face, suggesting a fairly complete lack of interest in the proceedings at hand. She does, however, cast a brief glance in Sarmion’s direction as Viserys awards him the wardenship of the Kingswood, and for a moment her expression is touched with a hint of thoughtful appraisal. Soon enough, however, her attention wanders elsewhere, and for a moment or two she glances over at where the Dragonknight stands, her indifferent expression then appearing carefully composed instead.
When Doran starts moving, Bryce looks up, watching the Blackbolt weave his way through the mass of people, and the Caron knight ( who has still remained in the far back, as close to a wall as possible ) seems to consider the exit, where it is located so far away.. and he takes a few steps closer to it, gently elbowing some commoner that has drifted too close to the Stormlords to make room.
A rueful grin takes the Stormbreaker’s visage as his honor is named and Doran moves past him. As the Blackbolt passes, Sarmion reaches out to place a large hand on the smaller man’s shoulder.
“A moment, Ser Doran,” his deep voice booms in the cavernous throne room.
When Doran starts moving, Bryce looks up, watching the Blackbolt weave his way through the mass of people. The Caron knight ( who has still remained in the far back, as close to a wall as possible ) seems to consider the exit, where it is located so far away. He takes a few steps closer to it, gently elbowing some commoner that has drifted too close to the Stormlords to make room. ( repose for the log )
Reyna notes the Blackbolt’s lack of control, following his progress for a moment with her eyes, her lips pursed in a thin line. Her only reaction, however, is to hold up a hand against the murmurs behind her, to try and keep order among the men she has no right to command.
The last page is before him, and the Prince reads off a few more names. And then it seems the last name is before him, and for some reason he looks out to where the stormlords have gathered together beneath one of the galleries. He begins to speak, when Sarmion’s thunderous voice rings out. His eyes narrow, his lips compress, and ... nothing; he watches.
Irena’s expression remains polite throughout the listing, but her attention was so on the Hand that Ser Sarmion’s voice startles her. She quickly looks towards the gathered Stormlords, her expression worried.
While she had ignored her brother’s presence through most of the proceedings, Carmella cannot help but notice him now. She had looked to the enormous knight when the honor had been bestowed on him, but movement out of the corner of her eye drew her attention to Doran. Her lips tighten slightly against themselves as she watches him head towards the exit. Her expressionless visage changes and there’s a soft look of sadness as she shakes her head before turning back towards the business at hand.
Aha! What’s this? Andrya’s attention, like many others in the room, is seized upon noting Doran’s departure—and Sarmion’s subsequent request for him to hold. Andrya cranes her neck to see over those in the crowd taller than she, ever curious.
As Ser Sarmion’s voice interrupts the Hands declaration of the rewards, Tancred’s face turns slightly pale, though he manages to keep a neutral expression on his face, with only his brow betraying him by frowning. He glances back and eyes both Doran and even Bryce slowly moving towards the exit. He quickly leans closer to a guard standing next to him to whisper quietly into his ear. Moments later the guards slowly backs away from Tancred and walks to Bryce’s location, addressing the knight by a low voice and a barely visible nod in Tancred’s direction that leaves no doubt that the young heir wishes his presence at his side.
Doran halts as the massive hand encloses about his shoulder, and slowly the Blackbolt looks to the hand that has bothered to slow his movements, before the emerald eyes of the black knight raise up to look at the towering form of Sarmion. A flash of wrath becomes visible, only for a brief second, before the Dondarrion knight conquers his emotions. “Ser Sarmion.” The Blackbolt repeats, his head bowing in respect, showing the strict formal courtesy that this knight has become known for.
“You have brought honor to your house, and apparently Westeros.” Doran continues, more than a little uncomfortable with the sudden attention from the growing crowd, brought on by the thunderous voice of the giant. The Blackbolt glances to the Dragonknight, almost as if asking for some sort of assistance before turning back to the mountain that still grasps his shoulder.
Indeed, what she hears, first, is Sarmion’s booming tone, which stops Viserys for a few moments to eye the court. Oh dear. Jyana turns her head from where she is standing to see where the prince’s gaze is directed to - and seeing, from her area, who exactly is involved, her eyes simply close, and a deep breath taken. This does not last long, however, for she exhales slowly, and open her blue-green eyes yet again.
....nope. It wasn’t a hallucination.
Bryce stops as the guards reach him, and he gestures as he says quietly: “I wanted to be over there if something happened,” but he nods at their request, and smoothly without argument he instead moves over to Tancred, all the while keeping his attention on Doran and Sarmion.
Visible glee manifests itself on Jonn Lannister’s leonine face as he watches the Stormbreaker and the Blackbolt.
Carmella’s eye narrow on her brother and the Stormbreaker as her lips quietly murmur prayers to the Seven that cooler heads will prevail today. Her look is wary, uncertain just what either of the knights is planning. It doesn’t matter though, it makes her uneasy.
Elanna reaches out again to gently touch Carmella’s arm. No words does she utter but she does watch the two men, her features composed, her chin tilted high.
“It has been told to me you still bear me ill, ser,” the giant Baratheon answers, speaking loudly so that his voice rings out into every corner, “Let it be known that I bear you none!”
The Stormbreaker’s hand moves swiftly from Doran’s shoulder to hook around his neck. Suddenly, he tries to pull the smaller knight hard into his breast plate, saying, “I embrace you!”
When Bryce reaches his side, Tancred leans closer to him and whispers a few words into his ears before he quickly turns his head to look back at the Hand and Dragonknight. He doesn’t look at Sarmion and the event unfolding close by, instead he appears to struggle to keep his expression neutral, though his eyes flash with disturbance.
Even the dear lord from the North appears to notice that something is wrong when everyone turns their attention away from the Hand to the Stormlords-Reach lords and his little daughter can be seen pulling on his hand as she discretely guides his attention to Sarmion… and where Elfram just watches things stoically, Kerona actually presses her hands against her lips in a giggle at seeing that embrace.
A loud, gusty sigh escapes Black Jonn’s lips.
“I stayed sober for this?” is the rhetorical question put to the Westerlords gathered about him.
That Ser Sarmion was given some reward could not but have been expected, given his exploits that aided Daeron’s cause. But the Dornishmen, at least, seem not to care for it, by the anger-tinged murmurs that come from. So they stare, stony-eyed, as the huge knight embraces Doran Blackbolt.
The Blackbolt is helpless in the larger man’s embrace, and even the small amount of struggling he attempts seems as feeble as a man struggling to stay afloat against a stormy seas. A look of shock takes the Dondarrion knight, and it destroys the poignancy that so oft plagues his visage. No words come from the black knight of Blackhaven, but a flush will take him as he takes note of the crowd’s attention on him, as well as the mountain who holds him close.
A black gloved hand slowly rises up from the Dondarrion knight, gently patting the larger man on the back, feeling still awkward at the sudden change of attention.
Irena continues to watch the unfolding scene between Doran and the Stormbreaker. Her formerly worried expression has been carefully schooled into a more neutral one.
“If you wish,” Bryce replies a bit louder at Tancred’s words, and the Caron heir remains at the Baratheon heir’s side, watching the display between Doran and Sarmion with a deep frown. Bryce himself seems a bit ashamed to stand so in the front among the Baratheons - he holds up a hand to his mouth, looking thoughtful and hiding the latest bruise.
There is a twitch of Elanna’s lips as the Dondarrion is smushed against her brother’s breast plate..not the least of which is a less than comfortable place to be so embraced. Her eyes? There is a spark in them. Anger? Amusement?
Shock strikes Carmella’s features as well, eyes wide as she watches events unfold that she could never have predicted. The prayers on her lips die, only to be replaced with a gasp of surprise and a quick look to Elanna. But she then holds her breath until Doran reacts and only when her brother’s hand pats the large knight’s back does she let it out in relief.
Whereas much of the court seems either bemused or amused by this turn of event, a rather disdainful snort escapes the black-haired tempest known as Tanyth. “... now, that was ...” she tells her fellow hostages, though at least she doesn’t speak her words in quite a regular tone of voice. Still, its enough to turn a few heads in her direction, and not all of them Dornish.
Whereas much of the court seems either bemused or amused by this turn of event, a rather disdainful snort escapes the black-haired tempest known as Tanyth. “Well now, that was disappointing,” she tells her fellow hostages, though at least she doesn’t speak her words in quite a regular tone of voice. Still, its enough to turn a few heads in her direction, and not all of them Dornish.
Letting the other knight go, Sarmion pushes Doran back to arm’s length. With a nod, the Baratheon says, “That’s enough, ser.”
Turning toward the Iron Throne, the Stormbreaker’s brow raises in a silent question as he looks on Viserys.
Dale’s attention his held for only a moment by the Stormbreaker and the Blackbolt, it is the reaction of others to the exchange that interests him the most, he notes with interest the reaction of the Dornish contingent, of the Hand, of the Stormlords and, of course the Dragonknight, pale as milk as he stands at the foot of the dais.
The display is ... quite a sight. Viserys seem moved by it, given the flush upon his face that surely must be pleasure. Despite this, though, his voice is cool. “Thank you, Ser Sarmion. It is not the custom of the court for others to speak when the Hand is upon the throne,” the prince says, “but in this case you have done a courtesy.” And then he looks to the rather shorter knight, Blackhaven’s famous Blackbolt. “Ser Doran, come forward,” the Hand of the King announces.
Offering a bow of his head to the Hand, Sarmion’s deep voice rings out over the crowd, “I live to serve, your Grace.”
Turning away from the throne, the large knight rolls his eyes.
A curving of the lips indicating pleasure takes place on Andrya’s face taking in the sight of Sarmion and Doran, and as the Dondarrion knight is released the smile widens in appreciation to Sarmion, in particular. A kindred with a flair for the dramatic, no doubt. Her gaze lingers on the Baratheon for a moment longer, her head swiveling back to Viserys as the Hand makes his reaction known.
Doran fights hard to control the crimson tint that has taken up residence in his dark Dornish features, his emerald gaze still holding a sense of bewilderment as he examines the massive knight who had embraced him a moment before. The Blackbolt of Blackhaven’s lips part, almost as if he was going to finally find the words to speak to the Stormbreaker, but the sudden voice of the Hand ends up silencing him still.
It is a hopeless cause to deny the blush that has taken the marcher knight, as he once again has attention brought to him, but this time by the Hand. A soft sigh escapes his lips, only audible by those directly around him. Doran turns on his heels and approaches the Iron Throne he has spent his entire knighthood fighting for. “My lord Hand.” The black knight speaks, bowing gracefully before the uncle to the King, as he slows to a step before the dais in which the barbed chair sits.
Bryce seems surprised at the reactions and his eyes widen somewhat when the Hand calls out Doran’s name. He drops his hands to his sides, which means that the hand that hid the recently crushed and swollen part of his lip is gone and he’s in front of everyone. Crushed eyebrow, hack over his ear, bruise on his cheek.. not a pretty sight. Hopefully, their attention isn’t on him and his bruises at least - why would it be when the Blackbolt is called forth to the throne?
This time Tancred is unable to fully control his expression, as he looks back at his uncle, he is simply surprised and there is an amused sparkle in his eyes as the youth realizes that his uncle Sarmion is probably the only one who could pull a stunt like this and end up with this outcome. His lips curl into a smile for a brief moment as he looks at his uncle, admiring him, before his attention is drawn back to the Hand when he requests that Ser Doran should step forth. The young Baratheon heir watches the Blackbolt as he makes his way forward.
Behind Reyna, someone murmurs something that draws laughs from those around him. Even Reyna’s composure slips to allow a faint smile as she turns to silence the japing.
There is a darkness again in the Penrose widow’s eyes as she watches the Blackbolt step forth to stand before the Iron Throne. Her face pales just a little and if one were to look upon her hands, they would see her knuckles whitening.
“Ser,” the Hand says once the young knight is before him. “For you service in Dorne, and that of your House, the king has decreed the following.” There’s a pause as Viserys glances to the page, and then glances away again back to the knight. “‘To Ser Doran Dondarrion, it is our desire that he become sworn shield to our beloved brother and heir, the Prince of Dragonstone, Baelor of House Targaryen, and that he shall do so until such time as we return to our much-missed city so that our most loyal Kingsguard make take up the burden that is rightfully theirs.’”
Prince Viserys looks down up Doran from on high, and awaits his response with a detached gaze.
There is japing also amongst the Westerlords.
But unlike the Rowan widow, Jonn Lannister does nothing to silence it.
In fact, he encourages it with whispers of his own.
“Ser,” the Hand says once the young knight is before him. “For your service in Dorne, and that of your House, the king has decreed the following.” There’s a pause as Viserys glances to the page, and then glances away again back to the knight. “‘To Ser Doran Dondarrion, it is our desire that he become sworn shield to our beloved brother and heir, the Prince of Dragonstone, Baelor of House Targaryen, and that he shall do so until such time as we return to our much-missed city so that our most loyal Kingsguard may take up the burden that is rightfully theirs.’”
Prince Viserys looks down up Doran from on high, and awaits his response with a detached gaze.
Smirking, Sarmion reaches up to rub his brow, hearing of the honor bestowed on Doran.
His shoulder shaking with a silent laugh, Stormbreaker murmurs to his sister, “Give me a ...”
Carmella listens to the Hand, eyes still wide and her mouth hanging ever so slightly open as the honor is handed down to her brother. Once again her breath is held until Viserys finishes and when the Hand is done she blinks a couple times, looks to her brother and then looks beside her to Elanna. She’s not yet smiling for she’s still caught off-guard by what has just been offered to her brother. It appears that whatever ill will she had been holding for her brother still lingers.
There is a blink, and Jyana’s only reaction to the news is look across the way towards where Carmella and Elanna are talking, watching the two, before her gaze returns to the front yet again. She absently smoothes down the fabric on her wrist, but otherwise she says nothing, even as she could hear murmurs behind her regarding the latest development.
Doran raises his eyes from the ground as he hears the honor given to him, and the bewilderment is replaced by a sense of accomplishment that causes a rare true smile to grace his face. The pensive darkness that follows in the Blackbolt’s wake seems to be shaken off, as a sense of pride takes hold of him. “Prince Baelor shall live to take the throne, or my life will be forfeit.” For once the voice of Ser Doran is not soft, but instead the commanding tone that he used when he took his uncle’s place on the Boneway. “I have no words to express this honor.” Doran finishes, his eyes glancing to Ser Aemon the Dragonknight, a man who has accomplished all that the Blackbolt has desired.
Elanna draws a hand to her lips, perhaps to cover a smile, perhaps to utter a polite cough. Certainly the small sound she utters must be cough.
“Well…” she drawls dryly in a whisper to her sibling, “...honors do abound this day. Prince Baelor should feel safe now, I am sure.”
A smile is cast to Carmella, this one containing more sympathy, for whatever reason.
It takes nearly all of Irena’s will not to gape at Hand’s order of business with the Blackbolt, but somehow the young woman manages it. The only sign of the inner struggle is the tighten of the hands that are clasped in front of her.
Just then a voice cries down from the galleries: “But ‘e’s a Kinslayer!” Such is the disorder upon hearing this that it is impossible to determine who uttered it.
Bryce looks at Doran as the honor is bestowed and his face is marred by a thoughtful frown. Other than that, the Stormknight is passively watching, even as Ser Doran speaks. The piercing blue eyes has the Blackbolt in focus up to the point where the cry of kinslayer is raised, where they glance to the side to locate the source.
Looking up, hearing a voice cry out, the Stormbreaker scans the crowd glowering. Raising his voice, he answers, “He is not a kinslayer! Those who would say differently shall answer to me!”
Scowling, Sarmion turns his eyes back on the throne room proper.
The view of disbelief had vanished briefly when Tancred had turned his attention away from Sarmion, but now the expression is back on his face for a brief moment before he manages to make it fade away again. Perhaps the young heir has difficulties finding the honor in this reward since the Blackbolt has been the cause of so much trouble since he arrived to the city. He does however smile at the newly appointed babysitter and manages to offer a nod in approval, when the shout from the back moves his attention and blue eyes to search for the source of this.
Muttering, so that only his sister can hear, Sarmion adds, “... ... ... ... ... of ... anyone, let ... his ...”
Reyna gasps upon hearing the dread charge, but says nothing. Her face is paler than ever, though, and one of her retainers is quick to take her arm. Only when Sarmion speaks in the Blackbolt’s defense does the lady resume normal color, and shake off the solicitous hand with a gentle motion of her elbow.
Elanna utters another polite cough at her brother’s words, her eyes dancing with -something- madly.
A brief nod from the Hand, who no doubt expected some response of the sort, and then his glance makes it clear that Ser Doran may now rejoin the other nobility gathered here. The call from the gallery is ignored by the prince, except for a shifting glance to the nearest of the gold cloaks. The man gestures with his spear up to the gallery, and there is a movement of guardsmen up the steps. Sarmion’s bringing his formidable voice to Blackbolt’s defense is not so readily ignored, and the Hand is visibly given pause, before he clears his throat.
“So ends the king’s rewards, for now. There are many others, which his grace shall grant upon his return,” he states aloud, passing the parchment to the court official. “Now, there are a number of petitions before us.” And with that, he nods to that court official, who calls out the name of some minor lordling to bring forward his petition.
This event is just getting more and more confusing and surprising for the young Dondarrion girl. She doesn’t miss the Stormbreaker’s words - how can she not? - and she’s left looking confused as she turns and looks at Doran again. She unfolds her hands and raises one to her forehead as if to stave off a headache.
At least the unexpected turns of events have provided some entertainment for those who watch in silence but without much personal investment in these particular matters. Such as Aisling, whose lips have quirked into a hint of a dryly amused while watching the apparent resolution of matters between Ser Sarmion and Ser Doran. But for the most part, what she seems to be passing her time with are brief, discreet (hopefully, anyway) glances over to the side of the dais, where a certain Kingsguard can be found.
The awards being done, Andrya stifles a yawn as the minor lordling is called forward. She notes that her sister is still busy scribbling, and it is, with great effort, that Andrya does not set to fidgeting about. As the Dondarrion knight is dismissed, Andrya turns to study him as he passes. It is then that she notices the battered and bruised face of the Caron knight, and her brows loft into her hairline. She regards Bryce with open curiosity, now.
The proceedings are observed with a quiet silence, Jyana hearing the murmurs regarding the controversial appointment dying down behind her when Sarmion says what he does, and Viserys continues on with court business. Her expression has fallen neutral, all surprise draining out of her face.
Once the lordling is done with a rather ham-fisted declaration of the matter, Viserys gives it a moment’s thought and then graciously allows that the crown will see to the matter in a way that is satisfactory. It seems that the largess does not end with the king’s earlier rewards. The next name called by the court official follows thereafter: “Ser Almer of House Connington, step forward!”
When the Stormbreaker calls attention to him again, Bryce whispers: “I will depart, Ser Tancred.. I have been ordered to rest, considering my ill fortunes,” He offers a brief bow and before anyone can really protest, the Caron knight tries to move through the throngs of people towards the exit. It almost looks like he is fleeing from the court, the crowd and the petitions, leaving them all behind as discreetly as possible. Many disapproving frowns are given to the knight, but he does seem to be feeling rather ill.
The Blackbolt snaps his eyes around to the back as he hears the term so often used in conjunction with his name. His true smile falters, and transforms into the weak smile that is customary for him to give. Yet when Sarmion comes to his defense, Ser Doran will defy the Hand’s presence on the Iron Throne as he makes his way back to stand next to the Stormbreaker. “I /am/ a kinslayer, ser. Yet that does not mean I am not loyal to the Iron Throne.” The marcher knight bows his head respectfully to the Stormbreaker, as he stops at his side.
“Your defense is appreciated, but lies are what I need defense against, not truths. Had I the choice I’d have faced any other knight besides one flying the Yronwood colors, but that was not for me to decide.” The Blackbolt pauses, glancing to both Princes to see if he has aroused his ire by speaking out of turn. He offers them a weak smile, as his flush returns. He turns his eyes back to Sarmion, before reaching up his small hand to clasp the larger man on the back. “You honor me, Ser Sarmion. Thank you for these kind words today.”
“I say you are not,” Sarmion says, almost ignoring Doran completely. Glaring at the shorter knight with a scowl, “Let those call me a liar, who dare.”
Stepping away, so as not to stand so close to the Dondarrion, he looks at Elanna with a wry shake of his head.
The Connington knight comes forward, garbed in the colors of his house with its sigil of the countercharged griffins upon his breast. He bows before the prince, quite formally, and then puts forward his petition. It comes out rote, and his manner seems stiff—no doubt it’s the setting, and all the attention.
“My lord father, Lord Athell of Griffin’s Roost, specially commends the following honored dead to His Grace King Daeron for their noble deeds of arms and sacrifice, to be remembered gloriously for posterity: Ser Colyn of House Rowan, a knight who fell at the Carrion Wood, leaving behind a wife and two sons; and Lymond Buckwell, mine own esquire, who fell in the Prince’s Pass in the service of the king.”
When Doran speaks again and publicly announces his sin Carmella’s hand drops from her forehead and she wears a weary look. There’s disappointment in her eyes as she watches her brother and another shakes of her head at his actions and lets out a frustrated sigh.
Reyna looks startled when Almer’s name is called, and more so when he comes forward. It is a struggle for her to maintain her placidity as she pays keen attention to her cousin’s petition.
Elanna mirrors her brother’s gesture and reaches out to touch Carmella’s hand. A sudden glance upward as she hears the Connington knight’s name and his appearance. She frowns slightly..then looks swiftly to Reyna. She chews briefly on her lower lip.
As the commotion surrounding Daeron’s appointment dies down, Irena attention goes back to the Hand and the petitions. It takes conscious effort though, for Irena to unclasp her hands, especially as the Stormlords continue to dwell upon somewhat… touchy subjects.
There is a pause, and then Viserys graciously bows his head. “It is my pleasure to hear this petition on behalf of His Grace. Ser Colyn of House Rowan and Lymond of House Buckwell served the crown, and are remembered for it. Their names shall be sent to his grace in Dorne.” There’s another pause, in which the Hand focuses his shrewd eyes more closely on Connington, expectantly.
She hears yet another name called, but Jyana’s eyes are on Doran and the Stormbreaker. Again while her expression is neutral, she closes her eyes and expels a breath - at least there won’t be any swords drawn today. But when the petition is brought forward, she pays attention to that. She neither speaks, whispers, or murmurs to anyone, and even while her septa is poking her side discreetly, regarding something, she doesn’t seem to notice.
Bryce seems to grow even more irritated as the petitions continue, as Doran and Sarmion keeps it up, and he tries with even more fervor to separate himself from the crowd. Finally reaching an area in one of the corners near the entrance, he sighs and relaxes back against the wall, hidden from nearly all view.
Under the prince’s steady gaze, Ser Almer is perhaps a trifle hesitant. But then he says, “My lord Hand, I request permission on behalf of the men who served under me in Dorne that they be permitted, for the rest of their natural lives, to wear the badge of a black griffin to denote their service and to be recognized and honored therefore.”
This, too, seems to receive the Hand’s agreement. “Done, ser. The crown will know those who bear this token as good and loyal men, who served with courage in Dorne.” And with that, it seems Ser Almer’s petition is done, for with a another bow he withdraws. After this, a pair of brother knights are called to present a petition, a request concerning their youngest brother, who was fond of dragons but had died in the war. Their wish, eccentric as it seems, is to bury his bones in the decaying ruins of the Dragonpit.”
Doran’s visage is confused as the Stormbreaker steps away from him, but he silences himself as he allows the Connington to continue with his petition. The Blackbolt turns his eyes to gaze at the Iron Throne, curiously watching the exchange between the Griffin knight and the Prince.
That one gives the prince pause. Did he feel the same fear of the dragons that his brother, Aegon Dragonbane, was said to have had? At least he did not become a byname for such fear and hate. Eventually he says, “Yes, good knights. It is the crown’s pleasure to allow this. And, moreover, to make a gift of a pyromancer’s torch to light the burial. The alchemists have assured us that it will burn for seven days and seven nights, a number pleasing to the gods.” Then those knights are dismissed, and another is called. “Lady Reyna of House Rowan,” calls the official.
Reyna follows Almer’s withdrawal with concern, but is jolted into the present by the sound of her name. She gives her skirts a shake, as if they are rumpled, then moves away from her retainers and toward the Iron Throne. Several paces short of the dais, she falls into a deep curtsy, nearly on the floor, and remains until bidden to rise.
“Rise, Lady Reyna. The Iron Throne awaits your petition,” Prince Viserys says graciously, even as his eyes slide once more to where the stormlords are gathered. Perhaps he looks to the recently-rewarded Doran and Sarmion, or perhaps he looks to Almer Connington.
Rising on command, Reyna bends her head. “Your Grace, I am grateful for your recognition of my dear husband, Ser Colyn, and his accomplishments,” she says, eyes lowered. “It is on the strength of his service that I ask your Grace for a place at Court, in service to one of the Princesses, perhaps.” She falls silent then, still and calm.
Bryce remains in his corner, watching the petitions quietly and away from everyone else, so they might not disturb him.
A rustle in the crowd at the noblewoman’s petition—some, surely, will think it overly forward; but others, perhaps, could see the sense in doing so after the crown recognized her husband’s service before the gathered court—to which Prince Viserys attends with a cool, sweeping glance over them all. At last he says, turning his purple eyes beneath their bushy, pale brows to Reyna, “A daughter of Highgarden, sister to Lord Garvys who has been stalwart in his grace’s service in Dorne, is a gift to the court, my lady.” Then, turning his gaze back to the gathered court, he states aloud, “It is the crown’s pleasure to accept Lady Reyna into its service, to attend on Princess Daena, until such time as his grace thinks good.” Another pause, as if for effect, and then he adds, casually, “You may join Lady Carmella of House Dondarrion in joining the princess’s companions.”
And with that, the petition is done, and Viserys gives a nod to let her know she is dismissed.
“Your Grace is too kind,” Reyna replies, relief warring with gratitude on her pale face. That said, she withdraws to resume her place among the folk of the Reach, her only outward sign of triumph a smile sent to Elanna.
With that, it seems that the court session is done. The Hand rises from the Iron Throne with a distinct amount of care, careful not to have any part of him slide and end up being cut by the sharp blades that make it up. He pauses a moment, for the heralds in the rear of the hall to sound their trumpets again while gold cloaks come nearer to lead Viserys from the throne room. Rather than leaving through the main entrance, however, he—with the Dragonknight among his escort—departs via the private entrance in the rear.
Bryce seems to be in no rush to depart from the great hall, and instead remains in the corner if anyone would wish to speak to him, or, more likely, to watch the rest of the proceedings from a safe vantage point.
Seeing that Reyna has been safely risen to a place at court, Sarmion bows his head to his sister, “Excuse me, I have a forest to look after.” He offers a nod to his nephew, adding, Farewell.”
Without another word or sparing
Seeing that Reyna has been safely risen to a place at court, Sarmion bows his head to his sister, “Excuse me, I have a forest to look after.” He offers a nod to his nephew, saying, “Farewell.”
Without another word or sparing a glance at Doran, he marches passed those around the hall and through the main entrance.
Tancred smiles at his uncle and his aunt, looking a bit relieved that the session is over. He nods politely to his uncle and opens his mouth prepared to ask if he may accompany him, though when his uncle is hastily out of his reach. Tancred simply waves at his guards, then he bows politely towards his aunt and then makes his way out of the throne room.
Elanna moves swiftly forward to Reyna once the court proceedings were ended, and her smile is warm.
“Reyna,” her voice is warm, “You were perfect.” She leans forward as though to lay a kiss upon the other girl’s fair cheek.
“Let’s hope Lady Reyna doesn’t muck up the Princess like her brother did the army,” Jonn Lannister comments to a comrade of his as he and a small contingent of Westerlords make their way slowly towards the main entrance. A couple of the men chuckle at their once commander’s jest—however, most of them seem to believe that Jonn’s hope will not be fulfilled.
Carmella glances towards Elanna as the other woman heads towards Reyna, leaving her alone, save for good Ser Amond. Briefly she looks towards her brother and there’s some hesitation but she eventually takes steps towards him. When she’s close enough she gives him a brief smile, though the expression doesn’t reach her eyes. “I wanted to congratulate you on your honor, Doran,” she offers in a soft voice that lack’s the smile she’s presenting. “And you gained Ser Sarmion’s support in the process, how fortunate for you.” And yet, she doesn’t sound entirely happy with that. There’s another quirk of her lips to smile before she turns and heads to the exit, not even waiting for a response.
Reyna is in the process of speaking to Elanna when Black Jonn’s voice reaches her ears, and she stiffens. “Have you something to say to me, ser?” she asks, pitching her voice above the babble and turning toward the Lannister.
As the court session finally comes to an end, Aisling is quick to excuse herself from the side of her step-sister as the latter moves to join her uncle, Lord Terin. Instead, Aisling and Henly Snow begin to make their way towards the main doors, though they find their path there a slow, winding one, constantly obstructed by the movements of the large contingent of nobles that still remain within the great hall.
Bryce watches knight after knight leave, his eyes scanning them, then ignoring them as he looks upon the next in line, and the Caron heir is scratching at his beard thoughtfully.
Doran glances to Carmella as she gives her words of praise, offering her a weak smile, he does not give any form of response save a bowed head in respect of his sisters passing. The Blackbolt slowly raises his head as his sister takes her leave, his eyes following her as she removes herself from the throne room.
The last glance is spared to the empty Iron Throne, before the Blackbolt turns on his heels and proceeds to take his own leave.
One of the Westermen, a Lefford from the look of him, seems on the verge of answering Reyna but is halted by a firm hand on his shoulder. Black Jonn gives the man a gentle squeeze and turns him toward the door.
He smiles at Reyna. It is a disarming smile…
...except for the calculating look in his eyes.
“I have spoken out of turn, Lady Reyna,” he says then, head bowed apologetically, or as near to it as he can manage, “and I beg your forgiveness.”
The Dornishmen seem to prefer for others to leave before them. Perhaps it’s wise, given the dirty looks some of the smallfolk give them as they descend from the gallery to exit by the main entrance. Ser Aidan, who has looked on largely in stony silence, finally utters to his cousin Lady Tanyth, “How long, cousin, do you think before the king dispenses with the offices of Warden of the Stoneway and the Prince’s Pass to the lords who supported him?”
Reyna raises both brows, not taken in by Jonn’s demeanor. “I see,” she says crisply. “In future, Ser Jonn, if you have some jape or comment to make of me or one of my blood, I charge you to do so to my face, and not among your own men for your own entertainment.”
She looks sidewise then at Elanna. “I’m going out, Ella. The air has grown MOST foul here.” And she does, followed by her retainers.
Spotting the Dornish, Bryce shakes his head and takes a few steps up among the pillars, to approach his cousins, if they are there.. He tries to spot them in the crowd of Dornish hostages.
“I will see you soon, Ren,” Elanna replies to Reyna, before turning to the Lannister, “Ill done, Ser Jonn,” Elanna utters softly, her eyes steady, “To say an insult thus… then beg insincere forgiveness.” She shakes her head.
Stiff and silent, watching the crowd mill about with remote iciness, Almer stands with arms crossed. The knights and men around him seem well-pleased, even jolly, a stark contrast to their captain.
Connington has said nothing for a long while, keeping his own counsel despite the hard look on his face. And now, he has eyes only for the sharp exchange between Ser Jonn Lannister and his cousin, Reyna.
“I am surprised that he has yet to do so,” replies Tanyth, and there’s no mistaking the sharp edge to her voice, even though she—for the moment—adopts an air of cool indifference. “But no doubt he will be handing that out soon enough, as little trinkets for other so-called heroes.” She makes an irritable gesture with one hand, rustling the silk of her robes and the many bracelets worn around her wrists. “Now, cousin, what else is there for us to entertain us with today, I wonder?” Even as she asks this of Aidan, she catches Bryce’s looks in the direction of the hostages, and pauses for a moment to eye the young man with a sharp, critical gaze.
The irony is too much for Black Jonn to bear.
“Don’t tempt me,” he says contemptuously, turning swiftly away and heading to his cousins and bannermen.
As the Dornishmen wait to leave, some might notice young Caron’s careful approach. One of them, a young knight in black and ivory robes, catches sight of him and frowns before bending his head down to a young noblewoman in matching garments. The two exchange glances, and then the knight says, “Ser. You are of House Caron? If so, I believe we are cousins.”
Elanna sighs at the sharp words spake and turns upon her own heel to follow Reyna from the room. The sable and gold has departed the court.
Seeing no point in lingering, Almer nods to his men and heads toward the door. They, too, are gone.
“Ser Almer,” Elanna greets the Connington knight briefly on the way with a warm smile, “I was glad to see at least most of your petition passed.”
Bryce seems a tad bit surprised at the look of his cousin, and offers him a brief bow. “I am.. Ser Bryce Caron. Ser Albar and Donna’s son.. Cousin. I am glad I could finally see you here.” He looks around to see who else might be watching him talk to his cousins, but he shrugs as he turns back.
The Knight of the Twilight offers Tanyth a strained smile at her question. “I can think of little better than to offer to play my harp tonight, my lady,” Aidan tells the Black Tempest. Probably that’s not the answer she wants, but he seems to think it sufficient when his attention turns to Ser Aryard and the young knight he’s addressing.
Marking Elanna, Ser Almer offers her a tired smile. “Better most than none, my lady. But we shall see what can be done. We shall see.” And just like that, he is out the door, his men in tow.
“Ser Albar? My lady mother is then your great-aunt, and we are indeed cousins,” the Dornish knight—who looks somewhat less Dornish, in truth, than some of the other hostages—says. “I am Ser Aryard, and have the honor to be Lord Mors’s heir. And this is Ivalla, my sister,” he tells Bryce, bowing first and then motioning to his sister. She, too doesn’t look too Dornish.
“I suppose I shall have to be satisfied with that, cousin dear,” says Tanyth with a wry smile, and half her attention on the exchange between the two Manwoody hostages and their Caron kin. “Though, only if you promise to join myself and Tamlyn for some practice tomorrow. A bet or two might liven up the day a little.” Precisely what she wants to practice, and what she plans to bet, she does not elaborate on.
Ser Bryce bows to the lady, as well. “Cousin Ivalla.. good to see you, you look splendid,” he offers her a friendly smile like one would to a little sister, then back to Aryard. “We are both heirs to a House on either part of the conflict, then, cousin, and as you heard as well as I.. Lord Mors is still holding Kingsgrave. A strange play they have put us in.” He shakes his head a bit disbelieving.
“The gods have their purpose, Ser Bryce,” the Lady Ivalla says after offering a curtsy to the knight, her cousin. “No doubt in time they will reveal it to us. Until then, we must wait, and pray for the safety of those we love.” What Aryard makes of his sister’s words are not clear, and he does not speak to them as at last the Dornish contingent decides it’s safe enough to leave. As the other Dornishmen begin to draw away, Aryard says, a little brusquely now that formalities are done, “Perhaps we shall have leisure to speak at some other time, ser. We must retire. Fare well.” Ivalla gives him an unreadable glance, then bows her head in fare well, and begins to leave as well.
“Fare well,” Bryce offers and nods curtly, even if the Caron heir remains in the Throne Room to watch the very last persons take their leaves and depart. He looks thoughtful as he retreats to near one of the walls again, watching the Dornish disappear.
As the Dornishmen trail off, Ser Aidan can be heard to say to Tanyth with strange dubiousness, “Practice? Well, I suppose… if they’ll give us bows to practice with, in any case. I’m not so certain they will.” The discussion continues as the young knight—given to formality, posture always perfect—departs with his rather willful cousin.