With her windows shuttered against the light rain falling outside, Carmella is left with little to look out over as she sits at her desk, tip of her quill against her lips as she ponders. She is halfway through a short letter and she’s been careful to keep the tip of the quill away from the paper during her musings, so that any droplets of ink do not fall on that which she plans on sending. A steaming cup of mint tea sits beside her writing, as does a handkerchief onto which she had embroidered a somewhat sloppy image of the Dondarrion sigil.
Her nose wrinkles and her entire face screws up, for a moment she looks positively amusing. Dropping the quill, Carmella quickly reaches for the handkerchief and holds it to her nose, sneezing into it. There’s a pause and she sneezes again; the sound is loud, almost violent, but it is the last for now. With a sigh she sets it back down and reaches eagerly for her tea. The letter, for the moment, is forgotten.
Ser Doran enters his sisters room, his riding leathers and mail adorning his body. His hair is soaked, and half of the tumbling mess is stuck to his brow. His left hand has already begun removing his right glove, as his emerald gaze takes in the scene before him. “My lady sister.” The Blackbolt states, his voice somber and distant. He provides appropriate courtesy of a knight at court, dropping into a low bow before standing erect once again. “Are you ill?” He questions, concern in his voice as he crosses through the room to his younger sibling.
The sound at the door draws Carmella’s attention with the teacup to her lips, gaze curious until it is her brother’s form that enters the room. Curiousity abates and she takes on a distant look that is similar to that would sounds in her brother’s voice. She eyes him briefly, taking in the wet hair and state of dress before she lowers the cup back to the desk, turning fully in her chair to look at him properly.
“Doran,” she greets with a nod, her voice tinged with an odd accent, the result of the cold that has stuffed her up. Carmella absently reaches for the handkerchief and holds it in her lap, just in case another bout of sneezing comes upon her. There’s no sneezing, just the occasional sniffle.
“Nothing that won’t clear itself up soon enough,” is her answer. “Just a cold,” she goes on to say with a brief gesture towards her brother and his current state. “Though it looks as if you’re on your way to catching one yourself.” There’s a pause before she remembers herself. “Tea?”
The Blackbolt allows his sad smile to return, a glimmer of pride evident in his eyes as he is offered tea. “No, my lady. I am on my way to the prince.” Doran drops his eyes down to the paper and quill that his sister works, a tinge of curiosity evident. “I have heard reports that you had gone missing for some time.” The marcher knight does not sound pleased, and his tone is of utter seriousness. “I have come for an explanation.” The young knight dismisses the parchment as he finishes speaking, instead raising his gaze to examine his sister. His emerald gaze eagerly, drawing any type of facial expression.
Carmella’s eyes follow her brother’s movements warily and when his eyes fall towards her letter in progress her arm ever so casually drapes itself on the desk in front of the letter. It is a silent signal of privacy though she says nothing on it. Instead, she lets out a frustrated sigh, knowing this was coming.
“I was cold, wet, and muddy,” she begins, the annoyance heavy in her voice. “I was not going to wait around for Ser Amond to finish yelling at the poor groom. I ran into Lady Elanna Penrose on my way back to my own rooms and enjoyed her company for a few hours. I was in the Keep, perfectly safe.” She sneezes into her handkerchief again, stilling any further comment she might have at the moment. Eyes on her brother, Carmella reaches blindly for her tea and brings it to her lips for another sip.
The knight waits until the lady finishes speaking, before offering a single nod as way of reply. He glances down to the paper, satisfied with the explanation provided. “Are you writing a letter to mother?” Ser Doran questions, his gaze dismissing the parchment. He removes his other glove now, taking both of the gloves and sliding them into his belt, the entire time gazing at his younger sister’s reactions.
Carmella slides the paper a little further away as she gives Doran a glare at what she feels is an intrusion. “Not today,” is all she’ll answer, her voice edged now with growing agitation that many times leads to one of Carmella’s bouts of temper. For now she’s doing enough to hold off, but her willpower might break at any time. She takes another sip of her tea, cup held in one hand while the other continues to protect her letter. “But I’ll be sure to write to her if something of interest arises that I feel she needs to know,” Carmella adds after a long drink from her cup, tendrils of steam curling up around her cheeks as the cup is help only a few inches from her lips. “Is there a message you’d wish me to include from you?”
A brow raises above the eye of the Blackbolt as Carmella speaks, his eyes sparing one last look at the paper. “No thank you, my lady.” Ser Doran states, dismissing thoughts of writing his mother almost instantly. He gives pause, and stands there for a moment, his face betraying a man seeking words to say. “I assume I should not linger. I only wished to see if you were alright, and nothing was amiss.” The last words seem spoken out of defeat, and he waits patiently for his sisters response.
“One should not keep the prince waiting,” Carmella answers with a nod of her head as she sets her teacup down. “And as you can see, aside from a cold, I am quite well. Not a scratch on me.” She smiles thinly at that and half-turns in her chair, ready to pick up the quill and continue in her writing. “I am sure if something goes amiss good Ser Amond will be quick to tell you about it,” she adds, dipping the quill into the inkwell, her focus back on her writing and no longer on her brother.
The knight of Blackhaven reaches up to remove the strands of hair stuck to his brow, offering his sad smile as he does. “It does me good to see you, sister.” He offers her, his eyes still content on gazing at his sister’s face. “I hope you recover soon from your cold. Don’t hesitate to call for a maester should it worsen.” Doran drops his poignant gaze, staring at the floor has bows his head respectfully in honor of departing his sibling. The half-dornish knight spins on his heels and begins walking to the door he entered from.
The scratching of Carmella’s quill is the only sound she makes in response to her brother’s parting words. She waits until the door closes to again reach for her tea, finishing the cup and pouring herself some more before going back to her writing.