It is not the most salubrious night outside, but all the better for feasting. The Queen’s Ballroom is ablaze with the light of torch and candle, and the trestles are packed with the Princess Naerys’s guests. Strains of music waft down from the gallery above the ballroom, soft and cheerful without a single minor note to sour the mood the Princess is striving to create. Her ladies are clad in bright colors, and she herself is dressed in Targaryen red and black instead of her more usual white.
The meal is moving apace, with the third course moving among the trestles now. Naerys herself sits on the dais beside Ser Conrad Arryn, King’s Steward, who is endeavoring to keep her amused. On her other side is the Most Devout Septon Geryn, his face a mask of good cheer as he speaks to others chosen to sit there. Still, in spite of the cheerful music and the determined smiles of the Princess and her ladies, there is a low buzz of discontent. The ejection of the whores from the city just two days ago and the recent arrest of the sellsword Hallen in connection with the terrible murders plaguing King’s Landing have the court unsettled. No one is more so than Quenton Rosby, who sits in a corner with Ser Marq Errol and others, drinking copious amounts of wine and glowering around him.
A lady sits on the left side of the table, clad in a paneled gown that holds the blue and mud red colors of house Tully. The lady of course, is Lady Jannia Tully, her hair in it’s usual down state that sends a cascade of curls down her back. She sits near to Lady Reyna and the other ladies in waiting to the princess. At current though she speaks to a man on her left wearing the same colors as she. She takes a sip of wine before speaking to Ser Harstyn Tully, “How is your wife and child ser?” she asks making polite conversation.
The young heir to Willow Wood sits at the table, glancing around at the other nobles. His plate is plate empty not for lack of appetite, but for a healthy one yet his eyes constantly move to the hunched and whispering knights surrounding the Rosby knight. Willard is unusually well dressed this time - silks and wool are what make his attire, finely weaved with cloth-of-gold and cloth-of-silver arboreal embroidery adorning his doublet. His hair has been finally deftly cut and combed into two small waves parted on the middle - a weak shadow of his fine bronze waves before the wildfire incident. The Ryger knight, so often seen in armor and training leathers, shifts his position and fidgets on the bench, clearly uncomfortable in the rich noble clothes.
A feast is not complete in King’s Landing without a dose of Meria Waynwood. The lady herself enters late without retinue and curtsies amiably in the direction of the crown. Discretely she makes her way to her friend Lady Jannia’s table - not anticipating there being much for her so close to the Princess and her ladies in waiting. “My lady Jannia,” she greets the Tully lady curtsying to Ser Willard from afar. Meria looks superabundantly cheerful. She occupies her relatively upbeat norm in spite of the morose character of recent events. Brigth cerulean eyes scan the room looking for a seat.
When a Princess throws a feast, it is her ladies who do the work of organizing and arranging it. The short notice of this particular feast has them busier than ever as they orchestrate the movements of servants and courses entering and being taken away. One sits near to the door leading to the kitchens to be sure that the servant manning the door does not open it too soon to the servants carrying food in or out. Another is placed to signal the musicians to play louder or softer. Still another seems to have been sitting midway down the room for the simple task of being cheerful among the crowd. All of them, in fact, are seated so strategically that it is clear an effort has been made by Naerys to seed the feasters with her own ladies, the better to achieve her goal.
Busiest of all is Reyna Saltcliffe, the Princess’s Mistress of Keys. Her own place at the table just below dais has not been sat in all night, and her elaborately embroidered veil—ribbon and seed pearls on lace, all in a shade of cream—can be seen here and there at intervals as she moves on her own tasks. Now she is bending to take some instruction from the Princess, which results in a nod to Nessa Donniger, who in turn raises a finger to a servant, who looks up at the musicians’ gallery to gesture some request for a new song, which starts at once, lively and bright.
One of the many here this evening is the ironborn Lady Katla Serry, her dark hair capped by one of the embroidered and beaded veils such as some of the noblewomen have taken to wearing. Perhaps modelled on the Lady Reyna’s or part of a shared conversation regarding them some time ago - for though it fits a bit less tightly, an occasional black strand of hair sneaking out - it is far too ornately embroidered and beaded to have been crafted after Reyna began to wear hers. Katla’s dark head is bent in conversation with the others, including murmured words one might catch - ‘departure’, with thinned lips and a solemn look, and the occasional murmur of ‘proper household’ not too terribly long after that.
The bastard Falcon’s feathers are wet. All cleaned from blood, dirt and grime accrued from the yard, but now irritating dampness plagues him. The rainwaters that deluge the city are to blame. As he walked in, he shook off some of the excess water like a hound; but, now three courses in, he remains squishy and moist from the downpour. However, upon a mere glance, one would only notice the dampness of his brunette locks. Their dampness coupled with the torchlight makes them shimmer. The hue-less color black conceals the dampness upon his garb.
His vibrant blue eyes furtively look up at the dais with an air of nervousness avoiding the other pair of blues which looms up there, belonging to another Falcon. Andred hides himself within the action of the feast by sitting in the middle of the right side of the trestle table hoping to be concealed from the eyes of those who might not be so welcoming of his unholy blood in their presence. His nervousness about his first appearance at court cause the wine to empty from his goblet faster than is proper. His food receives only nibbles as his nervousness has also sapped his appetite.
His ears are not shy though. They wander from conversation to conversation listening to the intrigues of court. They also listen for the voices of those he might know. One voice comes from his father, Ser Ober Arryn, chatting up some poor noblewoman like he is infamously known to do a few seats down from him closer to the dais. His knight, Ser Jarret Corbray, sits next to him silently enjoying his own meal. Andred imitates his silence as he sits.
Sitting to the left of his young cousin, Ser Harstyn Tully is appointed in the mud-red and blue of his house, a rich velvet doublet with buttons of silver that bear, on close inspection, an engraving of a trout. Already enjoying himself, he smiles all the more at the lady’s inquiry, shaking his head as he says quietly to her, “Steffon’s half-way to eight, if you’d believe it. Eldacey would have him a boy forever, but soon enough it will be time to train him to uphold his father’s house.”
The course being served is a choice between honeyed chicken or honeyed duck, with servants bearing heaping platters of both for the feasters to choose between, served with a salad of sweetgrass, spinach and plums. There is sweet red summerwine as well, abundant in the crystal flagons carried by the swarm of servants who carry the feast along.
As they circulate the honey course, Naerys rises and a hush falls as she lifts her thin arms. “My good people,” she begins, then waits for everyone’s attention.
Ryckon is dressed in his rarely-seen sandy yellow linen doublet with brass buttons for the occasion rather than his usual armor. So far through the feast he has remained mostly quiet, because of both his general nervousness and his absorption with the good food being provided, which he eats wuth gusto. His winecup, however, remains half full, and he only sips from it occasionally. He signals to a servant to ask for the chicken, and then turns curiously in the direction of Naerys as she speaks.
Choosing the duck, the auburn-haired gentleman ceases his conversation with his cousin, lady Jannia Tully, and turns his attention towards the dais as the Princess speaks.
Willard eats his honeyed chicken meal with gusto as his eyes begin to finally find familiar faces in the throng at the tables. Nods from afar are given to the Tullys, to Meria and the Arryn knight. A loger look and a deeper nod is reserved for lady Katla, who he leans to and speaks in a low voice “Lady Serry, a pleasure to see you as always. You seem…” and his voice trails off as the princess asks for silence.
Jannia smiles to her cousin, “That is wonderful Cas, lovely to hear and getting big I bet?” The princess commands her attentions as she to ceases her queries to the Tully Knight. She folds her hands in her lap and awaits the princess’s words.
Katla tilts her head up, looking to Naerys, nodding once almost sideways to Willard - clearly a ‘in a moment’ sort of gesture. She interlaces her fingers, looking up at the Princess and wife of the Hand, curious to hear what has driven the quiet lady to such a feast - and what announcement it brings.
Katla tilts her head up, looking to Naerys, nodding once almost sideways to Willard - clearly a ‘in a moment’ sort of gesture. She interlaces her fingers, looking up at the Princess and daughter of the Hand, curious to hear what has driven the quiet lady to such a feast - and what announcement it brings.
As the princess rises, Ser Conrad and Most Faithful Geryn—leaning back to exchange a word or two behind her—stop instantly, turning their attention to her with the deferent courtesy of courtiers born and bred. But not so the men at at a table nearby—for there, Ser Quenton, a scratch on his face and sleeve of his tunic slit to allow for the bandage around an arm, carries on speaking in an angry rasp, oblivious of the sudden hush around him.
“—the hells with the Rivers bastard!”
In the silence, the words are overloud, making more than one person wince. Nearby, a tall, hard-faced man all in black with a silver serpent on his breast levels a cool look at that table; Quenton Rosby’s companion, Ser Marq, catches it and raises one shoulder in a faint shrug.
Meria sits and waits for the princesses words. She seems somewhat amused by the knights interjection - but then everything was fun to her.
“My good people,” the Princess says again, a gentle smile on her pale face. Her voice is hardly loud enough to carry far, so the people must all be very still and quiet to hear her. “I have asked you all here to give you an evening of good cheer and good company. My heart is grieved—”
This is all the farther Naerys gets, for Quenton’s outburst stops her tongue in her mouth and makes her paler still. She looks uncertainly to Conrad, then around at her ladies here and there in the crowd, then forces herself to smile. “My heart is grieved, as I know you all are grieved, but let us not despair. Let us instead be merry tonight, and rejoice in the blessings of the Seven and dwell not on our sorrows. We shall feast, and then we shall dance. I shall have the honeyed duck, I think.” She smiles around at her nephew’s subjects, as bravely cheerful as she is slight and fragile, then sits back into her chair. 5r
“My good people,” the Princess says again, a gentle smile on her pale face. Her voice is hardly loud enough to carry far, so the people must all be very still and quiet to hear her. “I have asked you all here to give you an evening of good cheer and good company. My heart is grieved—”
This is all the farther Naerys gets, for Quenton’s outburst stops her tongue in her mouth and makes her paler still. She looks uncertainly to Conrad, then around at her ladies here and there in the crowd, then forces herself to smile. “My heart is grieved, as I know you all are grieved, but let us not despair. Let us instead be merry tonight, and rejoice in the blessings of the Seven and dwell not on our sorrows. We shall feast, and then we shall dance. I shall have the honeyed duck, I think.” She smiles around at her nephew’s subjects, as bravely cheerful as she is slight and fragile, then sits back into her chair.
The Bastard’s curious eyes look up at the Princess as she calls for attention. His fingers remain on his goblet, but he ceases his polite picking at the food to make it look as if he consumed it. In the moment of suspense before the Targaryen princess speaks, Andred takes a hearty sip at his wine allowing the red liquid to loosen up his nerves for the remaining of the evening.
The loud words are not missed, and certainly not by Willard who arches an eyebrow at the Rosby first and at the Saltcliffe after, his lips shaping into a grin at the ironborn’s silent deprecation. The princess’s words are almost a whisper after such an outburst and the Ryger quietly lifts his wine cup and drinks the rich red liquid in silence. Only looking up to give a nod in greeting to the Warden of Crackclaw Point.
Ser Astos Corbray is sitting at one of the trestle tables and watching silently as the servants are serving the next course. Above a shirt of white fine linen and red breeches made of some extravagant fabric he wears a vest of black velvet this evening, a red belt with a belt buckle made of silver, engraved with the sigil of his House. Instead of his comfortable brown leather boots he wears a new pair today, black and shining from recent polish.
Having spotted Lady Meria nearby, Astos nods a polite greeting as their eyes meet. And just when he is about to say something to Lady Serry he realizes that Princess Naerys is about to make some announcement and remains silent, until the princess has finished her little speech.
A certain very late Tully knight finds his way into the hall as Ser Quenton has his outburst. Brynden’s attempt to enter with the least amount of disruption may well have some cover from the man’s words. However, all that brings Brynden to his full height in the back of the hall.
Alyce Bar Emmon has been quietly milling about, although she grew still to listen to the princess’ speech. The outburst is met with a tightening of her lips, but she does not actually look toward the offender. With a tilted head, she seems a touch confused as Naerys speaks of everyone being filled with sorrow, as though she could not fathom why that might be.
Jannia’s eyes snap to Ser Quenton as he speaks, she remains silent, only for the benefit of the princess who has kindly thrown the feast. But if one watches enough, they would see she bites her tongue. She manages to put a forces smile on her face as the princess smiles around, not to be caught without one. When the Princess sits back down Jannia turns and whispers to Harstyn. Having done that she slides a look to Brynden, giving him a concerned look by a furrowing her brow.
Having remained largely innocuous in his stygian attire, the only colors provided by the jerkin of cream with red roses and the armlet of whalebone and red gold, the Lord of Southshield arches a brow across to the Rosby man, seeming hardly amused at his outburst which interrupts the Princess. Pursing his lips into a firm, hard line, Lord Serry simply stares daggers at Ser Quentyn, his hazel green eyes bearing a stoic chill in them, not unlike the inclement weather outside.
After that outburst—one that seems to have startled the Rosby knight himself, given the silence around it—he is speaking in a lower tone. But he seems no less agitated, shifting restlessly in his seat, scratching his palms hard enough to draw blood, draining his goblet far too quickly and then starting on it again when it is refilled. Ser Marq and another companion are speaking to him in low voices, but he shakes his head stubbornly, gaze moving around the hall.
Until it settles on Jannia Tully and stays there, unblinking and baleful. Whatever he says next can’t be heard as easily as the earlier outburst—but the words ‘Tully wench’ drift to those sitting nearby.
And not too far away, the Iron Serpent pauses a moment beside Willard on his way to the Queen’s table where Geryn beckons him, saying quietly, “Keep an eye on Ser Quenton. Pain and drink make a man foolish.”
Jannia whispers to Harstyn, “... if ... blames Hallen ... lies. ... was my ... through ... ... ... is ... ... ... ... he ... ... speak ... a ... ... a ... as ... own ... ... ... like ... ... ... ... ... ...”
The bastard of the Vale feels the mood shift with Ser Quentyn’s outburst. The word “bastard” echoes through his thoughts. It compels him to finish his goblet of wine and fill his goblet to the brim once more. Andred’s fingers struggle to bring it to his lips as his extremities have become clammy due to his nervousness which he is trying so desperately to hide under the guise of nigh immaculate etiquette. However, such a guise shatters, as his stomach which is not entirely well lets loose a low baritone grumble. He hopes it is lost in the noise of the feast, but just in case, it is not he takes another hearty sip of his wine hoping to dull his nerves even more.
At long last, Reyna has found her seat quite near to Jannia. She sinks into it with a sigh of relief and is given a plate of duck at once, as well as a cup of wine. She greets everyone at the table and tucks into her food. She has consumed a good portion before the movements of the Most Devout catches her eye and she looks up to see her husband on the dais speaking to Geryn. She raises a brow at Dagur as she lifts her winecup.
Meria who is seated quite near to Reyna and Jannia has barely touched her food - but is making short work of a cup of wine. The evenings sport apparently a source of amusement for her. She whispers something in Jannia’s direction indicating the table of interlopers.
The young Ryger heir watches the festival of stares and his grin turns even more grim as the daggers and unsaid words fly through the air. He sips again from his cup, glancing towards Katla, but is then interupted before he can speak again. When he hears Dagur’s words, Willard nods and his pale blue eyes glance towards the agitated man “Aye, ser. I will be alert” as his hand falls casually down to the pommel of his sword… that isn’t there. The Ryger curses under his nose for the customs that made him leave it away - if push comes to shove he’d need to rely on his hands alone.
Willard moves his hands back on the table with a grumble and concentrates on his wine once more, every now and then glancing towards the Rosby knight.
Meria whispers to Jannia, “Charming isn’t he. Still being called a ‘wench’ is better than a few other things one might call a woman one does not favor.”
Katla’s eyes scan the room, a nod here and there, even as she waits to see what happens next; a nod to Alyce, another to Astos, back again to Willard, pursing her lips. It seems a resolute set of her jaw, something determined; the ironborn woman looks to Willard, her voice soft. “Now, what was it you had to say? No doubt not being able to say it will tie your tongue in knots, I think?” Her voice is pitched softly, close enough for others at the table to hear, but neither is it normal speaking tone.
Brynden had never reached a place to sit, so perhaps noone will think it strange that he begins to make his way slowly towards the table with the Rosby knight and his companions. The red in his face is a sign that he will not likely be greeting the people there warmly.
Despite himself, Lord Serry manages to spy the look Willard sends toward his wife - who is nearby - and thus with some small measure of reluctance draws his steely gaze away from the Rosby man, looking curiously toward the Deputy Warden of Crackclaw Point, seeming to find some idle interest in whatever the Ryger man might have to say to his wife. He does, of course, send an occasional glance Quentyn’s way, making sure the man does not dare to try any other disruptions.
Alyce meets Katla’s gaze, offering a small curtsey to the woman, despite the distance. The gesture deepens upon seeing Justyn, although she is not about to shout greetings to the Serry couple. Rather, she notes a certain Westerling squire nearby and beams before adjusting her meandering to head his way. “Good evening, Squire Ryckon. Might I join your table?”
Ser Harstyn leans in towards his cousin, Jannia, as she speaks to him, nodding understandingly by way of reply. He makes, however, no audible comment, eyes shifting to note the entry of the lady’s brother Brynden Tully, following him with interest as he steps towards Ser Quenton’s table with a fiery look. As to the “wench” comment, he seems to have missed hearing it, being too far away and distracted by listening to Jannia.
Ser Marq is saying something quietly and urgently to Quenton, clutching his sleeve on his unscathed arm, but the Rosby knight barely seems to hear him; around them, some of them companions look apprehensive while others are uncomfortable. And all the while, Quenton is staring at Jannia with unnerving intensity.
At least until her brother advancing on the table comes between them. Then, blinking, he takes in the other man—and lurches to his feet, swaying slightly, less than dignified with his doublet unbuttoned at the throat, the choleric flush rising even higher on his face, a sore on his hand bleeding now from all the scratching.
And that movement, much of the conversation in the hall stutters for a moment before resuming—but it seems somehow artificial now, everyone’s attention turned to the drama that seems about to play out.
At the high table, the Most Devout seems less than pleased; whatever he had meant to say to the Iron Serpent, his first observation now is an acerbic, “What is this mummer’s farce?”
As Reyna takes a seat Jannia smiles to the woman, “My Lady Reyna” she nods. Though quickly her forced cheery smile goes to a frown as she catches the eyes of the loud mouth across the way. She eyes Dagur, then a look to Brynden, the man’s murmur is heard though all she musters a raise of her brow, “Ser, you do yourself no honor speaking illy of women, nor do you give our gracious host any either. If you have issue with myself, or the peoples of the Riverlands do hold your tongue and take this problem to my Brother, or perhaps my uncle Ser Darmen at a more appropriate time. Or at the very least learn how to say your words a bit quieter.” She smiles brightly at the man, and nods her head to the princess and nods to Lady Meria’s words, “Aye my lady, this is true.” Though she does not turn her eyes too far from the dias.
Ryckon remains quiet as the fiasco surrounding Quentyn grows and grows, though his eyebrow raises steadily and he finds himself joining the rest of the table in looking at the Rosby man. He takes a sip of wine and then looks over his shoulder to Alyce. “Er, of course, Lady Alyce. Feel welcome.” He then pauses awkwardly along with the rest of the court when Brynden approaches Quentyn. “...Right.”
Reyna frowns when she hears Quenton, but she positively glowers at Jannia. “Hush,” she says in a low voice. “The men will deal with it. He is drunk and speaking will only incense him.” She turns uneasily to look at Geryn and her husband, then around at Quenton. She is not the only one, for the hall has grown suddenly very quiet as all eyes turn to Quenton Rosby.
Noting the unrest of his cousin’s squire Andred, Ser Astos turns to him with an assuring smile. “Is this the first feast you attend here in King’s Landing? You will get used to it, I am sure.” He lets out a sigh. “I certainly have. Although I would prefer a long spar in the Yard any time.” Then suddenly Ser Astos’ attention is distracted by the commotion around Ser Quentyn and he watches silently, as the drama unfolds.
“Apologies, lady Serry” Willard says with a soft smile “I did not want you to get your hopes up. I was just about to ask you why you were so… glum? thoughtful? this evening?” his eyes search out the Rosby man once more, and then the approaching Tully, with interest and a worried frowns appears on his face as he shifts on the bench enough to have an ease of untangling himself from the table if need be.
As tempers flare and the situation begins to get tense Willard stands up and bows slightly to Katla, never taking his eyes off the Tully and the Rosby men “Pardons, my lady. I’d better go in case my help is needed as ser Dagur asked me” he utters and moves slowly towards the two men, without making a commotion.
Brynden looks to the high table at the Most Devout’s words. He offers the princess a bow, despite being so close to a potential fight. “Your Grace, Ser Quenton has misspoken. He seemed to speak ill of Ser Luthor. No doubt his recent ordeal has made him confused. This will all be resolved when Ser Quenton makes his error clear and takes back his words.” He looks back to the Rosby knight, expectantly.
As Alyce settles into the chair beside Ryckon’s, she follows the gaze of the room toward the loudmouth. “I do hope Ser Brynden will have the good taste to duel him on the morrow, rather than have an inebriated man set to arms.”
A shift in her chair as Reyna speaks, “Aye my lady, sometimes I forget my place. It is just… well, I hold my own honor as well, and that of the Riverlands, my apologies.” She sighs as her cheeks are pink and hot to the touch and her brow is furrowed, embarrassment and anger sits on her face as her eyes remain to the man. As Brynden speaks Jannia sits straighter and turns her head slightly to make sure she hears correctly. She nods to her brothers words and looks back to the Rosby knight.
Princess Naerys, who had not heard the muttered insult, looks startled. Her violet eyes shift from Brynden to Quenton and back again. “All will be well, Ser Brynden. Pray, be seated and enjoy the feast. I wish no discord in my presence this night. There, with your lady sister.” She smiles at Jannia. “And you, Ser Dagur. Go and sit with my lady Reyna. I expect to see you dance with her after we eat.” She smiles still, though it is starting to seem strained now. “All of you, sit and finish feasting.”
Katla laughs softly, shaking her head at Willard’s query, and she answers him in a soft voice. “I was there for the departure of the women of… ill repute, Ser Willard. It is no easy thing, to watch women who may have made choices - or may have had something thrust upon them that they would be ill-pleased to do if they had their own will and wits about them.” Her nostrils flare slightly, her fingers curving around her wineglass, though her eyes - her eyes are still on Brynden and Quenton and Ser Geryn. “I have hopes that they will be the stronger for it, for suffering is what makes us strong, not coddling and being swaddled in velvets and furs.” A thin twitch of her lips, a ghost of a smile. “Princess Naerys has been gracious enough to hold this feast to put us at ease and bring us pleasure, a glimmer of it in these trying times. I would rather enjoy it now than speak upon such wretched matters - we can do that,” she adds dryly, “at breakfast.”
As he hears Astos’s familiar voice, the bastard of Arryn suddenly feels much more at ease even with the commotion stirring at the dais. The wine which has a habit of disappearing from his goblet seems finally be helping in that regard as well. “Ay, it be that. But, thee Arbor Red be getting me through it, ser.” As he says Arbor Red, he raises his glass and empties it down his throat once more. His breath reeks of drink, but for the most part, the young squire keeps his composure rather well for a drunk lad. “I would prefer the red sands of Dorne to this. Court scares me more than any Dornishmen did.” With fleeting interest, he continues to fixate his blues upon the dais to see what will become of Ser Quenton.
Jannia’s eyes float to the seat next to her as the Princess speaks and gives her a smile, one cannot help but smile back at the princess, she is too sweet not to. Satisfied that everything is taken care of she looks to Brynden and urges him to come sit with a pull of her head. Nearly forgetting entirely she had food, she nibbles at her previously chosen duck; she lifts her glass to her mouth and takes a drink remaining quiet on the matter, for the time being. Periodically though she takes a look to her kin, Ser Harstyn to her left and over to Brynden, falling on Quenton last.
The Most Devout seems less than mollified; he seems about to reply when Ser Conrad cuts in with his usual easy charm; if, like others around him, he feels uncomfortable at the situation, it doesn’t show, “It’s just the drink speaking, your grace. Don’t concern yourself with it, it’ll be settled quickly enough.” And meeting Brynden’s gaze with raised eyebrows, he tilts his head as if discreetly asking the other man to move away. Just a pace or two away, the Iron Serpent watches it all with that cool, level gaze, but forbears from interfering, merely inclining his head to Naerys in acknowledgement before catching Reyna’s eye.
But there is one person there who doesn’t seem willing to let matters lie. For Quenton Rosby, staring at Brynden and past him at Jannia, grinds out, “Take back my words? Take back my words when the bastard’s man killed my—”
He brushes off Marq’s restraining hand, “His sworn man! On him lies the burden! And you!”
He points a trembling finger at Jannia, “You prate to me about honour? I can hear her screaming, see the blood, see her struggling for breath! And you would have me hold my tongue?”
Reyna, almost as pale as the princess she serves, shifts her gaze from Dagur to Jannia. “Grief and wine,” she says in a low voice. Then she touches her finger lightly to her lips and shakes her head in mute appeal to the other woman to use discretion in speaking. But her brow wrinkles and she seems, for a moment, to be thinking very hard about something.
The ironborn woman pauses, her brow creasing, and she looks to her husband quizzically, as if to ask if she has misunderstood, or if his mind too has matched something. Still looking vaguely perplexed, Katla reaches for her wine again, sipping it more as if to trigger thoughts than to enjoy the drink.
Harstyn sighs with resignation and seems more disappointed than outraged at the words directed to his neighbor and kin. Raising his hand, he places it lightly on Jannia’s shoulder and leans in to whisper, “He’s drunk, lass,” in what he hopes to be a calming tone.
“Ser Quenton…” Brynden says calmly, but the red is heading for his hairline. “... if you raise your voice to my sister again you will be finding your teeth in your night soil.” He shrugs, though. “How do you know that the man was not doing his duty and trying to save a victim from the murderer? Many here can attest to how quickly the killer can disappear even when seemingly surrounded by potential captors.” No doubt his words are not going to help much, though.
Ryckon begins to respond to Alyce, “See, look, the princess herself is telling them to stop, it’ll—” Quenton, however, proves him wrong with his continued drunken antics. He frowns, takes another sip of wine, and finishes the last of his chicken. “...The situation will resolve itself somehow, I’m sure. Have you had the chicken yet? It’s very good.”
As lady Katla speaks to him Willard turns his head and again smiles apologetically as he walks out on the conversation with a shrug and his hand gesturing towards the situation with the two knights. He walks towards them still, slowly, and stands a few paces away from his liege lords son and his future brother-in-law, in case his help is needed. The frown on his face deepens even more as the accusations towards Riverlands fly. The Ryger’s eyes set on the Rosby man, his attention fully concentrated on the scene, his frame ready for action… just in case.
Jannia draws in a sharp breath as the Rosby man speaks to her again. She knows the truth about Hallen, she just stares at him her face holding a stale look. She looks to Reyna and the Princess, opening her mouth to speak but leaving it there for a moment before forming her words, “The duck is lovely, fine choice Your Grace.” She smiles to the Princess then slightly winks to Reyna before turning back to her duck and exhaling. Her gaze on the duck and wine cup in her hand now moving to her mouth that looks as if it is about to act as a dam. She nods to Harstyn once, only once as her corner of her mouth twitches slightly. She looks to Brynden finally as he speaks and says nothing but her eyes are pleading.
“I’ve not yet had a bite,” Alyce replies distantly, for her attention is surely upon the Tully man and the drunk knight. “It will not resolve itself without weapons, I fear, dear squire. Even a man in his cups will not be excused this sort of behavior for long.
Reyna, her frown deepening, catches Dagur’s eye—and her own eyes widen suddenly. She rises in an abrupt motion, upsetting her wine goblet. She misses entirely Jannia’s wink. “You… you heard her scream, Ser Quenton?” she asks, her voice shaking, but low and soothing. “I cannot imagine, ser, what you must be feeling.” As she speaks, she sidles along the table toward the dais. “But we are upsetting my lady, ser, and I know you do not wish it.”
Meria seated not far from Jannia still seems churlishly amused by the display of poor behaviour - hoping of course that attention will be directed away from herself in the present trade of harsh words. Again she says something to Jannia.
Lord Serry shifts uneasily in his seat, watching as the argument evolves further and further between the Rosby man and his allies against those of the Riverlands. He seems ready to move at a moment’s notice… yet the occasional glance to either his wife or to the Princess seem to stay both tongue and hand - and so Lord Serry lingers where he is seated, forcing himself to imbibe of the fine Arbor red available.
Meria whispers to Jannia, “Well this is a pleasant diversion. Do you think it best to make ready to leave?”
The Lady Serry rises, for a moment an utter ironborn, tangled in her skirts for just a moment until she collects herself. She leans down, murmuring something in her husband’s ear, and then moves towards the dais as well, as if to speak with Reyna on a matter, or Dagur - or even to give thanks to Naerys. Her eyes are hard, blue chips of sapphire, and her face is firm.
“You, er… You should. It’s very sweet. Moreso than the duck, just from looking,” Ryckon urges Alyce banally, before returning to a topic of actual substance. “And, um, maybe the situation will resolve itself with weapons. It will still be resolved. As it were.
Ser Astos Corbray notices Lord Serry’s unrest, sharing it as he intently watches Ser Quenton. His attention remains fixed on the man, as he keeps up his conversation with Andred “If you continue to drink at this pace, you will have quite a headache tomorrow, Andred. Just look at Ser Quenton over there, making a fool of himself in front of the Court. You surely would not like to end like him, would you?” When Astos sees that Lady Serry is about to walk over to the princess, he falls silent again, his greyblue eyes looking tense and alert.
“To the hells with your—”
The Rosby knight’s furious reply is cut short by Reyna’s interruption. “I hear it still,” he says with gritted teeth, staring at her for a long moment, eyes burning. “And you—” he begins again to Brynden, and to Willard too now.
And again, he is interrupted. For he is not the only one stared at Reyna after that interruption. The royal steward, watching with knitted brow, finally allowing displeasure to show, has shifted in his chair too to turn his attention to the Saltcliffe woman. And he grunts suddenly—a most inelegant sound from someone like him—before saying slowly and distinctly, “You told the goldcloaks the woman was dead when you reached, Ser Quenton. That you heard nothing.”
And the Iron Serpent, glancing at his wife and at the approaching Katla, stops, frowning, then pushes away from the table towards them abruptly.
Ser Harstyn Tully turns his attention to his previously untouched honeyed duck, carving into it with his eating knife and popping a delicious morsel into his mouth before looking up again, attentively following the events as they unfold.
Reyna has reached the dais, and now she climbs up without going around to the steps—and Ser Quenton. No, she clambers up like a child and straightens before bending across the table and speaking urgently to the Princess. Naerys looks, for a moment, as if she might swoon, but in the next she is rising and taking her leave in great haste, aided by Ser Sorin of the Kingsguard, his hand on his sword hilt.
A slight jump as Reyna tries to soothe the ill tempers while seemingly trying to keep her own. Though a whisper from Meria forces a grin on Jannia’s face as she turns to the lady and reaches over to place a hand on her shoulder, “No my lady, I will be alright, trust.” she nods to reassure her self as much as Meria. Removing her hand from the lady’s shoulder she turns eyes back to the her plate; even though she finds herself not wanting a bite, she suffers it for the princess.
As the King’s steward speaks Jannia finally gives way to speak up, rumors will abound anyhow. She gives Reyna and the Princess an apologetic look, quietly, “My apologies Your Grace.” she curtsies as the princess is rushed out. Jannia takes a breath, “But soul to the stranger is what I heard as well.” She looks to the Rosby, “If you were to chose a man to place blame, you might have wanted to make sure he would have been able to do the other murders ser.” She keeps her look stagnate shifting between the Rosby and the steward.
Her eyes on Reyna - and then Naerys, undeniably Naerys, Katla moves slowly, carefully, inexorably, towards the princess. Her face is set and the ironborn woman stands near to the dais, her fingers going to the gold necklace around her throat, twining her fingers in it, the long thin chain knotting around her fingers. Her face is hard, all angles and iron. Her lips move in a silent prayer, though nothing of the Faith in it, and she stands closely up near the dais, even after the Princess takes her departure - no, now Katla stands nearest to Reyna, her eyes hard on Quenton.
Meria eats heartily at this point seemingly unaware of the looming disaster around her. She looks sympathetically at Jannia once or twice but does not enter into the fray. Her eyes follow the princesses departure. “A horrible shame to be evicted from ones own feast…” she observes.
The young Ryger may not be the smartest of men, but when accusations of this caliber fly from the most honorable of men one can think faster than ever. He quickly covers the distance between himself and the two men and places a hand on the Tully’s shoulder “Ser Brynden… step back, please, my lord…” the Ryger says quickly standing in front of his liege lords’ son. Looking at the Rosby knight he checks for signs of resignation or desperation, to react to one of them.
As fire of tempers at the dais grows, Andred watches with budding curiosity. Oddly enough, all the tension in the room makes the bastard feel more at ease. As long as the Rosby knight acts out, he can blend in much easier. Finally, at ease, his stomach starts to settle, no thanks to the wine. He even starts to feel dry, maybe a little thanks to the wine. The duck on his plate suddenly looks very appetizing. He sets his goblet down and starts on with the duck. As he eats, he keeps a cloth at the ready to dab the excess off his chin.
“I shall not act like a fool. I was sneaking wine at Heart’s Home before I started to notice girls. I can handle myself, ser.” He says so in a very measured tone, but it is clearly forced and requires a great deal of effort to head his inebriation. His teeth ravage the poor duck’s leg once more. He quickly dabs the mess off his face and swallows before going on. “But, it would not hurt to indulge in the feast rather than just the Arbor red. Anyways, what brings you to the Capital Ser Astos? I have not seen you in years.”
Slowly, Alyce’s smile fades, her eyes widening as the implication becomes clear. Her fair complexion pales further and she swoons a bit in her chair, snaking out a hand to grab Ryckon’s forearm for support. “It cannot be…”
The royal steward’s words may mean trouble for Ser Quenton, so Brynden takes the opportunity to move back a pace or three in case the Rosby knight lashes out in desperation at the nearest target. “There we have it.” He looks to Willard and nods, oth of them having the same idea, it seems.
Having slipped into the room late, Captain Philbert Celtigar nods a greeting to several nobles before his eyes, ever sharp, note the body language and movement near the dais. His lips tighten slightly but he remains at a distance, comfortable to observe with a cup of red wine to hand.
There is an utter silence spreading outward from the Rosby knight; in other parts of the hall, some people continue to chatter, unaware, but he is frozen, all but gaping at Conrad. Finally, he coughs as if finding his breath again, “I didn’t—what in the hells are you trying to—”
“Quenton?” Ser Marq, not very sober either, confusion writ large on his face, grasps his friend’s sleeve questioningly. And the Rosby knight explodes.
No man would wear a blade to the princess’ feast—but the eating knives are castle-forged steel, and sharp. And with a hoarse yell, he grabs the one on his trencher and cuts wildly at Marq to free his hand. The Errol knight falls back with a surprising grunt; the pain of the deep cut across his face will come later.
Stumbling, Quenton pushes away from the table, eyes wild, a beast a bay. Somewhere, a woman screams, then another, and suddenly people are coming to their feet. At the high table, the Iron Serpent curses, then jumps lightly to the ground, shouldering people aside, calling something to Reyna.
The Celtigar knight glances once more to the disturbance and spots his sister’s son, Ser Quenton Rosby, in the midst. He notes the unsteadiness of his footing, the expression, the body language of those around him and changes his mind. Passing his cup off to a servant, the captain pushes his way through the bustling crowd, closer to the scene of tension. Suddenly, with the explosion of movement and screams begin to echo in the hall, Philbert finally bursts through the crowd. “Quenton!”
On the dais, Reyna startles, then nods once at Dagur and shrinks back toward the table. She fumbles at the neck of her gown, finally drawing out the salt-rose pendant, the rose entwined with a ruby-eyed serpent, wrought of gold. She clutches it in both hands so that only the gaping, fanged mouth of the serpent is visible between her fingers, but she looks wildly toward Katla as if seeking a face from another time of danger—an anchor in the storm to keep her from screaming.
Katla is torn, clearly - the desire to follow Quenton, to put the man down—and a hand drops to rest on her abdomen for a heartbeat before it falls to one side clenched in a fist. She steps closer to Reyna, pulling the gold chain from around her neck, revealing a long slim dagger, its hilt overlong, made as much for throwing as for stabbing or cutting. She stands back with the Saltcliffe lady on the dais, her expression grim.
Jannia listens to the man stammer and tries to find his words, the Tully maiden grins and looks to Brynden, “I thank you now for having me take Hallen back on brother, a man was saved from..” Words catch in her throat as this trout may be bold, but that does not translate to stupidity as the Quenton moves from the dias knife in hand. She backs away from the table and moves backwards, trying to put as much distance between herself and the dias as possible.
Willard is closest to this hell and fortunately seemingly prepared for such a turn of events, but even he is unable to intervene as Quenton attacks ser Marq. He grunts, pushes Brynden away from the dais and runs at the madman, gaining speed as he tries to throw himself at the Rosby knight and, at the very least, disarm him.
Brynden snarls as the Rosby man finds a weapon. “Not getting away this time!” he shouts. “Yield!” hopefully the fact that he has more or less accused Ser Quenton of being the murderer is lost in the general chaos. He looks for an opening to charge the man but he is suddenly knocked aside by his future good-brother. “No! He is mine!” But, too late.
It takes some effort for Ser Astos to turn his attention from Lady Serry’s chilly display of ironborn courage back to Andred. As he prepares himself to answer the young squire’s question, his mood seems to darken. “When my father returned from Dorne, he could not stand having me around. I believe I was not the best company then. You see, my father brought news from my brother Benfrey’s death. So I was sent to King’s Landing. Then, two years ago, I finally came to show my worth in Dorne. Afterwards I came back here.” Shooting a quick glance at his cousin, Ser Jarret, who seems totally oblivious of their conversation, Ser Astos is about to add something, as he catches a glimpse of Lady Katla’s dagger and the escalating scene. He quickly jumps to his feet, cursing. “Seven Hells!”
Willard is closest to this hell and fortunately seemingly prepared for such a turn of events, but even he is unable to intervene as Quenton attacks ser Marq. He grunts, pushes Brynden away from the dais and runs at the madman, gaining speed as he tries to throw himself at the Rosby knight and, at the very least, disarm him.
The Celtigar knight glances once more to the disturbance and spots his sister’s son, Ser Quenton Rosby, in the midst. He notes the unsteadiness of his footing, the expression, the body language of those around him and changes his mind. Passing his cup off to a servant, the captain pushes his way through the bustling crowd, closer to the scene of tension. Suddenly, with the explosion of movement and screams begin to echo in the hall, Philbert finally bursts through the crowd. “Quenton!”
The doors of the hall open to admit Ser Ermen dressed in blue and grey finery. His eyes scan the room, only to fall on the chaos by the dias. A small smile crosses his lips as he approaches the scene. “What’s this now?” he asks.
Jannia moves back quicker as the men try to pile onto the Rosby knight, finally her back finds the wall. All manner of chaos goes on about her, she sees the pleased grin on Ermen’s face as he enters the hall. She frowns only slightly at that though noticing she is quite alone she shouts out, “Frey, err Ser Ermen!” not keeping her gaze on him she scans and searches for Quenton amidst the chaos.
Though much of the words are lost on Andred in the midst of the cacophony created by the feast, the flash of steel is unmistakable. Such a sight renders Ser Astos’s deeply personal story unimportant for the time being, though not forgotten by the squire. Like a bolt of a crossbow, Andred fires upwards from his seat shaking the trestle causing his half full goblet to spill all over his duck. The room spins for a moment and he cannot seem to focus due to the heavy influence of his drink. It takes a moment for him to regain his sense. With his senses back in his possession, Andred pushes against the flow of the crowd moving forward near the dais to aid if need be or just watch if not.
Ryckon twitches when Alyce grabs him and looks at her uncomfortably, but when Qurnton is ostensibly revealed he curses and stands up, most likely breaking free of Alyce’s grip unintentionally, not even remembering it. He grabs at his belt instinctively, where there is no mace, and curses again and grabs at one of the table knives. Never mind that he is completely unskilled with daggers. The Westerling squire steps down from his seat, but does not yet move.
That blood-stained dagger rises—an answer to Brynden’s call to yield. And then a familiar voice calls to him, and even in his madness, Quenton is given a moment’s pause, distracted by Philbert.
It’s enough for him to nearly be thrown down. Only a desperate twist at the last moment saves him from the full force of Willard’s lunge. Even so, tangled with the other man, he crashes back into the table, sending trenchers and goblets flying, his esrtwhile companions scrambling away, Ser Marq now bellowing in pain.
And struggling to free himself, the Rosby knight stabs wildly again and again at Willard. But time is running out for him, for around them, men are pushing closer through the pandemonium, the Iron Serpent and the Steward himself among them.
Brynden too is moving towards the melee. “For Ser Tancred!” he can’t help but shout as he struggles to reach WIllard and Quenton before it is too late for at least one of the men.
Alyce’s arm suddenly lifts, then drops, as the Westerling squire rises and she loses her grip. Wet cobalt eyes wide as saucers, she pleads frantically, “Ryckon, no! You could get hurt. Killed! Let them handle it, littl-...” Suddenly, she stops, her expression changing as she looks up at the large young man. Although the words are forced out, she manages a simple, “Be careful.”
Other women may be sanguine, but Reyna is not one of them. Never one to watch a fight, she looks as if she would rather be anywhere but where she is. But she has not screamed, and she has kept her feet and is not cowering. This is progress. Nor is she clinging to Katla. Not too hard.
Philbert lunges forward with an outstretched hand to grab his nephew just as the Ryger knight barrels into him. Shielding his face momentarily from the explosion of cups and food with an arm. The Captain steps forward and, trying to untangle the two men, grabs at Quenton’s leg and attempts to haul him from the table with both the strength and calloused hands one might expect of a former sell-sail and Captain of the Royal Fleet.
What can certainly be said of Willard is that he is skilled with a sword and a capable warrior at least. Unfortunately a princess’s feast usually passes without such weapons and as such Willard is left to the use of his hands. And therein lies the problem as ser Quenton barely managed to stay on his feet after a valiant charge, but when a grapple competition begun - he got the brunt of it. A short sharp scream escapes the Ryger’s lips as he feels the knife penetrating the skin on his back and again, and again. He struggles and throws a punch to the drunk man’s side and ear, but whether it has any effect is unsure. Crashing around and still trying to disarm his mad opponent the young heir to Willow Wood begins bleeding on the floor, his breath more ragged and louder with every exhale…
Astos swiftly grabs a knife from one of the tables, cursing again, as he left his beloved sword in his quarters. Then he moves quickly towards the chaos to help overcome the madman. It is about high time to stop this madness, before more people get hurt.
With every man and his sister attempting to prove his or her mettle by taking down the crazy person with the knife, Andred decides his services as the chivalrous, but largely unknown heroic bastard squire from the Vale are not needed. So if he cannot slay the dragon that has emerged from the dais, what is the next best thing? Eat, of course. As his hand slams down on a table to regain his suddenly lost balance, he sees a duck, largely untouched by its last owner. He mutters to himself. “Might as well..” With the chaos, etiquette flies out the window with the so many noblewomen rushing by him. With his barehands, he grabs the leg of duck and tears into it as if he were a Falcon tearing into a field mouse. He attempts to stand up right, but every attempt is followed by his hand frantically grabbing the table again in momentary panic.
On the dais, her hands dropping, Katla has one arm around Reyna now, her lips moving quietly in more prayers, or platitudes… Still, she stands close with her friend, jaw set and her wide eyes set on the fracas, her skin bloodless-pale as she watches the roil of men, and the women - the sensible women, at any rate - getting out of the way of the mass of warriors. The dais provides an unfortunately fine vantage point, and the daughter of the Lord Reaper makes no move to leave from it.
Ermen’s smile fades as he sees blood on Willard’s clothing. He pushes through the crowd, and while Philbert pulls on Rosby, Ermen takes the the opportunity to give the downed crownlander a kick. “Give me some steel, I’ll gut this son of a whore!” he bellows to those close by.
Ryckon only briefly looks back at Alyce and shrugs unhelpfully, the feeling of the moment lost in the urgency of the situation. Then he joins the tide of men trying to interfere, running toward Quenton and Willard. A few feet away from the fight he slows down and drops into a fighting stance, lifting up his knife. Someone familiar with dagger-fighting would note that Ryckon’s grip is wrong, but hopefully it still looks menacing.
With a yell, Quenton is pulled off the table entirely when Philbert pulls him, crashing onto the bench, the moment ripping him free from Willard’s grasp, then hitting the floor—and taking a solid kick in the ribs from Ermen in the process. But he is still clutching the knife; he is not a big man, but right now, he seems to the have the strength of madness.
Then, Conrad Arryn and Dagur are there as well, and the royal steward is the first to Willard, trying to help the bleeding man get free.
As Willard’s blood hits the ground Jannia puts a hand to her lips, “Andy,” she gasps. No one would likely hear her as they are all near the chaos, or dais and she is as far away from that raised platform one could get besides out the door. Jannia tries to see where the blood is coming from on Willards body, she walks slowly and a bit closer to get a better look at the Willow Wood heir and his fight with Quenton. She doesn’t have to go far to realize she wont see much more than she has with all the people about no matter how much she stands on her tip-toes. Instead she stops and walks in Meria’s direction
Not completely satisfied with his duck, most of which seems to be getting everywhere but the Bastard’s mouth, the peckish Andred decides to raid the table once more. Alas, he sees a Chicken bone with quite a bit of meat still on it. He heard so many good things about the chicken. “Why not..” His greedy bastard fingers snatch up the bone and suck off the remaining meat making various grunts of delight, rather loudly. His fingers push off from the table as he decides to get closer to the action. But he needs a weapon! A goblet he sees as knives are too bland! He takes the clay goblet by its neck and smashes it upon the trestle table. Shards erupt from it. Picking a particularly sharp one, Andred arms himself and staggers forward into the fray with a shard in one hand and a particularly dangerous looking chicken bone in the other.
“For thee Vale!” he could be heard muttering as he advances with his army of one.
Yanking the madman free, Philbert stands over him, grabbing his shirt and attempting to haul him closer for his protection. He looks to face the Frey, as he shouts for his sword. Then sees yet more knights, lords and nobles approaching. The large, grizzled sailor tightens his grip on the collar of the dazed Rosby, “Drop the fucking knife,” he murmurs and shakes him slightly.
A relieved gasp escapes Willard’s lips as Quentyn and his annoying dagger are dragged off him, and he leans on the table hands first as he regains breath. Then the pain in his back overcomes the agitated senses and with a low hiss of pain the Ryger knight slides down from the table onto the floor and stares at the bloodstained floor, knowing it’s his own blood he’s watching. A glance is spared for the Rosby man and with a wolfish grin he watches what happens to the notorious ‘Ripper’. The three stab wounds on his back keep bleeding slowly.
Ermen finds no steel forthcoming but there is no doubt that Quenton has some, that and the mad look are enough to keep the Frey at bay. He glances about to see if anyone else is better armed and can do the deed he had had meant to do.
Brynden finally makes his way to the knot of people, having pushed his way through those fleeing the knife-wielding madman. The Frey knight seems to have but the boots to Ser Quenton, but before Brynden can join in, Philbert has dragged the man to his knees. Brynden does his best to disarm the man by stepping on his hand and keeping it there. With his luck he may be too close to the blade, though.
Left alone with wringing, shaking hands, Alyce stares at the horrifying scene. “So much blood,” she muses in horror. Seeing her lady nearly in hysterics, the Bar Emmon’s maid hurries over and kneels beside the woman to offer her hand. As the appendage is taken, the pair of women grip one another and watch the scene in shock.
The Rosby knight’s hoarse roar of pain cuts through the pandemonium—and the sharp, distinct crunching of his fingers as they break under Brynden’s heavy boot can be clear heard. And with that ctippled hand, the knife is gone, leaving him to punch wildly, ineffectually at Brynden’s belly and leg with his free hand, maddened with pain, trying only to get free.
And then the Iron Serpent is there. And with perhaps unnecessary force—for the Rosby knight is all but captured—he kicks the fallen man precisely and brutally in the face. Bones crunch again, nose and cheek and jaw—and blood spurting, Quenton’s head is snapping back to hit the bench with a wet-sounding crack.
Bonelessly, he slumps to the ground, senseless, hand and face ruined, blood pooling.
As soon as it appears that the deranged knight is subdued, the maesters come in force. There are three of them, all with long chains of many links and known to be ever-present should the Targaryens be in need of them. One gives Meria a superior look before offering his aid to Marq Errol, but the other converge at once on Willard Ryger, and word is already running through the hall for Lord Ryger to be sent for.
Reyna, already trembling, faints dead away when she sees the brutality with which Quenton Rosby is brought down—the brutality vistied on him by her own husband. She sags against Katla, pale as milk, and does not open her eyes.
Ermen no longer facing an armed mad man, kicks Quenton in the gut before stepping aside to let the maesters do their work. “Don’t bother saving his face, he’s prettier that way,” he remarks to the maesters as he goes to Brynden’s side. “Well done my lord,” he remarks clapping the other man on the shoulder.
She may not have been headed toward the dais anymore but the lady snaps Jannia out of the questions she was mulling over, her blank expression comes to one of realization. “Aye, you are a healer, I nearly forgot. Yes please, if they can get him to you, help.” She says no more to Meria and walks over to the table and sits on the bench closest to the end. She watches as her brother breaks Quentons hand, lost to the madness now she exhales deeply as Dagur kicks the man in the face. She is not unsettled by the Iron Serpents act, she just watches as Quenton slumps to the ground. “Finally.” She says quietly as she looks away to scans the room. Andred catches her attention, she lifts a brow to the chicken bone holding man.
Katla’s blade slips back from whence it came, now merely a glittering golden chain around her neck, the heavy weight hidden beneath the high-necked gowns, and her arms holding Reyna closely, murmuring to the other woman - almost as if finding as much relief in holding as in being trusted to hold. Her eyes are still wide and the blood does not quite yet come back to her face.
Meria frowns at the Maester who takes her job from her - “Aye so this is what it feels like to be rendered completely redundant,” which is true - apart from being a sponge for a goodly portion of one tables food and drink she had spent the greater part of the evening being relatively useless. She looks to Jannia, “My lady Jannia - are you alright?”
With the men around the accused murderer suddenly seeming to relax, Alyce pushes against her maid to rise and even get on her tip-toes. It is a move she soon regrets as she gets a good view between others in the crowd of what is left of Quenton’s face. Instantly, the pale face turns a light green, her head turns, and she sicks up. Most of the mess lands on the dutiful Melaen.
Ryckon stands at the ready with his knife as the fight goes on but frowns as Quenton is defeated, the fight not having come close enough to him for the squire to join in. He lowers his arm, not dropping the knife for fear of it being grabbed. “Is he still alive?” The question is not asked out of concern but rather with detached curiosity.
The Celtigar captain’s face pales considerably at the sudden flurry of sights and noises: the crunch of Quenton’s bones, the wet sound as his pulped face hits the floor. He does not shout, roar or scream. On the contrary with calmness he grabs a goblet, turns to ironborn knight and asks, “Warden?” before flinging the wine full in the Saltcliffe’s face! Trying to press the advantage that might have given him, Ser Philbert swings a powerful, sailor’s haymaker towards Dagur’s jaw…
The staggering Andred slams to a halt as he sees the bloody mess that has become of Ser Quenton Rosby. The chicken wielding squire falls back to watch the carnage from a safe vantage at the front of the trestle table. He mutters under his breath “Some must have really not liked the chicken.” referring to the now subdued madman, being oblivious to the true situation involving the serial killer.
Katla, still stroking Reyna’s head gently, pauses in her ministrations to lead the daughter of Highgarden to a chair, helping settle her friend on it carefully, if Reyna is so inclined. Regardless, she then leans her head down, lips pulling in a thin smile as she murmurs something to the other woman. “I don’t suppose now’s the right time to tell you that you can stop lighting a candle to the Mother on my behalf?”
Jannia nods to Meria as she stands to search for her cup, she finds it and a flagon of wine. This break in Quenton madness does not last long however, as Captain Philbert decides to take a swing at Dagur. Jannia turns to see the wine splash in Dagur’s face, “Seven Hells,” she murmurs with a sigh. She walks back towards Meria grabbing another cup she fills it and hands it to Meria, “Here My Lady, I find myself over parched.” She fills her own and sets the flagon down on the ground next to her not trusting it to stay atop a table.
The Rosby knight down and not moving, Brynden exhales loudly as he steps away from the crumpled man, expecting people to flood in and take Ser Quenton into custody. “At last.” He claps Ermen on the shoulder when he is near. “Good man. I think I shall keep you around. Come, let us see to Ser Willard.” and then he trying to move towards the Ryger knight. “You had best stop bleeding…” he says, trying to be darkly humorous, but then another fight erupts nearby.
Meria sighs and shakes her head accepting the wine with a gracious nod, “Out of the frying pan into the fire it seems. Do you think this will stop or will this fistfight grow and grow until it involves everyone in Kings Landing? The whores would be laughing at us all from beyond the gates.” She looks at Ser Willard, “The maesters are quick to appear certainly - I hope he is alright…”
Ermen follows Brynden to Willard’s side. “Indeed, you’ll get no glory dying from wounds made by a kitchen…” he begins and is cut off when he whirls to see where the wine that splashed against his cloak came from. His turn gives him a great view of the punch thrown at Dagur. “Seven hells,” he says echoing Jannia’s curse as he instinctively steps back to avoid any fallout.
Jannia nods and turns a corner of her mouth up in a wry grin at Meria’s words, “Perhaps my lady, I would not be in a state of shock if it had. I wait to see if Ser Willard is going to be well, and to make sure my brother leaves alive. I could not forgive myself if I did not wait for him.” She sips at the wine glass in her hand. “As long as we stay clear we should be alright. My thanks for offering to help Ser Willard, Lady Meria. The Maesters are quick, but if for some reason they were not, I feel better knowing you are here.” She smiles as best as she can to the lady standing next to her, sipping her wine once more before turning her eyes back to the altercation between Dagur and Philbert.
With Quenton unconscious, the Iron Serpent has stepped back a pace or two. When Philbert calls him, he turns—and for his trouble, receives that cup of wine in his face. It’s only the fact that he is still poised on the balls of his feet, that warrior’s readiness at being in a dangerous situation in him still, that saves him from going down. For even as the wine hits him, he is twisting away cat-quick, so that Philbert’s punch, although it snaps his head to side and sends him stumbling, doesn’t hit him with full force.
Then, dashing the wine from his eyes with the back of his hand, he is straightening and turning to the Celtigar captain, licking blood from his lips, a cold, cruel look in his eyes, shoulders tensing.
And then the royal steward is there between them, “Enough! Ser Dagur, let it lie… this is not the time nor the place. And you, ser, whoever the hells you are.” His blue eyes are glittering, tone scathing, “What in the hells do you think you are doing? Back now, unless you wish to spend the night in a cell!”
As the chicken wielding bastard finds himself without chicken, he feels a need to find himself some drink. But, all the flagons now lay shattered upon the floor. Then he spots the auburn haired Lady Jannia with a full flagon and not sharing… how rude! He abandons his makeshift dagger and meatless chicken bone for a goblet which he promptly empties upon the floor. The clumsy Vale Squire stumbles his way over to the ladies. He clears his throat as politely as possible in his state and asks Jannia and Meria. “May I, ladies?” He makes a motion towards the flagon on the ground with his goblet. The erupting violence around him is lost on him as his mind thinks only of chicken, wine and more chicken at this point.
Ryckon’s rather redundant question goes unanswered and he eys Quenton to reach an answer for himself, but he is quickly distracted by the clatter of a goblet and the thump of a fist. He looks at the confrontation with a raised eyebrow, standing somewhat awkwardly alone in the hall and still holding a knife. “What is… what?”
The Ryger knight, at this point, is just a grunting sack leaking it’s filling. His moves, the ones seen from behind the maesters, are slow and he only stands with their help. The Ryger’s back is covered in blood, the silk of the doublet cut and dirty, three distinct stab wounds showing through. He waves a hand to all who would be worried.
Jannia eyes the clearly drunken man -that is known as Andred -as he asks for wine incredulously, “I am sorry ser, I am afraid I do not know you…” she trails off her courtesies as Conrad’s voice catches her attention. She notes the blood that is promptly licked from Dagur’s lip, “Thank the Seven for Ser Conrad.” She looks to Meria, “I am afraid if it wasn’t for Ser Conrad would would have two very broken and unconscious men.” Her eyes remain on Meria half forgetting chicken man.
Feeling his punch connect, even partially, the grizzled sailor attempts to continue his assault before coming face to face with the venomous tones of the steward. Philbert looks from the steward to the Iron Serpant and back before finally turning away from them both, the force of his anger still written across his face. He pushes back one of the more curious spectators and squats down next to the prone form of his nephew and friend, placing a hand on the unconscious man’s shoulder, his eyes swivel about the room, passing over various noble onlookers, with only partially repressed fury.
“Allow me,” Meria herself pours the Vale squire a drink - not being above service. Those that spill wine and blood together at the same feast must be kin of a sort. “I am Meria Waynwood and This is Lady Jannia. You don’t want to participate in the looming brawl? You look as though you might do rather well…” Meria gives Andred a somewhat flattering appraisal with her eyes before returning to her friend, “We will see I guess how Ser Conrad fares at nights end - Ser Philbert looks furious….”
Ermen’s lips curve in a grin when he sees the punch land, and even Conrad’s intervention doesn’t dampen his mood. “Well,” he says to Brynden. “Now I see why they say court is exciting.”
Eventually, Katla settles onto a chair near Reyna, off to one side of the raised tables on the dais, her hands clutching a goblet of wine someone has pressed into them, and it is a miracle they only tremble a bit, the wine not sloshing overmuch over her hands and onto her gown. She takes a long, deep swallow as she watches the scene, her eyes settling briefly on the assorted ladies, the brawl separated by the Steward, the maesters and their charges. She holds the wine-cup firmly between her hands, but no matter the grip, there is still the telltale little shivers of her grip, once in awhile.
Alyce looks apologetically at her maid, the poor liveried woman covered in vomit. So many bodily fluids in one room. After dismissing the girl to allow her to clean up, the Bar Emmon slowly, carefully begins to walk, doing her best not to faint from the insanity of it all. Even so, tears have apparently made their way down her cheeks. It is only after nearing the crowd that she realizes where her mind has put her feet. “Why would anybody defend the madman who killed all those women -and- Ser Tancred?” Her words are louder than she intends them to be, causing her to slowly back away. In her current state, it is more than likely she will back into somebody.
Jannia watches the goings on with her cup in her hand, as Meria speaks it takes a moment for her mouth to catch up with her mind, “Huh? Oh, yes my lady.” She smiles to the woman as she pours wine into Andred’s cup, she nods to him before looking to Philbert and his furious gaze. “Yes my lady we will have to see.” She appraises Philbert further as Meria mentions him, “Yes, very much so, let us hope he is at the very least in control of himself now that Ser Conrad has spoken his peace.” She looks down into her cup and swirls it around idly.
“You have come at an interesting time, my lord of Frey.” Brynden says, good-naturedly. He follows Ermen’s gaze towards the knot of people suddenly around Dagur, still ready to leap in and assist the Warden if need be. “I think I hear a cask calling and soon we will answer it. Lady Sarya needs to hear this news, though.”
For a moment, it looks like the Iron Serpent has not even heard the steward; that he will simply push the other man aside and advance on Philbert, dark eyes never moving from the Celtigar knight. But Conrad holds him back, gripping his shoulders, speaking rapidly and quietly to him.
Finally, still without looking away, the ironman nods; the tension seeps from him by degrees as he rolls his shoulders. And then he smiles he smiles a thin, wolfish smile with no amusement in it. “Another time, ser. Another place,” he says to Philbert.
Turning on his heel, he moves first to Willard, crouching to look at his wounds and have a word with the maester. Then, someone appears to speak with him; he follows the man’s gaze to the dais where his wife has fainted. An oath, and rising, he crosses to the dais with long strides, climbing on it and moving to her side, asking Katla a sharp question.
The slumping Andred pops up very quickly hearing the booming voice of his kin, Ser Conrad. It has a sobering effect on the bastard of Arryn, so when Lady Meria pours him a drink, it is greatly appreciated. “I thank you and it is a pleasure to meet you both.” His tone is oddly measured and not slurring words, but by the smell of his breath, he clearly has been indulging in fermented grapes from the Arbor this eve. Also, his meticulous annunciation also gives away the fact that he is drunk “I am Andred Stone, the progeny of Ser Ober Arryn. I shall only fight if my kinsman needs me.” His hand motions in a flourish to Ser Conrad Arryn. “There be no need to proof my mettle in the queen’s ballroom, mi’lady. Much rather drink my sour grapes and enjoy the eve.” To that, Andred drinks.
Reyna is stirring a little, mumbling a word or two when she hears Dagur’s voice. Her husband, face bloodied, scoops her up without ceremony. Most of the crowd parts when he stalks toward the doors out of the ballroom, unwilling to get between that notorious temper and his exit. So they are gone, the Iron Serpent and his Silver Rose, leaving the princess’s feast in its ruin.