It is dusk (about 5 pm) of the 22nd day in the 6th month. The season is Summer, in the 158th year since Aegon’s Landing.
air feels damp.
The strains of a harp waft through the hall, graceful notes played with in a simple, direct manner with little in the way of flourishes or elegance. It’s a pleasant enough tune, rustic and yet ... somehow different from what is normally heard in these lands, with an air of the exotic in the strange shifts in tone that are quite unlike what any decent court bard in Highgarden or King’s Landing might do. The harpist is seated in a corner, attention on the painstaking work of plucking and strumming, and he’s hardly aware of the audience looking on—half interested, and more than half askance—from a distance, ladies at their embroidery and gallants playing at tiles or other such games.
The strings plucked and the melody it creates, drawn over the accoustics of the room, and down the hall, unbenownst to the player, is drawing a particular creature in, much like how a shark smells blood in the water. Jyana Arryn herself had only meant to pass the Hall, having moved out of the Solar and a thoughtful expression on her face at news delivered. The straightforward tune, however, manages to catch her attention.
Curiosity takes her back, retracing her steps and following the sound, right through the threshold and moving within, waving a bit at those who recognize her, or call her name and beaming at them with an effortless cheer.
Her shadow falls slightly behind from where Aidan is playing…she does her best not to intrude, of course, such things took some level of concentration, but she has her hands folded behind her back, watching the harpist and listening to the song with the rapt attention of one who has immersed most of her life in study.
Were one near enough, one could hear that Ser Aidan is humming along with the tune he’s picking out on the cradled harp on his knee, and indeed sometimes mumbled words—mere snatches, no more—fall away. But it’s a particularly false note—not the first of them, but the most obvious and least amendable to covering up—that wrings out something more from him, a mild oath.
“Seven hells,” he says, brow furrowed as he straightens in the seat. A deep breath, a sigh, and he brushes away an errant lock of hair as he looks about for someone. “Danyll, where in blaz—Oh!,” he exclaims, nearly cursing directly at the young lady who’s come closer than most. A faint flush to his cheeks follows. “My apologies, my lady. I did not mean you.”
Jyana
Her complexion is almost white in its warm transluscence, soft as snow and as fine as porcelain. It contrasts sharply with the thick, loose, sunkissed waves that tumble down her back, and frame an oval face set with achingly delicate features. It is her eyes, however, that stand out from the angelic mien, bright and clear, their color dancing at the median of blue and green. They speak of both intelligence and innocence, her gaze as vibrant as the reddish hue of her lips shimmering with their natural dew.
Her simple, yet elegant gown is a creation of sapphire blue samite and pristine white silk. Its long sleeves taper down her wrists, snug and fitted over her arms. The neckline scoops low to bare the tops of the pale swells of her bosom, and secured by a bodice that laces up along her spine by a pair of ribbons tied at the small of her back. The skirt flows free in layers, the hems touching the floor. The brief sparkle of a chain hangs from her neck, though what it holds disappears from view between her breasts.
A tall knight, fair-haired and with eyes grey as a winter morning, appears alone at the doorway to the hall. Ser Almer Connington. He is resplendent tonight, having put aside his customarily drab raiment; the Stormlord is clad all in gleaming white and blood red, his long cloak a flurry of red and white dancing griffins. Judging by his expression, Ser Almer is not in a particularly festive mood; his scowl is not angry, but it is… focused.
Almost unnoticed behind the striking young knight is a thin boy with a mop of brown hair; he too wears the griffin livery, but a hanged man clasps his red half-cloak. “Check beside the windows, will you, Rease?” Ser Almer is telling the lad, obviously his squire. “You may have dropped it there in your haste to talk to that little serving-maid.”
Despite the sudden movements, the Jewel stays her ground, either her reflexes fail her utterly (which is plausible), or so calm was she by what she has heard that she doesn’t realize things have changed until Aidan speaks to her. At the unmistakeable reddish tint on the young knight’s face, she blinks her aquamarine eyes, and laughs - a sound that was more sheepish than anything else. “Please don’t worry yourself,” she says simply. “I should have given you more warning, it’s just that I didn’t wish to disturb you while you were playing.”
Her sheepish laugh fades in favor of a delighted little smile. “I wasn’t aware you’ve some skill with a harp, ser. It was wonderful to hear, if you don’t mind me saying so…again, please forgive my intrusion. I tend to be attracted to the sound of musical instruments quite easily.” She grins and rubs the back of her neck. “I imagine if bears ever learned how to play, I’d be dinner in short order.”
The harp cradled upon his knee is lowered a little, as Aidan offers a half-bow from his seat in the hall. “You are kind to say so, my lady. Any music is wonderful to hear, it’s true, but there are many who can make it rather more beautiful.” A stray finger plucks one of the strings, sending out a brief, sparkling high note, and he offers a grin. “My lady mother is more fond of my playing than that of any bard, or so she says. She’s a kind woman.”
A pensive moment and then he adds, “I am Ser Aidan Dayne, of Starfall. I should have introduced myself.” He’s quite forgotten about this Danyll person being missing, and doesn’t take immediate note of the comings and goings at the entrance to the Great Hall.
His face growing pale, young Rease Trant trots obediently to the window and begins prodding through the rushes under Ser Almer’s watchful eye. Apparently meeting with no success, the squire looks helplessly at his knight. A quick glance across the room at Jyana Arryn, however, brings a bright blush to his face, and a low laugh from Almer.
“Go on with you,” Almer commands his squire. “Go wait for me outside, we’ll look for your key later.” As Rease ducks out, Almer begins making his way closer to the lady and the Dornishman.
“Then I think your lady mother has excellent ears,” Jyana says in a cheerful tone, and a grin to match his. “Pretty ones too, I should think! But aye…” Her voice takes a softer bent, contemplative almost. “To be honest I’ve not heard much playing as of late unless it’s from my own fingers, so hearing someone else indulge in one of my greatest loves was a wonderful change to me.”
The introduction causes her to smile, and an energetic nod. “Aye! Aye, I know,” she says with a laugh, curtseying. “It may not surprise you to hear but you’re rather…ah…” She drops her voice in a faux-confidential whisper. “...popular with the sewing circles. Forgive my own delay in terms of introductions, my name is Jyana Arryn. Of the Eyrie.”
The heavy thump of proud footsteps causes her to look over her shoulder, and her smile broadens. “Ser Almer,” she greets. “You look wonderful today! What’s the occasion?”
“No, I heard -music!-” The voice that rings faintly in from the entrance hall is a very young one, and is soon followed by a small boy with sandy hair and a green tunic bearing the Rowan badge on its breast. “See? I knew I heard music—that man has a harp.”
Hard on the boy’s heels is a lady, clad all in pale green and trailing a harried-looking septa. “Aren’t you -tired- from your journey, sweet boy?” Reyna Tyrell asks, half desperately.
It is dusk (about 6 pm) of the 22nd day in the 6th month. The season is Summer, in the 158th year since Aegon’s Landing.
air feels damp.
“My reputation precedes me i seems, Lady Jyana,” the violet-eyed Dornish knight responds, “though I cannot say that it is well-earned. Certainly, my playing is of little help.” He seems more at ease than he was at first, visibly relaxing, even taking the time to fiddle with the flowing sleeve on the arm that cradles the harp. He explains, “It was something the shepherds would sometimes play on their country lutes. I fear I do not do their music justice, but it is something to while away the hours with…”
He looks away briefly, perhaphs remembering about his wayward squire, when he catches site of the approaching Connington knight. “Ser Almer,” he says, with a brief but rather respectful nod in greeting.
“And you are lovely as always, my lady,” Almer answers Jyana with a touch of his old gallantry. “I am due for a dinner engagement down in the city. Thus the frippery,” he smiles, indicating his spotless attire. He pauses before the lady, glancing first at her, and then at the Dornish knight.
“Ser Aidan. You play very well. Celebrating wily old Vaith’s little victory back home?” he asks, half-teasing, half-probing. Reyna Rowan’s entrance, for the moment, goes unnoticed by the knight.
Reyna collars the boy, and pulls him close to her. “Hush now, and listen a moment,” she murmurs into his hair. “Perhaps there will be more, if you only hold still.”
The fact that Aidan seems to be relaxing more visibly only seems to feed Jyana’s sunny disposition even more. “Word travels fast here. I’ve been warned, but I thought them mere exagerrations until I arrived here to experience such for myself. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve only heard good things,” she offers. And at the imagery her offers, she listens, as always, with a rapt and scholarly sort of attention. “Ah, really? One day perhaps…” she says wistfully, but she doesn’t continue the thought.
She looks up, as the Connington knight was almost a foot taller than her, grinning ruefully. “Really? I thought my hair today was a little messy,” she says with a laugh, giving her wind-tousled curls a self-conscious pat. “My septa demanded I practice at least another dance today. And a dinner? That sounds wonderful, I hope you have a wonderful time tonight.”
Emboldened by Jyana’s pleasure at the earlier music, Ser Aidan seats the harp more properly on his knee and begins to pluck out a simple tune, eyes first turning down to make sure the fingering is done properly and then back to the stormlord and the Jewel of the Eyrie. “You wound me, ser,” he says, though sounding quite mild. “I do not celebrate with country music, or alone in a hall—well, more or less alone, pleasant company excepted.” A flash of grave smile and then he makes the tune a bit more complex. Instead of a rustic song, this one sounds ... well, energetic and exotic, both, with a strange means of shifting tones quite unlike how music is played in these lands.
“A little messy suits you,” Almer replies to Jyana with a knowing smile. “There is such a thing as -too- perfect. Don’t you agree, Ser Aidan?” Giving the famous Dornishman a pointed glance, the lanky young knight smiles a small, cryptic smile. Then he hears Reyna and the boy, glances over at them, and waves them to join the little group.
“And forgive me, ser,” Connington adds in answer to Aidan’s words. “It just seems odd to me. Now that Dorne has come to her senses, it seems a rather… awkward… choice of music for guests of His Grace, here in the King’s own city.” The words are mild enough, but there is a subtle challenge in the offhanded remark.
Reyna takes a moment to brush the boy’s tunic with a fussy hand, then leads him forward to the others where they gather around the harp. “Don’t like that,” the boy complains, wrinkling his nose.
Reyna slides her hand over his mouth as they walk, smiling and saying from the corner of her lips, “Hush, Tywell. Remember your manners.”
“Oh, then I’m rather safe,” Jyana tells Almer with a cheeky grin. “My curls have Uncle’s temperament, they do what they want no matter what I say or do.” She tugs on one in emphasis, and it straightens at the grasp of her fingers, but upon letting go, it springs back up, and out, and curls over another one. When Aidan situates the harp on his knee again, her attention is yet again caught, the tested tune on the vibrating strings capturing her ears.
Almer’s words cause her to look up, her eyes over the man’s hard profile at his words - but she says nothing, she only seems to observe him from where she stands. Her eyes then roam over to Aidan, and the cheery expression fades a touch.
“Perfection is only for the gods, or so the septons always taught me,” Ser Aidan says in agreement with Ser Almer, smiling easily at Jyana’s response to that. “There’s something to be said for the artful flaw that draws attention to the beauty it’s set against, whether in one’s appearance or in music.” He continues the Dornish tune, rapid plucks of the strings with the occasional error that in a forgiving crowd could be washed away by the rest. He does wince at them, it can be seen.
In the midst of it, at a brief slowing that calls for skirling pipes and the throb of drums, he gives the Connington knight a grave look. “Dorne is subject the King, ser, unless we are to call him liar. With Dorne comes our history, our heritage, our valor ... and indeed, our music. I do not think His Grace should take offense, regardless of what some lords and knights may be doing in the deserts and in the mountains.” His half-lowered lids obscure his expression, and he’s happy to turn his attention back to the harp as the tune picks up—but not before giving the protesting boy a quick grin, ruefulness in it.
“Let’s hope not.” Almer’s expression hardens just a touch at Aidan’s answer. “And let us hope that the King is more forgiving than some of his lords are.” He crosses his arms and looks down on the famed Dayne knight. “I have no particular animosity for your countrymen, despite the ills they have done me and mine. But as for others here…” He shrugs.
Reyna and Jyana both garner a quick wink. “Well, I suppose I should be off. If any of you find a little brass key, will you send word to me at my apartments? I’m afraid my squire has lost the key to his trunk, and has been borrowing clothes and boots for the last three days fearing a thrashing.” Almer laughs.
“Are you a -Dorne-?” the boy asks incredulously, staring at Aidan in the wake of his speech to Almer. “Did you kill me father?” And he puts chubby hands on his hips, brown eyes glaring.
Reyna gasps, horrified, and claps her hand over his mouth again. “Forgive him, Ser Aidan,” she says, looking up at the knight and his harp. “He has only just arrived, and has completely forgotten where he is.” Then, sweetly, “Off to see Keira, Ser Almer? Give her my regards.”
Her grin turns sheepish, but it’s gracious. “You’re very kind, Ser Aidan,” Jyana says with an honest smile, still tugging on one of said, messy tresses. She turns slightly when Reyna and her boy come into the circle, and her expression brightens. “Lady Reyna,” she addresses the Tyrell widow, eyes casting down to the boy with her. “Ah! One of your sons? He’s so handsome,” she says.
That is, until he says what he does. Oh dear.
A glance to Reyna, and then to Aidan, then to Almer who talks about a brass key. “I’ll do so if I find it,” she promises.
Music. Harp music, heated… and alive. Harpstrings throb beneath Aidan’s fingertips, and Dornish sentiment, in turn, throbs through the Great Hall, calling to those who know it like a clarion sound.
Thin fingers curl around the corner of the lintel, preceding the hand, the arm, and the body of Damarya Allyrion. As ever, she looks tiny inside the sagging, silvered gown. As ever, her tresses hang askew. Unusually, however, tonight she moves with a distinct purpose, sliding inside and immediately pressing her back and shoulders to the interior wall. Her face tips up, hair spilling to either side, and her closed-eyed expression seems to tremble, soaking in the music of a long lost desert home.
As Almer departs, he gives young Tywell Rowan a rough tousle of his hair. “Good lad. And if I see the Lady Keira, I’ll tell her you said hello,” he answers Reyna cannily. “Lady Jyana. Ser Aidan.” The strange woman in the silvery gown earns barely a glance. He turns in a swirl of glittering white, deep red and silver, and in a few long-legged strides he is gone.
“I will trust to the Hand’s promises, when others forget themselves or to whom they owe their duty. I certainly don’t forget where _my_ duty lies, here of all places,” the Knight of the Twilight says, not looking up from the harp as he does so. Is there a hint of heat there? Hard to say. It could just be the music, even as it abruptly stops at a child’s outburst.
“My reputation _does_ preceed me…” So does Aidan Dayne mutter, as the music comes to a sudden halt, the evocation of sultry Dornish nights and the call of the spear dance disappearing like a mirage before the setting sun. He inclines his head to Reyna at her apology and fixes a close regard on the boy. “I’m a Dornishman, true enough, young lord. But I would guess it’d have taken a better man than me to have done such a thing,” the Dornish knight says, speaking with exaggerated deference to the child.
Stepping into the great hall just then is also a somewhat infrequent visitor to the Old Keep. Even a good many months into her stay in King’s Landing, Aisling Ryswell is still more likely to be found near the stables if anywhere at all outside of her quarters. What might have brought here this evening is anyone’s guess, though it might be noted that her face is a little paler than usual even and her eyes a touch darker. She pauses, briefly, near to the entrance, and her gaze falls upon Damarya. The other woman is thoughtfully eyed for a little while, then she moves deeper into the hall, closer to where a few people are speaking with each other.
The beautiful song fades off, and the dream is torn asunder at the sudden halt, disappointment clear and plain on the Jewel’s face - but softens yet again in favor of looking at the mother and her son. The knight’s words are certainly deferential, and to her relief, heated words have not come to blows. And so she falls silent, watching Highgarden and Starfall for now, still with her arms folded behind her back.
“I…” begins Tywell, but his mother has hold of his ear in a trice. “You will return with Septa Dallia and have your dinner, young cur,” Reyna says reprovingly, before he can say anything else. As he turns him over to the septa’s firm grip, she smiles at Damarya before returning her attention to Aidan and Jyana. “It was a very interesting song,” she says diplomatically before nodding at the Jewel. “That’s Tywell. You can meet him properly when he’s had some sleep.”
Music, torrid and wonderful, and—over. “Ahoh.” The sound, almost a sob, escapes Damarya involuntarily when Aidan stops. A dark eye opens to the guttering torchlight, tracing from a distance the still arches of the harp as though silent prayers could induce it to play again.
“It would be a pleasure to do so, Lady Reyna,” the young knight responds, gracious as he always seems to be. He seems to start to play again, a string and then another plucked before Damarya’s sad exclaimation reaches him, and turns his attention her way. His expression flattens, making a mask of his face, and then after a pause he says a little over-loudly, “Good evening, Lady Damarya.” And then catching sight of another figure wandering by, and seems only to happy to add, “And Lady Aisling! Good evening to you as well.”
There’s a bit of relief there, for some reason.
The sound momentarily turns Aisling’s attention back to Damarya, a troubled look crossing her face, and she too seems a little relieved to have reason to look elsewhere as she finds herself spoken to. “Good evening, Ser Aidan,” she replies, moving a little closer still to where the Dornish knight sits. “I only just arrived, but from what I heard, you play well,” she politely adds, though her voice sounds vaguely distracted, as if her thoughts in part remain elsewhere. And it is only after a moment or two that she seems to take notice of the other ladies already present, and offers them a dip of her head and a murmured, “Good evening.”
Jyana snaps out of whatever thought she has managed to sink into by looking at both Aidan and Reyna, at the sound of a greeting intoned by an unfamiliar voice. Casting her eyes to Lady Aisling, she drops a curtsey in polite greeting. “My lady,” she replies softly, straightening up and smiling over at Reyna at what she says about Tywell. “I can’t wait, the poor thing must be tired,” she tells Reyna.
With a distant smile for Aidan, Reyna steps back and curtsies to Aisling, her murmured “My lady” echoing Jyana’s. Her smile broadens for the Jewel, however. “He’s exhausted from travelling,” she says, glancing at Aisling and Aidan, and then to Damarya. “Poor thing,” she whispers to Jyana, holding out her hand to the simple Dornishwoman.
Gazing up to see this ‘Lady Damarya,’ one of the embroidering lovelies near the Allyrion lets out a stifled squeak, scrambles to gather up her sewing, and herds her small flock of companions out the nearby door. To this and the rest of the pained looks and greetings she receives, however, Damarya seems oblivious. Even to Reyna. “Play on,” she implores Aidan. Her ruined face is sad, but quietly serious. One hand pressed to the wall behind her, another finds something nestled in the gray fabric at her breast, and clutches it tightly. “Please.” The soft alto voice breaks, trying to carry across the room to the Dayne. “Please, play on.”
Looking among the ladies after Damarya’s request, Ser Aidan seems distinctly conscious of the fact that there are others present when Damarya asks him to continue. After a pause, he offers a bare smile and says not with a little swiftness—and only a hurried glance to her, before looking away—“Of course, my lady. Not the spear dance, I make too many mistakes. Something easier ....”
He picks out some notes, seems to realize they’re not quite right, and tries again ... and so the harp signs out a rather cheerful tune, still incontrivertiably Dornish but not so energetic as before. “This is a piece of music the orphans play, as their boats ply the Greenblood,” the young knight remarks somberly, with another glance to the other ladies. “I can’t recall the words, I’m afraid.”
Aquamarine eyes roam over to where Damarya is, recognizing her instantly for the Allyrion lady’s description is rather distinct. The Jewel also watches as Reyna gestures to Damarya, a thoughtful expression on her face as she watches the two for a moment.
She does relax visibly when Aidan starts playing again. “A pity,” Jyana says softly, with a rueful smile towards the Dornish knight. “But perhaps the next time, you would be able to remember some of them. Still, it sounds lovely.” And cheerful too, she preferred happy music than melancholy ones, even if the latter could not be helped at times. It was evident on her face, her cheerful expression returning.
This time, Aisling does not look over to Damarya as the Dornishwoman speaks, but lets her attention linger on the small group of which Aidan and his harp has become the focal point. Her expression remains a little distant, a little troubled, but nevertheless she too seems appreciative of the music.
“Thank you, Ser Aidan,” Reyna says softly, seeming most sincere as she smiles at the Dayne knight. “Surely the Seven smile on so great a kindness.” It might be Dornish, but it seems that Reyna has put aside her personal opinions.
Aidan gives Reyna a solemn look at her murmured words, and dips his head in acknowledgment as he carries on with the music. The occasional sidelong glance to Damarya, to see how she’s receiving it perhaps, and otherwise he seems ... restless. He’s too young to be able to hide such things.
Aidan may not know or wish to provide the words, but someone else present does. She lets him have a verse of peace, but then… A single eye closing, Damarya’s small voice shakes over the simple children’s tune. Though her alto lacks skillful distinction, it pulses with feeling, and remembers the stroke of raft-poles and the sweetness of children.
“Flowing river, deep and strong,
Shines as bright as days are long.
ide the river, pole the mud,
Underneath me… flows… Greenblood.”
Her words breaking, the Allyrion heir turns her head to the side.
His restlessness, and the look on Aisling’s face, distracted and disturbed, does well to sober up Jyana’s usual cheerfulness - at times, perhaps, too empathic for her own good. “It really is,” she says, with one of her honest smiles towards the knight.
A shadow falls over the opposite doorway, the broad-shouldered, tall form of Ser Noel Upcliff easing his frame inside. He makes a bow, rigid and stiff as opposed to expected fluidity. “Ser. Ladies. Forgive the interruption.” Dark eyes fall on the Jewel. “Your cousin requests your presence. Immediately.”
“Uncle Jonothor…?” Jyana inquires, but the word ‘immediately’ confirms it for her. She eases herself away reluctantly, and she curtseys. “Forgive my hasty departure, but the hour calls me elsewhere. Good evening, my ladies, Ser Aidan.”
“Oh, good night, Lady Jyana,” Reyna says, breaking out of her reverie. “My regards to your lord Uncle.” She watches Damarya while she sings, then turns back to Aidan. “You’ve made her so very happy, ser. I think she isn’t happy very often.”
Surprise, perhaps, at Damarya’s offering up of a verse from the song. He looks full on her for a long moment, before lowering his eyes again. “Yes, that’s it. I don’t know how I could have forgotten it.” He plays on, acknowledging Jyana’s departure with a brief smile and nod of his head, and even Reyna’s words in a similar way ... but eventually, all good things must come to their end.
The music of the orphan’s draws to a natural close, and Ser Aidan flexes the fingers of his hand with a distinct impression of discomfort in the way they open and close. “I fear that’s be the end of it, at least for this evening. My fingers are stiff enough as it is from practicing in the mornings. Mayhaps some other time, ladies… ?” He stands then, tucking the harp under his arm.
Reyna watches Aidan closely, the way he looks at Damarya, and seems so uneasy. “It’s not her fault, you know,” she says gently. “You needn’t be afraid of her. Such folk are beloved of the Seven, or so my lady mother always said to me about my brother, Meryn.” Then she curtsies, smiling. “I look forward to hearing more of your interesting music.”
A strangled noise bursts from the madwoman - a laugh? A scream? It hardly sounds human, nor the flood of giggles that follow. Letting go of the object from her chest - something shiny that falls, dangling on a chain, back between the folds of the gown when released - Damarya clutches her fingernails into her palms and jerks her head up to stare at Reyna, her empty eye burning across the room while the other continues to pour forth tears. If a look could skewer, twist, and impale…
“Hah… Hahppy?” gasps Damarya, her fists turning white. “HAPPY!” A gale of laughter, and another choking wash of tears. “Do I look HAPPY to you, you moronic bitch?”
An unreadable look for Reyna, following what she says, and Aidan starts to respond when Damarya’s .. outburst follows. He almost jumps at it, and then his lips press together, thinning, and he looks like he’d prefer to be anywhere else. But he isn’t, and he is who he is, so…
“That was ill said, my lady,” he tells Damarya, with only a little faintness at the beginning. “Lady Reyna meant it kindly, however mistaken she may have been. You should return the courtesy.”
Clearly, Meryn Tyrell never acted this way. Reyna stares open-mouthed and white-faced at Damarya. “I… I didn’t mean…” she stammers, at a loss for words. What -does- one do when kindness backfires?
“Ill said? Ill said. Ill said. Our world is destroyed, oh, but that’s ill said.” Fury boiling over into her body, Damarya begins to pace, two steps left, two steps right, her gown dragging anxiously behind her. Her mouth, giggles and sobs punctuating every other word, seems to work independently of her now, pondering a litany that sends the spellbound women near her shrinking back into their clothes. “Dead, burned, bloody, buried, dying, screaming, weeping, wailing, howling, fighting, tearing, murdering, leaving everything everyone everywhere dead burned bloody buried dying screaming weeping wailing aiiiiAIIIIIIANNNNNNH!”
Suddenly Damarya turns and slams both her fists into front wall, screaming as she curls forward like a person stabbed. “_AAAAAAAAAAA_! Aii… ai…” Shaking. Crying too hard now to make any other sounds, the wrecked woman sinks into herself, and begins to stagger out the door.
Jyana stares at Damarya, her jaw dropped. Ser Noel is…far from pleased. Instead, he takes his charge’s arm, wheeling around to usher her out the door before she could see any more.
The nobility gathered in the hall are shocked by Damarya’s fit of sobbing and screaming. There’s a heavy silence in the room.
Mortified, Ser Aidan Dayne, scion of Starfall, the prodigious Knight of the Twilight ... gives Reyna a harried, sad look and then decides that the better part of valor is to absent himself. He takes to the stairs up into the solar, hoping to find .... well, something other than a madwoman, no doubt.
Red Keep: Old Keep
Large and airy, the great hall of the Old Keep was for a time the royal throne room in the days of Aegon the Conqueror. Now it has been turned into one of the chief gathering places for the nobility visiting the Red Keep. Fresh, sweet-smelling rushes cover the floor so that no rugs or carpets are needed. Two or three trestle tables, and sometimes more, are occasionally arranged with benches near to the walls to provide a place for tiles, dicing, or meals. A few old, carved chairs are gathered together in two of the corners of the rooms, suitable for small gatherings of noblewomen who which to embroider and discuss whatever they wish. A larger space in the center has been known to be used for dancing and various games that require room to maneuver. There are tapestries and banners upon the various walls, as well as a few trophies—some two dozen racks of antlers, and half a dozen great pairs of curving aurochs horns—from past royal hunts.
Torches and lamps lit and hearth blazing, the great hall of the Old Keep is relatively well-illuminated for those gathered here. Though there are shadows in the more distant corners, one can otherwise see clearly from one hand of the hall to another. When so lit, the hall is generally occupied with any number of noble guests whiling away the late hours at their own pleasure. Games, music, dancing, and more can be had along with the company.
The only way to exit is by the door leading to the hallway that eventually lead’s to the keeps entrance.
Outside it’s foggy and warm.