It is a lazy afternoon in the Gargalen apartments, or at least as lazy as Lady Joleta allows. The sea-facing windows are wide open in a vain attempt to capture a cool breeze off the water. The stone walls do provide some protection from the heat, enough to almost be called comfortable. Still, the servants have been dismissed during the heat of the day, leaving Lady Joleta a bit of quiet time.
The heiress of Salt Shore sits in the most comfortable chair in the room, propped up with pillows. Her left arm is bandaged and worn in a sling. There is some bruising on her forehead, another reminder of the day before. Sipping some chilled wine, Joleta is not comfortable, but does her best to ignore this.
At her feet, idly chewing on a bone from some animal, is her male hound, the lean sight-hunting variety she favors. Occasionally the dog looks mournfully at his bed, which has been usurped by his mate, a fawn colored female, and three small puppies.
This, apparently, is a surprise. Joleta sits up straighter and immediately regrets that sudden motion. Gesturing to the servant, “Show His Grace inside, if you please.” The Gargalen lady gets slowly to her feet to greet the arrival of the King.
The door is opened, and the servant moves out of the way for King Daeron to enter. Behind him can be glimpsed the grim features and broad-shoulders of Ser Halbert of the Kingsguard, but the knight remains outside of the room. Daeron pauses there at the entry way, taking in the room, its occupant, and the lean dogs at her feet with precise purple eyes. “Good afternoon, Lady Joleta,” he says, nodding his head slightly before gesturing with a negligent hand. “Please, sit. You have mending to do, the maester has told me.” Moving deeper into the room, he considers where to sit, but makes no motion to as he adds, “You’re feeling better, I hope?”
The dogs lift their heads to consider this newcomer, sniffing the air. But at a subtle gesture from the lady, both dogs relax. The mother returns her attention to her sleeping pups while her mate focuses back on his bone.
“Your Grace, be welcome here.” Joleta dips in a curtsey, gesturing with her good arm. “Please, take your ease. I will live, or so the maester tells me.” Resuming her own seat, she asks, “I will send for wine, as it please you.”
“You are gracious,” the king replies, manner and voice pleasant, “but it is only a short visit; you need not trouble himself.” He does, however, accept the proffered seat. Dressed well but not ostenatiously, with a circlet rather than the war-like crown of Aegon the Conqueror on his brow, the youthful Targaryen is as beautiful as the dragonlords have always been, and seems balanced on the verge of adulthood. Perhaps that fact explains his abruptness, when after a moment he starts, “I have visited with Ser Aidan. His mind is still rather clouded over what happened, but the maesters say he’ll mend soon enough. It is a shameful thing, for my guests to be attacked in my city. The men responsible ...” A quick, careless shrug of his shoulders and he says, “. . . are likely never to be discovered, for which I’m sorry. But Ser Richard will bring calm and order, he vows, and given time I’m sure this nonsense will be forgotten. You need not fear for your safety again.”
Joleta considers the Young Dragon’s words for a moment. “I am pleased to her that Ser Aidan recovers, Your Grace.” She says slowly, inclining her head. “I have been the recipiant of your generousity more than once. I am grateful for your many kindnesses.” She pauses then, as if choosing her words carefully. “This incident has disturbed me greatly… enough that I feel I must make known my concerns. While many of the knights and ladies have treated with my fellows with kindness or courtesy, there remains a vocal few that advocate a different sort of treatment. My people are proud, Your Grace, and would not come complain to you every time we are wronged. And while it remained an isolated instance of throwing offal or threat, we are content to bear it stoically. However, the peasantry takes their cues on how to react to us from the nobility. If some of your nobles openly call for our executions, how can the smallfolk not respond to it?”
Dark skinned, black eyed, with her unusually short hair and opulant silk, Joleta Gargalen looks both foreign and exotic. Still, there is a certain easy grace in her tone and her mannerisms that speaks to one born to the ruling caste.
A flicker of pale lashes in a few, too-swift blinks of the royal eyes reveal some emotion, but Daeron’s words are measured. “Ser Edmund’s execution . . . what happened was unfortunate,” he says, though clearly not speaking of the execution itself. “Emotions ran high. But I do not know that it would explain this latest unrest.” He pauses, searching for the words to continue, and in doing so betrays an uncertainty as to his argument. In the end he asks, “Those mischief-makers, did they say anything connecting them to one of my knights or lords?”
“There were many voices, Your Grace. Truth be told, I was a bit distracted at the time.” Joleta smiles, disarmingly, but continues in a serious tone, “The peasantry attacked nobility as well as their own City Watch. I am to understand that the brave knight who defended us so honorably is not expected to live.” A brief pause, “Your people have many reasons to be content, Your Grace. They are prosperous and victorious. A few hostages seeking to purchase bread is hardly a reason to touch off a riot.” Another pause, then, “What happened at Ser Edmund’s execution was not isolated, Your Grace. A single incident, high emotions as you say, urging the commoners to disobey your edict could be excused. As I said, I am not unmindful of Your Grace’s mercy. But what happened there was not the first time, nor the last. The peasants hear and witness this. And they follow the examples set by their betters.”
There’s a cool silence from the king at that, his eyes steady on the Dornishwoman throughout until at last he says, “I will bear what you said in mind. I fear I’ve overtaxed you, however, so I will take my leave.” He rises then, rather abruptly, his expression now a fixed mask rather than the malleable mirror of his mood from before.
Joleta moves to rise as the King takes his leave, “Please forgive me if any words of mine caused you offense,” She says quickly, “The past day’s events have been most distressing. I thank you for taking the time to call upon me and wish you well, Your Grace.”
The king’s nod is somewhat less gracious than when he entered, a curt gesture. “Of course. My thanks.” And with that, he’s gone, perhaps to visit the Tolands or Prince Cadan, or to consider what the Gargalen heiress has claimed.