Yesterday was balmy and fine, with blue skies and air made to be inhaled deeply with its scents of western fields. But that was yesterday. Today, the air is heavy and still and somehow ominous. No shadows cross the Red Keep, and there is no respite from the humidity to be found anywhere out of doors.
Still, for all that the weather is not the most inviting, there is plenty of activity to stir a breeze in the western yard of the Red Keep. A half-dozen carts have rumbled up from the docks, and their tenders have set them up almost as market stalls to display exotic wares from the Free Cities.
Four of the carts are committed to cloth: sandsilks, watered silks, silks both ethereal as gossamer and rich as velvet. They are displayed in every hue imaginable, though one cart is reserved for reds and blacks alone. There is samite and vetiver, narrow furs for trimming and ribbons of every stripe. Myrish lace pours like cream over hooks and out of boxes. Jewels and gold are in the last two carts. Necklaces and headpieces and bracelets for wrists and upper arms, girdles, shoe buckles, rings and earbobs, fine enough to drape the most noble of body parts.
All this wealth is heavily guarded by sellswords from all over the east. Massive Braavosi swords hulk near the jewels, and a pair of lithe waterdancers move from cart to cart among the more stalwart of their brethren. There is even an ebon-skinned guard from the Summer Isles, set to contrast the jewel shades of silk with his feathers and the sheen of his skin.
Gathered to watch the glittering parade of exotic goods, it seems half the court has turned out to watch from a safe distance as Ser William Waxley, the royal steward, speaks with a fat-bellied merchant as they inspect the items and decide what will be bought and what will go on to be sold to other lord and ladies. A small army of factors trail behind, inscribing figures into wax tablets, comparing figures and making faces at the cost of this or that. It’s a long and drawn-out process, but not without entertainment.
Courtiers chatter away, looking on enviously at some of the finer things, or making jests at strange objects that do not quite match Westerosi tastes. There are Dornish hostages here and there, and Ser Aidan is among them, with them standing out in his Dornish robes. For once, though, there are more exotic things in the outer yard, and they earn little attention. His cousin Tanyth is with him.
“This wedding shall be grander than Prince Maron’s, by the looks of it,” says the Knight of the Twilight.
“Oh, I would wager so. I think it is called delusions of grandeur,” replies Tanyth, her voice rather heavily laced with sarcasm. Still, she can’t help but to be interested in some of the wares being put on display. The lovely silks, for one thing, not the least the ones that appear far too thin for decency. “Perhaps I shall have to have something made for the wedding from that,” she suggests to her dear cousin, indicating one of the very thin silks. Dark eyes then settle on him as she smiles, waiting expectantly for him to show discomfort at her suggestion.
Not even the self-proclaimedly apathetic Valeria Blackmont can keep away from a spectacle like this. She stands on the fringe of the Dornish, in a gown that for once looks as if it was made especially for her. “Was his very grand?” she asks in spite of herself, inching closer to Aidan. “I’ve never seen anything like all this fuss.” She glances at Tanyth, looking unsure how to react herself.
Thumping the jewel cart with his fingers, Ser Harstyn Tully is to be seen, seeing the large and very keen blade gripped firmly by the Braavosi in front of him. He brushes his throat with the back of his palm, grinding his teeth to the thought of receiving ventilation capabilities far superior to his own. He eyes a wonderful sapphire necklace for his significant other with his left eye, still on guard with his right eye fixed on the sword.
Seriously risking wall eye, he rather cheerfully asks the rather queerly dressed merchant, “How much for the sapphire necklace, my good man?”. “For you, ser, only 5 stags”, the queer responds, a sly smile in the corner of his lips, his hand stroking his uneven moustache. “I’m not sure I would part you from it for more than 2. The stones are frightfully small and the chain doesn’t have its require sheen”.
The merchant was startled by the impeccable guess the man made about the worth of the necklace, but still tried to get the best of him by saying, “Only 2 stags, my good ser? How am I to feed my young ones at the end of the day?”. “They’ll probably be fast asleep when you get back anyway”, Ser Harstyn jested. “I bid you good day, and please give my regards to your fasting children”, he said, taking off.
“Wait. Wait!”, the merchant yelled running after the ser, putting the necklace in his hand and squeezing it tightly. “Two stags it is”. Harstyn thanked him, gave him an extra stag “for the children” showing his recognizable smile and strolled away whistling a merry tune, proud at himself.
Ser Aidan frowns at the silk Tanyth points out ... and seems pleased when Valeria speaks, giving him a reason to say, “Oh, it was very grand. The tourney took three days, and the feasts never seemed to end. I went with my uncle to see it.” A touch of sadness creates a pause before that last sentence, and then he watches the Tully knight haggle for his prize. “He seems pleased with himself. I wonder what he purchased… Oh, Lady Valeria, have you a thought on that silk Tanyth pointed out? She seems to think it would be suitable for the wedding celebration” he asks, with just a hint of incredulity ... but just a hint, when it comes to his black-tempered cousin.
“And you do not seem think so, cousin dear,” remarks Tanyth, wryly amused as she so often is when given a chance to plague her cousin with actions or statements that affect his composure. “Perhaps the bride should have her gown made from it? Though I daresay the groom might keel over in the sept then. Its amazing, really, but he is actually more pious than you, Aidan.” A sweet smile for her cousin, and then she casts an idle glance at some of the others who have come out to peruse the wares on offer.
Valeria follows Aidan’s gaze to the silk in question, narrowing her eyes a little. “It’s a very loose weave,” she says dubiously. “It wouldn’t wear well at all, I’m afraid. You’d be better off choosing a good sandsilk, lady,” she adds to Tanyth. “It would last you far longer, and you wouldn’t have to worry about the seams ripping out.” A weaver’s answer.
“It is a very pretty color, though,” she offers suddenly with a hesitant smile. Then she seems taken aback at the lady’s suggestion that the bride wear it, and looks swiftly away toward Harstyn and his necklace.
Eye contact with Ser Aidan Dayne made Harstyn remember the last time he saw him, his recollection restricted to nettle tea, a bruise and boredom. His whistling stopped abruptly as his eyes widened. Trying to determine the circumstances of their meeting, his head hurt. Thus, he decided to approach the knight with the usual Tully warmth.
“Good day, my ladies”, he said, manners first and foremost, continuing with a nod, “Ser Aidan.”
Idle message from Harstyn: Getting ready for a Korpiklaani concert.
“Lady Valeria has good, practical advice, cousin. I think you’d do better to save your coin for something ... else, in any case,” says Ser Aidan, just this side of gritting his teeth at Tanyth’s jibes. A breath, two, and then he says aloud at the passing Ser Harstyn, “Good day to you, ser. Did they say if they had any of the green wine of Myr when you were there? Did you see any among the wagons?”
“Of course, my lady, it seems to be their most highly sought item”, Harstyn informed her with a short nod. “Sadly, I have already robbed the man of one of his possessions, it would hardly be just for me to steal another”, he laughed, referring to not his skillful lawbreaking, but haggling instead.
Valeria blinks at Harstyn, then takes a step back toward the protection of the other Dornish. She looks around at Tanyth again and asks, “Will you have something made for the wedding, then?”
“Do you think so, ser?” Aidan asks, smiling at Harstyn’s glib pleasure in his bargaining. “I’ve heard Braavosi merchants are some of wiliest in the Free Cities. You might find you gave him a tidy profit, if you take it to one of the city’s own merchants for a valuation.” In some other knight, such a remark would be a bit of perversity, to plant doubts. In Aidan, it seems guileless, on the other hand. “What are your own intentions for the wedding, Lady Valeria? I had thought to—pardon, Ser Harstyn, but as you see, we were talking about garb for the wedding—I had thought perhaps my court garb would do, but perhaps Tanyth is right and I should have something new made. Something _appropriate_, of course.”
Ser William and the head merchant fall to bargaining rather loudly over a magnificent helm shaped by some cunning art—in Qohor, one gathers, from what one of the translators says—to look like a dragon’s head, teeth and horns and scales and all. “Twenty-five dragons? I could have three tourney suits for that, Master Adorno,” Ser William remarks, shaking his head. “The king would be very pleased to have it, but not for so much. Half that, maybe—what? Not even a dragon less?” Ser William turns his attention to one of the factors, and leans towards him to whisper a query, and receive a query back ... and then with a twitch of his half-cloak, he dismisses it. “On to something else, Master Adorno. We can revisit this later. There’s the matter of some silks, and some of the ladies of the princesses are here to review what you have. Will you attend them?”
Tanyth makes some flippant remark regarding her plans for the wedding gown—her remarks are often so—and then, seeing some of the court ladies moving in on the wagons, decides it’s high time she take a closer look; that she is not part of one of the royal households, unlike all the rest, does not seem to phase her, and her reputation leaves the ladies doing no more than give her some wary looks before trading pointed whispers with one another.
Valeria looks rather taken aback to be asked about clothes. “Unless the King decides to dress us again, I shall wear this,” she says, spreading the skirts of her gown. “I’ve had no need for court dress, since Arrant always goes. If I’m lucky, no one will think to make me go at all.” She looks from Aidan to Harstyn in bemusement. “Did you say -green- wine?” she asks finally.
Valeria
A sheen of gold prevents her skin from being northern-fair, but her black hair and dark, black-fringed eyes mark her heritage as surely as her name. Her face is an oval haloed by this unruly raven hair, which is carelessly gathered into a long plait from which corkscrew curls escape at random. Her lips are full and appear soft, naturally reddish in hue to complement her skin.
She is tall, and will never be a willow-wisp maiden such as northern girls are. No, she is well-muscled, generously curved, and carries herself with a grace that seems almost more athletic than womanly. She is wearing a gown today that fits for once, and glows a tawny shade of coppery-gold. There is not a great deal of embroidery or anything like to embellish it, but the shifting hue compliments her skin and the cut of it hugs her body like a well-made gown ought to.
Talking to Aidan, Harstyn concludes, “Be that as it may, Ser Aidan, rest assured my wife, Eldacey, will love it. That’s all that counts”. Still gleaming with success, he listens in on the conversation concerning the wedding attire and responds to Valeria with a goofy and distant look in his eyes, “That’s what I heard”, turning his head over to Aidan with a questioning twist of the lip.
Ser Aidan starts to respond. “Yes, my lady. They call it ... nectar, I think. Or perhaps that’s what the poets call it. It’s—” Ser Harstyn’s interjection brings him to a halt, and he turns violet eyes on the riverlord. “Did I hear you rightly, ser? That the king will have a wardrobe made for the Dornish hostages for the wedding?” The Knight of the Twilight, standing with the rigid precision that he usually does, seems a touch more rigid with affront. “I had not heard ...” Yes, he’s not best pleased; once was enough, he’s doubtless thinking.
“I won’t.” Valeria sets her jaw stubbornly. “I’d rather find another cellar than deck myself out in odious colors to please him. But I think—” and here she indicates Harstyn with a twitch of her chin “—that he was talking about the green wine. I’d like to try some of that, I think.”
“Let me try and get a glass for you”, Harstyn nearly promises and goes to the same merchant again. The man is in the middle of opening a bottle of wine for himself. When he tilts it to drink, Harstyn interrupts his gesture by tilting the bottle down again. “Excuse me, my good man, there is a lady there who would be delighted to try some Myrish green wine, if possible”, he manages to maintain a decent, yet demanding tone.
“Of course, my ser”, the merchant replies, remembering the rather poorly sold necklace. He pours Harstyn a glass, which the knight then brings back to Valeria, offering it courteously to her.
“Oh!” Ser Aidan says when Valeria corrects him, and he blushes at the error. “My pardons, Ser Harstyn. I suppose I am rather ill at ease with the wedding preparations. It is hard to know what is expected of us…” He comes to an uneasy halt, and seems happy to seize the opportunity to discuss the green wine of Myr. He clears his throat and says, “As I said, it’s called nectar, or at least the poets call it that. Prince Cadan mentioned it to me once, some time ago, as having a very fine taste. I thought perhaps a bottle might be had…” Ser Harstyn goes off to fetch a sample, poured into a little glass, and Ser Aidan is quite interested when it’s offered to Valeria. “You must say how it tastes, my lady! It’s good to know they have some, at least, but better still to know what price it’ll be worth.”
Standing with the lady companions of Princess Elaena, though clearly on the periphery, Rosalind Hill looks on. The bastard girl appears rather preoccupied, as has been her custom these last few months. That, coupled with the fact that she is only barely tolerated by the true born ladies, Rosalind is largely quiet, occasionally responding in short answers.
Valeria stares at the cup for a long moment before taking it with a very quiet, “Thank you, ser.” She nods once to Aidan before sipping it carefully. She takes about half, then licks a drop from her lip. “Gods,” is all she says, holding the rest out to the Knight of the Twilight. “It’ll be worth far more coin than I could gather. It’s lovely!”
That said she smiles again at the Tully knight. “Thank you. It was very kind of you to do.” The words sound rusty on her tongue, as if she is unaccustomed to gifts in general, and specifically from accepting them from Westerosi knights she has never met.
When Harstyn sees the familiar face of Rosalind, he waves to her, smiling widely. Never truly fancying wine, the knight recoils an inch when Valeria tastes it, but is glad to hear she finds it to her taste. “No more than it was a pleasure, my lady”, he assures Valeria, accepting her gratitude.
“Are there any news concerning the wedding, my ladies and ser?”, Harstyn asks, dangling his head from left to right in a general manner.
“If it’s so good, I fear the king’s steward is unlikely to let it pass him by,” Ser Aidan says, a rueful smile touching his lips. “But perhaps I should remain hopeful. If I manage a small cask or even just a pair of bottles, lady, ser, perhaps you’d join me—and my cousins, of course—for a meal? We rarely keep any other company, and I’m finding that I miss it. We might talk about the wedding, perhaps, and share what information we have?” His invitation made, he looks on, craning his neck a little to see who’s bargaining over the contents of the wagon from which the wine came. His attention, then, is drawn to the ladies of the court hovering about the wagons with so many fine cloths and silks, where he glimpses Tanyth boldly moving about and considering only the sheerest cloth. Another reason, it seems, for his expression to be rueful.
“There’s poor Mistress Rosalind,” he says, voice lowering a little. “Still no word of her betrothed, I’ve heard. Nor Ser Lormon, it’s said, no word of him from the kingswood. A serving man assured me there were hungry ghosts to blame.”
“He certainly seems to have disappeared,” Valeria replies, finishing the little glass of wine and holding the cup back out to Harstyn. “That fellow, the northern one who went haring off into the Kingswood, came back yesterday dragging some scrappy bandit along with him.”
She looks back to Aidan then, and blushes, wonder of wonders. “I would, ser,” she says in answer to his invitation, “if my brothers approve. They’re rather protective lately.”
Rosalind catches sight of Ser Harstyn’s wave and gives the Tully knight a little smile, inclining her head in greeting. Her attention is not held by the ladies and their commiseration of different shades of samite, so she beings to work her way over to the Riverlander knight.
“You are correct, ser. My men tell me the other half, usually under Ser Endros, hasn’t managed to find or even hear any news of the Bucklers”, Harstyn replies, whispering and keeping an eye out for Rosalind approaching.
“About the invitation, I would be more than happy to accept it. With either the accompaniment or, sadly, leave of lady Valeria”, Harstyn smiles and turns on his charms, seriously lacking in originality.
“Who can blame them, my lady?” Ser Aidan says, now with an easy smile on his lips. “They might join us as well; I see little of Ser Arrant outside of the practice yard.” So, invitations made, Aidan nods his head to Harstyn’s news of the search for Endros Buckler, and only then notices the approaching Rosalind. He offers her a nod. “Mistress Rosalind. Have Princess Elaena’s companions found silks to suit the little princess?”
“The debate continues, ser.” Rosalind replies to the Knight of Twilight, dipping a curtsey. “I have no doubt that something lovely will be selected. There are many unique wares to be had, tis hard to know where to begin.”
“He says that Tanyth looks too like Lilya,” Valeria replies to Aidan, shaking her head. “He won’t admit it pains him to see her, but I wager he’ll accept as well. We all keep too much to ourselves, because of Father.”
She falls silent then, watching the choosing of cloth with an odd, almost wistful expression. “How much,” she asks Harstyn suddenly, “d’you suppose it would cost to make a gown of such fine silk?” 5r
“Oh, I’m afraid I’m in no shape to assess a price of anything anymore, my dear lady Valeria. The haggling is making each number imaginable just float around in my mind”, Harstyn responds, half of it bearing truth. “But I can assure you it is more than a worthy match of many a salary for the deputy warden of the Kingswood”, he chuckles, looking forward to attaining his first 35 stags.
“I think such a material would look splendid on you, if you would care to wear it, my lady”, Harstyn tries the charm again, this time with perhaps a slightly better gimmick.
“Yet Ser William seems to be moving through it with brisk purpose,” Aidan says in response to Rosalind, tracking the royal steward as he points, briefly bargains, and then has serving men in Targaryen livery carry off this bit of finery or that other. He’s drawing nearer to the wagon with the casks of wine, and the Dornish knight is clearly interested in that one’s fate. Valeria’s remark wins his attention back, and he nods gravely. “Of course. The Toland looks. I hadn’t thought. Well, let him know he would be very welcome.” The reference to Ser Andrey, he lets fall by the wayside, when a Tully and a Lannister bastard are in ear shot.
“My brothers will know if we’ve coin enough for a new gown,” Valeria says to Harstyn, shrugging. “Anyway, I’ve hardly worn this one, and it’s very fine. Like as not we’ve the coin to dress it differently, and no one will be the wiser. Or care.” She dawdles along behind Aidan, also eyeing the wine. “I will tell him,” she assures the Dayne knight.
Harstyn follows Aidan and Valeria, pondering whether or not to ask his new merchant friend for a glass of the green wine. After all, that does sound good, though he doesn’t really fancy wine… While thinking about it and weighing out the pros and cons, he jokes with Aidan, “Where do you keep the food and cousins. Not necessarily in that order of importance, of course”.
An odd look is flashed Harstyn’s way, but Ser Aidan responds perfectly civily, “Fortunately for us, the castle’s kitchens provides our meals for the most part. As to my Toland cousins, they’ve their own quarters in the Dornish Tower, ser. Hostages have little choice in where they sleep, though the chambers are as good as anyone else’s, I suppose.” Just then he catches sight of Ser William finishing up his haggling with the merchant, and a team of servants start to haul out one cask of wine after another, carrying it off to the cellars ... and then when they’re done, there’s still a handful of casks left.
“If you’ll excuse me? With luck there’s some of that Myrish wine left.” A brief sketched bow, and then he’s off, and not a moment too soon; a number of knights and lords have the same idea.
Valeria continues to eye the cloth wistfully; then she sighs instead and bobs a curtsy to Aidan. “I must go as well,” she says to the Tully. “Thank you again for the wine. Perhaps I will see you when we dine with Ser Aidan.” Another of those awkward little curtsies and then the Blackmont girl is away, her hands fists at her sides and her gaze firmly fixed on the Dornish Tower beyond the yard.
While the party was moving toward Ser Aidan’s promises of food and wedding information, a knight rides in on a galloping horse and yells his soul out, “Ser Harstyn! The Warden of the Kingswood requires your immediate audience!”. Wondering what might have happened to bestir the Stormbreaker so, Ser Harstyn demands from the officer of the Kingswood, “Where do I meet him?”. The response comes as quickly as it goes, “His office, with haste!”
Harstyn yells a command at the knight, “Dismount, right now!”. Starting toward the horse, he says goodbye to Valeria and Aidan and jumps swiftly on the newly procured mount, riding off.