Aidan
A pleasant afternoon, warm and sunny, yet it can hardly be felt here within the refectory of Maegor’s Holdfast—it often seems cooler here than it does elsewhere in the castle, thanks to the great thick walls. And it’s here that the aged Viserys, Hand and uncle to the king, has invited the Baratheon heir to join him. The refectory is not quite empty—young courtiers drink hippocras and trade stories in one corner, and a group of household knights dine and talk in gruff voices. But Viserys is alone at the high table, save for a pair of servants.
Tancred gives his attire the one last look over, brushing off any last hints on lint from his doublet. Take a deep breath, he squares his shoulders, swallows his anxiety, then steps into the room with confident and sure strides. He walks towards the high table, and gives a graceful and correct bow to the Hand. “Your Grace.” He says simply, waiting for the lord leave before straightening.
One of those servants must be a scribe, for he’s busily inscribing on a wax tablet as the prince dictates some matter to him. “... funds to raise fresh banners at Sandstone, and to dispatch them forthwith—” He pauses, when Tancred announces himself. The old Targaryen prince—silver-gold hair greyed with age, bushy brows like caterpillars, and a hard mouth beneath purple eyes and sharp nose—regards him and waves a hand, a greeting and an invitation all at once. “Ser Tancred. A moment, if you please—have some wine—” and then just lack that he returns to the letter. “—forthwith to the Prince’s Pass, to do as Ser Mavros knows to be needful. Signed, Viserys, Hand to Daeron the First of His Name, and all else that is proper.”
And then he turns back to his guest, those Valyrian eyes considering him with an uncomfortable scrutiny.
He pauses, when Tancred announces himself. The old Targaryen prince—silver-gold hair greyed with age, bushy brows like caterpillars, and a hard mouth beneath purple eyes and sharp nose—regards him and waves a hand, a greeting and an invitation all at once. “Ser Tancred. A moment, if you please—have some wine—” and then just like that he returns to the letter. “—forthwith to the Prince’s Pass, to do as Ser Mavros knows to be needful. Signed, Viserys, Hand to Daeron the First of His Name, and all else that is proper.”
One of those servants must be a scribe, for he’s busily inscribing on a wax tablet as the prince dictates some matter to him. “... funds to raise fresh banners at Sandstone, and to dispatch them forthwith—”
Tancred does his best to hold his outward composure under the Hand’s gaze, sitting down and taking a cup of wine. “Of course your Grace.” He says as he sits and waits for the Prince to be finished with his business. There is a bit of curiosity in his eyes as to what this summons was about. He takes a sip of wine, trying not to gulp in his inward nervousness, setting the cup down and waiting for his Highness.
The scrutiny continues a few moments. And then, direct as only a prince can be, Viserys remarks, “There’s been much gossip about your seeking a marriage contract to the benefit of yourself and your house, ser.”
Tancred takes a moment to compose his thoughts before answering careful. “I apologize your Highness if such has cause unrest. I can assure you all is not what it seems, and what other have taken for courting is not the case at all. A misconception of a Knight extending polite courtesy to Ladies of the court, nothing more.”
“Of course. I remember what it was like, to be young,” says Viserys, his smile cool as winter. “But one lady you have made few overtures to, despite your lord father’s commands. In fact, Lord Corwen has written to the king that you have begged off pursuing our fierce guest from Blackmont.” A longer pause, a finger stroking the edge of his goblet, and then he leans forward a little. “The Lord of Storm’s End has not been entirely forthcoming with you, ser. This is not merely a notion of his, this wooing. It is done with the king’s consent. He is desirous that you woo the lady, as only the heir of a great house can do.”
Tancred slowly turns the wine cup on the table. “Highness, she does not want to be wooed, she wants to marry her Knight, Sir Kay, and have children, and is most insistent upon that. Would it not be wise to allow her this? It might make her more amendable around the keep, and less prone to start an…incident with others.”
Viserys shrugs his shoulders, and with that banishes the notiong that he might care. “Trivial matters. The lady is the king’s hostage. She will do as she is told, or suffer the consequences. These Dornish are, to be sure, difficult,” he remarks, before taking a swallow of wine. “They do not bend easily. But still. She is here, a hostage. And you are the heir to Storm’s End, and it is the king’s hope that you will make plain your intent to be Lord of Blackmont as well through your pursuit. It’s a rich prize, for an heir whose father is still hale and hearty.” Lord of Blackmont? The outlaw Lord Andrey runs amok in the Prince’s Pass, to be sure. But it is Valeria’s elder brother, Ser Arrant, who stands as his heir… or does he?
Tancred does pick up his wine cup now and barely manages to suppress the urge to gulp. Again he is careful, knowing full well he is stepping into the realm of politics beyond his kin. “And what of the Lady Valeria’s brother, Ser Arrant? I understand your position Highness, and that of the King’s, but I just wish to be sure what it is that is being asked of me. Such things would not be popular in some circles, and would paint me in a…disadvantageous position with others, even bordering on dangerous.”
A thick brow arches, but Viserys weighs his answer to that. A slow sip of wine fills the time. Then he says, “Well, it shall soon be known that the king—who has been more than gracious with these outlaws, hoping that the gods would grant them the wisdom to lay down their arms and accept his peace—is preparing to attaint them.”
He lingers on that word, which encompasses such much in such a little space—the loss of lands and titles and wealth. But then Viserys adds, “Them ... and their heirs; Manwoody and Blackmont both have elder sons. But Dorne is not unused to women inheriting. A suitable suitor shall be needed for Ivalla Manwoody, but all in good time. It is Blackmont that concerns us most. So. Woo her, ser, and leave no doubt of your intentions. She will bend soon enough, when she sees the king is most royally adamant.”
Tancred is again silent. The decision can clearly be seen warring in his eyes. To do what his heart desire, to obey a lawful command. It was a close battle, but in the end, his training and up bringing win out. Tancred is a Knight of the realm, heir to the Great Stag and one day will be the next Storm Breaker. He will do his duty, as is commanded of him. He bows his head deeply to the prince. “As you command Highness, so I shall obey.”
“I expected no less, ser,” says Viserys, lined face smiling his thin smile. “You will do honor to your house, and to your king. Perhaps matters will even be agreeable to you, given time for it all to come to fruition.” And with that, he seems to be done with his refreshment. Setting down his goblet after a last sip, he turns to one of the servants and with a gesture sends him to start clearing the table. He rises. “A good day to you, ser. If there is any help you need in your pursuit, send word to the king’s steward; doubtless he can be of assistance. Let the Dornish see how fine our chivalry is.”
Recognizing a dismissal when he hears one, Tancred rises, and gives another correct and graceful bow to the Prince. “I shall your Highness, if I have need that is. A good afternoon to you and yours, and I thank you again for taking your time this day to meet with me.” Once his exit bow is acknowledged, he straightens and walks out, somehow managing to maintain his composure till he is out of sight of all.