A grey day in Dorne, and almost cool as autumn has settled in. There are, as usual, lords and ladies, knights and maidens, gathered here and there in the Sandship’s hall, enjoying repasts, games, music, and more. And gossip, there’s always gossip and rumors… and presently, there’s more of that than is usual.
And some of it moves about the hall in a strange pattern, dogging the heels of Prince Rhodry, who seems oblivious of some of the looks and whispers aimed his way.
A week has passed since the return to Sunspear of a portion of those who went with Prince Marence to Yronwood, Samara Sand among them. A week that she has largely spent away from court, though today she is present. Her father is as well, but that has been the case ever since his return. She is dressed in robes again, no sword at her side, and she is speaking with a pair of ladies though her attention is wandering elsewhere.” to Tamara.
Caitrin Dalt has been a non-entity at court for some days, ill, some say. Vexed with the Sand Dog, say others. But she is wearing his colors today as she sweeps through the feasting hall with a servant, the latter carrying scrolls. “Take those to Ser Perros at once,” she says, stopping when she is offered wine. “He is waiting to receive them. And say that I will come in the morning.”
Cup of wine and hand, Prince Rhodry seems almost personable, pausing now and then at the margins of conversations to listen and watch and interject—but that’s the sort of thing to make one nervous, and that fact can be seen in how some respond. So perhaps it’s no surprise that he ends up nearer more familiar faces near the entry… or perhaps it’s merely that he’s preparing to leave.
“Ladies,” he says aloud—to Caitrin, to Samara and her companions, though there’s no bow to go with that greeting. And then turning to Catrin the prince says with a smile, “I’ve never known reading to do a man much good. Are you hurrying your grandfather to the grave, Lady Caitrin?”
Hair coiled up in array of twists and buns and secured to the back of her head with a length wire, Tamara Fowler enters the Feasting Hall of the Sandship. Ruby sheer robes over beige sandsilk hugs her form. A soft jingle can be heard from her every step as she makes way to the nearest servant to gain herself a cup of wine. A thin milky skinned maid follows the lady’s step; Tamara turns from the servant and notes the many faces in the room, swinging her catlike gaze to the loud voice of Prince Rhodry that sweeps through the room.
The conversation grows more hushed with the prince’s approach, Samara’s attention firmly drawn away from her present company. Her eyes go to Caitrin first, however, favouring the other woman with a polite smile. Then she looks to Rhodry, fixing her gaze firmly on him. “Have you known many men to die from being crushed by stacks of scrolls and books, I wonder?” she asks, her tone almost pleasant, if a little airy. She glances past him then, noting the arrival of Tamara as well.
“Or is he hurrying me to mine?” rejoins Caitrin without missing a beat. “He tasks me, my prince, and I but obey. He will only look at the tallies and be sure I have done as I said. Mistress Samara, Lady Tamara,” she adds, bending her dark head so that the white braid at her left temple swings freely.
Rhodry turns to see the other entry to the hall, black eyes on Tamara Fowler for a moment before he lifts his goblet and takes a drink. “I suppose I could as rightly say I’ve never known dancing to do a man much good, either,” Rhodry says as he turns back to Caitrin and Samara. “Though there are women more capable of crushing a man than there are books, I’ll grant.” A twist of his thin lips at that, half-smirk and half-grimace. “Dull things, books and scrolls,” he pronounces, with a shrug.
Cling, cling, cling, goes the sound of Tamara’s jewelry as she slowly makes way for the gathered group of nobles. A dip of her head and a smile before she speaks, “My prince, Mistress Samara, Lady Caitrin.” raising her eyes upward she chuckles lightly at the ladies words. “Perhaps, Lady Caitrin, a bit of both. Is there ever a time when you are not without some missive or parchment?”
The corner of her mouth quirks up in a sort of grin as she raises a glass. “Why, my prince, of course dance does a man good. I have known it to help with nimbleness and flexibility. Not to mention strength of legs if you do it enough.“Taking a sip of wine Tamara quirks a brow to his comment on crushing then chuckles lightly, “Of course there is always the chance of that happening, though I should hope rare.”
“I have come to understand that third sons in Westeros are often destined for the Faith or the Citadel. Did your father ever consider that, I wonder?” Samara asks of Rhodry after he’s made his pronouncement. The two women she had been speaking to have withdrawn, one of them having cast a glance at Rhodry and then whispered something to her friend. “Lady Tamara,” Samara then greets the new arrival, dipping her head. There’s a certain scrutiny to the way she regards the other woman, if only for a moment.
“Dull indeed, but necessary to keep my prince in wine and song,” Caitrin replies blandly. “I do the reading so my prince does not need to.” Her gaze on Tamara is lazy and her brows raised as she gives a laconic smile. “Why, yes, I am often without missive or parchment, but I do have ambitions, and alas, one must work to fulfill ambitions. I must restrict my time spent in acts of crushing, must I not?” She slants her blue eyes at the Prince again, and Samara’s suggestion of the Citadel makes them gleam with suppressed mirth.
An insouciant shrug of his shoulders—every lady seems to be against him, after all—and Rhodry merely responds to it all by glancing at Samara and saying, “It was Marence that went to the Citadel, for a time. Very bookish, as they say. He did admire the Yronwood library before we left. And so here we all are.” A cutting smile at that, edged, a little knife in his brother’s back for his being… well, not the warlike prince that might have put Lady Yronwood in her place.
If Samara scrutinized Tamara she did not notice, or care to anyway. She plainly dips her head to the woman in return greeting and turns to Caitrin. “Aye, my lady. I do not doubt that.” She grins widely, “No, I should think acts of crushing to be disadvantageous, at the very least holding potential to hinder productivity.” as the Rhodry speaks of Marence, Tamara looks to him with a brief yet queer look of confusion.
“Indeed, here we all are, once again. Not so different from before,” replies Samara, though there’s a note of unease in her voice that was not present before; perhaps it is bringing up the expedition to Yronwood that has done it? Either way, she forces a polite smile once more, one hand lifted to adjust the amber necklace around her throat. “Though I have seen little of your brother since we returned. And of my own father, too. Busy days, it would appear.”
“La, our Prince is bored!” Caitrin exclaims over the rim of her wine goblet. “We must entertain him. What will it be, milord? We have a dancer, as you see.” She gestures at Tamara with a graceful flick of her wrist, a sapphire ring catching the light as she does so. “Will you see her dance? Or do you desire other amusement? Or,” she adds, looking toward Samara, “we could discuss the state of the court.”
“I let others worry about such things,” says the erstwhile Keeper of the Tower of the Sun, before he takes another swallow of wine. Rhodry never has made much of the office, unlike his predecessor Prince Cadan, and it’s whispered all the real work has been in the hands of Elysa Dayne. Glancing between the ladies, at Caitrin’ suggestion he smiles a different smile, one that shows teeth; it’s not particularly pleasant. “I did say that dancing never did a man much good,” he says, and then to Tamara adds, “though it’s true that it has its advantages.”
Tamara is at a daze for the moment, somewhat lost on the conversation of the expedition to Yronwood. Though it is not long for Caitrin to chime in and catch her attention, she blushes slightly. Tamara protests, “My lady, this is hardly the place… there is not enough… It is not proper to… and I have not done the spear dance in quite some time, and never alone… I..” Visibly she deflates, her posture faulters slightly. She is flustered enough to where the words get stuck in her throat, a sigh of relief as Rhodry refuses the idea. She sends him a thankful glance over her wine glass and takes a sip.
“You should start a war, lady Caitrin. That never fails to amuse him,” suggests Samara, tilted eyes shifting from her to Rhodry and then back again. As for the suggestion of dancing… it leads her to another mildly curious look at Tamara, then a slight shrug as the matter appears concluded. “I am not greatly fond of boredom myself—who is?—but it is not unpleasant to be back…in Sunspear.” It almost sounds as if she was about to say something else instead.
Caitrin raises a brow at Tamara. “Even -I- can spear dance. Are there no others you might perform?” But her heart is not in baiting the Fowler, clearly, for the jibe lacks its usual acidity. “Nevermind, darling. You will not be called on to dance any dance at all.
Caitrin raises a brow at Tamara. “Even -I- can spear dance. Are there no others you might perform?” But her heart is not in baiting the Fowler, clearly, for the jibe lacks its usual acidity. “Nevermind, darling. You will not be called on to dance any dance at all. Good evening, my prince. Mistress Samara. Lady.” She makes the prince a curtsy and then she is gone.
Caitrin Dalt’s departure does, at last, give Rhodry something to be amused about. “I wonder if she heard Ser Laurent whistle,” he muses aloud, before he chuckles.
Taking a deep breath Tamara nods, “Yes, Mistress Samara, boredom is almost never enjoyable. Though I should say, it has no place in court, idle tongues say the foulest of rumors. They start more trouble than busy ones, this is true.” She smiles at the woman before turning to Caitrin, “I can bet, but I have done not, as of late, but teach a young girl how to dance formal dances. I am afraid I have not had time to partake in dances that are of my own pleasure.” she nods, “So it would seem, my lady. For that, I am almost grateful.” With a dip of her head as Caitrin makes her leave, “Good day, my lady.” She watches the woman leave and gives a covered mouth chuckle to the princes words.