Ravens have flown, couriers have ridden—the Prince of Dorne goes to war. The Old Palace is a hive of activity, and the shadow city is restless as men from the castle seek out men to arm with spears. Away at Planky Town, it says ships have been seized for the war. And here in the Tower of the Sun? A rare chance for Prince Marence to catch his breath, to not be swarmed by courtiers and knights and maesters. He stands, attended by a few palace guards who stand a discreet distance away, at a window, looking down at the spread of Sunspear below.
Most of the movement in the tower is that of frenzied commotion, each going about their business with utmost haste, though there’s a small bubble of calm that moves up the stairs as the goers and comers make way for the Princess Ariana, whose slow, measured steps are quite at odds with the rest of those around her. Her face is grave, eyes scanning the activity around her, searching each face. She continues up, and then further up, each step falling heavily onto the hard stone floor, quite different from their usual light touches.
Finally, her gaze falls on her brother, and she pauses, regarding him silently for a moment. She seems on the brink of a decision, though after another instant, she continues forward, laying a hand on his arm as soon as she’s close enough. “Brother.”
The guards bow to the princess, and let her by, but for the discreet sound one makes to let the prince know that someone approaches. Broken out of his revery, he turns just as Ariana speaks, and so he smiles. “Sister,” Marence says in reply. He looks ... determined, if a little tired, and the worries that often prey on him have not yet clouded his brow. “I am glad to see you, when I’m not beset by a dozen things to do at once. A brief respite, alas; Lady Margaid has accounts for me to examine.”
His statement elicits a nod from Ariana; after all, when are his respites ever not brief? A smile touches her lips, a shadow of one that might light her face on another day, but it’s genuine enough. “I, as well, Marence…I am glad to find you here at leave to speak for a moment.” She pauses, and when she continues, her voice is almost nonchalant. “Do you know when you are to march?” However, despite the indifferent tone, she can’t quite meet his eyes as she speaks, her gaze floating somewhere past his shoulder.
He does not notice the way Ariana gazes past him, does Marence. So he replies with a chuckle, glancing out the window, gesturing to the chaotic tumble of alleys and hovels and buildings in the shadow city. “Ser Perros says a fortnight, to get the levies from the shadow city ready, and to give the Dalts and others time. But I say a week, no more. The sooner we’re away, the better.” Such haste isn’t like him, when he so often considers every decision carefully… but it seems he’s had enoug of that.
Ariana’s smile slips, just for a moment, though the turn of her head as he indicates the window hides it quite well. She watches the activity below them, reaching out to place a hand against the window ledge, before turning back to him. “Well, as long as you are truly ready. Better to take a few more days to prepare, then to end up there earlier and wish that you had.”
She pauses once more, finally managing to make her eyes meet his. Now that she has, she can’t look away, and when she speaks again, it’s in earnest. “Marence…please, be careful.”
“Ser Perros said much the same,” Marence replies to that, smiling again, trying to make it seem as if it’s amusing. But given the gravity of the enterprise, that fails, as does his smile, as his sister speaks again. Warm brown eyes soften, and when the smile wins back, it’s an attempt at reassurance. “Of course, Ariana. There’ll be a whole host between me and whatever men Linnet Yronwood has waiting for me, I assure you.”
A silence, a moment’s quiet, and then he adds with a certain emphasis, “Let Rhodry or Aidan Dayne be heroes, if they please; the Warrior has given them his gift, I won’t deny it. But I mean to settle matters, once and for all, without taking any chances.”
The princess’ expression doesn’t change, though it’s as if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders at his words, “Thank you,” she answers, looking away again, her smile twisting almost apologetically, as if she’s embarrassed by her show of emotion. “Dorne needs you, after all. What would become of our people if one of us other Martells were charged with the rule?” A laugh escapes her at this, but she sobers quickly, glancing around her to see who else heard her let merriment get the best of her in a moment of forgetfulness.
To that, Marence laughs. “False flattery, sister. You know as well as I that Cadan would rule as well as I,” he says, modest about such things as he is. A silent moment, a studying gaze, and then he adds, “And you could learn as well, I’m sure, in time. I did not rule in earnest until I was your age, more or less, after all.” And… no, there’s no and; he’ll make no argument in Rhodry’s favor.
The absence of Rhodry’s name doesn’t even register with her; It’s clear that she would never have expected his name to be included. However, the unexpected addition of herself does cause her to brighten, the faintest of blushes touching her cheeks. “Thank you, Marence. Perhaps, when you return, you could teach me some more of statecraft. No doubt you would find it dull to teach me, but I feel that I should dedicate some time to it, at least, if only to expand my knowledge.” There’s the slightest hesitation before the word ‘when,’ but she pushes through determinedly, meeting his gaze with a hopeful look.
“There’s little enough to teach, sister,” is Marence’s immediate reply, sounding… puzzled? surprised? It’s hard to say. He regards you, those kind eyes thoughtful. “But if you wish, you might attend the audiences and councils more often, and see what endless troubles and tribulations are sent the way the Prince of Dorne.” That’s less humorous than heartfelt—ruling Dorne is a heavy burden. But rather than leave it at that note, he does manage, with a wry grin, “If you’re so eager for grey hairs, that is; the barber found my first when I was two-and-twenty. Thank the gods it did not sprout many cousins, not yet.”
Another laugh escapes Ariana, as though she’s aware of how unlikely such a request coming from her may be, and her hand reaches up involuntarily to run down her own dark tresses, the girlish gesture at odds with her more mature appeal. “I wouldn’t worry, brother,” she says, schooling her smile to a more serene expression, though there’s a hint of mischief in her eyes as she regards him, “I hear the ladies of court say that gray is distinguishing on a man of such advanced years as yourself.”
“If they are so fond of grey, the ladies can leave those Free City washes be, and let us admire the silver in _their_ hair,” Marence replies, in a moment of levity. Then laughter, a moment of ease amidst the turmoil… until a too-dutiful guardsman clears his throat, and starts, “My Prince, Lady Margaid…”
A sigh, then, from Marence, and another wry look. “I’ll count my grey hairs, and see if they’ve multipled in this week. Fare you will, sister.”
The arrival of the guard draws Ariana’s attention, as well, and a small sigh escapes her; not bitter, just resigned. She gives him a nod, answering, “You as well, Marence. Make sure you rest, as well. It will not do to have you falling from your horse as soon as you ride out to the Boneway.” Her gaze lingers on his face a moment longer, before she turns, quickly disappearing down the winding steps.