Sunspear: Courtyard
The courtyard of Sunspear is bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, a celestial tapestry of stars overhead casting a silver sheen upon the ancient stones. Blood orange trees, their blossoms releasing a fragrant melody and their boughs hung with lamps, create pockets of shadowed intimacy as noble guests, draped in silks and jewels, gather under the night’s embrace. The gravel beneath their feet crunches softly, but the murmur of many voices drowns that out, and in turn the sound of Dornish music is louder still as musicians play for the crowd. This feast is less formal, beneath the stars as it is, and the liveried servants traveling among the crowd are carrying trays of morsels again, and many, many goblets of wine. The Sealord of Braavos stands with his host, Prince Maron, and rather than the remoteness of the dais they instead share the courtyard with all the others, taking the time to visit here and there.
Amidst the revelry, Prince Rhodry and Tanyth stand together, cups in hand, conversing with Lord Neilyn, the lady’s brother. The Lord Shariff, Ser Mavros, moves through the feast with a discerning eye, pausing often to converse with some of the Braavosi embassy; the notes of Free Cities Valyrian can be heard on those occasions.
Prince Cadan’s daughter stands near her Royal cousin and His most esteemed guest, a silken smile pulling on her lips. While certain rumors may have… slightly unnerved her before, the Martell beauty seems to back in full spirits, more than happy to assist with all the hostessing duties she’s genuinely so taken to recently. She sips her chilled flower petal and fruit cordial, offering a giggle hear and there as she listens to the men speak.
Her gown is made of light sandsilk, the delicate material clings to her form and sits on her skin as soft petals, its hue the many purples of a lavender field. It is a looser dress, uncorseted, as usual expensive and of the latest fashion, cut low to expose her shoulders, the gold-and-silver colored, detached, sheer-silk slit sleeves fluttering delicately behind her, glittering in the sunlight. While not. improper by any means, the dress is cut in a way that, combined with the particular fabric, leaves little to the imagination. Though, that likely is the point all together. Her violet-color gown has bands of trimmings in gold-and-emerald brocade, with the design prominently featuring the little slits of bright green from her design.
One of her attendants comes up to whisper something in Leyla’s ear, and while the Royal scion offers her a smile and a nod, she then looks out onto the gathring crowd of nobles, seeming to look for someone in particular. Though, she quickly refocuses on those nearby, her Uncle and good-aunt in particular receiving a curious look. Mayhaps, if an alliance is due, she should brush up on her Essosi Valyrian…
All set to be departing with the Braavosi on the morrow, one might have imagined that Samara Sand would be spending this evening in the company of her Dornish kin and companions, but the fiery redhead is conversing with the Mistress of Swords. She has, however set aside the Braavosi clothing she opted for at the previous feast and instead donned robes in saffron and carmine, the fiery colours of House Uller.
To represent the Daynes, Allyria has come down to make their farewells. She has chosen to wear deep red and gold today, in strips which wrap around her bust and slim waist, and fall elegantly to the floor to pools behind her in a train. A black sheathe-dress keeps anything from being seen under the sheet cromson. Her collar of brone filagree holds her seven pointed star and the Dayne falling star she’s taken to wearing since her marriage. She makes a bow to the Sealord and his host the Prince as they wander about.
Heavy robe rustling as Arrant enters the courtyard, gold thread amid the sea of black samite glimmering in the light. Walking slowly, deliberately Arrant surveys the present nobility and steering well clear of Lord Neilyn’s line of sight beelines toward the Prince and Sealord “My Prince, Your Excellency, Lady Leyla.” he says bowing deeply to each of them in turn.
Mavros Uller disengages from a pair of Braavosi bankers, and finds himself conversing with the courtesan Taela Gresayn, known in Braavos as the Wild Flower. Though his Valyrian is accented, and mostly of the Pentoshi variety besides, neither seems to have difficulty understanding the other. At one point his daughter Samara’s name is mentioned, and the knight gestures to where she can be found, the courtesan following his gaze for a moment before remarking further.
Farien is among those who have gathered for the festivities, a cup of Dornish red resting in his hand while he has been speaking with various guests so far, as expected of him. The Yronwood knight takes a sip and continues to mingle until he sees his wife’s kin and other nobles gathered and approaches them, “Prince Rhodry, Your Excellency, Lord Toland” he notes to the most senior ranking individuals before nodding to Arrant, Tanyth, and Leyla, “My lord, my ladies.”
Ser Sebaston has been relatively busy over the past few weeks, though he has made an effort to come to the grand departure. He dons the black and yellow of his house by marriage, made of material less rich than Ser Arrant. It is toward the rest of the Blackmont retinue that he is pushed toward by retainers and servants of the court, and he soon comes face-to-face with Arrant and the royal party he is with. “Good day, Father,” he notes—even though he is not as shy as he was as some years ago, he does seem more mindful of his composure among a more senior member of the family.
Standing in the warm glow of the final reception for the Sealord, Corrent Gargalen looks clean and tall. He waits patiently as the evening starts to come alive. Corrent’s look is regal and formal for the evening. He wears golden silks embroidered with the crimson Cockatrice on his chest: the color of the beast matches that of his ruby eye.
After his entrance, Corrent cooly joins Arrant in paying his respects to the entourage of honor. “My good Prince, what an excellent time we have had during the Sealord’s visit. You are wise to invite him to Dorne.” he remarks to Rhodry. To the Sealord himself, Corrent comments: “A shame you could not stay longer, Your Excellency. I hope you have found your stay with us hospitable. I am thankful for the promises of continued friendship between the Braavosi and us Dornish. We shall all be eager to see where they lead.” In respect for the other guests’ time, Corrent gives a brief greeting to the other important members besides the Prince and Sealord before stepping down. He then seeks a nice spot to enjoy the evening with good company. Maybe Jehan will emerge at some point.
“... tedious journey, I’m sure,” Lord Neilyn is telling his sister and Prince Rhodry, “but when the Prince asks, there’s no other choice. It will be interesting to see Braavos, at least. My lady wife is excited by that, even more than I am.”
“I’m sure our good-sister will enjoy herself,” Prince Rhodry remarks, after a swallow of summerwine. “Though you’ll miss the festivities of the Unmasking, at least this year. Now, _that_ is worth being excited for.”
“I fear we’ll miss out,” the Lord of Ghost Hill says, with a shrug. “The prince means to have us back within half a year, after we make a more permanent establishment of Dornish presence in Braavos.”
Offering a gracious smile and nod of greeting, Leyla looks to each highborn noble that approaches the Royals, though Rhodry’s words do quirk an elegant brow. Instead, she simply sips on her cordial for now, as she greets Allyria, Arrant, Farien, Sebaston and Corrent as they each approach, before turning to her cousin and His guest.
“Indeed, my Lord, it seems you and yours have become rather fixtures at our Court. It will be terribly quieter without you present. Though, mayhaps we may yet hope at return visit, one day soon?” Leyla speaks, wanting to capitalize on the warmth the Dornish have genuinely shown towards their new Braavosi friends, AND vice-versa. “Should you miss the sun and heat as the Winter years go on, do not forget you will always be welcome here.” She adds with a small bow of her head, though she does monetarily look to Maron for approval, hoping quietly their eastern emissary will not notice…
“Sunspear is loud enough, surely, to keep even you entertained, Lady Leyla,” the Sealord responds, in his accented Common Tongue. “Though it may be small compared to the Secret City, its people are large in their appetite for life.”
“Yet what my cousin says is true, my lord,” Prince Maron tells the Sealord. “You will always be welcome in Dorne.” To that, the Sealord offers a bow, and it’s clear he has a liking for the younger man. “And you in Braavos, Prince Maron. Mayhaps in a year’s time, you shall consider returning the courtesy and coming to Braavos?”
That seems a new idea, and one Maron had not considered. “That is gracious,” the prince says, and means it. “A year may be too soon, however. We must needs see how our neighbor to the north behaves, after this bond of friendship we have formed.”
Allyria scowls at the mention of the Nothrons. “In an ill manner, no doubt,” she mutters darkly, countenance clouded. “Their King exhibits all manner of sin and vice and yet the High Septon dances to his tune and condemns him not,” she says in pure distaste.
Drifting idly through the gathering in the company of Doreah Vaar, it is perhaps no surprise that Samara ends up drawn closer to Prince Maron and the Sealord. After all, Doreah is the companion of the latter, perhaps not a paramour by Dornish standards but certainly closely associated with. “Braavos would be delighted to play host to you, Prince Maron,” the Mistress of Swords adds, having come close enough to overhear the exchange.
“Are you sorry that you are not the one to go this time?” Tanyth asks of her husband after his exchange with her brother, Lord Neilyn. Innocently enough put, but there is a bit of a spark in the Black Tempest’s eyes. She is wearing more gold than green today, though there is a conspicously large green stone nestling in her cleavage.
As Prince Rhodry nods to those who come by, the conversation with the Toland siblings—his good-brother and his wife—continues apace, and Tanyth’s question leads to another swallow of summerwine. “The journey is dreadfully long,” he says in the end, “a moon or more. And then back. And I’ve done it thrice now. Think—half a year of just traveling between Dorne and Braavos.” He shakes his head at the thought of so much time spent at sea.
“You are good to say so, Mistress Doreah,” the Prince of Dorne says to her. “Mayhaps one day… but no, not yet. Yet the Keeper of the Tower of the Sun shall go in my stead, and others besides.” And he tilts his head to Samara, saying, “Such as Mistress Samara, who knows Braavos better than anyone at my court, I think.”
“You are kind to lend such figures to the Dornish embassy to Braavos,” the Sealord remarks at that. “It will enliven our foggy city, with our dour nobility. Who knows, mayhaps they’ll start a fashion for colorful sandsilks among our younger lords and ladies.” He doesn’t sound serious about that last—Braavos is proud and set in its ways.
“Sebaston, good to see you, pair of you did make yourself scarce these days,” Arrant greets his goodson with a smile “Your Excellency this is Ser Sebaston Vaith, husband to my daughter Rayne.” he quickly adds to the Sealord. He nods to Sers Farien and Corrent in turn as they arrive. “Fat fool will seethe but he is dangerous still, those kind of men respond only to the show of force.” Arrant adds curtly but quickly takes an offered opportunity to change the subject “As for the Septon he cares for naught but coin, like his fishwife of mother. He would remain mute even if Aegon bent over that same mother in front of him. At least this one doesn’t diddle little boys so far as I’ve heard.” he finishes with obvious relish and a grin baring his white teeth.
Allyria is visibly shocked by Arrant’s words. She’s no wilting flower but nonetheless the former Maiden of Godsgrace is easily offended.
Talk of Aegon stifles Leyla a bit, as she’s still one to worry over Myriah and her boys being trapped within that monster of a man’s reach. But she simply sips her drink, silently cursing it for lacking any alcohol. But then, Maron and the Sealord speak, and a certain beauty arrives, causing the the younger Royal to look away, a small pink dusting her cheeks at the approach of this goddess of a woman. But then Tenesio speaks, an at this, the Martell beauty lets out a genuine laugh, and as she shakes her head, her rich, dark-brown curls fall over her shoulder as she does so. “You see, I was so desperately hoping it would be the other way round, my Lord. Sunspear is most lively, but I will admit, being able to spar with your formidable Bravos during your time here has been… well, a most welcome enjoyment.” She says, as she meets the Sealord’s gaze, her own black eyes shining like dark diamonds as she speaks.
Though, as Ser Arrant speaks, she turns away, ostensibly in shock, though in truth, may of the younger people may find such a remark of the High Septon being little both a Nothron lackey more than just a tad amusing. But she does not too-openly react, simply simply offering Maron’s arm a delicate squeeze of support with her elegant hand. Instead, she focuses on the other nearby Royal group, giving one of her compaion’s her empty cup as she approaches. Leyla then deftly ‘steals’ her uncle’s drink and takes a long sip, secretly upset that she hadn’t just chosen some wine herself… Then she returns it to the man, and looks to his surrounding group. “Dearest Aunt, you know as well as I that if my Uncle goes, so must you, and we would be lost if you did so. Half the time, you’re the only one holding us from… being lively, as our esteemed guest so eloquently pointed out.” Leyla says with a teasing smirk, always better ar diffusing the tension around her, than that within herself…
Ser Arrant’s words about the High Septon and Aegon makes even the Sealord take note, but he doesn’t offer any commentary. It’s left for Prince Maron to say, with a certain emphasis, “I’m sure we could find more pleasant matter to discuss, sers.” And then to emphasize the point, a gesture brings a pair of servants with trays of morsels and wine, and he makes sure everyone in the knot around himself and Tenesio is offered something.
Taking the point, the Sealord himself lets the subject pass by and instead he turns to Samara as she and the Mistress of Swords stand together. “Are your children excited for the journey, Mistress Samara? I am guessing they have not been outside of Dorne before,” he says to her.
Farien says, “This is no such place for such words, ser” Farien says firmly to Arrant, “Let us simply celebrate our guests before they depart back to Braavos.” He takes a sip, looking to his nephew before looking back to the others, “But no doubt our delegation to Braavos will certainly enjoy themselves. I thoroughly have enjoyed their music as has been brought to us,” the Yronwood heir says kindly and nods to the Sealord in thanks before taking some of the offered refreshments.”
A slim black brow quirks upwards and Tanyth tilts her head to one side, “My dear mother would be pleased to hear that,” she tells Leyly in a dry tone of voice, not quite sure whether to be amused or offended by the idea that she is keeping anyone in line, “but I doubt she would believe it. Though,” and her she looks to her husband, “what do you say, my dear? Am I keeping you from being too lively?”
Allyria’s smile returns slighlty as the offerings of food and drink are made. “Indeed,” she says simply as she takes a cup and a skewer of fruit for herself. She taps a nail alongside the edge of the cup seven times before she takes a sip. “Good Sealord, what sort of Dornish treasures will you bring back to your people,” she asks to change topics. “What have you found here worth sharing with your people?”
“Almost frightfully so,” replies Samara to the Sealord, a quick smile accompanying her words. “It will be a long month at sea. Perhaps some extra cages should be brought aboard, apart from those needed for sand dogs and the like?” A jest, surely, though anyone at court old enough to have known Rhodry at the age that the twins are at might consider it a wise precaution.
Sebaston is also a little shocked—and knowing Allyria rather well, he does feel the need to say something. In the end, it is a more neutral comment he adds. “I suppose since the Stars and Swords were disbanded, one cannot hope for the Faith proper to judge the situation fairly. Not when they are resident in a kingdom they cannot speak against,” he offers. He is then happy to stand as others speak of the departures that are taking place. “Perhaps those sandsilks shall become the height of fashion. If not, then surely our spices and fruits must be loved in a more frigid climate.”
“Rogue,” Prince Rhodry mock-snarls at his niece when she briefly liberates his cup of wine, but he drinks from it just the same as she and Tanyth converse. But when the conversation turns to him, he responds judiciously, “I believe, Tempest, that you keep me from being boring, at least. Let others worthy about liveliness, I simply require novelty.” And then he looks for a fresh cup of wine… and when the servant comes with the tray, he takes another and hands it to Leyla. “Now you’ve your own.”
Lord Neilyn says after that, “Being in Braavos will be novelty enough for me. The Titan of Braavos, the thousand temples, the ... what is it they call it? The river?”
“The sweetwater river,” Rhodry says, “a river made by men, not nature.”
Leyla offers a genuine, musical laugh, as she accepts the wine from her uncle. “Hello Pot, my name is Kettle.” She whispers back in jest, for however her father may dislike it, she does care for his brother and there is… something similar in them. Or, mayhaps, it’s simply what all those who see themselves as the back sheep of their generations feel…
“You know what I meant, Aunt.” She then says with a wink towards the older woman she’d always been fond of, before turning to the Lord of House Toland. “I must admit, it will be so… odd without you here, my lord. I feel as if you have been a cornerstone of my life here.” Lyela tells the man with a genuinely sweet smile, though all present know it’s not like she’d have had much chance, with how incredibly overprotective was when anything concerned her.
The Sealord laughs at Samara’s description of her twins, who seem set to travel with her to Braavos, perhaps bringing some truth to the rumor that they may serve as his cupbearer. “I fear we’re out of cages,” Tenesio tells her, “so we shall have to hope for the best.” And then Allyria’s question catches his attention, and he offers her a bow. “A wise question, my lady,” he tells her, “and one that deserves a thoughtful answer.”
And so the Sealord of Braavos considers, eyes gazing at the sea of Dornish lords and ladies. “I think,” he finally offers, “that I’ve acquired a taste for Dornish spices, and we’ve acquired a great deal. Perhaps whatever cooks Lord Neilyn brings with him will start a fashion for that, at least. And I’ll be curious what they make of our rich bounties from the sea.” That seems prosaic enough… but then he turns to Maron, and with a half-bow adds, “But most of all, I’ll bring the friendship of Dorne to Braavos.”
“Arrant locks his gaze with that of the Prince Maron before offering a slight, almost imperceptible nod. More enthusiastically he offers an approving nod to Sebaston as his goodson talks, as for Farien Arrant chooses to pointly ignore his words, only response unconscious twitch of the jaw muscle as says to the Sealord “They will enjoy all right, he had but a taste from what Braavos has to offer, playhouses of Braavos offer the finest mummery in the Known World. Pray tell us Your Excellency, which one is the foremost right now, it changes every moons turn, mummers are fickle creatures jealous of their peculiar type of honor?
Farien takes a sip and listens to the Sealord and nods in agreement and with a smile. “I hope such a trend spreads through Braavos. The other side of the Narrow Sea will no doubt enjoy the spices we have to offer.” He relaxes his posture, “But indeed, friendship is better than any spice, and I have no doubt it will be to the benefit of us both.” The talk of the mummers catches the Yronwood’s attention, and he is keen to hear the response.
As the vulture’s words sink into the minds of those around them, Leyla delicately excuses herself from the company of her uncle and the Tolands. As she approaches, her smile does not fade, though her voice drops into a something between a whisper and a hiss. “Be quiet, all of you! Have you know clue that anything like this might jeopardize everything my cousin has worked far?! I am warning yu lot, if Maron has to deal with anything you caused?... You will all answer to me. And apparently, my temper resembled my late Grandmother, and we all know how that Princess handled insubordination…” She utters, barely succeeding in herself together, as she turns about and faces Tenesio and her Prince once more.
However, it is not the handsome Braavosi, or his matchless paramour that holds her attention, but a certain rehead her father would love she never even spoke to. As she approaches Lady Samara, Leyla offers a small smile, still unsure of the woman’s feelings towards her, since they truly had no relationship with one-another but a over a year ago. “My lady. How are… Are Oberyn and Roxana well? I must admit, the thought I likely won’t see them for so long is… Well, you must think it silly, for how little-long I’ve known them…I have, if you would allow… something for them?” She admits in an almost whisper to the woman, knowing her father’s most loyal man who sits nearby, will likely report it all back to him. That’s always been the case, anyway…
Lord Toland seems flattered by Leyla’s words, and says, “Well, I never knew you thought that way, my lady. I have toiled on behalf of Dorne nearly a decade, and it has been a privilege to be Keeper of—”
“—the Tower of the Sun, indeed. As it has been for us all, Lord Neilyn,” Rhodry says, interrupting him before his good-brother starts to carry on. “But you and Richelle will shine in Braavos, I am sure. Here, a toast to you.” And he lifts his cup, and when Lord Toland reciprocates, he drains the cup in a pair of swallows. “More wine!” he calls.
As to Ser Arrant’s query, the Sealord of Braavos says, “Who can say, today? The mummers vie constantly. But when we left…” He looks to Doreah Vaar at that, and the Mistress of Swords says, “The Blue Lamp had had a deal of success, thanks to the new play from that mysterious playwright of theirs. I would go there before I’d go to the Gate. But Barbo may well have lured him away to write for the Gate, since we’ve been gone, my lord.”
Allyria has fallen quiet, drinking her wine and occasionally tapping her fingers on the cup after a couple of sips.
Silent since her exchange with the Sealord, Samara’s attention appears to have drifted, leaving her surprised when Leyla approaches and addresses her. Tilted eyes regard the young Martell scion for a moment, then she inclines her head politely. “Lady Leyla. They are eager for the journey, though concerned about the lack of horses in Braavos.” She pauses for a moment, then adds, “And of course, my lady. They will be most grateful, I am sure.” Her gaze briefly looks past Leyla to where the other woman came from, passing over Rhodry and Tanyth but making sure not to linger.
“Wan smile testifies to mild amusement Arrant feels as Leyla erupts at the gathered nobles, but he says nothing. He does quickly gulp down the remainder of his wine once Prince Rhodry proposes a toast. “Still running the show?” he says with some genuine surprise at Doreah’s words, before adding “In my view it would be a mistake to only frequent establishments around Purple Harbour, even playhouses of lesser repute all around the city have much to offer, beats reading in any case.” he finishes with a chuckle.
Leyla offers Samara an apologetic smile. “You know well my Father does not like me to speak with you, Seven Hells, he does not even like me speaking with mine own uncle, but I hope you do know I truly care for the twins…” She admits in half a whisper, even as her own hands itch to simply give the woman of red the gifts in question. Then, she turns as Maron and Tenesio continue to speak, approaching her cousin and his guest, she once again lays a comfoting hand on his back, unseen by most but the Martell retainers and attendants… Towards the rest, she offers merely a small smile, as her earlier semi-explosion still annoys her.
Sebaston follows the conversation. “Indeed, a fond farewell to all,” he adds at the end of Leyla’s words. He nods to Ser Arrant, too, noting: “in any case, I suppose it would be interesting. The mummers there are supposed to practise highly planned shows, yes?” In general though, he is content to stay silent, keeping his place and position in mind amidst a crowd of royals.