The feasting hall of the Martells is set at the eastern end of the Sandship.
Day light pours in from tall, narrow windows set into the thick, dun walls of the Sandship. Beneath those windows, golden light finds a long dais, suitable for the high table of the Prince of Dorne. The rest of the hall is generally filled with more tables, rows of them amidst the stone columns which rise, here and there, to support the vast weight of the vaulted ceiling. Made of the same stone as the walls and the floor, there is a sense of rough-hewn solidity and great age in this place, different from other parts of the castle.
Broad doors lead out to the central hallway that connects one end of the Sandship to another. Other, more private entrances are more suited for servants or guardsmen.
“Well and good.” Cyrissa responds simply, as she sips her lemon water. “I heard the prince hasn’t visited her since they’ve arrived. Possibly more than a dalliance…” She trails off with a smirk.
The younger heir briefly contemplates those tidings, but is cut off from her thoughts at the return of her cousin. “We meet again, Lady Joleta,” she smiles, and waits for Digory to make his own introduction. Just the mention of her dead brother is enough to cloud her thoughts, and she struggles to maintain her composure for a moment, and the other conversation is all but lost to her, before she adds in “Father always said that,” trying to keep the sadness from her tone.
Joleta fixes Digory with her hawkish gaze for a long moment, “No, you look more like Dinias when he was a boy, particularly after your uncle and I would conspire to play some prank on him. I can see Blaise lingering in the set of your jaw and the how you carry your shoulders, but you are your father, come again.” She turns her attention back to Selara, “So we do,” she replies easily. “My business is concluded, at least for the nonce.”
Sebaston looks from Digory to Cyrissa and his lips fall into a slightly firm purse. “Perhaps; perhaps not. I was never given to gossips or grand politics, but I am just worried on what it could mean for the flow of trade. Some even say the Sealord and the Bank and the Faceless Men are all in collusion,” he twiddles his thumbs anxiously when he speaks softly on the news of late.
Of the familial ruminations (and feuding) betwixt the Dalts and Gargalens, the Vaith spares no words.
Perhaps his ears were burning, for who else should meander into the hall than Prince Rhodry Nymeros Martell? The prodigal prince, back from his mysterious journey to Braavos for a moon’s turn, has kept himself out of trouble for a wonder, other than the occasional word of carousing at late hours, the instigating of tavern brawls irregularly, and the like. On this occasion, however, he seems more in search of something, or someone. The cruel black eyes take in the men and women present, and seems unimpressed. Even so, he saunters forward.
“Is it rumormongering or conspiracy today? May I join?” he asks, the tone sardonic, the thin lips smirking.
As she finally snaps out of her sadness, and turns the talk of Braavos, the subject of conversation himself enters, and so she does not speak of it. Instead, she acknowledges the prince, conscious of the look on his face, and leaves the talking to whoever else might want to, for feat that she might say something wrong.
Joleta inclines her head toward the newly arrived Rhodry, “As you will, my prince.” She smiles faintly, an expression that doesn’t quite touch her eyes. “Welcome home from abroad.” She pours a goblet of a dry red, offering it to the prince.
Despite initially being startled out of her reverie by the prince’s entrance, Cyrissa manages an almost-warm smile as she regards him. “Of course, my prince.” She gestures to a nearby seat.
As softly as Sebaston had been in conversation with acquaintances, he stiffens, rather bashful of the sudden presence of a royal scion. His head is bowed respectfully towards the prince; otherwise he offers naught in way of greeting.
“Ah,” Rhodry says with a pleased smile. “Wine. Just what I was looking for.” He moves to sit at Cyrissa’s gesture to the seat beside her, and it must be said that the look he gives her is more lewd than regal. “How charming you must be, for Manwoody to let you roam out of his sight.” He reaches over, taking the decanter Joleta used, and pouring into the nearest available goblet, rather careless as to whether it’s spoken for.
He shifts his attention away from Lord Aryard’s bride. “Conspiracy, then, given how your lips have all sewn shut,” he says, cheerfully. “I’ll send for the headsman after I’ve had enough wine.”
“I protest, Prince Rhodry,” Joleta drawls, swirling the wine in her cup. “I’ve only just arrived before you.” She takes a sip, peering at him over the wineglass. “And these young ones are merely overawed by your presence. So is it true that you’ve killed someone important in Braavos?”
Overawed? No, since Joleta’s last comment, Digory’s grey gaze has been fixed on the table. Even the prince’s presence does not bring him out of the lapse into sadness he brought upon himself. It is a few minutes later when his piercing eyes rise to regard Rhodry curiously. “My prince. We were actually just discussing the woman you brought with you to Sunspear.”
Wary of his gaze, Cyrissa straightens in her seat and drinks from her lemon water before responding, although no flush appears on her cheeks and she appears amused more than abashed by his comment. “You flatter me. Perhaps so or he ought follow me everywhere I go.” She nods at Digory’s remark and focuses her gaze on the prince.
Rhodry’s words are cutting to Sebaston, and the young Vaith visibly winces afore the heir to Salt Shore can try to smooth things over… and then Digory spills the contents of their prior conversation. “I hope,” he begins, measuring his gentle words. “That your journey was fair, my prince. And that my cousin Samara is well.” He then easily reaches for a goblet, perhaps naturally from interjecting into such a… tense situation.
Rhodry starts to lift his cup, to take his first drink of wine, when Joleta offers her musing. A derisive *phaugh* follows Joleta’s question (or perhaps it’s her claim that the young knights and ladies are overawed), an exhalation that stirs a stray lock of hair that’s escaped its queue. “I would not have called Idario Ferys ‘important’,” he says, rather flippantly, but seeming to confirm the rumors. “What’s an upjumped bravo to me?” Then he drinks, taking a long and thirsty swallow before his attention turns to Digory. “Well, mayhaps Mistress Amalea thought him ‘important’, once. Now I suppose she hardly thinks of him. She has other concerns.” Those concerns he does not elucidate on.
Sebaston’s remark makes Rhodry dip his chin just slightly, acknowledging the journey, but naturally it’s Cyrissa who wins his next remark, as he offers a dangerous smile. “He’d be wiser to keep you in his bed chamber. It’d improve his reputation considerably, I assure you.” Because of his supposed virility, or because his absence would generally be appreciated,? The prince does not say.
Neither is Selara that astonished at the sight of the Prince; she’s seen him before, if only once. Still, that does not give her any more cause to speak, and she to goes for the glass of wine, not unnerved by Rhodry’s jests. When she finally does find something to say, it is simply, “As do I, my prince. I hope you are well, too.”
“The question isn’t what one upjumped bravo is to you, but rather what that one is to those who are important in Braavos. I suppose we will all find out soon enough,” Joleta watches the prince for a moment longer, sidelong, then turns her attention back to her cousins, “So do your respective weddings happen before, or after, that of the princess and the northern prince?”
Cyrissa glares at the renown prince incredulously and slams her cup back onto the table, with some of the liquid spilling out. She narrows her eyes as she struggles to find her next words, before glancing around the table and regaining her composure. “How droll…” She finds herself reaching for the flagon of wine and pouring it into the cup half filled with water, nose scrunching in distaste as she catches a whiff of the smell before taking a sip.
Hearing Joleta’s question, Sebaston happens to remark, “I would ask the same of my prince and his own intended,” and he looks to the wild Martell ... and then just as quickly, he brings a hand to his face and turns rather sheepish at bringing up a topic that some might call contentious after rumours of the prince being with not one, but two other ladies…
“Before.” Selara says suddenly, finding her confidence again despite the situation. “I thought that it might take place some two months from now,” she continues. “For no reason in particular, but I would not want it to be completely eclipsed by that of Daeron and Mariah’s. No disrespect to them, of course.” She says the last so that she might not offend the Prince who is already sat there.
“With luck…” Digory begins bitterly, tensing again when Lady Joleta addresses him. “Neither marriages come to pass. Save my darling sister’s.” It is no secret that the boy has no love for northerners…or Gargalens for that matter. He sniffs, gaze dirting between Lady Cyrissa and the prince.
If Rhodry notices Cyrissa’s displeasure, he does not show it. He swallows more wine, and merely says to Joleta, “Indeed we shall.” He does not seem troubled by whatever will come, but then, when is he ever troubled?
“It does seem we’ll have an excess of weddings in the coming moons,” he acknowledges after Sebaston’s question “Several good ones, I’m sure, and one anything but, but what can one do? Well, other than drink.” He lifts the goblet and downs a substantial portion of the wine in it, before reaching for the flagon Cyrissa just used to refill his own cup.” to Selara.
Joleta raises both brows at Digory, lips curling in a smile. “Sweetling, that is not how this is done. Not at all.” She takes a sip of her wine, fixing her sharp-eyed gaze upon her youngest cousin. “We all must wed for politics when our families require. I assure you, there are those who have wed under far less pleasant circumstances.” Her expression is serene, but her voice carries whiplash.
The Lady of Kingsgrave quirks a brow at Digory’s comment on his betrothal and the corner’s of her lips twitch, as she struggles to hide faint amusement. Cyrissa seems little concerned by the troubles in Bravos as she doesn’t provide any input on the subject. Instead she watches the man beside her warily before deciding to speak again. “Have you per chance seen your nephew?” She asks him flatly. “Princess Ariana’s child with my brother, Farien. Cletus they named him.” She elaborates as if expecting the whole matter to have evaded the prince’s notice.
Sebaston is wide-eyed at Joleta’s statement. He does not leap in too suddenly when she speaks, but kindly offers: “I found myself to fall for my lady as soon as we met, even if our marriage was planned by our families. I know it is not always so, but,” there’s a pang to his chest, as if some naive, innocent worldview was being shattered. “We must find it in ourselves to treasure the Maiden’s love when we can.” Goblet arrives in hand once more at finding the situation all too intense.
Rhodry seems amused by Dalt’s fierce disapproval of a pair of weddings, rather than merely the one the prince has a distaste for. Another swallow of wine, however, and he answers Cyrissa’s question with a shrug. “I saw some whelp at her teat,” the prince says, “but I forgot the name. Now that you remind me of it, however….” He reaches for the wine flagon, and adds just a bit more wine to a cup that was already nearly full to the brim.
The amused looks from the prince himself and the Gargalen heir talking down on him is enough to bristle the young and defiant Digory. “I tire of politics, my lady,” He stands, running a hand through his dark locks. “I will do as my House asks, but fate has a way of ruining even the most well-constructed plans.” He bows then. “Ser. Ladies. My prince.” And he is gone.
“Fate also has a way of correcting the behavior of spoiled boys,” Joleta comments in that even tone that somehow carries a whisper of menace. “Fortunately, my little Dalt cousin is young enough to be taught better.” She takes a sip of her wine, irritated by Digory’s words.
The young leopard is stunned by the exchange, and coughs before his green eyes turn to Joleta with sympathy. “I am sorry, about him. But I do not think he has met your lady cousin; at least properly. Perhaps he’ll accept his duty with ease, given time.”
Instead of being irritated by Rhodry’s words, the Lady of Kingsgrave rolls her eyes before taking a drink of watered wine. “I was told your love for family knew no bounds, my prince.” She turns to face Digory as he takes his leave. “Farewell, my lord.” She says, her voice drained but faint amusement returning as she senses Joleta’s irritation.
Rhodry seems even more amused by Dalt’s departure. “How he flounced,” he says, with a cruel chuckle between swallows of wine. A shake of his head, and the prince again briefly regards Cyrissa before offering that razor-sharp smile. “Such a pleasant thing for someone to say about another. Who should I thank for the kindness?”
Joleta gives Sebaston a smile, either forgetting her irritation or pushing it aside for now. “He is young, Ser.” She replies, “But I should like to see him under manners before I introduce him to Muriel. It wouldn’t do to have her upset; she is a sweet girl.” She pours herself a little more wine.
The prince’s idyll among the courtiers draws to a close when one of the Lord Protector’s household knights comes in and moves to Rhodry with purpose. He leans over to whisper in the prince’s ear, and Rhodry sighs, eyes rolling. “Duty calls,” he says, and drains his wine cup. He rises, and without so much as a nod or a word of parting departs the feasting hall.