but refreshing.
Morning. The breakfast hour has passed, and the Old Palace returns to its usual routine. Save that this morning, Prince Marence is holding informal audience, with little warning. Some of his staunchest advisors are here, but there are others, some presenting themselves to the prince after having come from some other seat, others with concerns or disputes for his judgment.
And there there are some, like Princess Ariana, who are simply here to see who the latest arrivals to Sunspear might be and what business Marence is up to. The young lady is standing on the fringes with an easy smile on her face, hands lightly clasped behind her back as she whispers softly to one of her ladies with amusement in her eyes.
Dressed in a swirl of yellow and black silks, the Speardancer leans against a column. His handsome, bearded face splits in a wide grin as he pops an olive in his mouth. His lithe hands hold a handful of the fruit as his teeth work the flesh from the seed.
He curiously watches the entrance to the hall and the courtiers in attendance—hungry for amusement.
Returned to Sunspear on the previous evening’s tide, Lady Joleta Gargalen enters the throne room. Resplendant in scarlet and gold sandsilk, the lady cuts an elegant figure. Though she appears well recovered from the ordeal of childbirth and subsequent childbed fever, a few lingering signs of her difficulties remain. Her face and arms are somewhat thinner, a hint of pallor touches her skin, yet her dark eyes are as hawkish and predatory ever.
Removing the cleaned stone from his mouth, Ser Michael casts it behind him absently. His looks take on a bored cast as he looks around at those in attendance.
“Prince Rhodry not coming?” he frowns, putting another olive in his mouth, “Damn, I had hoped for some amusement! Ha’HAH!”
“There’s been no response as of yet,” old Ser Perros, the seneschal, is telling the prince. “But ravens can be chancy, and—”
His son, Ser Perrin interrupts his father. “You know as well as I do, father, that there’s been more than enough time. She’s deliberately ignoring them.”
A hand running through his brown hair, Marence seems tired and annoyed. He starts to say, “We will wait awhile, and then if needs be, we may ask Lady Uller to dispatch a rider.” Then Ser Michael speaks, breaking the seriousness of the hall. There are looks, glares, murmurs. Marence says, “My brother is, I am told, abed in some pillowhouse. You may find it more entertaining to join him, Ser Michael… though I rather think your lady wife might object.” Then his attention turns, to see that Lady Joleta enters. He turns, and calls to his sister, “Ariana!” He gestures down towards the entrance, and with a nod seems to suggest he’d like the Gargalen heiress brought forward as his advisors make way.
Ariana’s eyes wander towards Ser Michael and the princess murmurs something into the ear of another girl and they both giggle softly. Though, when Marence calls for her attention, she glances around. “Oh!” There’s a smile of delight when she spots the Gargalen lady and the princess glides swiftly through the room to reach the side of the heiress of Salt Shore. “Lady Joleta!” She greets with enthusiasm and a warm hug. “You’re looking wonderful, so much better now.” There’s relief in her voice.
“Thank you, Princess.” Joleta greets the younger girl warmly, though with a certain propriety. “I am glad to be back to Sunspear among dear friends.” Allowing herself to be escorted to the throne, the Gargalen heiress dips a graceful curtsey. “My Prince.”
“Ha’HAH! My beautiful wife begrudges my absence, my Prince, I would not tempt her anger at seeking solace in another woman’s arms.”
Puzzled at Ariana’s sudden exclamation, Michael looks over his shoulder. Watching the exchange of affections, the Speardancer shrugs, throwing another cast off pit behind him.
Frowning, the Blackmont knight takes a bite out of another olive and watches this stranger.
Prince Marence gives a stately nod to Joleta, and remarks, “You seem in good health, Lady Joleta. I am glad. We were told that you did not have an easy time, in the birthing bed.” There are greetings and murmurs of congratulations from the other lords and knights about the prince’s throne. “Lord Gargalen is well?” he asks, as he turns his attention to Ser Perrin a moment, motioning him nearer. After his question, he whispers something to Perrin, and the knight nods and moves to leave… but not to talk to Ser Michael, as it happens, though he glances at his cousin as he passes him by.
Hersriana takes a step back as Joleta speaks with Marence, but she still has a bright smile on her face at seeing a friend returned to court.
“Thank you, my Prince.” Joleta replies, straightening. A faint smile touches her lips, “No woman has an easy time in the birthing bed, however I was fortunate to have the company and support of family and dearest friends and am well recovered. My lord father is well and glad to be at his own hearth. He and my lady mother send their warm regards. It is unfortunate news, which has reached Salt Shore’s ports, that bring me back to Sunspear in all haste at my lord father’s command.” Her gaze flicks briefly to Ser Perrin as he departs, then return to fix upon the Prince of Dorne.
The Speardancer gives his cousin an elaborate wink and pops another olive into his mouth.
“All these comings and goings… It seems there is no need for Rhodry! Court is as lively as the market in the Shadow City this morrow.”
Casting away another pit, Michael takes another olive into his mouth, then rubs his hands together.
A liveried servant scuttles forward, taking up the olive pit that Speardancer has tossed aside.
“You’ve heard?” Marence says, and then… well, he sighs. “Yes. Lord Wyl has not be so… hospitable as he could. King Baelor may be dead, for all we know. Not through any direct action, of course, and against my expressed wishes—but will the Iron Throne care?” So that’s the disquiet that he feels, and many of his advisors as well. But not Ser Michael, as it happens.
“Has your father some advice on this matter?” he asks Joleta… and then something moves him to raise his voice and ask, “Or you, Ser Michael? What would you advise?”
“Mm?” Michael blinks, ending his study of Joleta, to look on his Prince. Stepping away from the column, he strokes his beard pensively and says, “I would find out if their silly king is dead and if he is… rejoice and send word to the Iron Throne that the Father has judged him worthy of His company. If Lord Wyl is at fault, send his head to the Iron Throne.”
His handsome beard spliting in a vehement snarl, the Speardancer adds, “He didn’t put up much of a fight when the Invaders came and raped our lands.”
“Salt Shore had considerable interest in seeing that King Baelor was safely returned to Westeros.” Joleta speaks delicately, but there is steel beneath the silk. “My lord father was very displeased to hear of Lord Wyl’s actions as his dramatics may have damaged our interests. From my years in King’s Landing, I spent a good deal of time in observation. There are many who would welcome any excuse to bring another invasion to bear. Inaction would be viewed as compliance at best, or at worst, viewed as conspiracy. Regardless, the Marcher lords are undoubtedly mustering and rattling their swords. There is not the luxury of much time, my Prince.” She dips her chin.
No one asks Ariana’s opinion, but really, that’s just as well. She does look troubled by the discussion, but there’s no indication that the princess has any pearls of wisdom to add. She simply watches, eyes moving between people as they discuss the situation.
Disgruntled noises follow Michael’s pronouncement—men related to Lord Wyl, or who fought in the Boneway in the early days of the war. To Michael, the prince says, “Lord Wyl fought beside my brother and the Yronwoods, as you know very well, ser. That his castle was the first to fall hardly matters—many castles fell to the Young Dragon.” He need not name them… especially not Blackmont. ” Whatever errors he has made, he fought as bravely as any man,” he goes on to say.
To Joleta, he turns, and what she says… well, it makes him look to his sister, for some reason. “No, I fear there’s not a great deal of time. The lords of the Boneway are growing truculent…” A pause, and then he asks, “Lady Yronwood’s son, Farien, was a hostage, was he not? And Lord Guerin’s heir, too, I believe…”
“At least he fought, my Prince,” the Speardancer answers, “Which is more than can be said for some lords who faced the Dragon.”
Shrugging dismissively, he asks Marence, “Do we know whether this beggar king is actually dead? Or is it only rumor? No doubt some few of their more bloody-minded men will use even the rumor of his death to bring death to our borders.”
A dark look taking his handsome face, he punches a fist into his open hand and says, “Let me take a force of men to the Marches, my Prince! I shall ensure any who bring the sword down the Boneway will suffer for it! Ha’HAH!”
Ariana perhaps misinterprets the look from Marence because she nods at his question. “He was, Marence. They both were.” She answers, then frowns at Michael’s request, looking wary.
“I will have to learn more of them,” Marence says, after a hesitation. There’s another stir, and one courtier whispering in his ear after Michael makes his declaration. “We do not know. A septon north of Wyl allegedly help keep the king and the Dragonknight alive, and found a cart for Prince Aemon to carry his cousin away to the Marches. But that would take days, and Baelor at death’s door already…” His voice drifts off, a pensive expression on his face. The prince, troubled, take a moment more to formulate what he says next. “Placing a force at the door to the Marches would be a ... provocation we can ill-afford. Yet sending men to the Boneway may be a thought. My lords?” he says, turning to the courtiers.
“Mayhaps up the Greenblood to Godsgrace, to begin with?” says Ser Perros. “Enough that even Lady Yronwood needs take notice, but not so near that it provokes an unhealthy response.”
Shaking his head, the Speardancer says, “This won’t stop the Iron Throne from acting. If we have heard this tale and know so little, I doubt little the Marcher Lords,” he fairly spits this word, “will do more than provoke with their acts at the barest rumor of their pious king’s danger.”
Shrugging, Michael adds, “If you wish to avoid another war… One that I wouldn’t shy from,” he glares at some of the relatives of Qorgyle and Uller, “I would send a raven to King’s Landing, at least telling them what we know.”
“It is done,” Prince Marence replies. “But I am not sure if it will outpace the news to King’s Landing. Lord Wyl was so unforthcoming, we have only recently heard of this septon’s tale.”
Ser Perros offers, “If Ser Michael speaks correctly about the Marchers .... If we say Lord Guerin is to blame, he is likely to bear the brunt of their anger, is he not?” That makes Marence frown, considering the seneschal of Sunspear. “Perhaps. But Lord Wyl’s people were hard hit in the war, and have their grievances. Not just with the Iron Throne, but with Sunspear, as well. We cannot let them make an example of him, with any justice.”
Ariana offers a hesitant suggestion, looking terribly uncertain about saying anything at all. “Why not.. send a diplomat to Wyl, to try to mediate things? Someone that could go meet with any of the Marchers and try to explain things directly?”
“Such an envoy would need be fleet of foot, my lady,” the Speardancer remarks, “The marcher lords are many and stretch the length of the Red Mountains.”
Shrugging, he grins, “Still it would be an excellent adventure! I shall undertake it, if my Prince so wishes!”
The suggestion of an emissary to Wyl seems to draw serious consideration from the courtiers, and Marence as well, who smiles at his sister… but Ser Michael Blackmont’s enthusiasm makes his smile more uneasy. “Bravely offered, ser,” the prince offers carefully. “But Lord Guerin is mine own uncle by marriage. Perhaps the Princess Lyrella, his wife, might be of use here. Someone more usually part of the court, from her day before she wed herself to Wyl. Or perhaps some kin of hers…”
Old Ser Perros says, “I knew her when she was a girl, my prince, in your grandfather’s day.”
Ariana didn’t really expect her suggestion to be anything more than noise in the room, and the smile from Marence earns a brilliant one in return from his sister. “It just seemed a way to more personally address the problem and ... reduce doubts about sincerity.” The princess says, though softly.
“Very well, it is settled!” the Speardancer says, grinning, “Ha’HAH! You and I shall go to Wyl together, cousin!”
Decisively, he raises a clenched fist before him and says, “You and I shall find the truth of this, cousin, and bring it to rights!”
“I cannot go,” Prince Marence says, scowling. “You are having a jest, Ser Michael. Be serious, or…” He stops, and shakes his head, and stands. “No matter. I will think on the matter.” And with that, the audience is done, and there are looks among the courtiers and advisors… and, doubtless, some recriminations once he’s out of the room.