courage dear heart

the chaos had given way to a sort of uneasy calm. the amusement he'd derived from the brawl and its immediate consequences had died down as he picked his way through what remained of the grand encampment. myles moved as carefully as anyone who'd had as much to drink as was sloshing about in his system possibly could. funny, he thought, that the best night ( or morning ) of sleep he'd had in recent times had been under a collapsed pavilion. a snuffled laugh escaped voluntarily and he kicked something underfoot out of the way and he muttered to himself, "when fate hands you lemons..."

These two were peculiar together. Rhogar had continued on as the world continued on after the events of the night before, finding the fighting to be ultimately for naught. It changed nothing. To contrast, Rhogar barely kept any drink in their system. Why did they feel responsible for this imbecile? With a sigh, they grab Myles, and feel Myles grabbing them back. Their posture remains straight, and if their face changed at all, it only grows more tired as time dragged on. That drink dragged on, forcing them to blink. They should've just ran, but here they remained.

This was one of the worst people to ask that question to. He bolstered a smile as the realization hit, but he feared it was too late for that. “Ah, there is no need to worry, Princess Daenyara. Simply looking for information from last night, that is all." She didn’t have to know all of the inner workings of the council around him. But she might have known about Roast, and from what he knew of Viserra’s sister, he feared it would hurt her constitution if she knew he was lost amongst all the fighting.

He moved in a way that counterbalanced Casella, but was far too clunky, similar to a stone gargoyle whose hinges had just been discovered by an onlooker. It was a sight to see - two siblings enjoying each other’s company. Oswyck wondered how many more times they’d get this chance. He hoped for many more despite the distance.

If this was a trap, Harlan was trying to shut it down as soon as he could. Yet, a part of him wanted to see where it went. Where was this Bellaria in those letters? She acted like she knew what she wanted, but what she wanted wasn't public knowledge. Harlan certainly wasn’t going to give it to her if it was anything he had. No matter who was flirting with him, he would refuse it.

it was safe to say Aemma had already wanted to go home, now she really wanted to leave Dorne. the comment about her mother and the fight between her brother and Lord Tyrell that she got caught in between was enough to make her want to drink her weight in alcohol to avoid everything that happened.

though it seem the Seven decided to test her once more as she ended up walking through door after realizing she had gotten her directions mixed up. though once the other spoke to her she turned to look at the person to reclaim before realizing who she stood in front of.

Of course the guards wouldn’t do anything about Aemma entering. Yet, when she said she could go get a cousin, a thought formed that he couldn’t squash down before it was fully thought: which one? The Targaryens were in almost every region of Westeros, and soon to be in Dorne to stay. The so-called cousin could be anyone in the family, Viserra included. She was accounted for, and he was grateful she was ultimately okay. Yet, Aemma could be saying she’d grab Maegor or Aenyx for that descriptor. It meant nothing to Qoren. He had his own cousins within the Yronwoods, but not throughout all of Westeros like those cockroaches.

It might have been rude to stare, but this particular cousin of Viserra’s truly did look peculiar. He quickly concluded that this was most likely the short Arryn. Now being face-to-face with her, that description was certainly apt.

"Suppose he is responsible for the mighty whack to the head you sustained." Andrik leaned over to the bedside table, and poured two glasses of water, one he unceremoniously held before Gyles whilst he lifted the other to his lips. He set his own glass down once more, before finishing his point. "Who knows, might even be an improvement to before." A short-lived grin. Gyles may not have been in a mood for jesting, but Andrik felt his commentary was rather apt, regardless.

"Why did he punch you?" He finally asked, inhaling a long gust, before exhaling just as deeply. "What was said?" If it was too taxing to piece together the events, Andrik would simply return when he was more alert. Such were the perks of nurturing his friendship.

"He hit me first." These first words were quicker, with a bite to them, similar to the one he gave Luceryn. Even still, Andrik brought a cup to his lips, the cool liquid doing nothing to help. At least, not now.

No response was given to his jabs. It wasn't worth the effort. He knew everyone wanted him to shut up - why would he give people that courtesy?

They were playing at some game though Emeric had yet to learn its rules. Like some variant of Cyvasse where he had been dropped upon the board halfway through the match, left to puzzle out each move as it came. Whenever he thought he had found the pattern or strategy, Lord Gyles would overturn it with a sardonic smile or a particularly biting word, and he would be lost again.

This sudden shift in his mood felt as though it came too easy, far too easy. After all the awkward meetings and quiet failures that had passed between them in Highgarden, he could not believe a cup of sweet summerwine and a handful of jests had truly turned the tide. Emeric did not believe it. If he had learned one thing about the man that he hoped to make his betrothed, it was that Gyles did little without purpose and this unexpected shift to kindness was unlikely to come free. There was like to be some design beneath the pleasantries, some hidden motives beneath the conversation. He could not yet see what but as had become the norm in the months since he had first met Tyrell, it only sharpened his curiosity. He found himself still wanting to follow the current wherever it might carry them.

"Then I ought to keep close company with those of a tarter disposition. Sweetness without tartness cloys but a little sweetness softens what would otherwise be too sour to stomach." 

He gave Gyles his brightest smile, guileless to all appearances, and deliberately steered talk away from furthering this back and forth before he lost control of it all and the conversation ended in another disaster.

Now, the ball was in Gyles’ court. He could spit in Emeric’s face and call him a fool in a million different ways, but he feared he’d only bolster that dimpled smile and laugh that ever-so-grating laugh. Instead, he watched the other lord like a python watching its prey - rolling a shoulder in the process like it was an itch he couldn’t scratch.

This wasn’t the first time he’d felt this feeling. He’d felt it many times when Emeric attempted to broker peace with the Tyrells. He felt it the most intensely at that dinner when he looked at Gyles and discretely asked for his hand in marriage. He knew it was a demand that Alester couldn’t refuse. That itch made him want to claw Emeric’s eyes out and spew profanities no noble should speak aloud.

So, it had reduced from overboiling to a simmer. For now.

He speaks of them together. Yet Gyles knew Emeric couldn’t tame his tartness, an everlasting effect on those he came across, nor could he tame his reputation. In fact, this match would only make some worse, he was sure of that.

So, if he couldn’t fight this match, why not have some fun in the meantime? See how much this beautiful jester could dance?

“It’s unbelievably stuffy here, don’t you think?” There it was, that shrill voice again. It always meant he was up to something.

"Not yet." He shut the door behind him, the anger from the corridor still sitting plain on his face even as he tried to gentle it for his stepson's sake. "I trust nothing has happened to you or Viserra?"

He crossed the room properly now, eyes searching Qoren over as though he might find some injury the boy hadn't mentioned. Sorry, man. Maron had been struggling to correct himself that Qoren was a man now. A married man, and the future Prince.

There was this unsteadiness he noted within Maron. It was worse than it appeared out there. What detail did he miss that made this change within him?

“No,” he finally says, shaking his head. After the decades of being by his side albeit with Maron in another role, he still reverted back to being the protector. Qoren had wanted to have a speckle of that sort of strength, but every time he tried, it only made someone get hurt. Ultimately, Qoren knew his strength was not the same as Maron’s nor Yorick’s nor Deria’s, and at the core, it stung. He couldn’t even keep his betrothed safe. In fact, he hadn’t even known she had slipped into the fray without guards.

“Viserra’s safe thanks to Eleana. Gods know why they were out there!” He sounded exasperated, turning away, watching the curtains sway in the gentle breeze knowing it was only Maron. It seemed peaceful now, but how long would it remain?

“No one seems to know what happened. Everyone became frenzied. This is not who we are as a people. I don’t want to believe that is what Aegon’s people are either.”

he had expected something of consequence. instead —

"no." the answer came before qoren had even turned. immediate. clipped.

"i've found only the servants searching gardens, kitchens, and half the estate for…" he paused, the faintest crease appearing between his brows. "…roast."

the name did little to inspire confidence.

"i assume there's a reason half of lemonwood is looking for him, my prince?"

He had told one servant. How in the Seven Hells did this noble find out about the cat’s name? For a moment, his brow furrowed before he sported a smile. Appearances were of utmost importance now. He had made sure that wounds were attended, the land ensured to be well, and assisted with the clean up delegation. Yet, Roast being gone remained. That was all to stew on. The politics between the Tyrells and Arryns were of little importance to Qoren.

“Apologies for my attendants. They hardly know who is who to bother with meaningless chores.” Even though Valarr knew, what point did it have to worry him? Or, well, bore him as Qoren thought.

There was no point in telling him that he was the reason Viserra was almost injured the night prior. Neither was there one in telling him that he was technically Viserra’s dear cat, but a gift for the new union. Even though Qoren didn’t care much for mammals, he had grown fond of his betrothed. If she cared so dearly for Roasting Fork, he would care for him too.

Yet, with him being missing during the fray, in came a growing fear of their future. How many generations would it take to have peace - to still be separate but understood by each other? What would happen when people found out Viserra was to have a child, something all royals were expected to do? Would there be as much of an uproar as now?

It was no matter to dwell on it. Instead, he could later plan for it. For now, all he could do was calm down.

Location: Lemonwood, the first morn in the wake of the affray.

It was certainly a night.

Oswyck and his family were luckily far away from the fray, but what had happened remained in pieces. In fact, he had hardly known - the first night in a fortnight that Violet had decided it was time to sleep. For once, the ruling liege Tullys were able to rest. It seemed the rest of the world couldn’t.

Despite this carnage, there was an air of hope that he wanted to cling to. Would such an alliance prevail? He had tried to broker peace with the Iron Islands, and received similar uproar. People never really changed, especially when opening old wounds.

Location: Gyles' private quarters, following the events at Lemonwood.

Andrik spared Gyles but a short glance, not bothering to inspect in detail what damage he had sustained during the brawl. They had maesters to patch them back together; he had come to talk. He dragged up a chair to his bedside, and sighed heavily as he settled into the seat. "What in the seven hells compelled you to do that? You have your wits about you on a camel's back. But you lose all sense when faced with a man's fist?" His brows knitted into a deep scowl, light blond hair tumbling forward to frame his face as he shook his head. For all the machinations of Westerosi courts and the tangle of shifting politics they navigated, Andrik had found a sense of belonging with those who had also been bound to Aegonfort and Dragonstone in wardship. A sense of family, never mind their differences in upbringing, beliefs, even loyalties. Or so, he had thought. "And Luceryn. Of all the people you could have fought. Next time, if you feel a desperate need to punch someone, punch me. I would have just grabbed you by the scruff of your neck."

All that came out of Gyles' mouth were grumbles and weak attempts at waving Andrik off. As usual, all he heard was a noise in his ear. Even when he tried to hear the other man, he only caught glimpses of his words, Andrik's frame still spinning. The maesters could help relieve the pain, but not the spinning.

It takes him longer to retort than usual, not even bothering to try to get up. He remains laying down, eyes appearing farther away than normal. In this state, he could hardly speak his truth, taking breaks between words, some words slurring. He just wanted to rest, but plenty of people weren't allowing him to do so.

"It wasn't me." At first, that's all he can say. Time seemed to drag on before he could say further words. He knew Rhaenys was beloved by all of the Kingdoms, especially the Vale, but was the enemy of Dorne. He had seen how much love Luceryn and Aemma held for her, and how much her people loved her in return. When his family left, he saw the hole in Luceryn's heart reappear. It was something that he understood, but only when Rosalyn left.

The Targaryens left a bitter taste in his mouth, one that he couldn't ignore, but he wouldn't be so bold as to announce it in the tent he shared with their cousins. Instead, he hadn't been paying attention and was joking with another. He had been too merry to realize someone was talking about Rhaenys, and said choice joke words. "He punched first. I bit and kicked, no punching."

Aenyx lets out a tolerant chuckle at the high-strung reaction he’d inadvertently roused from the other man. “Fancy yourself an astronomer, Lord Harlan?” he ignores the question and walks closer, angling himself in such a way that it’s clear he isn’t seeking to catch a glimpse at whatever the Stormlander guards so jealously. “— or a poet? Seeking inspiration from this beautiful place to pen a love letter?” his tone is lightly teasing.

That voice. He hadn't noticed, at first. His back straightened, eyes watching the Prince from afar. Of course he doesn't care about what is going on, instead toying with his prey. How convenient for him to take a walk in the groves to find Harlan led astray.

Harlan's eyes follow Aenyx's form as he comes closer. The sky was different here, he could tell that much, shifting and turning. Yet, there were changes he couldn't understand. His thoughts had not shifted towards a dragon being in the sky - no matter if it was Vasha or Vandal, did it really matter? He kept his distance which Harlan would have appreciated if he had known. Yet, he would've appreciated it even more if Aenyx had done what Vandal was doing right now.

She had been the first to approach him. How stupid he had been to be so engrossed in his favorite activity, he hadn't realized who it was. It could be the wrong person, even Bellaria could have been that, and everything would be ruined. Even now, she seemed to be toying with him. He watched her come closer, noting how she knew exactly how to play the little lady that knew nothing. Then, eyes went back to the activity at hand. Why did he feel embarrassed about this? It was because he was trying to keep her at arms-length, and she somehow found a way to come closer every time. Even now.

perhaps if your own mind was plagued by every injustice you’ve witnessed, it was only natural to bleed suspicion. or in alarras case, to sweat it through every pore of northern skin. it could’ve been stubbornness that had also led her to refuse to change into anything but northern clothes, entirely unsuitable for the opposite climate, yet, as any northerner worth their salt, alarra stood firmly in her point, and now in boots filled with sand.  when she finally arrived at the lemonwood banquet, her gaze did not fall on the perfectly adorned lemon pastries. through the scent of citrus and various important figures trying to fit into dornish heat, she was searching for something interesting. something that might make her visit to dorne less dreadful ( truth to be told, anything would be more delightful than attending a targaryen wedding ) .  when she spotted someone busy balancing parchment rather than indulging in sweet delicacies, alarra sneaked towards the person, watching him from behind as she glanced over his shoulder in an attempt to decipher what he was writing. maybe some secret message, containing about a revolt ? or - “ huh ?” she stepped back, when the voice interrupted the pattern of thoughts she'd tried to finish, arms hiding behind her back when she was talked to.  “ does it matter ? if you have something to hide, maybe you should try being less suspicious about it.” she said, leaving out a laugh.   “ what is it you're conspiring about ? any plans to ruin that wedding ?”

Initially, all he does is squint towards the lone wolf once he turns around and realizes it's her. Her words felt like a fly buzzing around him, refusing to leave. "Perhaps you should be the one that should try being less suspicious, seeing as you walked up behind me."

Next, she brings up plans to conspire, something he wouldn't dare do so publicly. Was she trying to conspire with him? No, that made no sense. He had no idea what she was trying to achieve, but they both would be a sight to behold to anyone else - a man in Stormland gear with parchment strewn about him with a woman in Northern gear peering over his shoulder. In response, she gets a grumble. Sure, he hated this wedding as much as the average person, but he couldn't go against the crown. He hadn't been given any instructions to do that, so he wouldn't.

“If you had not brought attention to it -" a pause is warranted to look over and point a hand over to the horse with a braid. “- Most people would not have noticed.” They remained to have an air of someone who ultimately did not care. What did it matter in the grand scheme of the universe? People would continue to suffer, no matter the cause. Someone sabotaging a horse the night before a race truly meant nothing except fleeting feelings. Sure, they held distrust, but mostly due to these feelings. They were fickle feelings, ones they hated to feel.

“You simply lucked out on one of the some passing by.” That was not a true answer, and they knew it.