* 𝔞𝔰𝔥 / 𝔣𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢

"yes, i can only imagine what you're going through." yan drifts into the room, still clad in the pearls from the ceremony, snatched from a good trade deal with the riverlands. it's part of westerosi custom or whatever to dress the part, and yet entirely dornish in how they look at her, watching for anything other than thoughtfulness. qoren loves her. love is so ... interesting. "a wedding usurping a wedding. i am sorry for the thievery, dear ... sister?" a slender brow arches. "or are we cousins now? i can't keep such terms straight." and who else does this tie them to? what other cousins or whatever have they managed to snag? ridiculous.

"your thoughts seem very far away, lady velaryon." not that he could cast blame upon her for that. there was much to think about, and ambrose looks on his own house with a similar distance. what happens if he can't show up when they need him to? what happens if their bonds further fracture by what occurs within the walls of the dornish capital? he wants them to come out stronger, not be broken by the rest of the world, and yet so it seems fated. so her speaking continuing on the idea of miracles makes him feel at least somewhat at ease. "now you sound like i do when i try to encourage my siblings. i feel as though i'm the only one left in house tully who bothers to see the sun as it is, and not another harsh mistress." the longer he tolerates the cold from the water, the more he considers jumping in. there is sound logic to it, and ambrose has no such shyness in general. "i will leap if you do." whatever carries her thoughts away, perhaps this will bring them back to the present moment.

the tully lord keeps the charming smile upon his face. he, too, was surprised, but he would be untoward if he showed it. she shadows him instead, goosebumps rippling along the side of his back where she lurked. gods, he never has had much luck with harlaws. there always seems to be some kind of wound they wanted to pour their salt in, and ambrose doesn't think he has much to offer in the way of that, which could make him quite disappointing. "next tide? so then i have a couple of days? i believe by the ocean's rising, it'll be very soon. i'll look to your skulking then." even with her ... deciding to do whatever she was doing, ambrose doesn't feel as ill as he expects. maybe because he's used to the idea of a threat lurking, even if he tries to ignore them. "i am lucky to be having such conversation with you, yes." and not be tossed onto the cliffs, but they silence this.

their pride simply won't allow them to admit it. but it would, in fact, and somehow be better for dorne if she was crowned. could yan bring themself to say it aloud? instead they false-frown in the face of her teasing, a shake of their head and then a gentle, fainted touch of their lips when she insists she'll scream. "and it would be at the volume where the walls would shatter. i'd be reluctant to not let dorne win after hearing that banshee's wail." there was no further time to train for the races either. they simply will have to make do. "you do the screaming as i poison someone. a light poisoning! just sprinkled in the jams." it would be a spectacle if they timed it to be during her scream as well.

"pointless? do you have paramour troubles i need intervene on?" yan follows her gaze throughout the steeds milling around them, a paradise for those who didn't know to look beyond the service. but pipa has always been sensitive to such things, in their mind, and yan wonders what affects her so suddenly.

“This would be much easier if they were Daynes. You would think we would have an alliance by marriage by now.” Then he says the words he had been repeating mentally. “Even you don’t understand my mother, your sister’s, decision, then?”

why does marriage have to be considered a great challenge everyone wishes to conquer? yan wouldn't mind if it became obsolete. less people should be choosing marriage in their opinion. especially those from westeros who held little understanding of their proclaimed sanctity. as if on cue, a squeak resounds from their slipper as they make the final pacing turn, before they come to a stop before the strained face of their nephew and shake their head slowly at him. they warned him about those wrinkles. ( they do not realise he holds back the laugh. ) hands pressed to hips, fists really now. "you'd think i was! they view marriages as some bound families, as if we are suddenly wrapped around the throat with the same chains. no longer two separate houses with separate opinions. it drives me mad." they press fingertips to their temples, gesturing in a circle leading away from their face. their leonine body follows after it, now moving in a small circle. it helps their racing mind, the stumbling thoughts. the way that they see the foreshadowing spiderwebs on the wall of problems created, problems that perhaps not even viserra targaryen caused. but came with regardless. at qoren's question, they huff. "i must do it then." withering, almost wailing. their shoulders slump at the idea. "i must be the one to wed a dayne. how did it come to this?" they adjust the wine bottle closest to them, arranging the decanters of qoren's chambers to let the glass clatter and add to their thinking. something in the monotone noise assists them further. they did, of course, have no inclination of marrying, not even a dayne. "i understand perfectly, qoren." facing him with that wilted posture, that lithe shrug tucked within. "i simply hate it. because i am full of hate, and forced to play the underworld's advocate in the face of every happiness." a little smirk. in a strange way, they tease him. they insist this is not intentional to drag him down without saying so. "but sent alone ... yes, but who would dare go with arianne to face the inevitable doom?" then again, the dornish have faced such inevitable dooms before, and emerged stronger out the other side for it. even if it means they have to break out their ancient blade, and whet it upon the stone, and race across the sands of time — well, fine. either way, yan holds no resentment for him. even with a dragon now allowed to land upon their stones and curse them whenever it so wished.

"i doubt i could ever be filled with sorrow by your presence." and that was saying something more than just a simple compliment. there was plenty of sorrow surrounding them, and plenty more who wanted to remain in that mind. ambrose tries to lift himself up out of such a pit. he wants nothing to do with that, nothing to do with what it means to be persistently downtrodden. "finding the miraculous in the small. i would do well to follow you with that." ambrose often searches for larger miracles, more befitting of paying attention. it is so easy to pass over the rest and pretend as though it hasn't happened. suitable to needs and returning to basics, such as desiring wine or needing a swim. maybe if he splashed some of this cold water on those around him, they would think clearer. "when it's too cold to disrobe?" he challenges. then again this may not be a stopping point for her. he touches the gleaming water, wondering if it's real even as he does so.

"because you prefer persuasion on the battlefield." it is not lost upon ambrose that there are many lives he will never live, and this would be one of them. if the situation called for it, the lord tully would raise up his own banners and sword in the name of his house, but he hadn't the slightest experience with it. he had not ever been called forth to battle, despite what lurks on the distant horizon. "well, i suppose we all have our duties in this great wheel churning all around us." even if he would rather be doing something else entirely.

ah, heartbreak. thank the gods they never felt it. ( this is, of course, a lie even to themself. ) such things act as distractions. if they want a distraction, then let it be fleeting. "what a pity," they say thoughtfully. "does this mean that when i receive the invitation to your wedding, it will be out of obligation?" they give a shudder. "my heart hurts for you." they were also undoubtedly curious. something right underneath the surface which keeps evading their sharp nose entirely.

there was no escaping history. no matter what they choose to do, ultimately they become it, and to lose a child to an unknown marriage could feel the same as another sort of grief. the dowager didn't seek those involved out, not on purpose, but neither would she rebuke running into them. the pieces upon the board had been played, and her own contacts within these houses shifting with the decision. one must hope to keep their ducks in a row if not wanting to be buried beneath the ash of a promise, not yet kept. the cough comes from behind she who enters, the valet in question who has not yet returned and in fact, shirks his duties to avoid the barbs, assuming so. "i fear he still roams the halls, my lord, but if you're in need of refreshment?" in her younger days, such a thing might be followed up by the offering of a flask. she does not have it on her to offer, so instead morgaine ( who at last, changed out of the freedom of the wedding clothes ) leans to observe the eye in question. "it is a bit bruised, but not entirely blackened. not yet. you've come out of this physically unscathed." specific on purpose. more than just his eye would be pulsating, of that morgaine was certain and understood from her own perspective. "i didn't foresee this wedding being usurped by another. you have my condolences." she keeps the curses out of her mouth for now.

as the young arryn now dayne girl stood, her violet eyes caught the presence of another and shifted her attention to the other. "if you wish, i can leave so you are left alone."

he looks the perfect part of a septa, or something. forsaking the tully clothes in order to blend in, beige draped across his hair although he forgot to take out the baubles from the wedding decorating his coils. he slips in without notice, a whisper of a person; he is no expert in sneaking around per se, but he draws on the experience from knowing the keep to figure out where to go. following lines in the mortar, tracing the lights which carve the main paths and choosing the sides, and the candles faded out, and ambrose's stomach twisted in that odd reverence. to be in a septa in dorne — an odd juxtaposition, to him. a figure moves not long before the candle alights, and he keeps his footsteps quiet as he enters. she catches him. he sighs, having gone through the trouble to filch this garment, but at least most at a glance will think him giving her the council. "nay. that'd moot the point of all the trouble i went through to do this." hand to draw up and down the beige and lifeless garment, hoping it might make her laugh a little. what happened out there chased all the laughter out of her. "besides, i think i could use a few prayers or what have you. keep blessings in my steps and bring more love to the tully house." he took his own candle. instead of lighting it separately, he puts the wick to hers already lit. "i didn't think this is how we'd first speak again, aemma. or should i say ... lady dayne. the targaryens never take kindly to their spotlight being stolen." he wouldn't make such an assumption about the martells, but then again, the union went forwards for a reason.

the princex holds up one hand, risking a one-handed steering of their steed to ward off the word. there has been enough risks taken with the whole M-A- which surrounds them. "i dare not make you say it. as i told qoren, it's a shoe that squeaks, a mouse in the grain. but truly, even without that, is there anyone catching your attentions?"

"I think one the wedding has passed and the feast goes well, she might need someone to indulge in her in some dornish red. If not my stepfather, maybe you can." She looked as they traced the shoulders of their outfits. "If I am to be honest, its the certainty of what is to come next once these festivities are done that have me thinking."

the certainty of what was to come. or rather the uncertainties, with that whole debacle near the end severing the ceremony in half. "we wished far too hard for a spectacle and our dreams came true," is their sigh. the annoyance seeps through only but for a moment. "no, it's not any secret who you take after, and perhaps that's why i've worried less about it until now." deria will need more than a proper dornish red to get through this embarrassment. this was no longer just about the idea of love, but the whole realm hangs in the balance, and house martell was make a near laughingstock with the removal of the spotlight. "you should have acted out in return for it, like a punishment. and i would've pretended to faint on their feet. hindsight ..." a trail-off. "utterly ridiculous. i'll have to make sure house martell regains its footing in the races." another demonstration of the wide shoulders, as yan almost immediately steps as the main person into that role.

"is that so? have you stayed here in this keep before?" the tully is overrun with curiosity. not even out of a need nor a penchant for gossip, ambrose finds they seek the details of someone else who travels. there are so many places he hasn't been yet, and dorne is one of them up until this point. "i can play that part well so long as i know what i'm getting into," returns he with the joke, rather mischievously. he salutes the other with his goblet. at least it has been changed out for water that sparkles. "but do you know what it means to truly play the games of hearts?"

the mormont slowly lowers their plate. the north would indeed remember, it seems, and it begins with the chewing of a beloved pepper. one could smell the spiciness emitting from the damn things from miles away, and caelia has none of her own interest in testing her battle willpower in that regard. it appears to her as one of the ways to no longer have her wits about her, which also includes imbibing in mead, but such a thing can't be removed from the north either. the warmth in her stomach curls and she purses her lips to avoid laughing as lord manderly's face grows hot, and his decorum vacant, and they shake their head. "water won't help you with this one, lord manderly." a beat. his voice carries him away, the panic setting in as his throat catches on metaphorical fire. with younger siblings, regardless of caelia's own non-sibling feelings about others, it's natural for them to become irritable at the sight of antics. "lord manderly!" more emphatic to catch his attention. she grabs the nearest pitcher, crested with light sprinklings of gold, which contains — some kind of milk. if she's giving him specifics, it may already put him off, but they have the pitcher in hand, not even bothering with another cup. "here. have a swig or three of this and take some deep damn breaths, would you? the rest of the wedding party's about to stomp on you like you're the flame." not to mention, the north was already under scrutiny. the pettiness in her thinks that she should've let his tongue burn, but it never boils down to something so simple.