vharyn sees that her hand is empty of a drink and has the good grace — or sense, perhaps — to bring her something to fill it. he's had enough dornish red to get him relaxing at the shoulders and spine but not enough to otherwise dull the senses. he's even tilting at the edge of his earlier, more prickly mood into something like good. they had all warned daeron that a gathering like this would come at significant cost to the realm, at a time when when a coin needs to stretch farther than it typically would for the people of westeros ... but daeron had dismissed it, to the quiet woe of his hand, and perhaps the rest of his small council. the king had called it a necessarily pain, the sting of the thorn, there and then gone, with a pinprick of blood and nothing more to serve as a reminder. he offers her a goblet with a quick look, and positions himself so they are shoulder-to-shoulder, looking out over the number of people milling from tent-to-tent. they are allowed to be joyous, for now. only time and the seven will tell what is to come upon the morrow. " your accounting for the coin to make this real, where it all would come from, which hands it would pass through ... here it is. are you satisfied? "