The Ryswell Lady took note of the cracking of twigs underfoot behind her, and turned her head slightly to acknowledge the presence. "If you worry you are interrupting, you are not," she said simply.

Now that Valyrion had finally been bribed into remaining outside the city gates, Auron could slither his way into the red keep through one of its many secret passageways. He knew it was far more polite to send word that he was returning, but Auron wanted to surprise his family. It had been some months since he had been home, spending his time flying across Essos on his latest adventure. However, that came to an end two days prior when Auron had decided to return to Westeros. He had his fill of the free cities for now and missed the comforts of home. What he hadn’t been expecting was to arrive during a celebration. He wasn't sure what for, but the whole realm was in attendance, it seemed.

The prince successfully avoided drawing attention to himself, slipping into his old chambers that was his during his youth while visiting the keep. Thankfully, he found it empty and quickly freshened up before returning to join the festivities. He grabbed a lone chalice, sipping the wine within it as he watched the other guests dance from his place by a banner. "Quite the spectacle. Forgive me, would you mind telling me what we're celebrating?" he politely questioned the person standing beside him, a friendly smile on his face and a curious twinkle in his lilac eyes.

The celebrations in honor of her queenly grandmother gilded the worst of the city's faults; bonfires filled the air with a rich and smokey scent that smoothed over the stink of low tide and human filth that wafted up from the lower streets where the impoverished dwelled. With the heavy presence of the gold cloaks warding off would-be thieves and cutthroats, the gentry were free to walk the streets where merchants, sellswords, and whores alike peddled their wares to a mix of high and lowborn buyers. Alleyways were made into stages for performers, and the sounds of fiddles and flutes drifted out onto the streets from inns and halls alongside the scents of ale and roasting meats.

The color was high on Daena's cheeks as she walked the streets, the flush attributed to a combination of the warmth of fires and the cup of sweet mead that'd been pressed into her hand. Her attention was caught by a bent-backed old woman who sat crosslegged atop a donkeycart. A collection of items sat before her as an offering to would-be customers: crudely-made poppets, bundles of herbs wrapped with twine, and little trinkets that looked to be made with shells and hair (the source of which she could not readily identify). A woods witch, it seemed — or an old mummer playing at one.

"Three copper stars," the old woman croaked, "three coppers, for three futures — a day, a month, a year," she raised her milky eyes up, and Daena turned her cheek to avoid catching her queer gaze.

"I am content to wait for tomorrow, a month, a year," she said, her lilac gaze settling upon another who'd been drawn to the cart, "would you care for a go?" A small coinpurse was slung around her hip, and she patted the leather bag. "I will pay the woman for you."