(121-03-20) A Grisly Introduction
A Grisly Introduction
Summary: Maelys arrives in Oldtown with a rather morbid souvenir.
Date: Date of play (03/20/2014)
Related: None

It is a stormy night, and most of the household has taken refuge inside the lavish manse to avoid the bad weather. Visenya sits alone in the Solar with a rare book from Old Valyria, her eyes scanning over the pages when there is a commotion.

"A Prince has arrived!" One servant will say to another as they pass the door of the Solar.

The rumble of thunder accompanies the lift of Visenya's head from the book. She is barefoot, in a simple gown since she did not expect to see any but her brother's, and her long silvery hair is unbound. Still, she has enough curiosity within her to close her book, and rise from her chair to walk down a smaller service hall to the Great Hall where one would enter the manse. She steps outside, skirts held up to keep from getting wet in the rain, to give the new arrival an eyeing.

A long tail of men precede 'the prince' but these are not Darklyns, Stokeworths, Velaryons, or Thornes in the raiment of chivalry. The first of their number is a Tyroshi with a bright red bead braided and pleated elaborately across his chest. Beside him rides a slender youth of seven-and-ten with curly locks of onyx hair, a bravo's blade at his hip. They hail from Tyrosh, Myr, Pentos, Braavos, and Lys. An aged graybeard with a faded orange and sable cuirass bears the Prince's banner: sable and crimson, a three-headed dragon atop three shattered swords. The Prince sits atop a massive black destrier encased in red scale armor, dragons teeth rise from his helm and pauldrons - even midst these killers he is a sight, closer to seven feet than six. Beside him rides a Dothraki shorter, albeit broader of chest. In the Dothraki hands a gorey prize. A head with a halo of soft brown hair. The Prince of Ashes spurs his destrier and halts before his niece. The Dothraki follows, and tosses the head at her feet. There are streaks of gray in the head soft curls of brown and his mouth if full of roses.

Visenya is a maid of nine and ten. Older than most maids, but still prone to shrieks at such grizzly sights. However, Visenya does not shriek. Instead, she gives the head in front of her a look of consternation before she looks up to the big man on the destier. Lightning flashes in the sky, illuminating the amethyst in her eyes as she tilts her head up to look the man in the eye. "Who is he?" She asks over the howl of the wind.

A squire, a boy with a the look of slave, albeit no collar rushes forward and take the reins of the great destrier. Maelys doffs his helm and a mane of black hair spill out over pauldrons and gorget. He looks upon the maid and his eyes dialate, then narrow. His lips curl and a cruel laugh rolls upward. "A man with the face of a child and the wits of a green boy. A callow knight who thought he could dance with a dragon. Ser Laurent's father, Ser Corey." At his nieces look, he actually smirks. "You should have seen the rest of him."

"The Tyrells will not be pleased." Visenya points out. She pushes now wet hair from her face, and glances down at the head. "They are insolent and do not respect our family here. They may try to arrest you." She flicks her gaze up from the head to Maelys face again, "You are lucky grandfather is dead, Uncle. He would be very cross about this." There's a pause, and she suddenly gets a shrewd look on her face.

"You forget, dear niece, that the man who has gold, commands the man who has swords. If they set the watch 'gainst me, I've gold and swords, enough." Another slave, nay a cupbearer, a silver-haire Lysene maid steps forward from the long train of horseman and servants. In her arms a bejeweled silver tray bearing a pair of Dragonglass goblets. "Yes, The Old King was well-loved, he married well, he ruled well. My cousin? He surrounds himself with…" Here, Maelys spares the Hightower a look of disdain. "Hightower lickspittles - and his fair daughter - well, she is a whore." He deadpans.

Visenya laughs at that. At the ridiculous of the situation. At the Tyrell head near her dainty bare feet. At her outlandish Uncle. She laughs, and the pretty sound of her laughter is carried away into the wind. "You do not think the Tyrells have swords or gold? Oh, dear Uncle." She shakes her head before asking, as if nothing were unusual, "How long will you be staying with us?"

Here, the Prince of Ashes inclines his head toward his fair niece. A single sable eyebrow rises as he turns toward the distant Tyrell manse. A cold chuckle rolls up from hsi throat rolling over the courtyard behind her rich laughter. "Yes, quite." He has been across the sea for a great many years. Excepting a brief sojourn to King's Landing and Dragonstone some four years past - fully nineteen years. Yet he soon recalls he splendor of Highgarden and sight of the flower of Reach chivalry. "I relinquished my command some months ago - you see, dear niece, Captain-Generals do not live overlong. I have been Captain-General of the Second Sons for … six perchance seven years. Better to leave bedecked in blood and glory than to wait for one of my lieutenants to slay me with poison or dispatch assasins. I intend to peruse the vaults of the Citadel and amuse myself in Oldtown until I bore of the place. Although, there are so many upstart stewards to antagonize. So many roses to prune."


"Then come inside." Visenya calls out into the wind, "And I shall see that you have refreshment, and a room is made ready for you." Her plain gown is now soaked from the rain. She looks as if a bucket has been dumped over her. "You can worry about pruning tomorrow, Uncle. Surely they will have heard the news by then." That said, she turns to go into the manse and out of the rain.

Maelys waves off the goblet, then turns to the Dothraki Bravo at his left. A few words in the tongue of Braavos and the Prince of Ashes mounts the steps. He looks upon his niece and favors her with another cruel smile. "Lead on, dear niece." He steps beneath the lintel tugging at the fingers of his leather riding gloves. His trails the steps for a moment then recedes into the manse proper. "The garden is naught but a bramble it has need or pruning, but yes, it can wait till the morrow."

"Niece." Visenya says, and she smiles wryly at this. "You probably do not know which one I am, even. You probably think I am Cerys or Rhaella." She takes a cloth from one of the manse's servants and begins to dab herself with it. All the while she continues to flirt and tease in that mild way that the best noblewomen learn from an early age, as if they were strolling through a garden instead of in their particular circumstance.

"Visenya." Maelys's lips turn up into another smirk. He sits down upon a chair, throwing one mailed leg over the arm rest of another - he gestures to a servant in crimson and sable livery. "Wine." Then turns to Visenya. "Of the two - Rhaenys was the more feminine, although Visenya was the seductress - tell me niece, you truly believe a little rose lord will satisfy you? Or nay, even placate you? You aspire to tame a Dragon and yet you are ready to bed a wilted rose."

Visenya laughs again at his answer. "You're wrong on that count, Uncle." She sits down on a chair across from Maelys, and holds out her hand languidly for a goblet of wine. "Rhaenys was the more feminine, but she was the seductress. They say for every night Aegon spent with Visenya he spent ten with Rhaenys, and on the nights Aegon was with Visenya she took other men to bed." The wine goblet is placed in her hand, and she takes a little swallow, "But Visenya was the warrior. Why bed men when you can kill them?" She smiles, "Ah, so you've heard of my betrothal? You know you've hacked my beloved's Uncle's head off, don't you?" She seems unbothered by this.

"I stand corrected - your dear mother should have named you Rhaenys, sweet niece - you'll have need of a mis, ahem manstress should you wed the little rose - seven hells - roses. How can any maid consider marrying a man whose crest is a metaphor for a cunt?" A look of aristocratic disdain writ upon his hard-cut features, the Ashen Prince drains his goblet. "Although, if his grace wishes to placate the roses - then he must needs give them a daughter, or a son - why, indeed? If you should ever tire of the little rose, and you haven't a Dragon. You may have your maid call on me." At the last the Prince of Ashes all but groans. "The fault lies with the boy's uncle. He sought me - I thought the shame of his gallant brother's ignominious death was shame enough - he had to compound it by challenging a man he could not hope to best. I could have killed him drunk, with my left hand, whilst choking my dragon with my right."

"You will make me blush with such talk, Uncle." Visenya says, but her cheeks remain free of pink. "I am a maid, and no not know of the wants and needs of men. But, just between you and I, it was my father's desire to see Cerys wed to the Pansy. I only volunteered because my brother, who you may remember was betrothed to me at our birth, has taken vows of chastity, and our sister wept at the idea of wedding a man who clearly did not love her." She rolls her eyes at this, and has another swallow of wine, "And it seems my beloved has a taste for…ah, how shall I put it?" She bites down on her bottom lip, "He would be more inclined to wed Daevon than he is inclined to wed me. But, I am in luck." She smiles then, "Father will never want dragon's eggs to fall into the Tyrell's hands. I don't care how much he desires a match with Lord Tyrell. The roses have nothing that precious to offer him."

"Ah, yes. -The Maiden's- Knight." The Prince rolls his eyes when he invokes the the goddess's aspect. "Maiden Knight is more apt - or the Seven's sausage skinner. I have heard he is a fine lance and fine swordsman, but celibacy - with roses and trout spawning like cockroaches - he has a duty to sew his seed - I am sure your sister was quite distraught." At the next the Maelys nearly chokes upon his wine. "I see, the Tyrells have more than one pansy midst the roses. Dragons' eggs you say." Here the Prince lowers his goblet. "I hope you have taken precautious, sweet niece, I have taken many treatures from Essos, I saught Dragons' Eggs and found many riches, but never a glimpse of Dragons' Eggs."

"There is a reason they call him Lord Pansy." Visenya says with a sardonic little smile, "He wears the moniker as if he should be proud of it. I hear he takes men to his bed, and barely attempts to hide it. I would be made into a laughingstock. Put aside and ignored for fair boys. What a waste." She has another swallow of the wine, "They are protected." She watches Maelys a moment, "What will you do when the Tyrells come knocking? I feel as if I ought to go to bed now so I am up in the morning early enough to see them come."

"He takes men to his bed." A statement rather than a question. "I have known his specimen of man - I have known a few warriors of note who prefer the company of men to women - say what you will - I care not. If a man is proficient at killing he can fuck goats and ewes for all I care - this Pansy, though…" The Prince of Ashes drains his goblet and calls for another. "If the Tyrells should come knocking I shall invite them to sup on the wine and spice locust - I have a delightful chef from Pentos. If they come to sate their thirst for blood, I shall open their throats and let them drink their fill, darling niece. Do not let me keep you." Here, the Prince rises to his full six feet and seven inches. "I have enjoyed your company, you are quite conversant in the intrigues of court, Princess.

"A warrior Lord Pansy is not. His major talents are drinking and thinking far too highly of himself." Visenya says with a faint little shrug. "He will not challenge you. He has Knights who defend his honor like he is a fair maid. Why, just yesterday Aevander fought with a Knight after he called Lord Pansy a disgrace. I should like to see him dead for his insults to my brother, but I shall likely not have the chance." There is a pause, "You will fight Ser Laurent. He is, from what I hear, a formidable Knight." She stands up from the chair then, and curtseys, "I wish you well, Uncle. I've a feeling that if you are successful in dealing with the Tyrells you will add something that has been missing around here. Now, shall I have the servants bring the Silent Sister's for the head?"

"A sot and a fop - I have killed beter men that Laurent Tyrell, dear niece." Here, the Prince of Ashes cracks his neck. His hawkish nose and chin rise when Visenya makes mention of the severed head. "It's nearly the hour of the bat - allow the sisters their slumber. If the little rose wishes to parlay for his father's head, let him seek the knight who took it from off his neck. Goodnight, Visenya." The Prince rises and sets the goblet atop the table. As he turns to depart another slender lithe shadow falls in mergeing with his, although the Prince directs a backward look toward his niece as he moves to follow a servant to his quarters.

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