(121-03-20) The Prince's Fete
The Prince's Fete
Summary: Three scions of house Targaryen discuss Ser Corey Tyrell's grisly death and the state of Princess Visenya's betrothal to Lord Pansy.
Date: 21 March 2014
Related: A Grisly Introduction, Unwelcome Guest, Tyrell Fathers and Sons
Players:
Maelys..Visenya..Daevon..

Log text goes here

A bouquet of exotic scents drift from the kitchens the Dragon Door Manse. The elder Prince's cook rose and dawn and the hoary old Pentosi promptly displaced the royal cook. The feast begins with rolls of hot flaky bread, and tart persimmon wine. A shrimp and persimmon soup-an ancient recipe from Qarth, the main courses: horse roasted with spicy Dornish peppers in a honey sauce, and honey duck with orange snap peppers-all of it served with wine in bright decanters of dragon glass-wildfire green, crimson, sable, and night blue.

There's Tyroshi Pear Brandy, Apricot wine, Myrish firewine, and green nectar wine, a rare golden vintage from across the Jade Sea-and Dornish Red and Arbor Gold for the less adventurous served by slaves, no servants, as exotic as the libations. Silver haired Lyseni, dusky skinned Summer Islanders, A handful of Dothraki maids with curly ebon locks. The Prince of Ashes attacks the first dish the contents himself with a bowl of hot locusts and a decanter of fiery Dornish red. He drinks deeply while a pair of sl . . again, servants juggle swords.

Turning to his fair niece he looks upon a pair of servants bringing forth Dothraki blood pies. "I found that the surest way of deterring mutiny is to pay your serjeants well-pay your captains five measures of what you pay your serjeants-feed them well, and be open handed with comely slaves. No man in my command lacked for comfort after we took the first Lhazar city."

In contrast to the Essosian exoticism, Visenya is garbed in Westerosi luxury. The Princess samples everything in front of her. The horse is better than she imagined, but she does not seem inclined to eat more than a few bites. The duck she devours and wishes there was more of. When she cuts into the blood pie sat down in front of her she will rather delicately taste the filling before eating another bite. "Some will raise fuss in regards to your slaves, Uncle." She says gently after she listens to his tale. "You should pay them something so none can complain about it."

There is a feast. Daevon has somehow managed to miss his Uncle's arrival, and all the feasting, what with being busy doing knightly things. So when he returns home to find everything… everything so vibrant and filled with people and not at all what he was expecting he seems surprised. "What's going on?" he asks as he makes his way into the room. Slaves? He purses his lips, disapproving. Uncle?

"They are serfs, Visenya." Maelys motions for another cup of wine, the fair Lyseni maid steps forward and pours from a jar of green dragonglass. "But if propriety demands it, I shall give them stipends." When the Maiden's Knight arrives, the jugglers cease their antics. One of the servants, the fair Lyseni, looks upon the knight, so different from his dark haired uncle, but the others wisely avert their eyes and after a moment so too the silver-haired maid. Maelys rises—dressed as he is in black silks and damask with a belt of golden medallions in the Dothraki style the difference between the Prince of Ashes and the Maiden's Knight is all the more telling. "Nephew." Maelys favors Daevon with a smiles. "Ser. Your sister and I were dining, you have only missed the first three courses, sit, drink."

"You will hear no argument against it from me, Uncle. How many slaves starve in the Free Cities compared to the smallfolk here when winter comes?" Visenya wipes blood sauce from the corner of her mouth, and licks it off of her fingertip, "Our ancestors did it so it could not be wrong. But, it is better to appear orthodox at least in some things." She has a swallow of persimmon wine, "A stripend will still wagging tongues." She offers Daevon a gentle little smile, "Join us, brother. Our Uncle was just telling me of his former sellsword company."

Daevon's fair, dressed in light colours as he almost always is. They're as different as night and day. All this food, all this finery, all this frivoloty, so many fs that Daevon did not expect. He eyes the dishes, so much he can't even identify. His disagreement with Visenya's words is plain, but he chooses to keep his thoughts to himself. "Our Uncle?" It takes him a few moments. "Maelys? I thought he was dead. Disowned. Disgraced. I wish I had known there woulf be a feast for I have already eaten."

"Yes, the Tyrells and Hightowers are fond of their gossip, even the men." Maelys's tone leaves no doubt as to his appraisal of the men of the Reach. "Some starve, niece, although those who please their masters, those who possess a trade and an aptitude for the same do well." Maelys turns to the younger prince, he swills the wine in his goblet and brings it to his lips, then halts. "Then, drink, a cup of Arbor to fortify you? You haven't foresworn drink too, Ser? I'll wager my father wishes I were but many have tried. Of late Ser Corey Tyrell—and I was obliged to play the barber."

Visenya lets out a little laugh at the last of Maelys words, "Barber? You cut his head off and took it, Uncle." She lets out another little titter before saying to Daevon, "At any rate, I am certain that we will have Tyrell visitors soon." She has another swallow of the exotic wine, and swirls it in her glass, "They are certain to be overwrought over the death of…ah, didn't you say he's Ser Laurent's father?" She smirks, and swirls her wine in the cup, "It's a pity we can't prune all of the roses."

Daevon looks amongst the selection of drinks on offer. "I prefer not to drink to excess," he admits. He's looking for something pale, but not the arbor gold. "There is a lot of choice here." He frowns at Maelys' news. "Ser Laurent Tyrell's father?" He looks horrified by Visenya's revelation. "You decapitated him and returned only the head to them?"

"Yes, you see, Ser Corey had need of a shave. I thought to take off a few locks but when I saw the mess he'd made of his chestnut locks—all the blood and snarls, I felt obliged to make shave him clean. Yes, Corey -was- Ser Laurent's father. I do hope the boy is a better swordsman than his sire." Maelys turns to his nephew. "No, his head? Ah, I think my fool has it. After I delivered it to Visenya the little rapscallion became attached to it. I think he still has it strapped to a cudgel the rest of Corey is where I left him, in a meadow near honeyholt."

"Yes, you see, Ser Corey had need of a shave. I thought to take off a few locks but when I saw the mess he'd made of his chestnut locks. All the blood and snarls, I felt obliged to shave him clean. Yes, Corey was Ser Laurent's father. I do hope the boy is a better swordsman than his sire." Maelys turns to his nephew. "No, his head? Ah, I think my fool has it. After I delivered it to Visenya the little rapscallion became attached to it. I think he still has it strapped to a cudgel. The rest of Corey is where I left him, in a meadow near honeyholt."

"I suggested we give it to the Silent Sisters, but Uncle Maelys wouldn't have it." Visenya says mildly, as if they were discussing something else besides a severed head. "After all, he did want to duel our Uncle. He got his duel. Now our Uncle will have to kill Ser Laurent, and another Tyrell will come to duel him. Eventully, the only Tyrells left will be women, little boys, and Lord Garvin."

"Why are you here?" Daevon's voice is filled with ice, his eyes hard, sharp amethysts. He's angry, furious in fact but he tends to burn ice-cold. "Why did you kill him? And why are you dishonouring his body in such a way?" He looks around. "Where's Aevander? Does he know of this?"

"Ser Corey demanded the duel, brother." Visenya says with a shrug. "Although, keeping the head was a bit over-the-top."

"It is one thing to duel to the death in a matter of honour," Daevon says. "It is another entirely to desecrate a body in such a manner."

"None of it." Maelys deadpans. He sits down upon his chair, and drains his goblet as though it contained naught but ice water. "Before the rose accosted me on the road, my intent was to stay for a few months, perchance a year. Long enough to peruse the vaults of the Citadel, and then? I intended to travel beyond the Jade Sea but Ser Corey's braggadocio reminded me of an old debt, a debt I intend to collect." Maelys regards his nephew with a gaze that might be the twin of his nephew save that his eyes burn with rage and stare through the gallant lissome young knight. "The rose, this rose matters naught. Within a generation the Hightowers will be Wardens of the South, or whomever my Uncle names—but certainly, not the roses."

"I just hope they'll be insulted enough to break my betrothal without us having to go through any fuss in regards to it." Visenya announces before she attacks the remainder of pie with vigor. "But, I have a proposition, Uncle. If you will hear it?" She doesn't wait for Maelys to give his consent, "Duel Ser Laurent, but allow for me to beg for his life when the time comes, and spare him when I ask? I am sure my father does not want to be tangled up in this, and my having asked for Ser Laurent's life will disengage him from the conflict."

"You will be finding alternative lodging," Daevon states. "It is hardly appropriate for you, and your entourage, to reside here. Less so for you to embroil the family in this feud of yours." He meets that gaze levelly, not backing down. "Within a generation you will be dead so why does it matter to you? For now they rule, and even if they did not to desecrate the body of one who engaged you in a fair duel is despicable. Where is the honour in that?" He shakes his head at Visenya's suggestion. "No. I will not let you play games with his life. When he heard you were missing, while Lord Garvin cared not at all, Ser Laurent insisted on joining us to find you and offering any aid he could."

"Ah, if you truly believe sparing one bloom will make the pruning easier, I shall consider it." At his nephews upbraiding. The Prince of Ashes rises, the movement sinuous: a serpent rising from a snake charmer's basket. He turns to Visenya. "You may call upon me in the harbor, dear niece." When Daevon sings the praises of Visenya's betrothed he turns to the young knight. "Quite dead, perchance before the passing of this generation though I would rather the Princess inherit a realm bereft of Roses. Or a realm wherein the greatest part of the royal levies are not commanded by upjumped stewards, nephew. In a year, perchance ten you will see something of war. Honor is for ballads, it has no place in war."

"You forfeited the right to tell me what I will or will not do when you decided not to marry me, brother. I am not Cerys, and you are my twin, not my elder. You forfeited the right to tell /any/ of us what to do when you ran away." Visenya states crisply. "Nor are you master of this manse. But, if you'd like, I will stay out of it, and let our dear Uncle kill Ser Laurent instead of stepping in to save his life. Is that what you'd like?"

Daevon shakes his head with disagreement at Maelys' words. "I have seen war, and I have seen the atrocities committed by others. I will not be a party to that." He sighs at Visenya's reply. "Do as you will then."

Maelys turns upon Daevon and Visenya. "Make no mistake, Ser Laurent will tender a challenge. The question is shall I kill him or spare him?" Maelys turns to Daevon next. "Do you honestly believe this match to the little rose lord beneficial to our line? Do you believe your sister will benefit from the match?"

"No, Daevon. Now you've tickled my curiosity." Visenya shoots back in a bit of an annoyed voice, "What shall you have me do? If Prince Maelys is able to best Ser Laurent, do you truly want me to let him die? Is that what you really want?"

"No I don't," Daevon says. "I think it a truly dreadful match. Lord Garvin is no fit husband for anyone. Why when Aevander tried to press him into coming on the search for Visenya, he compared himself to our sister Cerys, in offering reasons why he should not come. Forget that Cerys is more of a man than he, for she at least offered to ride with us. Princess Mariya offered to ride out with us. Lady Mormont offered aid. All of those women have more balls than Lord Garvin. You want to hit him where it hurts? His father bought him a blade made of valyrian steel. He never uses it. He thinks that blade is a plaything. He does not deserve the honour of wielding it. And he considers it his manhood. You want to hurt him. Take it." He shakes his head. "No, I don't want Ser Laurent to die. I doubt I'd be able to persuade him to see sense in the matter of challenges."

Maelys turns to Visenya, then to Daevon awaiting the Maiden's Knight's rejoinder, and after? He is silent. No word he might utter is more damning than the young knight's appraisal of Lord Garvin. "Then we are of one mind—at least on this matter. I will spare Laurent's life. Visenya. If you are capable of willing yourself to weep, see to it that your eyes are red and overflowing with tears. Lord Lorant may not break the betrothal but if the duel does not suffice to rouse his anger then we shall have to mind some other slight to rouse his wroth."

"I should be able to manage." Visenya says with a slight inclination of her head. She looks to Daevon expectantly.

Maelys favors Visenya with a cruel smile, then turns to Daevon. "Don't look so crestfallen, Ser. Soon, your fair sister shall announce her betrothal to a man who is worthy of bedding a Dragon."

"Who?" Daevon asks.

"Perhaps I will be betrothed to no one." Visenya says with a faint sigh. "I am beginning to feel fatigued from all of these betrothals."

"Every knight, or very nearly every knight, in Visery's realm dreams of the fair Visenya. A Velaryon, a Targaryen cousin. Someone who will give her progeny that have blood, rather than milk, in their veins." Maelys's gaze lingers upon Visenya. His expression is guarded albeit he lingers upon her long, for a nearly improper length of time.

Daevon glares at Maelys. "You have your eggs." He says to Visenya. "Most likely a husband will expect one or both of them to be his."

"Then protect me, brother." Visenya says to Daevon with a sly little look before she shakes her head. "Ah, but I forgot, I am the only maiden in the realm who you refuse to protect." She stands up from the table, "Do inform me when they arrive."

"Visenya, the blood of the dragon burns through your veins," Daevon says. "You don't need me to protect you. You rode a dragon. You saved the city. You returned with not one, but two eggs, which are yours alone. And when they hatch you will be a dragon lord."

A queer glazed look crosses Maelys's face. His eyes remained locked upon Visenya while brother and sister spar. "You are a 'good' knight, Ser but, ah, I will not reproach you. This was Aevander's doing, no? Maiden's tits, but how could he have humored the notion of wedding her to such a weakling." Maelys drains his goblet and says no more for the nonce.

"It was my doing, not Aevander's." Visenya says. "I thought to spare my siblings." She smiles, and shakes her head. "But I've learned my lesson now."

Daevon shakes his head. "No, it was our father's doing." Maelys' elder brother, always with his schemes, his amassing of favours and power. "Father is friends with Lord Tyrell." Well as much as he's friends with anyone, it's likely a friendship based on mutual gain. "Lord Tyrell is desperate for a wife for Garvin. Cerys has had many suitors, or so mother wrote, and they were fighting over her." He looks to Visenya to see if that's the truth. "So father had her betrothed to Lord Garvin. Only while set met him, he entertained us in the same room where one of his boys was claiming to have the bloody flux. Hardly the most romantic of encounters. Well, Cerys started weeping, and drowning her sorrows in wine and she was utterly inconsolable. So Visenya stepped in, to spare us all." He sighs. "This was before I truly knew what Lord Garvin was like."

Maelys looks over the lip of his goblet and is utterly speechless. "I do not know whether this tale is comic or tragic, Ser. Gallant, certainly, I once saw a man fall a foe's sword to save one of his fellowsbut the Stranger awaited himnot Brave Lord Pansy."

"I do not wish to see my sister fall on Lord Garvin's sword," Daevon says. "I would sooner he have no sword at all. Father is somewhat set in his ways, as you know."

"It sounds at though his 'sword' is a vestigial limb, Ser. If Visenya should have to wed Lord Garvin? I fear she will have need of a paramour less Lord Garvin's nephews inherit his title when he meets the Stranger."

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