(122-07-08) Even Dragons Burn
Summary: Emira comes upon Visenya in the stables.
Date: 10-07-15
Related: Seeds of Peace

It is sundown when Visenya and Torren return from their ride in the desert. After the heir to Dorne departs from the stables Visenya remains, and wanders over to where the horses the Targaryens rode into Sunspear with. While she did not ride her mount today she does take a brush from the wall, and give the pretty black palfrey a vigorous brushing. She would probably almost blend in, dressed as she is in sandsilk robes that are sewn for riding as opposed to fashion, if it were not for her short silvery blonde hair and her slightly sunburnt pale skin.

"I heard that those with the blood of the dragon could not burn," a Dornish voice, slow and spiced with a hint of brashness, says from the entrance of the stable. It's none other than the other princess in their arrangement of kingdoms. Emira takes a step in and lingers. The finery of court has been stripped away from her as well; she seems more suited to the simpler, and lesser, attire that dons her now, all the colour of sand. Her hair is wild, her tan skin is wet with sweat, gleaming, and she carries a rather vicious looking whip, coiled in her hand. Where Visenya has a slight sunburn, Emira has a dusting of sand.

"We burn." Visenya says in her pretty high voice after sparing the Dornish Princess a brief glance before going back to brushing her horse. It seems she is going to continue to play at being polite and indifferent to Emira. "It just takes us longer than others." It isn't a lie; by all rights she ought to be blistered and red at this point. She finishes up brushing her horse, and reaches into her pockets for a lump of sugar to offer on flat hand.

Emira strolls into the stable past Visenya, turning her head to regard the Targaryen over her slick shoulder. Her sharp, dark eyes make her gaze seem innately cutting, but there's a glimmer beyond the surface; curiosity. A few of the horses spook slightly as she walks past them, perhaps knowing that a whip is not something they want to be close to, but the weapon is far too big and far too fierce to be used on any of them; besides, when she calms them with a passing touch of their tall noses, her intent is kind. "Do you like Dorne," she asks, idle as she strolls, yet there's a directness in her tone that does not suit smalltalk.

Visenya reaches up to stroke her mare's forelock after she feeds her the sugar. She turns her head slightly to look at Emira again before she says, "There are things about it I like." She hesitates, as if collecting her thoughts regarding the issue, before she says frankly, "And there is not much I can find to dislike." She turns from her mare to dry dust her hands. "I thought your attire at court yesterday was stunning."

Emira watches Visenya collect those thoughts, so intent she pauses her footsteps, her pose shifting in small, cumulative ways — the lift of her chin, the minuscule squaring of her shoulders, a newer gleam in her eye. Ready to be defiant, garrison and champion for her country's good name. It's not needed: Visenya's answer, while criticized, seems to please the Martell easy enough. She even smiles, amused, a flash of white teeth, gone as she says, "I thought it was too much." She's abruptly dismissive of her attire and talk of fashion altogether. "But I am pleased you like Dorne." She wanders her way closer. "And of course," a more mischievous smile finds its way to her mouth, her hand tightening on the coiled whip with a faint squeak of leather. "Torren."

"I do not think it was." Visenya says of Emira's gown from the night before. "But I am told my tastes can run gawdy." She turns to look at Emira curiously for the first time since the other woman came into the stable. "I'm sure there are things about Oldtown and King's Landing you will come to like." However, what she doesn't say is also clear; she doesn't think Emira will like most of the North. She manages a little ghost of a smile before saying amiably, "Of course I like Prince Torren. He is a hospitable host." As Emira comes closer she can see that Visenya's sunburn lines do not stop at the lines of her robes. They continue underneath them.

Glancing away, an instinctual sneer starts to pull at Emira's face, hard-pressed to even try to find anything optimistic to say about her upcoming relocation outside of her homeland. Before the expression blooms to ruder proportions, she looks back, and the hint of sunburned pink catches her eye. She is unsubtle about following it down — in fact, she even steps closer. A small grin livens the corners of her lips. "My father always said the Martells and the Targaryens were mirrors, that we think ourselves different, but we are the same." Despite the indulgent flavour of her voice, whether she feels similarly; she grins broader, a slightly carnivorous look, contrasting to the rather happy, carefree way she then shrugs her shoulders. "But then. He is not a Martell. And he talks in fucking riddles. I hope you pleased my cousin."

Is Emira beginning to sneer? Visenya seems oblivious to her sneer. Her face is a smooth mask of tranquility, and it does not change when the other woman comes nearer. "Oh." She says of Targaryens and Martells being mirrors to each other. She makes no comment regarding Emira's father's love of riddles, but when the other Princess says she hopes that Visenya pleased Torren her violet eyes lift to meet Emira's, and she asks, "Why do you think it was I who did the pleasing?" There is a shadow of a smirk, almost too quick to see, before she turns away from Emira to start unwrapping her outer robe, and she says in her usual neutral voice, "Prince Torren has been eager to show me as much of Dorne as he has time for. As I said he has been a hospitable host."

Emira waits, just barely, for Visenya to turn about and finish speaking before she gives a sharp "ha!" followed by further laughter. It's harsh but pure, entertained. "Show you as much of himself, you mean." She maneuvers around the pale-haired princess, tiring of the stable and becoming quicker on her toes. She walks past, out the door, where she reappears poking her head through the window, peeking at Visenya around supplies balanced on the ledge.

"I don't know what you mean." Visenya says in a dull tone that suggests otherwise. She doesn't see Emira head out of the table what with her back turned, and she shakes some sand out of her outer robe before throwing it over her shoulder. She glances about for Emira before spotting her face in the window, and she steps over there before saying, "I know Prince Rhaegor passingly well." She shrugs softly, "If you have questions about him."

"Mmm," Emira wonders, a low pleasure-seeking hum, watching Visenya. Is it knowing, her watch, or simply curious? The Dornishwoman taps one palm on the window ledge restlessly and ultimately defies the offer with a toothy grin, "I have preferred to get my own answers." She keens out of the window-frame, snaking about the door of the stable a few seconds later.

Visenya runs her fingers through her hair to dislodge any sand that may have blown threw the shorn strands. "As you wish. Have a lovely evening, Princess"" She says when Emira says that she likes getting her own answers. Then she walks out of the stables, and towards the tower where the Targaryen envoy is housed.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License