(122-07-20) Wedding at Sunspear
Wedding at Sunspear
Summary: There's always that annoying relative who gets drunk and starts drama.
Date: Date of play (07/21/2015)
Related: Seeds of Peace

The bright orange light from the setting sun penetrates the gold and leaded glass dome of the Sun Tower, and scatters a prism of light onto the white marble floors. The audience hall is packed to capacity; the swarthy tones of the denizens of Dorne on the right contrasting with the pale skin and hair of the Crownlanders on the left. A pathway leading to the dais where the Sun and Spear chairs sit has formed naturally. As if the two sides were repelled from each other.

Seated in the Spear chair is the ruling Princess Amarei Martell. Next to her in the Sun chair is her Prince Consort. On the left side of the dias stands Rhaenys Targaryen, The Queen Who Never Was and her husband Corlys Velaryon, Lord of Driftmark. Behind them stands Prince Rhaegor Targaryen and Princess Visenya's mother the frail but still beautiful Princess Aevara. On the other side of Rhaegor is a dark face amongst a sea of white; Emira Martell. On the right side stands the rest of the Martell family and then high-ranked nobles.

Torren Martell is already in his position next to the septon, just below his mother and father. He is clothed in sandsilk robes in the colors of House Martell that are obviously well-made but not ostentatious. Their quality, and the precise fit, speak more about their appropriateness for the Martell heir's wedding day than any sort of adornments they could have had. He stands easily, a smile on his face, as though he desires nothing so much than to be exactly where he is, waiting for his bride — as though he had chosen her above all others, and not had this match arranged for him without very much say in the matter.

Lara Gargalen is also in attendance. As would be expected from a lady-in-waiting to the bride. Her comely frame is wrapped into a gown of purple sandsilk, loosely fitting to charm her physique, the fabric shifting and rearranging about her with every tiny movement; cut out two inches below the collarbone to provide space for a necklace with the sigil of House Gargalen, the Cockatrice, as center piece. Her arms are bare, adorned with some thin golden armbands. Her black tresses, for once, done in a fashionable hairdo, pinned up, to draw attention to Lara's long slender neck. Dark eyes shift from Princess Amerei to her son, Prince Torren, lingering there for a moment as the Gargalen's lips curl ever-so-slightly into a smile. Now and then she turns and shoots a glance over her shoulder, trying to glimpse Princess Visenya Targaryen. The ceremony will certainly not start without her.

Emira is standing just about as still as any have ever seen her. Her hands are clasped tightly behind her, perhaps aiding in this gargantuan feat. She is prepared for the wedding of her cousin and the Targaryen princess, dressed in some of her finer sandsilks in the stunning colours of House Martell; simple and in design, still, and not quite so fine as the recent day she marched to "meet" her own arranged betrothed. Her dark hair is tamed and silky. She stares at Torren, her oft spitfire features ambiguously stony.

Rhaenys Targaryen is sharp-eyed and intent on the assembly of Crownlanders, keeping a watchful eye upon the mass of them as they all hold their places opposite the Dornishmen and women of the court. That aisle is the only boundary between them, and there is a bit of an atmosphere in the wake of the slaying of a Targaryen knight just two days earlier. The silver-haired Queen Who Never Was has a vested interest in the success of the wedding, and none could look upon her iron visage without thinking twice about disrupting it.

Rhaegor Targaryen is positioned behind her, and just to the side, standing with Emira Martell. He is dressed in his own colors, but has adopted a ceremonial robe of sandsilk to compliment her. And as far as stony expressions go, they are well-matched in that as well.

Princess Amarei nods her head to the attendants at the great doors leading out of the audience hall, and those doors are opened to reveal the bride and her father. Princess Visenya wears a sandsilk gown in the style of a lady of Dorne instead of a gown from the Kingdoms. It is dyed a brilliant sunset orange, and is free of adornment save for the border of gold embroidery that encircles her draped neckline. The embroidery is of dragons in various poses and it continues down and over her shoulders where the back of the dress dips to expose most of her back. The border becomes wider before it joins at her bottom and flows downwards into a more complete design; the Spear of Martell with a Dragon protectively coiled around it's base. Pretty stitch work or deeper meaning? It's anyone's guess.

Prince Aevarys Targaryen leads the bride to the base of the dais where the Septon and Prince Torren await. He holds out her hand for Torren to take, and steps back into the crowd once it is taken. A young page steps around the dais to present the wedding cloak of House Martell.

The stony looks seem not to bother Torren overmuch; if he notices them, he doesn't show it, and as soon as the doors open and he sees Visenya, his smile widens. He watches her approach, his eyes not straying even once. Her father may as well not be there, up until the other man presents him with her hand, and even then, there's just a cursory inclination of his head, not quite a bow. It's certainly proper enough for the occasion, but once the hand is accepted, all Torren's attention is on her.

Once she's there, he takes the cloak from the page and fastens it around her shoulders, taking her hand and turning to the septon, waiting for him to begin.

Prince Torren's focus is remarkable, Lara can only be impressed with it. Still, it will not keep her from studying him with delighted attentiveness, her gaze wandering over his frame, even if he does not see her. Her smile intensifies before it dims a touch, as she looks to where the bride is, resplendent in that orange gown. It is true, the Dragon princess has all of Torren's attention. And so the Cockatrice allows her gaze to wander, scanning the others. There is one among the Targaryens, the handsome prince that is betrothed to the spirited Emira, whom Lara spares more than a fleeting glance, raising a brow at his stony expression. But then again, what is to be expected, with all the trouble and discord that had occurred only two days prior? A Targaryen killed by a Qorgoyle. Not the best basis for an already rocky betrothal, one would think.

It is an important moment between the families of Martell and Targaryen, and the significance is far from lost on Emira as her attention turns from her cousin to his imminent wife in her vibrant attire. She tenses, scarcely noticeable, especially as the princess and master of whips is always a taut coiling of muscles.

The Septon steps forward once the cloak is in place, and Visenya's hand is in Torren's. "Today." He begins, "We join Visenya Targaryen, daughter of Aevarys and Princess of Westeros to Torren Nymeros Martell, son of Princess Amarei Nymeros Martell and a Prince of Dorne and the Rhoynar." A strip of wide ribbon is taken from the sleeve of his hand, and he begins to bind their clasped hands together. While he does so he says, "You stand here in the sight of the Seven and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul. Now and forever." In a softer voice to Torren and Visenya he says, "You may say the words."

Visenya appears more somber than Torren but she does not look distraught or sad, and when he takes her hand there is a brief breaking of her dignified mask to give him a brilliant little smile that she soon hides in order to look the part of dignified Princess. Her eyes turn downwards to watch as their hands are bound with ribbon. When the Septon instructs them to speak she looks up from their hands and into Torren's eyes as customary to speak in unison with him, "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone. I am his and he is mine. From this day until the end of my days."

That smile, brief though it is, is returned in full by Torren. Perhaps he even appreciates it more because of its brevity, as though it is meant only for him. He waits as their hands are bound together, and then, once they are directed to speak, he looks down at her to meet her gaze as he says, just as she does, "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone. I am hers and she is mine. From this day until the end of my days."

The Septon unbinds their hands as deftly as he had bound them before and announces, "In the eyes of the Seven and in front of all of you who have witnessed this union let it be known that Visenya Targaryen and Torren Nymeros Martell are bound as one. Let no man tear what the Seven have seen fit to bring together asunder." He puts his own hands over the clasped hands of Torren and Visenya briefly before saying, "Let their union be formalized with a kiss."

A soft sigh slips from Lara's lips when the vows of the Seven are spoken, even so she will observe with mild curiosity how Prince Torren and Princess Visenya deal with the formal part of the wedding. She shifts a little in her stance, her armbands jingling a bit, as she lets her gaze wander over the assembled nobles, maybe in search of Ser Elyas whom she has had a brief exchange with earlier - or some other handsome fellow, to keep in mind for later, for the festivities.

When the last words are spoken, Torren turns again to Visenya, and pulls her just a little bit closer to him with her hand that is in his. He leans down then, and kisses her. It's not exactly brief, but neither is it overly long, and once it breaks, he lets go of her hand, but only so that he can turn and take the other one instead. Once he has, he starts them down the aisle toward the hall where the feast has been prepared.

Emira's eyes roll halfway before she stops them. Her vague expression of ire is, at least, directed more at the septon than the couple. This is what is bound for her, words and words and words. She watches the kiss more closely, sparing a glance to Rhaegor. Her still stance breaks, becoming naturally restless as the feast looms.

Visenya's chin lifts as Torren leans down to kiss her, and she takes this ceremonial sign of affection with no hesitation or apprehension. When finally it breaks she offers him another brief smile before she turns and offers him his other hand. They head out of the Sun Tower rather promptly to go to the feasting hall, the cloak of Martell the last thing anyone sees of the departing couple.

Once the newlyweds are out of the Hall Princess Amarei is escorted off of the dais and down the pathway to the doors. Those closest to the dais follow behind her first, and slowly but surely the audience hall empties, and the festivities move on to the feasting hall.

Rhaegor pays witness to the union of Prince Torren and Princess Visenya with an expression that may read as stern in its neutrality on account of the tension in both his posture and form and Emira's, standing by his side. The binding, the vows, the unbinding, the kiss. All of it passes without flicker in the schooled neutrality he wears like a mask. He senses, peripherally, when Emira turns to catch his eye, and he meets it, offering her his arm when the hall begins to empty, that they might join the procession.

Lara does not spare more that a brief glance for the kiss. It is a ceremonial kiss, so no scandals are to be expected. She falls in with the rest of the nobles, as they filter out of the audience chamber to where the feast is about to begin.

There have been several feast in the past few weeks since the Targaryen envoy has arrived in Dorne, not the least of which was what followed the betrothal. However, this one looks to put all of those to shame. The now wedded couple is to be seated together, this time, instead of apart, at the side of the Princess Amarei and her prince consort, and this is where Torren leads Visenya. The first course is already set, as well as, of course, wine. Little by little, the rest of the guests trickle in and find their seats, and soon enough the low buzz of chatter and clinking of plates and cups makes it difficult to be heard beyond a few places at the table. The ceremony was unspoiled by any enmity that there still is about the slaying of Aelyn Targaryen at the hand of Manfryd Qorgyle, but of course, no one was drunk in the ceremony. Probably.

Lara Gargalen finds her seat, her eyes sparkling with mischief, her fingers already entwined with those of a Dornish knight she pulls along with her. She hands him a goblet of wine, takes one herself before she turns to raise her goblet in a toast towards Torren and Visenya, smiling at them both - but perhaps her gaze lingers again longer on the former as she drains her goblet in one single draught.

"So much anticipation," Emira says to Rhaegor as they settle into their seats at the table, next to each other here as they were standing at the wedding, whether they're meant to or not. She's sharp-eyed toward the wedding guests, keen-eared, as if expecting a fight at all times. "For a few dull words and a small kiss." But now, now is the party, and the Martell has yet to fully plant her rear upon the chair before she's reaching for the wine set out for her to drink, and drink she does. She catches a glimpse of a goblet raising in toast — that of the Gargalen — and lifts hers as well to remember to cheer Torren and Visenya.

Visenya settles into her chair with a smoothing of her hand over her silks, and sits rather primly at the edge of her seat. While the first thing she does reach for is wine she only wets her lips with it instead of gulping it at the feast after the betrothal has announced. It seems she has come to terms with her marriage, and is doing what she can to appear as poised as possible. She smiles to Lara when the woman raises her goblet in toast and has another drink before siting it down and delicately picking at her meal. If she notices the lingering glance her lady-in-waiting gives her husband she makes no show of it

Rhaegor is a mirror of Emira's actions, from the taking of the wine glass to the lifting it in a toast, to the drinking deep of it. "A few words and a kiss, perhaps, but their significance is not so small." Not small at all, if the expression on the face of the Queen Who Never Was is any indication. She and the Lord of Driftmark are seated not so far from Rhaegor and Emira, and he takes particular care to meet Rhaenys's eye and inclines his head to her before he lowers his cup from the toast. No doubt the pair of them have spent a fair bit of time in the trenches together working towards the negotiation of this peace, and its solidification in the wedding is something they had both, indeed, anticipated. Perhaps for the benefit of his liege, Rhaenys, or for Amarei, or the watchful eyes of the rest of the wedding guests, Rhaegor takes Emira's free hand in his and delivers a small kiss of his own to her knuckles. Or maybe he does it because he wants to. He murmurs something to the Martell princess before indulging in more of the strongwine.

When Torren sees Lara raising her glass, he takes his own and lifts it as well, meeting the gaze she gives him with a little smile and a nod of his head. He takes a drink, then sets his cup down again and leans over to say something low that is meant for Visenya's ears only. Once he pulls back, his eyes drift to his cousin and Prince Rhaegor, and he says, louder so that they can hear, "And now to await your wedding. With equal anticipation."

Emira grins over the importance of the wedding, a reply on the tip of her tongue, but Rhaegor's murmur puts a pause on it. She leans in, murmuring back with a mischievous gleam in her sharp eyes before leaning back in her seat. "It just seems it should be bigger, for what it is," she says, drinking, "but this is what it is about." She parts her hands, indulgently indicating the feast and its many guests. "But the best celebrations have fighting." A pause, in which she hears Torren and smiles at him, "And fucking."

Has her staring been that obvious? Lara would not think so. As soon as the goblet is empty she has it refilled and sits down, leaning against the handsome knight. From that moment on, her attention stays on the man beside her, as they have a delightful exchange of murmurs. A melodious giggle escapes the Cockatrice, after taking another generous sip from her goblet. And soon it may become apparent, what their conversation has been about. Kisses at the wedding ceremony? Lady Lara leans forward and presses her lips against those of the Dornishman beside her, in a decidedly longer and less chaste version than what Prince Torren and Princess Visenya had displayed earlier. Celebrating the Dornish way. Well, about to start to do so. As if on cue to Emira's remark!

Whatever Torren has whispered into Visenya's ear draws a small smile to her face. She maintains that smile as she turns to regard Rhaegor and Emira as Torren speaks of their wedding, although some of the light in her eyes is diminished. "How splendid it will be to see a wedding in Dragonstone." She has another swallow from her goblet before saying with a slight little twist of her lips, "Fighting and…" She does not say the last word, "Hopefully not at the same time." And then she catches sight of Lara with her Knight, and a faint blush crosses her cheeks before she asks Torren, "Do you think they will fight later?"

Rhaegor leans in toward Emira to offer her a reply remark, and then he gives his due attention to Prince Torren, the bridegroom, when they are addressed by him. It inspires him to lift his cup once more, as if to support that notion of anticipation with his toast, though the Targaryen prince tenses when Emira calls for fighting. Though most of the men who had been witness to the killing of Ser Aelyn were sent back to Dragonstone with Princess Halea, the boy's mother, there is still the whisper of bad blood that threatens the celebrations. Visenya quips as she does of the fighting and fucking not being a simultaneous thing, to which Rhaegor merely glances in Emira's direction once more. "Dancing, first, perhaps," he suggests.

Emira's remark gets a little laugh from Torren, apparently genuinely amused. He starts to say something, but then Visenya asks her question, and he follows her eyes to Lara and her knight. "They may," he replies. "My cousin speaks truly in that in Dorne, the one often follows the other." Either one, probably. He takes another sip of wine, as well as a bite of the first course. His eyes scanning the room briefly for any signs of unpleasantness. Seeing as there are now, his gaze returns to those seated with him at the table, and his smile widens just a touch.

One side of Emira's smile curves further, as sharp as the edge of a blade, as she listens to Rhaegor's quiet reply to her ear only. To Visenya, then, she all but beams, though her expression more mischief than cheer. "Of course," she says with a glance aside to Rhaegor, hovering over her food, ready to dig in with aplomb. "All things are like the other." Not if the fighting springs from bad blood, however. There is little doubt Emira has impassioned opinions easily provoked about her Qorgyle cousin, but she's yet to spill — further, if rumour has it — Targaryen blood.

Visenya is also slightly wary for trouble. Before the wedding two Targaryen men-at-arms had shadowed her. Now that the marriage is mostly complete, save for the consummation, and there is feasting it is beginning to seem much less likely that there will be covert attacks on her person or on anyone else. That doesn't mean tempers won't flare once the wine has really started flowing. She takes a bite of her food, and turns her head to give Torren a rather puzzled look before she goes back to eating.

The food, the wine, the conversation; Rhaegor partakes in them all in equal measure. He remains attentive, as ever, to the goings-on around them. This would be his habit had there been no insulting of Martells and killing of a Targaryen, and so given the recent series of events he does not break from tradition. The music has started in earnest, and some eager revelers have abandoned the table to take to the floor, but not at the high table. The Targaryen prince certainly favors Emira with his attention, and he says to her, "Perhaps tomorrow," in reference to some part of their private, ongoing conference.

Torren meets Visenya's look, but the puzzled look is met with raised eyebrows, and there's still a smile on his face. He tilts his head to the side, as though in tacit questioning of her confusion.

However, a moment later, there's the sound of a scuffle from one of the lower tables. The Dornishmen and the Oldtown envoy have not, as a rule, sat together, but that doesn't mean that they can't get up and move. And perhaps some of them were drunk at the ceremony, because it's a little bit quick to have gotten so much already. For some reason, a fight has broken out there, with two people attempting to go at it and a few of their compatriots trying to break them apart, while some cast very apprehensive looks in the direction of the high table.

"Are you sure you will have time away from your Queen That Never Was and her tight hold," Emira replies, wryly and not loudly (in a fleeting moment of caution), to Rhaegor — but her smile, sharp as it is, is agreeing. She's beginning to look like she'd rather partake in more active revelry, predictably restless in her chair. A few glances in the direction of Amarei, only a lift of her brows as if to say what? keep her in her seat, behaving in her role, for the most part … yet the building scuffle is too much to ignore. Leaning into the table to see down its length, then back to crane her neck, she's quickly leaping up and rushing straight toward the source of the conflict.

"I might find a moment," he tells Emira in their quiet conspiracy, his attention diverted by the upset down the line. It's difficult to discern what it is that occurs, exactly, from their place. But then Emira takes matters into her own hands, and Rhaegor can hardly allow his betrothed to enter the fray and remain behind, so he is quick to his feet to follow, as if she were merely leading him to the dance floor rather than to the midst of a skirmish at the foot of the table.

Visenya looks as if she may say something out loud to Torren but her head turns sharply when there is that commotion from one of the tables below the salt. And then Rhaegor and Emira both rise to run towards the source of the noise, and there is something that flashes across her face. A sadness or unhappiness. She leans back in her chair, and holds up her glass to be refilled. Perhaps she will drink more.

Whatever Torren was smiling about before, he certainly isn't now. His attention is caught by the commotion at the lower table, as well as Emira and Rhaegor rising to see to it. He does, as well, holding a hand to Visenya to keep her there, not that she was looking like she planned to go anywhere else, anyway. He starts down toward the fight as well, his expression hard.

"Say that again to my face!" the Crownlander, a Velaryon by the looks of him, is yelling at the Dornishmen as he tries to free himself from his comrades' grips. "I said," the other replies, red-faced, "that your princess is a whore and the Queen Who Never Was can be the queen of whores if she wants to rule something!"

It's Rhaenys's youngest son that is paid the insult, and by the look of him, he's fit to give the Dornishman the same treatment that Ser Aelyn received in the training yard. Two of Rhaegor's men are already doing their level best to restrain the Velaryon, who looks like he might leap across the table and use his bare hands for weapons if given the opportunity.

Rhaegor intercedes before the Velaryon can be given the opportunity, perhaps making up for his failure to do the same in the yard. "Stand down," he utters in a voice that's low and grave and brooks no argument. It seems to be aimed at the Velaryon, but it's the Dornishman whose eyes he stares into as he says it.

Emira has barrelled into the fray, grabbing for the shoulder of the offending Dornishman. Her eyes flare and spark as she stares darkly over at the young Targaryen, and for a moment, she seems apt to join the fight, just to get a taste of it. But she hisses words near the Dornishman's jaw, threatening him, instead. "What have you ever had against whores? Hmm? There are better fights to pick than this one against the honour of these women."

The Dornishmen are attempting to shut their compatriot up, as well, though perhaps not quite so forcefully as the other side is attempting to hold Rhaenys' son back. Rhaegor's arrival does a little bit more good, and he does turn away, but just to look at Emira. Her words get a look of venom, and he hisses out, "You defend them? You? You are no true woman of Dorne." And with that, he spits directly into her face.

Visenya does remain seated. Until she rather distinctly sees that Dornishman spit into Emira's face. She stands up from her chair to follow Torren towards the commotion with a tight little frown on her face.

When the Dornishman spits directly in Emira's face, Rhaegor tenses, a flash of fury rippling down his spine. But he does not surge across the table as his countryman had been attempting to do only moments earlier. He looks between the offender and Emira herself, some meaningful eye contact passing between them.

Emira's anger turns to rage faster than fire can travel from one branch to another. It is unbridled, dangerous, and a wholly visible thing: it fills her being, her tan skin seeming more alive for it, her gaze ferocious. She immediately swipes the spittle from her face with her forearm — there's less than a split second where she catches Rhaegor's gaze — and, as soon as she hauls her arm back, it's thrust forward again with a powerful force behind it, punching the Dornishman square in the jaw. As she looms into the aftermath, her other hand's already slipping a dagger from— somewhere— so quick, it could only be from the within her silks. "I have no love for dragons," she proclaims blatantly, even as her Targaryen betrothed is near, "Who has a choice in any of this? Am I a whore too? Tell me that!" Her voice escalates from a threat to shout. "I dare you!"

The Dornishman is one of the sons of Lord Uller, whose power over his house is under hot contest on account of the dubious means by which he wrested it into his own control. The Uller's focus on Emira is opportunity enough for Rhaegor's men to abscond with the Velaryon, a tilt of his head prompting them to take him and go. They peel off from the table, a few low words being exchanged between Rhaegor and the two men escoring Rhaenys's son, and then he watches (as do so many, if not all, of the guests at the table) as Emira punches the Uller and screams in his face.

The Uller was not expecting the punch. Really, though, he probably should have been. I mean, really, who is he talking to? But apparently, besides being an asshole, he is also an idiot. So, he gets punched, hard enough that it jerks his head to the side, and one hand comes up to his lip. It comes away bloody. He seems much more reticent now to call anyone a whore, though, especially the woman who is standing right in front of him with a knife.

Instead, he just stands there sullenly, but says nothing, and a second later, Torren is standing next to his cousin, though he neither punches the man, nor draws a knife on him, since clearly Emira has it under control. "Yes," he says, and his voice might have been encouraging, if it wasn't dripping with sarcasm, "go ahead. You were saying?" But still, the man says nothing, and Torren just snorts a little bit in disdain. "Take him out," he says to his companions at the table, and they are quick to comply, hustling their drunken comrade off as fast as the Velaryon was.

Visenya gets around the table halfway (cumbersome clothing and all) before Emira punches the Uller in the face and draws a dagger on him. She watches with a bit of a wide-eyed look, and when the Uller is pulled out of the feasting hall by his companions she turns to sit down back at her place. Her wineglass is picked up and another swallow is taken. It obscures the troubled look on her face, but only briefly.

In a flash, Emira transfers her small blade to her dominant hand, more than ready — eager, even — to escalate the situation, but she's left watching the offending parties be hurried off. "Fucking Ullers," she breathes ragefully — though given the proper situation, she'd likely defend them as part of all of Dorne. Dorne first, no matter what he said. She takes a few steps after the Uller and his herders, prone to run after them, but whirls about in her dangerous knife-wielding pique — smiling, of all things — and shoves an abandoned chair somewhere between Rhaegor and Torren, raising her hands up in the air tauntingly as she yells, "Does anyone else have a problem?"

The offending parties have left the feast, and Rhaegor and Torren are left standing on opposite sides of the table, as usual, diverting a crisis, as usual, although mostly this time it was Emira. You could hear a pin drop in the hall when Emira slashes the air with her dagger and her punching hand, inviting anyone to rise to the occasion and meet her taunt. Suddenly people are staring at their plates, the dancing has stopped, and the musicians are confused as to whether to keep playing or to take cover. Amarei and Rhaenys are frozen at the head table, looking to their respective princes beseechingly.

Rhaegor takes a step back from the table, and clears his throat. "I do," he announces. There's a general atmosphere of what the fuck?? as dozens of heads turn from watching Emira to watching Rhaegor instead. I have no love for dragons, she'd said. Perhaps she has invoked the ire of the steadfast, staid prince. He takes a single solitary step in the Martell princess's direction, but then he turns to address the whole length of the table, "This is a wedding feast, and I've yet to see the bride and groom dance." He grabs a cup from the table, literally anyone's cup, and lifts it in a toast. "To House Martell and House Targaryen. Long may they prosper."

The toast is met with literally the most awkward silence that has ever been heard. Or not heard. There's a pause that is way, way past 'too long,' before people are scrambling to grab cups so that they can toast, as well. It's about 50-50 where they hold cups to, Visenya or Emira, and the voices are pretty much the most united that they have ever been — or, indeed, will ever be. The bard, who had been playing ambient music before all of this had broken out, recognizes his cue, and strikes up a tune for dancing. Who cares if it's early?

Torren, too, knows what he must do in this instance, as he usually does. So, he returns to his bride, and holds out his hand, and his smile, while perhaps not as wide as it might be usually, is certainly genuine enough.

Visenya does not look happy, and this is very clear for anyone with eyes and who has the want to look in the bride's direction. She looks more than just upset by the events that have unfolded; she looks shaken by them. When Torren holds out his hand for her she stares up at him for a heartbeat before she takes his hand and rises from her seat. She forces a smile onto her lips, but it seems she is unable to maintain an indifferent or happy facade.

Once the attention has shifted from his awkward toast to the music and the gallant way the Martell prince approaches his Targaryen bride to ask for the dance, Rhaegor makes like a Velaryon and slips out of the hall, stalking past Emira and pausing just long enough to exchange a few words with her before he is on his way.

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