(122-12-08) The Best Stag Party Ever
The Best Stag Party Ever
Summary: Contains a diplomatic incident, near stabbing, a Targaryen spat, lot of hugging and drunken crying, acrobats, an open bar, the best toasts ever, and Dhraegon accidentally saying the worst things.
Date: Date of play (08/12/122)
Related: http://gobmush.wikidot.com/log:122-12-05-advance-wedding-party http://gobmush.wikidot.com/log:122-12-07-bitches-who-brunch

The winery is closed for a private party. A wide selection of house wines are available as well as the custom beer, wine, and whiskey Dhraegon has had aged in wood barrels from Tarth for this special occasion. The drink is already flowing freely in the eatery section of the winery. There is food too, a selection of savory tarts and pasties, all meant to be eaten with the fingers, and platter after platter of assorted cakes set out amoung the tables.

Targaryen House guards insist on people disarming entirely before they enter, eating knives not being needed and plentiful drink and swords being a dangerous mix. The acrobats are stretching behind a curtain, a quartet is warming up their instruments.

Dhraegon himself is dressed in orange and black and already one whiskey in with cream and powdered sugar smeared around his mouth. A small, nondescript middle aged man with a long suffering expression is trying to dab at the Prince's face with a cloth as the Prince tries to lead away the better to shovel in more cakes.

Daevon's not known for his drinking, but he has an ale in hand, and he's looking around the room, for any faces he knows, people he should speak with. The outfit he's wearing is in darker shades of purple and blue - none of this red and gold dragon theme for him.

Jurian disarms himself at the door, happy enough to do that if he can get at this fine selection of wines. He's not terribly interested in cakes, but there's plenty of savory food. He immediately sees to getting himself set up with wine and a bit of food. Since the party's going to be crawling with Targaryens anyway, he too has picked blue, though not as dark as Daevon's. Which is perhaps a strategic mistake with all the dark wine flowing.

Desmond looks a little silly without a sword. The huge man has to duck to pass through the Winery's doorway, but he makes his entrance all the same. And, keeping his shoulders hunched - he's dressed in poor woolens and leather - he makes his way toward a bottle of whiskey and pours himself several fingers. At least three. He takes a long sip as he moves, placing himself with his back to the wall, as though he expects to be seized and removed at any moment.

Rhaegor stalks into the winery dressed all in black, but there's no mistaking the prince for blood of the dragon. The Targaryen guardsmen attempt to stall him when he breezes past without surrendering his sword, but a dark look from him is enough to disabuse them of the notion of pressing the matter further. The first guest he chances to encounter is Daevon, who glanced at but not greeted, something of disdain rippling in the depths of his pale violet eyes. Disdain that's also extended to the plate of decadent cakes he is made to stand and stare at while waiting to have some of the barrel-aged whiskey served to him.

Daevon doesn't even seem to notice Rhaegor's presence at all. Instead he walks over to the sell-sword of all people, flashing Desmond a smile. "Glad to see you here. How's the whiskey?"

Dhraegon stops dodging his minder as he spots the new arrivals. "Jurian!" He squeals, as if he hasn't seen him in years. "Desmond!" He flings himself at them trying to capture them both for a tipsy group hug. Up close the whiskey scent is more noticeable. Perhaps that first whiskey was a rather large one. he blinks at Rhaegor and pouts a little, "I thought it was going to be no pointy things?" Then he is beaming at Daevon, "It's marvelous all smoky and rich and sweet and burny going down, like drinking fire!"

No weapons?! Even his whip - taken. The Dornishman is lucky he wasn't thrown out on his ass the first second his face appeared at the doors. Well, he's not alone, he's come with a small group. There was meant to be Peace between Dornish and Targaryen's right? That's the excuse made at least, for their presence. Some may actually be good men of Prince Torren - some are. Like Manfryd. Though the Dragons would probably have something to say against that. Manfryd stalks in, cocky, even without weapons, he's got that swagger. Sand robes and leathers. Drinks are shortly in hand. Gotta love the free flowing whiskey.

"Your Grace!" Desmond straightens up, and smiles hugely. "It's excellent, Ser. Thank you." He takes another long sip, gazing through the room thoughtfully. "There are quite a few of your kinsmen here," he says after a few beats. And then Dhraegon is upon him, trying to hug both he and Jurian. Desmond responds gently, rubbing the huge Prince's back. "I am honored to be here, Your Grace. And the whiskey is excellent." He glances askance at Jurian.

Oh, hugs. And Dhraegon hasn't even given Jurian any presents today. Well. Aside from all the free food and liquor. Jurian endures this hug with pats on the back for Dhraegon, and then it is that man of honor who draws his attention to the still-armed Rhaegor. "Ah yes, well, Cousin Rhaegor evidently finds it unnecessary to follow the wishes of the man we've come to honor," he comments.

Rhaegor stands surly in some empty space where he doesn't have to talk to anyone, something about his bristling posture enough to dissuade those who might otherwise typically approach him from doing so. He briefly contemplates the contents of his cup, and then he drains it, the directness of his eye contact enough to summon a server forth to see it refilled. The arrival of the Dornish entourage draws his attention, briefly, but if he hears the chirping about the sword still worn at his belt, he gives no indication.

Daevon smiles as Dhraegon describes the whiskey. "Drinking fire indeed, I suppose I'll need to try that then." He doesn't pour so much, and that's more a sip than a mouthful he takes of it, and the ale he was holding is placed down. "Which of the cakes would you recommend?" He smiles at Desmond. "Ah, yes. Much of my family here." He agrees. His lips press into a thin line of disapproval at Jurian's comment, although it's hard to tell if that's at Jurian, or at Rhaegor. "It is so good of Prince Rhaegor to join us at this party, don't you think?"
Tellur comes in through the tunnel that leads up to the streets.
Tellur has arrived.

The instruments being properly tuned now, the rebec, sacbut, and lizzard joining in over the thump of the tabor. A cheerful tune provides a background for the guests.

Prince Dhraegon is known to favour peace with dorne, and so the Dornish are allowed in with no fuss if they surrender weapons. Prince Dhraegon himself is completely unarmed.

Dhraegon keeps an arm around the mountainous bastard's shoulder, drink making the notoriously cuddly Prince even more cuddly if that is possible. his deep bass voice is a loud boom that ignores the concept of indoor voices. He is full of cake and whiskey with a promise of more to come, so all is well with the world. At least he allows Jurian to escape, though he does ask him, "Do you know any good drinking games? They said Snap dragon isn't a good idea with so many spirits about." He asks Rhaegor, "Who are your friends?" He gestures to the newly arrived Dornish. Then he is trying to drag Desmond with him to show Daevon the cakes, "I like the Strawberry jam cakes with the clotted cream best though these Dornish spice cakes are amazing and have you tried these honey cakes from Essos and there are these funny Northern things with the nuts and fruit soaked in brandy and these creme cakes and….

"I'm certain I couldn't say, Your Grace," Desmond says to Daevon, just before being dragged toward the cakes. He tries to keep his laughter inside - obviously, however, it's a struggle. His neck turns a little red with the effort. But the laughter dies as he stares across the room at Rhaegor, taking in the prickly Targaryen and the sword at his hip. It's an instinctual analysis, one soldier assessing another, and he sips his whiskey thoughtfully. Another look round at Daevon, question in his gaze.

"Very kind of him to deign to, yes," Jurian replies to Daevon. But then his attention is back on Dhraegon. "I'm /sure/ I know drinking games. Well. There's one where take dice and you must roll sevens or drink," he offers first.

Daevon walks with Dhraegon and Desmond, the draw of that cakes appealing. He does have a sweet tooth. He helps himself to one of the spice cakes, and then answers Desmond's questioning look. "Prince Rhaegor Targaryen, nephew King Viserys. Currently the diplomat in charge of Dornish affairs." And they call him The Scourge of Qarth, but Daevon doesn't voice that title.

Rhaegor's reply to Dhraegon is brief but cordial. "Prince Torren's men from Dorne. At their helm is Manfryd Qorgyle, kin to Emira Martell." The Dornishwomen he was betrothed to as part of the Crown's campaign for peace. The exchange is as fleeting as Dhraegon's attention span, but then Rhaegor's gaze slides to Jurian.

Tellur sidles in, quietly, looking uneasy in his finery. Because? It _is_ finery. Lord Carolis returned to Old Town, which means that there has been a bit of a whip around and an attempt to get the various servants and hangers on to represent well at court. Invited, this means that Tellur is in Southern city fashions completely, dressed as if he was a local. The general effect around his eyes is that of a cat that has been put in an adorable outfit and that might explore into a ball of recriminating howling at any moment.

"I see. And a warrior." Desmond nods to himself and takes another gulp from the whiskey before his demeanor shifts into something resembling a courtier. "Come, Your Grace. Which did you say was the absolute best?" He already knows. Reaching down, Desmond scoops up a strawberry jam cake and offers it to Dhraegon. "A gift, Your Grace. In honor of your wedding." As though Dhraegon — or the Royal Family — hadn't already paid for this himself. He shades a wink aside at Daevon.

Manfryd will take a place to sit, somewhere he can FALL into the seat, if such a thing existed. Cushions, yes please. No manners though, just leering stares, judging, weighing, plotting which dragon his spear will rip through next. Then a sip. Two. Of Whiskey. The Dornish crowd spread out to mingle, some of them are far more approachable than the Scorpion - or maybe it's because none of them have tasted Dragons Blood.

Daevon doesn't recognize Tellur, not in those clothes. At least not at first. He does give the man a 'do I know you' sort of look as he tries to work it out, and then finally, there's surprise. "Tellur Snow? Is that you? You look… different. Have you met Desmond Snow?" As if all Snows must know each other, maybe, and Tellur hadn't just arrived?

Desmond looks over from studying Rhaegor and the Dornishmen - he sizes each one up - to look at Tellur Snow. Smiling at the man, the giant northman says "We've not met. I'm — well, as His Grace said, I am Desmond Snow. It's a pleasure to meet a fellow Northman." And someone who looks just as uncomfortable as he is, in this company. He considers the other man, then gestures to the table. "Will you have a drink?"

Dhraegon seems utterly oblivious to any tension in the room between the various warlike folk. After all, he's not even allowed an eating knife himself and is as far from warlike as it is possible to be, as he giggles between rather large mouthfuls of whiskey. He bellows, "Liquid fire for the dragons!" He leans in to eat the cake right out of Desmond's hand, "You always bring such nice gifts!" He holds out his cup to be filled up again, "Everyone should drink and me merry! Let us drink to My Beloved Marsei of the Bright Petals!" He lifts his cup in toast and drinks deep enough to come up coughing and laughing, "Have you dice, Jurian? Or ought we have the acrobats first?" Then he is squealing and pointing at one cake in particular, "Ooo! Daevon! These ones have little bits of lavender ans candied blood orange in them!" Then he is abandoning his new friend Desmond to bounce towards the Dornish, arms wide open in an attempt to hug Manfryd, "I want us all to be friends forever! I have cakes! And drink!" He has a big blob of clotted cream on his nose and his hands are sticky. He comes in as trusting as a toddler, completely unafraid of being stabbed, making a rather clumsy attempt to grab the unsuspecting Dornishman. He has not yet spotted Tellur.

Jurian looks back at Rhaegor for a bit, then sips his wine. "Send a boy for dice, uncle, and bring the acrobats first," Jurian counsels. He hasn't paid much attention yet to Manfryd, having no clue who he is. But Dhraegon's big move draws his attention.

When Dhraegon goes barreling toward Manfryd, Rhaegor's free hand goes instinctively to the hilt of his sword, his hand flexing on the grip, his gaze wary.

It _has_ been a while since Tellur and Daevon last met. Since then, Tellur also has a few more scars, and longer hair hacked back into a barbarian-like braid. Possibly Lord Carolis has not convinced him to drop it, yet. The Snow, though, inclines his head most politely to Desmond and says in his rough voice "Aye, it's good to meet you - I am Tellur Snow, Master of Beasts. I should like a drink very much." And to get those decorations off his clothes "Here, let me get you one of your own - what do you drink?" He shoots Daevon a very grateful look. Introductions are _good_. Tellur starts to relax. Which will stop any moment now…

Oh, shit. Dhraegon is charging a Dornishman. Desmond sets down his drink and begins moving forward. Unarmed as he is, he still cuts a rather imposing figure. He's not worried about Manfryd yet; he's worried about any of the other Dornishmen misinterpreting the gesture. His rude exit from the conversation may be forgiven, but he already looks as though he wishes he had his sword. In fact, he reaches down at his hip, as though he's forgotten the thing was gone.

"How have you been?" Daevon asks. It's the polite question, and his gaze is not upon the man he's speaking to, but instead resting in Dhraegon's direction. There's a flick of a look over at Rhaegor as that move to the sword catches his eye. He's frowning at least until Desmond starts moving. He himself follows, immediately after.

A Scorpion without weapons can still sting! He was getting up from his seat, maybe to chase after some platter of food or whatever the hell people are eating around here, when he catches the movement in the corner of his eye. The spread arms are not interpreted as a hug, but rather as a means to grapple him. For a guy whose hot blooded at heart, coming at him with an intent to do ANYTHING that is not consensual, earns one reaction. The initial is distance and space. Manfryd pivots and snaps his arms out - more effective if he had his spear damnit! But it would do when he added the crush of his shoulder to thud into … Dhraegon. He does it before he knows it. It's clear it's just an instinct, reactionary, that the Dornish was hard wired to react when split seconds mattered. The words all catch up later… too late as he shoves Dhraegon off! "The Fuck—!!" explicit curse from being surprised and then grunting, as he checks his flanks for anyone else who'll jump him!

Dhraegon's pale lavender eyes go wide as he thumps undignified onto his bottom, legs splayed out. his lip quivers and his nearly colourless eyes tear up. He complains, "You spilled my drink!" Rather like a toddler who has dropped his sweet in the gutter."

Rhaegor is swifter on his feet than the guards, perhaps on account of knowing the mettle the Scorpion is made of and anticipating what comes to pass before it indeed comes to pass. He glances sidelong at Desmond as he passes the man, his sword already drawn while the Snow lad laments his own lack thereof. With the tip of his blade pointed at Manfryd, Rhaegor tells him, "Stand down." His voice is cool and level despite the alacrity with which he descends, staring intently at Manfryd with only a brief glance spared at Dhraegon as he begins to whine.

Jurian steps forward to move to help Dhraegon up. "We'll get you another drink, uncle, they are abundant," he promises with an odd gentleness as he lays one hand on shoulder, one on elbow. He glances up at Rhaegor but doesn't look annoyed for once.

"Getting sewed up to look pretty again, your Highness," says Tellur with a ghastly grin, but he still has all his own teeth, despite evidence that he has been tangling with a few too many bandits "And…ah, we lost a…family member?" he sounds so _unsure_ about the death "So there has been some…grieving?" Well, has there? Tellur seems to have no idea if there has been, himself. He more looks worried, like a golden retriever who has been a Bad Boy. And then Dhraegon is Dhraegoning into the Dornish, and a tic develops at the side of Tellur's eye. Definitely time to find a drink for Desmond _and_ himself.

Desmond crouches quickly beside the Prince, checking on him. But the man's speaking, and he's alright. So the huge Northman is on his feet, turning until he stands with his back to Rhaegor, facing outward, his meaty hands in fists. "You lads had best not take offense," he advises the other Dornishmen. His voice is surprisingly mild. He looks to Daevon, ticking his head toward the sprawling Prince. It's not an order, surely. He is very still.

Dhraegon does scramble up under Jurian's coaxing, the mountainous Prince looking hopeful, "You promise? I like whiskey. It makes me feel like my insides are all dragon fire." He already seems to have forgotten his rebuff and his tumble. It is at this point he spots Tellur. his face lights up, "Tellur Snow! Jurian has promised me more whiskey! Would you like one too? Did you get home alright after the garden party? Is lord Carolis coming to my wedding?" He lifts his voice, "Is no one toasting my precious Flower?"

Dark eyes regard Rhaegor, narrowing down at the blade that is pulled on him. "Is that how it's done Dragon? Invite us in, take our weapons away, and move to attack?" clearly he still didn't realize that Dhraegon just wanted to hug him! Who wants to hug the Scorpion. He spits down on the floor, an insult to Rhaegor and what this party stood for. His form doesn't 'stand down' … though his hands do go to his sides, there's just no way he could enjoy himself now. There's a snarl on his mouth as he throws his hands up to anyone else who means to 'force' him to stand down, turning on his own regard for the exit. "The Dornish will know of this …!" he promises. The group that came with Manny, yeah, they're retreating too. Metal was drawn on one of their number for no reason - angry looks are shooting at the Targaryens, some at Manny, but the Scorpion is out.

Jurian takes Dhraegon by the arm. "Let us go and get you your fire and toast your princess," he coaxes. He looks doubtfully at Tellur when Dhraegon greets him, but doesn't say anything unpleasant. He seems keen to steer Dhraegon away from Manfryd as much as possible.

Daevon frowns as Dhraegon is pushed to the floor, and he does take an automatic step forward, as everyone else spurs into action. He sees everything is well in hand, that Dhraegon's unharmed. He meets Desmond's gaze a moment, flicks his eyes notably to Jurian, and makes a tiny shake of his head. That's a no. Instead he remains, watching the Dornish, watching Rhaegor and his blade. "It would be wise, to at least know who your esteemed host is?" Daevon comments. "You just pushed Prince Dhraegon. This does all seem to be a misunderstanding, he was merely greeting you, as he greets all, although I can understand that that is startling to those not used to his affections."

Tellur is a bit deer-in-the-headlights, but he says "Lord Carolis is very honoured to attend, your Highness. You may expect his presence." As to toasts, he has still not managed to get himself a drink, but there are other Targaryens around - someone will manage matters. Still as Manfyrd and entourage heads for the door, Tellur clears his throat and steps forward, inquiring in a polite and rather Northron voice "My Lord? I act imprudently, but may I request a moment of your time outside?" His glance flickers to Daevon.

As the Dornish are starting to exit, and Daevon is explaining things, Desmond moves from Rhaegor's back to stand alongside Daevon, looming at the Targaryen's shoulder. He seems perfectly calm, even glancing toward the bottles of alcohol and flashing Tellur a quick grin, trying to catch his eye. "Reminds me of proper Northern feasts," he mumbles. "Not exciting without a brawl or two."

Some unfortunate servant is still collecting the shards of glass that splintered on the floor when Rhaegor tossed his cup and drew his blade when the Dornishmen threaten to retreat, and in fact do. Rhaegor sheathes his sword, watching Manfryd retreat and the others fall in line behind him, deferring as they do to the Scorpion and his mercurial whim, even as Daevon endeavors to forestall them. "He slew our cousin Aelyn," he tells Daevon, flatly, himself not inclined to coax Manfryd into changing his mind and enjoying the party. But Rhaegor does take pause to observe Desmond, who'd fallen in against his back, and to extend the Northroner an incline of his head.

Dhraegon pouts, "I thought Dornish _liked_ hugs." Presumably in support of Daevon's point. His body language and delivery are very much like a child's, despite his deep voice and massive size. He looks genuinely confused by all the grumpiness in his guests. Servants move amoung the crowd with more drinks, ensuring Tellur and the soon to be groom get one.

Jurian sees to it that Dhraegon and Tellur are served. "Where are those acrobats, uncle? Surely that will draw everyone's attention," he suggests, finishing off his wine and getting a fresh one for himself, as well.

Daevon's remark has Manfryd looking over his shoulder, though he looks ill convinced, rather annoyed. "Be lucky you took our weapons or your Prince would be dead. No one sneaks up on a Dornish-" or something. It any case, to stay would mean more tension and likely someone dead at the end of it. He's trying to be a good man for Torren and takes the role of flight - against his better judgment. Tellur's interjection has dark eyes snap toward him - that look speaks: 'And who the fuck are you?' Manfryd otherwise shrugs his shoulders and moves out, making sure he's got his spear and whip on the way out.

Daevon's expression is bafflement, more than anything as Rhaegor informs him the man before them killed a cousin Aelyn. There's more questions there than he has answers for. "Why?" seems to sum up everything. The moment Manfryd threatens Dhraegon, says he would be dead, he tenses, and there's ice cold fury in his eyes. He takes a breath. Glances at Rhaegor.

Tellur has not been told 'no', and given his implacable, somewhat hittable face? Moves to follow. Well, Manfryd did not _say_ 'no'. That must mean he meant yes. Surely there would already be punching if things were 'no'. Out he goes, following with his loping walk.

Desmond takes one look aside at Daevon and leans aside, murmuring quietly, "You want something done about this, Your Grace?" His features are still quite mild. He doesn't seem alarmed at all. In fact, he's taking a sip from his bourbon as he speaks. A smile over at Jurian and Dhraegon, and a casual glance around the room, have him utterly relaxed now. Certainly the guards will stop any -armed- intrusions. "I wager I could insult him enough to make it happen."

Rhaegor's hand tenses on the hilt of his sword, where it's lingered since he returned the blade to his scabbard, when Manfryd speaks; his gaze only finally leaves the Dornishman, and his hand releases its grip, when the last of them have departed the winery. But Rhaegor remains tense, bristling, and his stare slowly pivots back to Daevon. "He'd not have had the opportunity, if you'd done your duty." Married Mariya. His words are dispassionate, as if he were merely recounting a trite fact. And as for Desmond's suggestion that he do something? Rhaegor replies, "I shall inform Torren of what has transpired." Like it's the beginning and the end of the matter. Pulling rank, but in as polite a way as possible given the circumstances.

Dhraegon obediently sends a boy for dice and claps his hands to summon acrobats. The music had stopped for the confrontation, but now starts up again. The Prince finds a seat with a good view and cake access. The Acrobats are real acrobats, apparently. They are wearing rather tight hose and appear to be a group of rather androgynous young people with hair died blond. Close attention will show that three of the six are women and three men, but they all wear clothes designed to make them look as alike as possible. They begin to do a rather graceful dance, with tumbling and lifts put in. All six are of similar height and build, so telling them apart individually would take effort. "Flox found them! He says they are good!" he does keep giving worried glances at Rhaegor. Likely he did hear the bit about the murder, though how much he understands can be hard to tell with him.

"Did they come with the yellow hair, or were they dipped for the occasion?" Jurian asks as he settles near Dhraegon. "Shall we call Rhaegor over to sit ane enjoy?" he offers, following the glances.

Daevon offers a shake of his head in response to Desmond's question. He glares at Rhaegor. "My duty? You are the one who knew him, who allowed both him to be here, and for Prince Dhraegon to approach him unarmed. Certainly if any is to be at fault there, surely it is you who were derelict in your duty and not I." He keeps those words quiet though.

Dhraegon sips his new drink, "I don't know. They are very graceful, I think." At the question about Rhaegor he nods. Looking worried he shrinks a little, "I didn't mean to make anyone angry…. I just wanted everyone to be happy." The acrobats gradually increase the complications of their steps, each lift a little more dangerous, each tumbling pass a little more spectacular.

Desmond seems to understand the message that Rhaegor is sending. He bows slightly toward the Prince, his expression neutral. And then he turns to watch the acrobats, pasting a genial smile on his face. He seems not to hear Rhaegor's words to Daevon, or Daevon's words to Rhaegor. It's as though he is selectively deaf. But his eyes travel between them once. A single glance. He watches the dancers appreciatively and calls over to Dhraegon, with only a hint of strain in his voice, "What a fantastic party, Your Grace! Look at these dancers! Amazing."

Jurian eyes Daevon and Rhaegor at their disagreement. It's a little entertaining, for him, but he's trying to keep Dhraegon in mind, struggle though it may be. He lifts an arm. "Rhaegor, Daevon," he calls. "The man of honor would be pleased if you would come and watch the acrobats he's gone to such trouble to find. Look how well-matched they are!" He speaks of them like horses.

Rhaegor is evidently rather swiftly becoming disinterested in the exchange, and at Jurian's interjection, he merely remarks to Daevon, "I'll leave you to your diversions. Not that you have ever made habit of seeking permission to do the very same." For his part? Acrobats and tiny desserts are of no interest, and rather than linger he once again puts distance between himself and the revelers, though he does not immediately leave the fete.

Daevon's burning ice cold, anger bright in his amethyst eyes. Wait, did Jurian of all people just call. He's going to have to watch those acrobats, but certainly he doesn't trust himself to speak. Looook at the acrobats. He tries. There's no enjoyment there. GLAAAARE at Rhaegor. No. Ignore Rhaegor. Look at the acrobats.

Dhraegon's smile warms up under Desmond's praise. "Isn't it amazing? I could never do that!" The acrobats are also contortionists, it seems, their bodies bending into unusual shapes. There is nothing explicitly erotic about it if you discount the women in hose instead of skirts. The bells in the brightly coloured outfits jingle as they move. Dhraegon watches wide eyed, eyes as empty as a summer sky and finishing up his drink, tries to curl up against Jurian to watch, much as a sleepy child might to some older relative at a grown up party.

"They're like little gazelles," Jurian looks at these contortions. "But I've never seen a gazelle do /that/," he acknowledges. He glances at Dhraegon when the heavy fellow starts leaning on him, but though most might expect a bit of nastiness on his part at that, this time it is not forthcoming. He puts an arm round his uncle's shoulders.

Desmond's eyelid flutters as he watches the acrobats but, almost certainly, eavesdrops on Rhaegor and Daevon. He looks aside at Daevon, just for a moment, his features stoic. And then his smile is back, huge and beaming, as Dhraegon praises the acrobats. "It is the sign of a true leader, Your Grace, to praise each for their talents." He crouches down, rocking on his heels as he gazes at a particularly lovely female acrobat. Taking a long gulp of his bourbon, the big northman smiles slowly as he watches her do something…anatomically improbable.

Dhraegon says "Gazelles" four of five times very slowly, trying not to slur with his whiskey thick tongues. He starts tittering like a mad thing and clutching jurian to keep from flopping over, "Gazelles! Is that a real words? Gazelles?" More wild tittering. "GazellesGazellesGazelles!"

While everyone is fixated on the acrobats, Rhaegor slips out into the street.

Daevon watches Rhaegor go. Wait no… he's meant to be paying attention to those acrobats.

Dhraegon must have noticed Rhaegor's leaving as he sighs, and wriggles a little to get more comfortable, "I wish we all got along better…" He stares at the acrobats, glassy eyed and quite possibly unaware that there is anything even vaguely risqué going on. "Acrobats are nice…." He starts giggling again, "Ga. Zelle!"

Desmond watches Rhaegor go as well, his features carefully impassive. He looks up from his crouch to study Daevon's features, his face softening momentarily. And then he looks back at the acrobats, drinking heavily from his bourbon. Soon enough, it's empty. He stands, rock-steady, and goes to fetch another. A bigger one is what he returns with.

"I am sure in any nest of so many dragons there is some snapping, Uncle," Jurian says soothingly. He seems content enough to watch the acrobats. You don't get acrobats every day.

Daevon browses the various drinks on offer. The strawberry wine catches his attention, and he gives it longing looks. Just a sip… maybe… he pours out a small amount, swirling it around the glass and then sipping. His expression is one of ill-concealed disappointment. Not as good as the cordial. He abandons this glass as he has the others he's picked up, at least he's trying to make a show of drinking. He looks at the acrobats again, snags himself a strawberry cake. He really should be enjoying this. He manages to work his way over to a chair, forcing himself to sit down, watch, and not get distracted.

Dhraegon sees Desmond with more drink and holds up his cup arm rather wavy in hopes this signals a refill on the way. It is at this point his wavering gaze catches sight of Daevon. He levers himself up from his lean on jurian and tries to hug the Maiden knight, "I'msorrryi'msorryi'msorry. Wanted a good party."

Daevon's hugged and he doesn't resist. "It is a lovely party." He smiles at Dhraegon. "And everyone is enjoying themselves. You've certainly put in a lot of effort. The acrobats are very skillful."

Desmond moves over in the direction of the clustered Targaryens, in time to hear Dhraegon's apologies. He doesn't speak. The look on his face is sad, though the smile stays in place. He turns to look back at the acrobats, absently placing a hand on the back of Daevon's chair, as though to support himself. There is another long gulp. He grimaces, then smiles a little, as the bourbon burns down his throat.

"You, giant," Jurian says with a gesture to Desmond. "You are pleased by the festivities, are you not? And wish to toast my uncle's fair bride, surely?"

Dhraegon leans his head on the top of the Maiden knights, "Flox said it's not a real party without entertainment and I said tumblers and not… and not…. Flox is very clever." Flox is bent over in despair at the diplomatic incident, near stabbing, and general nastiness. Dhraegon meanwhile is cuddled up to Daevon pretty much the way he was moments ago with Jurian, "They remind me of you a little… and young Faelin. I mean, without the swords… all that skill and movement and…. and Ga. Zelle!" More mad giggling, "We need drinks! For toasting! Bright Petals and hair and gazelles and drinks and friends and hugs and drinks!" More high pitch hyena tittering. "Drinks for toasts!" He peers about, the empty cup forgotten in the hand slung over Daevon's shoulder, "Where are the drinks?"

Daevon starts laughing, unable to help himself, something about Jurian's comment, amusing him. "What a splendid idea," he says. He flashes a smile at Desmond. He nods at Dhraegon. "I'd love to have spoken to them in quieter circumstances. There is such beauty to acrobatics, you're right. Yes, drinks."

"The dancers are a delight, Your Grace," Desmond agrees. But then there's the question of a toast, and he just looks stumped. For a moment, anyway. He rallies admirably - perhaps the bourbon has lubricated his wit. He raises his voice, loud enough to carry across a battlefield, let alone a Winery. "A toast!" He turns in a slow circle, as though anyone could really miss the gigantic man. "A toast."

"I am not a clever man." He gestures at his brutal-looking face, and a few people titter. "But when I met Lady Marsei Hightower, even I could see the love she bears for the Prince." A gesture toward Dhraegon. "I have never seen such courage, such grace, or such loveliness, in any other woman. And before I ruin my good start, I shall end by saying this - May she know many happy years at our beloved Prince's side." He raises his bourbon and takes a long gulp.

Daevon's handed a glass by a servant, which he raises to Desmond, echoing the toast. "Hear hear. To Lady Marsei, the finest flower of oldtown."

Maybe Jurian put Desmond on the spot deliberately to make things difficult to him, but he seems very pleased that Desmond is obedient and makes a rather nice little toast. He claps his hands together slowly. "See, uncle, all the people are so pleased for you." Desmond is a representative of 'the people,' it seems.

Dhraegon beams as Daevon cheers up. Now all is well with the world. he gives his kinsman a squeeze and then attempt to sit up straight, releasing him, "I love when everybody is getting along." his straight is rather curved, and his legs are akimbo in a particularly indecorous manner, but he is sitting up and not clinging to a kinsman so that is progress. After some thought he pronounces, "They look pretty. Like us." Winery servants fill the cups with whatever people have been drinking. The music pauses and the acrobats take a breather. All eyes turn to the toasters. Dhraegon tries and completely fails to look dignified, but he does concentrate very hard as Desmond speak the toast, clearly trying to follow it. He doesn't seem to grasp Desmond's self mockery, his brow wrinkled at the laughter, but since everyone seems happy, he smiles along companionably. At the bastard's fine description of the bride he weeps openly. He raises his glass as high as he can reach, his arm waving like a palm tree in high wind and slurs loudly, "TaFlwroldown! Marsei!" he splashes quite a bit on himself on the way to his mouth, weeping as he drinks. he starts to try to stand, thinks better of it and booms out, glass lifted again, "Bes' and kin'st o'wives! Bettrniserve!" After a moments thought he tries again more carefully, "Deserve. May she live to be ol'anplump asa hedghog!" He is still weeping, utterly moved and clearly utterly adoring of her despite being, well, Dhraegon.

The winery is closed for a private party, now well under way. A wide selection of house wines are available as well as the custom beer, wine, and whiskey Dhraegon has had aged in wood barrels from Tarth for this special occation. The drink is already flowing freely in the eatery section of the winery. There is food too, a selection of savory tarts and pasteies, all meant to be eaten with the fingers, and platter after platter of assorted cakes set out amoung the tables.

Trgaryen House guards insist on people disarming entirely before they enter, eating knives not being needed and plentiful drink and swords being a dangerous mix. Right now the music and acrobats are paused for the party to make toats in honor of the upcoming nuptuals..

Dhraegon is sitting between his two diminutive kinsmen, the giant bastard of the north having just made a beautiful toast.

The look Desmond gives Jurian at this is as bland as butter, but there is amusement in his gaze rather than rage. He doesn't appear to mind being used as a stand=in for the unwashed mobs, though he's obviously taken the time to wash his sweat out of this wool. He listens to Daevon and Dhraegon with polite amiability, smiling at the drunken Prince's behavior, then goes back to drinking. The man seems perfectly sober, though he's been *pouring* bourbon down his throat. He glances down at Daevon and smiles, briefly.

Daevon returns Desmond's smile. "I am sure all will hear what a wonderful toast you gave, at such an important event too. You've a gift there, giving such honour to Lady Marsei." He's even smiling fondly at Dhraegon… and Jurian. Yes all is good, everybody's getting along again.

Eonn arrives, looking relatively nice, for him — his armour recently blacked, his hair combed, and a few tiny white flowers sticking in his beard. It's festive. He makes his way over to Daevon's side, looking around in mild surprise at the working winery's transformation into a hall for parties.

Rhaegor returns in time to catch the tail end of the toast and to drink to Marsei, infiltrating the gathering once again. This time he is not so much as prompted to remove his sword; perhaps the guardsmen are abashed at their slow reaction to the threat posed to Dhraegon by the salty Dornishman earlier in the evening.

Jurian drinks deeply at all this weeping and sloshing of drink so that he won't make a disgusted face. As Rhaegor comes in, he raises an arm. "/Rhaegor/, /you/ are a diplomat, so come and toast on behalf of the family."

And Tellur comes back in not that long afterwards, though he does automatically hand his dagger over again. His massive dog is left outside, and he sidles over to find that drink. Necessary stuff. "Eonn of the Rills," he notes as he passes the man.

Daevon smiles at Eonn. "You missed the toasts, and the acrobats, and the almost fight, not the wine though." There's a quirking of his lips at Jurian's words to Rhaegor. Amusement.

Eonn nods to Tellur and smiles, then raises his eyebrows at Daevon. "Acrobats? I regret missing that. How are you, my prince? All is well?"

Desmond smiles down at Daevon, apparently appreciative of the other man's words, and then looks to Eonn. There's a frank curiousity on the big northerner's face, and he seems about to ask a question. But perhaps he is just sober enough to keep his mouth shut. He settles back to his drinking, but his eyes linger on the other mercenary for a few moments.

Rhaegor seems inclined, perhaps, to indulge Jurian, ensuring there's plenty enough spirit in his glass before joining his cousin. "Ought I?" he wonders aloud, gauging Dhraegon's attention span and its capacity to weather another offering in the speech department.

"I am well," Daevon says. "And yourself?" He looks to Dhraegon. "Will the acrobats be performing some more? Or are they finished for the party?

Dhraegon spots Eonn and opens his arms wide for a hug. He has long lost any idea of how loud his voice is, "EonnEonnEonn! Dae…Daevon's back fromaNor'! Hugs! hughugshugs!" After a pause he remembers, "Toasts! Do a toast!" He has once again not yet figured out that Tellur and Rhaegor are back.

"Well, my prince," says Eonn, nodding, and then he's looking over at Dhraegon, and the desire for a hug. He hesitates a moment. Being hugged by princes? Unusual, by the look on his face. Then again, denying a prince's request? Never a great idea, and so he steps over to accept Dhraegon's embrace. "Me? A toast?"

"To the health of his wife and upcoming nuptuals," Tellur supplies, while staring into his glass.

Jurian claps his hands for a toast, giving Rhaegor a broad smile, either quite drunk or pleased to have gotten Rhaegor to do something he said. Or both. Or there's some other terrible motive for the expression.

Desmond seems deeply amused again, looking down into his glass. He takes another long sip from his bourbon. A faint flush has become visible around bis collar and in his cheeks. He looks up, gazing at Rhaegor for a few moments, and then a look over at Eonn and Dhraegor. He can't stifle a single chuckle at the hesitation in Eonn's hug, perhaps remembering his first hug from Dhraegon.

Daevon's gone all quiet.

Dhraegon hugs Eonn from the sitting position, he has clotted cream dripping from his nose, has whiskey spilled down his front and is generally sticky, being entirely full of whiskey and sugar. Way, way too much sugar. When he lets his go he explains carefully, "Desnd's a sword too." He guestures in Desmond's general direction. he clearly takes Tellur's comment for another toast and drinks to it, only after realising it is someone familiar, "Tellr! Yrnodead! Comere! Hugs!" He likely thinks he's whispering, "Gonna be married! Hugs and toasts!"

Eonn looks to Daevon, perhaps seeking rescue from the stickiness.

Daevon's already been hugged and had his fancy clothes stickied up. He meets Eonn's gaze, offers him a reassuring(?) smile. "I think it would be more appropriate for Rhaegor to give a speech. It's his forte after all." That's said to Dhraegon, even if he has forgotten asking Eonn for one. "I'm sure he'd be far more eloquent with words."

"Why would I be dead?" asks Tellur, a little startled "I am not important enough for anyone to want to kill me, your Highness." Wait. Hugs are incoming. The man gets a little white around the eyes "Believe me, I am always perfectly safe and content!"

Desmond can't help it. At Tellur's wide-eyed look, he begins to snigger. He turns away, and turns that into a cough. It's a bad imitation of a cough. He rubs at the back of his neck repeatedly until the fit passes, and then he looks back with that same, suete-faced expression of cheerful banality.

Eonn manages to snag a glass of wine before making his way back to Daevon's side, giving Tellur a sympathetic look as he steps past the other man.

Dhraegon looks at Daevon like he has just said the cleverest thing ever and peers around trying to spot Rhaegor. On pinpointing him, he straightens up and tries to look dignified, concentrating on each word, "you're. a Dip.lo,mat. Goodat… Good. at. Speeches…. Please? Toast? My Flower?" his face is still wet from tears he's already forgotten as he peers at Tellur again, "Come drink to… to the bes'bri?" At least Eonn has been released and likely forgotten in Dhraegon's distraction.

Rhaegor has a practiced way of ignoring Daevon. A survival skill, when one is a career diplomat (and not a career speech-maker, contrary to popular allegation) and must on occasion endure irritating company. He might have resisted Jurian's urging, and would most certainly have overlooked Daevon's, but he does not hazard to disappoint Dhraegon. "Cousin. I need not remark on your character or your influence; the expanse of guests gathered here to celebrate your impending marriage is reflection enough. Perhaps instead I will speak of Blood. In our words, it follows Fire, but in our Targaryen hearts, it is first. Our blood binds us." And is that ever truer than in a family that marries brother to sister and cousin to cousin? "You say that you do not deserve your lovely Hightower bride, and yet I think you are wrong. I know that you will revere her, that you will honor her, that you will serve her, as you have your family these past fifty years. And in return, I know that she will light your way." And then he drinks, deciding he has had quiet enough of pontificating.

Tellur spots Desmond and his eyes narrow. Oh yes. Going to remember _that_. And then his attention is on Dhraegon once more "Er, of course. No, everything is fine. Yes, I should have a drink." He starts drinking, in fact. A glass of whiskey is going to help smooth matters over a lot. The lad works on it as he talks to the Prince, having - outside - lost all of the lace on his clothing.

Jurian claps his hands together again. "Fine speech, fine speech," he praises. Perhaps it's out of character for him, but he is quite drunk by now.

Daevon slips to his feet, and he is going to try and sneak for the exit while everyone's attention is on Rhaegor and his speech. Unfortunately he's not quite as stealthy as he's like to be.

Dhraegon listens to Rhaegor's speech about blood, mouthhanging open and swaying gently in his seat. It is unclear from his expression how much he understands, but he tears up towards the end and echoes, "Light my way," before drinking, so he must have taken in some of it. Daevon's movement must have caught his eye, "Daevon! Toast! Please? Come toast!"

Eonn seems aware of what Daevon is up to, though, and steps around to block the view of the Maiden's Knight, at least from those in the middle of the group.

Jurian sees Daevon trying to sneak off, as well. "Cousin Daevon! You can't be leaving so soon without some fine words for Uncle Dhraegon!"

Eonn casts an apologetic glance Daevon's way, having failed at his little trick. Some bodyguard.

Desmond sees the young Targaryen leaving, and seems about to pursue him, for some reason. But Eonn's blocking pattern makes it impossible, and also probably unwise. So he lingers, now without allies in this nest of dragons. He sips his whiskey, looking a little dismayed. The only visible effect his copious booze has on him is a deepening flush, but he is having a harder and harder time hiding his expressions. He seems, paradoxically, to not be entirely pleased that Jurian has called Daevon out.

Well, Northrons to Northrons, Tellur, his cup refilled, makes his way over and he says to Desmond "It's impertinent, but…where are you staying in the city?" Because any moment now Daevon is going to get cornered, and Tellur is unsure about being alone when _that_ happens.

"The Maiden," Desmond says, peering at Tellur curiously. He seems to have missed whatever cue Tellur has picked up on. "Why? Do you need to share my room for the night?" He doesn't seem troubled at the idea, fiddling with a pouch and producing a key. "The third room on the left," he murmurs quietly, offering the key out. "Just don't take anything." He's clearly joking — what could this man have to steal?

Daevon's expression is one of absolute horror as he's asked to toast. He could… just… he tries to find some pretty words, fumbling for them. He shakes his head, and now all eyes are on him and he doesn't have a sword in hand, no armor either. And he's never laid claim to being good at any of this. He takes a breath. Time stretches out a bit too long. He just repeats what he said earlier, he doesn't have any drink in hand. "To Lady Marsei, the finest flower of oldtown."

Who's sharing rooms, now? Jurian would be hard-pressed to remember the names of any of the people in the room he isn't related to, but he squints at Tellur and Desmond. Then he watches Daevon squirm and smiles at him.

Eonn lift his glass to Daevon's toast, as if it's a magnificent speech. He manages a look of considered approval.

Tellur looks highly startled "No, what. No, I have my own room at the Weirwood - I am one of Lord Carolis' men -" Wait. Jurian is looking at him oddly. Tellur has the look of a man for whom the hairs are rising on the back of his neck "I was wondering if you had been shown where to find good Northron wine - if you are new to the city. Though the Quill is a decent place, most certainly - fresh beds, few thieves…" He trails off lamely. There are a _lot_ of people here. Daevon has given his speech, so Tellur claps frantically, trying to draw attention to the Prince.

Dhraegon lifts his cup to Daevon saying, "May you fin' a wi'as prfect!" He drinks again, this time only drooling a little. he nudges Jurian likely way harder than he intends, "Spesh! 'ian givaspesh!"Tellur's wild clapping has him doubled over giggling, "Two. Snows! Seeing. Double!" More unhinged sounding laughter.

Desmond, also, raises his glass emphatically. "Huzzah!" His booming voice actually *echoes*. Enough so that the Northman looks abashed. He drinks heavily, then swallows hard, nearly gasping. Wait. Tellur is speaking to him. "Ah, I'm sorry, mate." He pockets the key. "That makes much more sense. You're in service to the Starks?" He hesitates. Then shrugs. "Well, I do hope you'll show me sometime, Tellur. Truly." He grins at the other Northron, then looks over at where Dhraegon is giggling. For a moment, he goes very still. Then he grins and raises his glass. "As it should be, Your Grace!"

Since Rhaegor is still standing relatively close to Jurian, he takes advantage of the happenstance to make some quiet inquiry of his cousin, while casually observing the awkward exchange between the two Northron men from where he stands.

Daevon's done his piece. He can leave now, right? He rather blanks Dhraegon's comment, not trusting himself to respond to it. He looks over at Desmond and Tellur, a moment, then to Eonn.

Eonn drinks deeply from his wine-glass, and steps to hide Daevon again, at least a little.

Desmond offers Daevon a slight bow across the room, and a smile. "Lessons tomorrow, Your Grace!" He booms again, rather than just projecting, and again looks a little abashed. To hide it, he drinks more.

Jurian doesn't spend too much time looking at Tellur or Desmond, because he ultimately doesn't care, and Daevon is much more fun to watch at the moment. So Tellur's move works, in a sense. Dhraegon's unexpected shove sends Jurian tilting to his left, holding his glass away from himself so that he won't slosh all over himself. He can see that he's going to be forced to make a speech, but he responds to Rhaegor first, murmuring something back to him. Then he kneels one leg on his chair. Sort of standing but sort of not. Possibly this is more comfortable or stable with his bad leg, given that he's been drinking. "My dear, generous Uncle," he says, lifting his glass with what little remains in it. "I sometimes think you know us all best. What will we do without you in the m…manse to stop us throwing the crockery? You p-pluck the finest flower in Oldtown and leave the rest of us with quite a desolate landscape." Wait, this is supposed to be a cheerful toast. "While some may call you a fool, you somehow manage to outdo the luckiest and shrewdest of us all. To your exalted marriage."

Tellur eases, blinking as Dhraegon mentions Snows, for truly, he and Desmond do rather differ. Still, the matter of parentage is as described and he says "Indeed, Your Grace." He coughs, and finishes off his glass, his own face heating up - and he says "And there are places you can get decent clothes without all that finnicky…_fabric_ added on to make everyone bloody hot and angry and ready to stab people all the time." He eyes Rhaegor, and then he inclines his head as he meets Daevon's gaze. Always polite to the Targaryens, is Tellur, who says to the other Northron "I train war horses and war dogs for Winterfell. Not a mighty role." He grins "I lack your height and girth, I fear." Then Jurian is giving a speech, and Tellur looks all too amused at 'throwing the crockery'.

Rhaegor is finding it favorable to honor each and every last toast, no matter its contents, with one healthy draught after another. Jurian's is given the same treatment, and then when it is done, he resumes their private conference with some other low remark. All this special attention will hopefully not go to Jurian's insignificant head.

Daevon nods at Desmond. He looks at Eonn. "Are you staying?" He's not even going to try to be stealthy anymore. He's had his fill of party.

Desmond says, rather sheepishly, "I can't afford good clothes — plain or fancy, it doesn't matter much. This is the best I have." He speaks in a hoarse whisper, trying not to be overheard by the Great and Rich, if not Good. He also seems somewhat distracted, looking over at Jurian and Rhaegor, and then at the departing Daevon.

Eonn smiles at Daevon and shrugs a little. "As you like, my prince," he says.

Jurian frowns a little at whatever Rhaegor is saying to him, but not his usual pettish frown when he feels outdone by Rhaegor. Something more serious. They talk a little.

Daevon walks out, leaving Eonn to make up his own mind.

Dhraegon peers at Jurian, trying to stop his head wobbling, mouth hanging open in that same empty headed way he has. He does mouth 'crockery' several times and giggle. He doesn't react to the insult in the compliment. In fact it takes him a few extra momoents to work out that the toast is over and people are drinking while he his still giggling over the weird way the work crockery sounds, but he gulps hastily once he figures it out, coughing after. With some deliberation and obvious confusion he asks jurian, "Isna 'Senya inna Twer? Tow.er." Then he is giggling and slurring the word crockery again. Once he manages to pull himself together, his gaze lights on the Northerners. he booms at the top of his lungs, "Des! Tlur! C'mere! More hugs! Ana spesh! Tlur giva spesh! And hugs! Desntlur!" He tries to hold his cup steady for a refill, but it is at an angle, requiring some deftness on the part of the one doing the pouring.

Eonn looks a little bemused, watching Daevon go. Then he goes to refill his wine glass.

"More hugs," says Desmond. His voice is still too loud. "More hugs, Your Grace." He comes trotting over to Dhraegon like a very, very, large retriever, neatly managing to not spill his bourbon. He leans down and wraps his arms around Dhraegon. "And Tellur will make a speech while I hug," he promises, shooting Tellur a look. Saving him from one fate, throwing him to another.

Whatever they're discussing in hushed tones, Rhaegor makes a low, quiet sound of approval, just like Jurian's been craving all this time. Probably.

Tellur nods, agreeing "It's a difficulty, when one must keep up Court behaviour, and…" And there Daevon goes, sliding out. Tellur's grin shows him as unsurprised. Since Jurian and Rhaegor are possibly plotting, Tellur has somehow Magically Become Unable to See Them. Now, however, he is called upon to make a toast. He seems a little uncertain, but he stands, with his glass of whiskey "A…toast to the bride. If anyone causes her offence, may she stick a bloody great knife in 'em." He is a bit tipsy, by this point, himself, so he corrects himself. It is time to make a serious try. Desmond has, after all, thrown himself on his sword. "I mean, I hope she's going to be a good wife. Can she use a knife? That'd be good. A good woman needs to be able to use a knife, skin a deer, and stab a raider. I'm sure she'll be wonderful and give you many fine sons. Er, you call her flower. Like the beautiful Mountain Daisy or Aconite, her touch will…wait. Uh. Like. To a winter rose, the beautiful Hellebore!" He coughs "Anyway, I'm sure she will love your beautiful garden, Your Highness."

Dhraegon clings to Desmond as if he's known him all his life instead of a couple of days, this being only their second meeting, "I love you all so much!" He is weeping again, copious completely unselfconscious tears. Then he lets poor Desmond go so he can concentrate on trying to follow Tellur's speech. He shriek's loudly with delight at the part about Marsei stabbing people and cheers loudly as if this is incredibly clever. the only thing stopping him him clapping is the drink in his hand. Thinking this part is the toast, he maneuvers the cup to his lips, and so misses the babbling about her stabbing raiders and such. By the time he figures out tellur is still talking his is on to the flowers. He stares in wide eyed fascination through the rest, then gives another mad cackle before lifting his cup and drinking. Once this difficult maneuver is acomplished he waves Tellur over. "You! Neednothr drink! Three or four!" he suits action to word his ownself.

Eonn looks over at the weeping, and then starts to slip out himself, carrying his wine glass with him.

Jurian nods to Rhaegor and claps him on the shoulder. WHich is weird, because they've never really been friends. But surely the solidarity wil delight Dhraegon!

Rhaegor gives Jurian a single pat on the back that's strong enough to rattle his ribcage, some final parting words offered to his cousin before he slips out of the fray.

Desmond seems to be trying not to laugh — again — when Tellur makes his speech. But he huzzahs loudly, again, causing his voice to echo, again. The huge man is less self-conscious about his noise now, which clearly means he's drunk. Finally. At least tipsy. He smiles at Tellur and salutes him with his glass, then looks toward the door. With a single swallow, he drains the rest of his bourbon. "And now, Your Grace, I ought to go." He seems perfectly steady when he walks across toward the door, but he does seem to be walking in a diagonal.

Tellur breathes hard. He got out of it alive. Right. So he goes to collect another drink, and then he watches Rhaegor leave. Maybe that is all a _good_ thing, and he says "Yes, I think that I should go as well, your Pric…my Prince! I've been rather short on sleep."

Jurian slides back over toward Dhraegon. "Uncle, if you weep much more, you shall dry out like a prune," he warns.

Eonn manages to steal the wine glass and make his way out.

Dhraegon makes a grap for the departing Rhaegor, but misses him by a good two feet. no Rhaegor hugs for poor uncle Dhraegon. he makes a grab for Desmond and misses him two. He pouts, "No hugs? m'gettimarried!" Then Tellur is abandoning him too. He realises something then, he'd forgotten what with the drinking and excitement and blurts out, loud and clear as a bell, "Oh! You had to bury your father! Are you all right?!" he looks so pleased with himself for puzzling it out too.

Desmond pauses for a moment, looking back at Tellur, and then decides that it is *definitely* time to be gone.

Tellur manages a strangled tone "Well, and now, look at that - it has gotten very late! I must be somewhere else!" He is _not_ addressing that question. Instead, the man actually just _flees_.

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