(122-12-11) The Royal Reception
The Royal Reception
Summary: The Hightower receives the wedding's most honoured visitors.
Date: 11/12/2015
Related: None
Players:
Dhraegon..Marsei..Ormund..Lionyl..Bryn..Visenya..Lara..Brynden..Camillo..Jurian..Joyeuse..Desmond..Vhaerys..

The Hightower - Battle Island

The great tower is all of white stone, ancient and beautiful, but for the lowest part, which is seamless black, akin to dragonglass, and more ancient still. This lowest tier is quite wide and grand enough for any palace. There are two stories of this bottom part of the tower, and while the grand entry is wide and open, the corridors are a twisting maze of black stone. The tower has a narrower white stone tier above, and a circular balcony-garden on the roof-space left unoccupied.

The ground floor is dominated by this grand receiving hall, and the great main doors lead directly to it. High windows let in light that reflects off the glossy walls and makes the space airy and brighter than one would think black stone would allow. It is here that the Lord of Hightower holds his local court, from a large chair on a tall wooden dais. Both chair and dais are carved with images of the tower itself, and with dolphins and sea-dragons. They are inlaid with stones of white and grey, and decorated with silver-leaf. There's space for the Lord's councillors to sit alongside him, but visitors seeking audience must stand.

Past this grand hall there is a wide gracious stone stairway allowing access to the higher levels. Hidden behind the wall behind it and to and on one side, ramps allow wagon-loads of firewood for the beacon to be hauled up.

--

The Royal family, or at least some of them, have travelled down from King's Landing in a convoy — knights, guards, horsemen, spare mounts, servants on foot, wayns, and a large, black and red enameled gilt-trimmed wheelhouse pulled by eighteen black horses. A messenger lad came dashing in on a Dornish sand-steed to alert the Hightower to the royal approach, hours ahead of time. It wasn't entirely necessary — the smallfolk who live along the Roseroad and spread the word among themselves, as well. Now the train is here, making its slow ostentatious way down Hightower Street, banners flying, their passing watched by the crowds.

Dhraegon is dressed formally in the new fashion of clothing he has adopted that mixes Westeroi and Dornish styles. He wears a long tunic of sand silk in scarlet, with layers of cream and black beneath. The over tunic has a delicate pattern of gold dragons and snap dragons done in gold thread and black edging. The dark sleeves of the undertunic are long and loose, flowing out from the cropped sleeves of the Dornish style tunic like calla lilies, with scarlet trim around the edges to match the overtunic. The top of the piece is more structured than is normal in Dornish style clothing, obscuring his shape rather than clinging. Delicate scarlet slippers with gold embroidered Septon's Lace Flowers peek out from beneath the hem of the robe. is long white hair is elaborately styled and pinned up with pearls. He appear astonishingly sober, all things considered and the scent of lavender and vanilla is strong bout him. He is trying very hard to look dignified, but up close one can see he is trembling with terror. Flox stands nearby looking stern, close enough to grab the Prince if he attempts to flee. Dhraegon's eyes keep turning to gaze on Marsei's face with a searching expression. As the procession moves into view he looks very much like a man looking for a bush to hide under, but moments later he lifts his chin and does his vey best imitation of Rhaegor looking regal, hiding his hands in his sleeves to hide their shaking.

On and on the smallfolk look, trying to catch a glimpse of who travels to the Hightower - failing, mostly, but so hopefully. Some cheer "Queen Alicent!", the good queen's presence most rumoured to grace Oldtown for the wedding of her sister.

Camillo and the staff have worked tirelessly on cleaning and decorating the public areas of the Hightower, and the effect is impressive. The stone itself looks refreshed, and flower garlands and arrangements lend the chamber a festive and welcoming air. Everything is as scrupulously clean as a place like this can manage to be. Servants are waiting in the wings for any /possible/ eventuality.

Indeed, the Hightower's grand receiving hall is made grander this day by the arrival of the wedding's special guests. In lines on either side, nobles of numerous stations — the more important the station, naturally, the closer to the seat upon the tall, carved dais on which Lord Hightower usually holds his court but which today also marks the welcome of the royal contingent.

Awaiting the arrivals with Dhraegon, Lady Marsei is resplendent in her wedding gown, ready for the Sept. Her hair is wound up from her neck in an artful style of curls and braids that must have taken hours to prepare. Not yet wrapped in a wedding cloak, her gown is itself a piece of art, exquisitely elegant and more powerful than her favoured sweet fashions and gentle flowers: white, it is high at her neck and the collar lifts off her bare shoulders in an arc, decorated firmly in real silver in the style of flower brocade, studded with pearls and one fire red ruby at her throat, in the shape of a seven-pointed star. The rest flows simply along her body, pure white, until the pale grey of House Hightower fades in at the knee, scattered with tiny sewn gems; diamonds, perhaps, trailing long past the point of her stride.

The bride-to-be is smiling and staring toward the outside to the point that she appears slightly dazed, just missing Dhraegon's last look.

There's no chance Bryn was going to miss this! Sure, he's a bastard with only an acolyte rank to call on, but he takes advantage of his standing invitation to the Hightower to slip in among those waiting for the royal family, though keeping away from front-and-centre. He looks the part, at least, dressed in fine red and black, the same clothes he wore to Dhraegon's party, and his platinum hair well combed. This time, however, he wears his silver link hanging outside his tunic.

It's quite difficult to see who's come along, with this huge party. Is that the queen on a white palfrey, surrounded by white cloaks? Is it Otto Hightower beside her? The king seems nowhere to be seen. There are trumpets to herald them when they cross the bridge to Battle Island, trumpets from the Hightower guards and more from the royal party.

Manfryd is with the group of Dornish, if there are that many, somewhere well out of way from pushing Dhraegon over. He's not dressed in anything other than what he's always dressed in - sandy robes with leather sinched around his waist. His arms are crossed and he looks like he'd rather not be there. Could be he's on orders to be. Who knows. The Dornish never needs a reason to do much of what he does!

By virtue of belonging to both royal families on the continent Visenya stands near the front next to her husband Prince Torren. The heir to Dorne and his Princess consort are both dressed in fine sand silks with golden circlets on their brow. Visenya is wearing a splendid sandsilk gown dyed jade green, and emeralds drip from her neck and provide modesty where the low cut of her gown might not. There is a subtle swell to the Princesses' abdomen, but this could be an illusion of the fabric.

A Targaryen wedding, and a Dornish lady-in-waiting to a former Targaryen is also present! Lara Gargalen is attired in a Dornish gown of flowing sandsilk in lavender color, a dress that covers of course her shapely physique but is at the same time quite revealing in the way the fabric shifts to adjust to every little movement she makes. Her black tresses fall openly about her shoulders, as dark eyes scan those gathered with the curiosity of someone who feels still slightly foreign in Oldtown. Keeping two steps behind Princess Visenya Martell, as protocol would perhaps require, but in fact, she does not give much of a fig, when the Gargalen lady is so easily distracted by a curious glance or an overly long impertinent stare her enticing presence may provoke.

Among the Targaryens already present are the intimidating and impeccable Princess Lhaeda Targaryen with her brother Prince Rhaegor, Crown Diplomat to Dorne, and next to him stands Princess Emira Martell; she is clad in what passes as a feminine interpretation of her cousin Manfryd's sandsilks, made more luxurious by topaz jewelry. She stays admirably quiet.

One should be present when a cousin is getting married, right? And so Bynden is here, keeping quiet and watching the happenings at the moment.

Ormund is also here, of course, his young son at his side but his wife nowhere to be seen. Still, Lord Hightower and his lad are magnifiently dressed, surcoats jeweled with the Hightower sigil. Lionyl does look awfully fidgety and impatient, though.

Dhraegon keeps trying to edge closer to his bride to be, sidling like a skittish mare trying to get closer to the herd. he doesn't seem to notice the Dornishman who added so much unplanned excitement to his party.

It's especially difficult to see if one is Lady Joyeuse Hastwyck, and thus only 5'5" in one's bare feet and 5'6" in one's dancing shoes. Happily, amongst the ranks of minor relations of the bride there are any number of tall young men trained in varying degrees to obedience; and, resplendent in one of her newest gowns, its style the absolute latest from King's Landing and yet executed in cherry-red Dornish sandsilk which clings to her rounded figure with the fondness of a lover, she has oddly very little difficulty in persuading several fellows in turn to make room for her in front of them. Who'd have thought it? Perhaps the sheer tonnage of lustrous round white-golden pearls wrapped round and round her throat and clustering at her earlobes and woven through her high and complicated dark red coiffure contribute also to the miracle — and that merry smirk painting her lips as she peeks this way and that through the crowd, already enjoying the clothes, the colours, the thrill and the pageantry of her cousin's wedding day.

With the massive doors open in welcome, Marsei watches the procession cross the bridge and grow ever nearer to the Hightower itself. The trumpets ring in her ears, seeming to echo until she grows dizzy. "I don't know why I feel so nervous," she admits in a hushed private tone to Dhraegon and those nearest - mostly Ormund — despite the thousand and one logical reasons she likely has to be nervous, on the day of her wedding into the Targaryen empire. "I'm so looking forward to seeing Alicent and Father." Regardless of her own nerves, she keys in to Dhraegon's, holding his hand at least until the entourage is upon them.

Most of the travellers are across the bridge as the wheelhouse doors are opened. Magnificent it may be, but really the entourage is a bit of a mess, chaotic as the horses mill about and hangers-on figure out what to do with themselves now. King Viserys, fat and smiling, appears in the wheelhouse door, waving cheerfully.

Bryn looks almost ready to cheer as he sees the king is present. But, at the same time, perhaps a little nervous too. He ends up just standing there, almost as fidgetty as Lyonel with nerves, which is strange enough as Bryn is usually patient and still.

Little Lyonel, at least, knows to cheer. He's good at it too, the lungs on that kid. He jumps, too.

The woman on the palfrey is indeed Queen Alicent — the whitecloaks help her dismount, three of them, and she moves to take the King's hand as he climbs from the wheelhouse.

Dhraegon flashes a relieved look at his intended as their fingers lace together. He visibly relaxes. She is holding his hand, so all is right with the world. he flashes her a delighted child like smile, more eloquant than words. Then he spots the king and his face lights up. Another friendly face! He looks so terribly relieved and the only think keeping him clapping with the crowd is his hand being busy holding Marsei's.

Jurian is somewhere in the crowd, but he's probably sulking a bit because he hasn't been given a particularly exalted position. He /certainly/ isn't going to crane his neck just to look at kings and queens.
Manfryd has disconnected.

"Uncle!" bellows the King as he steps to the paving-stones, waving his plump hand still, his voice full of cheer as he greets Dhraegon.

Marsei beams up at Dhraegon after she catches sight of the king, eager to see his reaction, her own smile bright, as if to say he's here, he's here! and it warms all the more to see her betrothed's face — and all over again, at Lyonel. Whispers and titters rush through the grand hall as King Viserys is spotted before the court prepares to be on their best collective behaviour.

"The Queen," the whispers spread, and Marsei looks enthusiastically to the wheelhouse. Rather than the reactions of most lords and ladies - the range from awestruck to sternly respectful to blank — Marsei is immediately fond. "I wonder if she's brought the children," she says just before the king approaches, joyed to see the greeting, and curtseys, her hand slipped from Dhraegon's.

Ormund takes Lyonel's hand and steps down to approach the King and Queen as they make their way closer to the Hightower's great doors, the kingsguard falling in to flank them in rows. Ormund kneels as King Viserys adresses him: "Lord Ormund!"

Ormund replies, head down, "Your Grace! Welcome to Oldtown, and the Hightower. I am at your service."

Dhraegon squeals happily, "You came! You all came!" He replies softly to his lady with real enthusiasm, "I hope so. We can ply with the boats," presumably the children and not the King and Queen." he looks momentarily bereft at the loss of his Lady's hand, but is soon all smiles again as he gives a surprisingly proper bow.

Little Prince Daeron Targaryen hops out of the wheelhouse to follow his parents, stopping to shake one foot and rub his eyes.

Also in the crowd is the Fossoway contingent. Elaine, who is shorter than most of the adult Fossoways, has pushed her way to the front and is watching with eager excitement, little hands pressed together with great pleasure at the chance to see the king and queen. Lady Jana, too, is in the little Fossoway clump, perhaps looking more sour than most, and the disgraced Lord Istor is also standing among them. The rest of them try not to seem like they're deliberately standing apart from him.

Viserys takes Ormund's hand, grinning, and thanks him as he helps Oldtown's lord to rise to his feet again. His attention is more on Dhraegon, though. "Are we late?" he asks. "Is your septon waiting? The others should be here soon." Queen Alicent smiles warmly at Marsei and moves to take her hand and kiss her cheek.

Marsei's elaborately styled head bows with reverence to the cheerful King Viserys from the beginning of her curtsey to her elegant rise. "Your Grace. Your presence is the utmost honour. We, and the Hightower, are blessed." The little prince catches her eye, and she smiles warmly at the boy and at Alicent, moving to kiss her royal cheek in return. "My queen," she says, a formality that nevertheless is natural on her tongue; not as natural as, "Sister, it's been too long. I'm so very glad you're here!" And around her, she bows her head to the child. "And Prince Daeron! How handsome you are."

Quiet and immaculate somewhere amidst the party of Targaryens and Hightowers, with an empty place beside her despite how many have sought to plant their feet within sight of the royal train, is a tall woman in her forties whose white-golden hair is swept up into a smooth and flawless twist. Her gown is of a similar pale gold, cut straight below her collarbones; silk gauze covers her to a collar of diamonds and loose sleeves of the same sheer fabric end in bracelets to match. Dragons embroidered in thread-of-gold and thousands upon thousands of tiny crystals encircle her slender form, flaunting and flaming upon her full skirts, and she wears a wedding band of white gold in the form of a dragon biting its own tail. Princess Vhaerys Targaryen is a cousin of the groom (no, really, he's not her uncle as well) and to all appearances one of the few gathered here not the least nervous, thrilled, or hopeful. On the other hand, at least she's not chatting in High Valyrian with someone only she can see — and that must be a relief to her relations — and her curtsey to King Viserys as he passes, calculated with her customary attention to the niceties, is just as it ought to be. Ah, what a sight it is, so many Targaryens on their best behaviour…

Lyonel had knelt with his father, but he bounds up faster than Ormund rises, and makes a dash for Daeron that makes one of the kingsguard tense for a moment. The two boys are of an age, though, and there's no hostility in Lyonel's eagerness. "You're my cousin!" he yells to Daeron, as if this is the most exciting of news.

Dhraegon giggles happily, "A king is never late! We are just so pleased to have you here!" Dhraegon's hairstyle is very nearly the same as his bride's. Perhaps the pearls in his hair ornaments are meant to copliment those sewn into her gown. he looks like he is straining not to launch himself at the king for hugs. Dignity! Very important. He smiles at the young Prince, "I have lots of toys we can play with while you are visiting!" His tone suggests he's genuinely happy to have another child to play with, rather than sounding like an adult talking to a child.

Queen Alicent does give Marsei a rather questioning, concerned sort of look. It's brief, well-hidden in its way. The King smiles back at Dhraegon's giggles and says, "Of course! And it is our pleasure to be here, such an occasion. But to delay the festivities any further?"

The boy prince laughs at Lyonel's greeting and the two consult amongst themselves for a moment. Lyonel's eyes widen, Daeron points to the wheelhouse, and the two dash to start climbing the ladder that accesses the massive cart's roof.

Marsei keeps astride of Dhraegon's manners with gentle looks toward him, knowing how hard it is for him to not let it all out, but she doesn't seem worried; in fact, her nerves overall seem to have melted upon the friendly reception. Granted, on the look from the queen, there is a slight look of conflict in the expressive eyes of the younger Hightower, eyes that are not quite like that of the queen, yet bear an indefinable likeness that's notable when they stand close. Alicent is older, besides, and their resemblance lies mostly in their defined cheekbones, pale skin, and slenderness. Marsei is quick to express an unspoken, pure reassurance and ask, "Where is Father?"

In the midst of the Fossoways, Lady Jana takes the opportunity of Elaine pushing her way forward to also edge ahead - not to gawk at the royalty, but rather to stand in front of Lord Istor, pinning herself inadvertently behind a group of Beesburys. It wouldn't do to let the king and queen look upon a traitor.

Bryn relaxes just a little as the King seems to very obviously be pleasant and not formal or strict. He watches attentively, smiling again now though still obviously nervous, and unsure perhaps of the proper etiquette in this situation. He quite obviously wishes he was up front as well, able to talk to the King or (despite being a number of years older) join Lyonel and the Prince. He knows his rank, though, so he stays back with the rest of the audience… for now, anyway.
Brynden has disconnected.

Dhraegon seems oblivious to any misgivings about the wedding on the part of the Queen and everyone else. He is bouncing excitedly like a five year old promised sweets, "Oh! We are pleased to start when pleases you!" He flashes a big goofy utterly adoring smile on his slender Bride, "I have never been happier to…to… I do wish very much to be wed. I am luckier than I can ever deserve to be wed to my peerless lily!"

Visenya turns her head briefly, and happens to catch glimpse of a certain dragonseed boy in the crowd behind her. She leans over to murmur something into Torren's ear before she steps back into the crowd as discreetly as she can. The crowds of lesser nobility part easily for her, and soon enough she finds Bryn. Offering him a small smile she holds out a hand heavy with jewels for him to take. She says in a soft voice, "Come cousin. I promised you that you could meet the King.'

The queen smiles at Marsei, "He tried to ride ahead, but…" she covers her mouth with her hand to stifle a little laughter, "… he's washing now."

From the top of the wheelhouse, Lyonel shouts, "Come on!" It's hard to tell if he's addressing Bryn, or one of the pot-girls who happens to be at the front of the crowd of lesser observers, or the squires who are bustling about.

Bryn might have taken the chance at Lyonel's call, but there's Princess Visenya there with a more obviously-aimed offer. He smiles happily to her as he takes her hand, and says softly but enthusiastically as he moves to walk forward with her, "Thank you!"
Lara has disconnected.

Near enough to the Fossoway contingent Lady Hastwyck observes Lady Jana's manoeuvre and, having lately been introduced to her and also vaugely recognising the fellow she's so keen to screen, she bursts into a delighted giggle and hides her mirth behind the gaily-painted ivory fan she has brought with her in case of finding herself standing too long in the sun. Looking away again in haste, fan fluttering, another of her wayward handkerchiefs clutched in her other paw, she edges an inch or so ahead of those to either side, hoping less to see King Viserys — she knows what he looks like; it's not an edifying spectacle — than dear, dear Marsei's intended… Who must be that rather large pale-haired fellow at her side. Good heavens, how interesting. Another half an inch. Yes, he's a Targaryen all right, and not at all bad looking for his years… There must be worse princes, assuredly.

Lord Istor looks…pale and drawn, though he's dressed in what appears to be brand-new finery. When he hears a giggle nearby, he cuts his eyes over at Lady Hastwyck. It's…not a comforting gaze.

Marsei smiles gracefully under Dhraegon's adoration, the picture of elegant modesty and a gentle affection of her own. "My prince flatters me. I am lucky to be chosen." She cannot help but give a soft laugh at Alicent, covering her mouth just as her sister did, and says no more. Curious, she notices Visenya's approach with Bryn — her eyes alight in greeting toward her bejeweled Targaryen friend amid all the formalities — and steps aside.

"Ha-ha-ha!" replies the King to Dhraegon, merrily. "Then we will wait a little, for your goodfather, and the rest of my children. They'll meet us at the sept, though — it will take us long enough to get this great crowd there!"

Dhraegon spots Visenya and Bryn and gives her an approving smile and him a fond one. He seems to have forgotten the crowd of onlookers and certainly does not notice the maneuvering around lord Istor, though Flox must have, as he has quietly positioned himself close by, now that there is no danger of Prince Dhraegon taking flight.

Perhaps, if Visenya were still just a Princess of Westeros, she would not have interrupted. But now she is also a Princess of Dorne, and Martell women are notorious for doing as they please. She holds onto Bryn's hand lightly as she guides him towards the betrothed couple and the King and Queen. She gives Marsei a bit of a grateful look as she approaches, and then she curtseys smoothly, although not as low as she once would have. "Your majesty." She smiles in a sweet and apologetic manner. "Forgive me, but I noticed that there was a bit of a lull, and I had promised this young Acolyte that I would do my best to see that he met the King."

Desmond Snow is wearing finer clothing than the world has ever seen him in - black trousers, a black belt and silver buckle, a black silk shirt, and a black tunic with scarlet accents. He looks utterly lost in the finery, particularly as he nudges and elbows and bullies his way forward, trying to approach the wedding party — and perhaps trying to see the King, himself. He manages to make it through most of the crowd, but hangs back from greeting the Nobility. Spotting Dhraegon and Marsei, he grins massively, nodding several times to himself.

While Visenya introduces Bryn to the king, Marsei gains but a fleeting moment to glance into the crowd, a sea of courtly faces. As is her way, she smiles at those who notice her look, or those who look at her already, but her gaze is one of seeking. Seeking — and not finding, until Jana happens to turn her head and she glimpses the pale face of Istor Fossoway. Briefly, the bride-to-be seems paler herself, uncertain, altogether unrelated to her wedding ceremony that looms outside the Hightower doors. She tries to catch his unsettled gaze.

Behind the wheelhouse, the servants that came with the Royal company are busy assembling a different cart, a fancy carriage, decorated with dragon heads on each of its corners.

King Viserys looks down at Bryn, and grins. "Ah!" he says. "My grandson's archmaester, no doubt! Hello, lad!"

Istor does spot Marsei, and he does not hesitate to meet her eyes, even stepping just a bit aside to get Jana's fancy hair arrangement out of his face. But it's hard to read his intentions just by looking at him.

Over the heads of others, Desmond stares at the king in wonder, taking in the man. Though there are eddies of movement around him, the giant Northman is a rock, perfectly still.

Bryn's eyes are very wide as he gets close to the King, and his nervousness grows. That is, until the King greets him so warmly. Visibly relaxing, he smiles back, "Hello, Your Grace." And then, remembering to do so though still a little unsure if it's the proper etiquette, he gives a deep bow.

Camillo has never seen the king or queen before, nor have most of the servants. There is some shifting in their ranks where they are ranged off to the sides to be unobtrusively available for any eventuality. They are supposed to stand straight and tall, but the urge to gawk is obviously strong with several of them.

Lady Hastwyck couldn't be more oblivious to Lord Istor's gaze: her thoughts are already miles away, with the new couple, upon whom her curious and heavy-lidded grey-green eyes now rest to the exclusion of all else. … At least, until that young boy who isn't dressed as a princeling, yet who has the unmistakable look of dragon's blood about him, is presented to the king. What larks! Who can he be? Whose child? Where from? He'll be lucky if he escapes the wedding feast without being swept up into a red silk hurricane.

There are shadows in the sky, specks growing more visible as they fly in, high up and to the north of the city.

Desmond just stares, slightly slack-jawed, forgetting that he actually belongs in this company - or at least on the periphery of it. He accidentally steps on a man's foot, and there is a cut-off oath audible from his section of the Hall. He doesn't even look at the poor fellow crouching and rubbing his smashed toe, but takes another few wary steps toward the front of the audience.

"They're coming!" shouts Lyonel from atop the wheelhouse.

"Acolyte Brynden has shown great promise at the Citadel, Your Majesty. So it is certainly not beyond the realm of possibility." Visenya smiles down at Bryn then, and curtseys again before putting a hand on Bryn's shoulder to guide him back with her and out of the way back to her husband and the Dornish contingent up front. Because Kings have got a busy schedule.

None of these tiny little people can stand in a straight line to save their lives; and that's what it might come down to if Princess Vhaerys has to look at them much longer. In her view these grand courtly occasions would benefit from grids laid out on the ground beforehand, and a deal more attention to the order of precedence, too. Her violet gaze veers to her left; she murmurs a remark to this effect — not in high Valyrian, but in a pastiche thereof, probably indistinguishable save to another Targaryen, another scholar. … And then the carnage is narrowly averted by a cry, hands pointing, her eyes lifting likewise to the skies and narrowing with interest.

Dhraegon sets a massive hand lightly on Bryn's shoulder and gives it a gentle squeese before releasing it. Then he is gazing at the face of his fair flower, and says with obvious concern, "Perhaps the sun is a bit stong for standing so long out of doors?" and then the cry goes up and he's squinting up into the sky trying to see.

Meanwhile, Flox has positioned himself just behind Lord Istor, expression bland. Clothes of fine fabric, but designed not to draw attention.

Istor's unreadable expression sets Marsei further ill-at-ease. Something about seeing him out in the open like this, after their conversation in the closed room she moves in quietly beside her lord brother, leaning her head in beside his shoulder. "I may have…" she half-whispers, trailing, keeping her voice to a polite murmur out of earshot of her sister, the king and the others nearby. "I think we should keep our eye on the Fossoways," she hurries quiet as a mouse. "Oh!" she brightens then at Lyonel's shout, looking outside, expecting another influx of visitors, hopefully her father.

Desmond cranes his head up to stare at the sky, his hand creeping down to the sword-hilt at his belt uncertainly. Is it danger? He again begins to edge closer to the wedding party, but this time there's a more definite air about him. He doesn't burst in on the nobility, but he does position himself in a position to react, if whatever is happening is troublesome.

Ser Otto Hightower, Oldtown's true lord, steps out of the wheelhouse, wearing impeccable finery and wiping a little lather off his freshly shaven neck.

King Viserys grins, looking to the north, and says to Dhraegon, "Ah, there they are. Shall we see if we can make them hurry?"

Dhraegon giggles happily and clap his hands like an excited child, "Let's!"

There are four winged shapes in the sky, growing closer.
Dhraegon pages Marsei and Camillo: Flox is ready to do some stabbing if Istor poses a threat.

Desmond relaxes as he overhears King Viserys and Dhraegon, hunting for a familiar face in the group, one that might look his way at a convenient moment. But then the winged shapes draw closer, growing in the sky, and his attention returns to them.

Meanwhile, Emira Martell hangs tight onto the arm of Rhaegor; so tight it ought to cause harm. The two whisper to one another with some intense and secretive urgency.

Bryn smiles up to Dhraegon at the shoulder squeeze, but then obediently steps back with Visenya. He got to meet the King! He's pretty much as happy as he possibly could be at the moment. He looks up at Lyonel's call, face growing serious for a split second. Veraxion? Oh, nope, there's four of them, and he smiles again. Friendly dragons, then! Can this day get any better?

Desmond's hopeful features turns toward Rhaegor and Emira, but he quickly looks away, a frown briefly furrowing his brow. His brutal face quickly assumes its excited, hopeful, air. He smiles to watch Bryn watching the dragons, then looks up again to see them approach.

Young love (well, mature fondness) and posited Targaryen bastards are in combination so diverting that Lady Hastwyck is almost the last to notice: it's only when she sees the boy gazing up into the blue that she wonders what he can possibly be looking at and then, oh, it dawns. Her fan twirls in her hand to a more suitable angle and she lifts it to shield her eyes as she peers upward, shoulders shivering with a sudden frisson. Dragons—!

The wingsails flash in the sun. Dragons. Two pairs of pink wings, others yellow, silver. They're of different sizes, the beasts.

Lyonel and Daemon stand atop the wheelhouse, watching the approaching dragons excitedly.

"Come, come!" says Viserys, gesturing to Dhraegon and Marsei and taking Queen Alicent's hand. "We'll ride." He moves towards the newly assembled, fancy carriage, meeting Otto at the same moment. Ormund seems a bit at a loss for an instant.

Camillo notices the cries well before the gawking servants, and squints at the sky. But he doesn't dare interrupt proceedings with a recommendation for what they should all do.

Dhraegon reaches for his Lady's hand and pads excitedly towards the particularly fancy cartr.

Marsei hurries toward her lord father, the Hand of the King, though it is, of course, with elegant steps that she makes her way, the length of her ornate gown trailing behind her. It is only then that she truly sees the shapes in the sky, and she stops altogether as though frightened. She picks her chin up, regaining her graceful composure in front of the Targaryens. The children are coming, that's all, that's what was said. There mustn't be the so-called Whoremaster among them. She glances back as if to find reassurance from someone behind her, but soon she's hand-in-hand with Dhraegon at the carts, beaming at Otto, her smile reverting with ease to the innocent smile of her youth, as if it has changed much at all. "Father!"

Desmond looks up at the quartet of dragons, his face again assuming a stupid, slack-jawed expression. Someone behind him prods angrily at the big man to 'Get out of the way, you fool.' He turns sideways in an awkward compromise, still staring at the dragons as the wedding party prepares to fly. A somewhat dashed expression on his face, the huge man falls back, letting several others occupy his position in front, still staring at the dragons.

The servants are busy moving the sixteen black horses from wheelhouse to the fancy carriage. A ridiculous team for such a light cart, but it does look grand. The animals don't seem to mind the approaching dragons, though Oldtown's own livestock will be nervous already.

Camillo makes a decision and quickly slips through the crowd to be sure that Flox, who has been busily monitoring the Istor situation, is aware of what's in the sky.

Flox gives Camillo a subtle nod and a quick glance upwards before returning to his close monitoring of the Istor situation.

Bryn continues watching the dragons, but it's also obvious that people are starting to move. He doesn't want to miss the wedding, either, even though he was most excited about this part. Only looking down to make sure he doesn't get in anybody's way, he keeps watching the dragons as best he can as he steps to keep up with the crowd.

The dragons over Oldtown grow close enough that those who know the Targaryen dragons might recognize them by their colours: Meleys, the Red Queen. Syrax. Dreamfyre. Sunfyre the Golden. They dip, gliding towards the earth just beyond the tourney grounds.

One dragon in the sky might have set Princess Vhaerys's heart a-leaping — four together, they've come for some other purpose. Nonetheless the sight of them, growing from specks to blobs and then developing wings and colours, is a glory… Meleys, the Red Queen. Syrax. Dreamfyre. Sunfyre the Golden, who at first glance— but no. Her wide mouth broadens into a luxurious smile, and in her golden dragon-gown she is slow to avert her eyes to whatever trifling matters are occurring down here on the ground, slower still to move away.

The King and Queen, and the bride and groom, are guided to ride in the fancy carriage. Otto Hightower hugs Marsei warmly and comes to join them.

Desmond shoves his way through the crowd to Bryn's side, crouching down. "Oi, lad," he hisses softly. "Come on with me over to the Sept, eh? Nobody'll stomp on you if you follow along right behind me." He's half-watching the dragons and the crowd, but he keeps himself near Bryn as the movement begins to become a wave. "Eh? Remember me? Desmond Snow..Sworn Sword to Ser Daevon?"

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