(122-12-11) The Wedding of Prince Dhraegon and Lady Marsei
The Wedding of Prince Dhraegon and Lady Marsei
Summary: Royal guests and nobility flood the Starry Sept to bear witness to the long-awaited union; it is not without dramatics.
Date: 11/12/2015
Related: chill

It's not such a great distance, through town, but the trek is slow, what with the gawping smallfolk. It could be worse, though. The crowds at the Dolphin Festival are. Just now, a lot of people have taken cover at the sight of the dragons.

The yellow dragon — Syrax — peels away from the group and skims over the city wall near the tourney grounds, then over the Citadel.

The ceremony is to be held in the largest dome of the Starry Sept. The spectacular domes loom before them, glistening in the sun. Lady Marsei sweeps aside the curtains from her cart, always enjoying looking out the window to smile benevolently at the smallfolk. Those few who aren't transfixed on the dragons still call out to king and queen, especially Queen Alicent, born in their very city. Some cheer the soon-to-be husband and wife, some throwing flowers; more sour shouts of "Flower and the Clown!" do occasionally crop up from the depths of the crowds where they're faceless and can get away with such bold insolence.

Bryn smiles up to Desmond, "Thanks!" Then he nods quickly, "'Course I remember you. Only things I ever forget are chores," he says with a grin. He sticks close to Desmond as they travel through the city, smiling as the dragons fly over so visibly. Time passes, though, and he grows more serious as he enters the Sept, giving nervous looks to the various statues.

Dhraegon flashes Vhaerys a pleased and surprised smile as he spots her. On the way over he smiles and waves to the crowd, much as the king did earlier, all giggles and childlike friendliness.

It is different when they step inside the Sept. The massive groom is quivering again, now the moment is upon him. he tries to keep his chin up and hold in the hysterical tittering that is his trademark. he looks decidedly uncomfortable in the Sept, with it's statues and solemnity. He covertly glances around, hoping to spot a flask he might snatch to steady his nerves. The Targaryen House mantle is a beautiful brocade: black velvet with the red dragon sigyl spiraling out to slender dragon embroideries. The trim is red silk with black dragon trim. It likely represents a year or more of skilledc needles.

During the ride, the king sent pages out, leading spare horses, to collect the dragonriders from the fireweed meadow outside the city.

"No worry, young Maester. You'll pay me back when you stitch me up. I know you'll do fine." Desmond hovers protectively near Bryn as they enter the sept, but he too seems largely out of place. Even a little scared. He crouches down again and murmurs, pointing at the shadowed aspect in one corner. "Who's that one, then?" He seems to genuinely defer to his young friend's knowledge in this place of New Gods.

Syrax folds her wings to alight on top of the Astronomer's Spire of the Citadel, the second tallest structure in the city, and probably not where the enormous beast is wanted. None of the dragons seems quite as large as Whoremaster, but nearly so.

Marsei lingers behind in the cart for last minute preparations with her handmaid who arrives from the back. Every so often, as Siva affixes this and that to her hair, Marsei looks up at the silhouette of the Citadel crawling with Syrax and tenses.

The guests will be sat row by row, witnesses aplenty beneath the enormous ceiling with its hundreds of glimmering seven-pointed stars. King and Queen up front with Prince Daemon and a few spaces spare. The dome fills, noble after noble with their finery and varying opinions. The stern, aging septon waits between the massive painted, jeweled wood statues of The Mother and Father at the marriage altar.

Dhraegon fidgets, looking increasingly more inclined to bolt as the wait drags on and no strong drink appears.

There's not room for everyone. Some of the lesser guests end up outside. Aegon and Heleana and Rhaenys Targaryen arrive on the palfreys the pages led out past the Tourney Grounds for them, the youngsters — 15 year old Aegon and 13 year old Helaena, charging to Starry Street at a gallop.

Bryn looks over and answers, softly, "That's The Stranger." He looks outside and blinks as he sees the dragon on the spire, opening his mouth and closing it. "Almost like my Dream…" He looks towards the statue of the Mother and says, "I wonder if one of the Choices she mentioned is coming?" Poor Desmond likely has no clue what the boy is talking about.

And indeed, Desmond looks utterly lost as he walks alongside Bryn. "I'm going to sit by you," he informs the boy. "Else they'll throw me out." He leans down and smiles slightly. "And I'd not miss this, not for the world. There's an air here that I like." He straightens up again and catches sight of poor Dhraegon, at the front of the Sept. And then something hits him. Leaning down again, more urgent, he says "Did you dream of today?"

Dhraegon bows respectfully to the arriving riders. He is pale even for a Targaryen now and an eye roll away from full on panic, rather like some of the city bred horses are at the sight of that dragon perched on the spire.

Camillo does not care for dragons, however royal and invited. He is a simple, common man, and dragons are horrifying party-ruiners. But he keeps to his duty nevertheless, eyeing the arriving riders with suspicion when he can spare a moment for it.

Earlier, at the foot of the Hightower, Princess Vhaerys was too preoccupied by the glint of sunshine upon dragonscale to see her cousin Prince Dhraegon beaming at her in his usual benevolent manner. But, seated almost at the front of the sept, as befits one of the elder Targaryens present who happens also to be one of the groom's few definitely-placed relations, with that empty place still upon her left and with nothing else in particular to disapprove of given the regimented placement of the pews, her eyes are upon him as he struggles visibly to hold himself together long enough to utter his vows before this teeming crowd of nobles and enshroud his fair bride in the splendid cloak prepared for her. She catches his eye for a moment and her opaque expression shifts into a small but deliberate smile. Then she mouths a brief phrase in High Valyrian, shaping each word with care.

Bryn stares at the approaching riders with a strange look. A worried look. He nods slightly to Desmond. "I.. I think so. The Mother said 'There will be blood and tears and so many will fall from the sky screaming.' And that I could help with the Choosing, if I was quick. It's coming, the Choosing is coming, I can feel it… but I don't know what to do!"

The young dragonlords join their father and the assembly of witnesses begins to quiet down.

Desmond keeps himself half-stooped as he looks down at Bryn, his gaze guarded. "We hear talk of that in the North. Old, old tales. True dreams." He touches his over-large longsword briefly. "Listen now, lad. If there's trouble, you choose the bride and her husband. And I'll do what I can to make certain they're the ones protected." He speaks with a feigned assurance, but Bryn's words have clearly spooked him. "Now. Smile for the pretty wedding, Young Maester, and we'll get out of this just fine. I promise."

Dhraegon casts a grateful look at his true cousin, despite his obvious terror. he must have caught bryn's dire prediction as well though as he is now actively searching for something to hide under and spotting only lady's gowns, which likely will cause a whole other set of problems.

While all the faces of the Seven look on, as well as the sept rife with the guests, faces familiar and unfamiliar, Marsei arrives wearing a small crown-like wreath of silver upon her hair, set like a halo; beautiful, but only ornament, no rival to any crown jewels. She scarcely appears before she is wrapped in the cloak of her father, destined to be swapped out for the new. It's not the cloak of a maiden, not really … but tradition is tradition.

The bride and groom are meant to make their approach. There are murmurs through the rows, whispers of expectation and gossip even now; someone laughs; someone cries, already; it is a wedding, after all.

Otto Hightower has a bit of a bruise coming up on his forehead, almost hidden. Still, he seems pleased, and stands proudly.

By this time Lady Hastwyck has promoted herself to the company of a slightly better class of wedding guests, by virtue of her burgeoning friendship with an older knight among their company who remembers when. Oh, yes he does. She's sitting further forward, thus, with a better view, sharing in his reminiscences of a luncheon-party on a certain terrace overlooking the Whispering Sound, when a change in the tone of the talk and the exhalations further back, near the great doors, has her breaking off in mid-sentence and twisting in her seat… At her first sight of Lady Marsei her handkerchief flutters up to one eye and then the other and she sniffs heavily.

Dhraegon freezes in the first step of his flight when he sees Oldtown's fairest flower in all her simple elegance. His smile is more than a little sheepish and tight with terror, but it's a smile? Mostly? He looks rather like he wants to cling to her and or hide behind her.

Lady Elaine give a nervous giggle of anticipation, then presses her fingers to her mouth. Lord Istor sits still, looking as dignified as he can manage, though he has a tendency to hunch forward over time.

Lady Jana twists about to look, then sits primly face-forward, looking a bit ill.

Marsei meets Dhraegon's gaze, reassuring. A slightly wan dizziness has touched her again, but it doesn't interfere with her kindness toward the Targaryen she's meant to be joined with in mere moments. "Wait for me, my prince," she says softly like a promise, looking toward the altar. Rather than take Dhraegon's hand, she takes Otto's elbow, so her father may walk her up. It is within the Starry Sept that Marsei shines the truest. Not only is she famously at home here, her red hair is made vivid by the glimmering surroundings lit by uncountable candles, and every diamond and silvery embellishment on her gown gleams and sparkles; even the white silk seems more pure.

Bryn bites his lower lip but nods quickly to Desmond. He does seem somewhat reassured by the man's words, though still very worried. He smiles, though, as best he can as he looks to Marsei's arrival and the nervous Dhraegon. His eyes regularly go to the prince and princess who rode in so recently, however.

The sept shines with rainbows from the crystals hanging in the lead-and-coloured-glass windows and the chandeliers. Lord Hightower kisses Marsei on each cheek before he walks her up, slowly, so everyone can get a good look at that shining gown. Even Lyonel takes a moment from whispering to Prince Daemon to look.

Lady Elaine wiggles with a mixture of pleasure and envy at the close-up look of Marsei's gown.

Desmond lays his heavy left hand on Bryn's shoulder, if he's allowed to offer a reassuring squeeze. Following the boy's gaze, the huge Northman takes in the arriving prince and princess. He leans down to murmur in Bryn's ear, "What did you dream of those two, lad?" He gazes at Marsei for a moment, then looks around the huge Sept assessingly. "All's well," he repeats to Bryn. "Else my master and I shall make it so. You remember what I said about obeying orders, when last we met?"

Dhraegon nods obediently at Marsei's telling him to wait for her. In mute terror he moves in a rather jerky fashion towards the altar, eyes fixed now on the statue of the Maiden.

As she walks alongside her father, Marsei swallows and opens her mouth as if poised to say something, to ask something, but something gets the better of her and she flutters into silence, walking elegantly through the sept. She dares glance here and there at the guests. Jana and her former Fossoway family; Joyeuse; Hightowers; a blur, then, until it's all silver and blonde hair and she's in front of Dhraegon, holding her father's elbow tighter.

A few of the lesser but nevertheless important Targaryens who arrived days prior ahead of the royals crane their necks away from the impending ceremony to look at the doors, instead, though no one comes through them. They seem tense.

The septon beckons Marsei near.

Dhraegon is as stiff and frozen as a statue himself once he's in place, though now hi gaze is fixed on his Bride as if she represents safety.

Bryn shrugs and says, softly, "I don't know, exactly… I did dream of two dragons fighting, and falling from the sky, but not sure it's them. But the Choosing, I felt it was close as soon as I saw them." He then nods to Desmond's question, and says softly, "'And you would have to do what I tell you, and what the othe officers tell you.'" Down to the inflections Desmond used when he said it. But the ceremony seems to be close, and he turns his attention towards that.

"Then if something happens, Bryn, your orders are to hide beneath the pew." Desmond isn't joking, though he continues to smile, his expression wide and absolutely gormless. He looks like a frank idiot. But his hand grips Bryn's shoulder firmly, and now he falls silent, pasting that pleasant expression in place. He watches the wedding with all the appearance of a hayseed Northerner.

Ormund Hightower looks a little nervous, watching his father and sister. But only a little. He avoids looking at the doors.

"We will be all right, you and I," Marsei says in a quiet - if slightly tremulous — hush to Dhraegon as she steps up to stand across from him at the altar.

The septon gestures to Otto; it's time for the cloak. He's about to open his hard line of a mouth, the the ages old ceremony itself is on the verge of starting, a figure is granted swift access of the sept via the doors Ormund doesn't look at. The woman's each definite step is filled with pride and command. A glimpse will easily mark her Targaryen heritage: her hair is a stunning silvery-gold, and braided like the ancient Queen Visenya: for war. She is dressed in blood red, absolutely dripping with gems, especially where her pearl-lined bodice is fit to burst. The woman strides without concern down the middle of the sept, looks coolly at Alicent, unconcernedly at the couple, and sits in line with the rest of the royal family, but on the other side of the aisle.

The queen's step-daughter, Princess Rhaenyra, the first-born of King Viserys I, and rider of the dragon coiled around the Astronomer's Spire of the Citadel.

Daevon's in full plate mail, a highly polished, exquisitely decorated suit of armor. He's standing near the doors, playing guard, as opposed to actually sitting with his family. His expression, at least what can be seen beneath his helmet, is completely neutral, inscrutable as Rhaenyra enters.

Dhraegon flashes his bride a quick smile in return. He murmurs, "We will." And he does seem to believe it, for all his terror of the ceremony itself. And then the striking late comer arrives and he freezes up again for several long moments. Then he straightens and eyes fixed on Lady Marsei again, he swallows hard and prepares to try to Adult. In front of all those staring eyes.

A murmur goes up at the appearance of Rhaenyra. Now /that/ gets Jurian to forget to be aloof and above-it-all and crane his neck to see.

Prince Daemon whispers something to Lyonel, who looks at Rhaenyra, a bit wide-eyed.

Bryn says softly to Desmon'd order, "That was for your mission, this is mine. I can help. If I'm quick. That's what the Mother /and/ the Crone said." He looks back too at the murmurs and blinks, staring at Rhaenyra. "It's her," he whispers to Desmond, now. He looks even more worried now.

Trouble is starting. Desmond eases his longsword in its sheath, though of course he doesn't bare steel. Not entirely familiar with Southern wedding customs, he leans aside to Bryn for clarification. "Is she not supposed to be here?" It may be the most inane question of the day, but Desmond does not look very much like a fool. He looks like a man preparing to kill someone. His gaze is fixed on the lately-arrived Princess as he speaks. "Choose Dhraegon." It's a soft, almost inaudible murmur. "We protect the weak, knight of the mind. Choose Dhraegon and Marsei."

It is a widely known fact that there is tension between Alicent and Rhaenyra. Try though she might, Marsei cannot be exempt from such prejudices. The princess's face cannot be said to bear any precise expression beyond that stare, and yet her presence emanates through the crowd like a tangible creature, sewing discord and moving mouths. All she needed to do was walk in and the ceremony is delayed while people murmur.

The presence of Rhaenyra sends a quiet tremble through Marsei, as well; it might not, were she not already so faint on her feet, already facing layers of nerves. She does a fair job at keeping them invisible, only looking a bit doe-eyed and dazed as any bride. In front of all those staring eyes.

After a few moments that go on terribly too long, the septon clears his throat and nods at Otto. The cloaking ceremony. "We are here to join this man and this woman in the eyes of the Seven…"

A tear or two upon a velvet cheek can be devastatingly effective — but more tends to spook the game, and so Lady Hastwyck and her embroidered hanky have done their best to stem the tide. She's gleaming (rather than blotchy) with emotion as her eyes follow her cousin to the altar, and through the hush during which murmur succeeds murmur… She hasn't any recollection of the man sitting so close beside her; but he's so certain he knows her, his remarks are so specific, so unerringly on the nail, that by now she has been forced to own that she was only teasing — yes, of course she was! — and she knew at once just who he was, but it has been rather a while, hasn't it? … They exchange another whisper or two, hers along the lines of "Just think! She, here…" And then his personal, treasonous views upon which of the ladies present sets off to best advantage the combination of red silk and pearls.

Bryn glances to Desmond, "It's not that.. but she's in the middle of it. The middle of whatever's coming." He glances to Desmond's sword, "I.. I don't think the fight is happening now… it's something that can help stop the fight. I think." He doesn't sound sure. But he's moving past the worry and thinking now. Analyzing.

Dhraegon looks suddenly panicked again. Is he supposed to do something? he's supposed to be doing something isn't he?

"In that case, bright lad, you tell me what to do." Desmond looks down at Bryn, frowning slightly. He tugs at his chin for a moment, still speaking softly. "I thought it was to be a battle, and then I'd know what to do. But wisdom…" his wry smile catches Bryn's face. "…I lack, entirely. I'll follow you, mate."

The advent of the Princess of Dragonstone doesn't disconcert Princess Vhaerys, who has for her a slight smile should their eyes chance to meet in passing. Not that that necessarily expresses a lukewarm sentiment; one generally has to be a rare book or plant or, better yet, a dragon, to persuade this particular Targaryen to blossom with pleasure.

For the moment, Dhraegon need only stand by. The cloak of white and grey is unwrapped from Marsei's shoulders. She's given away by her father, draped in the heavy cloak of red and black, of fire and blood, of House Targaryen. She seems smaller beneath it. There are prayers to follow, quite a number of them, in fact, even more than usual - quite likely on request of the pious bride.

Princess Rhaenyra flagrantly whispers to the close companion on her left throughout much of the ceremony. Every so often she cuts her gaze to Alicent and to the altar as if trying to figure out Dhraegon and Marsei; as if the whole thing is a rouse she hasn't been let in on, and she'd like to know why. Rather than let it offend her, she casts offending looks outward instead.

Marsei focuses on Dhraegon, as best she can, for every time she looks anywhere else she feels as though she may fall backwards or perhaps mimic her betrothed's thinking and run and hide. Wouldn't that be something, if they ran off together in the middle of their own ceremony? On some small urging from the septon, they join hands, and she squeezes, knowing he will want the safety. At this point, she wants the reassurance, too.

"With this kiss I pledge my love," she says, knowing the vows by heart, giving Dhraegon a subtle, barely visible nod, "and take you for my lord and husband." The septon raises his crystal and it seems to drink in the light of the tall candles and the light through the sept's rainbow stained glass and shine every colour back out upon them. Marsei smiles up.

Dhraegon seems rather at sea in all these prayers, but he tries his best not to scratch anything he shouldn't. He does look as if she started to flee he'd be racing her to the exit. He needs little urging to take her hand though and hangs on as if he suspects she might flee without him. He starts when he realises he's meant to be doing something. He squeaks out, "with this kiss I pledge my love?" he casts a terrified deer in the headlights look around at all the staring faces, but steeling himself to the required obscene display (in front of children!) He rather jerkily bends to touch lips to lips for the very first time, blushing to his ears like the Maiden he is widely rumored to be, and actually curls one of his massive arms around her as if that might protect her from all those eyes seeing him do this terribly intimate thing.

Ormund's smile grows. Oldtown's acting lord knows Dhraegon well, and his sister. He's finding the awkwardness charming.

Camillo is at the very back of the sept. Maybe he's even strategically by the door as a last-resort Dhrae-blocker, and not just out of happenstance. But in any case, he squeezes a fist and watches this part of the ceremony carefully.

Lady Hastwyck doesn't believe for an instant in such innocence at such an age — nonetheless, she's obliged to extract a second handkerchief from the bosom of her gown (without any noticeable diminution of her silhouette). These moments, after all, they're so terribly full of hope.

Old Archmaester Luckin makes his way through the group trying to listen to the ceremony outside, tapping his way along with his walking-staff until he ends up standing next to Camillo.

Marsei smiles knowingly up until the last second as the kiss approaches - from above, given their difference in height. While it is Dhraegon's ears that turn red, Marsei's cheeks blush a sincere pink like the maiden it is known she is not, as a widow. For her part, the kiss is chaste, but not frigid, and over quick. They stand separate as fast as possible, with their hands still held.

The septon's groaning voice kicks back in. "Here in the sight of gods and men, I do solemnly proclaim Prince Dhraegon of House Targaryen and Lady Marsei of House Fossoway, by way of House Hightower, to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever…" He gives a small pause in the recital of the holy words, looking out over the crowded sept, at the watching eyes of the king and queen and their children, at Rhaenyra who has a surge in hatefulness but sits still as a statue, at the crowd of young and old. "…and cursed be the one who comes between them."

Bryn grins at the kiss, and Dhraegon's reaction to it. But, he looks to Rhaenyra and Aegon and Halaena again frequently, thoughtful. He gives Desmond a reassuring look, though doesn't voice anything now. He's piecing things together, he has an idea, perhaps even a plan. But the wedding is still going on, and he looks back to the Septon at the last of the ceremony, applauding for the couple cheerfully.

Dhraegon's knees buckle a little and he sways as if about to kneel or faint, but he manages to straighten up. He is blushing to his ears at the shame of doing something so obviously risqué in public and looks as if he might flee for the shame of it, but she has his hand and they are not touching lips any more, so he tries to put a brave face on being despoiled this way in front of witnesses. However at "cursed be" his eyes roll up in his head and he drops like a marionette with cut strings.

And so it is done. Though Princess Vhaerys rather supposes that in this case there'll be no dilution of the Targaryen bloodline; and so she holds her peace, without so much as a filthy look for the assembled Hightowers who consider themselves not only worthy servants of the crown but the fittest mates for those with the Blood of the Dragon running in their veins. Well. Let her cousin have his pretty playmate. Let him name his toy boats in her honour. This princess, exchanging the shadow of a smile with the empty air at her side, absorbed as many a married spectator must be with thoughts of a like moment in her own life, considers that he deserves his happiness… She sits up straighter still, eyeing him past a silvery head, apprehensive.

Ormund stands, briefly alarmed, but he doesn't go to Dhraegon. He looks about for Flox, his smile turned to a frown now.

Prince Daemon, evidently a gentle soul, seems alarmed, but Lyonel giggles and this seems to ease the other boy's tension. The children whisper among themselves. The King whispers to the Queen, and then turns to whisper to Ormund.

Desmond actually half-rises, glaring around as though to challenge anyone against the so-beautiful couple up on their Altar. But there is no challenge - right up until Dhraegon hits the ground. Then he's half-standing again, searching the crowd for any opportunists. He hisses down at Bryn, "Will you check on him?" And he lingers, barely-seated, ready to rally to Dhraegon's aid.

Camillo hadn't released his fists yet for exactly this reason. There goes Dhraegon. Camillo looks for a moment like he might sprint up to the front of the sept, but then he thinks in time that it would be inappropriate; surely it must be Flox or other family retainers to go. So he remains where he is, shoulder shifting uncomfortably.

Flox, still rather close to Lord Istor in case of sudden flight, facepalms as his master collapses.

The bride doesn't have time to be mortified. Her first instinct is absolute concern, but she has no hope of stopping Dhraegon from hitting the ground, although she moves to crouch, she hardly can in her gown. "Father!" she calls, remembering — last she glimpsed — that he was nearest.

Lord Otto Hightower was not expecting this. As a man of wisdom, noble birth, and most of all, action, he takes the opportunity to stare at Dhraegon. "He doesn't seem harmed," he pronounces, after a stunned moment.

Bryn doesn't have a clue that Luckin is in the audience. So, he's on his feet as soon as Dhraegon drops, glancing down to check to make sure his silver link is visible as he starts to run forward. Unless somebody stops him, he runs right up to check on Dhraegon.

Daevon's too far away to do anything to help, being as he is right next to the door, and as such where Camillo is. But there's a maester, standing right next to he and Camillo. And this could be serious… heart attack… poison… death! Wait snoring? "Will you make sure he's okay?" he asks Luckin in a whisper.

"He's fainted," the Archmaester whispers back to Ser Daevon, "And I'm too old to carry him back to the carriage."

Desmond surges out of his place among the observers in their pews. He races after Bryn, a hand on bis longsword. When the diminutive Novice reaches Dhraegon, Desmond whirls around to face the crowd at large. The huge Northman looms, but he has yet to draw steel. He simply lumbers in front of Bryn, trying to conceal whatever has happened behind him.

Daevon's worried. He opens his mouth to say something to Luckin. Closes it. "What if it's something else?" That's kept quiet though, he doesn't want to start a panic. He ends up striding through the sept too, looking relieved as he sees Bryn rushing forward.

Flox seems more embarrassed for his master than alarmed. He makes his way over to the house guards to arange for the fallen Prince to be carried out to his carriage, before making his way quietly to the front. his lack of hurry suggests that this is more embarrassing than unexpected.

Jurian watches Dhraegon go down and tries not to roll his eyes.

The Acolyte doesn't seem to draw any attention at all from Lord Otto, but the big northman's sudden dash into his midst does. "What in seven hells?!" he demands.

At his seat, Lord Ormund lifts a hand to his face, curses under his breath, and steps forward as well, to join the knot of bafflement at the altar.

The Archmaester pats Ser Daevon's steel-clad forearm comfortingly. "He's snoring," the old man whispers, "So I think he'll be all right for a few minutes, at least."

Bryn crouches down by Dhraegon's head, reaching to touch the man's head where he hit the ground, feeling around a moment. He looks up to the nobles around him and says, "Narcolepsy, stress-induced sleep. I was worried he hit his head, but he's fine."

Her momentary alarm soothed by the unmistakable sound of a snore, Princess Vhaerys — who half-stood-up — sits wholly down again, overcome by an unworthy distaste. She's fond of her cousin. But, Seven above.

"No offense met," mumbles Desmond, who carefully positions himself between Bryn, Dhraegor, and the mob. Realizing how badly he might be making things worse, he angles off to the side. Bryn, after all, has reassured him. Instead, he gazes into the crowd, his features tight and ugly.

Daevon crosses the sept in a number of quick strides. "Is it best to leave him there, or carry him outside for some air?" he asks Bryn. Then to all the gathered people, he speaks loudly, his command voice, trying to project reassurance. "Everything is okay. Prince Dhraegon has just fainted." He uses that instead of Bryn's fancy words. "If everyone will just remain where they are. There's nothing to be worried about." In case anyone was worried.

Flox suggests in a voice pitched not to carry, "Perhaps moving him somewhere quiet to recover?"

Marsei looks up hopefully at her father, grateful for the assessment and again for Bryn's and Luckin's, although she still appears still upset that no one could stop Dhraegon, hefty though he may be, from falling in the first place. She reaches down to press a hand to her husband's — husband's! — chest. She gives a distraught smile. "Yes, I think he— he is just-o-overwhelmed," she manages, but her eyes are wide with worry. "He must be, else— this— it cannot happen again," she says breathily, a bit disjointed; it means something to her, at least. She starts to rise uncertainly; her hand out toward Otto is more confident. "This is Desmond," she says, "He is a friend to the Targaryens."

The crowd's murmur rises again, as it's wont to do. A Costayne lord tells a lady ahead of him, "Comin' back to me now, the lady had another husband who died, poison, it's said." The response comes back, "I heard some people thought it was her, but I don't believe it. You'd be best to keep quiet, she's with the dragons now."

King Viserys Targaryen, first of his name, gets ponderously to his feet and laughs. "Poor uncle!" he declares, "The excitement has gone to his head! Come, let's take him back to his rooms and let him recover his strength! He's more to do tonight, you know." He gestures to the attending Kingsguard. The knights in their white cloaks look a little taken aback, but don't hesitate more than a beat before they move to pick Dhraegon up.

Bryn nods quickly to Flox's suggestion, "Yeah, somewhere quiet." He looks to Marsei, and says as reassuringly as a twelve-year-old can, "He's fine. I promise. It's just the stress." He steps back quickly to let the Kingsguard do their work helping Dhraegon.

"I'll bear him, Your Grace!" Desmond tries to do just that, unless the Kingsguard actively stop him. As big as he is, crouched beside the prone princeling, Desmond heaves him up on his shoulders — And the Kingsguard could equally seize the massive prince easily enough. But Desmond doesn't surrender the man without grudge, looking to Marsei.

Dhraegon's pulse does seem strong and his snoring can be distinctly heard throughout the Sept. e does not wake as he's moved. Flox stays close in case of need, though he gives Camillo a Look and angles his hed at Loird Istor.

The Kingsguard look actively annoyed, but they don't want to carry Dhraegon either. Ormund groans.

"It's best he's not carried by some strangers," Daevon states, backing up Desmond. That's spoken quietly though.

As romance turns to farce Lady Hastwyck can't help herself. She steps over her new or possibly old friend and two ladies on his other side (oh, was that your train? Oh, my goodness, do forgive me), and attempts in short to make a beeline towards her beautiful cousin, kneeling still in a pool of white silk by the side of her fallen groom. But the sheer number of wedding guests between her and the aisle is daunting, and the next thing that happens is that she trips over somebody's foot and lands in the lap of a well-dressed young man with auburn hair and — no doubt — an air of surprise.

And so it's back to the carriage with Dhraegon. Outside, there are children with paper dragons on sticks, waving them and cheering. House Hightower pages are handing them out. They're in a multitude of colour combinations.

Loryn has totally been there all the time and watched the whole thing Until things went weird. While he looks slightly worried, he doesn't offer his help. He's on the short side and the prince is heavy. While he still weighs his options, suddenly hundred pounds of woman or so land in his lap. Egads. "Good to know I'm still a ladies' magnet.", he comments to the Tyrell beside him with a grin then tries to stabilize Joyeuse. "Are you alright, Mylady?"

Marsei, by now, has slowly risen, standing by while Dhraegon was carried out of sight. She's still at the altar, clutching a hand to her collar, her fingers burying in the fine ceremonial cloak that marks her as Targaryen. She' looks lost up there, small under its power, and frozen between following and not; ultimately, she decides against running out, and seeks the company of her family, stepping down away from the now long-suffering septon. She lingers near Ormund, a bit lost.

Desmond lies Dhraegon into his carriage, after a long and painful walk. Desmond, lugging the burden, seems to take each step as though a dragon were sitting on his shoulder. But he makes it to the wagon and shoves Dhraegon into it. He straightens, smiling toothily at anyone around, but only pressing a kiss to Dhraegon's forehead. "Sleep well, Prince," he murmurs.

Ormund takes Marsei's hand and leads her out, in lieu of Dhraegon doing so. Lord Otto follows, and a few moments lather, the laughing king and his queen.

Camillo had been helping Desmond bear his burden, but he looks at him a bit suspiciously when the northerner starts kissing unconscious prince foreheads. He doesn't say anything. But it's a look, for sure.

Sprawled fragrantly across Ser Loryn, letting out a squeal of surprise which can't do anything to calm the general atmosphere, and with one hand dropping a handkerchief into the pew behind the better to take hold of the shoulder of the fellow on the far side of her unwitting cushion, Lady Joy half-swoons herself. Of all the handsome faces to see above one in such a moment—! "Oh!" she half-gasps, half-laughs, "Oh, my lord, I do apologise!"

What she doesn't do is stand up immediately. No. It takes her a second or two (and his help) to get her feet under her again. Her cheeks have turned almost as crimson as her sandsilk gown; further along the aisle the knight with whom she has been murmuring at intervals is transfixed by the sight of her heaving bosom. And then she's up; and then she's down again, sitting suddenly in the gap between Sir Loryn and another Tyrell, shoulders sloping downwards as she wilts. "Oh, but now I'm too late. My cousin — Lady Marsei — Princess Marsei," she corrects herself, sighing, "I was so worried — but I can't see her now… I think she must have gone out, too…"

As one of the leading actors of the Whimsy Loryn is used to fawning fans, though they are usually around the age when they transfer their affection from their pony to some male celebrity. So he doesn't mind having a pretty lady in his lap. And then beside his lap. "Shall I guide you out, Mylady?", he asks Joy with a look of concern. He does smirk though. "Lady Marsei is -my- cousin, too, so I assume that makes you my cousin too?"

Marsei smiles over at Ormund; it is a slightly weakened thing, having put such energy into the ceremony and the stress of Dhraegon's drop, but expresses absolutely her gladness for the leadership as much as the comfort of having her brother at her side. She glances back glad to see the others, and looks beyond them for a moment - up, at the statues of the Seven, briefly wistful.

Daevon approaches Loryn. "Ser Loryn, may I have a moment please?" he asks quietly.

Archmaester Luckin watches the notables leaving the sept, frowning a little.

Bryn starts to follow the others out. He stops to look at the statue of the Mother a moment, and says, "I'll be quick." He turns then to follow the others, running to catch up, then practically skids to a stop as he almost passes Luckin. "You're here!"

Luckin looks down at Bryn and smiles. "I am," he says. "You seem to have things in order. More than I can say. Do you need help, then, lad?"

That thought suffices to divert Lady Joy's eyes once more from searching the sept, to the face of the young man beside her; "Why, perhaps…" she allows, lifting her daintily-plucked eyebrows. The idea seems to strike her as a charming one. Cousins can be so much fun. "… But I believe I know you after all; aren't you the young man who played Frodric last year at the Whimsy?" Though, truth be told, it was the beauty of the Pirate King that drew her back to performance after performance, night after night… Then a young dragon interrupts and she raises her eyebrows further, at him, in curiosity.

"Yes, of course. Frodric was among my best-received roles.", Loryn confirms with some pride, "The show had a very good run. Though have you seen our new one? It has a flying dragon breathing fire. Very exciting.", he assures her. Having run out of marketing things to say, he gets to his feet, offering her an arm. "Come, Mylady, let me offer you an arm to lean on." But then there's Daevon turning up at his side and his attention is diverted, his arm withdrawn. Poor Joy. "Yes, Daevon?"

Daevon's all in armour and looking deadly serious. He barely gives Joy a glance, his mind on other matters. He keeps his voice low. "Prince Dhraegon fainted from the excitement. Both ArchMaester Luckin, and his acolyte Bryn, confirmed that. Overwhelmed by his love of Lady Marsei, perhaps? Can you and your actors make sure everyone knows this? I heard some other whispers but there's no truth to them, and the last thing we want is rumours starting up. Archmaester Luckin's the best healer in all of Westeros. He'd know." Nevermind that he never so much as approached Dhraegon.

Bryn looks after the carriage where Dhraegon was carried and says, "No, I can handle it. He's fine, just sleeping." He smiles again and says, "Thanks." Whether he's thanking for the offer of help, or that Luckin seems to trust him enough to handle it, isn't clear. Probably both.

"Mmmm," says Luckin, "Perhaps you can help me, then."

"Has it—!" exhales Lady Joy with interest, though there's more wine than flame upon her own breath. But before she's gathered her fan, and made a desultory search for her handkerchief, the moment has passed. She smooths her skirts, listens with one ear to the talk between Rose and Dragon, and then turns away at a tap upon her shoulder. Oh! An elderly lord sitting behind her has found her hanky and is offering it, with an indulgent smile. (Next to him there sits a lady of the same vintage, notably less amused.)

Loryn listens to Daevon in earnest and nods. "Yes, of course. The air here would make a hardier person faint.", he confirms diplomatically. "I'm sure the Prince will recover soon and rejoin the festivities at the Hightower." He looks around to make sure the lady isn't getting away from him.

"Thankyou," Daevon says. "I'll let you get back to your companion." And then he turns and walks off. Damage control.

Marsei has slipped from the sept along with her family and the royal guests, including Princess Rhaenyra and her companions, who are judging every step of this unfolding tale. The ornate carts will soon all be on their way back to the Hightower, where the wedding feast will begin … although, as yet, it is uncertain whether the groom will be awake for it in time.

Rather than getting away, the lady is listening more closely now, rising in a rustle of sandsilk and sending another small but glowing smile to her latest handkerchief cavalier. "And the lady Marsei?" she inquires of Prince Daevon, a touch of anxiety in her eyes. "Is she quite well?"

Bryn blinks, but then nods quickly, "I'll try! What can I help with?"

"Will you stay," asks Luckin, "And see your cousins? Perhaps you can ask one of them, on my behalf, to remove the dragon from the spire? I am told she has bent the astrolabe."

Daevon nods at Joy, offering a smile. "Yes she is. They're both well. I'm sure you'll be able to see her at the feast. Didn't they look so happy to be together? You could see their love for each other. It was a lovely thing." He's glancing around, for the families where he heard whispers of poison.

Loryn joins Joy in her concern for Marsei and needs relieved to hear that she is well. "Yes, they do look happy.", he confirms, then turns to Joy once more, finding the woman eavesdropping attentively. "Come, Mylady, let us walk to the hightower together!" Yay, he finally has a date!

Bryn nods and says, "Princess Rhaenyra. It's her dragon, I'm positive. I'll ask her, I promise."

"Thank you," sighs Lady Hastwyck to the young Targaryen; and she agrees, "it really was a beautiful ceremony, wasn't it? So touching, till…" She lets out a low, fond chuckle. "I almost swooned at my first wedding; I think it's altogether an impulse to be expected, and I don't think any the less of my cousin's prince for giving way to it. Think what a tale it will be for their grandchildren, mmm?" As she speaks she slips her hand through the arm of Ser Loryn Tyrell, standing with him as naturally as though she weren't old enough to be his mama. Her previous wedding flirt looks on from further down the pew, where one of his original companions is doing her level best to cause his attention to revert to herself — but with Lady Joy's pearl-woven and riotously curly red coiffure still in sight, it's uphill work.

Luckin smiles at Bryn, "Thank you, lad. Do not get yourself into trouble, now. We can simply build another astrolabe, if it eats them all." He shrugs. "Enjoy yourself. Stick some sweets in your pockets."

Daevon smiles brightly at Joy, nodding along with what she says. "I hope that you enjoy the rest of the wedding." And with that spoken he goes off to engage in the rest of his damage control.

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