(122-12-27) Raindrops Keep Falling On My Hair
Raindrops Keep Falling On My Hair
Summary: Various persons are caught in the Maidenday Gardens by a sudden rainfall, which is suspected of deleterious effects upon the coiffures of the ladies present. Ser Desmond Snow proves that his knighthood has gone to his own head, and Prince Jurian Targaryen is as ever the death of chivalry.
Date: 27/12/2015
Related: None

(missing the beginning, please add if you have it)

"How terribly true," Jurian agrees with Desmond's sentiment, smiling slightly as he looks at the giant with that slightly too-wide stare. "How /did/ you and Daevon meet?"

Peri is still arm in arm with Jurian, subtly supporting his weight if he'll allow. She examines her own nails absently "I met him when he meddled in my life affairs and drastically altered my life." She offers. She's standing in the garden around dusk, in a light wool cloak to protect herfrom the rain. She's wearing a red silk gown and looking as delicate as a giant woman can, she's easily at near six foot in height.

"I demanded he fetch me some water, then I hit him on the head so hard I knocked his helmet off." Desmond has the grace to look sheepish.

"He had his hair covered. I thought he was a squire. He hired me for sword lessons at a dragon a lesson." His smile is shrewd. "I was a rather good sellsword."

Jurian looks mildly suspicious. "Isn't Daevon supposed to be a wonder with a blade?" he asks. "Why should he ask a stranger for lessons?" He is, by the way, wearing a hooded cloak against the rain.

Peri 's red silk gown, light and Essosi cut is likely starting to cling "Ser, Grace, perhaps we should consider moving towards that lovely pavillion, lest the Septas yell at me for being improper. I am a woman and do get cold a bit easy and silk is very thin compared to linen…" she clears her throat.

"Because I beat him in two passes. I was very fortunate. He wasn't expecting the feint I tried." Desmond chuckles softly. "I spent five years in Braavos. The bravos there loved to humiliate me, but I learned a trick or two before I returned." He's standing, in his fine silks and bearing his broadsword, with no cloak to protect the exquisite clothing. His gaze is amused as he studies Jurian. "Ser Daevon is devoted to improving his craft. He hired me to show him what I learned across the Narrow Sea."

He blinks as Peri reminds him that he's dressed in finery, and looks down at himself in dismay. "Shit!" he yelps. "I utterly forgot."

The close, humid, fragrant air within the gardens is of a sudden cut by the sounds of feminine laughter and a twig snapping underfoot — and then a blur of sea-green silk and curly dark red hair dashes out of a pavilion not far away from the small and ill-assorted conversational group the scene has thus far been following, and along the path towards one still nearer. It is pursued by a skinnier and soberer and slower blur of grey linen, calling out in the accents of a troubled member of the labouring classes: "Now, my lady—!"

"Oh, hush, Dora!" laughs Lady Joyeuse Hastwyck, panting with exertion and amusement, her sandsilk robes dampened by the rain and clinging more than ever to her ample curves as she leans in the open arched entrance of the pavilion, catching her breath only to lose it again simply because she's so entertained by her situation. Hopping from pavilion to pavilion whenever she senses a lull in the rain, hoping to reach Starry Street and her carriage before she becomes soaked quite to the skin, late already for a party, down to her last dry handkerchief, if one didn't laugh one would be obliged to weep.

Jurian lifts an eyebrow slightly at Desmond's narration, but he doesn't object. "Mm, is swordplay the sum of what you learned there?" he asks, but then Peri has his attention. Oh, right, not everyone has an oiled cloak. "Very well," he agrees, and moves in the direction of her favored pavilion. "Join us, Ser Desmond."

Peri eyes Desmond "Bring it by the bath house - my launderess is a genius. She got blood and soot out of my white silk gown." she eyes Desmond "That explains everything." she half taunts, "Still, time in Braavos and you act as innocent as Prince Daevon, it is all a lie. tsk. I know better." she scolds playfully, perhaps taunting the giant. She startles at the sound of another woman in the garden. She laughs softly at Jurian, pressing a whisper to his ear. "Oh a small folk not saying mi instead of my, how unusual in ennunciation." she muses at Dora, absently, curiously.

Desmond smiles at Peri, a little coyly. "A man can't share all his secrets," he replies, to both she and Jurian at once.

He treads toward the pavilion, shaking water off himself as he goes. The sight of Joyeuse — the sight of those generous curves, perhaps — draws him up. He offers an earnest bow in the woman's direction, his gaze lingering both on her and her maidservant, and smiles as he straightens. "Forgive me, Lady. I hope we don't intrude." His Northern accent is polished just now; he's on his best behavior.

He looks her over more closely. "You're as wet as I am, Lady. Can I be of some assistance?"

Peri looks at the curled woman, sniffing once curiously. "Pearl and silk powder pomade?" she asks, curiously towards the lady, expression giving away a mild surprise as if she hadn't seen or smelled it in years. Her own curls are still holding, even in the rain, her braid loose and largely unstyled. Her hair is likely oiled with imported product too. She smiles at the lady, still holding Jurian's arm. "Good evening, my lady." She offers in a foreign accent.

Finding herself suddenly in company only compounds Lady Joy's delight in her present adventure; as footsteps sound just behind her she turns with a smile, and her gaze flits quickly between the two immensely tall personages leading the way… and then to the smaller and princelier one who, quite unaccountably, by some chance arrangement of their conversation without, follows. The daylight hasn't faded so far that she doesn't know Prince Jurian Targaryen when she sees him. Her smile flickers but doesn't fade; she gathers folds of clingy sandsilk in each hand and sinks into another of the graceful curtseys with which she always greets him. She does curtsey beautifully, does Lady Hastwyck. "Your Grace," she murmurs; "what a pleasure to see you again, and so unexpectedly—!"

She turns then to Ser Desmond and is on the point of offering him a friendly word in turn when she's arrested by Peri's sniffing: "Why, do you mean to suggest my curls aren't real?" she laughs. "I promise you they are, and no end of trouble! You see," and she runs a hand over the untidy coiffure from which several spirited strands have already broken free, "they defeat even the finest steel hairpins; they're my poor maid's despair."

Jurian smiles evenly at whatever Peri just said in his ear, but then finally notices the noblewoman the others are gawping at. Or perhaps he'd only pretended not to see her before. "It is Lady Hastwyck, is it not," he observes. He inclines his head toward her in a polite greeting. "Lady Hastwyck, are you acquainted with Ser Desmond, my cousin Daevon's man, and Mistress Peri?"

Peri laughs "No, most Westerosi women do not let them flow free or care for them so. Do you find the recent raininess to give your hair extra spirit in its wildliness? Its almost as if my hair means to run off and bother the Starks by trying to get around the wall up North." she offers, nodding in calm understanding. "I use thick picks and pins, my lady, and even then, I oft give up and just let it do its own thing slo long as it isn't invasively conquering my face. I don't often smell fine powders, I've tried that one I believe. The Dornes use oils - perfumed and rich." she offers. She gives a polite curtsy now, although her wet silk gown makes the gesture likely one of mild lewdness unintentionally.

"Honored to officially make your acquaintance," murmurs Desmond with another bow toward Lady Hastwyck. He seems — perhaps — utterly unconcerned to have been discovered in the presence of a Targaryen. Perhaps he has grown dangerously accustomed to their presence. Regardless, his smile seems quite sincere — simple, even — as he straightens from his second bow. He gazes sidelong at Peri, just for a moment, but does not comment on curls and powders.

"Yes, Your Grace," that lady answers with a twinkle in her eye, not at all deceived by his pretense of unsurety, but letting him have it if it makes him feel better; "Lady Hastwyck. And no, I'm not at all acquainted with these people, or at least I wasn't till a moment ago when we all found ourselves in just the same predicament—! How do you do, Ser Desmond? And… Mistress Peri. That's an Essosi name, isn't it?" she inquires brightly. "In point of fact I prefer Dornish hair oils, but I've run out of the one I like best and it can be difficult to find in Oldtown, depending upon the state of trade with Sunspear — I've three different powders I've been trying lately, to see if any of them will do in a pinch, and now I don't in conscience know whether to blame the powder or the rain for the state I seem to be in."

As she speaks she sweeps up several tendrils of hair from the back of her neck and lets them fall; and the maid Dora, hovering behind her all this while, begins to fuss with them in earnest, removing and replacing pins, creating a little more order from her mistress's chaos. "But how we must be boring you, Prince Jurian, Ser Desmond," she laughs to the gentlemen; "you must be thinking to yourselves there's no benefit at all to being trapped in the rain with feminine company, if the talk's to be all of hair oils!"

Jurian has no part of hair talk. He keeps his relatively short, unlike Dhraegon. "It does rather prohibit our participation," Jurian agrees quietly, regarding Joyeuse with an expression that is hard to read. "Unless Ser Desmond has a secret knowledge of hairdressing?" He turns to the giant, looking curious whether he /really/ is or not.

"Actually, Lady Hastwyck, I was taking a note — if I need to buy a lady a gift, to repay a kindness, I now know what it is I should order. I've a friend, a young merchant, who can procure almost anything." Desmond gazes at the woman thoughtfully for a few moments, tilting his head. "The state you seem to be in," he murmurs. "Elegant, with a sweet scent, and just enough loose curls to arouse curiousity. One might think, Lady — an ignorant dullard such as myself — that you've taken lessons from the Braavosi ladies I met in my travels."

He looks aside at Jurian, just for a moment, and quirks his brow — as if to say, Do you see what I learned? Or, perhaps, he's bluffing.

Peri holds a finger up "Send a servant by the bath house, we stock them, ours come straight from the Sunspear properly." she offers with a smile "Now now, you enjoyed the relaxing scalp massage, which is a hair treatment grace." she half teases. She offers a smile to Joy, standing straight "I'm Peri, yes, I own the bath house. I am from Lys." she offers, leaning to examine her nails. "I would say we should blame the rain for near anything." she offers, giggling slightly, releasing Jurian's arm to see if he is done holding her arm.

For Prince Jurian Lady Joy has a sympathetic look. And then, such sweet-talk from such a great bristly bear of a man brings out, once again, her laughter; suddenly satisfied with her hair despite not being able to see it herself, she lifts a hand to bat away her hovering Dora and to check, in a proprietary sort of way, the positions of certain pearl-tipped pins. She is wearing quite a lot of pearls, is Lady Hastwyck, as well as pearl and silk pomade. "Why, I couldn't have done," she insists to Ser Desmond, "for to my knowledge I've never met a Braavosi lady. Myrish ladies, certainly, several, and women of Lys too," she nods to Peri, "once in a while; but I haven't been to Braavos and somehow Braavos hasn't come to me. Have I missed such a pleasure, then? … I suppose I must have done, for so many acquaintances one doesn't make, amount to pleasures missed. Though in the Maidenday Gardens I'm bound to observe one meets amusing people as like as not, come rain or come shine."

Jurian lets Peri relinquish his arm, since they're finished promenading through the garden. He looks at Desmond with mild suspicion. He cuts no more into talk of Braavos than of hair.

"Well, Lady, you've had me fooled since I first saw you. I though to myself, here is a woman who has feasted with the Sealord's wife herself."

Desmond's smile is as broad and sunny as the sky is dark and clouded. "You've their way about you," he continues cheerfully. "A certain casual confidence." He paces to the side, his grizzled features absolutely at odds with the words coming out of his mouth.

And then, a string of fluent, passionate, Braavosi.

Peri eyes Jurian's suspicion "Perhaps we could send for apertifs at some point." she smiles brightly. She eyes Desmond. She nose scrunches at him, moving to lean on the railing, her hands infront of her stomach, expression curious and mouth closed, observing the gathered group. She self conciously pulls her cloak a little closer around her figure.

An impeccably-plucked brow lifts at Ser Desmond's further flattery — but as he breaks into Braavosi Lady Joy lifts her hand as well, laughing good-naturedly. "Oh, stop," she demands; "I don't understand a word of it, and I'm sure if I ask you'll tell me it's a very beautiful and romantic poem about a woman who did feast with the Sealord and his wife, but really it's the shipping forecast, isn't it, or a list of taverns, or the words to a bawdy song." Which suspected deception doesn't seem to have put her into an ill humour, mind you, for the rainy days of her life have been enlivened by less diverting company than this, to be sure. She shakes her head at him, still smiling, and looks across to Peri. "It's fine fortune for me to meet you, Mistress, if you really do have my Dornish hair oils… I shan't say another word now, in such mixed company," and Prince Jurian is the next target of her smile, which seems to deepen in apology to him, "but if the weather should be fine tomorrow or the next day I shall be sure to call upon you." She sighs and gazes up into the gloomy heights of the pavilion. "Do you suppose it might clear soon—? I was to attend a party this evening at the Garden Isle Manse, but I begin to suppose my evening shall be spent here instead… shall we have a party instead, do you suppose? Four's enough for dancing."

Jurian lifts his brows slightly at the Lady Hastwick's sympathetic smiles. He blinks blankly back at them. "Ser Desmond ought to know the weather well. What say you on the chance of it to clear?" he asks the giant.

Desmond eyes Jurian for a moment, then smiles and steps out of the pavilion into the rain. He holds out a hand, letting a few drops smack into his palm, and licks it. His brows furrow up as he considers. Closing his eyes, the man tilts his head up to the sky and sniffs. He seems deep in thought. "I'm afraid it shall last," he murmurs finally. It's really an easy conclusion, judging by the dark clouds on the horizon, building and rolling in.

He steps back under shelter of the Pavilion. "It seems as though you shall have your ball here, Lady Hastwyck. Though I shall only consent, Lady, if you will dance with me. Otherwise, my merchant's shopping list shall die a secret. Or the poem. Whichever you truly think it was."

Peri is shorter than Desmond, but comparably every bit the giant he is. She head tilts at Desmond sniffing his hand and makes a face. "Of course. Perhaps Ser Des would enjoy some cod liver oil…" she comments, teasingly, swaying just lightly on her feet.

Well, that's the last particular smile the prince shall have from Lady Joy today, if he's not inclined to yield an inch to her small gestures of friendship. She listens, however — she adds her own appeal to Ser Desmond's weather wisdom, courtesy of heavy-lidded grey-green eyes fixed hopefully upon his lucubrations — and then she sighs in dismay. "Delightful as you are, the three of you," she confides to the assembled party, "I begin to think I've no choice but to take off my shoes and run for my carriage. I know it can't be too far, you know, I told off my coachman to wait. It's such a warm day, I don't think I'd catch a chill simply from a little rain."

Peri chuckles, taking off her cloak to squeeze it, trying to dry it out quietly. "If you'd like I'm sure Ser Desmond would be good enough to hold my cloak over your head like a tarp to shelter you properly the whole way." she teases, softly.

"Or Ser Desmond could carry you, so your shoes and hems won't get wet," Jurian volunteers in a pleasant tone.

Desmond gazes at Joyeuse in open dismay. "Must we lose you so soon?"

His look to Peri is almost pathetically grateful. "Oh, yes," he says — too eagerly to be anything but self-mocking — "I'd carry it far further than a simple journey through the park." There is the barest hint of reproach as he continues, "Any knight would do the same, Peri. I've no choice." But there's humor too.

"Have the cod liver oil warmed up for me when I return."

He turns to bow toward Joyeuse. "Lady? Might I be of service?" A huge puppy-dog, though perhaps his tail wags a touch too hard.

Peri squints at Desmond and offers her arm to Jurian, bare shoulders and arms covered in henna. "Would you care to go somewhere I can give you that proper maniure Grace and perhaps talk you into sharing something sweet or tasty?" she asks, curiously towards Jurian. "Perhaps dancing?" she suggests in a friendly way.

Oh, they're all being so helpful. Lady Joy looks about her and presses a hand to her ample bosom in a token of how deeply moved she is and sighs, almost mistily, at the thought of her party yet to come. "If I might borrow a cloak," she concedes, "only for a few minutes — I could send it straight back with my servant…?" Because that's what servants are for. Getting wet.

"Provided it's indoors," Jurian agrees with Peri. "I'm getting a bit chilled with all this rain. it's starting to soak through the cloak. He smiles at Lady Joy and lifts a hand by way of a farewell. "I hope you shall enjoy your party, Lady Hastwyck."

Desmond looks desolate. "I've no cloak to lend," he says softly. "Lady, forgive me." And then another stream of Braavosi.

"Well. If we all must part.. Thank you, Your Grace, Lady, for humoring me by sharing my company." He looks straight at Jurian. "I know I must seem such a brute."

Peri holds the damp cloak to Joy helpfully. She smiles a bit. "I'd quite love to go inside, Shall we go to a tavern or to the Dragon Door Manse?" she asks, curiously, her hands shifting a bit anxiously.

Jurian tilts his head slightly at Desmond. "I don't hire brutes," he claims, although he probably does. "You seem a knight, surely. Allied with my family."

"Thank you," sighs Lady Hastwyck to Peri, meeting her eyes for a long moment as she receives the cloak and passes it to her maid, the sourness of whose expression has not at all been improved by the weather. It is soon arranged about her, whilst she promises, effusively, "You shall have it back at once, I promise; I'll rush all the way to my carriage and send someone straight to find you with it. You really are very kind." She seems genuinely struck by the gesture, the more so because it comes from another woman. "Prince Jurian, good evening to you. Ser Desmond, I hope you'll tell me all about your Braavosi poetry one day — I'm sure it's delightful, really," she laughs. And then she lifts the hood of the borrowed cloak over her red curls and her pearls, and plunges out at speed into the rain.

Desmond smiles slightly at Jurian as the woman rushes off intom the rain, and bows. "A knight I am, Your Grace. As best I can be. Please… enjoy your evening."

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