(123-07-30) Tyrell-Merryweather Wedding: Drinking For Peace
Tyrell-Merryweather Wedding: Drinking For Peace
Summary: A sidebar during the wedding of Ser Loryn Tyrell and Lady Miranda Merryweather
Date: 31/07/2016
Related: The Wedding Feast

The wedding itself went pretty much without a hitch in the great sept and the guests moved on Garden Isle where a huge feast was awaiting. Banners of all the houses of the Reach hang from the rafters and the tables are decorated with the roses of House Tyrell and the fruit of House Merryweather. There's a potted golden rose by everyone's seat as a gift to take home. The first courses have been served and the level of noise is rising along with alcohol consumption.

Loryn has long since removed the outer layer of his fine garment, sitting in a rather pink shirt with rolled-up sleeves, the color ressembling his facial color by now. Well-wishers approach him and his brand-new wife from time to time to congratulate them and to greet Lord Lorant, Head of House Tyrell who has come down from Highgarden for the occasion with his wife and offspring, including infamous cousin Garvin.

It was just what anybody arranging an enormous wedding amongst the highest echelons of Reach society most desires: a last-minute request to accommodate foreign royalty, in the form of Prince Auberyn Nymeros Martell and his new bride. Seating plans were adjusted — cousins nobody much cares for were exiled from the high table — an extra pair of golden roses were reserved — and all this before anybody knew, before anybody could have known, that he'd arrive arm in arm with a lady known to all present as the widow Hastwyck, transformed by matrimonial alchemy into Princess Joyeuse Florent Martell.

These two exotic creatures in flaming red sandsilk and delectably harmonious perfumes were of course among the first to make the acquaintance of Lord Tyrell of Highgarden (or to renew it, in the lady's case!), to congratulate the groom and to compliment the bride; pretty little formal nothings were exchanged, and the word 'Tarly' left unspoken; and then off they went to drink and dance and drink a bit more and attract attention and repay it with unceasing geniality and vivacity. But, seeing Ser Loryn alone, abandoned for the nonce by his wife and without even a drink in his hand — and such a fetching shade of pink, all over! — the princess soon leaves her prince to a lazy flirtation with a Fossoway dowager and comes in for another go, bringing with her two full goblets of Arbor red and a broad, radiant smile.

"Ser Loryn, just think — the first time we met was at a wedding, and I tripped into your lap, and now we've both had our own! Isn't it marvelous?" she exclaims, pressing a goblet into his hand and then perching upon the edge of somebody else's chair with her own. "We couldn't have thought it, could we?"

Of course the rather flamboyant Dornish have been noticed. Perhaps even with some joy as they will undoubtedly live up the party. Loryn is glad for the longer break between two courses, giving his stomach a chance to settle. Or not as a lady turns up, bringing him new wine. He needs a moment to place her. Ah yes. "Lady Joyeuse… or Princess, isn't it now? You snagged yourself a Dornish prince. Are they as good in the sack as their reputation claims?" Whoa, it seems the groom is quite in his cups. Which doesn't stop him from acepting the new goblet she brings.

So much dancing, and on a warm summer evening — Princess Joyeuse's first sip isn't a sip, but leaves the goblet half-empty. Wine flows so easily, on these occasions, that it becomes quite tricky to keep track off. "Oh, yes!" she sighs, with an unconscious bat of her eyelashes; "I'm a Dornish princess, all right — I think I must always have wanted to be one, really, only I didn't know what a perfect dream it would be till it came true — but they have me using my maiden name, too, isn't it wicked—?" she exclaims. "You must know I don't care for those people at all…" And perhaps her new state explains why, rather than colouring to match her robes and affecting the outraged modesty of a lady of the Reach, upon hearing his second question she lets fall the subject of her new nomenclature and answers it with rich, low, thoroughly dirty laughter: "Sweetling, you can't imagine," she confides.

"Well, well, aren't you the lucky one then.", Loryn grins, "I figure it's rather hot down there, isn't it? And sand gets in your food? Oh, do tell me more. I've always wanted to see Dorne. I mean, proper Dorne, Sunspear and such. Not the small places across the river. Perhaps we should come and visit you some time, mhmm?", he wonders, his eyes drifting away from her to a new group of musicians, setting up on the raised dais to provide jaunty accompaniement to the soon arriving dessert.

Another of those giggles suggestive of a honeymoon atmosphere in the White Stone Manse; and then the princess's heavy-lidded eyes suddenly open wide, and she voices her eager endorsement of such a visit. "Oh, you must! It's absurd to be such near neighbours and not know one another… I should like every lord and lady in the Reach to know the beauties of Dorne, and every lord and lady in Dorne to know the beauties of the Reach. But do promise you'll only come when we're there," she insists; "I don't know when that shall be, but surely before the end of the year…? It all depends on my husband," she explains complacently. "I only want to be where he is; I follow him about hanging on to his belt like a besotted little girl, but what else can I do? I adore him…" Her gaze wanders off, but not toward the musicians: she finds the tall, sleek, gloriously-robed figure of her beloved, leaning in at present to whisper some confidential word to the Fossoway lady, and gives him a melting smile he can't possibly see. "… And all of Dorne is proper Dorne, you know," she adds, turning again to Ser Loryn. "There aren't any towns and cities, not the way you or I would think of them — the court at Sunspear is rather grand, but the Shadow City round it isn't much more than a village, built out of mud bricks… The things one enjoys in Dorne are the sunshine and the sea bathing and the hawking and the feasting — and who told you, ser, there was sand in our food?" she demands. "What a wicked, wicked lie! Dornish food has a thousand marvelous sharp flavours; but not one of them comes from sand." She sounds a trifle wounded by the accusation.

Loryn quirks a brow at the lady's gushing and seems a little amused. "May the Seven bless Miranda with the same expression in her eyes when she looks at me.", he murmurs, half to himself, before he tries to process the woman's flow of words. "Yes, yes… we'll visit some time. I'm glad there's no sand in the food. What about scorpions?", he asks, having apparently absorbed every prejudice wary travellers bring up against a journey to Dorne, "I hear their sting can kill you and they turn up in your bed unbidden if you are not careful…"

This is a tough one, even for a lady who feels she has just married an entire independent principality. Her lips form a perfect 'O' of concern; she wiggles an inch further forward on the edge of her borrowed chair, leans in nearer till Ser Loryn must be quite caught up in the waft of that warm, spicy, terribly expensive fragrance concocted by the Perfumed Prince for her use alone, and confesses: "Well, there are scorpions, but I shouldn't think you'd come across any in bed — unless you count some of the Qorgyles." Giggle. Another 'sip'. "Everyone in Dorne grows up knowing how to kill scorpions, too — with knives, or with hawks — even I learned how," she assures him faithfully, "the first time I lived there." When, in fact, she was married to a Qorgyle. "We're much more dangerous to them than they are to us!"

Loryn does not look terribly convinced. "Well.", he wiggles a bit, "We'll see. My lady wife and I shall soon journey to Highgarden and Longtable to meet everyone who could not come here for the wedding itself." The unwashed masses. "After that… we'll see. I cannot leave the Whimsy alone for too long or mayhem will rule. But I admit, I find myself in want of adventure… and Dorne seems quite the destination to find such." He grins and leans back in his chair, happily drunk and satiated. The musicians begin to strike up their tunes, a bawdy tune about wedding nights. Only to be expected.

"I suppose duty must sometimes come before pleasure," and Princess Joyeuse makes a face evocative of her views, at her present depth in the wine barrel; "but I can't help but think you might find your inspiration for a new play, in Dorne. Why," she suggests delightedly, "just think of the Orphans of the Greenblood! Sundered a thousand years ago from the river who was their mother — brought to Dorne in the great migration of Nymeria and her ten thousand ships — they live still, even now, by the ways of their ancestors… and their stories, their songs, are like none you can have known before," she promises. Her eyes gleam wide and bright, alight with wine and romance and the hope of another convert to the charms of her adopted home. Who could resist??

"Oh?" Loryn tries sto follow the tale, which ends far too soon for his liking. "Tell me more about their story.", he suggests, "Do their legends come with lots of death, sex and intrigue? It's what the audience really likes most, I think." He makes sure that Miranda is safely out of earshot before he leans in to Joyeuse: "I did a few moralistic plays my darling beloved wife thought would be useful for the edification of the populace, but alas, they don't put bums on seats…"

Obligingly, Princess Joyeuse leans in nearer also, her breath redolent of wine, and every word it carries imbued with the scarcely-suppressed excitement which is rather her calling card. "Oh, dear!" she says sympathetically. "Well, they're practically all romantic tragedies, or tragic romances — and the Orphans themselves, you know, they're irresistible." She blinks at him two or three times to underline her point. "Famous for it. Even Princess Amarei has a child by an Orphan she loved for a night, one of her younger girls — Alia Sand, I think her name is…? Anyway you could," she suggests, wide-eyed, with that great earnestness which sometimes descends around one's seventh or eighth cup of wine, "tell Lady Miranda it's all historical…"

"Oh, but there needs to be a moral to a story… some do-gooder rewarded by the Seven, some villain slain by the forces of good and righteousness… stuff like that.", Loryn explais, smirking softly, "I love my darling wife and I'm fine with her being religious and faithful all over the place… but the Whimsy's not the place… I can't spook my audience. Maybe I'll build a second theatre for her. Yes!" The kind of bright idea that one has around the same number of wine cups.

"Oh, sweetling, the moral is peace," the princess explains at once, and hiccoughs. She puts a hand over her mouth and regards him with even bigger eyes, turned suddenly bashful by this of all things. Then she breathes out and lowers her hand (every finger upon which is laden with positively princely jewels) and has a quick, soothing gulp of wine. "It would do the people of the Reach such a lot of good," she insists, "at any time at all but especially just now, to see a really moving and well done and entertaining story of Dornish history… Something to make them feel well-disposed toward their neighbours, or at any rate to think of us as people instead of merely ancient enemies. If we all had a little more fellow-feeling, we wouldn't fight one another nearly so much, don't you think…? I'm sure any lady of high religious principles would wish to promote— peace and understanding between nations. Oh, do say you'll consider it, Ser Loryn — and you could put in lots of shipwrecks and thunderstorms, people love those."

Ah yes, peace to the world. "I drink to that!", Loryn exclaims to her lovely speech and raises his cup. "Peace and understanding!" He chugs the wine and eyes her thoughtfully for a moment, a thought worming its way through his soggy brain. "Lady Joyeuse, you have a most excellent turn of phrase and you seem a woman filled with passion. Why don't -you- write this play? I will be more than delighted to stage it at the Whimsy. I am sure the audience would LOVE a Dornish spectacle on stage. Dornish dancers are -always- popular." Though probably more for the lack of fabric on their costumes than their actual dancing.

For a moment she only stares at him.

And then the floodgates open; and Dorne's newest princess laughs till she's nearly doubled over with a mirth so intense it's almost painful. She presses a hand to her generous bosom, trying to breathe. One of her hairpins makes a break for freedom, sproinging away unnoticed. The hiccoughs return.

At last, aided by a handkerchief extracted from the said bosom (without in any way diminishing its profile), and the rest of the wine in her goblet, she pulls herself together far enough to gasp, "Oh, but I can't write a shopping-list! Oh," and she dabs again at her eyes, dark lashes beaded with tears of laughter. "It must be done properly, you know," she insists, "by somebody who knows how to write plays — oh, I've never been so flattered in my life," by which she means, in the last half an hour, "but I couldn't. I could help you find Dornish dancers, though," she adds brightly. "Real ones. And of course you could write rather a delicious part for that lovely boy Madrighal, now that he has his health back — he's just what you'd want, Oldtown already adores him so far as I can tell, and he really does have a golden tongue," she pronounces, as once again that look of abject appreciation creeps across her face. Discreet, she ain't.

"I know Madrighal quite well.", Loryn replies rather deadpan, "We have worked on plays together and he's written many a good tune for the Whimsy. Yet… your spirit may be too wild for writing shopping lists…", he points out. Since when do princesses write shopping lists anyway? "Still, I encourage you to try… write me a little synopsis of the tale you think will be best for the audience… put spirited words into the mouth of the hero, just like the words you have spoken now. We shall take it from there.", he promises brightly. "I so do love collaborating with females, they have the most delightful insights…" Of course he ended up marrying his last collaborator, a feat not likely to be repeated.

Princess Joyeuse still only laughs at him, shaking her head in tipsy wonderment, tight red curls working loose to frame her face. "I really couldn't write a play; I'm married!" she exclaims, following some line of thought known only to herself. Then something not too far beyond his shoulder catches her attention and her face falls in an instant.

"Oh, seven hells, it's your brother," she hisses. "I don't think he likes me very much… Well," she admits, tilting her head, "he leers at me very much, but that isn't quite the same thing, is it…?" And, rising to make good her escape, she calmly seizes Ser Loryn's goblet from his hand in exchange for her empty one. She giveth and she taketh away. "And you shouldn't have too much more of that," she informs him, irrespective of where he got it, "or Lady Miranda will be so disappointed." Her eyes gleam with mischief.

"Eh." Loryn grunts at the mention of his brother. "He doesn't like anyone much. Except the blind woman he found Seven knows where. He wants to court her. I suppose it helps that she can't -see- him.", he confides with a little smirk and lets her have the wine. She is making a good point after all. "Desserts are being brought out -", he points out, nodding towards the first servants making an entrance with large trays being all sorts of very sweet pastries and puddings. "Perhaps you should return to your seat to not miss out…?"

"The blind woman…?" And then, just when you might suppose Princess Joyeuse's eyes can't get any bigger: "… Oh, what glorious cakes!" she gasps, and with a ruffle of Ser Loryn's pretty hair and another low, rippling, musical giggle, she makes a beeline toward Love and Cake and away from the impending Thorn of Highgarden. "Have a heavenly time!" is her last wish for the groom, uttered with a wink over a red silken shoulder.

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