The year is 286 AC. King Jaehaerys II has just passed, leaving the throne without a rightful ruler. While his three children fight for the crown, Winter creeps closer, and unimaginable darkness looms.
Not all alliances will be so typical this time. In fact, many people have a crucial effect on the way this story is told. As for the ending, we only hope there are enough people left alive to tell it after its passed.
Events
Join us for our first event, the wake of recently deceased King Jaehaerys II.
Updates
AUG. 19: So we are now officially open to the public. We have a mini-event flashback thread going on, and our main event just began. Feel free to make a second canon if you can keep both of them active enough.
Don't hesitate in pestering staff with questions; it's what we're here for! Let's raise a glass and make a cheer toward a successful launch of Winds of Winter.
Post by Daemon Baratheon on Jun 18, 2015 2:12:24 GMT
OURS IS THE FURY
The journey took longer than Daemon anticipated or liked. Sailing from Storm’s End to Sunspear took his ship around Shipbreaker Bay, a treacherous cluster of rock and rough waves that had caused many from the Stormlands to perish over the years. But fate and sea smiled on the Baratheon Lord, and over several days’ time his ship reached the safety of Sunspear’s port – though safety might be inaccurate. Though Daemon knew little about Ebon Martell, rumors spread of his general hostility toward outsiders. This trip would not prove relaxing for the Lord of Storm’s End, but the potential benefits he could reap with a successful courtship of Dorne far outweighed the short-term discomforts.
Ten sworn swords accompanied Daemon for their lord’s protection, though not a single one of the eleven men that stepped off the ship dressed for the weather. Daemon wore no armor, but rather his standard black leather doublet with a golden stag embroidered over its chest, with golden buttons lined down its right side. He facetiously leaned on his wooden cane in his left hand, and his sheathed sword dangled from that hip as well. The dry and sweltering heat gnawed at the stag and his entourage even as they approached the steps into the Martell’s great keep. Guards at the top of the sandstone stairs hesitated as they looked upon the foreign lord, his identity entirely unknown to them.
“I am Daemon Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, here to meet with your Prince Ebon. Let me pass.” The two guards, with halberds raised and crossed, glanced quickly at each bother before drawing their weapons aside. Daemon led his men through the front gates, stepping into the main entrance and courtyard of the Martell’s home. Even with his men, he felt tense. Though the orchestrator of his visit, Daemon could not help but feel that he stepped into the viper’s den, so to speak, full of those loyal to a lord of different customs and temperament. What did fate have in store for the stag as he waited for Ebon to receive him into his halls?
If the golden stag believed that the sea and dunes parted at the magnitude of his presence alone, then he was misguided as to whom the sand and sun belonged too. In the confidence that Ebon expected his company, the motherly Dorne too opened her bosom to the foreign stranger. She was fully in the nude. Exposing herself so that of Daemon desired to suckle on her teet as if he was a babe, he was permitted that pleasure.
Despite her charity, the motherly Dorne had a malicious side to her. For those that found company in their lord would have long felt the burden of their armor beneath the scorching sun. It was a surprise that the men hadn't fried in their own metal pots. The thought of their discomfort was a comfort in itself.
Yet as the sturdy Baratheon waded into the courtyard, the lord would find his caution well placed. In the viper's den he entered and sure enough, olive men finely dressed in light half-armor of gold and burnt orange poured from the cracks of the Martell's lavish abode. Their presence wasn't to be ignored as they stood at ease in a half circle around the Baratheon, their immediate numbers tripling the stag's guardians. Hopefully they wouldn't entertain the idea to withdraw so soon.
"Welcome to Sunspear."
A rich voice shouted, out of view of the rest and originating from the gaping building further ahead. Given his location, he wasn't in view, but as he sauntered down the thriving hallways he slowly made up for his lack of a presence. The sound of his boots cushioning against the marble floor was so silent that a pin created a louder impact. Such was the gift of the viper as he slithered forward, erupting from the hallway straight ahead to peer at the lord from an elevated balcony. A ceramic staircase of white jutted from either hips of the perch two stories down into the courtyard below. But he didn't descend to meet his visitor on equal grounds. Not yet at least. His twin suns only studied the stag and his unit of protection.
Ebon never understood the act of traveling in groups when it came to diplomatically pursuing other lands. Home field advantage existed so that unless a highborn brought an army, they were still vulnerable than ever, especially with only a group of men. And if a highborn opted to vacate his land of massive units in blind protection of their own neck, then it was easily viewed as an act of war. An entirely lose lose scenario. But maybe the stag was without that knowledge. Maybe the lord hadn't learnt of the circumstance. Nonetheless, his Targaryen overlords knew, and that was all that particularly mattered.
"You'll have to excuse my manners. If I had known you were bringing friends Lord Baratheon, I might've prepared a larger feast," Ebon quipped, authoritative in tone with his jest. A grin painted his countenance and his digits lifted and snapped, sparking life in a handful of his men.
"My men will hold your weapons for you. There's no need for arms in my palace Baratheon. At least for you all." In response to the command men awaited the turning over of the stag's weapons. Tales stressed the brilliance of their fury, but that brilliance dulled at his insistence.
Ebon waited to see if they would submit their arms upon his demand. If and only then, would he care to address the lord further.
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Post by Daemon Baratheon on Jun 19, 2015 1:15:01 GMT
OURS IS THE FURY
They shuffled out from cracks in sandstone and marble, guards cast in light armors of yellow and orange shades. They greatly outnumbered Daemon’s personal guard, as expected. In truth, bring swords to another lord’s keep did not equate to the epitome of peaceful introduction, but Daemon had heard tales of the Dornish prince’s harsh nature. Besides, what lord traveled forth from their own lands without protection? Both Ebon and Daemon knew as much, though it surprised Daemon that Prince Ebon cared so much over the number of his men. Daemon watched him descend down the marble hall and stairs that entered into the snake’s nest, his steps as silent as Daemon’s fury. How this meeting would unfold was anyone’s best guess.
“Apologies, Prince Ebon, but I required ready hands to ferry me here and protect me. Age does not favor me, as you can see,” Daemon lied, gesturing to his cane with a slight nod. Upon Ebon’s insistence that the Lord of Storm’s End and his men hand over their weapons, Daemon turned to his men and nodded. He expected that any endangerment to his life would be answered by his Targaryen friends, notably Prince Aegys, and his disarmament was a risk he decided to take the moment a raven flew from his keep toward the arid dunes of Dorne. However, Daemon did not relinquish his cane, and no guard motioned to take it from him. He needed it to move, after all, or so all believed.
“I trust my men can find enough shade in your keep while we talk? As foreigners, I’m afraid we aren’t well equipped for the climate of Dorne, beautiful though she may be,” he began, humbling himself and his men to gauge Prince Ebon’s reactions. Just how sharply did the viper lord of Dorne lash out to those that wandered into his halls – and had ideas for their mutual benefit?
Post by Katsa Martell on Jun 21, 2015 10:55:29 GMT
"don’t let the curtain catch you, ‘cause you’ve been here before"
Katsa’s footsteps were a slow saunter, quiet enough given the sharp pointed heels of her sandals, yet she never could mimic the near silence of Ebon’s walk. Though she did enjoy the process of trying to match his skill, her pale green eyes taking pleasure in focusing on her husband’s every movement, perhaps to unearth his secrets or, perhaps, for far more superficial reasons. She still believed that anything could be made a game of. That fun should never be squandered.
Unsurprisingly, the brief echo of an announced visitor rippling through the castle caught Katsa’s interest. House Baratheon made for a strange guest, indeed. What could have brought their lord away from the safety of his stormlands to Sunspear? Katsa very much wanted to know that answer.
She did not quicken her steps, she knew that Ebon would greet this Lord Daemon first and set the stage to his liking. Her ears listened, eager to snatch up echoes of conversation. Plump, rose-painted lips quirked, amusedly, at catching Ebon’s words.
”It would be rather cruel to do otherwise.” Her voice a warm feminine sound, Katsa walked, her slow graceful gait deceptively delicate, to stand beside Ebon on the elevated balcony. The ivory colour of her flesh seemed all the paler in comparison to her husband’s Dornish complexion, and striking against her large sea-green eyes and coal-black hair. Cascading heavily to pool against the small of her back. ”Dressed as your men are, it won’t be surprising if they start to roast where they stand.”
Lifting her gaze to glance up at Ebon, Katsa’s lips curled, her humour unkind. Foreigners Daemon and his men might have been, his self-mocking excuse was no less than amusing. At one point, she too had been a stranger to Dorne’s strange climate, but she had had the sense to know that the sun was not forgiving towards shades of black or iron. Were Katsa a softer woman she might have found sympathy for their ignorance.
”How dutiful your men are, to have travelled far and to endure such discomfort.” Her words were mild. Her smile soft. And her green-eyed gaze eagerly soaked up the lord Baratheon’s every minuscule detail. The styling of his hair. The cut of his clothes. The design of his cane.
The Lord Baratheon found comfort in the lost adage of time as many men constantly did, believing the fragile illusion of safety in numbers. A phrase that the Dornish highborn resented, finding it further from the truth the longer he toiled in this life. In the confines of the Stormlands, numbers may have meant something when receiving visitors, similar to the current predicament that Ebon presided over. It was only then that the adage equipped men with reason, willing the lord of the land to make credible use of their omnipotence. The prince had no qualms with freely using his abilities. That was for certain.
However without commotion, the guests surrendered their arms in hopes for an amicable gathering. A measure that would've been forced irregardless of complaints, but the Prince of Dorne silently noted the lord's compliance. There was something awry in his inspection, but he never commented on it to the man below. A simple click of his tongue resounded and his men moved into action, spurring the armored guest to an area elsewhere, unattended from the Baratheon's protective eye. If the Baratheon worried for what happened to his men, then his emotion wasn't entirely missing. Unwanted things and people happened to have the habit of coming up missing. And the sands were the perfect burial site for that which never was meant to be found.
A lighter step marked another presence that stalked behind him and settled near his hip. If the Baratheon didn't care for gossip of kraken and spear, he may have reasonable assumed that she was just an outsider, the same as he. But it was fitting that she had shed that skin long ago and seamlessly integrated into Dorne's culture. She was always more Martell than Greyjoy ever since the point that they were arranged to wed. A perfect match to counter his venom with her own seeping toxins. And most importantly, a princess, a ranking above that of the meager ladies that paraded in the Westerosi politics that he did his best to shun. Ebon was known for his neutrality despite his myriad of dislikes. It was a stance that he wished to keep, though the cat created a difficulty when it came to balancing his scale.
Humorously, she interjected and supported the pillar that the viper erected, flaunting her eager tongue. It was for a second that Ebon in turn peered at her dotingly with his twin suns as he tucked his hands inside of his pocket and leaned against the ivory railing with his back turned to the stag below. A jeweled dagger engraved with twin vipers intertwining around the handle danced in his hand, and at a level meant for only his princess, he reached into her ear.
"A stag that's used to eating scraps wants to discuss business at the table with his own seat. What do you think of this?" Ebon cooed, running a hand through the raven strands he had grew fond of. He left time for her to speak and respond, and he twisted his face towards the Baratheon below and pointed his index finger to the sky, signaling him to join them as he paced back into the halls. When he finally caught up to them in his slower pace, the Baratheon would see an exquisite table riddled with an assortment of meats and dessert. It seemed there was truth in his words about a feast, but it only applied to the lord. Despite his hostility towards outsiders, the Prince of Dorne still believed in manners when the moment required it.
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Last Edit: Jun 24, 2015 0:18:24 GMT by Ebon Martell
Post by Daemon Baratheon on Jun 24, 2015 0:13:26 GMT
OURS IS THE FURY
She slithered almost as silently from Sunspear’s marbled halls as her Dornish husband, raven black hair and pale skin illuminated by the unforgiving sun. Lady Katsa dressed as a native, yet her complexion still stood out among the Dornishborn. Daemon would have felt relieved that another from the north resided in these halls, if not for her origins. Daemon distrusted all ironborn, no matter the beauty with which they veiled their savage nature. But he knew how to play the game as well, and when to bide one’s time and sheathe one’s rage. “Princess Katsa,” he greeted her. “That I should have the honor of both your greetings is most kind.”
Daemon studied his hosts very carefully. Katsa smiled softly, but venom coated her lips. Her tone and gaze held no benevolence or respect for him. Neither did her husband, who welcomed Daemon with harsh gestures, meant to forcibly imply dominance and ridicule. He played the part of a confident prince well, yet Daemon inferred that he felt threatened by his arrival. He watched the prince turn his back to him, fingers dancing with an ornate dagger. Brandishing steel against a guest? Loathsome indeed. He proved a true Dornishman — hotheaded, disrespectful, self-concerned. If his game was to provoke Daemon for no other reason than his own amusement, well...Daemon had a reputation for patience, and stares cold enough to chill even the blistering warmth of Dorne.
With no courteous words and only a pointing finger, Ebon bid Daemon follow him through his marbled hall. Daemon replied with as much silence as his host, and only the sound of his footsteps and thumping cane echoed behind the Martells. Behind the Lord of Storm’s End, plates of armor rang and shuffled. Ebon’s men escorted Daemon’s guard out of view. He did not fear for their safety. He knew Ebon acted differently than most lords in Westeros, but were he to just outright kill Daemon’s men — he would be invoking more than just the stag’s wrath, to be sure.
The long trail of silence parted to reveal a wide room, with light pouring through slits and windows. A long-table took up much space in the center, lavishly decorated with such a variety of foods that Daemon almost believed Ebon had channeled all his hospitality and courtesy into the kitchens and thus left little for the Lord Baratheon himself. “Thank you,” Daemon replied sternly, taking a seat across the great table from his host. Ebon refrained from even using his guest’s name, and clearly their discussion would prove icier than the Shivering Sea miles away. So Daemon would adapt accordingly. He rested his cane against the closest table leg and sat upright, curling his fingers together in front of his chest while his elbows rested on armchairs.
“I admit, I’m surprised you answered my ravens. I had heard you greatly dislike foreign lords, yet you’ve laid out quite the assortment before us. But we need not drag this on longer than either of us truly wishes. With adjourning lands, our Houses could prove thorns in each other’s sides...or crucial allies. I’ve come to ensure the latter.”
"don’t let the curtain catch you, ‘cause you’ve been here before"
A Greyjoy she no longer could claim to be, Dorne had claimed Katsa as her own. But no cut of fine fabric or heady atmosphere could alter the distinct features that marked her as a daughter of the kraken. Tall and curvaceous of stature. Dark of hair. Fair of face, much like the merlings that legend stated shared in her ancestry. Likely Daemon Baratheon would find no trouble in spotting the iron that was a sharp cold gleam within the sea-green depths of her gaze. A gaze that watched his harsh face most intently. Looking for that familiar shadow that so often clouded the features of those who were confident in their knowledge of her kin. The contemptuousness. The suspiciousness.
Vibrant lips deepened their smile, flaunting her pale teeth for but a moment. She had had no intimate encounters with House Baratheon. Their lands had never held any appeal to her, being far too close to the dragon’s den. But what little Katsa had garnered about them had always created a rather comical image within her head, of them being more ox than stag. “Ours is the fury” – but fury was a rather careless and impulsive emotion. Such tactlessness should have betrayed Daemon in more ways than one, only it hadn’t. There were no storm-clouds starting to form; such shadows knew how to stay hidden. It was marvellous, really.
”Kind?” The word played on the tip of her tongue, a slow tease. ”If a woman’s presence is all it takes to comfort yourself, Baratheon, then your stay in Dorne shall be unforgettable. Women here may enter and leave whichever room or conversation that they desire. Like the heat, I’m sure that you and your men will quickly get used to it.” She doubted the sincerity of his words even as his visage promised honesty. His words following the correct steps of the decorum that so often was danced between those of their social stature. And that spoke of clumsiness to the Cat. Not every dance followed the same footwork even as the music matched the same notes.
Ebon understood that. His gaze of molten fire saw what she saw. His ears knew how to listen to the flow of the music without being distracted from the movement of the dancers.
Pale fingers, long and feminine of shape but lacking the smooth perfection that so often was a shared trait amongst highborn ladies, instead calloused at her fingertips, a wispy scar here and there, traced the wrist of the hand that snaked through her hair. A tender and familiar gesture. Her mouth softened, her smile losing its savage insincerity, and yet, somehow, losing none of its impishness. ”If he’s so eager to sample a finer meal why not see just how much he can stomach before he begins to choke?”
Daemon Baratheon was not the player that Katsa had expected, which was to say that she had not expected any sort of player at all. Adorning a mask to conceal one’s true face was not an action that just anyone knew how to do. But, perhaps, it was no more than smoke and mirrors, and nothing of any substance lingered beneath that mask. It did not hurt Ebon or Katsa to find out, especially as the stage had already been set.
Her cat-like gaze watched Daemon as he followed after Ebon and herself, backward glances that Katsa made no attempt to hide. Out of some vague softness that resembled concern for the stag’s crippled mobility, he could believe that if he so wished to. Her own reasons were pure curiosity. Seeking to sample his every reaction to the world that he had stepped into. From being separated from his men to being forced to shadow the footsteps of the prince and his princess. Each hint of emotion, no matter how vague, was a puzzle-piece. It would take patience to gather and assemble each individual piece, to see the picture that was waiting to be formed.
Claiming the chair opposite from where Daemon had sat himself down, Katsa lounged in it as if it were some sort of throne. One leg hooked over the lap of the other, one elbow perched against the chair’s arm whilst her other arm reached to sample from a bowl of fresh dates. She popped one of the dark-fleshed fruits between her painted lips, chewing slowly.
Her sigh cut through the air following Daemon’s words. A loud, heavy and dramatic sound. ”How unpleasant,” she complained, the small crooked smile that played upon her lips softening the sting of her words, somewhat. ”Going directly to talk about potential alliances before you’ve even taken a moment to share our wine, it makes you seem very impatient, Baratheon.” She paused, arching her thin dark eyebrows, a gesture of concern. Only that crooked smirk tarnished her sincerity. ”Is there a problem? Are you … uncomfortable?” It would not do to cut the fun so short. Not when the game had only just begun.
In the Princess's influx, the Lord's sight traversed as if to mark Katsa's eruption onto the scene. Gleefully, he carried himself with an admiration tattooed into his chest, paying respect to her. However, Ebon was sure that he'd find her words numbing, portraying the freedom that the Dorne publicized. While it may or may not have directly pertained to the restrictions with his own wife, the prince was certain that he'd deduce the cultural distinctness that Dorne harbored.
Gracious in the banquet spread before him, Daemon's verbal gratitude went without feedback from Ebon's mouth. There was the off chance the stag would find his silence discourteous and demeaning, but the sentiment was insignificant. The Dornish Prince merely saw his act as a common courtesy, an extension of a tradition that those before established. A dinner was nothing to give thanks for highborns of their breed. Let the viper rescue the stag's life, and then those words would have a true place.
When Daemon and Katsa took their respective seats across from another, the viper tarried on the Baratheon's side of the table. Opposite the side of his imitation wicker, Ebon opted to stand instead of sitting, leaning against the heavy frame albeit lightly. He had ate but a few hours early and hadn't any need to stuff himself more. But beyond his snickers and lashings via tongue, he fully knew that the Baratheon required a hearty meal to recharge. That didn't mean they had to free him of their interrogation, but a cup of revered wine sat at the table to whet his lips when they dried from the Martell's onslaught.
Disrespectfully, the Lord attempted to push aside the liberty of free conversation to dive head first in to the case he had journeyed to make. The impromptu act stirred the pot, molding a feeling that the Baratheon was either worried or unnerved in their party. Yet, Katsa addressed the issue before Ebon uttered a syllable, voicing of what they jointly believed to be the Baratheon's discomfort. A wry smile took him as his arms folded, humored by the stag's questionable urge to rush.
"Foreplay stag, foreplay. You of all people must know there's an etiquette to follow." Ebon scolded, affixing his eyes to his wife and back to their guest. The sexual connotation of his word was feasibly enough to know that he held the occasion to be no different than satisfying a woman. There couldn't be anything excessive nor beyond if a man didn't find the time to warm up his company. Less he preferred a sour experience with little backing. The timbre of the prince normalized, conveying his message with a straightness that wasn't to be overlooked. If the stag felt uneasy in the presence of the two, then he best speak his piece before they drowned him.
"You should try the wine Baratheon. After all, it is without equal in the world according to most." His head nodded to one of the cups near his plate filled with the red of his country. Other cups and a single flagon rested between him and Katsa on the table, and while he partially wanted to have a swig of his countries fame, it would've been quite unkind of him or Katsa to do so without their guest unhinging the path by taking his own honest swill.
"I personally ensured it was well-made with a few additions in anticipation of you."
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Last Edit: Jun 27, 2015 9:14:55 GMT by Ebon Martell
Post by Daemon Baratheon on Jun 27, 2015 15:11:56 GMT
OURS IS THE FURY
The Dornish liked to play. They preferred to take quick and light jabs, dancing around the truth but always out of arms’ reach from it. Their prickly remarks would not injure Daemon Baratheon. Upon trying to cut short any empty banter and false pretenses, Daemon received a reply not from his princely host but his wife. A sigh and another insult, mocking the Lord of Storm’s End for his unpleasantness. She cooed, asking after his comfort. But the joy she received from her antics did not hide well enough beneath her venomous veneer. Daemon ignored her, at least until her husband had his own chance to chime in.
Prince Ebon acted along the same vein. Chiding Daemon on his perceived haste while continuing to through sexual hints at his lovely wife. Daemon’s stare remained unflinching and cold as he watched both Martell’s speak. Ebon stood on Daemon’s own side, whereas Katsa had seated herself across. The Prince of Dorne bid Daemon try Dorne’s fabled wine, and Daemon did not blame the Lord of Sunspear for taking pride in his land’s vintage. But before partaking, Daemon would finally respond, though he expected neither of his hosts would find much pleasure in his response.
“Uncomfortable? Well, there is not much comfort to be found for a man who needs lean on a cane to move about. I will grant you that much,” he mused, letting the weakest of smirks spread on his face as he addressed Katsa. He then turned his head toward Prince Ebon. “Aye, there is an etiquette that must be followed, Prince Ebon. Etiquette that prefers I ask after your family and kin and taste of your bounty before getting to business. Why, that same etiquette would dictate that a host does not unsheathe steel in front of his guest and dance with it in their fingers. I will most certainly try your wine, and I thank you for it. But I have been playing at this game for as long as you and your lovely wife. At the very least, we should both be following the same rules, if we are still playing.”
Daemon grasped the Dornish goblet, bronze with small studs of dark red and orange, and raised the wine to his lips. It tasted dry but delicious, strong and clearly well deserving of its recognition. “Prince Ebon, Princess Katsa, our lands and people have conflicted many times in the past. We have also clashed against the Reach throughout the thousands of years that our people ruled over their own lands. The dragons’ conquest did not end that, as you both well know. However, we live in a time where those three lands need not fear for the next outbreak of strife. My sister is lady wife to the Lord of Highgarden. I am Lord of Storm’s End, and have children to marry. So does she, and so do you. A bond between our houses, and perhaps another between yours and the Tyrells, could unify the South of Westeros into a power unprecedented. I have come with an offer to betroth one of mine to yours.”
The prince and princess of Dorne held one another’s stare, meaningfully. Brief, yet the heat that they exchanged in that one simplistic gesture was tangible. Likely felt by Daemon himself. Perhaps it was why he attempted to take back control over the conversation.
Green hues did not glance at her husband as Daemon acted to confront them both with the ousting of having seen Ebon’s dagger from earlier. Indeed, her expression changed little, though his words were certainly interesting. After all, Ebon had not in fact unsheathed steel in front of their guest. Elevated above by his standing upon the balcony, his back facing towards Daemon as Katsa stood close before her prince, it was a strange thing that Daemon had managed to spy the elaborately designed dagger. Especially when one took in account the feebleness that Daemon had constantly made claim of since entering the castle.
”Ah, and now we know why you left your stormlands with so many men better armed than yourself,” Katsa spoke, as Daemon finally reached for his cup. ”The sight of even a decorative knife leaves you uneasy. I suppose finding knives in your back before your wine runs dry is common enough in the other six kingdoms.” There was more than one insult there; Katsa saw no need to hide them well. Not when Daemon had meant the same. ”Worry not, Stag. This game will have far more grace than that.”
And then she received her answer. To what had drawn the stag into their halls. It was rather underwhelming. Disappointingly so.
”All this, dependent upon an outbreak that may or may not happen, salved with a promise of support that hints at a third-party who is not here to concur.” Her words delicate, Katsa reached for her own cup of wine. Her fingertips danced along its fiery studded sides, rather than to raise it to her lips. ”Yet, overlooking that, I suppose I should ask, Baratheon, is whether or not you actually mean to entice us with the promise of security?” Her cat-like gaze sought to hold his stare from across the table. ”You seem to have some grasp of history, so I doubt that you’ve forgotten that when faced with hostility House Martell does not shy towards the softer, easier option.”
”’A power unprecedented.’” Katsa repeated those words back to him. Slowly, almost appreciatively. ”It is a lovely notion. Yet,” a thin eyebrow arched, a gesture of curiosity, in her moment of granting pause, ”your timing is strange. It is an odd dream to concoct in a time of peace.”
Two full golden hues bore into the Stag's heavy coat, sampling and devouring the spirit of mystery that permeated from his seated position. By no means did it clash and corrupt his own aura, but the dornishman picked up on the unmistakable scent. It was rife with the pollution of politics and grim with the association of half-truths and half-lies, wonderfully spun to generate textbook results. Finding a scapegoat in his crutch, the Viper neither applauded or discouraged the Baratheon's explanation.
Yet shortly after, the decrepit man found reason to try his hand at lecturing the Prince. Pooling the resources of his every breathe on unwanted education, foolhardy at best but trying in the least. The Viper's expression didn't change or scrunch, leaving little hints to his thoughts on the erroneous pearls of wisdom that the sage dropped. The Prince didn't find the need to comment, always favoring the show bit over the tell. After all, it heightened the experience in ways that a bit of conversation just couldn't fully describe.
A certain curiosity deepened in him, unclear at how Daemon's eyes found the luxurious heirloom. Partly, the Prince entertained the idea of proposing how he had seen the lean knife from afar. The schooling was as useful as milk to a cow and the olive skinned male only fetched a raspy smirk, perceptive that the Baratheon may have honed more despite the given disability he flaunted. Intent to pose the question surged, only to be abandoned after seeing the prized goblet lifted and pressed to his lips. At seeing the Baratheon lay claim to the tinted red, Ebon sought no need in questioning the Stag's sight. The measure would've been pointless, but given the chance he held onto it for another available time.
And to sum it up, his other half articulated the same concerns that he had, leaving him with little but to direct Daemon's attention to his right hand. She even found reason to insert the Martell's unwilling knack for resistance, a rosy nod that nearly made him forget the saltwater that coursed in her. In other customs the constant chatter of a wife during diplomatic talks may have been forbidden, but in Dorne Katsa was imbued with more power than any lady of Westeros other than the paramount Queen. The aforementioned jeweled dagger surged forth and bit it's acute head into the breast of the table. "Not all steel carry the invitation for blood," Ebon curtailed, surely not seeing the present heirloom as dangerous in the same regard as his guest. A gift from his father and father's father, the Prince studied the ornate jewel that sat in between the viper's fangs. "Some carry a meaning far more than that Baratheon."
It wasn't a weapon to inspire fear in the Stag. Nor was fear an emotion he cared to instill. The dagger he clutched to hadn't the need to kill, but it possessed the power just as any other blade. A power that wasn't of particular interest in light of the situation that had yet to climax. He only added a bit to his wife's inquiry, rewinding to picture the Baratheon's sister in his mind's eye and picturing her from a time ago.
"Have you spoken to Myrcella and her husband of your dreams before painting them to us Baratheon?"
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Last Edit: Jul 8, 2015 5:00:43 GMT by Ebon Martell
Post by Daemon Baratheon on Jul 8, 2015 17:25:11 GMT
OURS IS THE FURY
Each time words left her lips, they sounded toxic, equal bits playful as venomous. Her origins as an ironborn would have been enough to tar her image in Daemon’s eyes, but her intent to consistently bash heads with her guest merely darkened her esteem in his eyes. Rather than retort to her jabs at his uneasiness, Daemon chose to take another sip of Ebon’s wine. Despite the tense air around him, he felt quite relaxed and content with it. Perhaps he would take some back with him, should their meeting end on acceptable terms.
Ebon’s response came across as less venomous and more logical, though still pointed. It seemed that Daemon had offended the prince, ignorant that his dagger held some sort of great value. That mattered not, however, to the Lord of Storm’s End. His words had been uttered, their meaning already conveyed. He would not apologize for accidentally stepping upon the value of Ebon’s heirloom as he and his wife continued their jabs at him. In the end, their banter meant little if Daemon could achieve the political objective that spurred him to visit the arid halls of Sunspear in the first place.
He let Katsa try and dismantle his suggestion first. Dependent on the outbreak of strife, she assumed. Promises of support from a third-party which certainly did not attend their meeting that day. And a strange timing to suggest the coming unraveling of peace. She fired her suspicions at Daemon bluntly, words still laced with her smooth sounds and unnerving tones. In contrast, Ebon simply asked Daemon a key question – had he spoken to Myrcella beforehand of his idea? Daemon’s face remained stoic, as if his skin was actually chiseled stone. He expected the Martells to receive his vision with skepticism, so their inquiries did not surprise him. But if he could actually strike a deal with these people, it would prove a momentous victory.
“Stag. Baratheon. It’s Lord Daemon. I don’t recall dismissing your titles. Please don’t discard mine,” he requested. Katsa in particular seemed to enjoy ignoring Daemon’s status and throwing him in with his house and its symbol, as if he’d find it offense. “And allow me to address your concerns, Princess Katsa, Prince Ebon. This vision of mine is not dependent on an outbreak of strife, nor is it to foreshadow the start of some great conflict. And I admit to the both of you, my hosts, that I have not yet discussed this matter with Myrcella. She is my sister, however, and I feel that speaking of this matter with her would occur on more familiar terms than with the two of you. Besides, I do not intend to marry my children to those of my sister, whereas our two houses do have that option. Hence why I deemed it more important to come to you first.”
Another sip of wine, and then Daemon continued. “In my opinion, there is no time better than during peace to strengthen such ties. In fact, the formation of a stronger South could possibly prevent conflict, not just prepare for it. But more importantly, increased communication, trade, and rapport – these are all exchanges from which both our houses and our people can benefit. In the past, marcher lords on both sides of our borders have watched warily for signs of incursion. Instead, we should have them ensure the smooth flow of trade and prosperity between our lands. And a betrothal would only lend more to such a deal.”
Post by Katsa Martell on Jul 26, 2015 10:27:43 GMT
DON’T ( LET THE ) CURTAIN ( CATCH ) YOU
❝
”Our deepest apologises.” The words flowed sweetly, easily, from Katsa’s tongue. Her laughter contained within her bright gaze. Genuine nonetheless. For his anger, as politely expressed as Daemon willed it to be so, was laughable.
Not a black fury, nor brazen. But, perhaps, Katsa had overestimated the man. For such a small thing to have upset him, for him to paint his displeasure with words and voice, was almost as great of a disappointment as his approach of betrothal. ”I often forget the differences between my people and you, well, other lords.” Her cat-like gaze sought to hold his. She wondered if he would dare enough to question just who it was that she was referring to – the ironborn or the dornish? Ordinarily, both tended to blur into one for Katsa. Despite a few distinct differences in their cultures, both the ironborn and the dornish stood together in being utterly unlike the rest of Westeros. The Greenlanders. Those subjected to the dominion of dragons. ”Cherishing a name shared by so many others, I’ve never understood the importance.” A corner of her dark plump lips curled, a crooked smile. ”It’s only a word.”
Those hues of hungry seas drifted to gaze up at her husband, her smile softening. Thin eyebrows arching, voicelessly. Katsa had been no older than their eldest when both she and Ebon had been wed to one another. A marriage of alliance, no different to the arrangement that Daemon was proposing at that moment. But Katsa was not like her father or like her mother had been. And her children were not the same as Ebon or herself. She wanted more for them than the shackles of tradition or duty. Even where Eryn was concerned.
”Clearly, Lord Baratheon has given this ‘vision’ of his a great deal of thought,” Katsa commented, adding, with a small smirk, ”I don’t think I’ve heard a speech quite like it before. How strongly he must desire this union. But,” her gaze glancing meet Daemon’s, unflinching, shameless. ”Strangely, I feel unmoved. Ebon?” Tilting her head slightly, her dark hair spilling over and down a narrow shoulder from such an action, her expression almost thoughtful as she regarded her prince. ”Our Lord Stag’s words felt like some maester’s history lesson, no?”
”You have some fine points. Points both suitable and valuable in talks of business and strategy, but this is Dorne. Where we value passion and do not view our women and children as tokens for bargaining and exchange. Perhaps that might seem backwards and impractical to a lord of your standing, but, my lord,” drawing out the sound, Katsa’s voice abruptly turned cold. Her smile died in a manner that told that it had never truly existed in the first place. And the green fire that danced within the depths of her gaze became frigid and cruel, as that which her fabled ancestor supposedly stole from a sea-monster long ago. ”We are neither lords nor ladies. And it takes more than a rehearsed pitch to sway us.”
Her hand moved from her untasted goblet. The movement was both sudden and swift, but more importantly it was fluid. A lethal grace that was only made possible through repetitive practice and specific training. Her gaze never shifted to the jewelled dagger, still protruding from the table’s surface, a gesture of betrayal and a natural instinct carried by all except those trained to recognize such an instinct and resist.
Yet her fingertips did not fall upon the elaborately designed handle of the blade. Instead, coming to rest upon the edge of the plate just beside it. ”Try the grilled snake meat.” Warmth and music had relaced her words, as half of a smile danced upon her lips, and she prodded the plate towards Daemon. All steel and frost seemingly gone. ”Use its fire for inspiration as you try and convince us on just what makes your house worthy of a prince or princess.”
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