King's Landing
King Aegon Targaryen, et. al
Coronation Day/Evening

Despite protests, he wore black. Aegon took mild joy in the surprise from the septons and maesters when he announced the decision, despite doing his best to conceal such small joys from the wisemen. Princesses Rhaena and Baela both approved, Rhaena going so far as saying so aloud, and smiling at him, giving his cheek a playful little squeeze. If Aegon had smiled, it was to be blamed on the butterflies fluttering his belly this way and that. The High Septon frowned, and much of his "temporary" Small Council reflected the emotional output of the High Septon.

They were all Maesters, led by the "temporary" Hand of the King, Grand Maester Munkun. Maester Benedict was Master of Laws, and had some level of control over the City Watch, while Maester Bruthor acted as Master of Coin, more book keeper than true Master of Coin (or so Rhaena had said; and Aegon had little reason to doubt her). Their lord whisperer was no Maester, Munkun instead picking Willem Morningwood over; former assistant to Master of Coin. Rhaena didn't seem to like that selection, either, but the voice didn't seem to mind that one.

In any case, they went on as planned. Rhaena and Baela gave him sweet words and little hugs, before releasing him into the custody of the white knights of the Kingsguard. They were snow white towers of chain and plate and wool all about him, obscuring his view of the interior of the grand sept upon Visenya's High Hill. And those filling the grand sept, though he was still able to make out Lord Kermit and Lord Benjicot Blackwood. The Starks may have left, but Kermit and Benji staying had been some relief to the new King--there was something about the boys he liked. Something more than that they had fought for his mother, he liked to believe.

Besides, the voice liked them, too.

"Good lads," she called them, in the darkness underneath the Red Keep. No one, not even Rhaena, knew that Aegon had a way to sneak into the shadows underneath the floors and inbetween the walls. There he'd slip away to return to the voice that held the only wisdom he often trusted. Aegon found the voice in shadows; there in the isolated blackness of the dungeon he was thrown into. The little hole they threw him, leaving him to rot, unless some twist of fate made him important once more to the victorious King Aegon II. But nothing survived of King Aegon II's reign; even his mother had died in the morning hours of Aegon III's coronation.

As that voice in the shadows promised him; he would out last them. He would see the sky once more. When Aegon II died, Corlys Velaryon immediately, and himself, pulled young Aegon from the cell. No one mentioned his ghastly state; bone thin, hands and cheeks bloodied from the vicious teeth of the rats. Many questioned how a man could stick a child into such a dark place, but the young Aegon never remembered any of those who said such things do anything to help him when he was lost in that darkness. Only the voice had been there for him, then.

Was she watching? His collar of black velvet tightened as his bright eyes danced around immediately upon being seated upon the tall throne of gold and ruby and smoky black onyx in the center of the grand sept. The High Septon and his band of crystal wearers proceeded around him in circles, chanting this, waving that incense, always left to right, always moving, chanting, waving. But his lilac eyes moved past their distractions, the thought of her out there making his body stir in the throne nervously.

Instead Aegon saw only a nobility curious about the boy they were helping raise to kinghood. His back was sore and his knees wobbly after he had to stand once more, and recite from the Seven Pointed Star. His reading was low and quiet, doubtful any beyond the procession of white nights and crystalline septons able to hear a word Aegon uttered that day. But, amazingly to the boy king, it didn't matter. Though the sea of faces staring at him would eventually just blur into a background from the soreness inflicting him from the heavy crown, the unwieldy scepter, and the constant standing.

The final prayers of the Coronation were a blessing, if only because they meant he could sit upon that stiff gold throne once more. Strange as it might have sound to any who looked upon it, Aegon almost certainly found himself preferring the Iron Throne to this showpiece. When the High Septon was finished, Rhaena and Baela were there for him, asking him if he was ready for a feast even as the march out of the grand sept began, the white cloaked sentries surrounding him once more...once more cutting off the majority of his view of the world. It was something Aegon didn't like; enough of the world had been taken from him when he'd been put in that hole. He didn't need any more stolen from him.

Munkun met them before the carriage, Ser Joffrey Staunton of the Kingsguard holding open the door and assisting each of them up and in, the crowds of smallfolk lining the road upon Visenya's hill just more curious faces staring, their cheers and jeers lost to the overpowering sounds of the grand sept's bells. They rung freely, a deafening clap and wave of brass thunder leaving the young King's ears barely able to hear the Grand Maester, let alone anything any of the common folk shouted out to him.

"The Great Hall is ready to receive all, Your Grace. I remained hard to find during the ceremony, so none of the Lords have gotten their chance to corner me and ask me about my intentions. Doubtless this is coming."

Baela seemed concerned. Rhaena did not. Aegon was torn between them. "Your intentions are to establish a new small Council?"

"And a Regency council, my King, but above all else they will want to know who will be taking on the Handship on a more permanent basis. They will speak to me of it, and mayhaps they will even speak to you about it?"

"Worried I would make Kermit the Hand of the King."

Aegon said it plainly, yet still Rhaena giggled at the idea, Baela's laughter rougher yet no less amused at the idea. They all thought it silly, but Aegon quite liked the idea. It didn't matter, Kermit couldn't stay in the capital much longer, not with the reports they were getting of the Ironborn attacking the south and the riverlands and the north. Suddenly, the reavers were everywhere upon the western coast of his new Kingdom. Or, the old kingdom that he was the new king for, is how it felt to him.

Munkun's lips twisted in pale amusements, though no real laughter followed it. "Do not be surprised if the subject is broached during the evening, all the same, Your Grace. I will try to keep you updated throughout the night, but try to enjoy yourself...it isn't every day a young man is coronated."

Aegon tried to force himself to smile, but nothing ever came. Instead his eyes slipped past his half-sisters and the silk curtains. To the low sunshine that glimmered in and out and of his view as the horses continued along the bumpy road of the city that still loomed immensely large and unknowable to it's new King. It was both one of the most unnerving, and most exciting, things he had ever seen in the whole of his life. None of it mattered when they rolled through the gates of the Red Keep. Aegon and his mind was lost to the memories of pushing at his mother. Of yelling at her, realizing the trap.

He didn't want to feast. Unfortunately for him, he did want to eat, already so hungry he felt light headed. And eating was all Rhaena and Baela would talk about, but they didn't head for the Grand Hall. Instead the two of them darted for the royal apartments, with Aegon and his white shadow Ser Joffrey quick behind. They were busy changing gowns when Aegon entered, ignoring the distant feeling of being a sailor on a foreign shore, closing the door behind the apartments.

It held that which remained dear to him. What little family remained to House Targeryen, besides Princess Jaehaera Targaryen. Aegon understood when she asked to stay back from the coronation. Much like his black doublet and cloak, Jaehaera staying had been a decision Aegon made himself. The Maesters weren't well liked by some in the Kingsguard, and Baela's Targaryen House guard were bound to Targaryens. These decisions made on his own and so proclaimed were gambles calculated on the intuition of a boy that had grown up with deceit and death and conflict. He was educated in it.

He knew all of it would get more complicated with Regents.

Even Rhaena and Baela told him to try and smile more. To try to be happier. In a way it only hurt his feeling; as if he were broken in a way unappealing in Kings. And Aegon smiled so rarely, even without a hint of outward joy as he walked the bright and beautifully built royal apartments of the Holdfast. When he saw the parchment upon the table in his bedchambers, that did it.

It was from her, the handwriting and unsigned nature of the note convincing him of that.

You looked good, Your Grace.

"Ready? You're not changing, yeah?"

Rhaena leaned in through the polished doors, her gown of glittering red silk and Myrish lace, with black satin linings, her shoulders bare and beautiful. A necklace matching gold bracelets on either wrist, Aegon's bedchamber quickly filling with the sneaking scent of jasmine from Rhaena's appearance. It was only then that Aegon stopped staring at her long enough to nod, the remains of the note induced smile haunting his lips in the fading light of the day. "Not changing, no."

"Head down whenever you want, we'll be just a few minutes more if you don't want to wait--Baela's gown is being a little problematic. Alright?" Then, she added, not bothering to hide it or the accompanying grin. "Your Grace?"

"Good luck with the gown, Princess Rhaena."

She laughed at him, and disappeared beyond the door. Aegon stood blinking; it wasn't the reaction he had expected. But girls still confused him most of the time, a fact especially true of his half-sisters. A fact that he would try not to let overwhelm him as he pictured the many lords and ladies of the night ahead, servants coming about him, giving their respects as they passed, candles in their hands as darkness rose and the sun above the Red Keep sank.

Tonight, he promised himself, he would attempt to truly enjoy at least one thing: lemon cakes. A thought that threatened to make him smile as the sound of music and a crowd met him before he ever saw the Grand Hall itself. Fancily dressed tables and tables of nobles didn't exactly sound appealing, but the lemon cakes did. Not even dungeons and dragons could purge Aegon of that joy.

“This has to be the last time, Cerenna.”

“I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve heard that one before, mi’lord.” the whore laughed nervously, fluttering her painted eyelids as she lay all woven up in the bed sheets.

“I mean it, this time,” Harldur Salthowl sat propped up against the wooden headrest, running one hand over his stubble-covered chin “I can’t afford to run the risk of someone finding out about you.”

“About us, you mean?”

It sounded almost like she cared about him in a way that went beyond how many dragons were in his coin purse, but the Lord of Deeepport was quick to push those thoughts from his head. She is a whore. Nothing more.

Harldur turned away from her, casting off the covers and climbing out of bed. He was naked, and the cold stone floor chilled his bare feet as they pressed against it.

“If you could be discreet and not make a scene, I’d very much appreciate it.” He fought hard to keep emotion from ebbing into his voice, and the dry, uncaring tone that he achieved seemed to do the job well, given the way the whore’s sculpted features began to droop all of a sudden.

Cerenna regained her composure, draping herself across the bed, with one hand poised seductively on her generous hip.

“But without your kitty cat, who will keep your bed warm at night? Who will love-”

Harldur shot forwards, seizing her by her delicate wrist.

“Enough, Cerenna!” he barked with fierce authority “I won’t have you making a mockery of me any longer. I have the girl’s to think about.” He calmed ever-so-slightly, his voice softening “Show yourself out.”

Her face screwed up in anger, Cerenna shook herself free of his hold, before bounding out of bed and scooping her small clothes up off of the floor.

“You’re a cold man, Harldur Salthowl.” She hissed, spitting at him like a viper, before storming out of the room.

He watched her leave, her hips swaying back and forth, her long legs brushing against each other, her dark brown hair tumbling over her shoulders like water. The warm glow of a nearby torch caught her skin, casting it in a bronze light as she slammed the door shut behind her.

Harldur sat down, deflated on the bed as he gazed numbly at the floor. He allowed a single, bitter tear to run down his cheek, before he swatted it away and set about preparing himself for the coronation.

She never loved you, you miserable fool He scolded himself internally No more than you loved her.

The families current residence was a lavishly furnished house on one of the nicer streets, with sandy yellow pillars and a brightly tiled stone roof. It had been intended as a temporary abode, but after Lord Stark had commanded the host stay behind to keep watch in the Capital, the house had very quickly become a permanent dwelling. A few men-at-arms patrolled up and down hallways and stood sentinel by doors, whilst the bulk of the Salthowl force remained garrisoned near the Red Keep itself.

He prepared himself alone, as he always did. The Lord had no love of squires. Harldur stood before a gleaming glass mirror, combing his hair and buttoning his green tunic with hard simplicity, as he stared dully at his own reflection.

Satisfied with his presentability, Harldur strode from the room, his mind set firmly on gathering his nieces and heading to the coronation.



“Wylla, that never happened.”

“It did!”

“No, it didn’t.”

“I swear it by the Seven! Maegelle Manderly wouldn’t even look at me, and she certainly didn’t come to greet us on our last visit to Whiteharbour. They’ve got no respect for father.”

“Uncle Harldur is NOT our father.”

The two Salthowl girls sat in the large dressing room, whilst a gaggle of handmaidens fussed over every detail of their appearance.

Wylla had been done up in an elegant green gown with cream lace, which bore puffy shoulder pads and a tight bodice in an attempt to try and play down her masculine build. Her ginger curls had been forced into a tight bun, and her eyelids had been painted in an attempt to match the emerald green of her dress.

Hayllisa sat not far from her, plopped down on a wooden stool which creaked and groaned as if it was struggle to support her. The young woman’s enormous stomach was spilling out into her lap, and her gigantic rear hung over the edges of her seat. Her face had been powdered to add an ethereal quality to her fair complexion, and she wore a open cut green dress which bore a dark cloak that had been tossed back over her broad shoulders.

“Its because we’re just bannermen!” Wylla prattled on, as a handmaiden fastened the lace bodice around her wide figure “They don’t think they have to respect us like they do the great houses.”

“The Great Houses still have to conduct themselves respectfully around their lessers, little sister.” Haylisa groaned, as her scorching red hair was vigorously combed and de-knotted by a slightly overzealous handmaiden “Lest they find themselves alone and without allies during the dark times.”

“Well, I don’t think Maegelle Manderly knows how to act respectfully.” Wylla huffed.

Her sister couldn’t help but chuckle “Is this because of the time she called you ‘abundant of form?”

“No!” the younger of the pair squawked, her puffy cheeks flushing to match her hair.

“Sister dearest, you can’t let all those pointy little words wound you with such severity, or else you’ll never get any sleep at night. If you spend your whole life tossing and turning and trying to please people then you’ll spend your whole life being mocked and ridiculed. Learn to rise above such petty scorn.”

After a few more minutes of hastened preparation, the handmaidens were done. Soon they went scurrying from the room, as Lord Harldur Salthowl appeared in the doorway in a fine green tunic
which matched the girl’s own rich attire.

“You both look positively captivating,” he said with a warm smile as he strode into the room “I’m sure your father could have found a much better way to describe your beauty, but flattery was never my strong point...nor women, for that matter.”

They both laughed politely, and Wylla rose from her chair to give her uncle a light kiss on the cheek.

Hayllisa slowly stood up, her knees letting out a sharp crack as she did so. Her joints were always making such noises, so no one paid it any mind to it.

“Shall we depart then?”



They all sat in the feasting hall some time later, surrounded by lords and ladies as they laughed and drank and ate. A warm murmur rippled throughout the hall, and the rich and colourful assortment of clothing worn by the guests was truly splendid to behold.

It appeared that Hayllisa’s chair was larger and sturdier than the rest of the attendants, as though it had been picked out specifically in advanced to accommodate her ample girth, but no one had had the poor taste to remark on the matter.

Wylla took a generous swig from a large goblet of sweet plum wine, whilst her uncle fiddled with the buttons on his tunic.

“Carefully does it,” the elder of the two girls cast a wink over to her younger sister as she chewed on a chunk of roast boar “We don’t want you drinking abit too much and making a farce of this like you did your last nameday celebration.”

“You’re hardly one to lecture on overdoing it, sweet sister.”

“Eat sheep shift, you filthy cu-”

“Girls! Please!”

Harldur took a gentle sip of his Arbor gold.

“There are many prospective young lords here tonight, you’ll do well to conduct yourself in a presentable manner.”

“Does knocking Wylla’s teeth out count as presentable, Uncle dearest?”

“No, Hayllisa. It does not.”

King's Landing

The Grand Hall felt alight, the young Reach Lord looking like his beautiful self. Garland's appearance was a little tamed back, his beard shaven shorter, his hair shorter than that of which he would normally have- though it still came down to his neck, curled and brushed. Though apart from this, his green and golden tunic and clothes, from wrist to ankle, seemed to already portray his willingness to spend money, a pair of leather boots that came up his to his shins. The embroidery of the Rose, a singular one, was embroidered across his tunic, though Garland looked like he had clearly been willing to spend a little more money than Gregor had whenever the older Lord had gone to a feast.

Sipping down a little of the Arbor, he placed his cup down, a distinct grin on his face, Garland looking across to Aegon in the distant, the sight of the newly crowned King enough to remind him of where his loyalties lay. He turned to his side, looking across to Alerie's figure, taking a seat by his side. He had only one other Tyrell here that he expected to see- Alestair, who was yet to arrive, still dealing with some sort of detail somewhere else. Garland did not know, and did not concern himself with it. He was not a guest of whom had importance, gravity to be right here, right now. But as he knew full well, Aegon would want to see the faces of he Lords that ran his Seven Kingdoms for him, and Garland did not wish to disappoint.
"You seem to have a lot on your mind, brother." Alerie said, breaking Garland's glance into nothingness, as he chuckled, turning his head. Alerie had also joined Garland in spending an exuberant amount of money, particularly on her own dress. The golden, white and green coloured dress, combined with a corset and lace, fitted her thin and young nature well, almost atypical of a lady of the Reach. Probably showing more cleavage than most Northeners would have considered acceptable, but alas, this was the ways of The Reach, Alerie knew- her dark red hair tucked into a bun, rather than left completely flowing. If Garland was the hansome, bearded Lord Tyrell, then Alerie was clearly the other side of that coin, the suave, thorny Tyrell that sat quiet behind him.
"Of course, there is much to deal with. The fate of the Kingdoms, placed back into the hands of one young man. There's been too much blood these years. I was lucky not to be in the worst of it, many lords that I remember are not here for that reason. It has only been two years since I arrived in Highgarden, stopped that squabble of ours. And Aegon has got far less time than I did, and he's far younger. So that's on my mind." Garland replied, sipping down a little more, before then cutting deep into the pig laid out on the table. He cut a section of it's rump out, and placed it down onto his plate, taking it carefully as Alerie chuckled in response to Garland's comment, however serious it was.
"I think it's more than that. You're always looking for the next woman to bed, aren't you? The Young Rose, on the prowl."
"Well...just because there are matters to hand, I never do stop looking, sister. Like you never stop looking for the next big Knight to take you into his arms. You aren't getting drunk beyond measure next time."
"Ashford was an exception, I swear..." She said, as she reached over, pouring herself a little more wine, though she did heed her brother's advice. It was not like her to do something like that, a crack in her usual sharp self. A little lack of responsibility.
"You were lucky I arrived before he took your innocence away. You can be so irresponsible sometimes."
"Like you?"
"You always seem to clear your name by tarnishing mine, Alerie. You always were the one for that."
"Well, it works well, doesn't it?" She added, chuckling as Garland simply didn't give response, knowing this was a pointless avenue to carry on down, but at least was a playful conversation. She drank a little more wine, wiping her chin before leaning back in her wooden chair, adjusting her figure a little, the dress going halfway down her arms, her soft hands clearly seeing a very different world to Garland's, though of course, she was far more competent at playing the game that so many wished to play here. She could just tell that the webs here were intricately woven by those spiders who played the game well and killed the flies they saw, the insignificant and ignorant Lords that chose to reject the complexities of politics here. She knew full well that while Garland had a Lordship to run, she had no such matters. And she could only guess, that with Garland's approval, a suitable Husband would come soon, and there would be another good reason to feast.

The weeks had leading up to the Coronation had been eventful, the Garland and Alerie travelling the Roseroad, stopping at castles of minor houses en route, to at least remind the lesser lords of Garland's presence. The journey had been almost uneventful, apart from a little debauchery on a drunken night in Ashford. Most of the advisers were left behind to administer the regional capital in Highgarden, and it was just the two of them that would come to King's Landing, plus a small detachment of Tyrell guards, a number that would be suitable to protect Garland from bandit and highwaymen on the Roseroad. Garland was taking it far more cautious than usual, in that The Reach was still an unstable part of the known world. Food may have been plentiful, but people were still divided, and bitter about the end of hostilities. He liked to think things were going back to normal, but in parts of The Reach, minor Houses still were upset and needed to be put in their place. Garland had come to this acutely aware of what the new King would want, and while he desired no seat on the Council, he knew that a man such as Alestair would be ideal in such a position, the closer to the Crown he was, the better. And while Garland's knowledge of the delicate intricacies of King's Landing was minimal, he could only guess that the Tyrells still had a part to play in this new world that emerged with Aegon III on the throne, young and mouldable in his nature. Alestair would be a good Regent, and while it would take a significant effort to make it happen, Garland was convinced he had the right team to make it happen. The Tyrells did not fight in this war, the one that he could tell was only beginning to see old wounds heal. And yet it felt like a double edged sword, Garland aware that good looks, a sharp mind and the ability to wield a sword were not going to be enough to make that change in mentality come tomorrow. People had memories, after all.

Sitting up, Garland turned to some of the others at the table, then back to his sister, taking another slice out of the pig, the hall filling and filling with people. There was a grandeur about it all- he remembered tales of previous Targaryen coronations from his father and other relatives that had been privileged enough to even come close to attending, Alerie's handmaidens, Talia and Megga came over; both barely over the age of twelve, looking concerned with their older guardian's wellbeing.
"Ah, it is good to see you both. Get mine and Garland's chambers cleaned up, if you haven't already. Then you can join the other handmaidens. Well, run along." She said in a stern yet motherly voice, as they both nodded, moving back through the thick crowds near the tables, going straight out of the halls, among the immense volume of people that were also mingling around.
"Alestair should be here, something must have held him up. Seven hells, he's survived this long here in King's Landing, so it's not as if he's gone and gotten himself bloody killed." Garland peered over, as Alerie shook her head, looking back at her older brother.
"I doubt it. He's not stupid, so surely not. What about the other Lords?"
"Hmmm...there's a few I can see. I ought to have a word with Lord Hightower, or Otto. I haven't seen that boy in months. It would be good to catch up with him." With that, Garland took another swig of his drink, looking around and bathing his eyes on the festivities once more. It was good to see that Aegon saw fit to have a good feast, at least that part of rulership came well to the young King, Garland thought to himself.

---

Highgarden

The rain poured gently outside, as Rickard turned the page to the back cover, then turning to the older hooded man in the far corner of the room, the wooden table that Rickard sat next to filled with books of various types. In particular, Rickard was reading the histories of the First Men, those that of which little was known. Some tales, some realities, all blurred of course, in the books he read.
"Maester Aubrey, is there any more works I could read? I can't believe you never showed these to me before..."
"There are more, but I would think it is time you got some sleep, lad."
"Just a couple more chapters?"
"I'll see what I can find, but you should get some rest, Rickard. I promised your brother and sister I'd look after you."
"Fine." He simply said, as the Maester stood, the man in his mid-sixties or so, weathered but still physically able, something that compared starkly to Rickard. His weak disposition could be seen in the way he sat, he could barely hold himself for

Looking out, Rickard slowly stood up, moving to the window to get a breather, using his cane to hold his weight a little, as he leaned on the ledge. Looking out, he could see the distant light from the houses further along the river, probably a metalworks that was causing the brightest light, from it's furnace. The world from here looked strange, to Rickard, it looked dead, as if there wasn't any significance in the world below at this time of night. The green meadows and gently flowing and meandering river couldn't be seen or heard from this part of the castle. It felt eerie, but the darkness was swallowing it all up, the trees, the rivers, the distant, distant hills and mountains, not observable even from the height of the castle. Rickard turned, as he heard the Maester come back in.
"I found something for you, but I really think you should get some sleep, young lad. It's a long book, it will keep you up all night, if you try and finish it. The works of the Children can wait."

Ormass Vahsi
King's Landing

The sounds of revelry, cheers and music easily pierced the wooden sides of the carriage as it crawled down the overly crowded road towards the King's Feast. With a hand resting on his knee, Ormaas cradled his chin out of boredom. The only other person accompanying him upon this overly lengthy ride was the gorgeous woman across from him who seemed to be pointedly ignoring his presence, she was occupying her time by just looking blankly at the curtains upon the side of their carriage.

Continuing to stare at her, He had to give her credit on how well she prepared herself for this night. Her sapphire blue gown was a simple design where it seemed almost hewn from a singular piece of cloth, seamlessly flowing down her slight figure. The only accents upon he dress were silver threaded embroidery upon the upper portions of the gown that trailed down to her bust. This was accented by the silver cloth shawl that graced her shoulders. The whole outfit was designed to give her a more mature appearance to dissuade people from dismissing the woman due to her youth. It certainly succeeded in the first part, though the latter was still to be seen.

The deep blue of the dress matched marvelously with the signature long blue streaks that ran through the woman's hair. A smirk began to creep on to his face, while observing the Tyroshi special, "My dear, I thought you had stated the Tyroshi custom of dying one's hair was inane? Regardless, you look marvelous tonight. If you succeeded at anything while you are staying in King's Landing; being the best dressed is surely it."

Her brown eyes quickly cut back to me, not unlike arrows loosed from a bow, as she responds in her usual cool manner, "If you would cease that lecherous stare it would be for the best, Uncle. You should know even better than I do that the woman of court love a spectacle, a foreign woman with colorful hair is certainly more interesting for all of them."

He sat up a bit straighter while letting out an honest chuckle, "I wouldn't have agreed to escort you to this event if I didn't think I was much better at getting women to like me than you, Little Viper. But enough talk of me, you are the big fish in this carriage. What is the Emissary of Tyrosh looking to do at this Gala? Any secrets you can impart to you dear uncle?"

Averting her gaze back to the oh-so captivating curtains, she nonetheless humor's him a bit longer, "All of the Foreign Dignitaries were invited to the feast and one does not simply not attend the coronation of the King you are attempting to engage in diplomacy with. That being said, I will mostly just serve as a spectacle for those of the court like I already stated. Tyrosh has nothing to do with the boy king and would like to keep it that way for now."

"Hmmm? Nothing at all? Shouldn't you attempt to gain favor for your country? I mean the young king is impressionable. Perhaps if you show him a teat or two he might come to like you. I know that would certainly work if I was king."

The woman lets out a very audible sigh, "Well it is good that your job is sticking people with swords and not convincing people to stick others with swords. I intend to stay as far away from the Targaryens as possible throughout the feast. If you haven't forgotten already, The king's own brother was slain by the Triarchy. This occurrence, along with sacking of Driftmark, leaves us without a lot of friends with Targaryen blood sadly."

"I certainly haven't forgotten the Battle of the Gullet. War is war after all, they will surely get over it eventually. So if you aren't going to be talking to the guest of honor, who are you going to be looking to speak with?"

The woman began to fiddle with her dress as the carriage pulled to a stop, seemingly our destination had arrived, "I will give my condolences to the Young Otto Hightower, his uncle is the one that got us into this mess. Perhaps chat with some of the other houses that don't necessarily want to send my head back to my father. Also before I forget Uncle, stay out of trouble."

After the dashing man, dressed in his own finery of decorative leathers, escorted the youthful emissary to her table, he quickly slipped away from the dull conversation is search of the trouble that worries his niece so.



Lyeelia Vahsi
King's Landing

It had been mere moments since the feast had begun in truth and Ormaas has already vanished. Unsure of where the bastard might have slipped off to she peered around the room but couldn't spy him anywhere. She attempted to brush her creeping concern to the side as she turned once more to those seated at her table, the delegation from Myr, seemed to be steeped in discussion regarding the Regency council for the young king. To be perfectly frank, it was the prime topic of conversation at the Feast considering all the major candidates were in attendance. It was certain that the current small council of Maesters wouldn't be running the show for all that much longer.

Looking around the room, she offered her own opinion, "After winning the war for the young king, The Starks, Arryns, and houses of the Crownlands all make for good choices. If they wish to mend the gap the war tore in the country they would add a member or two from the houses of the losers, Tyrell would also be a good neutral choice since they barely took part in the war. That would just be my first impression, the lords themselves will probably have more to do with it than it being the black and white."

Seemingly having only heard my first sentence before wrapping himself up in his own impression, the Myrish Ambassador quickly cut in,"Indeed those would be the obvious choices, though quite terrible for us considering our side in the war. No matter! The Westrosi love our products regardless of the blood spilt. I have even heard that the lovely Princess Rhaena wears Myrish lace to this very feast. I must go and compliment her beauty before the evening ends." Lyeelia quickly blocked his ramblings out after that, the Emissary across the table from her was well known for having no control of when to stop talking nor when to stop eating as his belly stretched his silken tunic.

She just nodded her agreement at the unending stream of comments leaving the gullet of the man, until he got disinterested and turned to someone else at the table. As the musing amongst the various foreign dignitaries continued, eventually turning to more domestic matters amongst themselves, she returned to her drink sipping it quietly while waiting for the evening to progress. Hopefully Ormaas would return sometime soon, despite being a rapscallion he certainly made for better conversation than those she was blessed to be seated with.

Returning to her musings on the make up of the soon to be Regency council, she decide she could count herself lucky in some ways of course. House Velaryon was in less than perfect standings with the crown and a personal enemy of Tyrosh, Corlys Velaryon the Sea Snake, had been executed for the poising of the former king. Supposing she had the Starks to thank for ridding the world of that particular nuisance, she ponders the idea of paying them a small visit. While thinking about the Velaryons, she tries to look across the hall and see if she couldn't find them. Perhaps it might even be a good idea to let them know that the Triarchy had agreed to stop all aggression on the seas, one of the last agreements the Triarchy came to unanimously at that. Coming the the conclusions that neither of those options were really in her best interest, she decided to just let the night take her where it will.

Looking back to her own table she noticed that some of the dignitaries had swapped tables. With the power changes in Essos and the crumbling of the Triarchy there was many manners of trade to Westeros to discuss. Knowing that the bickering had little to do with the reason she came, she coolly listened to the arguments between the Free Cities she decided to stay out of it. It was only after the various lords and ladies had settled in a bit more and the stragglers arrived that people began intermingling more and more as the feast truly got underway. Although she had been wrapped up in 'polite' conversation with the Emissary of Braavos at the time, she managed to see the beautiful Rhaena Targaryen all dressed in red moving through the tables. It could be sure then that the Young King was present as well.

Excusing herself from the current discussion, Lyeelia left to join the heart of the conversation. She traded unappealing discussion of trade-routes for the equally unappealing discussions of her outfit and her home. She met the small talk with grace and good spirits, biding her time until she could speak with someone of actual importance rather then these minor lords and ladies.