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#CENOSIS ... a dependent blog for @circa204, featuring PRINCE VHARYN TARGARYEN, HAND OF THE KING / written by lulu (any pronouns). do not interact if you are not affiliated with the group.
NAVIGATION ... introduction / interactions / pinterest
THREAD TRACKER ... starters: ofashandichor, qu1etrage, eclipt1cs, regalience, dr4gonb4ne, wingedtides
when … the coronation. where … the throne room of the red keep. who … @fatedriiiven
there remain a scarce handful of minutes before the crown is placed atop daeron's head. around them, lords and lesser men scurry around them alike, finding their places, speaking to one another in hushed and hurried tones. shoulder-to-shoulder with daenyra, his eyes move from one side of the room to another. daeron is not there — he lingers just beyond, waiting in the wings, to be called forth. it may be this is the last time vharyn and daenyra ever speak in any way that is not informed by her newfound obligation to her father as his closest heir, or his well-wrought oath to the king. there's a strange tightness in his throat that he doesn't want to give way to. when he speaks, it's with a low, near-affectionate tone. " you've done well, these last few days. " they've worked to frame her loss at her bout during the archery competition as less failure and more a demonstration: behold house targaryen's humility, that the newfound crown princess has the grace and good sense to let those of other houses take their stride ahead ... so long as they do not stretch too far beyond their limits. " are you ready? "
the prince has as much subtlety as a bull ─ which is to say, none at all. aelinor is under no false impression that her ability to understand his moods is because of their historied past together. it is her opinion that a prolonged closeness to the royal family has only served to mark her as someone to pile their woes onto and while she enjoys being a source of comfort to the children, she finds it especially vexing when it is vharyn that seeks her out, grousing like his hoary old bitch of a dragon as he settles into the seat beside her. still, aelinor enjoys the rewards of being loved by the crown too much to give up her place in the private box, glancing sideways at the prince as he speaks. ❝ reminisce as you please, so long as remembering is all that you do. if it is your intention to relive it, i will spare your squire the hassle of dressing you in your armor and knock you into the dirt myself. ❞ another benefit of having grown up in the red keep was that she could say such things to him and not fear immediate punishment. ❝ my prince. ❞ she tacks on, just to be an annoyance. having sufficiently irritated him for the moment, aelinor allows her gaze to roam over the crowd, eyes falling onto the bastards of the late king ─ indeed, they have all seemed to gather for the coronation, even the ones hidden in dirt hovels by their clever mothers. it is no wonder the prince is in a mood, though she cannot find it in herself to be too sympathetic. ❝ it is impossible to miss them, though they commit no crime by attending. it would be good for the king to be seen supported by all members of his family, wouldn't you agree ? ❞
his eyes flicker towards aelinor, brow raised, mouth already set into a hard-worn scowl. drily: " did i say i intend to relive it? " he misses it, but daeron's children will pick up the sword and torch where he and daeron set it down; the tourney grounds are more theirs now than his, or daeron's. he doesn't need to say this to her, he knows. the gods must have thought themselves very funny in bringing her back to him, in urging aegon iv to seat her at the small council. no one quite knows how to evoke his ire quite like aelinor, worsened by the fact he knows that she takes a not insignificant thrill in it. to his left, he picks up his drink, just to put it down again — watching, now, the bastards as they mill about below, amidst the crowd or taking up their arms and armor. there is no way to speak of it aloud without letting bitterness edge its way into his voice.
she's right, he knows ... with the view of the board laid out so plainly in front of them, the past of least resistance to rebuilding house targaryen's legacy would be to try and embrace aegon's bastards as their brothers and sisters, to hold them so close to the truth of their legacy that they cannot wiggle out of it. they have spoken about this in bitten-off suggestions and half-truths time and time again. but in them he sees his father's nose, the set of his mouth, his eyes — in them, he sees himself, and so legacy quickly crumbles under the weight of personal pride. they wear the armor she teases him about, now. does she suffer the same reminders, each time she looks at her son?
a muscle in his tight-clenched jaw jumps. " not a crime, no. but it's an insult, an... " a re-opening of a just-stitched wound. she must know this. she's too clever not to know this. daeron refuses to address the matter directly, has spent the last year so stunted by grief that he seems content to ignore the reality of what sits in front of him; a few seats over, daeron sits, overlooking the grounds below from his dais. he is not smiling. vharyn has never seen him look so ... far away. he does not know his brother's mind. he did not ask to be his brother's keeper. " if they're clever enough to embrace daeron, daeron will embrace them. what other choice does he have? "
introverted by nature, lady nymella knows how and when to put a mask of a gracious host to play the part perfectly. when to smile and nod and look interested in minor lord's affairs despite boredom gnawing at her ribs so violently she feels ghost of the pain. it is what must be done, not as much for the sake of the king or the crown as for nymella to make allies wherever possible. she realizes her disposable nature — second born, bore no children to her lord husband, failure — thus connections are all she has left. with a subtle flick of her hand the maid who would help her out of the suffocating cell of her bodice is left standing outside the room and it's just vharyn and herself in the sanctuary of their chamber. dawn, the huge hound, wags her tail as she greets nymella while the tiny little thing resembling more a rat than a dog trots after vharyn, demanding scratches with his squeaky barks. nymella finds it endearing, peaceful. " i'd love to see you as a devoted worshiper of the seven, husband. " her tone is amused as she reaches behind to unfasten the ribbons of her bodice. which proves to be more difficult in her tired state, and with few long steps she closes the distance between them. there's something akin to an affection in her usually stoic face. her palm lays gently against his jaw, thumb brushes the coarse hair of his beard. then nymella turns around, baring the fastened ribbons to him. " the event is nothing more than a spectacle we must get endure with polite smiles through gritted teeth ... think of it as acting. " she says matter-of-factly. her voice takes a playful taunt : " now, will you free me of this prison or are you too drunk and old to remember how? "
he clicks his tongue — dawn does not stir, ultimately unbothered, but at his feet, mouse yips, obnoxious, high-pitched, and so he bends over while nymella makes the way across the room to scratch at his ears. appeased, he skitters away. this is all vharyn is good for, to the little bastard, besides serving as a half-decent spot to sleep atop when nymella's arms are already full with the larger hound's. his head jerks up at the insult, only for any real instinct towards a snide remark to die down at the sight of her. she looks as tired as he feels, now, frayed at the edges, any sharp edges worn down by the ceaseless grate of day-long social puppetry — she's already made her way to him, her hand stroking gently against his jaw. the affection is welcome reprieve. he hums, echoing her: " old? " drunk, certainly. he and agriva must have gone through an entire bottle ( at least ) of dornish red, waiting for daeron to make the call to retire, and by the time the call had come, he'd feared the grand maester would simply sleep where she'd sat herself in the hours previous. with a beleaguered sigh, he squints, to focus on the fastened ties of her stay. he's well-practiced, at least, at this, but he has to go quiet while he loosens each knot, one-by-one, with soft pops! of the fabric signaling their release. once done, his left hand comes to rest on her hip. " it's hard to ... watch him, and wonder if we've already erred on the path to re-strengthening the realm. he basked in it. i worry i've had enough of acting. " it's a foolish thing to say, all things considered. his place as hand is fixed: he'll dance the dance and sing the tune for as long as daeron needs him to, in hopes it will guide him to better judgment.
The feast had proven too much for her palate. It seemed an omen for the rest of the tourney; this manner of sport had not been to her taste in a great many years. For the past hour her fingers had been itching to reach for a tincture in her right sleeve that would settle her; but she would not be seen doing so, and so it must wait until she retired to her chambers for the evening—which, in turn, must wait until the evening's sense of festivity subsided, if not until their new king retired himself. Even now he spoke to Lady Piper of—Gods knew what—but both were smiling as they spoke, and so she let it pass.
When Lord Vharyn settled next to her, Agriva raised her head. A rueful smile stretched the very corner of her lips, amusement rising for a moment. There had been those in the Small Council that had been of her opinion regarding the tourney; the Hand had been one of the first. "Quite," she muttered. She had placed herself in this seat some time back, and would not be lifted from it by anything less than fatal urgency, or the call of rest. "An uneventful evening, in all; everybody is eager to show loyalty before His Grace. Congratulations and condolences offered in the same breath. And to Your Grace as well, I imagine?" She raised a brow. His endurance would surpass hers yet, but every man had limits.
from across the room, he watches as his brother dearest leans in close to better hear what his company is saying. vharyn watches with a careful eye, sees the blush rising in the woman's cheeks, the way her head ducks and hair falls loosely from where it's gathered to her crown. something like revulsion in him rises, however brief, at the sight of daeron's smile, the way it pulls easily across his mouth: it is hard to look at him, and not see the fragmented image of their father, for good and for ill. if all he can do is hope that daeron won't fall prey to aegon's same, more base instincts, vharyn isn't sure what good that hope will do.
he turns his head to look at agriva while she speaks, the imperial raise of her brow, and lets out a low, haughty laugh. " fewer condolences than you'd think. " the funeral alone and the burning of the body had been the pinnacle of the lordships' somber performance. as soon as they'd truly laid aegon to rest, something in the air shifted. away from fear — towards relief, and after that, resentment. he curls his fingers around the arm of the chair, gripping tightly, before relaxing. " we'll see the worst of them in the coming days. his bastards run amok like rats aboard a beached ship. " the joust, the melee, crammed into the corners of the pavilions, back-to-back with true lords... they're everywhere vharyn turns his head, as long as he has the sense to look.
aselle freezes. no more different than a rabbit caught under a hungry hunter's aim, shoulders tensing in a terrible way. the young lady had stood awkwardly by her mother, nodding along at the opportune moments presented to her and graciously allowing her to be led away upon request. she had hoped to find the lord dayne to stay close to, or perhaps prince saerys who had always been such a dear friend to her. she finds company, yes, although she had not meant to stumble into the lord hand's path. her sister's husband had never been unkind to her, but the ever-present frown across his features made him seem especially stern, which fed her constant anxiety of judgement.
she could not imagine herself capable of a single thought that could be of interest to prince vahryn, much less something that was of such crucial importance that she should warrant no interruption whatsoever. i shall endeavour to do my best, aselle promises to herself, though lacking the conviction of it at all. "i... i am so happy to come to king's landing, your highness." she felt like a droplet of water in the vastness that surrounded starfall. "i have brought many pairs of slippers — a foolish amount, perhaps — in preparation for the events, in hopes that there should be dancing." her lips quirk upwards, a small stupid smile across her features. "will there be dancing?"
it's always been of some amusement to him that whatever mean streak nymella so easily flaunts when she feels it convenient has a far weaker hold on her younger sister. each time he's come to speak with aselle for anything longer than a passing exchange, vharyn finds himself wondering if they're kin at all — worsened, inarguably, by the simmering suspicion that the source of his wife's venom may have been spurred on by her marriage to him, rather than some innately born trait. such, according to many histories, is the corruptive nature of the dragon.
it still surprises him when she speaks (and what great relief that she does, for beesbury is turning tail to go and chase after a passing servant carrying a great pitcher of wine clearly intended for the king) and is clearly twisting herself into nervous knots along the length of a rope; his brow lowers, mirroring her small smile, but that's as far as his attempt at something like familiarity or assurance go. " there may be dancing, if you know where to look. but you should expect the rest of the fare laid out — the joust, the melee, the racing ... they don't pose much of an opportunity for displaying the slippers you've brought. " briefly, an expression like true amusement passes over his face, but it's gone in a heartbeat. he nods, once, towards where aselle had been standing, before, shoulder-to-shoulder with her house. " how fares your mother? "
mercy must needs stretch her legs, he thinks, as he treks across the tourney grounds and toward the royal tent. save for courtesies he has little reason to linger, and the evening has stretched on farther than anticipated already; he has never much cared for the preening bravado of jousts. he resolves to offer his respects swiftly and return to the kennels — even at a glance they seemed a poor place for a direwolf. it is on this matter that brannon’s thoughts linger as he enters the tent, only to find his path derailed once more.
the stark lord inclines his head in a show of courtesy, brows knitting together as he takes in the request, before settling again in understanding. " of course. " he angles his body into the space beside the hand, broad frame a subtle barrier to any that might think to intrude. eyes scan the room as his hands fold behind his back, and when he speaks again it is with the cadence of a conversation already well underway. " the last levies were hard taken. " he does not raise his voice, but it is clear enough for its purpose. " our stores dwindle after winter's lot, and the thaw has only now begun. " this is less an act than perhaps lord vharyn had in mind when he beckoned him over. ah well, brannon thinks, his face a mask of pressing concern, let it be blamed on those dull northern senses.
the beesbury lord, if he still lingers, finds no easy way to intrude. he continues all the same, as though he may speak on northern shortages for as long as courtesy demands. and he can, come to think of it. perhaps even longer than courtesy demands. " we are told the realm prospers, my lord hand. i have little cause to doubt it with such a fine display as this. " a pause, just long enough for implication to settle. " it is only that such prosperity seems to lose its way somewhere beyond the neck. "
it would be his fortune, vharyn supposes, that his rescuer is one of the stark children: self-serious, grim-minded folk, even when it comes to matters of celebration. what sets them apart from the rest of westeros is that northern borne nature, and a distinct inability to pretend at the capability to possess anything else. in forty-nine years, he's had a handful of conversations with, perhaps, a handful of their house that have edged anywhere beyond cold-born solemnity. lukewarm enjoyment, maybe. beesbury is clever enough to take the hint and slip away — a relief for which his shoulders only loosen fractionally. the matter of politics is at least familiar. his jaw works as he listens, considering, eyes downcast, and mouth set into a grim line.
it doesn't elude him — nor the rest of the small council — that a celebration to this degree, at such a time, is like to leave a bitter taste on the tongue of the people. they had celebrated, had they not, when aegon iv had died? even he can't pretend that after the late king's decline he hadn't felt something like relief unfurl in his chest at the thought of it all finally being over. in the wake of his passing, he had hoped, albeit marginally, that daeron would not mirror his father's worst tendencies towards self-aggrandization. here they are. they laugh, and dance, and drink, and in the north, their people — daeron ii's people — starve.
he meets brannon's clear tone with his own, but keeps his voice low, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. this can be a conversation between them, no need for in his hand, his wine swirls in its cup with the movement, and vharyn looks down like he's only just remembered it's there at all. eventually, he lets out a beleaguered sigh, exhaling through his nose. " it's been some years since i rode tethis beyond the eyrie. since viserys ii, " he admits. his role as hand has kept him tethered to the red keep. now, what he can remember of the north comes hazily, blurred at the edges. it had been winter, then. brittle-cold. coolly: " my brother... longer than that. " a beat. " what, stark, would prosperity look like beyond the neck, if you had your say? "
the gesture is subtle, but she immediately catches on. of course she does! she has always been good at noticing things others are quick to dismiss, turning it into a game she has long since mastered, that of watching and listening and piecing together truth from fragments. at her leisure, she crosses the threshold of her family’s tent. the cup in her hand is half empty — or half full, depending on her mood, and tonight ( for now ) she is feeling rather cheerful. after all, the drinks are flowing, the company more interesting than it has been in moons. what is not to like? lilac gaze lands on the man who had been about to approach vharyn, recognition bright in her features. not of the man itself, no, but of his type: tedious, far too eager, impossible to escape once trapped in his vicinity. how delightful. words reach her, conspiratorial, and her expression shifts, amusement tugging at the corners of her lips. ❝ if it isn’t my favorite uncle! ❞ the princess exclaims, never one to be silent, or muted, or understated.
viserra steps in seamlessly, closing the distance and effectively creating a barrier between him and his approaching doom. ❝ i have looked for you everywhere tonight, ❞ smile in full bloom and she’s brightened, playing along in wicked mischief. she speaks of nothing and everything, turning idle gossip into important matters ( have you heard that lady merryweather is desperately trying to secure a betrothal for her daughter and you will not believe who asked me to dance and one lord tried telling me the history of honey ) that he surely cares little for, nodding at intervals, laughing as if her uncle were answering with the cleverest statement she has ever heard. all the while, she keeps an eye on the prize. the lord lingers, he hesitates, then drifts away, finally vanquished. instantly her act dims, yet the poorly concealed mirth in her gaze remains. ❝ beesbury, was he not? ❞ she asks lightly. ❝ you seemed moments away from pledging yourself to the citadel just to avoid him. ❞
there is no one better for the work of avoiding tedium by using tedium quite like viserra. he is swept up full-force by the wave of her sociability as she begins and carries a conversation with next-to-no input from him beyond the occasional mmm or nod of his head. it doesn't taking long for beesbury to relinquish any hope he might've had of having any interaction; away he goes, vharyn sees, slipping back into the crowd. he turns his attention, now, to viserra, brow lowered, mouth pulling into a smile. in the wake of her victory, that overenthusiastic energy she'd so cleverly wielded before is gone, replaced with a much more subdued — but not unpleasant — mask.
" yes, " he drawls, flatly. " if he had managed to get a word in, i may have. last we spoke, he was petitioning for an earlier tax reimbursement from the agricultural estates and ended up dragging the matter out for nearly an hour. i believe we gave it to him just to get him to shut up. " he tries to keep his laugh as quiet as he can. he doesn't need to regale viserra of unbearable company; she's well-liked enough, in court, and so he's certain she's familiar. " you have my gratitude, for now. have you been enjoying the celebrations? i'm surprised you've made it this close to your father. " he looks over his shoulder at the outline of his brother, who has his head turned down at such an angle that vharyn can't entirely tell what it is he might be talking about. " i'd have thought you would end up on the other side of the grounds, by now. "
saerys knew of his father's plans. despite the councils efforts to wean him against the idea of a big event in his name. (there was a secret passage saerys often liked to use when sneaking from the keep against orders, one that passed the small council's chambers, where he heard the rousing discussion and decided to stay for a bit — just for fun.) his father had decided that his celebrations would continue. saerys was on their side for once, not wishing to deal with the whole of westeros on their front step. to entertain various lordlings who decided it was high time they talked his ear off about one thing or another and he thought he was doing a good job at doing so — cloak's hood over his head and slipping past everyone before they took notice of him. he had meant to slip from the grounds all together, to avoid the chatter of drunkards sipping arbor gold they could not afford. but saerys makes the mistake of turning his head toward his family's tent and catches the eye of his uncle and the lord saerys knows his uncle cannot stand approaching him. knowing not to ignore the man's wave of his hand, saerys grumbles despite the preen of attention it gives him that his uncle had beckoned him forward. "enacting your title upon me, uncle? i did not realize you had so much shame." though there is a curve of his lips upward, the beginning of a smirk, "what if i decided to cause an uproar? do you think that i could slink away before lord beesbury decides talk your ear off? or perhaps i would just stand back and watch as they buzz about their lord hand. it would be quite amusing, would it not?"
to his great relief, his gesture works. as beesbury closes in, vharyn is already turning his back, in favor of setting eyes on his nephew — saerys slinks over to him, upon command, in the way that dogs slink away from the dinner table after they've snatched up something they weren't meant to eat, and got caught in the act. when he speaks, it's with none of the timidity that a well-trained hound would otherwise possess.
vharyn mouth presses into a thin, unamused smile (more a grimace) like he wants to pretend at finding the idea of saerys dragging beesbury back amusing, but simply cannot. " in this case, it is not your uncle asking, it is your lord hand commanding. i hope you're clever enough to know the difference between the two. "
he doesn't need to hope, he knows; when pressed upon, saerys can usually be trusted to bend to the will of his house, his rank, the ways in which he is expected to dance the dance, sing the tune ... even in the midst of otherwise unremarkable matters. he's far better at itthan aelora, perhaps a little worse than daenyra. in time, vharyn hopes, he'll improve further.
they face the murmuring crowd of people, conversation rolling across the room in waves. beesbury has found someone else to attach himself to, thank the gods. " well done. how lucky i was to catch you, when you should've been easy to find in the first place. " his absence hasn't gone entirely unnoticed. " your father was asking after you, and you were nowhere to be found. my favor in return for yours will be that i don't drag you up there to speak with him. "
She hid in the corner, away from prying eyes that looked like they wanted to eat her whole. She wasn't necessarily concerned about her appearance but more so for possibly saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. She was not smart enough to keep up a decent conversation unless she found it interesting and didn't want to risk making herself look stupid to someone.
Walking around, though, she was surprised as someone beckoned her over to them and, with a small smile, gave them a curtsy. She knew what was happening, she was being used as a scapegoat for their relief. "My sibling wanted to speak with you about something, your highness," she said, her acting skills on point. "I dare not interrupt unless it was important, I fear they need your opinion on something" she said as she looked at the lord he was talking to. "And I dare not assume a mere lord would force a prince to stay, no?"
he's rescued, of all the possibilities, by a tully, who in his head he has always attributed as being too meek to be particularly useful. his eyes slide over to beesbury, who has slowed in his approach with a certain uneasy nature to his gait. the opportunity is enough to get vharyn what he needs, and he seizes upon it.
with a sharp nod of brief acknowledgement — the briefest he can be bothered to afford, if he's allowing himself to be honest on the matter — vharyn wordlessly excludes himself from the prospect of an unendurable conversation to a more tolerable one. he steps further away with azalea, to the middle of the tent, where the throngs of people gathered to pay their respects are thicker, their voices swallowd up by a choir of others. he turns back to his company current company. his smile is barely-there, adequately polite, and exceedingly brief. " i'll not pretend the act was enough to warrant real repayment, but the favor has been noted. " a beat. " have you been here, the entirety of the time? i thought i'd seen your sister, but... " evidently, not her.
a cup of dornish red lazily hangs from her fingers, strolling into house targaryen's tent as if seeking for something stronger, capable of dampening the annoyance those lords brought upon her. a year in king's landing has aelora somehow yearning for essos, that freedom no creature in this land could ever taste.
" gods... strike me down already " violet eyes find her uncle, vharyn, yet she hardly expresses any emotion. his sibling seemed to care for the man, love him even, but aelora knew better than to seek comfort in such man.
reluctant, the princess sauntered closer to her father's brother, lips curled in a malicious grin as he spoke of a favor. " well, what will you offer in me exchange, uncle? " it was rude, perhaps even childish to expect something, but that was the most fun aelora could have that night. " the king's hand.... running away from a beesbury , how amusing " a chuckle escaped her, soft and discreet. " perhaps i should summon the kingguard? "
tangling with his niece, vharyn thinks, is not unlike tangling with a wild beast — with only a knife in hand and hopes that one will make will make it out alive. the cup of wine she has in hand doesn't entirely instill confidence in him that either of them will make it out of the conversation unscathed. he keeps his head down, staring down at the deep burgundy of his own drink. when he speaks, he keeps his tone even enough, but there's a mean-edged smile pulling at the corner of his mouth: " i don't know that the kingsguard can make an arrest on the basis of my dislike for conversation about flowers that bloom during spring in the reach alone. "
perhaps they would have, for aegon iv, who would at times sentence men to death for standing in a way that he thought was odd — too much pressure on the right foot and not the left, so on. but what will he offer her, for successfully dissuading beesbury, who has turned to find another compatriot to attach himself to? he can't exactly offer her beesbury's head.
vharyn can hear the man's obnoxious, nasally voice to his left, and decides he'd still choose his exiled, ill-reputed niece over that. " your uncle's affection? " he snorts; that wouldn't do either of them much good. " a barrel of dornish red? what could you want? "
when … april 9th — the beginning of the joust. where … the king's private box in the stands overlooking the joust. who … @cancrorum.
with the squire's joust, archery, racing, axe-throwing, and the melee concluded, what remains of the tourney itself is two agonizing days of jousting before the coronation. vharyn is having some difficulty discerning of the buzzing in the air is from the violence that has laid itself across the event during the melee and what they're about to witness, or the fact it all just doesn't feel ... right. when he settles next to aelinor, he doesn't say anything, at first, watching the first bout pull their horses into position, their squires hastening across the field to fetch lances and swords, tighten saddle straps, adjust helmets. he enjoyed these times more when he could participate — when it was the crowded weight of armor on his shoulders, a morningstar clenched in his hand, the nervous movement of his mount beneath him, when he had something more to prove to his brother, his father, every other. now? there are no words for the brittle feeling in his bones he just can't shake. he tilts his head towards the master of whispers, and speaks through nearly-gritted teeth. " i remember these days. " they were younger, once, just as foolish as the men down in the dirt, now, waiting to hit each other hard and fast with no other option in mind besides victory. a beat. lowly: " have you seen them? " the bastards. they're everywhere. he turns his head and feels like he sees at least one of his father's ill-begotten progeny.
when … april 5th — opening night of the tourney. where … their chambers. who … @demiseblooms
it's more relief he feels than anything else when the heavy doors to their rooms thud shut behind him. the silence is no small mercy. an entire day of talking about and around and over the matter of the coronation, the organizational logistics of the tourney, the polite hellos and whats and whos. they'll have no choice but to rise early in the morning and return to it for the squire's joust, to watch fools who can hardly fumble their way around a sword make pretend at being knights of real virtue. he can hear a voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like daeron, saying that he shouldn't be too hard on them — but perhaps that's because he'd endured the entire ride back listening to daeron reassure them both that the whole affair of the tourney and coronation will be well worth the headache that's already beginning to bloom at the base of his skull. he turns his head to the side and doesn't feel so much as hear the way his neck pops. with a groan, vharyn turns to face nymella, and collapses into the nearest chair, looking her up and down. apropos of nothing, drily: " if the gods can hasten the next few days, and just ... move us to the coronation, i'll dedicate the rest of my life to repenting, and utterly worshipful of the seven. " he drums his fingers against the arm of the chair ; he may be a little drunk. " what did you think of it all? "
when … april 5th — opening night of the tourney. where … house targaryen's tent. who … @ecinoes, for agriva.
he eventually makes his way through the sea of incorrigible small talk and well-meaning banter to settle next to agriva, closer to the king. the evening has died down, some. his brother is entertaining a woman that vharyn, at this point, knows he should recognize, but does not. he sinks into his seat, hands folded over his stomach, and watches the room : servants flitting to-and-fro, carrying pitchers and cups in, dishes out, the roast boar over the fire still smoking hours after the fact, up and through the gullet of the tent overhead. it smells pleasantly of burning wax and heavy herbs. when he leans heavy onto his right side to speak with her, the wood of the chair creaks with the motion. if there's anything to be gleaned from her expression, the hand of the king won't be catching it. " well, " vharyn rasps, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, like he can't help himself, " have you endured enough for the day? "
when … april 5th — opening night of the tourney. where … the tourney grounds. who … @belcvd, for sheira blackwood.
vharyn sees that her hand is empty of a drink and has the good grace — or sense, perhaps — to bring her something to fill it. he's had enough dornish red to get him relaxing at the shoulders and spine but not enough to otherwise dull the senses. he's even tilting at the edge of his earlier, more prickly mood into something like good. they had all warned daeron that a gathering like this would come at significant cost to the realm, at a time when when a coin needs to stretch farther than it typically would for the people of westeros ... but daeron had dismissed it, to the quiet woe of his hand, and perhaps the rest of his small council. the king had called it a necessarily pain, the sting of the thorn, there and then gone, with a pinprick of blood and nothing more to serve as a reminder. he offers her a goblet with a quick look, and positions himself so they are shoulder-to-shoulder, looking out over the number of people milling from tent-to-tent. they are allowed to be joyous, for now. only time and the seven will tell what is to come upon the morrow. " your accounting for the coin to make this real, where it all would come from, which hands it would pass through ... here it is. are you satisfied? "
when ... april 5th — opening night of the tourney. where ... house bolton's tent. who ... @stxrborns, for riona bolton.
he finds her in the midst of his early rounds to the attending houses, thanking them for their attendance and accepting their simultaneous congratulations for the ascension of daeron ii, and the apologies — however real or not — with regard to the death of his father. it's almost a relief to start a conversation in a similar vein on his own terms, this time. " i was sorry to hear of your brother's passing. " it's a distinctly uncomfortable way to begin a conversation, but he leans more on precedent and politics than he does on comfort, and precedent calls for the acknowledgment of what would otherwise be considered a tragedy in polite company. when he'd been given the news that jorron died, it came as a surprise. he'd known the man in passing — met him on the tourney field in his younger years, sparred with him in melees, remembers, vaguely, that they'd shared a few cups of wine at some sort of dinner. it had been a sudden passing, or so vharyn had been told, one which the maesters could not prevent. the targaryens had sent a letter, or something along the lines, acknowledging house bolton's period of mourning in the wake of such a great loss. " it must be difficult to be here, without him. "
