Goodbye?

Posted on Wed Aug 25th, 2021 @ 11:16am by Ser Renn Baratheon & Lord Alfaric Dondarrion
Edited on on Mon Aug 30th, 2021 @ 3:02pm

Mission: The Iron Price
Location: The Dornish Manse
Timeline: Morning, 4th Day of the 12th Moon,404 AC

[The Dornish Manse]
[Morning]
[4th Day of the 22nd Moon,404 ACl]

Alfaric Dondarrion had no love for the Martells. But it was not a personal hatred. It was born of duty and precedent. The Martells were, simply put, some of the finest warriors the Six Kingdoms knew and they had left their bloody mark on Storm's End more times than the Stomalnders would admit. The Lannisters could pay for excellence. The Stormlanders were determined and austere. The North fought with ferocity. But the Dornish simply were a force to be reckoned with. And thus, the Baratheon lieutenant and Lord of the Marches was wary as he and Ser Renn Baratheon approached the gates of the Martell Manse.

Renn had bewildered Brannis who scarcely understood his odd little brother anyhow, when he'd said he was going to the Dornish. "What in Gods name for?" Brannis had asked. Renn had just blinked and ridden it out in silence until his brother capitulated. But his capitulation came with a caveat Renn hadn't expected. "Take Dondarrion." Because Dondarrion was, for all intents and purposes, the better swordsman, if not one of the best swordsmen, among the Baratheons.

Renn agreed with his own counter-caveat.

Now they stood at the gates of the Martell land within King's Landing. Renn's green eyes rest with unemotive patience on a guard with caramel skin that reminded him of his half-brother and half-sister. "I am Ser Renn Baratheon," he stated with a quiet strength, "To see the Lady Ashara." Renn then stepped respectfully back, his eyes on the guard. Alfaric Dondarrion looked on, focused on nothing, simmering bewilderment about what on Earth could draw his young lord to parlay with the Martells.

"What business could you have with Lady Ashara?" the guard asked in a heavily accented voice. "She is a woman promised."

"I am not here to steal her virtue, Sir," Renn stated plainly.

Just behind the guard, sitting on a bench in the sparse garden, sat Ashara, her large brown eyes cast down at a piece of woodwork in her hands. She had been widdling away at it all morning with a short and slender dagger which Aaron had given her when they entered the city. He said it was a poor use of the instrument, but she hardly cared. She knew how to use it dull or sharp.

When she heard the sound of a Westerosi accent not of Dorne, she looked up with an immediate curiosity and saw one of their house guardsmen conversing with the Baratheon man she'd met in the palace gardens those days past. She stood up and approached, her ornate salmon-colored dress dancing across the paved ground.

"Ser Renn!" she remarked with some volume through the bars of the gate as the guard gazed at her in disapproving silence.

Renn bowed with deep politeness, while Alafric's was a curt and less trusting stiffly done nod. Renn's gaze shifted from the guard to the lady. "Lady Ashara," Renn said, "Good Morning."

"He comes to parlay, lads," Alfaric said definitively to the irate-looking guards, "Not to quarrel. He has no weapon." Alfaric folded his arms tightly across his chest.

"Then he should parlay with the Prince or one of his so-" the guard cut in, but was stopped by a gentle touch on the arm from Ashara.

"Ser Ren is my friend." she said with a smile. "He would never hurt me. And if he did, I could teach him the lesson myself. Now go."

"My Lady." the guard said, clearly cowed, and then he moved away from the gate to a respectable distance. He would not leave, for this was his posting, but he would do as she bid him. In Dorne, after all, women were not seen to be as weak as they were in King's Landing.

Ashara opened the gate and showed the men inside. She led them over to the bench where she had been sitting and lowered herself onto it.

"It's good to see you. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

Renn smiled his pensive way. "The politics of the Council weren't kind to Dorne... and my brother was..." Renn hissed a sigh with a shake of his head. "Less charming than he thinks he is." He twitched a small smile with a subtle head shake, "Its a small consolation prize, considering what was at stake but..." Renn pulled from a pocket a soft but thick leathered glove, quite long, with protective padding atop it. "For the novice Falconer?"

"The politics of Westeros are never kind to Dorne, it seems. And your brother has been the worst one." Ashara said sharply, but without any accusation for his part. She grabbed the glove he offered, examining it with a small smile. "But thank you. This is a very thoughtful gift."

"I'll make no apologies for Brannis..." Renn replied, "I can only say that his feelings are not mine." Though Renn knew if he even looked backward there would be one very much in Brannis camp. The Dondarrions had been elevated to Nightsong, and Nightsong suffered mightily in the wars with Dorne.

She turned the glove around in her golden brown hands, her eyes scanning it as her mind worked.

"Do you know if they falcon in the Trident?" she asked, looking at him softly.

Renn considered this. And he honestly didn't know, "If not, perhaps you will bring it into fashion?" Renn replied, reading between the lines. "Is this what your soldier means? You're promised to a Riverman?"

Ashara frowned. The people of the northern kingdoms really didn't care about Dorne or its interests.

"Yes, Renn. I am to marry Lord Jonah Tully." she said, silently admitting that this arrangement might have made her the queen if things had not gone the way they went. "But I have no love for fish, for the cold, or for those who hate my people."

Renn nodded once, with a note of somberness. Tully was a good man. But she somehow deserved more. At least, Renn reckoned, she would find respect with her future husband, if not love.

"We do not hate you," Renn countered with his rumble of gentle thunder voice. "Dorne is poorly understood. Is all," He sighed. But that was the fact of it, to him. "Dorne keeps its distance like... a cold marriage. Happy in its gardens, suffering the odd diplomatic functions," Renn knew he was painting in broad strokes. But despite him bearing swords and arrows in vocation, Renn preferred peace.

But he was also neither a diplomat nor good at speeches. His forest green eyes rested on Ashara with both frankness and kindness. "Dorne likes being the outsider when it suits them. Yes? They stand unbent." Renn chewed his lip for a moment, "And bluster when it's thrown back in their face." He narrowed one eye with a frank irreverence, his mouth tilting into a smile, "And I think you are thicker-skinned than you are letting on, My Lady. I wager... you will walk in to Riverrun as a force of nature." He smiled, "I imagine you'll have the Rivermen kissing your feet in a fortnight."

"You sound like you think the venom your brother spat was caused by our actions." she responded, rather more fiery than she had ever been with him. He was right, it was in her blood, no matter how gently she and her mother typically spoke; they were women of Dorne. "Was it our fault when the Aegon came with his dragons to take what was not his and was rebuffed? Was it us when the Mountain raped Elia Martell, killed her, and murdered her children? Was it is when that same monster, under the orders of the Lannisters, crushed Oberyn Martell's head between his hands?"

Her breast was heaving now that she was clearly upset; her voice was raised and she was beginning to gesture aggressively.

"Do you mean to tell me, Ser Renn, that if we were better dogs we would get more scraps from your Lord Brother's table?"

Renn remained more solid, more stoic. He had to more consciously keep his arms loose at his sides instead of following his instinct- to cross them over his chest. "Are you implying Dorne is worth more than any other House of the Realm? I didn't murder Elia Martell. Neither did our new King. And you didn't murder the people of Nightsong. You may have stood against Aegon, but you went unconquered. We were forced to submit. Was Dorne leveled by the Golden Company? Did Dorne lose thousands trying to dislodge that lunatic boy Joffrey? Did Dorne lift a finger to depose The Mad King? Are you, even now, allowed to refer to your lord as a Prince of Dorne, not merely a Lord?" He raised his chin, "You have a long memory of insults against your Kingdom." He sighed and raised his brows, "When have you lifted a finger to aid that Kingdom when it was in crisis?"

She looked at him, her face warm enough that he could likely sense it, and communicated her anger with a furious stare.

“Is this why you came here, Ser Renn? To ensure that we were properly insulted?” She asked, shoving the lovely leather glove he’d gifted her against his chest and holding them there. “You have done your duty then. I think you won’t have to suffer the gracelessness of Dorne much longer. I, on the other hand, will still have my fish.”

Renn neither moved nor made action to take the glove she held against his chest, "No. I'm not trying to insult you. I am saying that Dorne isn't any more a victim of Westeros than any other Kingdom. Its quick to blame other Kingdoms for its failures. You are not being fair. You point out the slights but you glaze over the graces you are granted over other Kingdoms," He stepped back and let the glove fall, "If we cannot speak plainly, I will go. Friends speak plainly." Renn bowed politely.

“If you think the true version of history matters here, then you’re a fool.” Ashara said. “What matters is blood and pride in the games of men.”

She watched as he bowed and then turned her eyes toward the guard standing ready nearby. He seemed on edge, for obvious reasons.

“And neither of us have the power to play these games. You must play a different one with your sword, I with the assets given to a woman.” She said, then her brown eyes glittered over him, her muscles starting to relax. “I suppose this is a fight for Kings and Princes now?”

"I suppose I am a fool, then," Renn attested. "But given the choice, I wouldn't play Prince or King either way. Power doesn't appeal to me. I'm too..." he paused with hesitance, "The word my brother uses is boorish. And I choose my battles too sparingly. But I am more complex than a sword."

“Then let us agree to speak not of politics. Lady Ashara said decisively, looking at her slender companion. “Will you remain in the City or are you to return to Storms end now that the Council is finished?”

Renn's nod was hesitant but he did so. "I hope to remain but... if the new King has no need of my services, I will return home. Likely, to rule in my brother's stead while he stays in King's Landing. My father is too ill to govern." His melancholic glance surveyed the Dornish woman chastely. "How long is your travel to Riverrun?"

“Not terribly long, I am told, though my brother seems to think Lord Jon might be remaining in the city to serve on the Small Council. I rather hope that is the case. At least I have family and friends here.” Ashara answered with a pensive expression. “Do you think you have a good chance at becoming a night of the Kingsguard? Do you know Aethan Valeryon?“

Renn nodded once, "I do not know the new King well. But we are acquainted," Renn said. He was terrible at lying at he knew it. Better to speak a half-truth than a full lie. "The Velaryons have cousins within the Stormlands." He chewed the inside of his mouth, "In truth Lady, I do not know what will become of me. If Brannis sits the Council, the duties of Storm's End would fall to myself or my sister." He raised a brow, "Brien is the wiser in matters of council. And my Mother will almost certainly return." He smiled small, "I have a one-track personality... I wait until all avenues are exhausted."

He glanced at the burly guard and then back at his Dondarrion escort. "If you do go to Riverrun... perhaps... you'll write me?"

Ashara smiled brightly at that question. Renn was sweet, like a boy she once knew growing up. Most men have no interest in friendship with her and only wanted for something romantic. She knew that he was different, and it was something of a relief to her. “Yes, I will write you, Renn.”

That pleased Renn and it showed in the dash of a smile past his usual pensive melancholia. "I should return to Baratheon holdings. Your guardsmen have been patient enough."

“Farewell then, Ser Renn; and to your friend.” She said, looking to Dondarrion with swift brown eyes. As they departed, she watched from the bench as the guard who had been watching from a distance followed them to the gate to let them out. If she and Renn grew closer, she suspected it would be best that her guards would be Tully men very soon.