Queenscrown Tourney - Threats (RP log)

Aerion Targaryen: Aerion was, for lack of a better word, lurking. It wasn't that he had some vast nefarious plot, or even remotely sinister intentions. He was just killing time in hiding, waiting the few hours until he might glimpse Ceren's face, the few days until he might compete in a tournament again. Perhaps, too, he was sulking - for the word about the encampment was that there was indeed a Dornish wedding on the horizon, to one Valcour Tyrell. The prince could not but think of the Tyrells as lowborn, and Valcour was rumored to be the most lazy, shiftless, drunken bloom of the lot. Not that they'd ever shared more than a few words - in fact, he'd had a rather positive impression of him yesterday. But yesterday he was not engaged to Ceren Martell. Sulking was dull work, involving a great deal of lounging and no small measure of self-pity. Moreover, it was not befitting a knight of his stature and reknown. And so he was pushing himself away from the outer wall of an inn, meaning to tromp back out to the clearing in which he'd pitched his tent to train. It was, he'd found these past years, the only thing certain to clear his mind.

Aydin Martell: Prince Aerion got but two steps, and then a hand fell upon his arm; the element of surprise was the Dornish advantage, and Prince Aydin gripped Aerion's arm, twisted, and shoved the Targaryen prince full up against the inn's wall. With his face this close, it was impossible to mistake him; Aydin and Ceren looked a great deal alike, though Aydin's features were older, wiser, and narrower, and his eyes were not so black that one could not find the pupil. They glinted, this night, in the starshine, and he pressed Aerion back to the wall, jaw tightening. It was a calm, controlled anger, though, not the rampant, impassioned rage that one might expect to explode out of Ceren. "I hadn't expected to meet you in this manner, your highness," Aydin murmured, leaning in.

Aerion Targaryen: "Nor I you, your Grace," Aerion replied in kind, the jolt from the shove pushing back the hood of his cloak to reveal surprised and suddenly angry violet eyes, the edge of silver-gold hair. "To what do I owe the honor?" He inquired drily, perfectly still save for his free arm, which slipped to a dagger's hilt.

Aydin Martell: "Mind that hand," Aydin warned. "For I am not so foolish as to come alone." With one last, angry shove, Aydin released Aerion and took a step back. The Prince of Dorne was tall and wiry, narrow of figure but the leather armor he wore belied the sinew and muscles beneath. He frowned, and the expression did not suit him, for like his sister, he'd been born with a face for grinning. Some few feet behind him stood Hakan Sand. "I think you know what honor has brought me hence," Aydin went on. "And if you gave a damn at all, you would speed her on to marrying someone else in as quick and fierce a manner as you Targaryens are so famous for."

Aerion Targaryen: He endured the rough treatment, the hint of what might have been disdain on his pale noble features. A glance to Hakan and the hand withdrew from his weapon. He could probably fight his way past them both - but for the first time in his life he'd no desire whatsoever to do battle with the Dornish. "Don't you think," he said, still wry, "that you'd be much closer to your goal if she knew who she was to wed? You'll have to tell her eventually." A task he did not envy. He glanced again to Hakan. "If you're here, who's with her?" The prince disliked seeing the bodyguard without the princess.

Aydin Martell: "She's with the Tyrells," Aydin said pointedly. "While Hakan and I tend to other, more pressing, matters. You just happened along." The Dornish Prince's gaze sharpened, his brow drew down and he kicked at the sand. "And don't you think I know that she ought to be told? Do you think I know her any less than you do, or that I know what's best for her any less than you? You're not a fool, Aerion Targaryen, that much is obvious -- you can't be so blind as to see that you're risking not only Ceren's future, but the future of Dorne, and if you think that it would be a happy sacrifice for her, think again." Aydin was furious, but he less furious at Aerion as he was just angry about the entire situation. "There is more going on here than you know, and none of it is easy -- you're making it harder, as if Ceren being Ceren won't make it difficult enough!" It was in that, last moment, that Aydin betrayed how scared he was for Ceren, and that all he did, all he would do, was for her, and always had been.

Aerion Targaryen: Aerion watched his outburst, frowning, uncertain whether he was speaking to simply get the words out as much as conveying actual information to him. He exhaled, finally, the shared love of Ceren stronger in him and between them in this moment than the ire the Dornishman's words might have provoked. "Your Grace. I would never cause your sister harm, you must believe that. She has made it plain to me that she will marry as your father commands, and I will not attempt to dissuade her, though it kills me. I cannot help loving her, but you may consider that if you yourself had not been so bloody secretive with her, none of this would have happened. I am pleased that it has, for better or for worse. But do not foist the blame on me." People did that enough already, and it was that that bridled.

Aydin Martell: "You are getting the same treatment as she did," Aydin growled. "You are both irresponsible and foolish, and -- believe me -- were it my decision, I wouldn't have kept such secrets from her. But as it stands, I am not the ruling Prince of Dorne and never will be, and it would seem that her father had perfect reasons for manipulating her as he has -- she's in danger, Aerion, and if you love her so much, you'll push her into marrying that Tyrell, because the connection will keep her safe -- safe, at least, until she takes the throne, and then we are at the mercy of the Seven, all of us." He was weary, this Prince, weary of playing Prince and of worrying, and though his eyes did not flash with emotion as Ceren's did, lack of sleep betrayed him. "Dorne is another world, you know that -- there are things roiling in those sands that the rest of Westeros could never know, and now they are awakening."

Aerion Targaryen: "So what you're telling me is that you want my help." He smiled a dragon's smile, couldn't help it, it was in him. But he was concerned for Ceren, at Aydin's word - or rather at his fear, and his sleeplessness. "What exactly do you mean to protect her from, by way of Tyrell?" He wanted to know. "It will displease dragons - any alliance to our vassals would worry my father. Better Tyrell than Lannister, and nevertheless..." He shook his head. "You might have allied with Westeros proper against an internal threat, or at least thought to..." but that was his own hope speaking. "It doesn't matter. She's decided to do as you say and I shan't stop her. I offered her my sword and my oath and she refused. So there is nothing more that you could possibly want of me."

Aydin Martell: "With Westeros proper?" Aydin scoffed, almost laughing aloud. "Surely, you're not suggesting a Targaryen would've married a Dornish princess? And that Dorne would allow a Targaryen anywhere near the Dornish thrown--" He couldn't quite go on, the idea was so preposterous. "--and Tyrell is better, isn't it, than Pentos..." Aydin let the information die between himself and Aerion, who would now understand the scope of the problem. Aydin was telling him that if Ceren ran to him...he had to push her away.

Aerion Targaryen: "Pentos," he repeated, disbelieving, into the empty air that followed. A swirl of implications tumbled over one another in his mind, for Dorne and for Targaryen and for Ceren, too. "How in the name of the Seven did Pentos get anything on Dorne? Never mind..." He didn't need to know, and rather loathed the part of him that desperately wanted to, for that was where his loyalties were less than clear. "I shan't stop her," he repeated. He couldn't if he tried. But if she changed her mind? He didn't know what he'd do. He understood the consequences of such an act, and also of not taking it. How much would this dragon sacrifice for a life lived without regret? How much regret could a single man bear? "For the rest..." he looked into dark eyes, clearly torn and troubled. "May the Seven save Valcour Tyrell if he does her ill."

Aydin Martell: Aydin nodded in full agreement, dropped his chin in a bow, and moved backward to stand by Hakan Sand. "Well met," he said finally, "Your grace."

Aerion Targaryen: A lithe frame that had not seemed tense relaxed. "I wasn't kidding when I offered her my sword, Aydin," he noted as he moved at an angle suggesting departure. "Should you need it. Should she need it." After all, his family had no use for it, and it was a sword-arm to be reckoned with.

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