the unbowed bow.

"With an impatient mistress," Valcour remarked with the arch of an eyebrow. Teasing the princess even as his indolent stature straightened and the spread of his riding boots against the soil of the practice yard steadied with the lift of the bow. A slight cant of his chin as the arrow was knotched and drawn, one eye narrowing upon the target as the Targaryens and Tullys conversed on the edges of his vision.

All of this took up the space of a few seconds, no great effort seeming to go into the set up and aiming of his borrowed arrow before he let it fling with a hissing twang and directed his regard back to the princess before he could even see how it landed. Apparently, he didn't care.

The arrow, however, had burrowed on the right outter curve of the bullseye.

"Beautiful work," he deduced, speaking of the bow, while offering it back to the princess. "Shall I fetch your arrow for you, your grace?" It was a bit drawled and bit droll, that offer, accompanied by a hint of a smirk.

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T y r e l l

"Do you think you won any hearts with that arrow, Ser?" The Princess countered, her small hand wrapping fingers around the bow's grip and lifting it from his palm. Her chin tilted a mocking fraction, but her eyes glittered with amusement, and her mouth betrayed a smile.

"Because if not, it can stay where it flew. My arrows are all heartwon."

But she'd conceded his shot with a nod, which suggested she'd been impressed, at least, with his easy manner over bow and aim; she laughed, quietly but undeniably, too, for the silliness of arrows winning hearts. She shook her head at it; arrows were for piercing hearts, not winning them.

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M a r t e l l

"Then I shall be sure to discover an aim that will win yours, your grace," Valcour's courtly manners immediately improvised, and characteristically trodden upon by comedy. "Then beg and borrow a Dornish bow so that I might have half a chance at succeeding." A beat and curious, teasing tilt of his head. "Isn't your horse growing impatient? Or is your heart debating it's possessor?"

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T y r e l l

His boldness burned another blush into her cheeks and she straightened up a bit, glanced toward the stable, and then her eyes were on him again.

It looked as though she wasn't sure how to respond for a moment, but then she quickly parried, nose crinkling with mock confusion, "My heart tells me she is my horse, Ser Valcour. Why ever would it say different?"

That she'd resorted to a play on his own words to escape did not sit well with her, but neither had the teasing curiosity he'd just shot her. Unconsciously, her eyes had spilled past his shoulder and over to the Targaryen Prince -- or to the Lord of the Trident -- or their two children, impossible to say, but back in that direction, and then she summoned her attention back to the Tyrell before her.

"All the same, Hakan has probably saddled her incorrectly, so--" She sank in an abbreviated curtsey, despite wearing britches, and slung her bow over her shoulder. "-- I should go see to it. Unless you'd like to fetch the arrow, my heart, my bow and take a dashing shot all in only a few short seconds -- it ought to wait until until a better opportunity, I think."

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M a r t e l l

"Yes, I agree," he informed her with mock gravity. As, afterall, he had not yet decided whether or not he was going to agree to his and her father's wish of their betrothal. Not that the princess was yet aware of it even being under discussion, or that the decision now rested upon Val's shoulder (or would up until the time his father got righteously fed up with him again). "I bid you good day, your grace, and fare riding."

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T y r e l l

“I owe the Princess Ceren my thanks, then,” Aerion replied to Edword, and glanced Ceren’s way once more. She was in conference with some Lord or another, apparently a good shot. Aerion bristled at their closeness, at a perceived threat to something that wasn’t his to feel possessiveness for. Especially not now, when Ceren had clearly just discovered Lyrianne’s existence, and by extension Marysa. Marysa, whose brother he was addressing. Right. He smiled to the man, and set his daughter down. While he was there he spoke to the little Tully girl.

‘Uncle,’ she called him, though he’d not married her aunt. Was it valuable for her to perceive a relationship between them, though he was practically disowned and had shamed Marysa almost beyond repair? Apparently. “Hello, Kyra,” he smiled. “It’s very nice to meet you.” But no answer to her question – he hadn’t answered Lyrianne’s plea to that effect, either. “Lyra, why don’t you be a good girl and bring your cousin to meet your mother?”

“But I want to play with you!”

He sighed. “I know, sweeting. But I have to go, the hours hasten away and the road grows no shorter for the delay.” It was clearly a difficult thing for Aerion to disentangle himself from his child’s demands.

Luckily, the girl suddenly thought of something. “Oh, cousin! You must meet my brother Caeron!” And she grabbed Kyra by the hand and started pulling her towards the Red Keep.

Aerion rose, shrugged to Edword. “She’s fickle.”

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Edword who had tried to keep his tongue in his head simply nodded along with the conversation going on, but was looking at Kyra, inwardly horrified. It was one thing to recount who was part of your family in private at your daughters begging, but it's another thing in public.

"Sorry your highness, she's very..." He tried to think of a word quickly. "loving."

Kyra, un-fazed by the incident at all had run off with her cousin who was faster than her. Edword looked rather stressed for a moment as his daughter gladly ran out of his sight. However this presented him with an opportunity that he otherwise wouldn't have had. He looked over Aerion and tried, for a second to see what it was his sister saw in this man. It would probably forever be beyond him.

"If you'll excuse me your Highness, I'll go look after them."

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It was probably something to do with the fact that Aerion rode a dragon and was rumored to be the greatest knight in Westeros. But that was just Aerion's hunch, and no one had asked him. "Your daughter's good nature speaks very highly of you, Ser Edword," he noted, before the man departed. "And it seems I once again owe you thanks. We shall encounter one another again, one day, I'm certain." He nodded dismissal and, with a last, almost longing look to Ceren, headed for the stables, and Cedryk, and the long road north.

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