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[sub]Interacting with Myriah Targaryen and Gabriel Martell [@Emma] [@The Nebulous][/sub][/center]

Toran watched the chaos of the room with a grin, discarding his peach sometime along the way. Satisfied that his cousin was safe around the bear, he took to flicking his attention lazily between whomever happened to be bantering at the time. He couldn’t help but laugh at the ordeal, a low sound, barely noticeable if one weren’t looking to see his chest bouncing with each silent chuckle. Watching the wards, one after another, try to intimidate each other was a spectacle in itself; it seemed to him that they each wanted total control of a situation where there was none to be had. He had to admit, their devotion to making enemies was impressive - but he had to wonder, why expend the effort on violent first impressions?

At this, Toran was actually glad to have come as a guard and not a ward. He would not have had the energy to maintain such ferocity. Of course, this also meant he was not as free to voice his opinion on the matter as he would like; although, the Tyrell guard seemed to overlook that idea in favour of raising his hackles like a dog on a leash. This was the cycle of the room for a while: A snide remark, a poorly-veiled threat, and a ward or two trying to manage the situation, no doubt in an attempt to garner favour as the honourable one. And then the cycle would repeat, as sure as the tide. There was something poetic in it, Toran thought, perhaps something prophetic; in any case he couldn’t muster up the effort to find it.  

Toran grinned wider when a girl, sea-worn and emanating a certain pride, reacted much like he would have on her way in. He had to laugh at her sent obscenity, and followed her with rusted eyes until she chose a seat. Glancing around the room now, Toran shifted his staff to lean against the wall and took to stroking Toruk, who wove himself around his master’s forearm and tested the air with a flicker of his tongue, tickling the sensitive skin he clutched so readily onto. 

A knot formed in his brow when, with a swagger one could only learn in Dorne, in barged none other than the bastard Dog himself. Aeryn Sand, Toran remembered; Myriah had told him in her letters of the sellsword she’d taken on as a bodyguard. The man was a walking anomaly - Toran had to wonder how a Clegane had managed to lie with a woman of Dorne - and he’d be lying if he claimed not to be annoyed at his presence. Yet, Toran offered nothing more than a skeptical look before turning his attention away, toward the latest of newcomers: Princess Myriah Targaryen herself.

A familiar grin found itself on Toran’s face once again as Myriah came in, politely addressing the wards and positively beaming the excitement. Many of the wards greeted her stiffly, as was expected, but Myriah’s friendly expression never faltered. It was moments like these that she looked more to him like a violet-eyed Martell than any descendant of Old Valyria, with her swinging chocolate curls and skin that bore some copper echo, glowing in the torchlight. It warmed his heart to see her so happy; the last time he’d seen his dear friend (somehow he hadn’t since their arrival three days prior) she had been wrought with grief and terrorized by illusions, and the black she’d worn had turned her skin pallid and sickly in comparison. He remarked, with an inner frown, that the circles under her eyes had not faded, and through the plunging neckline of her dress, he thought he could see some ribs. Yet she walked upright with all the regal grace of a princess, and her face betrayed no hardship when she came to stand beside him.

To Myriah, Toran gave an exaggerated half-bow from his place against the wall, lowering his head and hunching his back, a sweep backward of his snake-bearing hand completing the gesture. “A pleasure, Your Highness,” his tone [i]could[/i] have been serious, but a sideways grin and quirk from his eyebrow told his cousin that he was anything but sincere in his formalities. Straightening, he returned his gaze to Gabriel once more, though his grin never faded.

[i]”What have I missed?”[/i] she whispered, and Toran found himself remembering all the times in his childhood he’d heard that whisper: In the kitchens when they explored the Red Keep as children; in tournament stands when she spoke hurriedly of all she’d heard of this knight or that; even in the dark, once or twice, her voice shivering and scared from some nightmare that had torn her from sleep. He tried to push the latter from his mind.

“It would seem they all came expecting enemies,” he muttered, leaning so she could hear him, “when they found none, I think they decided to make them.” His silent laugh resumed once more.

Soon, Gabriel had his fill of the bear and came to join them on the wall. He had rarely left Toran’s side since they’d lost sight of Sunspear, and he had figured it was only a matter of time before he returned once more to the relative safety of his cousin’s side. The relationship to the royal family, for Gabriel and Toran both, was certainly an advantage: Queen Nymeria would more likely die than see her family come to harm under her watch, not to mention under Westerosi Guest Right. Despite, Toran was almost happy to shadow the boy. He’d always been kind to him, if not a bit odd, and Toran wouldn’t see Gabriel harmed. 

Gabriel greeted Myriah in his own way, and Toran could practically [i]hear[/i] the satisfaction in his voice. The look he sent confirmed the notion, and Toran gave him a quick nod and a small thumbs-up under the body of the snake on his hand. Beyond that, he dared not give his cousin’s game away.