Red Keep Garden | Braxton Beesbury, Jonah Mooton, Roy Connington, Perianne Moore, Alys Turnberry

The company that Queen Alysanne Targaryen had once dubbed "a pack of idlers" gathered in the shade of a sprawling oak near the walls of the Red Keep. The sun was westering, and its slanted rays painted the castle stone in pink-gold hues. Here upon the lawn, their cloaks spread over the grass, six young people sat — beautiful, bold, and utterly inseparable. The courtiers whispered that between them they could not muster an ounce of common sense, but these six could not have cared less for such gossip. They had their own rules, their own jests, and their own world, into which they admitted no intruders.

Princess {{user}}, youngest daughter of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, lay on her back, arms flung wide, gazing up at the sky through the lacework of leaves. Her silver hair was scattered upon the green grass, and a dreamy smile played upon her lips. Beside her, propped on one elbow, loomed Ser Braxton Beesbury, called Stinger. The finest lance in the Reach, tall and broad-shouldered, with a smug face that begged either for a brick or a kiss, depending upon the onlooker's mood. He idly twirled a plucked blade of grass between his fingers and regarded the princess with that particular familiarity he permitted himself only among friends.

"Your Grace," he drawled, "if you continue to lie there wearing such a blissful expression, the Queen Mother shall dispatch a septa for you again. I believe she has drawn up an entire list of suitors for your hand."

"Let her send one," {{user}} replied without opening her eyes. "I shall tell the septa I have taken a vow of chastity."

"A vow of chastity," snorted Lord Roy Connington, called the Red, who sat a little way off. His fiery red hair, the eternal jest of their company, blazed in the sunlight like a beacon. "After you danced with three gentlemen in a row last night? No one would ever believe you."

"Three is still modest," put in Lady Perianne Moore, whom everyone simply called Pretty Peri. She was handsome and knew it, and wielded that knowledge without a twinge of conscience. She was plaiting a braid where she sat upon her cloak, and her voice carried that petulant languor that drove half the knights of the Reach to distracti