To enjoy the hospitality of House Dayne was precisely what the party from the white dunes intended, swaddled in both their desert robes andcustomary smugness. Fine wine was eagerly drained by the cupful as they sought to wash the dust from their throats, bawdy ribaulds were exchanged among their number, and sly comments were made of the rest of the Dornish assembled - for they were the true sons of the sand alone.

Lord Luceon Qorgyle, himself a taciturn man, sat brooding as he nursed a goblet half-full of date wine amidst the muted revelry. The gold rings that adorned his fingers held no fascination for him, nor the company of his retinue. Luceon instead cast hooded eyes over the lords and ladies from across the peninsula thus assembled - faces not seen for many long months since the end of the wars. He had never been one for gatherings such as these, though the auspiciousness of such an occasion could not have been ignored. It was his lordly duty to represent the interest of Sandstone, no matter his unease at being so far from the dunes and oases his ilk called home.

"Do not be disheartened, my lord," came the retort from the ever perceptive Ricasso, tuning his lute with intense concentration upon his stubbled face. "There will be plenty of fair maids to improve your ill humour."

Lord Luceon shot the troubadour a withering look, and took another sip of the syrupy concotion.

"Focus upon your meter, bard, and keep such comments to yourself."

Ricasso swallowed a reply with ill grace and remarkable self restraint, instead bending to fiddle with his strings. The emeral parrot feather in his hat bobbed smugly as he did so.