Festival of Roses

Most young ladies had a mother they could talk to. Or an older sister. And some probably talked to their septa.

Mari had none of the first two, and in her mind, she wondered what on earth old shrivelled up septas would know about the struggles of young maidens. And so, she sought out her father instead. Kevith was hardly the type of 'uncle' to ask for advise, after all.

"Father," Mari tapped on the entrance to Marten's pavillion. "... Do you have a moment?"

It took a few moments before the entrance to the pavilion was pushed open. Marten held it open, some tiredness showing in the wrinkles around his eyes, but he was still dressed for the day.

"Mari?" He blinked. "Of course. Come in." He held it open until she stepped inside.

Some light was provided on the table, although the shadows were deep. A long scroll was on the table as well. "What's on your mind? Is everything okay?" Fatherly concern laced his voice as Marten poured her some watered wine from a jug.

"Everything's fine, father," she smiled a little. There wasn't anything wrong, as such, after all. Looking around, her eyes went to the scroll on the table. "... Did I disturb you with anything?"

Marten smiled. "No, no." He gave the scroll a casual wave. "Just some of our family history. A bit grim to be reading right before bed, I suppose." He chuckled darkly. "Although it has its high points. I was reviewing our founding battle."

He gestured to a chair, moving himself to the one he'd just been seated in.

Mari seated herself, accepting the watered wine he had poured for her. "Oh? I did always enjoy listening to that particular story when we were children... though I suspected you probably embellished great-great grandfather's heroics a tad when you would tell it."

She chuckled and sipped the wine.

As he sat, he chuckled. "Hah. You know, when my father would tell me the story, I always wondered the same thing. Perhaps its like the tales the fishermen tell of the fish they catch, growing a little with each new generation." He shrugged, patting the scroll. "Of course, we'll always have this to tell us that great-grandfather didn't defeat the enemy forces all by himself."

He too took a sip of wine, looking fondly at his daughter. They didn't do this often enough.

"Mhm," she nodded, "the strength of our family is that, even if we are few, we are loyal and we are united in our purpose. 'Purity of water, purity of purpose'." Much like she had when she was a little girl, Mari recited the words of their House when recieveing her history lessons on its founding and principles.

"... So, uhm... whoever marries in must also live up to that. Right?"

Marten grimaced. "Right. With the way things tend to go, that's as much necessity as anything else. We're small in number..." He gave a firm nod. "But we certainly make do with that. Or better than make do, or so I like to think."

The question made Marten's eyebrows go up, his forehead wrinkling. "Oh? I suppose so..." He opened his hand invitingly.

Mari nervously pressed her lips together a few moments.

"... What if I don't know what choice to make, father?"

Marten's bushy eyebrows rose even a little higher at that. His lips worked for a few moments as he carefully considered the answer. "Well... I won't pretend that it's an easy thing to decide. There's lots of things to consider." He gave her a smile. "It's not all about what's in your head, either. Trust your feelings. You've got good instincts. I've always thought so."

"Ah..." He spread his hands. "Do..." He considered a moment. "Is this a general sort of question, or a specific one?"