“Silya.” Silya looked up at her father, sitting at the head of the table, in surprise. It was not his custom to speak much during meals unless it was a formal dinner or some important business had come up that he needed to relay to all of his family and close vassals, and rarely did such important business involve one of them, especially not her; even as one of the last of his daughters still living in his house, Silya wasn’t the most troublesome of the Velaryon children. His expression was, as ever, stern, serious, and unreadable, and even her mother didn’t appear to know quite what he was going to say at first. His tone of voice made it sound as if it was a matter of some gravity, but that was how he always sounded.
“Yes, father?” She asked, somewhat curious.
“Your mother and I received a formal missive from the Prince Rhaecerys Targaryen a few days ago, letting us know that he planned to call upon us today. He arrived as scheduled.” Silya started slightly, and cast her mother another look. Seraya’s face had started to contort comically. Her father’s face and voice, on the other hand, never changed. “He grew quite pale when I received him in our outer room, and after stammering a few things I do not quite understand, informed your mother faintly that he would return at a later date. I believe he was attempting to ask for your hand in marriage. Please make it clear to him that if he asks for your hand through letter or proxy, I will, with the greatest respect, refuse his request.” The entire table erupted into raucous laughter, except of course, for Nikolaus himself, who went on eating as if nothing terribly interesting was happening.