The scent of some spicy breakfast might waft past on the wind as a pair of servants carry laden trays into the Dornish tower, and the sounds of stirring can be heard from the windows within. Even the Dornish are not keen to be out on such a day; or, maybe, it’s merely the early hour that phases them. But that does not hold for all. From the northern reaches of the yard comes a figure in Dornish robes, lean and dark. His course is aimed at the tower, it’s true, but he takes his time about it, and indeed chooses to find himself some shade from which to regards the goings-on in the yard. The knight there is unfamiliar to him, readily enough, and he merely offers, “A good morning to you, ser,” with casual courtesy before turning his gaze up to a window high in the tower.
Curious at the scents, curious about customs that may differ than his own, Ser Garwen is caught in between thoughts. Not having seen the man approach, he stands off the oak and then turns to look. His eyes are slightly widened at first, but then they regain their composure. After a split second of hesitation, he finds his voice. “Indeed, good morning to you ser,” begins the knight from the Riverlands. “I can’t help myself but for wondering about the hostages, and their customs” he offers, perhaps not realizing one such might be before him. His eyes curiously follow the others gaze towards the high window.
A pause, incredulous, and then the the robed, dark-haired knight asks, “What of us, and our customs, ser?” Two of those words are emphasized just faintly, but his expression is grave rather than showing anger. Fingers pluck briefly at one of the wide sleeves of his overrobe, and his cobalt eyes—so dark as to be near to a purple—look the other knight over. “I am Ser Aidan Dayne,” he offers, politely, by way of explanation. The man who shared the prize with the Dragonknight at the king’s grand tourney, among his other feats, is a trifle young.
At the point of relaxing upon the mighty oak once more, the other man is caught off guard. He is ready to begin divulging what customs he might have some curiosity over until the other introduces himself. This time, he comes around more quickly, but still after the hint of a hesitation. “The Ser Aidan Dayne,” he inquires curiously, “The Knight of the Twilight?” His head bows with a more formal greeting, respectfully inclining ot the other. “My apologies ser. It is just that, in the Riverlands, in the smaller manses and villages. Rumors pass from hen to hen and a man does not know what may be true or otherwise.” Finding a smile again, he then offers, “I am Ser Garwen Smallwood, of no consequence.” Such as, the pleasure is all his in meeting the famed knight.
The Dornishman laughs softly at the droll remark. “Any knight is a man of consequence, ser, sworn and anointed to the Seven,” he offers pleasantly. His hand briefly lifts to touch the sword pendant hung from a silver chain about his neck. “I was just returning from the morning offices at the sept. Kneeling before the gods is a good way to begin the day.” A quiet pause and then he asks, “I suppose you are kin to Lord Hugo Smallwood? The one called Oakshanks? I saw him in the king’s tourney. He rode with notable ferocity.”
There is amiable agreeance at the others words over consequence, a slight realization passing across the face of Garwen. More agreement at the words over faith. Then, as the mention of kin plays into the words of the Dornish knight, his eyes rise briefly then relax when the name is said. “My thanks,” he begins, in response to the words of station and duty. “Aye ser, Oakshanks is my uncle. He is deserving of the name I admit. A great man, both in his service, in his household, and in his family. I’ve not spoke much with him of late, since Ser Bellos took ill with the pox.” A smile washes over his face as he responds about his family.
“May the gods be merciful. Is Ser Bellos your cousin, your cousin’s son?” Ser Aidan intones, before thoughtfully glancing back up at the window, eyes squinting a little against the glare off the red stones of the tower. “My cousins are still abed, I think. No great surprise, I suppose. They keep later hours than I.”
Nodding to the first, Garwen responds, “Indeed, my cousin and heir to Acorn Hall.” There is brief hesitation, as if he wants to add more clarification about acorn hall. His eyes turn to the window as well, following the others glance again. “Your cousins are with you,” he intones, part question, but part statement in echo of the other mans words. “I suppose it is good that, despite circumstance for you stay in King’s Landing at this time, that you are with family. It must be good to be so close to your family.” There is no clear intention that this is entirely a physical proximity comment, but perhaps one of family relations. He brings his gaze back around to the other, “I am curious ser, are Dornish feasts as passionate as the ladyfolk imply?” There is some mirth at the corner of his lips, witnessing to some underlying implications perhaps, part of those strange Dornish customs he’s hear rumors about perhaps.
Ser Aidan nods at the mention of family, expression serious. “My sisters are not here… I cannot say how it goes for them. But it’s pleasant to have my Toland cousins here.” A pause, as if he considers adding something, and then he decides against it. This matter of Dornish feasts, on the other hand ... “We enjoy our meals, if that is what you mean, ser.” That is said guardedly, and a little stiffly, by the Knight of the Twilight. “A meal without dragon peppers is a meal wasted, is how my uncle put it to me once.”
A kind nod at the mention of family, especially regarding his cousin, whom Garwen does not know. As the comments return to feasts, the Smallwood smiles a little, then as the other discusses food and spices the smile wanes slowly until it vanishes. “My apologies ser, it would seem the rumors I have heard were all but the truth.” Then the smile slowly resurfaces as a hand comes up to brush at the bristles of his mustache. “I confess, I have never tried a dragon pepper. Is it truly as hot as they say, or is that more rumors we hear in the Riverlands?”
“I cannot say how hot they say a dragon pepper is,” the Dornish knight says, seemingly happier to discuss the meals at feasts than the women, “but it gives a strong spice—and not a little heat—to a meal. It is good for the health, all the maesters agree.” A lofty claim, but Ser Aidan seems to believe it. “Try the kitchens some time, Ser Garwen, and ask for a Dornish meal; some of the cooks there have learned a little of our tastes. One of them makes a credible hot sauce that goes well with a goblet of Dornish red and a fat, roasted kid.”
Like it or not, Garwen seems to find enjoyment in the conversation as well, even despite any disappointment he might have found in the discovery of the false rumor. “This talk of spice and roasting bring hunger to a man,” he grins. “I but broke fast only a few hours ago and I feel the tinge of hunger creeping into my throat. I confess a reluctance to try hot sauces and dragon peppers, but perhaps the benefits of the maesters advice outweigh the thoughts of a few smallfolk at the mouth of the Blackwater.” A keen idea comes to the man, and the expression on his face does not hide the fact. “Perhaps good ser, time permitting and any obligations you have to family and as a hostage of the Keep ... perhaps we could sit down some time for a small meal one evening and you could educate me on the delicacies of Dornish cuisine. I could offer the same, if you are interested in food from the hearths of the Riverlands that is.”
“That’s graciously put, Ser Garwen,” the Knight of the Twilight says, offering a brief half bow in acceptance. “I should be pleased to. Mayhaps my cousins will choose to join us, I cannot say. A meal in the riverlands fashion would be something new for me; I’ve heard there’s fine fish to be caught in the waters of the Trident. The Greenblood is poorer.” He looks back to the tower window ... and this time there’s a person to be seen framed within it, a dark-haired woman wearing a rather loosely belted robe. His lips press together primly, as he looks away. “Well, it seems my cousins are no longer abed. I shall pay them a call. It has been a pleasure, Ser Garwen. I shall have a servant send to you when there’s a good occasion for a shared meal.”
“Indeed,” responds Ser Garwen, “and I will do my best to see that I find some of the best fish mongers here in King’s Landing to prepare a proper fish for you palette.” In turn, Garwen bows to the the Dornish knight. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance ser, I confess you have done a great deal in dispelling rumors we hear along the Blackwater regarding the people of Dorne, namely in light of developments in recent years.” He arises, a slight flush of pink bellow his whiskers over the admittance of perhaps some less savory rumors he has heard. “I’ll leave you to find your cousins, whom I look forward to meeting.” He bows again, mindful of his station.