The great hall of this particular manse—long held by House Baratheon, to judge by the age and upkeep of the furnishings and tapestries—is largely empty. A table is laden with a few bowls filled with fruit, pastries, and sweetmeats; two pitchers chill in larger bowls of ice, brought to King’s Landing from only the Seven know where.
Standing upon the landing above the place is a tall man, broad of shoulder and powerfully built, though on closer inspection he has a bit of softness to him that would have no place on a warrior-knight. He gazes idly out over the hall, hands clasped behind his back, as he converses with a servingman in black-and-gold livery.
Having arrived in the courtyard outside, escorted by a knight of the Hand’s household and a gold-cloaked guardsman, Ser Aidan Dayne puts his garments to order as a stablehand takes a hand with his horse, and those of the escorts. The two men follow him as far as the door into the hall, and then choose to stay there and let him make the rest of the way on his own. “Thank you, ser,” the Dornishman says to the knight, who receives it with a bare nod. And then he’s ushered within.
Taking in the hall and its occupants, Aidan tarries briefly at the entrance before walking through towards his host. He pauses, and then bows with careful precision. “Lord Corwen? I am Ser Aidan Dayne, my lord. Your invitation was gracious, and I thank you for it.” The knight—a young man, still, a youth really—is all soft courtesy, stiffened only by a too-straight back and a certain withdrawn uncertainty in his expression.
The Lord of Storm’s End dismisses his servant with a casual gesture, and slowly descends the few stairs from the landing, smiling broadly. A hitch in his step prevents him from taking them cleanly. “You are welcome here, of course, Ser Aidan,” he says; his voice is a deep basso rumble.
“I have heard much of your exploits, and thought it high time to meet you in person.” He alights on the floor at last, moving more comfortably across the flat, polished flagstones. “Even my brother speaks of you with some respect. That is a rare thing, from Sarmion.”
Surprise registers on the Dornishman’s face, and then the expression turns guarded. “Ser Sarmion’s prowess cannot be doubted, my lord,” Aidan offers curtly. “He does me honor, as do you.”
A look again, towards the laden table, and then he adds, “Your invitation said I might bring others, my lord, but I could not think of anyone to ask to accompany me. I have a few kin here, but they have their own affairs to attend to.” A careful look, and then he adds, “I hope it’s no disappointment to you, that I’m your only guest at the moment.”
“I am always glad of more company, Ser Aidan, but I could not hold that against you,” the big man laughs. As he nears the table, he says, “Help yourself to the refreshments; surely you have broken your fast long since, but at least this will make a fair early luncheon, I hope.”
Following his own advice, the lord plucks up an apple in his large hand. He turns to study the Dornishman more closely, nodding curtly once. “I have been speaking with a number of your people of late. Perhaps you have heard tell of this, in the Tower the King has set aside for you?”
“Thank you, my lord,” Aidan says, keeping pace with him. He examines the table’s offerings, and selects a peach. “I’ve heard something of your visits, Lord Corwen,” he adds, but offers no further opinion on them before taking a careful bite, avoiding any of the ripe fruit’s juices from dribbling onto his chin. Standing stiffly, and a trifle self-consciously, he turns his attention to one of the nearer tapestries.
“The taking of Storm’s End,” supplies Lord Corwen helpfully, describing the scene on the tapestry over the younger man’s shoulder. “Not altogether dissimilar from the fall of Sunspear, or even Starfall, I gather; if King Daeron has his way, House Dayne will Dornish in no more than name, and perhaps not that. They say Ser Wallace Chester is a man wholly given to his duty.”
There’s a general tightening about that young man’s face. He hestiates, and takes another bite of the fruit, chewing too vigorously. A dribble of juice touches his lip, which he quickly wipes away with the edge of his thumb. His jaw works, and then he swallows the pulp before he speaks curtly, “Only the gods know what will come to pass, my lord; their plan might frustrate those of men.” His eyes glance to the Lord of the Storm’s End, and then back to the tapestry. A silence for a heartbeat, two, and then he adds in a quiet voice, “I was not there, at Starfall, when it fell. But it would not have fallen like Sunspear. The shadow city made it a different kind of battle than a siege, or the storming of a castle. The men who took it… They were very brave.”
“Brave, or butchers,” says Corwen coolly in response. His smile is grim beneath that well-trimmed beard. “I suppose it depends entirely upon whom you ask—but do not ask Ardon Tyrell, or his sister. I have, and neither one even knows what Ser Wallace is up to, in Starfall. And him their trusted liegeman.”
He lets those words rest for a few moments, allowing himself a bite, than an indulgent second bite, of his apple. Chewing. Swallowing.
“But you know. And I know,” Lord Baratheon says at last. “I will not pretend we are friends today, Ser Aidan. But I will tell you this: I am no longer your enemy.”
Ser Wallace again. Ser Aidan’s expression remains tight, but his thoughts have plainly turned to his erstwhile good-brother; they are not happy thoughts, as his expression shows. Lord Baratheon’s proclaimation makes little dent in it ... and the Knight of the Twilight seems wary. “Of course you are not, my lord. We are all subjects of the Iron Throne, and King Daeron.” He hesitates, and then asks, “Though some men are better subjects than others, are they not?”
As Ser Aidan speaks, Lord Corwen strokes his beard, idly observing the young man and his mannerisms through those sharp blue eyes of his.
“Indeed,” Corwen replies to the Dornishman’s question. “I am His Majesty’s loyal servant, but I too will admit as much; I do not see the value in his Conquest. Certainly the Stormlands gained nothing from it. An argument could be made,” he laughs, “that both your folk and mine had more profit and more honor when skirmishes raged back and forth across the Marches. I will not say I miss those days, of course.”
Here, there is a pause, and he regards Aidan carefully before adding, “I say no more than this: Daeron is King, and Viserys his Hand. Targaryens. Not Chesters, or Tyrells. You have… options, should you choose to explore them.”
“I, my lord?” Ser Aidan asks, frowning as he sets aside the peach, half-finished, on the table—the Baratheon lord’s remarks preceeding seem to have unsettled him further, and his sandled feet audibly shift on the flagstones. “I am a hostage, Lord Corwen, for the good conduct of my family. Neither in Starfall nor in the Red Keep would anyone think to do as I desire. What options could I have?”
To that, Corwen answers with a warmer smile, an uncle’s smile or an older man’s at least, knowing and sadly amused by experience. “You are a knight of great renown, Ser Aidan. Your King values such men,” he tells the Dornish youth. “Do you think the Targaryens mean to keep you and your kin against your will, indefinitely?”
“You in particular have an opportunity to gain his confidence, if only you would see it,” Corwen goes on. “You will not -worsen- your situation or your family’s by taking your new oaths to heart. Quite the contrary.”
Doubt swims in the violet eyes, and Aidan hesitates to respond immediately. At the last, he gives a curt shake of his head. “King Daeron surrounds himself with the flower of chivalry, it’s said ... but not with Dornish hostages, my lord. There are those who came with him from Dorne, who are higher in his esteem—and why not, when they are emissaries of the lords of the houses of Dorne? We are hostages, my lord, not courtiers, surely?” He moves then, from a need to do so more than anything else, drawing nearer to a diamond-paned window to look out, moving his arms within the voluminous sleeves of his robes behind his back.
And still, the doubt when he speaks, “I have made ... acquaintances here, knights and lords and ladies. I hope they esteem me for my virtues, and are kind in their judgment of my faults. But there’s little worth in a hostage’s friendship when there are great matters at hand. I think your advice is well meant, Lord Baratheon, but ... I do not see the opportunities you see.”
“You see through a hostage’s eyes, Ser Aidan,” says Lord Corwen, not unkindly. He does not move from where he stands, nor does he take another bite of his apple. “You have lived too long already in captivity. You sound like a man who has accepted defeat. I do not think that is your heritage, Aidan Dayne.”
“I ask you only this: Think on what I have said. If you would be more than a mere hostage again, Ser Aidan…” here the Stormlord smiles, “seek me out. I am not without influence at court. The span of possibility might surprise you.”
Turning away from the window, the Dayne knight regards the Baratheon lord. Perhaps stung by Corwen’s remarks, he is silent for a few moments ... but his graces are impeccable, and he bows courteously at the end. “I thank you, my lord, for your kindness. I will think on what you have said, do not doubt that.” A little stiff, perhaps, but the cause of it is unclear. He lingers only long enough to take up that half-finished peach from the table, and lifts it up to show his intent to take it, before delivering another bow to Corwen and departing.
In the wake of the young knight’s departure, the Lord of Storm’s End permits himself a thin-lipped smile. Almost as an afterthought, he lifts the apple to his mouth again and takes a loud, crunching bite. The sound echoes, lonely, in the otherwise deserted hall.