Inside the City: Cobbler’s Square
Business grinds to a halt by the early evening, but the leathery smell of shoemaking still hangs in the air. Both the cobblers that have shops dotting the square as well as those that have stalls within the square itself are likely to be elsewhere, their supplies neatly packed away. Nonetheless, on account of the square’s location there are likely to be many wayfarers ambling through it, even during the night. The begging brothers are fond of gathering crowds to preach to, expounding upon themes of vice and sin and other such savory things.
The grandeur of the Street of Kings diminishes somewhat as it slowly shrinks as it makes its way from the Gate of the Gods towards the Red Keep, straight as an arrow. As the Street of Kings passes through both ends of Cobbler’s Square it is obvious that the commercial needs of the denizens of King’s Landing have led to a gradual encroachment onto the road. A less direct road also utters forth from the Gate of the Gods, the Street of Seed, winding in long turns through the square and ultimately towards the Red Square.
The sky starts to lighten and the stars fade out. The sky is clear and there’s a cool breeze from the west.
Blayne gazes at the night sky.
The shadows are long as the sun slowly settles to its sleep in the west, the sky giving birth to night and the stars in the east, and the bells of far-away septs can be heard hailing the sunset and calling the faithful to the evening sermon. Here in the Cobbler’s Quarter, many are about their business, closing up their shops and carrying away their goods. But a few linger, perhaps on some business of their own. With a gold-cloaked shadow behind him, a Dornishman in light blue robes of sandsilk leaves just one such shop, a parcel in his hand. He pauses, preparing to turn back, but the door is slammed shut and clearly locked.
The knight shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head, before continuing one. He seems rather aimless to begin with, wandering down the road, ignoring the looks he gets, the mutters, from the smallfolk and merchants. The watchmen who is his escort does nothing about it, content to be led. The knight draws nearer to where a somewhat familiar figure can be seen ... and pauses. “Good evening to you, Ser Blayne.”
Blayne Condon is not a man of silence, though nor is he the quickest to speak, nor the most open to those unknown to him. The Northman knight has a stern carriage that many expect of the sons of colder lands, though he speaks aplenty when at rest over the cups, and laughs without hesitance when at play behind a gambler’s table.
For all that he is a man whose roots lie in the grim, chilly lands of the North, Blayne has settled easily into his service to the Hand at King’s Landing, and is said to tread the doings of the court with less than complete ignorance. There is a resilience about him, too, not only in body but in mind and the way in which he weathers the troubles and frustrations brought to bear on him by others. He seems to take his vows of knighthood seriously, though none would say that he has the gallant mettle of a glimmering champion of legend.
Blayne says, “Good evening! How does the Knight of the Twilight fare during a dawn such as this?”
“Well enough, ser,” the knight from Starfall replies. “You are gracious to ask.” There’s a brief pause, as he looks back to his escort—the man looks bored, but quiescent—and then he regards the northern knight again. With a heft of the parcel, he explains, “I was collecting new boots I had ordered not long after the tourney. I’m afraid the cobbler just barely accepted by custom, and with little enough grace…” Of course. He shared the grand prize with the Dragonknight, the city’s favorite son.
Ser Blayne tries to cover up a yawn by a clumsy, yet gracious twisting of the facial muscles and a quick interposing of all his left hand fingers except, of course, his little pinky. He scans the knight’s acquaintance from head to toe and says: “Please excuse my manners, I have just awoken from my usual slumber and have yet to experience some invigoration of the senses by means of kaffeine”.
Blayne says, “Remind me, sers, what the Dragonknight has done to deserve a prize, and grand at that - I’m afraid I still can’t distinguish between dream and truth.”
Ser Aidan replies graciously, nodding his head and waving away the apology. “No need, ser. It’s early enough, surely, for a man to yawn. I’ve the habit of waking early, for the morning prayers.” The man’s remark after that causes him to furrow his brow, and look on him with slightly narrowed violet eyes. There’s an uneasy pause, and then he offers, rather modestly, “Prince Aemon was champion of the grand tourney, ser, with me. Were you away on some business for Prince Viserys his father, perhaps? He is a great knight, and the gods were kind to let me fight him to a draw. If the king had not intervened when he did…”
There was another pause, yet not as uneasy as the last one. Ser Blayne tapped his chin with his index finger as if trying to recreate, or even create, an alibi. It must have been a direct consequence of standing while he should have been lieing in his warm bed. After a long while, he looks at Ser Aidan and replies with all the sincerity of the world: “No… No. I must have been attending to my daily chores a tad too much these days. My treasury is quite bare and the help is all the more costly.” He looks away, as if in shame, then continues: “Let’s not discuss these trivial matters - I would like to congratulate you for your valiant effort. Ser Aemon truly is an outstanding opponent, which means your result must match!”
Ser Aidan replies graciously, nodding his head and waving away the apology. “No need, ser. It’s early enough, surely, for a man to yawn. I’ve the habit of waking early, for the morning prayers.” The man’s remark after that causes him to furrow his brow, and look on him with slightly narrowed violet eyes. There’s an uneasy pause, and then he offers, rather modestly, “Prince Aemon was champion of the grand tourney, ser, with me. He is a great knight, and the gods were kind to let me fight him to a draw. If the king had not intervened when he did… Were you away on some business for Prince Viserys his father, perhaps?”
The younger man smiles, and half bows. “You are kind, Ser Blayne.” Straightening, he looks back to the goldcloak—looking even more bored, and a little less accepting of the boredom—and then asks, “Will you walk with me awhile? We’ve left our horses at the Three Hills Inn. I must return to the Red Keep, but if you’re looking for a potent drink, you won’t find stronger than at the Three Bollocks.”
This time Slur Blayne wrinkles his forehead, gives the proposition a good, long thought as if pondering the fate of the world, and decides he’s up for such a peculiar adventure, declaring as solemnly as he possibly could: “Off to the Three Buttocks we go. One cup of smoldering nettle tea should pack a powerful enough PUN…”—- in a blink of an eye, Blayne raises his fist in an uppercut fashion, like he was trying to vanquish an invisible foe residing on his cheekbone. Unfortunately, there was nobody there, so he got himself with half his knuckles in the face and fell butt down on the relentlessly hard soil. “...unch”, he said, sadly.
What Ser Aidan makes of that is . . . unclear. His face grows still, his expression blank, and he ends up looking away; perhaps he’s choosing to ignore the incident. The watchman trailing him merely gapes, jaw open, before he collects himself and rather carefully asks, “Do you need help there, ser? Gettin’ on your feet, I mean?” The goldcloak, a sallow man of middle years, looks nervous.
“No, no, no - that’s quite alright, my good man.” Blayne supports his knightly behind with his non-fighting hand and scrambles to his feet. “Shall we?”, he asks melodically.
“Of course,” Aidan says, turning back. His expression is still guarded. Tucking the parcel with his new boots beneath an arm, he leads the way as the nervous watchmen trails behind. A gang of street urchins running by in the opposite direction pause to jeer and make rude faces at the Dornishman, which the Knight of the Twilight affects to ignore; the tightening of his lips gives away how he truly feels about it, however.
“There have been rumors that Lady Cassella has been taken to childbed,” he offers up after a few silent minutes, dodging carts and ignoring yet more glares at his Dornish coloring and his Dornish robes. “Is it true, ser? I suppose she would remain in her apartment for the birth, but thought perhaps some of Prince Viserys’s household might be aware of the matter.”
As her name was brought up, Blayne’s eyes looked up from the ground and glinted. Luckily, Aidan missed that part. Blayne replied: “Unfortunately, as I had said earlier, I truly have no clue as to the state of Prince Viserys’s household other than parts of my daily chores. Do you have any idea how hard it is to wash the floors, fix the staircase or mend the doors? It is not for a knight to do such things, yet I have no alternative.” Trying as he might to conceal his long nurtured love and thought for Cassella, Aidan had the inquiring, yet perceptive and penetrating look of someone trying to pierce through one’s soul to discover his deepest secrets. Blayne only hoped Aidan wouldn’t be able to put two and two together. “Ah… Here we are!”, Blayne exclaimed hastily.
“A hard lot, ser,” Ser Aidan agrees, stopping outside the inn itself and seemingly failing to notice anything odd in the Northman’s behavior. “But I am sure his grace Viserys knows your worth. There are not so many men privileged to be household knights of the second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms.” The goldcloak who’s been trailing along hurries—literally hurries—to fetch his horse and that of the knight’s, while the two men linger in the yard outside the inn. “I’ll be continuing on to the castle,” he adds diplomatically, “to meet my cousins, but I wish you the best of your nettle tea, ser.”
Ser Blayne had enough of the conversation as well. “Oh, there has never been a more wondrous place than His household. Surely I couldn’t ask for more.”, he said, frowning. “Give my best to your cousins, ser.” And with that he goes into the inn with a sour smile at the corner of his lips.