A hot day turns to a sultry evening, dark but for the stars and the flicker of torches at watch posts and near the archery butts where a raucous competition seems to be taking place among a handful of gallant knights, with onlookers watching and encouraging them on. One knight makes the bold claim that he can hit the target while blindfolded, but it’s a wonder he didn’t manage to hit anyone when he let fly. There’s laughter all about at that, even from the one nearly struck.
Watching more mutedly, and from a little distance, is a Dornish hostage, marked by his Dornish robes and olive skin. Ser Aidan does not join in the laughter, or the wagers, yet he seems to have little better to do than watch.” to Trebor.
Along one of the cobbled paths walks a knight dressed in the attire of the household of the King’s Hand. His steps are measured, his pace moderate. Passing a pair of guards, Blayne nods politely and continues on. His gaze wanders with some regularity, not seeming to stay focused in any one direction for a significant period of time. His walk happens to take him near the lone Dornishman.
Aurana is amongst those doing the encouraging. She stays with one of her father’s guard, watching the play with a cocked head and curiosity. Amusement is fleeting and hardly registers on her face for more than a moment before it wanes and sober composure retakes her. Her lips never even hint at bowing upwards into a smile. The lady does not seem intent to leave, however, willing to let her guard have some bit of entertainment.
“Good evening, Ser Blayne,” Ser Aidan says, catching sight of the passing knight, a hand raised in a brief gesture of greeting. “Are you about the Hand’s business, ser, or will you tarry?” The hand moves to gesture at the crowd a little distant, taking in Aurana and her guards among them. “The archery’s turned into a drinking game, which explains why so many of them are merry.”
Aurana ‘s gaze shifts towards Trebor as he joins the onlookers. The woman studies him openly, her expression unchanging. A small inclination of her head is given in greeting should he notice her. As the next competitor takes part, a cheer erupts from a few of the more ‘merry’, the sudden loud noise causing the maiden to flinch. At her guard’s urging, her attention returns to the sport.
Trebor narrows his eyes, as he lets his hand quietly tap the outside of his leg, as he watches the men cheer and drink. Whilst he was prone to ale as much as any man, oddly enough, he felt no sudden urges to participate in the rather loud game of drinking. He let his gaze linger over the Lady Aurana, and stop on the Dornishman yet again - pausing to intake his distinct look, as compared to the others. It was odd to imagine such a different place - he had spent his life in cities such as King’s Landing, and Duskendale. The Dornish were alien to him - and he shared them no love.
Blayne returns Aidan’s greeting gesture with a nod while continuing his walk, halting a bit awkwardly when the Dornishman speaks, a possible sign that he had not been expecting a conversation. He turns to face the hostage. “Ser Aidan,” he states politely. “I am ever about the Hand’s business, but I can tarry a moment. A drinking game - I have known my share. Does it not interest you?”
“Maester Gram has cautioned me against indulging in drink,” the Dornishman responds, smiling in the flickering light of the torches that shed their fitful light in the area. His hand raises up to touch at his head, with a certain ginger care. “There’s still a lump there, I’m afraid, from Ser Angron’s blow during practice. Still, the concussion’s effects have faded. Perhaps some other time.” A cheer from the crowd catches his attention, in time to faintly seen a brightly-feathered arrow quiver in the target it’s hit right in the bull’s eye. But he notices those who do not seem so happy, and after a long moment remarks to Ser Blayne, “There is Lady Aurana, with her father’s men by the looks of it. I’ve heard Ser Lormon has been in and out of the Red Keep since his return.”
Aurana leans her head in slightly as the guardsman speaks with her, the man gesturing towards the archer. Her eyes follow his gesture, observing the one spoken of as she listens, nodding dutifully. The guard falls silent in anticipation as the next contestant makes ready. Hands clasped before her and resting lightly against her skirts, the lady’s attention wanders. Blue eyes trail over those gathered, her head turning slightly to gain a better view. Her gaze finds the Dornishman and Blayne, watching them with studied indifference before continuing on again.
“Indeed,” says Blayne, “I have oft seen Ser Lormon in passing.” His brown-eyed gaze follows Aidan’s in the direction of Aurana and Trebor. A long moment to match the Dornishman’s follows before the Hand’s knight remarks, “I fear I would be unable to refrain from drink, myself, Maester’s caution or no.”
Guardsmen pacing the walls of the Red Keep pause to look down on the small crowd of nobles and their games, shaking their heads at the wild indulgence, before moving on ... or not. One gold-cloaked figure is dispatched from the gatehouse, making his way to the crowd. While he does so, Aidan says with a grin, “I’ve heard you northmen prefer beer to wine, ser. Is it true?”
The goldcloak reaches the crowd, and frowns at the uproar they’re causing. He starts to speak, and then spots Ser Trebor, and approaches him. “Ser,” the grizzled sergeant says, ducking his head. “If you please, the officer at the gate wants this lot dispersed. Too much noise and trouble, he says, at this hour.” He looks to the crowd as they laugh after an arrow flies over the target and sinks into an old tree, and shakes his head. “Might be best if you do it, ser, on account that you’re here with them and a knight and all.” He doesn’t seem to like the idea of doing it himself, certainly.
A wry grin crosses Blayne’s face. “You hear well, Ser Aidan.” A slight moment passes in which Blayne’s thoughts seem to be elsewhere before he continues. “We do prefer our beer. Though I’d advise against drinking any you’d find around here. Tell me, Ser,” says Blayne, “Is that bit something known as far as Dorne, or was it here that you heard it?”
Aurana continues to survey the crowd in silence, observing but not participating as she might once have. The arrival of the goldcloak is noted, the woman watching curiously for a moment before turning in closer to her escort. Soft words are murmured and a tiny smile of apology given. The man replies, his expression one of disappointment. So heartbroken is he, that Aurana cannot help but laugh softly. “On second thought, we might yet have some bit of time before we are expected… Let us stay just a bit longer.” There is fondness in her tone as she shakes her head.
Trebor gives a brief nod to the goldcloak, as he reaches a hand up, patting him firmly on the shoulder. “Of course I’d love to, however, I don’t think they would take to kindly to this - most of them are drunk off there backs, and can’t tell which way is up. Accompany me, if you will.” He stated with a stern look in his eyes, as he stood tall, making his way towards the group. With the goldcloak following in suit, he casually stuck two fingers in his mouth, and let out a loud whistle. As several of the men turned, he raised his hands in the air, stretching above his head and clapped several times, to get there firm attention. “If you would, Sers, its getting rather late. I’d suggest heading in, before you shoot someone. But if you don’t want to listen to me, I’d be glad to leave you be to someone else - say, Commander Saltcliffe? Now then, take your ale somewhere else Sers. You don’t know how much I’d appreciate it.” His eyes let off a proud look, as if to question a man to say nay. However, the crowd grunted, and most began taking there cups elsewhere, as they began to disperse and head out.
“Oh, we know a little of the North, even down in Dorne, Ser Blayne,” the Dornish knight says with a brief smile, but it fades as he continues. “I won’t ask what they say of _us_ in your cold northern halls, for fear there’s more truth than legend to it.” A long pause, as if he ponders saying more, but perhaps some thought nags at him and keeps quiet instead with a another flash of a smile.
“What? When my luck is in? Bah. Seven hells, you watchmen are all the same!” one young knight with a bow says, words a little slurred as he shakes the bow in Trebor’s direction to punctuate his unevenly-spoken complaints. Hos squire and companions join him in protest, and one starts to press a cup of wine in Trebor’s hand as he says, “Come, come, ser! Ser Dagur will have no complaints, if you join us in the game! Each strike on target means a fresh cup of Arbor wine. Who could complains?”
Others take up more general protests, while others still decide that it’s just as well and begin to make their way to their own apartments, or to the Old Keep where it sounds like not a few intended to meet and continue the festivities.
Aurana gives her guard a sympathetic pout as Trebor makes his announcement. “Come, Varin,
Trebor chuckles quietly, as he brings the cup to his mouth and takes a rather large swig. Handing it back to the man, he waved his hand through the air, shaking his head. “I fear not, fair warrior. I’ve had one to many morning headaches, and care not for another. The sun is hanging low, and I fear I may soon head to the barracks for a nights well rest. You may want to do the same, however I must say I show no concern. I merely do as I’m told, you know how it is. Surely you can drink just as well in an inn, as you can here. If I wasn’t held by my duty to stay here, I’d march myself to a brothel. Now then, good tidings to you Sers.” He said with a lingering smile, as he swatted the hands away, placing his hands firmly on his hips, as he waited for the crowd to disperse. The goldcloak behind him begin pushing people away, as he ushered them out with a look of jealously scowering his face.
With a wary eye on the Gold Cloaks and their efforts to disperse the crowd - a crowd that, deep into the tankard and loose with their coin, Ser Blayne might have wanted to do some wagering with later - the northman listens to Aidan. The Dornishman’s pause draw’s Blayne’s gaze back to him, eyebrows raising just slightly as the younger man seems to stop short of expressing his thoughts. Shrugging almost imperceptibly, Blayne replies, “I fear there’s little to tell of the words in our northern halls, ser. Those northern words are mostly concerned with northern matters. King’s Landing is a far-off place to most, and of Dorne - well - we know not much to say. Talk of distant lands means talk of further north. All the way north.”
Aurana gives her guard a sympathetic pout as Trebor makes his announcement. “Come, Varin,” she consoles, reaching up to pat the man’s arm. “Return me to the Tower and then you may join the others as you wish. I think it safe to say that the competition is ended for the evening.” A hand smoothes over her skirts as she regards the man before her. It does not take much convincing after Trebor’s words and the shooing of the Goldcloak. The two begin to join the others in dispersing, their trek slow in deference of the lady’s attire.
“Have a good evening, m’lords and ladies!” says the sergeant, at Trebor’s direction, ushering them off. A last few knights and squires try to continue protesting, but others grab their arms and drag them along, convincing them that there’ll be more amusement to be had in the Old Keep’s hall.
“All the way north?” asks Ser Aidan, as he looks on at the dispersing crowd with a shake of his head before turning back to Condon. “A long ride, if I remember my maester’s lessons, and an even longer walk. Have you seen the Wall, ser? I’ve—” It’s then that he’s interrupted by that sergeant.
“What? Us as well?” Ser Aidan asks, bemused, and the sergeants insistence makes him shrug. “Well, so be it…. It seems they’re off to the Old Keep, by the looks of it. I shall go there. Will you join us, ser?” he asks of Blayne, before beginning to move with the crowd. In the process, he draws near to Aurana and her companions. With a grave nod, he offers with a voice only slightly raised, “I am glad your father has returned safe from the kingswood, Lady Aurana.” He doesn’t remark on the missing brother.
A fair brow arches as her name is uttered. Aurana pauses briefly to find the source. Surprise colors the young woman’s features for a moment before calm reigns once more. Inclining her head deeply, she thanks the Dornishman as her guard steps a bit closer. “You are most kind to say so, Ser Aidan. It is a sentiment I myself share most heartily.” Blue eyes flicker towards Blayne, the woman ducking her head to him in greeting. “I… How are you finding things here, Ser?” she inquires. “Certainly the heat here in King’s Landing can compete with that of your home…”
Blayne regards the sergeant levelly, meeting his gaze with a look shared between them that might entail understanding. To Aidan he says: “I can tell you of the Wall, Ser, in the Old Keep. I shall join you there shortly.” He nods politely to Lady Aurana, and again to her nearest guard. Speaking to Aurana: “The heat here is welcome, my Lady. I enjoy things here.” After a short hesitation he adds, “Other than the drink.” The Hand’s knight glances to the nearby Trebor, nodding a greeting to him as well. “Ser Trebor.”
“As Ser Blayne says, it’s a welcome heat, especially on an evening such as this—it makes everything seem finer,” Ser Aidan says in response to Aurana’s query, while giving Ser Blayne a brief nod. “I thank you for asking, Lady Aurana.” Polite almost to a fault, the Dornish knight walks with a precise gait and an erect posture, following the milling crowd as it meanders on towards the Old Keep. There’s a long pause of silence, before he adds, “If the king allowed it, I would offer to join a company to deal with these bandits your father’s brought word of. This ‘Starveling’ sounds a cruel man. They say the City Watch might be sent out, with Ser Sarmion’s foresters, if they can agree to who shall lead the troop.”
Trebor nods in return, eyes levelling at him, as he offers a sportful smirk. “Good tidings, Ser Blayne. How do you do?” He stated, before turning to the sergeant and giving him a brief nod. “Nicely done - round about anyone else that decides to stay about, and then see if the officer has anymore complaints. Hopefully, he isn’t so drab to complain now, no?” He waved him off, as he stepped after Ser Blayne, quietly falling into line. His left hand hung low, as he let his fingers rattle against the left of his side, in a rather random pattern.
Aurana cannot hide her surprise again as Aidan makes such a generous offer. “I… Thank you, Ser Aidan,” the woman murmurs, her forehead creased slightly as she studies the man. “I have no doubt the King would be most grateful for your offer. I certainly am.” Blayne is granted the smallest of smiles as she looks his way. “An interesting trio we make,” she muses wryly, shaking her head once again. “I am afraid that we must part company. I did give my word to spend my evening in,” she explains.
A young page hurries over to meet Ser Blayne. “Ser Blayne,” he says, nearly out of breath, “Your presence is requested, Ser. Most urgently.” The young lad’s eyes dart around fervently at the others nearby, clearly expressing that he does not wish to say more where it might be overheard.
Blayne sighs audibly and speaks toward the others. “Lady Aurana, Ser Aidan, Ser Trebor, I fear I am called elsewhere. Good evening to you.” With that, Ser Blayne follows the page toward the Bronze Gate, and anyone who follows the pair with their eyes might see the page chattering rapidly.
“A pleasant time passed in the Old Keep must surely count as ‘in’,” Ser Aidan remarks, a flash of white teeth showing all the more brightly for the duskiness of his skin under the flickering torchlight as the parade of nobles draw nearer to the keep that Aegon first raised more than a century ago. “I’ll have someone fetch my harp, if that is any inducement?” When some knights say that, it’s cause to turn tail and run, but at least Ser Aidan’s not known for infamous playing…
Or maybe Ser Blayne’s heard otherwise. Ser Aidan half-bows to the knight. “Good evening, ser!” Then his attention falls on Ser Trebor, and he remarks, “And you, ser. I’m sure you might share some news of what Ser Dagur thinks of recent events.”
Trebor lets off a soft laugh, as he turns to the Dornishman, eyeing him from top to bottom. He gave him a soft shrug, as they walked on, his eyes dwindling at him and letting off a light sense of judgement. “I fear Ser Dagur does not share everything with me, much to my dissapointment. From his attitude, he seems a bit disgruntled - or perhaps nervous. I can’t say I’ve ever had a knack for judging people, much to my dissapointment. You, however, seem awful cheerful. Are you not stressed, by everything going on? I’d imagine it feels odd, at the very least, to be so far from your homeland. And in dangerous territory - not everyone is as open to the Dornish as our sweet king, are they? I trust you’ve been safe, while here?”
Aurana gives a low chuckle. “It is a temptation, Ser Aidan,” she replies, her smile genuine. “But, truth to tell, I had hoped to find my father’s company this evening. I have seen but little of him since his return and had hoped I might remedy that before he ventures forth once again. Perhaps I will have the good fortune to hear you play another day, Ser Aidan,” the lady offers.
“If you will play, I will sing,” offers a female voice, coming from a small woman who has come out from the inner court. “I never have heard you play, Ser Aidan. Hallo, Aurana,” adds Reyna Saltcliffe.
Ser Aidan regards Trebor for a quiet moment, and then smiles tightly. “I have been safe enough, ser,” voice as tight as the smile. “Except for the riot, of course, when the villains lobbed a stone at my head…” Another pause, and more ruefully, “And Ser Angron’s blow while in the practice yard this past week. I still have the bump on my skull.” He shakes his head, and then turns to Aurana. “Well, as you say, my lady. Who’s to say your father’s not at the Old Keep? They say Lord Ryger often has audiences in the solar, and I’m sure the Master of Laws will have an interest in Ser Lormon’s news. If—”
Interrupted, he pauses to look in the dark, and in the torchlight makes out Reyna. “Good evening, my lady,” he says, much cheered. “Now I shall have to fetch the harp myself, to be sure no harm comes to it; never send a boy to do a man’s work, as they say,” says the young knight who was a boy not so many years ago, for all his exploits. “It’s a long way back and forth from the Dornish Tower, but I’ll be as quick as I can. Ser Trebor, my ladies,” he offers, with a last bow, and then the Dornishmen is off at a quick pace, eager to play and entertain, and eager—it seems—for the company. Perhaps he’ll roust his cousins and invite them to join him in the Old Keep as well . . .