A light breeze floats in through the open doors, carrying with it a coolness that relieves the heat of midday, as well as the shouts of knights and squires practicing in the yard below. Only a few people are in the solar - a young lady idly plucking the strings of her harp, a lord at the table hard at work on a series of letters, and a few more.
One of the few is Ryssa Waters, perched daintily on a seat near one of the wide windows. Her hands fly busily over a piece of embroidery, filling in the brightly-colored flowers of a garden scene with delicate, elaborate stitches. Yet even though she is hard at work, Ryssa’s attention drifts away from her work from time to time, wandering out the window to gaze down at the knights below with a small, appreciative smile.
“... consider me kind, Danyll,” a voice with the drawl of Dorne in it can be heard just outside the solar. The voice receives a face to it, as does the person the voice is addressing shortly after: Ser Aidan Dayne and a young Dornish squire, apparently another royal hostage, with a hefty leather-bound tome in his grasp. As Dayne saunters through the door, the squire pressing in beside him, he continues on with a brief smile, “You know that Tanyth and Tamlyn would not have given you a chance to work diligently if you did your reading in the tower. The solar will be quieter, and not so dark as the library.” What the squire - Danyll, presumably—makes of it is plain to see, as his face goes into a brief contortion when Aidan’s attention is on sizing up the room and the figures there.
Some of the others respond in kind, looking back. The lord scowls momentarily, and turns his attention back to his labor. The lady with the harp pauses for a discordant moment, and then affects indifference. The younger noblewoman… Aidan recognizes her clearly enough. “Come, Danyll,” he says, as he leads the youth on towards her.
At the sound of Dornish voices, Ryssa’s head lifts swiftly, her eyes sparking with curious interest as she looks towards the door. But then Ser Aidan rounds the corner through the door, and Ryssa’s hands skip a beat in their steady, rhythmic sewing. A faint pink flush colors the girl’s pale cheeks, and her lips press together as she swallows, and lifts her chin higher, bringing her gaze up to meet the Dornishman’s. And then the smile is back on her face, sweet and polite, with a deep nod serving as greeting for knight and squire alike as Ryssa says, “Good day, Ser Aidan.”
Aidan returns the greeting with a brief bow and an easy, “Good day, Ryssa.” An arm reaches beside him as he straightens, and pushes the youthful squire forward to offer his own slightly awkward greeting, bowing while trying to keep the large book well in hand. “Good day,” the boy mutters, perhaps at that age where young women are not so interesting. Aidan frowns a trifle at the sorry greeting from the squire, but then he shrugs it off with a grin. “Ryssa Waters, this is my squire, Danyll of House Toland. We thought the solar might be best suited for his studies—Ayrmidon’s Engines of War requires concentration, I’ve found. Might we join you?”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Danyll,” Ryssa replies, her head inclining to the squire in a neat, practiced gesture, and her lips curving up a tiny bit more. The knight’s question makes another flicker in the girl’s confident ease, but all she says in response is, “Certainly, my lord. Indeed, I can see how that subject would require a great deal of close attention.”
Even though she is on a separate bench, Ryssa edges slightly to the side, as a gesture of making room for the others. “I can promise that my sewing will be entirely silent, but I fear that I cannot say the same for those practicing the arts of war below,” she adds, with an arch of her neck to direct her nod at the direction of the shouts and crashes of knights at practice.
Brisk strides can be heard coming up the flight of stairs just outside of the solar, and moments later Aisling Ryswell makes her entry. Her garb seems to suggest that she has come straight from the stables, but with her she carries a book that would seem less compatible with such pursuits. A glance is thrown over her shoulder as she steps into the solar, a frown briefly passing over her face, and then she turns around to cast her eyes around the room. Soon enough, they fall upon some familiar figures, albeit only faintly so in the case of Ryssa. Her expression grows unreadable for a moment, then she adopts a smile and approaches. “Good afternoon, Lady Ryssa, Ser Aidan and ... ah .. Danyll, was it not?”
“Lady Aisling,” the Dornish knights says, stopping the motion which would have left him seated so that he offer a bow and remaining standing. His squire, a little slower—but now not burdened by the book as he’s placed it on the bench—follows suit, and grins toothily at his remembered name. “Yes, m’lady,” the boy blurts, before sitting down and hefting the tome onto his lap.
“We’ve come to the solar so that Danyll might go about his studies in a place with rather more light than the castle library,” Dayne says, by way of explanation. “Though as Ryssa notes, it’s not as quiet as it might be…” His gaze looks to the window, assessing the knights and squires without.
And just as Ryssa has regained her equilibrium again, Aisling enters, sending another small skip into the rhythm of Ryssa’s hands. But instead of looking away, Ryssa notes the lady’s brief frown, her eyebrows lifting in curiosity. She glances from the Dornish knight back to the lady, and then lifts her chin again, bringing her smile back as she says, “Good day, my lady. Indeed - I must admit that quiet was not one of the considerations I had when choosing this spot. Light, yes -and the possibility of pleasant company. Both of which I seem to have found.”
Following Aidan’s gaze, Aisling casts a brief glance out the window as well, a dry smile quirking her lips. “No, it appears we have an enthusiastic gathering down there. Still, as it would happen, I had similar ideas,” she says, shifting the book she carries to the table. “I find the library suitable enough, but it is also the second place that my step-sister would look for me in as well.” The first place, if one has heard any of the rumours surrounding this Northern lady, would undoubtedly be the stables. And why she would not wish her step-sister to locate her might also be gleaned from gossip; it appears the pair are in King’s Landing to find husbands, and one is rather less eager to be successful than the other.
Aidan shifts a little away from the bench where Danyll sits, leaving room for Aisling if that’s her wish; he’s quite solicitous that way. Without referring to the gesture, he remarks, “I have rarely seen Lady Sylvina, I admit, after a brief meeting or two. She must keep herself very busy.” It’s said without guile, just another thing to discuss in the day. That it distracts Danyll he doesn’t seem to consider, and that it distracts him from keeping an eye on the squire ... well, that’s obvious enough, by the way the boy flips idly through the pages in the tome and occasionally glances up to see if his master is looking.
Ryssa’s hands resume their industrious motion, neatly filling in another embroidered petal as she murmurs in agreement with Aidan, “Indeed, my lord, I have not seen her either.” Her gaze angles up from her work, measuring Aisling’s expression with a curious - but not unkind - look, as she directs her next words to the lady. “And I have been here all afternoon. I hope that means that your lady stepsister will have this place quite far down on her list of place to search. And,” Ryssa adds, with a sympathetic little twist to her smile, “that perhaps you will find what _you_ are seeking, instead.”
“Indeed, Ser Aidan, Lady Sylvina keeps herself very busy fine-combing the Red Keep for a suitable husband,” Aisling dryly replies to that, and, after a moment’s consideration, seats herself on the bench. “For my own part, I am satisfied with other pursuits.” She gestures to the book she placed on the table earlier, then briefly lifts her hand to brush aside a few stray wisps of hair, some black and some pale silver, from the side of her face. “My hope is that my step-sister will think the Solar an unlikely place for me to pursue my studies.”
“May you have your wish, my lady,” Ser Aidan says, though his smile is brief as he glances at last to Danyll—and finds him shirking. He lowers his brows, threatening a frown, and the lad quickly turns back to his reading. The words can be heard as he quietly mumbles them to himself. Aidan watches for a long moment and then shakes his head. Whatever quip he might make cannot be made in earshot, so instead he ignores the matter. “You have a very fine hand, Ryssa,” he remarks instead, craning his neck a little to more easily see what she’s embroidering.
Ryssa’s eyebrows lift, and she tilts her head to look sidelong at Aisling again, with an ironic quirk to her own smile as she murmurs mildly, “Everyone has her own interests, my lady…” Amusement brings Ryssa’s lips up even more as she catches the interaction between knight and squire, but directs her gaze demurely down at her sewing, following Aidan’s example in refraining from any comment. Her eyes flutter up, though, in a blink of pleased surprise, when the knight speaks again. “Thank you, Ser Aidan,” Ryssa replies, her smile widening. “You are a widely educated knight indeed, to be such a judge of ladies’ affairs.” Seeing the angle of the knight’s gaze, Ryssa sets her needle down, and turns the fabric so that he can more easily see the pattern - a bouquet of intertwined flowers, half of which are outlines only; the other half have been filled in with neat, tiny stitches in bright colors.
As the subject shifts to needlework, Aisling’s expression betrays ambivalence. On the one hand, she seems relieved not to have to explain herself further, but on the other hand, this does not seem to be a favourite subject of hers either. “Needlework must be one of your interests then, Ryssa?” she queries, looking over at the piece that is being shown to Aidan. “Ser Aidan does seem to have the right of it. It looks like fine work, although I suspect he may be the better judge of it.” A brief glance goes to Aidan then, and wryly she adds. “No offence meant, ser. My own skills in this regard are ... negligible.”
Aidan’s retiring smile at the remarks shows no offense was taken, as he states, “I’ve often kept ladies company when I was a page at Sunspear, my ladies. It gave me some experience of judging it, in any case. Ryssa has as fine a hand and I’ve ever seen, I must admit.” Remembering his squire, perhaps because the faint mumbling has come to a stop, Aidan glances over—and just barely catches Danyll turning his own attention back to the book. A lingering look and then he goes on, “But needlework is not all they did. They read from histories, holy texts, romances ... Are you reading some such, Lady Aisling?”
Pleased dimples appear in Ryssa’s pinkening cheeks, and although she bows her head demurely under the praise, the satisfied pride in her eyes is unmistakable. “Thank you,” she says again, drawing her embroidery back into her lap again, and slipping another strand of silk neatly through the needle. “As I had thought, a most complete education, my lord.” At the knight’s next observation, Ryssa lifts her head again, and although she says nothing to add to it, she nods in quick agreement and arches her neck to peer down at Aisling’s book with renewed curiosity in her eyes.
“Some such ... of a kind, I suppose. I do enjoy histories, and I was pleased to find that the library here housed a copy of Colloquo Votar’s Jade Compendium in the original Valyrian,” replies Aisling. “It is quite an entertaining read, with some fascinating claims to be found within the often quite fantastical tales that he collected.” She says nothing about holy texts or romances, though. “My Valyrian is far better than my needlework, if not quite sufficient to understand everything that he writes about. Some of the peculiarities of the Volantene variant are particularly difficult to manage.”
“You each surpass me, I fear,” the knight says, after a quiet laugh. “I’ve no needlework to do so much as stitch a straight line, and my Valyrian is just enough to perform the proper greetings at some archon’s court.” A clatter from outside draws his attention—a squire who’s managed to get himself knocked to the ground when tilting at the quintain—but the observation hardly stops him as he continues, “There’s quite a lot of queer peoples in the east. Does this Votar speak of the horse people, the Dothraki? Barbaric but fierce warriors, our maester taught us.”
“Oh.” is all that Ryssa can say in response to Aisling’s linguistic assessment. “The Volantene variants. Yes, they would be, I suppose.” To her credit, she gives a very good appearance of comprehension, with a quick, earnest-looking nod and appropriately-pursed lips. The sound of knightly pursuits below breaks Ryssa’s concentration almost immediately, though, and a different kind of frown creases her face - swifter, and regretful, as she sees which of the squires it is who has fallen.
Ryssa’s attention returns to the present conversation though, and her interest sparks again at the mention of tales of faraway people. “The Dothraki?” she repeats. “They _are_ half horses, from what I’ve heard, aren’t they?”
A brief glance out through the window again—though Aisling seems disinclined to linger at admiring the view—and then she turns back to Aidan with a slight shake of her head. “No, he makes no mention of the Dothraki. Though I have read other volumes about them.” She looks to Ryssa then, and a faintly amused smile quirks her lips. “Not quite. But they do seem to breed some quite fine horses, and they are by all accounts expert horsemen.” A thoughtful pause, and she adds, “I would be interested to know how their steeds compare with the sandsteeds of Dorne. The Dothraki Sea is no desert, of course, but by all accounts it seems they travel very widely, and always on horseback.”
“I doubt they have the endurance of the sandsteed,” Ser Aidan says with an obvious hint of pride. “If they have such vast herds, I would imagine they make use of remounts rather than ride one for the entire day; but more likely they do not travel very far each day, regardless of what the tales say. Yet there have been knights in Dorne who have travelled more than thirty leagues in a single day with a single sandsteed.” Just why exactly they would do this, he doesn’t explain. “Of course,” he adds after a pause, “that was not with the knight riding the horse that entire distance. Sometimes one must pause, or dismount and walk along with the horse.”
Ryssa’s lips press together in the face of Aisling’s amusement, and her chin lifts as her needle pokes emphatically through the fabric. She says nothing, though, simply listening, and watching with considering eyes, keeping her attention on Ser Aidan even after the raucous shouts of the squires resume in the courtyard below. “It would still be quite a competition, then,” Ryssa murmurs, “if one were to get both steeds in a race. How one would go about getting them together, I do not know, but if you could…” She lets the sentence trail off, finishing with a tilt of her head.
“I suppose it is just as well that we do not have a Dothraki here to speak up for their steeds,” Aisling notes after overhearing Aidan’s response. “They are not, after all, known for their manners. Still, what Ryssa says as entered my thoughts as well. It would be quite something, I am sure.” She looks thoughtful then, no doubt considering the matter further, before she goes on, saying, “I imagine I shall have to be satisfied with having a closer look at some sandsteeds, to see what sets them apart from other breeds.”
“I have heard,” Aidan says after a moment’s pause as he gives thought to the possibilities of such a competition, “that some of the Dothraki horses shine like metal. It is a strange story, but our maester credited it, having had it from an archmaester who had travelled to the east in his youth. It sounds very pretty, but whether it means they are enduring is another question. There are golden sandsteeds, after all…” All this while, Danyll has been paying more attention to the talk of horses—a favorite subject, it seems—than to Ayrmidon’s detailed writings on siege engines. And Aidan’s caught up in the matter just as he is, and so fails to note his squire’s shirking.
The knight smooths out a sleeve of his costly robes, pulling at the hem, as he offers a little more carefully, “I suppose you shall see sandsteeds when the king returns from Dorne.”
The idea of shining horses, for the first time in the conversation, brings a corresponding shine to Ryssa’s eyes, and a slightly dreamy air to her ever-present smile. “Now _that_ would be a lovely sight,” she sighs. The shift in Aidan’s tone brings Ryssa back to reality, though, and she glances over at Aisling before looking back up at the Dornish knight, her own tone careful as well as she replies, “I hope we will, my lord.”
That comment clearly caught Aisling’s interest too, and she arches a brow quizzically. “Really? I have read such claims myself, but never substantiated by a first-hand source. I would very much have liked to see one of those ... unless, of course, it is all some trickery.” She frowns thoughtfully for a moment, then nods to Aidan’s words. “Yes, I imagine so. Whenever that will be.” She seems to consider saying something more, but glances out the window again, if only for a moment.
The door to the solar opens, admitting a woman with graying hair and a septa’s robes, her plump face smiling, but her eyes firm and authoritative as they scan the room.
The arrival of a newcomer draws Ryssa’s attention swiftly up, her eyes sparking with interest - and then with recognition, and she lets out a soft sigh. “Forgive me - my septa has come to call me to lessons. I believe the music master awaits.” Deftly, Ryssa folds up her embroidery, tucking it into a small bag which she loops neatly over her wrist. “Ser Aidan - Lady Aisling - Squire Danyll - it was a pleasure to see you once more.” She rises in one smooth motion of practiced grace - then hesitates, turning back before she leaves. “And may I thank you once more,” Ryssa adds, her voice slightly softer, “for your…assistance, several nights previous.” Her ever-present smile dims, but in doing so, it grows warmer and more sincere. “I am glad that I have been able to enjoy your company in a more pleasant setting. Fare thee well.” And then the girl turns away, hurrying across the room to her waiting septa.