Too hot. Janden has spent enough days in the last few weeks outside training in this muggy heat, and today it’s time for a break. He has escaped into the Solar for some peace in the midst of the afternoon, sitting at one of the small tables spread about the room. He has a thin book on the table nearby, perhaps a journal, but it’s currently closed, and the knight is leaning back, looking out the windows.
A hot afternoon, hazy and humid, means that the courtiers—in their silks and satins, their velvets and lawn—tend to the cooler shade of the Red Keep’s halls and chambers. Among them, it seems, is Aidan Dayne; it’s truly hot if even a Dornishman prefers the comfort of the indoors. His colorful robes swirl about his feet, the voluminous material well-suited to protecting a knight from the sun, but here it tends to catch on odd corners. A glance around, and he notices a familar face. He pauses, considers, and approaches.
“Good day, Ser Janden,” the Dornishman says, moving towards the window. A hot breath of air comes from it, a breeze from the sea that has been heated by the blazing sun.
Voices like sweet bird-warbles rise from the stair, growing closer and merrier with each step they draw nearer.
“There is a race from eld descent,
Of heaven by earth in joyous mood,
Before the world grew wise and bent
In sad, decadent attitude.
To these each waking is a birth
That makes them heir to all the earth,
Singing, for pure abandoned mirth,
Non nonny non, hey nonny no!”
The voices resolve themselves at last into a trio of brown-haired ladies, laughing and clinging to one another. Brown, but not the usual mousy brown of normal folk. Sun-gold brown, honey-kissed brown, curls and otherwise, and untouched by the heat as they all sing again “Hey nonny non, hey nonny no!”
Also seated is the newly wedded Rosalind Buckler. It appears that marriage life has not changed her much, at least not yet, for the young woman has found a seat near an open window, in which to immerse herself in some musty book. Her position is close enough to the window to benefit from the breeze… if there were any to be had, but at least the light is good for reading. She glances up as the solar begins to see more activity.
“Ser Aidan!” The tall red haired knight slides his eyes from the window and sits up properly in his seat, pushing it back just slightly so he can turn toward the Dornish knight. “Good day, indeed. You’ve done a fair job of keeping yourself out of sight the last little while. I expected I’d run into you again before now - somewhere along the line.” Janden pushes out one of the other chairs at his table with a foot. “Join me if you have a moment.”
At least there are more breezes the higher one goes, though perhaps the solar is not so high as to truly benefit from this. Among the gathered men and women in the shining room is a diminutive lady with red-gold hair: Orene Lefford, musing over an old book and a few pieces of paper, scratches a few letters down and muses with the feather-point of her quill tracing across her lower lip.
The breeze ruffles her papers, but she does not seem annoyed by this; appearing to welcome the distraction, rather, Orene raises her head and takes a deep breath of the scent of the sea and the searing heat. It is raising her head thus that she sees Ser Janden nearby and, as she opens her mouth to call a greeting to him, the Dornish knight falls under her gaze next and she makes no sound. A brief furrow appears between her eyes, but as recognition seems to reach her eyes, she does not look so sour as one might imagine to hear the girl grumble about Dornishmen. Curious she looks, rather, sitting as she does with the point of her quill poised over paper, forgetting her work.
Distracted by the song, and the merry ladies who sing it, Ser Aidan’s attention turns to them for a few moments. And then, recognizing one of them, he smiles and offers a brief yet elegant bow. But Janden’s remark gets his attention. “You intrigue me, ser,” he says, and accepts the offered the seat. Fingers twitch at his robes, ordering them around him as he settles on the chair. Again, he looks out, noting other faces in the quiet—the former quiet—of the solar, some familiar, others not.
“It’s rare that I’m sought, I must say,” he tells the knight, turning back to him. “Outside of our tower, among my fellow hostages, we’re of little consequence.” He smiles at that, making it sound like a harmless fact. His eyes don’t quite reflect it.
The trio of singers move along the side of the room and into the sun on the narrow balcony, still trilling; now the two younger fall silent to listen to the eldest: Reyna Saltcliffe.
“Perchance ye meet them in the mart,
In fashions toil or follys throe,
And yet their souls are far apart
Where gold-rose winds from uplands blow.
At heart on oaten pipes they play
Thro meadows green and gold each day,
Affined to bird and brook and brae.
On the refrain, the two girls join in once more, making a sweet, low harmony that weaves teasingly in and out the solar windows like a breeze.
Rosalind sits back in her chair, lifting her eyes from her reading. She gives the Dornish knight a small nod of acknowledgement then her gold-flecked green eyes drift toward the singing Reach ladies and another nod and smile is given to Reyna Saltcliffe.
Janden follows Aidan’s gaze towards the singing, listening himself, and only turning back when Aidan speaks again. The young knight nods to the Dornish man’s words, not saying anything in reply for a few moments, listening to the next verse of the tune and sweeping his eyes across the other faces in the room before finally coming back to his own table. “Yes, yes. I realize that, ser. I know the situation is complex. Maybe I warrarnt you being intrigued.” Janden shrugs, turning his eyes towards the window again. “But, I can’t do much to change a complicated situation, ser. I just approach it the best I can. And your company thus far has been fair.”
The young Lefford girl hums softly along with the singing women, her smile broadening into rather a pleased and cheerful expression. The feather-point of her quill waggles back and forth rhythmically to the music, but apart from that mild humming she herself is silent. Her attention seems to be there, though she does steal the occasional glance at the pair of knights at the table.
“Their gage they win in fames despite,
While lyric alms to life they fling,
Children of laughter, sons of light,
With equal heart to starve or sing.
Counting no human creature vile,
They find the good old world worth while;
Care cannot rob them of a smile.
Sing nonny non, hey nonny no!”
A twain of repetitions and the women all fall into chairs, laughing. Reyna reaches into her pockets then and draws forth handsful of fire plums from the Reach, brilliant red and orange and sweetly ripe to bursting.
“Look lively, Ser Aidan!” she calls, tossing one toward him. “Lady Orene! Lady Rosalind, lately wed!” Plums fly as each name is called out, and woe to he or she who fails to catch theirs! “Ser… Erm!” she says, at a loss for Janden’s name but gamely tossing him a plum in spite of it.
Rosalind catches the plum somewhat less than gracefully, but doesn’t embarass herself at least. She giggles, holding her prize aloft. “Lady Reyna, hello!”
“The ladies seem merry,” Ser Aidan remarks, looking in the direction once more as their song continues. “A pretty song… though not to the point, I suppose.” His lips quirk up for an instant, a sign of amusement. “You’re kind to say that much, Ser Janden. I was taught that courtesy breeds courtesy, though it’s proved more a _hope_ than a fact of life.” A slight shift in his seat causes the leather backing to squeak against old, varnished wood. “How goes your training? I’ve heard the rumor of a tourney hosted by Ser Jonn Lannister, to entertain the Sealord. And so near the wedding tourne—”
His name being called, the famed knight, the pride of the Daynes, the champion jouster who fought the Dragonknight to a stand still, who defeated the Iron Serpent and the Hell-knight… gets a plum in the forehead. He flinches back, and it falls to the ground, and he flushes with embarrassment. He tries to laugh it off, awkwardly, as he ducks his head and bends down to recover the plum.
Ser Erm watches the plum make contact with Aidan’s head and has enough presence of mind to quickly turn towards the source and see another making good time towards him - but, Janden manages to get his hand up to catch the flying fruit, at the same time as a grin breaks across this face at Aidan’s misfortune. “Even the greatest warrior can do little about the attack he doesn’t see. Better a plum than arrow or sword, ser.” Janden lifts the small fruit and takes a considerable bite from it, speaking around his juicey mouthful - continuing the previous topic to try and save Aidan too much more mockery - “Ah, yes, I heard of that. Training has been - ” He glances at his plum ” - fruitful. Though, I was given a fair lesson at the joust yesterday by Ser Ethos. I obviously have some work to do yet.”
“You’re full of good cheer, Lady Reyna!” Ser Aidan remarks aloud, trying to downplay his embarrassment by boldly confronting its source ... with a polite remark? His olive skin is a shade or two darker thanks to the flush of color the embarrassment gave him. He forces a grin at those who snicker or chortle or do anything other laughter-like in his direction. The knight clears his throat, then, and regards the plum with a certain wariness as he turns back to Janden. “Yes, better a plum,” he says, echoing Janden dubiously. He moves on from there, though, happy to find some other subject. “You practiced in the lists? The best practice, that. Better than the quintain, though it has its uses.”
Reyna gasps, both hands going to her mouth while her kinswomen chide her with cries of “Reyna!” She is on her feet in the very next instant, rose-scented handkerchief out and extended in case the plum splattered. “Dear gods, Ser Aidan, I am so sorry!” she says as she comes near. “That was terrible of me to take you unaware that way. Do say you will forgive me.”
Rosalind voices a little squeak, seeing that the famous Ser Aiden got pelted with fruit. “Oh!” She looks to see that he’s recovered before nibbling at her own sweet fruit.
Janden doesn’t comment further on the jousting as Reyna rushes forward with her handkerchief - shaking his head as she offers it to Aidan - “I’m not sure the colour on Ser’s face will wipe off simply with a cloth.”
If anything, Aidan flushes darker—he hadn’t been aware of the plum’s juices. He takes the proffered handkerchief with as much grace as he can manage, patting it to his forehead, then pulling it away to look and… Yes, a bit of red. He clears his throat again and manages, “It’s nothing to need apology for, my lady,” he remarks stoutly. He doesn’t quite look at her, though, as he offers the kerchief back with a brief, “Thank you, Lady Reyna.”
And… he’s at a lost for what to say. He clears his throat again.
Possibly, Orene had not actually noticed Ser Aidan getting beaned with fruit, so her delight at her own prize turns to dismay somewhat belatedly. Setting the bitten plum on a small cloth napkin—little else remains of her snack here hours ago—the young woman rises, biting her lip as Reyna rushes forward with a handkerchief. Perhaps apologies will not help, but perhaps—“Ser Aidan? I do not mean to interrupt, and I apologize for it. I do not believe we have met, or at least I did not recognize you, but I would greet you regardless. My nephew, Jonn Lannister, speaks of you with honor and respect. He does that rarely enough, but for him to speak so for a man of Dorne is almost unheard of. For what it is worth, ser, I honor you.”
“Nonsense, of course it will,” Reyna says to Janden, looking mortified. “It was entirely my fault, Ser Aidan, you mustn’t blush so. Please, accept my apology or I shall hound you all until darkfall.”
Rosalind averts her gaze back to her book, not wanting to swamp the obviously embarrassed Dornishman any further. The tips of her ears burn red in sympathy and she nibbles at her plum in silence.
“I kid, only.” Janden smiles and pushes his chair back slightly - certain that the Knight of the Twilight will manage to recover from his beaning without too many tender words. The tall knight stands then from his chair as the crowd starts to grow - “Excellent to have seen you again, Ser Aidan. Again, before long, I hope.” He gives a touch of a bow to the ladies standing nearby - “Ladies.” And to all - “I have to take my leave for other responsilities. Enjoy the remains of the afternoon.”
“If you insist on offering it, Lady Reyna, of course I’ll accept,” the Dornish knights says, as gracefully he can manage. “It was kindly meant, after all, and you and your ladies were ... cheerful.” A smile, if a little wan. Perhaps the flush is starting to fade. But Aidan really would like to move along to something else, now. His violet eyes latch onto Orene as she approaches, and he seems grateful for it. “You’re kind to say so, my lady. I’d be remiss in not recalling so gracious a lady, so you must be right: we’ve not been formally introduced.”
As Janden departs, Aidan breaks away to offer him a nod. “I’ll find you in the lists some day shortly, perhaps? Good practice, as I said, ser.”
“Very good practice, indeed. I hope to find you there.” With those final words, Janden turns and takes his leave.
Still looking mortified, Reyna makes Aidan a curtsy and murmurs a farewell; she departs with her cousins in tow, their honeyed heads together and chattering away as they go.
Peeking up from her book, Rosalind gives the departing Reyna a gentle smile. As the Reach ladies and Ser Janden clear the room, she returns a covert glance to Orene and Ser Aidan.
Is there a glimmer of relief in Orene’s blue eyes? It could just as easily be pride—probably far more likely in the Westerling lady—or simply pleasure at gracious words received. She flashes Reyna a swift and kindly look as the lady departs, calling softly to her: “I shall find you later, perhaps? For good cheer and singing?” But her eyes return to Ser Aidan and she inclines her head with respect: “Allow me to remedy that, then, at least a little: my name is Orene Lefford, come to King’s Landing from the Golden Tooth.” Sister to their lord, then, and though she named herself aunt to Jonn Lannister she can be hardly a year his senior. Making no glance to the stained handkerchief or the bruised plum, she continues: “I hope the day finds you well. I daresay it is wretchedly hot, though, no matter from where you come.”
“An honor to meet you, Lady Orene,” Aidan says, bowing his head with a certain formalness. The oppressiveness of quite so many people around to see his embarrassment alleviated, he begins to relax and return to a more normal color. A pause, and then he looks to Rosalind and asks, “Are you also Lady Rosalind’s aunt?” And so he looks back to Rosalind, where she sits with her book, and raises his voice to pitch it towards her. “My lady of Buckler, will you join us?”
Invited, Rosalind rises from her seat after setting her book aside. “Thank you, Ser.” She murmurs, still a bit shy. She looks to Orene with a little smile then, “Lady Orene’s sister is wife to my lord uncle… I am not sure what relation that makes us.” A soft chuckle. “Will you ride in the tourneys for the Sealord, ser?”
“I always thought of you as a cousin, really. I suppose niece might be closer to the mark. If Lord Loren is a brother to me where Jeane is my sister, I could not refuse your father the same.” Orene gives the new Buckler a mild smile, gesturing for her to sit and taking a chair herself. To Rosalind’s question she adds: “Oh, I do hope so. There is a good bit of excitement on the horizon for all that—all the feasting and celebration and all, but I quite enjoy watching the jousts.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to ride in Ser Jonn’s tourney,” the knight says, after a brief hesitation. “So near to the wedding tourney, that is.” His violet eyes, shifting to Orene, seem curious. “Though, I am surprised—pleasantly surprised, of course—that Ser Jonn speaks of me. He is ... very gracious to do so.”
Aidan isn’t the only one surprised that Jonn speaks well of any Dornishman, but Rosalind doesn’t say so. “Then I shall see you ride in the grand tourney for the wedding, Ser.” To Orene, “I think that ‘cousin’ is a fairly broad term, but niece will do as well.” She chuckles softly.
“I suppose that is a fair point,” Orene admits. “I hope not all think so, though: I am quite looking forward to the Lannister joust.” She nods a little at Aidan’s surprise, though, and goes on: “He is not an easy man to understand. He is my blood, and we are as close as any siblings, I think. He does not tell his innermost thoughts to anyone, but I would say… I would say he recognizes honor and respects those who bear it. If he feels a man is honorable, even an honorable opponent, he respects them. If he feels he has been dishonored, his wrath is terrible. That is a beginning in understanding him, though—he is harder to predict than a storm at sea.”
Rosalind glances toward the door where a maid in Buckler blue livery waits, obviously needing to speak to her mistress. “Pray, excuse me. A pleasure to see the both of you.” She rises, then departs with her maidservant.