Gyles I
Gyles Yronwood swatted a fly crawling across the back of his neck. He watched as a stout woman in brown roughspun clothing dropped a bucket tied to a length of rope into a well, before drawing it back up with a look of exertion evident on her face, even given the distance between her and Gyles. Pouring the water from the bucket into a crude clay jar, she picked the jar up and began walking the short distance back to the village from the well on its outskirts.
"What'll it be, m'lord?" Mors asked him. This wasn't the first time that the grizzled squire had asked Gyles that question. Given the significant amount of bad blood shared between the Dornish and the Stormlanders, Gyles knew that it was more than a valid question to ask.
Gyles and his squire had been keeping off of the main roads and taking side paths and tracks through the wide plains north of the Boneway, doing their best to avoid being seen by any scouts that frequently roved along the marches, searching for the ever-present threat of a Dornish raiding party. Though he was no raider, Gyles was fairly confident that the Stormlanders would sooner kill him than listen to any explanation that he could give for why he had entered their lands. Gyles' own grandsire had been killed in Prince Morion Martell's failed invasion of the Stormlands, burning to death as the fires of House Targaryen's dragons immolated the ship that he was aboard. Gyles hoped that the Seven had a kinder fate in store for him. Gyles' journey with Mors across the plains in the southern Stormlands had been a tense one, but they had thankfully only been spotted and chased but once by scouts bearing badges with the forked lightning of House Dondarrion not long after exiting the Boneway. Gyles had wounded one of the scouts with an arrow from his recurved bow, which slowed the other scouts down as they checked on their comrade. That had given Gyles and Mors enough time to ride further into the plains as night fell, losing the scouts.
As plains turned into forests, Gyles had found it much easier to avoid unwanted attention, using his bow to catch animals for he and Mors to skin, cook, and eat. They drank water and refilled their waterskins from the occasional stream. But Gyles had still not answered his squire's question.
"I suppose we should ride into the village and see how they react. I tire of sleeping on the forest floor, and we desperately need more information about this war between dragons."
Mors nodded with an affirmative grunt, and spit out the gob of sourleaf that he had been chewing on all morning. Walking back into the forest from its edge where they had spent some time surveying the village, Gyles tore a clump of grass from the forest floor, and made his way over to the tree where he'd tied up his sand steed, Evenfall. The magnificent horse was a dark gold color, with a burnished bronze mane, which to Gyles' eyes gave it the look of a sunset. Stroking its mane, he fed it the grass, then set about untying it from the tree. Mors was doing the same with his spotted rounsey. For a brief moment, Gyles considered removing his sand-colored silk doublet with the black portcullis sigil of his house, before deciding against it. The armor I wear is enough to set me apart from any knight north of Dorne, even in the eyes of the smallfolk.
His armor was crafted in a way that was different from the heavy plate common to knights throughout the rest of Westeros. They prided themselves on suits of shiny and heavy plate that dazzled the eye, and provided significant protection from most kinds of weaponry. Dornish armor was also crafted to protect and impress, but as the knights of the Reach had learned in the First Dornish War, heavy plate proved a curse when navigating the deep deserts of Dorne under a relentless sun. It was for this reason that Dornish armor was built with greater mobility and a lighter weight in mind. Gyles' own armor had burnished copper worked into the pauldrons, as well as bordering his breastplate, greaves, and vambraces. His visored helm was fashioned in a conical shape, with a sand-colored silk scarf wrapped tightly around its top to help stave off the heat of the sun. For the time being, however, Gyles left his helm within his saddlebag. His recurved bow was also unstrung and stored safely within its leather case that was secured alongside his saddle bag on Evenfall. Hoping for the best, Gyles rode out from the forest, crossing a small field of recently-hewn wheat before reaching the dirt track that led directly into the village.
It did not take long for the villagers to observe Gyles and Mors approaching their homes. By the time he had reached the village center, several stooped old men in rusty scraps of armor and young boys had gathered to halt his approach. A few carried equally tarnished and rusty dirks and swords, while most simply clutched hoes, scythes, and large sticks. A large-bellied man in a stained apron with a wooden right foot had leveled a crossbow at him. Hobbling forward, the man with the crossbow was the first to speak.
"That's close enough. My eyes may be getting old, but I still know a Dornishman whens I sees one. We'll suffer no raiding here."
Gyles lifted one hand from Evenfall's reins, palm spread wide in what he hoped was a placating enough gesture.
"Peace, good man. I am Ser Gyles Yronwood. My squire and I visit in peace. We simply request some food, rooms to spend the night in, and information. We have the coin to prove it."
The crossbowman's mouth had twisted into a deeper frown as Gyles spoke. "Forgive me for saying so, Ser, but when Dornishmen have come to visit our homes, it's never been for food and polite conversation. Raiders out of the Boneway is the reason I got a foot o' wood."
Gyles considered his next words carefully. He certainly hadn't spent such a significant amount of time avoiding roads and hostile scouting parties to just get a crossbow bolt through the throat. Looking beyond the assembled menfolk of the village to a large two-story stone and timber structure, Gyles nodded in its direction."Is that an inn?"
The crossbowman nodded warily, still pointing his weapon at Gyles' face. "Yes Ser. Tis the Bent Buckle. Been in my family for generations." He then transfixed Gyles with an accusatory glare. "Theres I go running my mouth again. What's that inn to you?"
Gyles looked back to the innkeeper with the wooden foot. "In Dorne, we hold to the custom of Guest Right just as seriously as anywhere else in Westeros. Allow me some of your bread and salt, to prove the truth of my words." The innkeeper and the other men and boys stood still, their faces rife with expressions of indecision. No matter where you are in Westeros, one does not take a request for Guest Right lightly, lest they fear the wrath of the Gods.
The innkeeper finally lowered his crossbow, with a less hostile expression gracing his features. Seeming to follow his lead, the other men and boys lowered their weapons as well. "Fine then," grunted the innkeep. "Come into the inn with your squire while my boys tie up your horses. I'll bring ya the bread and salt." Smiling his most charming smile, Gyles nodded his assent. My silver tongue wins the day again.
After he and Mors had eaten of the bread and salt, thereby observing Guest Right, the tense atmosphere had lessened considerably. While Mors and Gyles awaited more food, many of the villagers came into the common room to gawk at them. Their eyes seemed particularly transfixed on Gyles, and the armor that he wore. This is likely the first time they've ever seen a Dornishman up close, Gyles mused to himself. From the stories of us they were told as children, they're likely surprised that I don't have horns and breathe fire. The innkeep (named Dickon, like his father before him) brought Gyles and Mors some rabbit stew from the kitchens, along with more freshly baked brown bread and ale. At Gyles' request, Dickon and many of the villagers joined him and Mors at the long trestle table in the common room with their own bowls of stew and tankards of ale. Gyles began the evening by answering the many questions about himself and his home that they had (yes, the Dornishmen worshipped the Seven, no, they did not drink the blood of their enemies, yes, the sun was much hotter in Dorne, and so on). After Gyles felt that he had sufficiently spent time sating the curiosity of the village folk, he began asking questions of his own.
Though he could tell that much of the news and information he was being given was prone to embellishment by the excitable villagers, as night fell Gyles felt that he knew much more of the situation north of Dorne than he had since riding out of the Boneway. Apparently, the realm of the dragonlords was bitterly divided between support for the eldest child of the old king, a daughter, and the children of the old king's second wife, which included several sons. It seemed that none could agree whether an older daughter should inherit over a younger son, and the realm of the dragon was bleeding for it. Gyles could only grin to himself. In Dorne, such a question is much more easily resolved. If you're the eldest child of the Lord or Lady, it doesn't matter what you have between your legs, you're the heir. This type of succession was a custom brought by Nymeria and her Rhoynar to Dorne, and had not spread beyond the passes of the Red Mountains.
Though all Houses in Dorne were expected to follow this tradition without complaint, some of them, such as Gyles' own family the Yronwoods, were of much older blood and tradition in Dorne than the Rhoynar. It was not uncommon for older daughters of these Houses to be married off and disinherited so that younger sons could inherit. This was not always the rule, however. Gyles' own distant cousin, the current Lord Yronwood, had two daughters and several younger sons. However, he fully intended for his eldest daughter to inherit after him. Considering the war of succession being fought between the Targaryen family, Gyles shook his head. What a mess. But, mayhaps in all this chaos and upheaval, there is a chance for even a hated Dornishman like myself to rise high. Gyles certainly couldn't return home, not after what had happened at the wedding of Lord Alaric Yronwood's younger daughter to the heir to Wyl. The vengeful one-armed Lord Wyland Wyl would see to that.
As the night grew late, many of the villagers began to drift back home to their huts, and Gyles prepared to retire to his quarters for the evening. As he made to do so, he made eye contact with a pretty girl that had caught his attention the moment she'd entered the inn. He raised one eyebrow at her, then winked at her before giving his best grin. She giggled quietly, then looked in the direction of the stairs leading to the inn's second floor, before looking back at Gyles with an inquisitive grin of her own. Gyles simply nodded with a smile, and his smile widened as he watched her climb the steps before he'd reached them. This evening gets better and better. Wasting no further time, he climbed the steps quickly.
The tallow candle within his room was burning low, and by Gyles' estimation it must have been very close to the hour of the wolf. The cot that he currently shared with the village girl was barely large enough for the both of them, and the straw mattress made his back itch. Nevertheless, Gyles was more than content. Feeling the girl laying beside him shift to face him, he turned to meet her gaze.
With a soft smile, she began to whisper. "I've heard the tales that the merchants bring to our village about the Dornish and their paramours. Prithee, m'lord, take me with you when you leave. I'll cook your meals, clean your clothes, and…" her face took on a bright red color, and she bit her lip. "I'll gladly warm your bed every night. But please, take me with you. Nothing ever happens in this village, and with Lord Buckler taking all the able men of marrying age to fight in the war, I won't have anyone." She fell silent, watching Gyles' face with a pleading expression.
Gyles wanted to grimace, but he carefully kept as neutral an expression on his face that he could, as the flickering candlelight threw long shadows throughout the darkened room. Seven hells. Tread carefully here. You don't need any more potential problems than you've already got. Smiling warmly at the girl, he collected his thoughts. "My lady," Gyles began, taking note of how the girl smiled at the honorific, "my squire and I ride off to this war ourselves. As an anointed knight, I cannot in good conscience expose you to the dangers this will entail. However, you have my word that you will be the first person I seek out should my travels return me to this village."
He could tell by the way her smile fell slightly that it was not the answer she wanted, but all the same she seemed to accept it. A smile did return to her face, but it was much more mischievous than any she had given Gyles before. "Well then m'lord," she said, blushing, "I s'pose I'll just have to ensure that you remember me during your travels." Gyles grinned back at her. I won't be getting much sleep tonight.
Daisy, the girl that Gyles had shared the previous night with, was no liar. I will certainly never forget her. Gyles grinned, feeling more pleased than any other time since he'd left his home. He and Mors had set out early, thanking Dickon for the food, beds, and information that he'd provided them. Gyles had paid him handsomely, and assured Dickon that the silver Spears and copper Shields he'd given him were the same weight and worth as silver Stags and copper Stars. The Martells were a proud ruling family, and ensured that their own currency carried just as much value as the minted coins of the dragon kings. A golden Dragon or a golden Sun, both coins had the same weight. Gyles had also paid Dickon for extra provisions that he and Mors could carry along with them, so they wouldn't have to spend time hunting for their dinner as before.
With directions from Dickon, Gyles and his squire were making for the large thoroughfare known as the Kingsroad. If they followed the directions correctly, Gyles was informed that they would reach the road a short distance north of the castle of Bronzegate, the seat of House Buckler and the overlords of the village that Gyles and Mors had spent the night in. Once they reached the Kingsroad, Gyles hoped to make his way to the city of King's Landing. If I'm to swear my sword during these trying times, I might as well aim as high as possible. Given that they had nearly reached the furthest northern bounds of the Stormlands, and the news that Lord Borros Baratheon was gathering his levies at Storm's End, Gyles was less apprehensive about himself and Mors taking the main roads, and was now more focused on making good time than moving slowly with caution. His squire hadn't protested the change of tactic, and rode behind Gyles along the dusty dirt trail that led through the forests north of the village towards the Kingsroad.
As he rode through the forest, watching the early morning light sift between the branches and foliage of the forest surrounding him, Gyles' thoughts began to wander, and he thought of home. As the only living child of the steward of Yronwood castle, who was himself the cousin of Lord Alaric Yronwood, Gyles had been afforded an education and training as fine as that of any lord's son, training from a young age in arms and riding with the castle's master-at-arms, and receiving tutelage under the castle's maester along with the children of the lord, his cousins, who were largely of an age with Gyles. Gyles spent much of his free time with his own father, accompanying him as he performed his duties as the castle's steward. Gyles had shown a natural talent with his numbers, sums, and organizational skills, which had given Gyles' father hope that his son would one day succeed him as the steward of Yronwood. From the beginning, however, Gyles' true passion was archery, and it had not taken him long to begin winning every archery tournament hosted by the lords of the Red Mountains. Though he was skilled with both the longbow and recurved bow, Gyles greatly preferred the latter. On his eighteenth nameday, Gyles had been granted his knighthood by Lord Alaric, and Gyles' own father had given him an exquisite gift: a recurved bow crafted from Goldenheart wood of the Summer Isles.
If he was being honest with himself, Gyles largely didn't regret the circumstances that led to his exile. He did regret the pain that it brought to his father and mother, however. I'm their only living child, and it is likely that they'll never see me again. That was something that Gyles felt a great deal of guilt over, and likely would for the rest of his days. In the span of a single wedding, Gyles had gone from a life of ease as the future steward of Yronwood castle and celebrated archer, to a life running from the wrath of House Wyl, flinging himself into lands where he was likely to be executed simply for being born on the wrong side of the Boneway.
No woman is worth all this trouble, thought Gyles, but his exile had in part begun by the time he'd spent with one. Her name is Jennelyn. The exceedingly lovely daughter of Castle Wyl's captain of the guards, Gyles had been smitten with her the moment he'd seen her. Lord Alaric had brought much of his household with him to Castle Wyl to celebrate the marriage of his younger daughter to the son and heir of one-armed Lord Wyland Wyl. Gyles and his parents had been part of this group of visitors. The wedding itself had gone perfectly, and the feast afterwards as well. It was during the feast that Gyles had sought out Jennelyn, and she had enthusiastically accepted his offer to, as he had put it, "have a bedding of their own."
It was not until the next day that Gyles had learned that Jennelyn was the paramour of Lord Wyland's youngest son, a man who had taken great offense to Gyles spending the night with the fair Jennelyn. Heated words at the farewell feast had dissolved into a fight, started by Lord Wyland's youngest son, who had been deep in his cups. Gyles, who had also been in his cups, had been taken off guard, and found himself receiving a savage beating. Desperately trying to get free of the enraged man seemingly trying to beat him to death, Gyles had grabbed the first object that his scrabbling hands could find, and slammed it into his assailant's face, hoping to stun the man. Unfortunately, that object was a knife, and Lord Wyland's youngest son died the moment Gyles shoved the blade through his eye.
Though Lord Wyland had wanted Gyles thrown into the viper pits his family was known for keeping, Lord Alaric and Lord Wyland's own septon had reminded the enraged man that his own son had started the fight and broken the sanctity of Guest Right, while Gyles had been merely defending himself. Lord Wyl was implacable in his wroth however, and it was eventually decided that Gyles must needs leave Dorne as his punishment, never to return. Gyles had wanted to protest the unfairness of the verdict, but he was only a steward's son, distantly related to the main line of House Yronwood, while Lord Wyland had much greater status than he. In the end, Gyles had bid goodbye to his devastated parents, and continued north along the Boneway from Castle Wyl, along with a grizzled squire from Lord Alaric's retinue named Mors who had volunteered to accompany him and do his best to keep him safe. And to share in whatever successes I may have in the realm of dragons. Regardless of the old squire's true motivations, he had been loyal and helpful throughout the journey, and Gyles was grateful to him.
Gyles' attention returned to the path ahead of him as it began to widen, the trees around it becoming further and further apart in distance. Eventually, Gyles and Mors rode through a small field of tall grass up to a wide and dusty road flanked by massive and ancient trees that had stood long before the dragonlords had conquered all the lands of Westeros, save Dorne. Deciding that some caution was still necessary, Gyles fed Evenfall some grass from the roadside, then retrieved his helm from his saddle bag and secured it in place with Mors' help. He also took time to string his goldenheart recurved bow, and ensure that he could easily access his quiver of arrows from where they were attached to Evenfall's saddle. Turning to Mors, he nodded in the squire's direction as he climbed back atop Evenfall. "Onward to King's Landing," he said, and the squire merely nodded, adjusting his halfhelm atop his head, and pushing another piece of sourleaf into his mouth.
Of all the ways he'd envisioned the capital of the dragon kings' realm, Gyles hadn't expected the smell of shit to be this strong. It had taken him and Mors a further relatively uneventful two days of riding along the Kingsroad to reach the Blackwater rush, and another half of a day to secure passage across the river on a barge to reach the southern wall of the city. It had taken Gyles and Mors some time to gain access through the city's River Gate. From what Gyles could overhear as the gold-cloaked city guards conversed amongst themselves, they were under very strict orders to closely monitor each person entering the city, and as a Dornish knight, Gyles was sufficiently conspicuous as to arouse suspicion. Gyles had a feeling that something had happened to make the gate guards so distrustful of all new visitors, but he had no idea exactly what that was.
As he'd waited with Mors near the massive gate, he'd looked to the giant black banner flapping in the wind above it. A golden dragon? Gyles had thought. I thought it was red. Not long after, however, the guardsmen had decided to ask what his business in the city was. Gyles had told them that as a nobleman and anointed knight, he planned on swearing his sword to the royal family. The guards had laughed uproariously at that.
Wiping tears from his eyes, their serjeant had shaken his head in disbelief. "A bloody Dornishman serving the King? Right. I would get to fuck the Queen Dowager before a Dornishman is allowed into the royal retinue!"
Scowling, Gyles had asked if he had their permission to enter the city, and the still-laughing serjeant had merely waved a dismissive hand at Gyles and Mors, waving them through the gate. At Mors' suggestion, they had stopped at one of the inns just beyond the River Gate, where many sailors and merchants whose ships were at port in the city stayed. "Them's the ones with the most information to be found, and only for the price of a tankard or two of cheap ale," the squire had said, and Gyles had agreed with the man's sage advice.
Entering an inn known as "The Merry Shipwright", Gyles and Mors found seats in the corner of the foul-smelling structure, ordering tankards of ale from a sour-mouthed serving wench who ducked and dodged between lascivious stares and groping hands as she went to retrieve their drinks. They spent several minutes sipping ale that tasted like piss, watching for any people that piqued their interest. Mors eventually pointed out a man with the look of a mildly successful merchant, which meant that he looked only slightly cleaner and better-dressed than the majority of the people filling the cramped space.
Making their way over to the man, Gyles and Mors sat at the table that the man had originally kept to himself. Watching them with suspicious and beady eyes from within a sallow and corpulent face, the merchant eventually broke the silence.
"Whaddya want? I'm a busy man, and I don't got time for Flea Bottom scum." The man then took a closer look at Gyles through the haze filling the common room, or rather the quality of the armor that he was wearing, and a more calculating gleam appeared in his eyes. A greasy grin spread across the man's face, exposing crooked and mossy teeth that were as brown as mud. "Apologies, Ser. Clearly you are a cut above the filth that usually infests this establishment. How can I help you today?"
Gyles gave the man his charming smile, and waved the sour-mouthed wench over to the table. "Pardon me, miss," Gyles said, before nodding in the direction of the merchant, "but please get this man whatever drink he would like. I'll pay." During the exchange, the merchant's disgusting grin had grown even wider. Gyles allowed the merchant to enjoy several sips of the cheap wine that he'd ordered before speaking up. "My squire and I arrived in the city only just today. Our journey has been a long one, and I fear that I know little and less of the state of this city."
The merchant nodded thoughtfully, smacking his lips as he took a long swig from his wine. "I took you for a Dornishman the moment I truly got a look at that armor of yours. A nobleman too. I see sailors and merchants out of the Planky Town from time to time, but I've never seen a nobleman from Dorne in this land of dragons."
Gyles grinned. "I would say that Dornish knights are not oft a welcome sight within the dragonlords' realm. Were my circumstances different, I would wager that it would be much more beneficial to my continued health and prosperity if I had stayed in my home. Alas, I find myself in a strange city far from the land where I was born, and I now turn to you, a man of clear knowledge and ability, to help me understand how the city of King's Landing fares." Gyles took another swig of his ale, suppressing a grimace. I was mistaken. Piss would likely taste better than this.
The merchant chuckled, wagging a sausage-like finger at Gyles. "I'm not such a fool to fall for such clear flattery. But you bought me a drink, and offered me those flowery compliments all the same. I'd say that earns you some information." Taking another long sip of wine, the merchant continued. "The city has been in a tense state since the King's eldest son and heir, the prince Jaehaerys, was murdered. From what I've heard, the boy was beheaded right in front o' his siblings and mother. A nasty business, that. They caught one of the murderers, but t'other, a ratcatcher, slipped through their fingers. King Aegon in his wroth had every ratcatcher in the city hanged." The merchant paused to take another swig of wine. "Not too long ago, there was a fight north of the city, at the seat o' Lord Staunton. Twas the King and his brother against a princess on the side of Queen Rhaenyra, Princess Rhaenys. The three fought on dragonback, and the King and his brother emerged victorious, killing the princess and her dragon. I saw its head myself when it was drawn by cart through the streets of this very city. From what I hear, however, both the King and his dragon were hurt quite badly during the fight. Lots o' folk tried to leave the city following the battle, but the Queen Dowager barred the city gates for a time. Bad for trade, that, but I suppose I would have done the same if I were some royal on Aegon's High Hill." The merchant then shrugged. "That's about all that I know. Many thanks for the drink, friend."
Gyles merely nodded, trying to process all that he had just been told. Murder and dragonflame. I'm no maester, but that seems quite a dangerous mix to me. Dragons were fearsome creatures, and Gyles' forebears had stood no chance against them, instead fleeing from their seats until the danger passed. The only time I've heard of a dragon dying in battle was when those crazy Ullers shot down one of the old Aegon's sister-wives on her dragon. This war will be like none that Westeros has ever seen if dragons fight dragons in the skies. Leaving the merchant with enough coin to pay for his drink, along with a little extra for the useful information that he gave, Gyles made his way to the door of the inn. Mors drained the remainder of his tankard of ale before following.
Working as a hired sword for a brothel was not Gyles' first choice for employment, but he supposed that it would have to do for the time being. Atop Visenya's Hill, the House of Kisses was not located along the Street of Silk like many of the city's brothels, but as Gyles had quickly learned, the higher one traveled up any of the three hills, the higher the quality of the businesses and homes became, including the brothels. With their skill at arms, Gyles and Mors were both able to secure a place among the guards at one of the most prestigious brothels in the city. The job provided a bed to sleep in inside of a small room in which to secure his belongings, as well as meals and wine that tasted half-decent. In exchange for the food and lodgings, however, Gyles was paid no coin, and much to his chagrin, the services of the women in the House of Kisses were not free to the brothel's guards. In order to save the coin he had left, Gyles had to be content with nothing more than flirting with them.
When he wasn't working, it had become Gyles' custom to ride out into the city and seek information and rumors about the goings-on within the King's court. Gyles and Mors had been rebuffed at the gates of the Red Keep not long after they'd arrived at the city, and ever since then Gyles sought opportunities to access the court of the royal family. So far, however, he had been unsuccessful. Gyles sat in the common room of the House of Kisses, frustratedly nursing a bottle of wine between himself and Mors on one of the nights they had off. Unless the situation within this city changes significantly, it is likely that I'll never step inside that damn castle. Business was slow that evening, and Gyles' dark mood improved slightly as he observed two of the brothel's whores approaching the table that he and Mors sat at.
Both of them drew out the remaining chairs around the small table, seating themselves. Gyles spent a moment silently observing both. The first of the two had pale white skin, with a light splash of freckles on her shoulders and across her face. She had long light brown hair, along with sparkling green eyes and a sweet smile. Like all the whores at the House of Kisses, she wore a sheer silk dress that hid little and less of her curvaceous body from the eye. Her dress was green, matching her eyes. Reaching down, she lifted a small boy onto her knee. By the freckles on the boy's face, Gyles could tell that the boy was the child of the whore in green. However, he had bright eyes of lilac, and pale white-gold hair. The other whore had olive skin, with thick raven hair drawn into a braid. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, and gleamed with a calculating intelligence. She smiled at Gyles with white teeth, but the smile was sharp as a dagger. Wearing a sheer silk dress of deep purple, hers was a more slender beauty than that of the whore next to her.
The woman in purple spoke first, in a lilting tone that was common to the people of Dorne living along the region's coasts, having the most Rhoynish ancestry of any of Dorne's peoples. "You might be the very first Dornishman I've seen to make it this far north of the Red Mountains. It's good to see that I'll finally have someone who'll fully appreciate my wit." The woman held out a delicate, sun-kissed hand. "My name is Sylvenna Sand. Now what is your name, Ser Yronwood?" She grinned, clearly awaiting a response.
Gyles smiled back, pleased that for once he didn't have to explain what House the sigil on his doublet belonged to. "The pleasure is all mine, Lady Sylvenna. As you correctly surmised, I am Ser Gyles of House Yronwood. Your surname indicates that you have some noble blood in your veins as well. May I ask what House you hail from?" He sipped his wine as the woman responded.
"My father was a Dalt, and the previous Knight of Lemonwood. I was born to a whore in the Planky Town, but my father took me to be raised at Lemonwood. Upon his death, however, his son and heir made it clear to me that I was no longer welcome, so I took passage on a ship out of the Planky Town and made my way to this city. I have resided in the House of Kisses ever since." Gyles nodded. It seems we're both far from a home that we're no longer welcome in.
Gyles nodded in respect at Sylvenna Sand before speaking again. "Well it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady." Turning to the woman with the child on her knee, he addressed her next. "And your name is?"
Smiling brightly at him, the woman responded in a cheery tone. "My name is Esselyn, m'lord, but everybody knows me as Essie." Patting the head of the boy on her knee affectionately, she continued to speak. "This here is my son Gaemon. He's been blessed with the look of the dragon. If not for Sylvenna having recognized your sigil, I would have taken you for having dragonblood as well!" The young boy had begun to suck his thumb, and looked around the common room in several different directions, seemingly becoming bored.
Gyles smiled kindly at her. "An easy mistake to make, miss. However, my family is known for their blond hair, and I inherited my eyes from my mother." Gyles' mother was born a Dayne of High Hermitage, and like many of her family, she had eyes of a deep violet color. Like her, Gyles' own eyes were a deep violet, and in his own opinion were one of his best features.
Sylvenna Sand politely cleared her throat, and Gyles turned back to face her. Steepling her fingers under her chin, she addressed Gyles once again. "If I may be so bold, Ser, what is your purpose in this city? I am sure you know as well as I that the Dornish are not well-loved beyond the Red Mountains, and I'm willing to wager that whatever journey you made to reach this city was fraught with risk." Gyles had refilled his cup with wine as she spoke, and took another small sip.
Considering her question a moment, Gyles spoke up. "It is my hope to join the court of the royal family, and swear my sword to them. However, I have had no luck in even gaining access to the keep. Mistrust seems to run deep in every part of this city." He sat back, feeling some of his earlier frustration return as he considered just how impossible his situation felt. I can't return home, and despite my family name, status as a knight, and skill at arms, the region of my birth prevents me from being seen as anything but an enemy in the eyes of most people in this damned city.
Looking back at Sylvenna Sand, Gyles saw that she had a small smile on her face. She stood from her seat, and Essie followed her lead, gathering her young son in her arms before standing as well. Walking to Gyles' side, Sylvenna Sand embraced him. To any throughout the room, it appeared as though she was merely showing a potential client some affection, but the Dornishwoman used the embrace as an opportunity to whisper a quiet message in his ear. "Take heart, Ser Gyles Yronwood," she whispered lightly. "In these trying times, it would be easier to predict which way the wind will blow than to guess at who will rule the realm by the war's end." Offering him one more sharp grin, Sylvenna Sand crossed the common room gracefully to the steps leading further up into the quarters of the whores of The House of Kisses, with Essie hurrying after her. Neither woman looked back. Gyles sat back, considering what Sylvenna Sand had said. I suppose I'll just have to wait a while longer yet, and see if my fortunes change.