“You’ve done what I asked?”
“Yes.”
“You’re
sure you got
exactly what I asked for?”
“Yes m’lord, I’m quite familiar with the cellars.”
”Excellent.”The servant, a skinny tunic-clad girl no older than fourteen, produced a small vial from some secret pocket. It was only large enough to hold a mouthful of liquid, made of translucent jade and stoppered with a wax seal. Toran snapped it up immediately, grinning ear to ear as he flicked her a silver stag for her troubles. He paused only a second to admire the vial before pocketing it safely and snapping up his staff, almost dancing down the servants’ corridor as he made his leave.
So far, King’s Landing had been good to Toran. Despite the smell (which always managed to outdo its memory, regardless of how used to it he deemed himself to be) he found somewhat of a home in the Red Keep; his feet had often pounded its stones, and his laughter still echoed along its walls from frequent visits throughout his life. He’d been very sad to leave Sunspear for so long, having shared some difficult goodbyes with his mothers and siblings, but took solace in the fact that his status as a guard gave him some freedom to visit or even permanently rotate home after some time. With this in mind, he had come somewhat to terms with the fact that this time, he needed to keep up appearances not as a noble, but as a guard, but still knew he would have some trouble holding his tongue, especially as time went by and the wards and their guards got further acquainted. He couldn’t trust himself to keep up with the “my lords and ladies” formalities for long.
Now, Toran practically skipped up the steps from the cellars and traversed the servants’ corridors with ease on his way back to his lodgings. Much to his dismay at arrival, he hadn’t been assigned his usual sleeping quarters, but a modest room in the Ward’s Barracks, which branched off the ward’s common room through a hidden servant’s door and was to house the personal guards of the wards. It was smaller and less lavish than he was used to, but Toran would get over it. At the very least, he’d been allowed to bring may personal belongings, including a recently-made mesh enclosure for Toruk. The last time they’d been to the Red Keep, he’d gotten loose and nearly bitten someone from a hiding place inside a decorative suit of armour; Toran didn’t fancy the idea of repeating such an incident.
Like all rooms and areas in the Keep, the ward’s barracks had a back door, so that he didn’t need to traverse the common room to gain access, but could if need be. This was what he used now to return to his chamber, crossing the room to Toruk’s enclosure. Flipping the door open, he hid the vial safely under the sand lining the bottom, topping it with a rock, invisible. From the enclosure he drew Toruk himself, whom he had only left behind for fear he’d try to dig the vial out of his pocket. The viper seemed to be giving Toran the cold shoulder as he picked him up, but quickly got over it and coiled his (rather short) body around Toran’s wrist.
On his way back out, Toran halted in front of a large, full-length mirror standing in the corner near the door. Now
this was something he’d brought from home; it was made of immaculately polished glass, and one of his favourite possessions from home.
Vanity was definitely among Toran’s virtues but, perhaps out of honesty or out of whitewashing, he would not go so far as to call himself ‘vain’. Still, he halted in front of the mirror and gave himself a thorough look-over. The guard’s uniform was still an unfamiliar feature, even personalized as it was. Old Palace guards wore yellow robes, leather gloves and wrapped their heads in cloth; his was much more personalized, geared more toward the battle leathers of the Martell lords themselves. It contrasted starkly with the plate mail of Westerosi guards, with its minimal leather chest piece and hardened arm and shin guards being the only armour present. It left the arms bare and the legs free, allowing the copious motion that the Dornish were so known for. The silk shirt beneath the leathers was light, cool and served a purpose; it prevented arrows from penetrating deep into the body, saving the lives of many a Dornish soldier.
One thing Toran did like about the uniform was that it made it more acceptable for him to be armed: His belt bore several pouches of flammable ores and holstered two steel knives on the right side, and of course his beloved dagger-turned-spearhead on his left.
Before leaving, Toran decided to twist his hair into a short, thick braid with no fastener, which curled around and into itself in a makeshift bun that lay flat against the back of his neck. In this time, he took one final look at himself. One thing about the guard’s armour - it displayed the scarring on his arms, neck and face prominently. His eyes moved along the discoloured skin as they had countless times before, with a mix of emotion accompanying them. On the one hand, he should be thrilled at how well his wounds had healed; he’d seen burned men before with flesh that, even healed, looked as if it had been melted off, whereas with the help of great maesters, his had healed with only discolouration and some roughness. They stood out starkly pale from his bronze skin, “Like a pinto horse,” as his sister Retilla had told him. Still, something about them made him a tad crestfallen from time to time - a harsh reminder not to become too cocky.
In any case, he’d wasted enough time. Something gnawed at the back of his mind, probably about how his cousin and charge, Gabriel, had given him the slip this morning. He hadn’t been overly concerned - the boy was probably just looking for some peace and quiet somewhere, and he doubted he’d be in much danger what with the Queen being a Martell - but figured it would probably be best to keep up appearances and keep track of him. Sure, Toran did feel responsible for him, and would absolutely protect him if need be, but he had far from the traditional, paranoid ‘guard’ mentality.
Murmurs of conversation came muffled from the common room, and Toran finally made his leave to go. Leather boots clicked along the stone of the barrack’s hallway and he emerged, staff and snake in hand, from what looked from the common room like a section of panelling that swung into the wall itself. He sauntered in with a swagger one could only learn in Dorne, and kept to the end of the room featuring a table laden with fruit. Right away, he noted the horrible tension in the air. So
serious this deal had become, hadn’t it?
Transferring his staff to the hand holding Toruk, he grabbed himself a large peach from a bowl and helped himself to it, watching the proceedings as a girl clad in falcon sigils - the Arryn, no doubt - stirred the room with her icy comments. Toran had to chuckle at the outcome, especially at the fully-armoured Baratheon boy, who seemed to be looking to the very wallpaper for a fight. He reminded Toran of the bulls he’d seen so often in tournaments at Sunspear, who stomped and huffed and blindly charged, and yet never did manage to hit their targets.
In a corner seat near the door, where everyone seemed to be concentrated, sat a man for whom Toran could not stifle his amusement. He looked like a damn tapestry, with a falcon on his shoulder, dog at his side and damn
bear on the floor nearby. It was so utterly ridiculous a scene that the begrudged guard couldn’t possibly take the man seriously, regardless of the man’s clear efforts to be taken as such.
The other nobles were all Northern and didn’t differ much in Toran’s eyes than by the colour of their clothes; he saw the Lannister lion on one boy, to whom Toran gave an appraising look but decided to form an opinion of later; the ones in black were probably Starks; the rest, Toran either couldn’t see or just couldn’t tell. There were so damn
many of them, not to mention their guardsmen, and he was certain they’d have more than enough time over the next few years to become acquainted.
Toran’s attention was quickly diverted when he noticed Gabriel petting the tapestry man’s bear. The beast was calm enough (as its master had assured) that Toran wasn’t overly worried. If need be, he would fly across the room and subdue it enough to pry his cousin from its grasp, but considering the creature on his own wrist, he wasn’t quick to draw against it.
Finally, he decided to come a little closer to the group, staff, snake, and peach in hand. He only got so far as to lean against the wall next to the Arryn girl. He considered interjecting into the conversation with some witty remark, but decided against it; like it or not, he was expected to act at least a
little like a proper guard, and unfortunately, that meant minding his manners around those who were presumably ‘above’ him. So, he settled for looking on, speaking when spoken to, and wearing somewhat of a shit-eating grin.
