(121-04-12) Last Words
Last Words
Summary: Tameron, Osric and Castor speak before the Trial of the Seven.
Date: 04/12/2014
Related: Wickham's Nest
Players:
Castor..Tameron..Osric..

The hour draws close, and people begin to make their way towards the tourney grounds for the duel that is soon to occur. Tameron was there himself, for a time, but as the crowd grows, he has chosen to ride his horse back to the manse and spend the remaining free time in the gardens with which he has become familiar over these past weeks. He sits, clad up in the maile armor Ser Osric gifted him, perched on the window seat he most enjoys, and looking out at the garden.

Ser Osric Dayne gleams in a suit of burnished maile, similar to Tameron's, but overlaid with a tabard bearing his personal arms. The greatsword dawn hangs at his shoulder, and for a change the Dornish knight carries a heml under his arm. His expression is neutral, if a touch faraway, as he too wanders into the garden. When he notices Tameron though, a hint of a smile breaks his placid demeanor. "I might have known I would find you here."

Tameron glances over at Osric as the other man steps into the greenery. "You look very… noble, ser," he points out with a faint smile. "Wanted the peace instead of the clamor?"

"I would always choose peace over clamor," Osric agrees with a nod of his head, his grin spreading into something lopsided and genuine as he draws nearer his friend. "You look every inch a nobleman yourself, Tameron Sand," he says as he looks the younger man over. "Should I leave you to the quiet? I don't mean to intrude."

"Only the seed of a nobleman, ser," Tameron corrects bemusedly. "No inch of my own self is noble, I'm afraid." He gives a small shake of his head. "No. I am not sure I'd like much company just now, but yours is always welcome."

Osric chuckles at that, coming to lean against the wall near Tameron's window, dropping one hand to hold his scabbard steady so the sword doesn't foul as he does so. "You're noble enough where it counts, Ser Tameron," he opines, "Though I won't ruin your opinion of yourself by arguing the point."

Castor comes in from the walled garden.

"Oh, I'm a fine enough fellow, I suppose," Tameron replies, "but I wouldn't call myself noble. Not in either sense of the world. I'm not like you, ser. But I… well. I'm sure it's been said before, but considering the way things lie, I feel I ought to say it again. Thank you. For the maile. And your kindness. And your friendship."

"Thank you, Ser," Osric says, dipping his chin in a deep nod to Tameron. "For your friendship, though I've come to look at you as more of a brother to me in recent months, than a friend. Thank you for the trust you put in me, all those years ago, and for what you have done for my family more recently."

Tameron smiles softly for that, nodding in silent agreement. "You put trust in me, too, all those years ago. More, I would wager, than I ever had to put in you. I know my choices are not always what you might wish them to be, but I have tried to be worthy of that trust."

"You have been worthy of that trust, and more," Osric says, shaking his head slightly. He and Tameron are in the garden, both clad in maile and prepared for the upcoming trial. The Sword of the Morning wears a vivid purple tabard bearing his personal arms, and Dawn hangs from a baldric slung from his shoulder to his hip.

The one man who likely doesn't have much of a personal stake in this duel, and yet has found himself participating, is coming in from the inside, handing over a sealed scroll to a nearby servant. "See that this gets to my brother in Ghost Hill." His voice sounds gutteral, like somewhere between a horase whisper and a growl. And now with that done, it looks like he's come here for some personal respite.

"Then I've done all right," Tameron replies, still smiling faintly, "and it has been an honor, ser.". His own linen surcoat is folded up and resting on his lap, though it bears only the coat of arms for House Dayne. He glances over as Castor appears and offers a small nod. "Ser."

"Ser Castor." Osric's violet eyes are drawn that way when Tameron greets the other man, and he steps forward to offer the newcomer a hand. "We've not met. I am Ser Osric Dayne, and this is Ser Tameron Sand." There's much to be said between them, of course, with the trial looming, but Osric opts for, "Welcome to Oldtown, and thank you for lending your sword to our cause."

Castor had been looking skyward for the moment, then down again when Osric speaks his name. "I've heard your name, Ser Osric." the man's gravely voice replies, taking the man's hand in a shake. "Well-respected name at that. I'm Ser Castor Toland." There's a sheepish grin on face then. "Well, I can't say I know or understand much of what lead to this. Know some pieces, but I'm a newcomer to Oldtown and if Dorne needs defending, that is the least I can do."

"Are you a champion picked directly by Lord Blackmont, then?" Tameron asks as he regards Castor Toland. "Welcome, then, may the rest of your stay in Oldtown be less eventful than its beginning."

"It's a good cause you lend your sword to, Ser," Osric says, his tone confident. "There have been deaths on both sides of the border, but Lord Blackmont has accused these men justly. They rode on the Red Rookery, where they killed men, women and children in the name of vengeance for a crime Lord Blackmont himself had no hand in."

"I volunteered, actually." Castor's growly voice replies. "Ser Arrick had mentioned the whole matter and asked me if I was going to join in the duel." He shrugs then, to Osric now. "That's as good enough reason for me as any other. Well…it would be wholly unfortnate if I were to die today without really getting a real experience in this city."

"From what this city has shown me, you would not be missing so very much. It is not much of a welcoming place if you happen to be Dornish," Tameron replies wryly. "Perhaps this fight will change that… but I am doubtful, ser."

"I have had small enough experience of it," Osric allows, but nods his agreement. "But what experience I have had makes me inclined to agree. Still, Princess Ashara and I had high hopes of supporting the peace from Oldtown, and I will cling to those. I'll not lay them aside now."

"That may be." Castor nods at Tameron. "I'll hope it's not the case. It would be a shame that my wandering of Westeros stops here. No real desire to die here today." Looking back at Osric, he shrugs lightly. "Princess Ashara seems to have a good idea of how to make peace, if it's possible and it certainly appears that what she wants."

"No, ser, I do not think any of us are in this duel because we wish to die," Tameron points out wryly. "We wish to defend our house and our people on the field of battle, as has been demanded." He gives a small nod for Princess Ashara, adding only, "She's a clever one." He takes a last, long glance around the garden and then breathes out slowly. "I think, sers, it is time we took our places among the other champions."

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