(121-04-16) Ding Dong, Dragon Calling
Ding Dong, Dragon Calling
Summary: Ser Daevon calls on the captive Ser Tameron, gets a face full of Magden, instead.
Date: Date of play
Related: Related Logs
Players:
Daevon..Magden..Tameron..

Daevon's royalled his way into the Tyrell manse, in order to visit, not the Tyrell's but their prisoners. Surely there's an etiquette rule about that, but Daevon's always been terrible about such things. And so, here he is.

There probably is, but Tameron is also a fan of ignoring such things. He's in a cot in the barracks, dozing lightly. His chest is bare, but wrapped in clean bandages, and a myriad of bruises blossoms up from the wrappings, and over his throat. It was a grand time on the dueling field.

More likely than not, Ser Daevon is brought to the barracks, where Ser Tameron Sand and his squire, among other 'guests,' have been stored in small, monastic cells. In one cot, the young knight is convalescing from his wounds, neatly bandaged and well-tended; in the other, his girl-squire, the skinny and pale haired Magden, is lying the wrong way around, sprawled with her spindle-legs perpendicular to the rest of her, resting against the wall. "Animal, vegetable, or mineral?" she asks her knight, stifling a yawn. They may have been at this game for some time, as she hasn't realized Tameron's dozed off.

Daevon's not brought anything with him, not being certain if they'd even let him do so. "Ser Tameron?" he greets, his words gentle. He's dressed all in black, a colour that completely washes him out. He barely glances at Magden.

Tameron blinks and sucks in a slow breath as he realizes he has a visitor. "Um," he murmurs around a small yawn, peering up at Daevon. "…animal." So perhaps he registered Magden's continuation of their game through his dozing. "Ser," he greets quietly.

Magden rolls her eyes toward Daevon as the door is shut and locked behind the Targaryen prince. She examines the Maiden's Knight upside down for a moment, then rolls to her feet. "Dragon for you, Ser," she reports. She holds number two of her twenty questions, though. For the moment.

"You'll be free soon," Daevon says, a statement of fact. "How are your injuries?"

"Noticed that," Tameron agrees of the arrived dragon, a corner of his mouth quirking weakly. As to the question he says, simply, "They didn't kill me."

Magden folds her arms and cocks a hip. She squints assessingly at Ser Daevon, but says nothing further.

"Good." Daevon says, sinking down onto the edge of a bed. "I was worried that they would. Is there anything that I can do?"

Magden doesn't look pleased at where Ser Daevon's chosen to sit. Or maybe she doesn't like the way he breathes. Or the hair. It might be the hair. She silently glowers.

"Can you bring Ser Osric back from the dead, Ser Daevon?" Tameron asks quietly. "If not, I do not believe there is. Ser, my squire, Magden Quick. Magden, this is Ser Daevon Targaryen, the Maiden Knight."

"Squire Magden," Daevon greets. He ignores the glowering and instead looks at Tameron. "No." He sighs.

"Ser," says Magden, tersely, by way of return greeting. She ignores the ignoring and goes on glowering.

"Then I am well enough, ser, I thank you," Tameron replies quietly, glancing from Magden to Daevon. Well. This is cozy!

Daevon sighs and is starting to wonder why he came here. The doubt's clear on his face, the indecision and he's just not sure what to say. "I'm sorry."

Magden's apparently wondering the same thing. So she prompts, with impressive neutrality (considering all the glaring), "Why have you come, Ser Daevon?"

"As am I," Tameron agrees with a small nod. "He was a good knight and a better man. Of all those on the field the seven could have chosen…" he exhales softly.

"Because I was concerned for Tameron's wellbeing," Daevon admits. "Because I was worried he was here, alone. I did not know you were with him. Because.." he sighs. "He was the best of us. He chose. He chose to fight for what he believed in with every breath in his body. He was a good man. Stubborn, honorable. He died as he lived. The world's a much darker place without the Sword of the Morning."

"Ser Tameron is as well as can be expected," says Magden. "If you cared so much for the outcome, perhaps you should have been on the field."

"Magden," Tameron warns with a glances towards his squire. He looks back over at Daevon, giving another small nod. "It is," he agrees simply. "I will return Dawn to his wife, so that she may take their ancestral blade and Ser Osric's bones back to Starfall."

"No, it's a fair point," Daevon says. "It would have changed nothing even if I could have. I couldn't. But that doesn't make it any easier." He's always one to wear his heart on his sleeve and he's sad, guilty even. He nods at Tameron.

"It didn't stop your uncle," says Magden. She glances at Tam, frowning. What? She is all righteous truthiness, damn it. "If there had been more experienced blades willing to fight, Ser Tameron wouldn't have even needed to take the field." IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT, DAE.

"Well," Tameron muses dryly, "my thanks for your confidence, Madgen. I would have taken the field, regardless, and Ser Daevon did not. There's no point in imagining what could have been."

"I am not my uncle," Daevon replies. "I am a Knight, he is a sellsword. I could not fight. Do you not think I agonised over the decision? That I would see my friends out there, fighting, and could not stand beside them? The Trial of the Seven is asking the Seven to judge, and they did so. There was a squire on the Errant Knights side, and even he was still standing. Ser Osric could have yielded. He could have just failed to rise and none would have thought the less of him. Many of the blows he took would have felled a lesser man. But Ser Osric was honorable, righteous, utterly uncompromising. He gave his all and that he was always going to do. The only way he was leaving that trial alive was if the seven judged in favour of Lord Blackmont, and they did not." He nods. "And there is no point agonising over the might have beens. I understand your anger though. I am angry."

"It was Blackmont's choice, who championed his cause, not yours," says Magden to Tameron. "Surely he would have made room for the Maiden's Knight, had he been willing to fight." She lifts an eyebrow at Daevon. "Are you saying Blackmont bought your uncle?" She snorts. "The more I learn about this trial, the less it seems like the gods had anything to do with it."

Daevon shakes his head. "No. I will say nothing of that here. The whole situation is terrible. What was done to Wickhams Nest, what was done to the Red Rookery. That somewhere Lady Yael is still being held captive. Ser Osric gave his life to stop a war. Seven against seven is better than war. He gave his life to stop that bloodshed. Ser Osric was a Knight, a good knight, a true knight. We serve the Seven in all that we do. He fought knowing the dangers. Are you saying that his death was in vain?"

Magden draws a breath to retort, all heated, then bites her words back. "I won't speak ill words of my ser's ser," she says. "But here is what I see: the dead remain dead, the lady remains missing, and the only man good enough, wise enough to let the matter be settled on that field is dead, now, too. The rest will carry on their grudges and there will be more bloodshed. So I must ask you, Maiden's Knight, if it was not in vain… what was it?"

"His choice," Daevon says. "And hopefully an end to this bloodshed. Lord Blackmont cannot retaliate for the attack on the Red Rookery. Grudges should be dropped. The matter is settled. The Seven have judged."

"'Should be.' 'Hopefully.' What weak words." Magden frowns. "You are a prince. You should not hide your head in the sand, pretending men are good and flowers are blooming. The world has precious few good men. We are now less one."

"I pretend nothing," Daevon says. "I have seen much of the darkness that lurks within men. Why are you a Squire?"

"You think this matter is settled by the gods, that men will not fly in the face of such ghostly authority — but you say you know men? It cannot be both. Choose." Magden frowns at the question. "To serve a good man."

Tameron was silent as The Maiden's Knight and his maid of a squire argued back and forth, but now he lifts a hand. "That's enough," he requests quietly. "Minds are not going to be changed over my sickbed, and you argue of things that cannot be changed, anyway."

Daevon's never actually sounded angry in the discussion. He's not raised his voice, every comment has been made quietly. As Tameron calls enough he looks at the knight. "Not so. We discuss that which is important, perhaps as much so, if not more than martial ability. There are things to be learned, even from a past that cannot be changed. I would not have called it an argument, but you are right, you are on your sickbed and it was inconsiderate of me."

"See?" says Magden Quick to her ser, folding her arms and turning her coat swift as you please. "We weren't arguing." HALO.

"One of you was arguing at least." Tameron's looking at YOU, Magden, eyes narrowing in a rather non-menacing fashion. "Don't make a villian out of Ser Daevon. He was an ally to the Martells when the rest of the city turned against us."

Daevon's actually quiet now, allowing knight and squire to speak.

"I don't know what you're talking about," says Magden to Ser Tameron, all sweetness and light. She snakes a foot beneath her cot and nudges out a wineskin which, with a swing of her leg, she launches into the air and catches in her hands. "Wine, Ser Daevon?" MOAR HALO. Bling!

Tameron rolls his eyes and gives a small shake of his head, but lets it lie. Some things aren't worth the effort when one is already prone.

Daevon shakes his head at Magden. "No thank you."

"Nobody loves you," Magden tells the wineskin, sadly. Tsk. She climbs up onto the bedside table so that she can peer out the small, barred window, then empties the skin. There's an almost instant (gratifying, if one is Magden), irate shout and stream of curses from below.

Daevon grimaces as Magen pours the wine out of the window.

Tameron lifts his hand and rubs it over his face. "Ladies and gentlemen: my squire," he murmurs around a small smirk.

Daevon does laugh at that. He doesn't ask the question surely everyone else would. "Where will the two of you be off to after Starfall? Or do you intend to stay there a while?"

Still standing on the table — and licking a drop of wine off her thumb — Magden returns Tameron's smirk and bows elaborately, theatrically, at the waist, bending in half. She straightens and corks the skin, hopping down from the table and letting Tameron address their future plans.

"I swore to serve the Dayne house for a year and a day, so we will go wherever Lady Ellia chooses or sends us," Tameron replies. "So… I do not know, as I haven't been able to speak to her since the duel."

Daevon nods at Tameron, rising to his feet. "I should be on my way. If you ever wish to speak, well you know where I am."

Magden wiggles her fingers in farewell, stowing the empty wineskin beneath her cot again. She sits and toes off her boots, stifling a yawn. All that being obstinate and disagreeable is, apparently, hard work. Nap time.

"When I am able to leave here, perhaps I shall," Tameron replies with a small nod. "Good day, ser." He, too, looks ready to doze again. Healing takes a lot out of a body.

~Fin

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