(122-12-17) A Small Request
Desmond..Daevon..King Viserys..

The King isn't holding court. The king is, so to speak, on vacation. The Hightower guards, however, are not in the business of telling the King's cousins to sod off, so it's not hard at all for Daevon to get in.

An audience with the King. Daevon's admittedly nervous about this. He's not spoken to the King since he was a child, likely just before he became a squire, just before he ran off from the Targaryen Knight he refused to serve. He's visited neither King's Landing, nor Dragonstone in ten years. He's certainly not his family's favourite person, that whole incident with being prisoner in Dorne. The shambles of his betrothal to Mariya Martell. Even if it truly wasn't his fault, his choice, that the marriage disintegrated, he's the easiest target to blame. Still he did good when he was sent to the North, helped there, managed not to cause too much trouble or die. That's to count for something? Anyway, he's nervous, dressed for the occassion, as he steps in to meet the King.

Desmond tags along after Daevon, right at his shoulder. He's wearing his mismatched plate - his until after the duel, anyhow - and he's polished the various pieces of armor to a gleaming sheen. Some gleam darkly, some glean brightly, but they're all well-polished. His oversized longsword hangs at his hip, but that needs no polishing. His big brutal features bear a bashful expression, and he follows after Daevon quickly, mincing his steps to not accidentally get ahead of the Targaryen. Every now and then, his hands clench and relax.

The Maiden's Knight is directed to the lower garden by some household knights. Up by the door that leads out of the third level of the tower to the lower garden stands one of the Kingsguard. He doesn't seem concerned, just takes in Daevon's hair and eyes and nods to him.

Daevon nods back at the Kingsguard. "I am here to speak to His Majesty." As if that needs to be said. "I am his cousin, Ser Daevon Targaryen."

Desmond eyes the Whitecloak thoughtfully and quickens his pace to keep up with Daevon. This man, at least, does not receive the same awestruck expression he usually wears when confronted with the Great and the Good. He doesn't speak, but clasps his hands behind his back, looming at Daevon's shoulder.

The man nods again. He's not blocking the way. He looks like he's enjoying doing nothing and is trying not to let something happening interrupt him.

Daevon walks in then. Desmond hurries after.

Out in the garden, someone has set up a remarkable sort of hanging basket, wide and flat and round and with a feather mattress on it, hanging from a frame of big square cut beams. Plump King Viserys is lying out there in the sun in his house-coat, the robe open to halfway down his soft belly. There are two more white cloaks just hanging about, and they take note of Ser Daevon and his companion but don't do anything about it. There's a bit white gyrfalcon loosely tethered to a screen perch near where the king lies and he's absently cutting a haunch of something raw and red into tiny bits and flicking them at her with the tip of his dagger, to watch her jump and snatch them from the air.

Daevon stands and waits a moment. Will someone announce him. Or would he be better to come back later. Later's starting to seem good. Fearless on the battlefield he certainly isn't here.

Desmond looms over Daevon's shoulder and stares at the king. He touches the Maiden's Knight lightly on his elbow and, subtly, jerks his chin in a nod of encouragement. He seems fascinated to see the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms in such a state of relaxation.

The falcon chirps. Viserys Targaryen, First of his Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, says, "Hello. Have a glass of iced wine. Sers…"

Daevon doesn't drink wine, can't drink wine, but here he can't refuse. "Thank you, kindly, your highness." He says. He takes the offered glass, and he should sit for this, shouldn't he.

Desmond accepts a glass of wine with every evidence of pleasure and takes a sip before he realizes that, maybe, he should be waiting for permission to do something so crass as sip wine. He looks around for some clue of what he's supposed to do next.

The King nods to Daevon. He's probably a little drunk. He seems amiable about it, though he does give Daevon a slightly squinty look for a minute. Then he says, "What do you think of this falcon?" and flicks the bird another piece of bloody meat.

Daevon looks at the bird. What does he think of it? It's a falcoln and he's not an expert on such matters. Is this a trick? No. Probably not from Viserys at least. "It seems fierce. I'm sure it's a good hunter. Is it yours, your Highness?"

Desmond also looks rather blank when the question of the bird comes up. He nods encouragingly along with Daevon's reply and grins hugely at Viserys, his battered features wrinkling and creasing in odd places with the smile. "Very fine falcon," he murmurs, perhaps too inaudibly to be heard by the king.

"It is!" says the King. He sits up a little, scratches his short silver-gold beard and says, "Wait. You are Ser Daevon."

"Yes," Daevon says, a little warily.

Desmond stares at the king, clutching his wine in one hand before him, like a shield. He doesn't dare speak again.

"Where is your sister?" asks Viserys, brightening up.

Daevon laughs at this, oh so amused suddenly to be asked of his sister. "My sister, Visenya?" he asks just to check. He has a number. "She's currently resting in her chambers."

Desmond looks baffled, but somewhat pleased to see the King and Daevon having such a pleasant conversation. He forgets himself and sips his wine.

King Viserys nods. "Your sister, of the two hatchlings," he says. He swings one leg off the hanging bed thing he's on, just to make the thing sway. "I should like to see your sister," he says.

"Certainly," Daevon smiles. "I shall ask her to come speak with you. Although perhaps not now? She is finding her pregnancy somewhat tiring, and it is good that she's resting. Would you also like her to bring the hatchlings?"

Desmond nods to himself faintly, gazing between Daevon and Viserys, his scarred face now complacent, relaxed, and quite pleased. He smiles down at Daevon, apparently happy to see his friend having such a nice time. He even dares to take a third sip of his iced wine.

"Of course," says the King, smiling. "That would be charming." He seems jolly, if a little overly relaxed. He flicks another bit of meat to the falcon, then asks Daevon, "This your man?"

Daevon nods. "Yes. Desmond Snow, acknowledged bastard of Ulryk Umber. He does work for me, as well as other members of our household in the city." There's a slight worried frown. "He's Dhraegon's friend."

Very carefully, Desmond drops down to one knee and sets his wine aside, clearly afraid to spill a drop. "Your Grace," he rumbles, his hand down on the hilt of his sword, head bowed. It bares his stitched gash nicely for view.

"Not Ser Desmond Snow?" asks the king, watching the big man kneel, but still seemingly speaking to Daevon.

Daevon shakes his head at the King. "No. For all his bravery, he is not yet a knight. You saw him at the riot did you not? How he bravely protected the judges, Prince Dhraegon and Lady Marsei herself, from the attack. And yet he remained calm enough that he did not make things worse. He did not draw steel nor attack. And that he stood fearless when the dragons arrived, and helped again then."

Desmond keeps his head gazing firmly at the ground, a flush creeping up his neck and into his face, and even into his scalp, visible beneath his stubble easily enough. The huge Northman grips his longsword more tightly, as though the oversized blade would support him in the face of this Royal commentary. He barely seems to be breathing.

The king smiles. "I saw him, yes. Not only the judges, but myself. Rise, Desmond Snow." He swings the other leg off his hanging bed thing and sits up properly.

Daevon looks between the two of them, quiet.

Surprised, Desmond jerks to his feet, looming back upright with a rattle of his badly-fitting armor. He glances down at Daevon. It's a quick sideways glance, nothing more, but the man's expression imparts both terror and hope.

"How can I thank you for your good service, Desmond?" asks Viserys, adjusting the belt of his robe.

Daevon offers Desmond a reassuring smile. He then looks to the King.

Desmond opens his throat, tries to speak. Closes it again. Clears it with a loud -harumph- and shrinks back from the sound it makes. And then, finally, he speaks. His voice is tightly-controlled. "Your Grace.. The greatest honor in my life has been serving House Targaryen." He swallows, then starts again. "There is nothing.. nothing, Your Grace.. that I could wish more than to be.." He hesitates, closes his eyes a moment, and plunges on. "A knight in service to my King and Realm."

The King looks a little bemused for a moment, then shrugs and gives Daevon a questioning look.

Daevon watches Desmond as he gives his answer, genuinely surprised by the request. It's not the one he expected. He would have waited. He's cautious though. With the King here, and this opportunity, he just responds to the King's look with a slight nod.

Viserys smiles. "Very well," he says. "But you are not on some battlefield or lost in the wilderness, so you'd better make your vigil at the sept tonight."

Desmond grunts as if he's been gutstruck at the king's answer. There are tears in his eyes. "I shall, Your Grace," he promises. And then, greatly daring, "I'll not shame your trust, Your Grace."

Daevon continues to watch, a little concerned.

Viserys nods to Desmond, "I will see you in the morning on the steps of this tower, then," he says. "Unless you'd rather some other place."

Desmond swallows, looking around. He considers the question gravely. "There is no better place, Your Grace."

His Grace grins and says, "That's that, then!"

Desmond hurriedly wipes his forehead and eyes, as though speed will make the sight any less obvious.

Daevon doesn't even get a chance to mention what he'd planned to. He dips a bow. "Thank you, your highness."

Viserys Targaryen waves a hand, all magnanimous. He seems pleased enough. He also seems to expect the two to go away.

Daevon commences with the whole going away thing.

Desmond hurriedly bows to the king, pivots clumsily on his heel — he has to reach for Daevon for support — and makes his way out of the space.

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