Lord Tarth leads them into a solar, large windows showing the view towards Durran’s Point, across the Strait.
“Please,” the lord says. “Sit.” He gestures at a maid tending the small fire and she curtsies, dusting her hands on her apron.
“Milord?”
“See to it that our guests are brought something to break their fast. Hot and plenty, they’ve come through the storm.”
The girl shivers, curtsies again and leaves them with that quick step that means she’d run if it were appropriate.
Lyonel sinks into one of the cushioned chairs and points the lads towards a couch. They pull their cloaks off and drop into their seats heavily.
“I’ll leave you to your rest,” Lord Tarth says warmly. “My maester will find you, Ser Lyonel, after you’ve eaten. For the raven.”
“Thank you, truly, for your hospitality, Evenstar.”
The man bows just enough and then closes the door behind himself quietly.
Lyonel’s eyes close with the door and he stretches his legs. Groans.
“I’d give a lot for a Lysene soak,” Beron says quietly, groaning himself.
“Fuck, I might be compelled to give my left hand for that,” Lyonel agrees and Dunk snorts half a laugh.
“You’ll be useless, with only one hand, ser,” Beron argues and Lyonel laughs at that.
“Not useless, just insufferable.”
Dunk mutters something and Beron laughs. Lyonel lifts an eyelid halfway, watching the lads lean together, chuckling.
“Secret joys?”
“Very much so,” says Beron haughtily, coming to Dunk’s rescue, as the lad stutters, wringing his fingers into his cloak.
Lyonel closes his eye again. “Very good. You should have more of those.”
An odd sort of noise comes out of Dunk and Beron whispers something, making him make an odd noise again.