The Silent Bell Knight
Baelor Targaryen x FemaleKnight! OC
Summary:
She knew him in their youth, and in their differing wars since. Their paths had twisted as sure as her locks lay hidden beneath helms, lost love masked as sure as it were coated in plated armours. Forgetting the Prince had become easy enough as time stretched on; easier when a tilt provided a warm pocket of coin, a melee dry lodgings. Even dealing with her own ghosts gave a well-worn distraction. Becoming a hidden knight was the affection she sought and had embraced for years— the tourney masses offering their cheers to enigmatic heraldry, her own glee at success, even the suspicion in the eyes of the lords that so often sat above her. It was a brutal life forged from desperation, grown anew despite her differences, her hindrances; a life that could eventually fade an inner curse with a kiss of steel. And she'd seek it all further come time for the Tourney at Ashford, gifting the Silent Bell Knight a place to once more step into their own— granted, there was no other giving halt.
Words: 5.7k
Tags: female mystery knight, past established friendship, ~ romantic relationship~, oc is a bastard of the Red Mountains, Tourney at Ashford, elements of ptsd [post war], she meets almost everyone, indicators of racial differences towards the south and classes, KNIGHTS BRO, will definitely add more
Author's Note:
So this turned into a bit of a medieval tale. I sat on it for a couple months, with many a rewrite and brainstorm had. Then I drank too much tequila and posted about it...and here we are. The relationships with people from Dorne/the attitudes towards Baelor's resemblance to his mother's side definitely intrigued me to eventually write this. Also a female knight + societal expectations/hurdles? Mhm. First chapter is sort of a set up of where everything is, then we are well on our way (I hope the proofreads worked if not I am sorry). I also used elements of an old folk song so if it's familiar to anyone, there it is. Shout out pinterest for the images.
Chapter One
"—Cease the night, or the King will part—,"
The sun drooped lower on the horizon, the looming path ahead twisting from meadow to trees as the travelling duo entered under its darkening canopy.
"—Golden fetters will chain their cries, lament their love in foolish art—,"
Only muted clinks and the thuds of hooves could be heard above the low voice singing the old folk song, the melancholy of the south breaching the air of the Reach.
"—While the rivers flow green and ill, the sands to dust the eyes in clouds, I can't turn my true love speak to me—,"
A last will of warmth brushed across the faces of knight and squire through the faded leaves and yellowed bellies of the twigs weaving their fingers together like a lasting prayer. It were a waning flicker of sunlight, like the evenfall listened to the sounds on the air turning the day's joy into a vessel for sombre wants.
"—My maddening hush I swing to ye, dead in the ruins of where I once caught thee,"
The knight whispered the last few lyrics, their squire glimpsing at the signal in their direction as the reigns on both horses tightened, the latter turning in their saddle to give the destrier, Midnight, a once over in caution as he followed tied at the back.
Few had heard the Silent Bell Knight sing, and fewer still lived to tell the tale once the voice seeped between ears. Under the cover of the forest, the steadily growing shadows of thickening trees it grew dangerous to even offer a sliver in sound from the knight, and so the pair continued on in silence. Waiting for any other to cross their path now that they had been blanketed in the wooden torsos— and as the roads grew dangerous in the evenfall, they tread on ever carefully.
They made camp not long after, only a day's ride from the tourney grounds what with the weather holding fast. The campfire crackled between the pair, their horses and mule grazing not far, cloaks spread out upon the dirt as starlight twinkled past the waning moon between the trees above.
"Shall we go over what we are to do on the morrow, then?" The armour glinted in half cover beside them as the knight bit into their meats, tearing while their dark hair fell covering parts of their face before continuing. "I do not suspect we will have fair lenience once we enter the grounds."
The squire— a boy of not fifteen or sixteen— simply nodded in his silence, and the knight took over his face in mild concern eyes creasing with thought through the firelight. He'd been found in one of the towns a few years prior, wandering the streets and lingering outside taverns unwanted by all the patrons.
But not by the Bell Knight.
Through pity and a strikingly painful feeling of recognition, Endrew fell into service of the one person who deemed to find themselves wandering alone the endless roads of the lands. Seeking shelter with a lesser lord, offering their services in the quarrels of townships— and despite initial insistence at anonymity, forcedly entering to pay their way in the small tourneys that dotted the region.
The silent companions need not fear the master's identity exposed once the boy's mouth opened to the empty void of only yellowing teeth, onlookers hushing away and questions left bottled in throats as the narrowing of eyes from a masked knight watched their retreat. At least they had proved their skill in small combat, even more so in the melees of the tournaments to warrant further hindrance.
And so Endrew, forever quiet in his musings all but knew what it was that was required of him, even if it were insisted upon going over it again.
"We'll make camp on the outskirts. I don't suppose it would fare us well to be in the midst of everything. I'll have to—," the knight's gaze wandered over to the tightly packed bundle leaning lazily against the nearby trunk, "—Become Lady Nyrene again at some point, too. Well, not a Lady— but I'll need to remember what it was like to speak as one."
Endrew gripped the bone between teeth, pressing his finger tips into a triangle.
"Yes, you'll erect the pavilion En, and I'll make my way to the steward if I can. If we time it well, evenfall will be upon us without ever so much as speaking a sentence to another."
While welcoming Endrew into camp came at the cost of her identity reveal, he had proven himself an asset not only for obscurity but also that of alleviating the stony isolation life on the road had given— and she was grateful that the boy had accepted the task of adventure despite the harshness in life, even if Nyrene swore to herself to give everything that she hadn't found when she was of the same age.
The pair fell into their familiar comfortable silence, the squire finishing his supper and taking the last remains of the knight's. The woman sighed, shallow meal grown murky in her stomach as the oncoming tournament swelled on the crest of her horizon.
For a large portion of her hidden time, the prospect of being found out had plagued her whenever a town or castle were just a short ride away— but after a while of making a name for themselves as a formidable tournament knight from Dorne, those feelings began to subside as she shrunk deeper into the plated steel and mail that shrouded her in cool feelings of comfort.
Sometimes it would still rise something horrid, now ever more so as Ashford neared. Strange, as it twirled its dreaded tendrils throughout her chest.
The companions nestled themselves deep under covers, the two bundles of cloth tucked as close as dared to the warmth of the firelight. Nyrene's fingers flexed uncomfortably in the twisted coarse of the green-black fabric, and after wishing goodnight to the boy she lay awake for some time mind running over the events on the morrow.
Sights of the tilts at Ashford, the knights and banners high in the canopies above began curling instead into a cage of bloodied fingers again, burning golden red in the fires Nyrene felt herself drawing ever closer. Seeking the heat to sow a salvation in the thinning and torn weaves she were wrapped in while the winds shivered through the trees as if they too, were suddenly brushed upon by the coldest of shadows; a false caress of ease that floated from the forests as she sought escape from the wraiths in her own dark, their eyes watching as the woman struggled to find slumber.
Shortly before long, a stone pebble was thrown at her back breaking through the cold sweat forming upon her brow, and she huffed around to spot the dark brown eyes of her squire glinting across at her from the fire in expectancy.
"No, I'm not going to, En. My throat will be fine and the herbs are rationed as expected." Nyrene scoffed, pushing her voice even lower and masking the slight tremble— that the boy quickly saw through. "It is not needed as of yet, and you are far too old for lullabies."
Endrew's gaze hardened, motioning to throw another pebble before his troubled knight soon yielded under the stare, his pestering proven successful as the soft features eased back under his blankets in comfort.
"Sooner tears than sleep this midnight," she started slowly, singing low enough that the boy's breaths could still be heard. "Fall into my eyes, and drift into my song,"
The knight took in a deep inhale, nerves quelling as the melody took hold and she pushed her voice to the once normal octave.
"To sleep peacefully tonight, the yearn is long,"
The air grew quieter, the breeze stilled as the silence of the forest awaited the beats of the fire and singing woman who crooned deep into the night, the horses neighing nearby offering too their praise.
And her ghosts felt to cease in their prodding, the phantoms pausing haunt to listen.
"For nothing shall disturb your slumber, and nobody will do you harm…"
"Half the tourney is already here," Nyrene murmured, the grasp in the reigns of her palfrey, Tyner, slackening as she took in the vast array of coloured silks, cotton and woods scattering the grounds. Seas of workers weaved between their small entourage, carrying materials and baskets of stock while the travelling companions veered off in the direction of the outskirts, away from the market stalls already erecting as the tourney at Ashford loomed.
A short while later, and they'd tucked themselves under a group of trees wherein a stream could be heard in the distance, the voices of the townspeople all but subdued and Endrew set to task unloading the tiny canopy from the mule's back. Nyrene unwrapped parts of her scarf usually sat beneath her helm, one of a simple barbute design inherited by her previous knight Ser Roy of Sherrer after his demise south of the Riverlands.
The late knight had taken her as squire a little bit over in age to what Endrew currently was now, the drunken festivities at Kingsgrave proving dire once the arguments turned to scuffles, then into hunting the few still awake at the late hour— with Nyrene spotted grown from an unrecognisable stable boy to that of a young woman.
Ser Roy was all but passing through the lands seeking service in Lord Manwoody, who in turn offered nought but a meal and a night's lodgings before rejecting his request. The distaste in his previous servitude in the marches trailed after the lonesome traveller as he exited the castle— and in fear of the men stumbling the courtyards and stables of her usual residence, Nyrene hurried after him as the shamed hedge knight journeyed on to the next, leaving behind the untasted delights of Manwoody's bitter fortune.
The festering sour left by the castle at Kingsgrave was savoured between the unlikely pair, and while Nyrene suspected Ser Roy held little hope for her survival despite the shade he threw to Lord Manwoody when taking her on, she found herself proving worth in service— desperation requiring necessity— and days turned to weeks and years as the knight travelled with his young squire across the Stormlands, Westerlands, south of the Vale and the Reach; even partaking in some of the now historic battles under the banner of lords sworn fealty to.
And daring stray back into Dorne, even if the unrest of her younger half-brothers coming of age seemed to dwindle in the years since.
Back into the very region that held some penchant memories, of that of a moment in time where Kingsgrave was not so much as a bitter mark stamped out of her mind; but morphing in one of a kindly face, of a regal older boy who shared stories of their own lives.
Who gifted a branch in respect to a bastard of the sands and mountains to the south. Who shared similar resentments— of an understanding in what it was to be seen as different.
Nyrene's chest swirled uncomfortably at the faded memories of her youth, and she blinked back to the present.
Mayhaps many of the gods above and beyond have another settling for me to take on, Nyrene gave a short scoff, the bitter reflections in the presence of the unknowns all but offering only cruel japes in how her life had fared since she began recognising them— and oftentimes ceasing.
The heat of the sun cooked at her skin, the half wrapped scarf slicked in sweat as the late afternoon beat down upon the tiring pair. Nyrene's dark hair grown longer across her face helping mask the tan, merged in the damp as she watched her squire make quick use of the canvas, and finally out of the hot rays and away from any prying eyes that may have followed, the companions rested for a while before going over their next steps together.
"While I do not warm to the idea of more folk parading the grounds, I cannot help but yearn for it to swell in number so that I may leave this pavilion unnoticed," Nyrene started, tucking the scarf back over her face and handing the water skin to the squire. "I fear I've only a short space to catch the steward before he retires, and nor do I feel the urge to leave this tent in full lordly garb. In fact, I don't feel the urge to leave at all."
She let out a sigh as Endrew ruffled at his brown hair dusted in faint yellow, he signalling his words finishing with a pointed finger at one of their luggage sacks.
"Aye, I would donne the dress," the exhausted knight responded, reaching out to peel away the shaded tent flaps and eyeing at the grassy field beyond. "But two of us walked in here during the light of day— it would be an odd sight to spot a woman unveiling herself from the depths of the tiny canvas."
Nyrene hummed in thought, lying down on the low bunk as Endrew mirrored the same. "I'll leave it til nightfall, and then I'll hunt out who else is here. At least a scouting of the competitors should prove eventful."
The pair nodded off into the sounds of the northern breeze whistling softly through the holes in canvas, the cool wind brushing against the sweat and dirt of their brows.
The blackened air helped wash away the sins of the false knight, and out of the stream stood the lady of waters making their way back towards the pavilion.
"You can turn now," she instructed the boy stood staring at the back of the tent as she had clothed herself, and he made his way over while she gestured to the ties at her back.
"Help me with these, if you will. The material seems to have shrunk across my shoulders."
Nyrene's mind suddenly drifted off into reminder of the last memories when she wore the dark dress; to images of a pair of hands she yearned to touch at the fabrics again, grace across her shoulders and nape of her neck. Push her hair away—
Her arms were suddenly yanked upwards as Endrew gripped at the sleeves, willing to force their way even when the fabric drew tighter. Nyrene tried to turn as the squire yanked again in a grunt, earning a huff in her direction while he relinquished his fight and instead gripped at her shoulder muscles and back. She turned incredulously in his direction as the boy threw his hands up, folding arms into his chest.
"What?" she asked, the squire responding with quick movements of his hands. "I thought you'd be pleased that they grew, I can't win against anyone here being all skin and bone."
He glared in her direction, Nyrene instantly understanding his intent and motioning for him to finish the task.
"I know I'm a lady tonight, I'll wear my hair long then. Fear not, for I do remember how to walk like one even if I appear to be built—differently. Hand me that oil when you're finished."
The woman slowly combed the ointment through her hair while Endrew left to ready their supper, and she internally chided herself at the moments of dreaming she'd succumbed to earlier.
That was twice she had thought of him that day, and she vowed no longer would she dare stray into those memories. The tourney was what brought her here, and that was a task that'd require far more attention than some long lost princely lord.
Lyonel Baratheon was— overly joyful, to say the least.
Nyrene— hours later and disguised as a sweet smelling lady as opposed to a sweaty knight— watched as the Laughing Storm steadily grew drunker, sitting at his long table as the tent partied around him after finding herself pulled to the music and laughter while she'd walked the sunless grounds.
Many lords had all manners of colourful banners and pavilions strewn around; some she recognised, some she'd faced in the melees at previous tournaments. Brackens, Blackwoods, Lannisters, Cargylls and Swanns. Hardyngs, Florent, Beesbury and Wyldes— and many more. All gleamed proud in their house colours, lighting the way towards their deep lineages just beyond tent flaps.
The Tourney at Ashford was proving to be a far bigger occasion than what she first thought, and the slight unease at the higher lords attending was diminished once she was drawn to the noble house of Baratheon.
Well, noble tent of Baratheon.
And what a tent it was.
Tables were littered in half drunk ales, fine wines and ciders all swallowed by the plethora of antlers that seemed to grow from every crevasse and dangle from the highest cracks in the overlapping canvas. Fruit tarts and meats melting off the bone dotted the many tables, while cluttered around were all sorts of peoples enjoying the musical number that the lord's musicians had bestowed upon them. Nyrene stood hidden to the back, the rim of her wine cup running across her lips as she watched in humour and mild awe.
So this was what it was like to be in the service to a lord of storms. What fortune, she thought to herself. While she spied, she remarked to whisk away some of the banquet for her squire who was standing guard faithfully back at her own tiny tent.
Before she could sneak along to the other side, she felt an uncomfortable gaze in her direction, and she looked up to the Laughing Storm already watching with a glimmer of interest flickering between the drooping locks of his grey-black hair. He got up and made his way towards her, passing through the middle of the dance floor as the sea of people parted for their lord, doing little but to stand vigil as he neared— and ready for any clash in egos as the uninvited knight dared stray into his den.
"My lady," he half-slurred, bowing slightly.
Ah. She forgot she was a woman.
"My lord," she replied rather stiffly, awaiting his words as his crown of antlers angled dangerously low above her, his head cocked slightly to the side.
"I have not seen you in these parts, nor do I remember inviting you into my tent," he started, his one gold earing dangling in the candlelight.
Nyrene panicked slightly at the faint accusation.
"I invited myself,"
"That you did, eh? Have you come to spy on me, my lady?"
"I've come to understand the noise you have parading the grounds, my lord."
"You are from Dorne," he stated flat, taking in her face and hovering at the size of her shoulders protruding from the tight material. "Are women from Dorne built as such?"
"I had heard the Stormland lords rather a worldly lot, but pray tell are they not?" she challenged back, and the stony expression from the Baratheon cracked into a smile.
"Whoever you are, I spotted you well before we met. I think it's time we better acquainted ourselves, what say you?"
What an innocent statement, and Nyrene's lips creased into cunning mirth at the prospect of facing the Laughing Storm in the lists— before sobriety rattled her back into reality at challenging Lyonel Baratheon, of all people.
Whether he drunken and merry, facing him would prove folly. She'd heard that much, and spying on him tonight proved nothing more than a hope that he too inebriated to perform properly the duration of the tourney.
"And how do you suppose we are to do that, my lord?" Nyrene offered cautiously, aware that others had begun to pause and stare at the exchange. Unfortunately, anonymity was all but lost on her now, and surviving the encounter with the playful lord called for rather quick adaptation.
"A woman of bearing such as your own should not stay hidden, nor silent."
"You do not know who I am."
"I do now. Come; show us the skills of the south."
He immediately tugged her along to the dance floor, jerking the cup of wine from her grasp and grabbing both hands to twirl Nyrene around. Caught in the midst of merriment, the crowds of people chanted and clapped as the woman stumbled through her footing willing to remember just how it was to dance instead of the muscle memory at treading the pens in tourneys.
Dancing with the Laughing Storm is much like a melee, she mused, ducking and weaving around him as the music grew louder and louder while throngs of partners entered the fray.
Lyonel whipped around in a frenzy; chaotic, like he was searching for an opening to catch her off guard before a hand found her back, or he changed the direction in which he spun— and Nyrene, for all intentions at whittling out slivers of information about her future foe as a pretender, found herself instead openly laughing in the stormy tent enjoying the other revellers and forgetting the nerves of the encroaching tournament.
She heard him yell something into her ear as the music drowned the words out, and he leant forward again still in time to the rhythms.
"What!?" Nyrene yelled back, and he parted her hair rattling his question that tingled at her eardrum.
"What-is-your-name?!"
"Nyrene!"
"WHAT?"
"NYRENE—"
"—AHH, LADY NYRENE. WELL MET. I'M LYON— "
"—I KNOW WHO YOU ARE—"
"—WAHEY—!"
A while later— and significantly drunker than what intended, though without complaint— Nyrene rested at the end of Lyonel's head table as he himself took a break from dancing, the meal before him replenishing the energy spent. More cups of wine were served, and she spied over the rim a man spotted earlier on one of the many benches who had come stood at the far end, watching much like Nyrene had previously.
He towered above all else, but cowered low in failed attempt to mask his sheer height. Though, she recognised the glint in his eyes, the wonderment at what was unfolding. Witnessed his gaze trailing after the knights immersed in the drunken party goers, the workings of his brain plain to see as the familiar look one she had experienced long ago.
It was a man gauging all who was before them, and one she suspected had the same ulterior motives as she. Mixed with jubilation and wonderment, of course— as was to now be expected when one entered the tent of the Laughing Storm.
Nyrene also found Lyonel giving the same glaring look he'd given her as he too, spotted the towering man standing isolate, unmoving at the back. The tall lad was summoned near in a wave of black and gold rings, his eyes fixed on the stag lord and attempting a spluttering reply to his wishes.
What fresh naivety, Nyrene thought to herself, a hint of pity in speculation, and she lazily drifted sights across to take in more of the other drunken lords instead.
"Then why the fuck are you in my tent?"
Her attention snapped to Lord Baratheon as she heard him hiss over the music, and the initially perceived ill harmful jabs at the brute of a young man seemed to turn sinister. Her hand instinctively gripped at her dress, ready to pull up the fabric to the knife strapped tight at her thigh as she waited in anticipation to the sort of song Lyonel would cry.
The tense exchange was ended by the chuckle in the lord, and Nyrene eased the hem of her dress back down, feigning interest back to one of the many attendees donning the masks of animal figures.
"What is your name, man?" her ears pricked up as he questioned the young lad further.
"Dunk— Ser Dunk,"
"That's ridiculous,"
She half spluttered into her cup, and Ser Dunk's eyes flickered over to her before locking on again with Lord Baratheon.
"Do you like dancing?" Lyonel whispered softly.
"Doesn't everyone?"
The lord jumped up from the table, making his way down towards Nyrene hastily placing the antler crown lopsided upon her head.
"Look after this will you, my love." and he shimmied further back towards his newfound friend who stood awkwardly waiting—and not without being sure to take in all of the stupor at the woman's wear of the antlers.
Before long, Nyrene too was pulled into the fray unfolding on the floor. Again.
The man sure has stamina for the dance, and she followed the urgent tug in her arm.
The night grew later, many a trip, a spin and sway was had as Nyrene had twirled between the two men— one rigidly shuffling about and the other wanting to make his mark in the presence of an ego bruised at the masculinity that towering Ser Dunk held. While they enacted their standoff, she took rest at her usual seat at the table watching one by one as attendees began passing out on the benches or stumbling from the tent slurring to one another.
Eventually she was joined again by the now heavily drunken Lyonel and the awkward Ser Dunk; the three knights of various stages of notability finding comfort in the lulls of the night.
Nyrene handed the young man a cup of wine, placing the crown back in Lyonel's grasp before he ushered for Dunk to lower his head as he too was given the privilege of donning the antlers. She feigned disinterest again, eavesdropping on their conversation with Lyonel sprinkling exploits of his tales at sea to the now enthralled lad.
He's as green as the grass upon the meadows, Nyrene thought to herself. Not long now before they're muddied with the sweat and blood of the tournament.
"—I'm quick and strong sure, and so are you—,"
"—Sure—,"
Nyrene eased herself closer; this was what she was seeking out, treading the dark paths into Ashford meadow under the lamp lights of the many lords that were also set to make their presence known at the tourney.
"—Plus you've trained sword and lance with the finest masters-at-arms in the realm. I mean, what chance do I have? Truly?"
The woman's heart clenched in her chest, Dunk's question representing the both of them. However he was bold enough to utter it into the night, Nyrene herself battled with grappling at the mere prospect. Naivety may fail him in some parts, but she admired the honesty in which the young man spoke.
"—You have no chance," Lyonel's response immediately dampened at the spirits of the pair listening, and the woman shot a glare in the direction of the once perceived humorous lord having so easily thrown open mockery at the fresh knight.
Honesty came smoother to others, it seemed.
"—But it's a great honour, to test oneself against a worthy foe."
Nyrene had already stood from the table beginning to make their way out of the tent, steps faltering to the stag's last remark and she turned to the drunken lord with his wide-eyed companion now startled at her presence. The heat at his initial words simmered, and caught shocked at the short continuing of the sentence she hastily held out her arm.
"It is time I turn in, my lord."
Lyonel reached to lazily grasp at Nyrene's hand as she spoke, and she gave a stiff nod in Dunk's direction.
"Well met, Lady Nyrene."
"Well met, Lord Baratheon. Farewell, Ser Dunk. I wish you both victory at the tourney."
The footfalls back to her tent were slow. Cautious; the wine had dulled her senses considerably, but the Baratheon's words kept her well in tune with herself.
You have no chance…but it's a great honour to test oneself against a worthy foe.
Did Nyrene really have no chance? She shook her head at the thought, instantly regretting the movement as it sent a small wave of nausea. Nay, she had a chance. Proven herself, considerably.
The smaller tournaments to the north she'd placed well in, the hot meals she was able to provide to her squire. The mule purchased, the inns and taverns slept in. The painted heraldry at her shield, the fitted armour she was able to commission from the many smiths. Milking as much prestige as a hedge knight could hold; all acquired through her skill, despite the odds against her mere gender.
It's a great honour to test oneself against a worthy foe.
The unsettlement in her stomach ceased momentarily as she hit the revelation, and the reasonings to why she was so uneasy flooded before her like a tide finally released. No matter the banners, the noble houses dotted around the encampment; to face one and potentially win was a step into notoriety that fuelled reluctance in her— not her lack of ability.
But the prospect surged a warm elation all the same, caressing at the hidden feelings not quite forgotten. To at last hear the crowds cheer her efforts, the lords in the stands nodding in agreement.
Being spoken of as a real knight, and not one with preconceived suspicion, either.
To at least test against those who were arguably the best— and should she lose that of the challenge and her wares well, she could always sell many of their other possessions to buy back Midnight, at least. Along with the coin already saved— she'd fought well enough before to lay confidence in her own skills even if they were currently reinforced in liquid courage.
The stag seemed to have made his mark on her, in some form or another.
Nyrene turned away from the gloomy grips of the trees either side, tunnelling in on the path ahead as grappling with one plight of her existence was deemed enough of a wizened choice considering the welcoming drunken state. Though, a rustling in the dark trail behind caught her off guard, and as the heavy steps neared Nyrene tugged at her skirts flicking the knife in hand while out of the dim came the lumbering hedge knight from inside Lord Baratheon's tent.
"Whatcheer, lad," she warned, and the giant slowed, his arms up in yield.
"My lady, I did not mean to frighten you," Dunk grew cautious at the long blade glinting in the pale lights of the distant camps. "Do all women carry such arms?"
"Women who walk the dark, I would say so."
"I did not take you for a Lady in the night," the sloppy assumption slipped from his lips as quickly as it did for his face to twist, his hands to clench fists in horror.
"You're not very bright, are you Ser Dunk?" Nyrene quizzed him, and instead of electing to torture with her blade she left him to his devices of self reflection and blame.
To her surprise, he quickened to fall in step with her.
"Pardon my lady, I did not mean—"
"—I'm no Lady," she cut him off, and he turned apologetic.
"Pardon, I— I did not properly catch your name,"
"Nyrene," she reminded him, uttering almost bored and beginning to wonder why he was following back to her pavilion.
"Is that Dornish?"
"Aye, that it is. Quick observation."
"So you are here with the puppeteers? I managed to see one of the shows, and the delight it was I—"
"—Maybe not so quick then. What do you wish to know, Ser Dunk?" she cut him off again, hands opening before her motioning around. "There are no other tents here, and if you have unbecoming intentions you will be surely sorry no matter how drunk I seem to appear."
"I—," he faltered, and sighed heavily as he looked down at her in earnest. "I'm only wanting to know what lords or knights there are that may have met the one I squired for. Ser Arlan of Pennytree, I need a vouch for my knighthood."
Nyrene slackened at the shoulders, racking her brains to find the source of the name within her memories. She did know of a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, yet failed to determine where and quite who he was—and nor did she remember the one who had squired for them.
"I know not enough of the knight you speak,"
"I did not think so, my la—Nyrene, but perhaps you know of a lord who's name I may have missed? If not with the puppeteers, you may have travelled with them instead I—" the narrowing of Nyrene's eyes, the scrunching at their corners caused the young ser to falter.
"You're straying dangerously close to your former statement, ser."
"No, forgive me. I do apologise, the old man always said I was thick as a castle wall and—"
"—Fortunately for you, Ser Dunk. I am travelling with a knight." Nyrene resumed her walk along the dark path, the lad now elated with her reply.
"Truly, you are? May I have their name?"
"They are The Silent Bell Knight,"
"The mystery Bell Knight?" he exclaimed, "I have only heard of their existence of tourneys to the north. I did not know they are to compete here,"
"The very one, and they will."
They had reached Nyrene's pavilion, the muddied dark brown fabrics billowing softly in the night breeze and she turned expectantly at Dunk. "I assume you are wanting to ask if they know of your Ser Arlan?"
"Aye, I know it is late. Could you— please, would you let them know of my urge to speak with them?"
"That I can."
Endrew suddenly opened the flap of the tent as the voices neared, and he grew suspicious at the looming figure following his knight.
"Endrew, this is Ser Dunk." Nyrene gestured between the pair, signalling for the squire to withdraw into the pavilion as he gave one last look of reluctance.
She turned back to Dunk who was still stood waiting for another exchange of words.
"Ser Dunk, your knight is currently resting. I suggest you rest yourself as well, you've a tournament on the horizon. You will speak of your Ser Arlan on the morn, I will be sure of it."
"Thank you, my lady,"
Nyrene raised one brow as Dunk cursed at his misuse of titles again, and began retreating further into the gathering dark.
"Ser Dunk, where is it you are going?" she called after him.
"Aye, m'lady my camp is this way. Further along the river an elm tree sits."
"Aye, we will find you easily enough, ser. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, my lady."
