Of Those Leal and the Learning
Twenty First Day of the Eleventh Month 293 AC
Perwyn Frey was having an odd day. No, scratch that, he was having an odd life. He had assumed it was likely he would be carted off to squire and polish the boots of some halfway-decent sort of Knight, skilled or competent enough to not seem an insult to his Lord Father, but not important enough to be high up in the councils of Lords nor Princes.
Oh how much simpler things would have been, Perwyn thought.
No, while he still trained at arms, he had not gone on to train to become an officer in the Legion or Fleet, he wasn't sure which way their feet would take them, like Alesander, or a squire learning the arts of Knighthood and battle from famous Sers and warriors like Robert or Bryan. He had heard the latter gush about Ser Lonmouth's rare displays when he deigned to spar with anyone who wouldn't crumple in an instant, and the taint of bastardy hardly dimmed recognition for one with skill impressive enough to merit a White Cloak, had circumstances been different for Ser Criston Storm. Even Ser Kennos, who had arrived on the island a bit chunky to really cut a dashing figure, had shed multiple stone in weight and become some kind of fanatical madman and a demon in the ring. The place seemed to attract fearsome fighters like flies to honey, like calling to like.
And that was all of no concern to Perwyn. For he was understudy to... he blushed at the thought, having heard some rumor that Lady Torchwood was formerly some sort of courtesan which he very swiftly learned after a few pointed--well, skewering--words shared by Tyene Sandviper on the matter. She must have told him to stop apologizing ten times by now, since he was still convinced she wanted to smother him with a pillow after he'd said some foolish things without thinking about it hard enough. Another thing he noticed, if you didn't know something, hardly anyone would mock you if you were
trying to learn things properly.
It wasn't like he looked down on either Lady by simple virtue of being a woman, either, one commanded thousands of people in a dizzying array of names and faces with different titles and responsibilities which made an entire Realm churn and steam ahead into the fearful prospect of a future which he couldn't make heads or tails of, which even still he struggled and forged ahead to memorize so he wouldn't make any more mistakes.
The other could turn him into a desiccated husk in a flash.
So quite a natural reaction to a sharp rebuke, in his mind.
"Perwyn, postpone my third hour of the second turning with Lord Vaeth," chimed Lady Alinor's voice from the other side of the large office, and he scrambled to balance another dozen scrolls handed off by a stream of attendants, scribes and functionaries who she dismissed rapidly, organizing them by importance, categorized by department and bureau, and still learning the peculiar 'filing system' employed by his current master and, he was still grasping, mentor. For he had learned more about numbers than hours crammed into a musty room with the Crossing's Maester ever had managed in quite a short time... mostly owed to the fact that in Sorcerer's Deep there was magic to make you sharper than you were naturally, and you had no excuse to avoid studies like 'not having enough time in the day'.
Not that he was supposed to spend all waking hours--quite literally in this case--trying to become better at scribbles and sums, he just didn't plan to embarrass himself after the private word of advice from his father 'not to be a fucking embarrassment like some of the rest of your kin'. Lady Alinor had to force him to leave when he lost track of time, even when he tried pointing out she worked far longer than he did, just as she pointed out that she got twice as much done in the same amount of time. Which really just shamed him into working even harder trying to discern if this was all some sort of strange test. A vicious cycle, really.
"Why didn't you join the Legion, Perwyn? Or inquire after becoming a squire to one of the Knights in the Keep?" She favored him with a serene expression as she broke him out of his reverie like a bucket of ice water across his back, and for some reason raised the hair on the back of his neck, as though he knew there was more than simple idleness behind the seemingly innocent words, in the very back of his mind he was sure that his immediate future might hinge upon the response.
"Because I asked for something to do that would help me stand out," Perwyn eventually settled on the truth. "And you made an offer."
"You could have looked into other offers," she hummed while speedily signing another order. Their conversation lagged as the door opened and some more attendants filed in to collect paperwork and allow Alinor to dismiss them one by one with a flurry of commands, which Perwyn boggled at. He'd rarely seen men grown command such respect and exert such authority.
By the time they had left, he had more than considered his own position. "I'm not bad with a blade... not terrible at intrigues, for all I try to keep my head out of them, and you don't survive long where I've lived by being totally clueless, my Lady," Perwyn replied. "But I won't make any mark by being 'good enough' or 'not terrible' at one or the other."
"You're more than adequate," Lady Alinor bubbled back cheerily, making Perwyn struggle to fight off a blush. "Perhaps you deserve a reward. How about a bottle of Dawn Mead?"
Perwyn blinked. "Err, aren't those w-worth a fortune, my Lady?" He had heard something about the King selling new and fanciful drinks, some made with magic. Dawn Mead was said to taste 'like heaven'.
Lady Alinor gave another frightful grin. "You've earned it."
***
Sandor came trundling into the Keep's more trafficked courtyard, still covered in the results of all the previous 'excitement' he'd been wrapped up in. The Princess he swore to serve chirped a greeting towards... Wisdom Xor's way, before darting ahead to greet him. "Welcome back," she called up at him calmly, fighting off a smile that he suspected was more for his benefit than her own.
He'd come a long way from general suspicion of anyone who so much as smirked his way, but it was a struggle to not snap at her sometimes, when his mood became foul. He thought he mostly did right by her by airing those moods out in the yard where anyone on the wrong end of them could at least get healed up, and might actually benefit from a couple of thrashings, since there was worse than angry dogs around to nip at them.
"Where's everyone at?" He asked back gruffly, falling into step with her as natural as ever, walking deeper into the Keep. He tried not to ask after the doings of Lords and Kings, but he might have finally met one who wasn't all piss and vinegar, so he tried to show at least that much interest.
"The Riverlands," Princess Daenerys replied, turning around and walking backwards to look up at him. A moment later she darted up onto his shoulders as a silver dragon-thing, preening. "I'm happy to see that over and done with, even as we're all dancing around the subject still."
"Even this Keep's thick with the tension," the Hound snorted, "I don't have to imagine how the fu--the Stag's court is reacting, probably pissing into the wind to spite their own faces." He paused, realizing perhaps that minding his own tongue around royalty wasn't working out so well as he'd hoped. "Sorry."
"Don't be," she responded, tail batting his other shoulder. "Tell me about the Barrowlands?"
Sandor eyed her warily, before belting out a sigh. "Alright. So it was like this..."
