#aechor.

Gods, this was tedious. He had long ago been trained to speak in the clear, crisp periods appropriate to combat, to say what he meant and say it decisively. Talking round and round a point was like wearing lace into battle. And yet, here, in King’s Landing, it seemed no one was capable of saying what they meant. He watched, unimpressed, as the lord seated in front of him droned on and on, lavishing praise upon another whose support he clearly needed. For what no one could know. The lord had yet to reveal his need and yet it was obvious he sought something from the other fellow – that, or he simply enjoyed the taste of his boots. 

“You’ll excuse me.” Doran polished off the rest of his ale and stood without waiting for a response. He made his way over to a long table where refreshments waited and had just refilled his tankard when he was clapped on the shoulder by an overly-familiar lord he’d met that evening. He might've shrugged him off and left the hall altogether in search of better entertainment were it not for the woman the man ushered forward, intent on making an introduction. Doran’s eyes sparked as he stared at her, gaze drifting low to admire a figure he knew all too well before moving back up to her face. 

“Have you met Lady Gwyneth, my lord?” 

“No. I’m sure I’d remember her if I had.” There was a sudden suspicious tension around his jaw, as if he were fighting to suppress a grin. He would not have guessed the woman who bested half a dozen men in card games before tumbling into his bed was noble, though that was clearly intentional. She was no Larra of Essos. “Pleased to meet you, lady. I’m Lord Doran Swann.”