Quoted By:
“I had considered having one of my lord father’s men act in my stead, but they would be useless guides in Tyrosh,” you tell Ser Leo.
“Surely you do not mean to travel back there,” he chuckles at your unintended jest.
“I do. I thought I was clear? I promised to see Joslyn safe, and I intend to make good on that promise. Would you see me do any less, ser?” you say.
“You really are quite remarkable…” he marvels, “but that is knights’ work. If you were my responsibility, I would sooner lock you in a tower than allow you to sail back to a Tyroshi sellsword.”
He smiles as he says it, but it is clearly not a simple jest. He meant his words, and you think he really would do just that. Your anger rises, and you excuse yourself early for the night before unkind words follow. He speaks to a degree of sense, but you resent the implication that you are returning to Vaaro in particular. You recognize that he could have treated you far worse and even see him as a potential ally, but you have not forgotten his penchant for moral outrage. You are not returning for his sake but rather to ensure all goes smoothly and your cousins are well treated… particularly Ellyn. She has had a rougher go of it than you, and you worry for her state under the care of such a man. Lest she returns to Hallowgrove with child or otherwise sullied, you still believe a match could be made for her. You would very much like to keep it that way. All of this is beneath explaining to your escort, though.
The road to Appleton is quieter than the first stretch of the Roseroad. Your words towards Ser Leo are shorter up until arriving in the quaint market town itself. Merchants from further up the road, possibly even from King’s Landing, peddle their wares next to the local fruit stalls. Here in the real heart of the Reach, apples plentiful as are peaches and pears and a wide array of vegetables. Ser Leo procures a room and bed for you in one of the town’s two inns while you browse the stalls. Your real purpose being to relieve your moonly needs, finding a kindly old woman with the right goods. You could not bear to broach the subject with your knightly escort, instead bartering a spare shirt to meet your needs. A small price to pay for dignity.
You rise the next morning from the lumpy yet blessedly comforting bed to receive a gift of locally made scents from Ser Leo, a peace offering of sorts. A thoughtful move after your mention of not wanting to stink of horse at court. You accept it graciously, the gesture more than good enough for loose words, and push yourself back towards more amiable chatting along the road to Bitterbridge. You are still able to keep pace, if only barely, finding that your aches and sores and womanly troubles have made themselves more known after your night of respite in the inn.
