Roses are Red

It was the morning after the joust, and Edderion found himself positively famished. Though he had not ridden in the lists it surely felt like he had, for the excitement and thrill of it all had drawn out his energy like water from a well. Sound was his sleep that night, snores made to rival his brother's echoing through the halls and chambers of the Holdfast. Now that dawn had come, however, he found himself weak with hunger, and was on his way to remedy that.

As he walked - dressed in a simple tunic of grey and flanked by a pair of guards - he came across the surprising sight of a young Reachman wandering through the Stark wing of the royal apartments. Edderion drew up short, eyebrows high with surprise, and his guards mirrored him, their mailed fists moving toward the hilts of their swords.

"Young Tyrell," Edderion called out to the Heir of Highgarden. Brown eyes shifted from the lad toward the way from which he had come, and back. The King in the North smiled a knowing smile though his eyes were hard as flint.

"Either you're serendipitously lost, boy, or you've just come from my sister's rooms." Edderion rumbled. "I suppose its possible you're hear to court my brother Herbert - but he's a married man, I'm sure you know."

For a moment he simply studied young Gareth, eyes sweeping over his form, his figure, his stance. They judged his features and his look, they weighed the clothing he wore and manner in which he kept his hair. Edderion did his very best to take in the whole of the youth with just one look, and when he had, he did not find it wanting. But worthy of a princess? Worse yet - his princess? That remained to be seen.

"You have a poor habit of doing things in the wrong order." Edderion said. "The next time you wish to speak to my sister outside of a public setting, I trust you'll take the time to work through the proper channels."

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