Ser Oswell opened his mouth to answer, but before he got quite that far, a tall man, younger than Ser Oswell by maybe half a decade or a bit more, with dark hair and violet eyes, stepped into view. He looked between them, then gave a brief nod, grasping Ser Oswell's free arm in a tight clasp, the greeting of two long-time comrades. "Come quickly," he said, voice kept just as soft as Ser Oswell's was. "Margaery has just taken to the birthing bed. Jon is about to go out of his skin, and our newest brother is not much better off. I must be there."
Ser Oswell nodded, and without ever breaking his hold on her arm, he followed the other man, upping their pace until Dany's shorter legs could barely keep up. Dany's head was spinning, and all she could do was stumble along in their wake. There was no way she would be able to slip away now, not with two of them, not with the rush they were apparently in.
Margaery... Did that mean Margaery Tyrell? But she was wed to Jon Stark, Lord of Dragonstone, and that had to be who the new man had said was going out of his skin. Which meant, she realised with a sinking heart and growing, freezing panic, that regardless of Ser Oswell's reassurances, they really did mean to hand her over to her enemies.
Under different circumstances, passing through the gates to Dragonstone proper would have been a dream come true for her. She would have wanted to stop and take in all the sights and smells and sounds, all the tiny wonders of being back home at long last. Now, though, it was all she could do to keep from crying, keep from sobbing out the fear that gripped her tight in icy jaws. She did not see any of the sights they passed. She did not smell anything, or hear anything. She could not, over the pounding of her own pulse in her ears. She could barely draw breath. Vaguely, she was aware of the fact that they were passing through into another, more private, courtyard. The training yard, she deduced, when she saw the glint of steel in front of her.
Two boys were there, sparring hard enough that sweat shone on their faces. They could not be much older than her, but they were both taller and broader, though they were both slender and one was shorter than his movements with the sword would imply. She took in the sight of them, even as the sight of their bared steel struck fresh fear within her. Somehow, despite herself, her eyes seemed to insist on sticking to the smaller of the boys. He moved with an almost predatory grace, even though something about him seemed distracted. Thick, near-black curls swung about his cheeks with every move he made, and once or twice she saw a flash of dark eyes against skin paler than her own. Something about him was familiar even through her haze of fear, made him, despite the situation, feel safe in a way that was all instinct and showed not a whit of sense on her part.
"Jon," the man who had met them shouted. "Should you not be wearing grooves in the floor outside the birthing chamber?"
The fighting in front of them ceased, and both young men turned to face them. The taller one moved into position at the shoulder of the one called Jon - Jon Stark, she reminded herself, legitimised bastard of the Usurper's dog. The stance seemed so natural. She had no idea what to make of it. Jon Stark shrugged, looked almost bashful for a moment. "This seemed more productive," he said at last. She saw his hand twitch, even after he had sheathed the sword.
The leather covered hilt and crossguard looked almost absurd against what Dany was near certain had to be Valyrian steel. His gaze flickered up towards the Stone Drum even as he spoke and he was shifting from foot to foot.
The man who had brought her here looked like he might almost laugh, but he was nervous too, Dany realised, though he hid it better than the boys. "You have guests," he said then, voice even. "I would have you meet them in the Lord's solar."
Jon Stark's dark grey eyes widened for a moment before he nodded and led the way. Both of the other men fell into step at his shoulders, almost like an honour guard. No, Dany realised. They were within Jon Stark's own home, and they were both still armed, one hand always near the hilt of their swords. Not an honorary guard. A very serious one, almost like she would have imagined the Kingsguard of old. Ser Oswell kept his grip on her arm as he pulled her along with their 'hosts'.
It seemed to take an eternity before they entered into a large solar. It was warm and utilitarian all at once, and lived in, judging by the books of laws and ships lying open on the desk. The tapestry on the far wall was of Targaryen origin. She did not recognise it, but she remembered Viserys' stories of Queen Alysanne's visit to the Wall and her granting of the New Gift.
Viserys had thought her quest as silly as her long-standing grudge against her husband the king, and her giving away land to a useless Order of men who were not even knights downright foolish. Dany could never really help but admire her, if for nothing else than her courage to stand up to her brother-husband, the King.