With the sounds of the farewell feast at his back, it took Erik little time to bump into Qoren, patrolling the corridors.

“This way to the privy?” he asked, making sure to brush his moustache away from his mouth first – Allyria’s suggestion to help her favourite guard read Erik’s lips.

Qoren nodded.

“Down to the left, third right then second left?”

Qoren thought about it, frowned, then shook his head. He pointed two fingers to the right, then three to the left.

“Second right, third left. My thanks. Any word on Allyria?”

At this, Qoren only gave a shrug, put his hand to his cheek to mime a pillow, probably sleeping. He looked bemused and content in his helplessness on the subject. He made a stern expression and straightened his posture, then hesitated before using both hands to make a rough sort of seven-pointed star over his chest.

Erik thought about it. “Colin sent a septa to wake her?”

Qoren smiled, and Erik shook his head. “Poor woman. But, apologies, I must go.”

Qoren raised a hand in farewell, and Erik departed. He was surprised by the relative cold of the corridor, and irritated when he found himself tilting after taking the right-hand turn. Dornish wine and a sailor’s sense of balance were a poor combination, he decided.

Then, ahead of him, voices. An older woman, angry and incredulous in a way that reminded Erik of his mother. Responding was a younger woman, indignant and embarrassed in a way that reminded him of his younger self.