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Tayila was late. As she dashed through the corridors, her bare feet striking against the floor in a steady rhythm of swift pace, she gathered the cloth about her legs in her fists, crumpling them in a way which would make the washerwomen cry out. She had been in the streets having slipped out for the day, the prospected arrival of the wards but a forgotten memory in her mind, until it was resuscitated in sputters and gasps by the whinny of the first horses and entourages on the cobbled roads. She had sprinted back then, with her remembrance freshly jolted, but horses and carriages had a way of blockading the narrow streets of King's Landing and she had had to take side-alleys through Flea Bottom just to slip in through the kitchen doors. 

Now, the front of her dress freckled with spots of dirt which had a nasty habit of flying through the air of the capitol, she came to a sliding stop before the door to the common room. Her hands beat her skirts in an attempt to dust off the worst of the sully. The door was flung open by the doorman whose mouth widened first in preparation for proclamation, before rounding into a surprised O at Tayila's flushed cheeks. She smoothed her hair back and straightened her back, with a smile bordering on a smirk on her face as the man's voice died down to a mutter. "Tayila Waters," he stuttered in a quiet tone which only Tayila could hear, the murmur of noise from the wards overcoming the utterance of her name. [color=f7941d]"Seven forbid you herald me as you would a lady,"[/color] she said in a mocking tone, to make the man blush even more, his face ruddier than hers. She knew him from her year in the Red Keep. Easily flustered, withdrawn, with eyes which skittered the floor nervously when faced by bold company. A good honest lad, but alas easy prey for Tayila when her claws felt sharp and in need of scratching. His variety of embarrassed reactions was almost enough to conjure some sorrow on behalf of the boy. Almost.

Fluidly, she glided past the man, and entered the common room. She was attired as befitted her station: in a fair dress of earthy colours and good cut, but not so well as to rival the garments of highborn. Fabrics of muted green and brown swayed about her legs as she strode through the thickness, surveying the wards in search for one Manasa Stark. The king had made her learn by heart the histories and lineage of the houses from whence the wards came, and she had spent hours staring at oil paintings several years outdated, brushed replicas of the little lords and ladies. 

As it was, she hadn't needed to look far. Seated on a couch next to a boy who looked to be her brother Morgan Stark, she was accompanied by direwolves. With quiet barefoot steps, Tayila made not a sound as she drifted across the common room, her attention kept divided on the great wolves. She was fast and fleeting on her feet, to be sure, but so were these wolves, and their jaws were much stronger, the bites much sharper, than hers. Enough to be accorded a decent share of wariness from a girl who spent her life outpacing pain and suffering.

Tayila came to a smooth stop by the arm of the chair where the Stark girl sat, her hands coming to fold in front of her and her heart just starting to beat at its common pace again. [color=f7941d]"Lord Morgan,"[/color] she said in a melodic voice which remained low and even, nodding to the boy. [color=f7941d]"Lady Manasa."[/color] Her eyes flicked to the girl with alarming green eyes, and her focus remained on her. [color=f7941d]"I am to be your handmaiden at King's Landing. I attended to Princess Viseria for a year, and now am in your service."[/color] She gave a curtsy, but did not look down or away. [color=f7941d]"I am Tayila, milady. Please forgive my lateness,"[/color] she added in disgruntlement. Apologies - sincere ones, especially - came unnaturally to Tayila, and she absolutely loathed humbling herself to strangers. Even as she heard the heaving even breaths of the direwolves just paces away, her eyes remained on Manasa, defiant to an extent, bright and alert.