Soon enough, he, Robyn and Morgan were accompanied by others in the dining hall: the brutish Baratheon who called himself Bear, the Tully girl, Alianne, and, Toran realized with a groan, the Lannister fellow Willam. 

He truly didn’t know what to make of the Lannister. He wasn’t an inherently unpleasant bloke, though a lot more frugally minded than Toran. Though, even though it was against his friendly nature, he had a hard time bringing himself to give Willam a chance. What was it the Northerners said? ‘The North Remembers?’ Well, the Dornish remembered too. And Toran found it hard to forget what the Lannisters and their dogs had to his great aunt Elia, or his great uncle Oberyn (even though he knew that that had been a fair trial by combat, the Dornish were renowned sore losers). Even Toruk bristled at his presence, staring as he walked in. He sped to the end of Toran’s arm, extending himself as close to the Lannister as possible, and hissed. This time, Toran didn’t scold him. 

Turning to the Tully girl, and Robyn making her way toward her, he gave a sweeping, exaggerated bow. “Good morning my ladies! How are you finding King’s Landing?” His smile was bright, lighting up his rust-red eyes, and his accent bled into every syllable. Of all the time he’d spent in Westerns, he’d never really tried to drop his Dornish accent. He preferred his language to the common tongue, and was somewhat miffed at the fact that the only one he could speak it to was the queen and therefore often busy. 

His show of chivalry done with, Toran approached the table but did not sit, instead pouring himself some wine and leaning one elbow on the back of the large chairs surrounding the table. He also grabbed a soft piece of warm bread, tearing smaller pieces off with his fingers. Toruk twined himself around Toran’s neck, trying to get his attention. Toran acted as if he wasn’t there, trying to get into his line of sight. 

In reply to Alianne’s question, Toran grinned and shifted his weight, a certain swagger about him. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world!” His eyes twinkled. “I’ll be competing in the duels, myself.” As he spoke, his free hand wandered to his chest, fingering a pendant that lay there on a long leather cord. It was his own little sigil, of sorts: A snake coiled around a golden flame. The snake angrily bore dragonglass fangs that were sharp to the touch, a staring profile with shining ruby eyes, glossy amber scales glinting along the black steel of its body. It hung nearly under his shirt, not obvious to anyone who wasn’t looking for it. “I’m looking for opponents, if anyone’s interested.” His eyes glinted, and Toruk coiled around his shoulder. 

Clearing his throat, he turned to Morgan. "So, where is that sister of yours? It's rare I see the one of you without the other."