While not as intimately familiar with the toll war has on the souls of a man as other, Rhaenyra knows a battle weary soldier when she spies one. The state of his person has her keeping some distance as to not sully her own gown, but she does offer him a cup of wine while sipping from her own. There is mischief and curiosity in the eyes that size him up from beyond the lip of her cup.

The thought is not lost on her, the little voice in the back of her mind that reminds her that the Kingsguard are not here to protect anyone. When she lowers her cup she is smiling, her tipped off to the side as she mulls over his standing. But he will be no good to anyone if he falls and strikes his head on the edge of this ornately decorated table.

"You should sit before you pass out. There is no glory to be won from the battles here. Whatever they may be." She turns to gesture with her cup toward the royalty idly, as if to point them out in case he missed them due to his exhaustion.

"They are the least forthcoming of anyone I've ever met and that, I assure you, is saying something."