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He nods in obvious agreement with her answer, the corners of his lips curving into a pleased smile--rare, these days. "I, too, love the sea," he comments, eyes drifting to the horizon, where the blue line of the ocean rested solidly in the distance, a constant presence. "Water at its most powerful, to be sure," he remarks, looking over at the girl again. "The way the waves crash upon the cliffs. . ." He trails off with an inaudible sigh.

Speedy, her name is, and Llewellyn dips his head in greeting, trying to commit the name to memory. He only begins to panic when he realizes, a moment later, that the customary, polite response to this offering is to give your name back. He does not want to lie to the girl with such an honest face, but any name he gives her that is at all related to his family will give him away as the fugitive prince. He clears his throat, covering his tracks in a slightly awkward fashion.

"Cadwalader," he says at last, thinking of the great king, whose reign ended nearly a hundred seasons ago. "Pleasure to meet you, Speedy," Cadwalader rumbles, smiling once more. Perhaps, one day, she will know his true moniker; for now, that of a legendary monarch will do. And if her face creases in confusion, rather than wonder, the land of Mynydd is likely not known to her at all, which would make him feel all the more safe with her.