Trading Tales
Eleventh Day of the Seventh Month 293 AC
The sound of silverware clinking against plates and the splashing of fine Arbor Gold fills the main cabin of the Redwyne flagship. If nothing else you must admit the Reacher lord sets an extraordinary table for one two weeks out of port. Somehow his cooks even managed to do justice to that oddest of Westerosi traditions of making the food look like anything and everything other than what it actually is. From whipped-cream swans with goldenberry eyes to forcemeat pastries carved into the shape of fanciful beasts, you are quite certain at least some sorcery must have gone into the making of this feast. A rather telling fact regarding his view of sorcery, that. Many lords will reluctantly use magic in battle, but to be willing to put its results in one's mouth so readily bespeaks of exceptional openness to the changing times.
Too open, perhaps? you wonder, looking to the fey lady who has been surprisingly deferential to the Lord of the Arbor.
To your left Diana is regaling a startled-looking Ser Harry Sterik with tales from the east. "...so then the fools decide to sail out into the teeth of the Tolosi fleet, reasoning that without a dragon behind them they would of course manage to sweep the ships from Slaver's Bay. It did not even occur to them that it might have been a trap. It's at this point that all right thinking folk begin to suspect that the only reason no one's conquered Slaver's Bay is because no one wants the festering pile." A genuinely cheerful smile is followed by: "Of course that's all changed now, we can't let those sorts of people stay in charge for long." Rarely have you heard a better delivered threat, and the cream of the jest is that the incarnate is simply making smalltalk with no intention to intimidate.
Asha and Theon are being considerably less subtle while talking about their days reaving, or at least they had been before the conversation had set Moonsong singing one too many times. It's not that her songs are not pleasant to listen to, quite the contrary, but they have a gift for enthralling the weak-willed which makes conversation rather awkward. Lord Paxter is conspicuously not among those so ensnared, but after his third cup of Arbor Gold he does start to unwind just the same, dropping tantalizing nuggets of news.
For one the Ashford inheritance is proving troublesome enough that it may come to blood in the end. The current lord is a babe in arms, one born sickly but cured by magic of his ailments... or at least so claim his supporters. House Merryweather of Longtable claim the boy has been replaced with a changeling, with many pious knights rallying to their side. With the way your host's lips pucker when he says 'pious' you might almost think he bit into a rotten egg. Odd how at ease he is with magic and the fey given the rumor you heard years ago of his son and heir being slain by a water spirit, but not precisely something one can bring up as light dinner conversion.
Lothos' question interrupts the thought. "So how was Lys, Your Grace? Have the bastards figured out how to march without tripping on each other's spears?" The broad innuendo draws a few chuckles.
"I would not know for certain. Last I saw them they were too busy squatting on account of the mighty host shitting itself all day because their officers don't know how to build a proper camp," you answer. Though the words may hide much, the contempt is fully genuine.
Lord Redwyne laughs politely, but behind the smile you can see the shadow of growing concern, wondering perhaps how much longer you will be tangled up in Essosi affairs if you count the Lyseni army a mere nuisance. Thankfully he is the sort of man to fill uncomfortable moments with more talk of his own to which you are more than happy to listen to. Thus you discover that the faction of the Faith agreeable with the fey has a philosophical doctrine backing it, the details of which are founded on novel interpretations of scripture and obscure commentary from the days of the early Faith, particularly the brief period of roughly equal cohabitation between the Old Gods and the New. The Lord of the Arbor even goes so far as to have a servant fetch a booklet with the guiding essays of the movement and gift it to you while also name dropping several of the scholars involved... one of which you know quite well, for you have met him in Harroway.
Gained: On the Place of Lesser Spirits (Foundational Essay Collection for Reformers within the Faith)
The discussion then turns to mounting tensions between Braavos and Pentos wherein Lord Paxter correctly guesses that the Braavosi are baiting Pentos into a war that has nothing to do with fishing rights, though he seems to be probing to see if you think it is a desperate move by the Sealord to hide some internal weakness. Not altogether a bad thought for one lacking so many of the pieces, you must admit. Perhaps his mind went there out of familiarity with the Reach's unsettled inner workings. You try again to discover why Mace Tyrell would wish a crown he cannot wear.
"It is not for the dominions of men that the crown is meant, but powers and principalities beyond this world," the fey sorceress interjects unexpectedly.
Moonsong throws her an arch look from the other side of the table. "Some people are just terrible at fishing, you know," she says ostensibly to the knight beside her. "They just slap a piece of dripping bait on the end of the line and toss it in with a big splash. No artistry I say."
Hearing this Theon is makes a commendable effort to hold back a laugh even if it is itself rather unsubtle. The fey lady, however, pays him and indeed Moonsong no mind, her gaze fixed on you.
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OOC: I think this update had more rolling in it than some combat parts.