A Jest in Earnest Spoken
Eleventh Day of the Seventh Month 293 AC
"So it would strengthen the rule of Fey law upon the Reach, to the detriment of the power of mortal lords?" There is only the slightest questioning edge to the words for form's sake, but all present hear it for the accusation it is.
The fey envoy laughs, a gentle silvery thing like the patter of gentle springtime rain. "Has any man here claimed dominion over the birds and beasts, the passage of clouds, or the way the wind blows?" she parries deftly. "Neighbors we are now, and well does it serve us to find common ground, but none can take from the dominion of the other. I for one would surely wither in keeps of stone and iron."
Iron men in iron shirts with iron between their ears, you think uncharitably as the Reacher knights swallow the show of fragility. At least Lord Redwyne does not seem to wholly buy what she is selling, what you suspect the Fey Court of the Reach has been selling for a while.
"You may hide it behind a pleasant manner and claims of mutual benefit, but this is what your desires will bring in the end," you press, allowing none of your frustration to seep into your words, for all their sharpness. "A Fey Court raised beyond the power of the lords of the Reach or any other mortal that they are sworn to. I take it that arrangements have been made that territory will be ceded to this new kingdom you seek to make? Maybe a pact or two forged to that effect in anticipation of binding the fool who made it tight as vice with your newfound power?"
The hall freezes abruptly as though some spell had suddenly turned the lords to stone in the midst of their revelry, and little wonder. You have just named their lord a fool, keeping back only his name.
How many of you have thought that very thing, my lords? you wonder, looking from one wine-flushed face to another.
Lord Paxter opens his mouth to speak, clearly unsure on what to say, but Moonsong proves swifter. She shakes her head theatrically. "That's a wobbly line you've drawn down south. Maybe next time I take a ship I should say I'm not really taking it on account of the fact that I don't plan to sail it myself only hand it off for the prize money."
For the first time since the feast has begun Dusk-Dancer's expression darkens in annoyance which can be seen by all. So have threshold sprites been cursed by their greater kin, you would imagine.
You clear your throat: "In a less jesting tone I must agree. Power is power, however it is leveraged. Him weighs by his own merits oaths kept and broken, him who enforces law and pact upon
men we call king, and an independent realm in the Reach is not within my interests, especially so if it wields power to bind any and all around it to its will with bargains struck by clever tricksters. You have been giving me plenty of reason why you desire the crown, but none why I should indulge you. You speak about bargains made, but you have not offered any such. So then, in plain and simple words so that this poor mortal can understand, if I let you have this crown, what shall I get in turn? Would your Lord and his court be willing to swear itself to a mortal lord of the skill and character needed to ensure that your assurances about the benefits come to pass?"
"Poor mortal says the dragon in man's skin, the sorcerer and binder of spirits fel and fair," the lady of the fey rallies. "Thou are no more poor than the Lord of the Westerlands on his mountain of gold, no more
mortal than I. So I ask unto the lords, who holds the promise of an undying king, we folk of del and wood living beside your world and visiting seldom, or the wyrm who would be coiled about the throne of swords when your grandchildren's grandchildren are dust and memory?"
What do you reply?
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OOC: Moonsong is having a great deal of fun knowing she can poke a high noble with impunity.
