Of Oaths Unveiled
Eleventh Day of the Seventh Month 293 AC
A clever ploy, but one done in haste you would judge. The answer comes swiftly indeed to mind: "Yet I was born mortal, seven-and-ten years ago or near enough, and so I have lived as one. You have not done so for a single year, and you have said already that you do not understand us. It speaks poorly of you to offer one truth, and then speak against it in the next breath."
"I cannot lie," the lady bristles, a hint of cold autumn storms in her words, "That is a 'gift' only to mortals given. That you twist my words to your own ends does not make them false."
"Verily?" you say, the confusion accentuated only by a hint of irony. "Then why do you not answer the question that was asked? Would one bargaining in good faith not answer me fairly, instead of appealing to those I thought were your allies?"
"It behooves me to speak to them also, for it is you clear seek to sunder us one from the other and break our purpose." Cold green eyes bore into yours, not with malice precisely, but a sort of predatory intensity, like a tiger lashing its tail in frustration.
"A pity that you would feel so," you say in careful non-apology. "Still the question hangs unanswered. You have given me many reasons why you desire the crown, but none why I should indulge you."
"Indulge?" the sorceress scoffs. "Is that how you see all the world, mortal and deathless, spirit and flesh? As children to be praised or punished, to have toys offered or withheld? I have given you reasons why the Reach would be well served with a more steady hand upon the tiller of the Court of Stars, yet you have claimed that we seek dominion through it. If it is trickery so be it. I confess myself such a 'trickster' and better for it than one who claimed dominion over that which was never his by threat of force. I only hope that the sons and daughters of Garth do not spend their days looking for fey deceptions in the corners and fail to see the shadow of a dragon's wings before it falls upon them forevermore."
Taking a deep breath she continues: "In the age of dawn when the world was young young fey and mortal moved in concordance, there was peace and no dominion. The use of our powers we traded freely for the work of men's hands and minds. Is it any wonder that we would offer so much more now that you have grown in skill and artistry beyond the dreams of the ancients?"
So deftly does she flatter, you realize grudgingly admiring. To speak of times long gone not as a lost golden age, but one lesser than the one these men could forge gives them reason to be proud and seek unity of purpose with her all at once.
She plays at outrage masterfully also, you must admit. Rare is the eye that could see her flushed cheeks and glittering gaze for the mummer's mask it is. Alas that none present can be counted such. Looking around the great cabin you see concern aplenty, but only that a fight might start, no wariness over having been deceived, not even in Lord Paxter.
The Lord of the Arbor is certainly not one to court a fight, however. He clears his throat and proclaims: "It serves us little to quarrel over the right and wrong of the circumstances we find ourselves in. What are your terms, Your Grace?"
"That Court of Stars swear itself to a mortal lord of the skill and character needed to ensure that your assurances about the benefits come to pass," you answer plainly, the time for coy questions well and truly past.
"Yet you would accuse us of inconsistency?" the fey sorceress shakes her head as though in sadness. "If you would not trust our word when we say that it would serve men also, then why would you trust an oath of fealty?"
"'Cause there's only so many ways to swear an oath," Moonsong interjects, her smile never wavering. She adds four more words in the sweet lilting tongue of the fey.
Besides you Theon snorts in laughter. At your curious look he says none too softly: "That means: 'pay up or pack up'."
"Charming," the fey envoy replies, her charming voice made flat in annoyance. "Here then is my final word. I cannot offer any bargain on behalf of the whole of the Court. Even if I could I would not, for House Tyrell had not fulfilled
its bargain to recover the crown. I can only entreat all present not to spill blood over fearful phantasms of wicked tricksome fey..."
"'Twasn't no phantasm that killed Horas," one half drunk officer speaks up in what he must fondly imagine is a whisper.
Silence descends like a lead curtain. If looks could cut as easily as steel then Paxter Redwyne's gaze would have skewered the unfortunate sailor clear through the heart. There is something else there beyond anger... fear. Not fear of the fey directly, it seems almost furtive, as though some secret was being kept, one to which Dusk-Dancer at least was party too.
What could have...
The answer comes in a flash, the secrecy, the friendliness towards the fey even going to far as to side with them against elements of the Faith. Perhaps Horas Redwyne is not now as dead as he had once been, perhaps fey sorcery had restored him to life. At Sunspear you had seen how strong a bond of loyalty that could forge. Had it been to House Tyrell or to the Court of Stars? Did it even matter ultimately?
What do you say?
[] Write in
OOC: Some middling rolls for you and great rolls for the fey this turn unfortunately. 
