Arrows' Arc
Twenty-Fourth Day of the Eighth Month 293 AC
You ponder the young Reachman's offer briefly. By his father's words Horas had come here to hide and perhaps to learn, not to give aid directly, certainly not to aid
you directly, but he is old enough to make his own choices and to deny him now would be to strike away the hand of friendship. Time enough to deal with any meddlesome septons later. With a nod and a smile you set off after Lord Tarly and his son who were being thankfully held up by a cart decked for festival time... and bearing of all things a statue of the Father being carried to the new Great Sept.
Just as the cart begins to roll on with a twitch of the reigns you reach the Lord of Horn Hill and his son, Waymar and Horas only a step behind. As all of you are dressed in street clothes he does not take much note of you, frowning at the delay. The boy, Samwell you remember his name is, does catch something unusual about you, his eyes fixing upon a unremarkable point on Horas' doublet... or beneath it with eyes that see beneath the surface of things to spot his warding talisman. The boy is using
witch-sight.
Does Randyll know? you wonder. One would think he would keep the boy closer for his insight if he did.
Before you can observe them any closer, however, Horas speaks. "Good day, my lord, what a fortunate fate shines upon us Reachmen that we can find each other so easily."
"Hobber Redwyne?" the lord whispers, the furtive tone making it all the more obvious that he is
trying to keep a secret. "What are you doing here, boy? Why aren't you at the Arbor?"
"Not quite, my lord," Horas smiles gamely. "I am Horas. Rumors of my death have been misconstrued, for the fey are full of hidden tricks," he continues in an ironically fey manner of his own. Randyll would likely conclude that he had been held captive rather than killed, and that his funeral had been a ruse. "As for the reason I am here, it is to speak with His Grace..." here he motions to you, a playful gleam entering his eye at the shock that crosses the older man's face. "He is far better suited than I to discuss the substance of that meeting."
Though Randyll's hand flies to the hilt of his sword in sheer instinct his tone is carefully neutral as he says: "Well met, Your Highness." Interesting way to split the difference in terms of titles, you must admit. Not quite 'Lord Targaryen' as many Westerosi lords and ladies called you at first sight, but not 'Your Grace' either.
"Well meet to you also, my lord. The Victor of Ashford will ever be welcome in my realm," you reply, at once a reminder as to whose side he was on in the War of the Usurper as well as the fact that his overlord had tried at least to claim credit for handing Robert Baratheon his only defeat in the war.
The Lord of Horn Hill's frown only deepens, though that might have been as much at his son's gasp and flinch as at your flattery.
Before he can reply, however, Waymar introduces himself adroitly and asks in turn: "What brings you here, my lord? The joust, or only curiosity to see if sailors' tales are true?"
"We set off before news reached Horn Hill that there was to be a joust," Randyll replies laconically, still unsure of what to make of you, but obviously concluding that there is no immediate peril. "You have done much to make a city of this pirates' den," he says after a moment, the compliment obviously awkward upon the tongue for all you think it is sincere.
"Thank you, my lord, I trust you have found what you were looking for, here and in Westheaven..."
"How did you know?" Samwell blurts out, his face turning beat-red a moment later. His father looks more disgusted than angry.
"News travels on swift wings," you reply, not much of an answer you would admit, but only a fool would hand out that sort of information simply to brag.
Lord Tarly looks between you and Horas a long moment, weighing his options. "Perhaps we might meet again under more private circumstances than a street."
"I would be glad for your company this evening," you reply at once. Seeing him begin to shake his head you hasten to add: "Nothing formal or public, a private affair with only myself and some of my closest friends and confidants. You may bring your son also, of course."
You can practically see the wheels moving behind his eyes. On the one hand it could be a trap, on the other he is already in the middle of your realm and known to be so for weeks. Hardly a situation requiring further entrapment.
What do you do next?
[] Try to figure out where Samwell Tarly got the ability to cast cantrips
-[] Write in
[] Prepare for the meal
-[] Write in
[] Write in
OOC: I tried to make this more substantive, but there is a limit to how much can be discussed in the middle of the street, and if you are going to speak to him at the keep, the tone and company is important to the message you are sending.
