To the Tone of Bells
Twenty Eighth Day of the First Month 294 AC
The streets of the Lower City are filled with the familiar press of bodies and your ears assailed by the din just as familiar to city dwellers the world over. The tongues may change, but not the tone of the street merchant hawking strange meats by the gate, nor the clank of guards' boots on cobbles, followed often by the fainter sweeter clink of silver. They are familiar enough with travelers here and merchants too, such that your glamor veiled forms barely merit a second look, unless one counts the sort of looks Tyene gets from a noble with a mustache dyed bright purple. The fact that you cannot yet unveil yourselves probably spared the man a challenge to a duel and at least a mild poisoning.
"They say the bells dictate when they can fuck around here. A pity they don't have rules about what to do with eyes and wagging tongues," your friend notes just as a sweet-toned bell rings out over the hills, Nyel you suspect. Though she had spoken in High Valyrian, the target of her ire had either not understood or wisely decided to keep the crude comments to less well armed foreigners.
As the seven of you climb the Sinner's Stairs that join together the lively chaos of the river-front with the high stone halls of the nobility of Norvos, following along after a reluctant mule caravan, you begin to understand what the young noble was doing out from under the eyes of his elders. Where in Volantis one could all too easily imagine silk-draped decadence among the spires and hidden chambers of the Old City, High Norvos is a place of cold and forbidding temples, where priests with wild beards draped in untanned hides demand right of way from even the most highborn to cross their paths.
After spying a glint of magic in the eye of a grey-bearded hierarch surrounded by a small mob with bells and whips to flagellate themselves, you decide to move quickly along your way lest one of these mages have enough skill to pierce the glamors you are wearing and unveil you before you are ready.
Thus, you come to the manse of House Malthor, if manse it can be called. The high walls and narrow windows put one more in mind of a keep, though one more confined to the tight tangle of the city's streets than any manse of Lys, Myr, or Tyrosh.
Signs are given and parchments passed on as high ranking servants, freemen judging by their mustaches alongside shaved slaves, lead you through high-walled courtyards and narrow passages, though not without some trepidation and wary looks. Prince Doran's letter had been meant for agents of yours, not yourself in person, and you had counted it wise not to anounce your name in the middle of the street, but soon will come the time to proclaim your full name before the lord and lady of the House. How you do so is likely to dictate how much they are willing to tell you and what aid they might provide. More to the point, House Malthor are traders. You could bind them to you with a lasting contract or simply offer gifts befitting your stature to earn their aid in this one instance.
How do you handle House Malthor?
[] Offer precious gifts from the western waters and the otherworlds
[] Propose a lasting trade contract
[] Write in
OOC: With Viserys' social skills both of the above are going to succeed, but which you choose is going to influence the relationship going forward and potentially what kind of information is being shared. Not yet edited.