Parting Words
Thirtieth Day of the Fourth Month 294 AC
After leaving the delegation from Walano to their musings on magic, gods, and the place of kings, you grab a glass of Dawnfruit Mead from a passing server's tray with a nod of thanks and head towards the small stage set up before the eastern wing of the palace. A far cry from a throne, and by design. "My vassals. But also my allies and my friends. And strangers of course, who may soon be counted among them. I raise my glass on you, for it would be a lonely day in a much smaller abode, were it not for you."
"Being a bit blunt about hoping to vassalize half the world, aren't you?" Dany's amused voice echoes in your thoughts, in place of Varys who had flown off for the reminder of the night, preferring to roost with her kin over planning a military campaign.
"Plausible deniability," you shoot back, smoothing out the amused smile that comes to your lips into a gracious one sweeping over your old vassals and new bannermen, guests and new acquaintances. "I hope you find the food and drink to your liking, and may the alchemist's kindness find you in a glass near your bed in the morrow."
That earns a rancorous cheer. If one knows nothing else about the Deep, then the fact that you can find a effective hangover cure here is famed from the Sunset Sea to the Jade Sea by now.
"For once, I have no grand proclamations or dire portends to share with you. Tonight, all I have to say to you is 'be merry'."
A Reacher knight whose name escapes you for the moment raises his head from the table it had just slumped on and shouts in the direction of your magic-enhanced voice. "For the last time the name is
Marty, not Merry. Merry's m' sister."
Surprised silence falls, broken only by the rustling of the leaves and the whisper of water in the fountains. Before the whispers can start you note lightly: "Make that
two doses of alchemist's kindness for the fine ser."
Into the renewed good cheer that follows you continue: "It is hard to do, finding good cheer, and I myself count it a most illusive task. But once in a while we all need a carefree moment of respite. A moment when we do not feel the weight of our crowns and the dread of wars fought and to be fought. A moment in which we allow ourselves to relax and to gather the strength necessary for the days to come."
"Hear, hear!" what sounds like Mace Tyrell is the first to agree, though he is quickly drowned out in what sounds like a chorus of Umbers and other northern lords without the worries of Eddard Stark.
When the garden quiets down, as quiet as it is likely to get at least, you raise up your glass and declare, "So let us drink together on this moment of rest and peace. May it feel like a lifetime and may our worries be far while it lasts," and drink the mead down in one long drought. "Sadly though, as I say this, others already had to move on to the next task and for me comes the time to join them. The rebels in the west have to be dealt with. So, for now, farewell I say. May we see each other after the first dawn of the Imperium."
The flames of sorcery shrouds you in their familiar embrace, flesh transmutes and expands, wings snap with a sound like thunder, and you rise into the air upon a wind of your own making. You make straight for the wardline, and upon crossing it will yourself to Westhaven to plan at last the war for Westeros as much as it might be called such.
What is your first target of attack and how do you move?
[] Write in
OOC: Rather short, but I felt like it fit, the break point here would have been really jarring if I continued.
