Keeper of a Hollow Court
Twenty-First Day of the Sixth Month 293 AC
In response you can only sigh: "I am afraid that war is upon us all, regardless of our wishes. The Illithid will not give us any choice on the matter, and neither will others."
"Illithid?" the Reader sounds out the word carefully with the air of a man accustomed to study, though perhaps none quite as esoteric as the one you are presenting.
As good a place as any to start you suppose... Over the next hour you explain as much as you are able through simile, metaphor, and the occasion figment about what the Deep Ones are, their purpose, and their origin, taking great care not to conflate the Far Realm with evil, but instead presenting a world where the laws of existence are much different, presenting a significant advantage to those beings willing and able to cross the threshold into yours. "They are like brigands falling on an undefended village, except we are not only the defenders, but the larder they aim to raid also," you finish.
"If only I could drink..." seeing your confusion he explains, "I survived a poisoning a few months ago but at the cost of greatly weakening my gut, or at least so the maester said. Any drink stronger than thrice-watered wine makes me sick now. Perhaps it's fate's way of saying I need a clear head."
"You know, my lord, I do not much believe in fate," you reply. "If you would trust me so far, I would use a spell to restore you..."
"Trust you." The regent gives a tired smile. "I'm standing here talking of raising banners in your name, am I not?"
"True. However, I have found that some people have odd notions about magic."
"Then they are fools," he shrugs. "It's the man who should be trusted or distrusted, not the tools he holds."
"Magic can be more than a tool," your mother cautions, likely thinking of Deep One taint, like that which Tyene and Xor are seeking out in the markets even now.
"Well of course it can be," comes the quick reply. "A hammer can build a ship, crack open a skull on the battlefield, or crush fingers to get..." he trails off with the slightly sheepish air of a man who enjoys arguing abstract concepts, realizing his enthusiasm may have offended.
Your mother looks at you in askance, the question obvious.
Should she reveal herself? You nod slightly and motion towards her. It is her decision, and it would make the negotiations run more smoothly for her to be able to speak from the full authority of her heritage.
"I've faced worse than hearing about torture, Lord Harlaw," she replies, allowing her glamour to fade.
The regent of Pyke pales as though he had seen a ghost, and perhaps he had. A man of his temperament would have likely as not traveled to the Red Keep at some point in his life. To his credit, however, he recovers quickly: "Welcome to Pyke, Your Grace. I am glad to see a senseless mischance undone."
"I am glad to be here, to aid all I can," she replies simply.
"A sentiment I share in full," you interject, matching deed to word by wishing away the regent's ailment with a softly spoken word. "I fear, however, that we will all need far more than wine before all this is over." So you recount all you know of the ironborn you fought in the Stepstones, of Damphair's final battle, and his ultimate fate. You do not shy away from your deeds, but strive above all for context and clarity, for the whispers of the Deep Ones are strongest in the dark where ignorance reigns.
"I had imagined as much..." he sighs. "I won't claim Aeron was ever wholly a good man, but neither was he a monster who would torture his own flesh and blood." Regret passes over his face like a dark cloud. "I was not part of the conspiracy to smuggle Theon away, but neither was I quick to see him followed. I thought better the sea than Baratheon's wrath, that it would be easier for me to protect Asha..."
"You acted as best you could with what you knew in that moment, my lord," your mother interjects firmly. "You are no seer to glimpse the future."
"Cold comfort that, but better than none." For a long moment there is silence save for the clinking of cups and the splash of wine. "You have confirmed much of what I feared of these things and shared that which I knew not of the workings of their minds, but above all else I would know how may these nightmares be fought, cast off from our shores and back into whatever gaping abyss birthed them?"
Distasteful though it may be to explain that you struck a deal with things that see men as nothing more than cattle, you manage it well enough, and to your relief it is clear Rodrik Harlaw understands that peace can be a time to prepare for war and patience may yet win more battles than brashness.
"So you cannot aid us with ships or banners sworn to you, but surely there must be other sorcerers you trust to give counsel, perhaps even to fight?" Though his tone is calm and level, it is clear he is begging for some way to see those under his charge safe from the horrors below.
"That I can do thrice over—once with talismans of power to ward the mind and heal the body, twice by sending word to allies from the waves, for not all who dwell beneath the waves are enemies of man, and thrice with gold, a loan if you would have it."
It takes hours to explain the tritons, their ways and skills as well as the place they spring from. In this your mother proves quite adept, always finding the right word to get across the scope of the conflict or the foreign ways of the Seafolk. Through it all the Reader listens, only speaking to ask for clarification. However, when the time comes to speak of coin, he proves almost uncomfortably perceptive. "You want mines and anchorages for your gold? It is no great feat to guess, the islands have precious little else of value unless you count the people themselves."
Seeing no reason to offer a transparent denial you answer simply: "Yes, I suspect there will be no dearth of traitors' wealth to be offered up."
"Alas, yes..." he takes a deep breath, as a man ready to dive to unknown depths than says. "I will take half of what you offer, one million dragons, and in exchange you can count the Iron Isles yours, or at least so far as my own influence stretches."
A sure a fealty as if he had fallen on one knee.
"Tell us of your foes, my lord. Perhaps a fresh perspective could be of some help," your mother interjects.
The picture he paints is both better and worse than you had anticipated. The entirety of Old Wyk seethes in near rebellion under the auspices of outlawed Drowned Men. However, Boremund Harlaw is only feigning discontent to draw his cousin's foes into the light, and Sigfry Stonetree is a man easily bought off with all the gold you will be loaning out. However, it is on Great Wyk that the true battle for the loyalty of the Iron Isles must be fought. For one the head of House Sparr, called simply 'the Sparr' in the ironborn fashion, is a dying old man who can hardly remember his name, and his heir a man hungry for glory. The Reader tells you that if the old lord could be restored he would likely side with him for he held to the New Way in his long-vanished youth.
"It is no simple thing to cheat the reaper of his due when a man has lived his full span of years, but there is a way," you admit, then before he can answer a thought comes to you. "How faithful a man was he?"
"From what I've been able to tell, not at all." The regent looks at you in askance.
"So if he were restored before a Heart Tree...?" you trail off, not wanting to reveal more of your closeness to the Old Gods than can be guessed by the new Heart Trees dotting your lands.
"He'd give all honor to he trees, I imagine," Rodrik Harlaw replies. "He was a trader after all, and a good one, so he would not much like the notion of being in debt."
"Good," you muse, motioning for him to continue.
Thus you learn also of Gorold Goodbrother whose many offspring make some jest that he is trying to match Walder Frey, though the man's ambition is certainly no laughing matter. The Reader suspects him of some sort of bargain with the Lannisters with words carried by magic across the Sunset Sea. Truth be told you are glad to hear of mere mortal foes. Better by far to deal with Tywin than the Deep Ones...
"Lastly there's the Farwynds," the Reader concludes. "They seem more concerned with quarreling among each other than aught else, though some of their sons at least have gone reaving so I would not call them loyal by half."
What do you decide?
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OOC: You can of course just say goodbye at this point. After all, you have pledged the regent will be quite content.
